chanifesto

[chanifesto]

❝ RIDE ❞ 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝘵. 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛

𝑖𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ. . . you’re ovulating and want to ride chan.

𝑃. bang chan x afab!reader 𝐺. straight smut homie 𝑊𝐶. 3.2k 𝐶𝑊. [MDNI] explicit sexual content, softdom!bangchan, pet names (baby, sweet girl, angel), mating press (for like 2 secs, no intercourse), oral (f rec.), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home!), allusions to STI testing and birth control, creampie, the slightest amount of breeding kink + overstimulation in the end, chan wants to play, he’s so in love, ugh he’s such a sweetie, a feral sweetie 𝑅𝛮. written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina (more like wap). all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  wrote this bc i’m also ovulating and want to ride chan.

“Already so hot for me, hm?”

  Yes. You were. And you were nearly bare beneath Chan’s heavy gaze if not for your cute, little panties, the crotch soaked through, practically translucent, enough to wet the touch of whatever—whoever—dared to feather over the fabric adorning your sacred, seeping hole.

  Chan has you spread before him on his sheets at the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out to rest delicately on his naked shoulder, the other pushed to your chest, your foot dangling over his hand pressing into the plush back of your thigh.

  You were a dream come to life below him, the wettest dream composed only for the eyes of a man like him, too far past the pathetic cognitive confines of a teenage dirtbag. You were a fallen angel on his sheets, and all Chan could do was relish in how gone you were, how hot and wet and desperate you were, just for him.

  He licks his bottom lip and lets his heavy, barely open eyes wash down your body, drinking in the mess he’d made of you—he hadn’t even touched you yet.

  You’re basked atop the luscious pool of sheets, eyes dark and chasmic, begging into his dark chocolate orbs for his hands, mouth, and cock to ravish you. Your cheeks are flushed, hot with need, and your lips swell, pink and wet from what felt like centuries of making out before Chan had you in your current state. Your mouth parts to let the string of quick, deep breaths wisp out of your thoracic limits, heightened from the soft arch of your back. Your breasts heave with respiration, nipples pebbled against the comfortable coolness of the room, pleading to be pinched and sucked.

  Chan’s eyes wander down to the cloth between your legs, and the sight wreaks him. Your panties are ruined, lucid with slick that seems to gush out of you sans constraint, the never-ending patch diffusing throughout the cotton.

  God, Chan loved you like this, loved your desperation and obedience and wetness for him the few days a month you were in heat. It gave him a chance to really provide for you, give you everything and anything you needed to cool you off until you were whining to go again. Every month, he was ready, aching to make his baby feel so, so good.

  He feels searing blood pump into his cock, hardening his rod against the already taut fabric of his sweatpants. He slowly peers back into your eyes and catches a familiar glint that tells him you can’t wait any longer. There’s a mellow smirk accompanying his heavy-lidded eyes, a simple mask to help him ignore how all he wants to do is fall to his knees and pout his lips over your clit for the next hour.

  “This is okay?” He’d already asked more than once, but it was never enough for Chan.

  You writhe beneath him and softly moan. “Yes, Chan.”

  The fingers dancing over your ankle leisurely feather down your leg. “What do you need, baby?”

  Your hips writhe, and you whine. “Need you inside, Chan, please.”

  He hums, the pads of his fingers now running across the back of your thigh, leg still stretched out near his head.

  He’ll give it to you, and gosh did he want to do you in good. He wanted you gushing under him, mumbling incoherently from the luxurious pressure of his thrusts, but Chan also wanted to play, just for a little. He wanted to see how far he could string out his sweet girl’s desperation until she was begging for exactly what she needed.

  He pushes down on your leg, rendering it a matching pair with its twin, and leans into you. His hands cage you under him near your waist, the heat of your supple skin fogging over his fingers. The back of your legs rest against his hard, broad body, sculpting you into a mating press.

  Chan nuzzles his nose against yours. Both your eyes have succumbed to the weight they bear, whispering to a close before your lips mold into the other.

  He kisses you softly, granting you just enough pressure to push you into overdrive. Your hands fumble up his shoulders, finding purchase in his hair, gripping tight. You tug him closer, greedier. A groan, low and guttural, vibrates out of him and trembles down to your core.

  His hot mouth sucks up your bottom lip, lets it swell in his mouth, coats it with his spit. It rolls back out when he feels your heat squirm against the curve of his cock.

  Chan pulls himself from the warmth of your face. He wants to watch your brows scrunch, watch your wet lips pout when he grinds the hard curve of his length into your clothed cunt.

  It’s too much and not enough, like the first breath of air when you resurface from underwater. He’s so hard, and his cock rubs just right, deliciously over your clit. You press your head into the mattress, your hands clutch at his hair as you try to meet the agonizing motion of his hips. You pout and mewl up at him.

  He smiles, wicked and smug. Then kisses you, slow and sweet.

  Chan’s plush lips flutter down your jaw and neck, ghosting over your breast before he sucks your hardened nipple into his blazing mouth. You moan, bucking up against the ghost of his now absent hips. 

  His tongue flattens over your peak, covering it with a glistening sheen. He sucks and circles and flicks before he sucks hard off of you with a pop, wasting no time fastening his lips back to your skin to kiss down to the only clothed part of your body.

  Chan wants to play, wants to take his time pushing you to a release, but he feels a ticking in the pit of his own abdomen, and he knows he won’t last much longer without giving you exactly what you needed, so he slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tugs.

  The lacey band slides past your hips, past the level of your cunt when the crotch latches off with a resisting damp stick. A thin string of your slick stretches out to the wet splotch on your panties, drooping down onto the sheets when the fabric raises too far up your thighs and clears your feet.

  Chan’s hand smooths your thigh onto his shoulder, while the other works near the base of the bed to bunch your panties into a ball of fabric that is soon to never return to your underwear drawer.

  You're a sight for the books, art fit for museums beyond human capability. Now that you were completely bare beneath his gaze, slick, glistening proof of your arousal drooling onto the plush cotton towel he’d (thankfully) laid out just for you, Chan thinks—no, he knows—he’ll have to ravish you. And he’ll do it by fucking all of the pretty thoughts he has about you straight into your core.

  Your seeping pussy coaxes him in, the sight calling his lips to gently kiss over your thigh, each press a brand of affection seared into your flesh. He’s already half-drunk on the scent of you.

  And God, the scent. It’s divine. Heady and thick and achingly familiar. It wraps around him, makes his head light, his cock throb against the too taut seam of his pants. His tongue darts out to taste the air, to imagine what you’d feel like on it, and the moment his mouth finally hovers over your heat, he has to exhale a slow, ragged breath through his nose to keep from burying his face in you like a starved man.

  “Look at this mess, baby,” he mumbles, heavy eyes flickering up to catch yours through the haze. “Gonna suck it all out of you, yeah?”

  You almost can't stop yourself from rutting into him when he cherishes you with his first lick.

  The flat of his tongue starts from your dripping entrance and slides up to your clit in one long, sinful drag. You jolt with a sharp inhale, thighs twitching on his shoulders as your head falls back with a low moan. He hums against you, savouring every inch of the taste, the warmth, the overwhelming slick. His nose nudges your nub, lips parting to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s the sweetest fruit.

  Your hands are threading into his hair, tugging without thought. Chan groans deep into you, the vibration making your spine curve off the bed.

  He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. His tongue flicks and flattens and circles and dips, teasing your entrance just enough to taste the flood of slick before returning to your swollen, needy clit. His soft lips wrap around it, suctioning onto you so hard, pulling cries and whimpers from your throat like he’s conducting you with every movement of his mouth. Your angel voice serenades him with a melodic blend of pleas and his name.

  “Mmm, please, Chan—please please please.”

  He moans at your voice, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he lets himself sink into the rhythm. Suck, flick, lap. Over and over. Every sound you make is a reward, every roll of your hips a command he obeys. And when your thighs start to clamp around his head, twitching, your hips trying to rock into his face, he succumbs to your needs.

  He wants you to ride his mouth. Wants to feel you fall apart against his tongue.

  His hands slide under your ass, tilting your hips up, and he dives in deeper. His tongue thrusts into your soaked hole, curling, then returns to your clit. His spit mixes with your slick, a wet, messy potion painted across his chin and lips.

  Your sound is broken, wreaked, gasping out his name, your moans pleading for a release. Delinquent hips roll into him, chasing after a high that was just one step out of your reach.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Because he knows he has you right where he wants you. So, he just groans low and needy into your cunt and tightens his grip as you finally writhe into bliss.

  Your thighs lock around his head, your entire body bowing into the orgasm that crashes through you in high tides. You’re clenching, fluttering wildly as your slick gushes against his tongue, and Chan drinks it down, groaning like he’s in heaven.

  He is in heaven.

  He holds you there through every aftershock, licking you gently, kissing your clit with the kind of affection that makes your thighs quiver and your core clench again, helplessly sensitive.

  When he finally pulls back, your slick adorns the lower half of his face, glistening in the low light. He kisses your inner thigh one more time, eyes still heavy with his own desperation.

  “Did so well, angel, so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick and ruined.

  You gaze up at him with your fucked-out eyes, his masterpiece of a mess, panting like you just surfaced from the deep.

  Eyes dark and dazed, Chan hovers above your body. He’s not sure if he should crawl away or curl into you. 

  But you make the decision for him, because even through the waves of release, the high hadn’t ebbed. It couldn't, with the excruciating stretch of his sweatpants still tented between your legs, or the weight of his adoration still anchoring you both to the bed.

  You find the slopes of his jaw with your fingertips, still quivering from how he wrecked you, and Chan leans into your touch, a planet to the sun.

  “I want to ride you,” you whisper.

  It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a soft, unrelenting need, looped around both your hearts and tugged tight.

  Chan’s breath halts.

  He swears something stutters in his chest. His eyes flutter open, and for a second, he’s stripped of every coherent thought. Just nerves lit like fire and a heartbeat so loud it rattles in his ears.

  “You��” he starts, then trails off, his voice low and deliciously ruined from having your slick coating his pharynx. His throat bobs. “You wanna be on top?”

  You nod slowly, brows knit like this is something fragile. Sacred.

  It is.

  It is, because it’s not about wanting control—it’s about trust. And Chan has never felt so honoured to give and receive it.

  He presses a kiss to your wrist, then your palm, then the center of your chest where your heart still dances from the work of his mouth.

  “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. Take me.”

  He shifts under you carefully, pulls off his sweatpants and boxers in one go, leaving his thick, aching length pulsing and flushed and glistening against the lower valley of his stomach. 

  You crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Chan’s hands instinctively settle on your hips. His head falls back against the pillow, the cords of his neck tight with restraint. He looks at you, his angel made of moonlight and the answer to every unnamed prayer he’s ever breathed through grit teeth in lonely hours.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he swoons, a mellow confession. 

  Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the way his abs twitch under your touch. His cock jumps when you slide your slick folds along the base of him, and Chan swears under his breath, knuckles blanching as he grips your hips tighter.

  The glide is slow, indulgent. It was your way of savouring him. You rub against him, your clit catching the ridge of his tip each time you rock forward, and Chan’s breath punches out of him in stuttered gasps. His eyes never leave your face sporting kiss-swollen lips, and dreamy dropping eyes, even as his hips buck helplessly under you.

  “Fuck,” he groans, eyes fluttering. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  With tests negative and your eggs surrendered to the control of coloured pills, you brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you and every flicker of pleasure across your face as though it’s the most exquisite art. 

  And when you finally sink down, slowly, divinely, the bare heat of you enveloping him inch by tremoring inch, Chan moans so deeply it sounds torn from his soul.

  His eyes sew shut. His hands grip your thighs like he’s afraid he’ll float off the earth if he lets go.

  He doesn’t speak at first. He breathes languidly. Shudders.

  Until his brain is finally able to relocate his mouth, and he pushes out a meek, “Fuck—please.”

  You move at a lax pace, and Chan meets each motion with a gentle rock of his hips. 

  It’s consuming, the way your warm, gummy walls slide against his hardened rod, the way he disappears into you with each grind of your hips. The remaining potion of your arousal and his spit gush over his bare tip and dribbles down his length.

  And your face—fuck, it was going to ravish him, ruin him far past the limits of your cunt. Pretty pout merged into an oh, eyes barely open before they shut tight. You were godly.

  You ride him like you’re claiming him, and Chan surrenders to you.

  His hands roam your body, thumb brushing over the curve of your breast, then gripping your waist. His gaze stays locked to your being and nothing but, drinking in the little gasps you spill, the arch of your back when you angle just right, the way your walls flutter around him when he groans your name.

  There’s nothing more beautiful than this, than you above him, owning him, loving him, making him come undone piece by piece.

  The way you move on him is poetry turned to flesh. Each roll of your hips is a verse, each sigh a stanza, and Chan is completely spellbound, caught in the flow of your body, unwinding the syllables of your name under his breath.

  He’s close.

  Gosh, he’s been close since the second you sank onto him, but now, the pressure wraths tight and hot at the base of his spine, every nerve lit like a fuse, and Chan knows he doesn’t have much longer until he’s helplessly falling apart for you.

  So, he brings a thumb to your nub and presses a slow circle into it.

  You mewl and clench around him, soft and fluttering, and his hips jerk. His head presses back against the pillow with a low, desperate groan. 

  “Baby,” he pants in a rough voice, thumb still working into you, “I’m not gonna last–”

  “I want it,” you whisper, almost boarding on a breathless mewl. “Want you to come inside.”

  More like wanted him dead.

  Chan’s mouth falls open in a silent moan, his whole body tightening beneath yours. His fingers dig into your hips, anchoring himself to the moment, his thumb coaxing you into your second orgasm until you're twitching above him, eyes shut tight, mumbling his name in a high sob.

  He’s spilling into you, hot and thick and endless.

  His mind whites out. His breath stutters. He feels like he’s burning and being saved all at once.

  You don’t stop. You keep moving, riding him through every wave of it, milking him with slow, deep grinds that draw out his pleasure until it teeters on overwhelming.

  “Fuck,” he chokes out, his voice wreaked, “just like that– oh god, angel, I’m yours–”

  His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as you finally still. He’s still twitching inside you, still pulsing weakly, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky drips that smear where your bodies press together.

  It’s messy and intimate and utterly undone.

  And Chan has never loved anything more.

  His lips find your shoulder, your neck, your temple. Kisses soft as the air after a storm, trying to say everything his tongue is too ruined to form.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, dizzy with adoration.

  You hum, cheek nuzzled into his hair, and Chan closes his eyes, his whole body still twiching, but grounded now by the feel of your heartbeat against his.

  “I mean it,” he whispers, thumbing lazy circles into your spine. “You’re everything.”

  When you finally move off him, Chan’s hands follow you instinctively, always touching, always holding. He props himself up on his elbows, watching with simmering greed as his cum slowly drips from between your thighs, glossy and slow.

  He almost can’t stop himself when two of his fingers scrape his hot seed back up, pressing the coated pads against the opening of your hole. You squirm with a soft mewl.

  “It’s spilling out of you,” he breathes, his voice dressed in awe. “Wanna stuff it back in you, baby. Can I?”

  You nod, eyes hooded, pout parted with wisping breaths.

  “Words, angel.” His own are broken, eyes so soft, so full of all the love and admiration known to humankind.

  “Yes,” you breathe.

  And that’s all Chan needs to hear before he’s gently laying your precious body against the sheets and leisurely replacing his fingers with himself, pushing into you softly, grazing your walls slowly, fucking his cum back to your core with love for your surging through his vessels and bones and nerves.

  Both your bodies twitch, overstimulated, your eyes glassed over with threatening tears pooling at each of your squinting corners.

  Yet, Chan wouldn't have wanted it any other way, simply because it was with you.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  whoever you are reading this, you are beautiful.

── thank you for reading ❝ RIDE ❞ ᝰ.ᐟ

© CHANIFESTO 2025

[chanifesto]

karma is out ! and it’s going hard !!!

[chanifesto]

❝ RIDE ❞ 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝘵. 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛

𝑖𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ. . . you’re ovulating and want to ride chan.

𝑃. bang chan x afab!reader 𝐺. straight smut homie 𝑊𝐶. 3.2k 𝐶𝑊. [MDNI] explicit sexual content, softdom!bangchan, pet names (baby, sweet girl, angel), mating press (for like 2 secs, no intercourse), oral (f rec.), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home!), allusions to STI testing and birth control, creampie, the slightest amount of breeding kink + overstimulation in the end, chan wants to play, he’s so in love, ugh he’s such a sweetie, a feral sweetie 𝑅𝛮. written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina (more like wap). all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  wrote this bc i’m also ovulating and want to ride chan.

“Already so hot for me, hm?”

  Yes. You were. And you were nearly bare beneath Chan’s heavy gaze if not for your cute, little panties, the crotch soaked through, practically translucent, enough to wet the touch of whatever—whoever—dared to feather over the fabric adorning your sacred, seeping hole.

  Chan has you spread before him on his sheets at the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out to rest delicately on his naked shoulder, the other pushed to your chest, your foot dangling over his hand pressing into the plush back of your thigh.

  You were a dream come to life below him, the wettest dream composed only for the eyes of a man like him, too far past the pathetic cognitive confines of a teenage dirtbag. You were a fallen angel on his sheets, and all Chan could do was relish in how gone you were, how hot and wet and desperate you were, just for him.

  He licks his bottom lip and lets his heavy, barely open eyes wash down your body, drinking in the mess he’d made of you—he hadn’t even touched you yet.

  You’re basked atop the luscious pool of sheets, eyes dark and chasmic, begging into his dark chocolate orbs for his hands, mouth, and cock to ravish you. Your cheeks are flushed, hot with need, and your lips swell, pink and wet from what felt like centuries of making out before Chan had you in your current state. Your mouth parts to let the string of quick, deep breaths wisp out of your thoracic limits, heightened from the soft arch of your back. Your breasts heave with respiration, nipples pebbled against the comfortable coolness of the room, pleading to be pinched and sucked.

  Chan’s eyes wander down to the cloth between your legs, and the sight wreaks him. Your panties are ruined, lucid with slick that seems to gush out of you sans constraint, the never-ending patch diffusing throughout the cotton.

  God, Chan loved you like this, loved your desperation and obedience and wetness for him the few days a month you were in heat. It gave him a chance to really provide for you, give you everything and anything you needed to cool you off until you were whining to go again. Every month, he was ready, aching to make his baby feel so, so good.

  He feels searing blood pump into his cock, hardening his rod against the already taut fabric of his sweatpants. He slowly peers back into your eyes and catches a familiar glint that tells him you can’t wait any longer. There’s a mellow smirk accompanying his heavy-lidded eyes, a simple mask to help him ignore how all he wants to do is fall to his knees and pout his lips over your clit for the next hour.

  “This is okay?” He’d already asked more than once, but it was never enough for Chan.

  You writhe beneath him and softly moan. “Yes, Chan.”

  The fingers dancing over your ankle leisurely feather down your leg. “What do you need, baby?”

  Your hips writhe, and you whine. “Need you inside, Chan, please.”

  He hums, the pads of his fingers now running across the back of your thigh, leg still stretched out near his head.

  He’ll give it to you, and gosh did he want to do you in good. He wanted you gushing under him, mumbling incoherently from the luxurious pressure of his thrusts, but Chan also wanted to play, just for a little. He wanted to see how far he could string out his sweet girl’s desperation until she was begging for exactly what she needed.

  He pushes down on your leg, rendering it a matching pair with its twin, and leans into you. His hands cage you under him near your waist, the heat of your supple skin fogging over his fingers. The back of your legs rest against his hard, broad body, sculpting you into a mating press.

  Chan nuzzles his nose against yours. Both your eyes have succumbed to the weight they bear, whispering to a close before your lips mold into the other.

  He kisses you softly, granting you just enough pressure to push you into overdrive. Your hands fumble up his shoulders, finding purchase in his hair, gripping tight. You tug him closer, greedier. A groan, low and guttural, vibrates out of him and trembles down to your core.

  His hot mouth sucks up your bottom lip, lets it swell in his mouth, coats it with his spit. It rolls back out when he feels your heat squirm against the curve of his cock.

  Chan pulls himself from the warmth of your face. He wants to watch your brows scrunch, watch your wet lips pout when he grinds the hard curve of his length into your clothed cunt.

  It’s too much and not enough, like the first breath of air when you resurface from underwater. He’s so hard, and his cock rubs just right, deliciously over your clit. You press your head into the mattress, your hands clutch at his hair as you try to meet the agonizing motion of his hips. You pout and mewl up at him.

  He smiles, wicked and smug. Then kisses you, slow and sweet.

  Chan’s plush lips flutter down your jaw and neck, ghosting over your breast before he sucks your hardened nipple into his blazing mouth. You moan, bucking up against the ghost of his now absent hips. 

  His tongue flattens over your peak, covering it with a glistening sheen. He sucks and circles and flicks before he sucks hard off of you with a pop, wasting no time fastening his lips back to your skin to kiss down to the only clothed part of your body.

  Chan wants to play, wants to take his time pushing you to a release, but he feels a ticking in the pit of his own abdomen, and he knows he won’t last much longer without giving you exactly what you needed, so he slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tugs.

  The lacey band slides past your hips, past the level of your cunt when the crotch latches off with a resisting damp stick. A thin string of your slick stretches out to the wet splotch on your panties, drooping down onto the sheets when the fabric raises too far up your thighs and clears your feet.

  Chan’s hand smooths your thigh onto his shoulder, while the other works near the base of the bed to bunch your panties into a ball of fabric that is soon to never return to your underwear drawer.

  You're a sight for the books, art fit for museums beyond human capability. Now that you were completely bare beneath his gaze, slick, glistening proof of your arousal drooling onto the plush cotton towel he’d (thankfully) laid out just for you, Chan thinks—no, he knows—he’ll have to ravish you. And he’ll do it by fucking all of the pretty thoughts he has about you straight into your core.

  Your seeping pussy coaxes him in, the sight calling his lips to gently kiss over your thigh, each press a brand of affection seared into your flesh. He’s already half-drunk on the scent of you.

  And God, the scent. It’s divine. Heady and thick and achingly familiar. It wraps around him, makes his head light, his cock throb against the too taut seam of his pants. His tongue darts out to taste the air, to imagine what you’d feel like on it, and the moment his mouth finally hovers over your heat, he has to exhale a slow, ragged breath through his nose to keep from burying his face in you like a starved man.

  “Look at this mess, baby,” he mumbles, heavy eyes flickering up to catch yours through the haze. “Gonna suck it all out of you, yeah?”

  You almost can't stop yourself from rutting into him when he cherishes you with his first lick.

  The flat of his tongue starts from your dripping entrance and slides up to your clit in one long, sinful drag. You jolt with a sharp inhale, thighs twitching on his shoulders as your head falls back with a low moan. He hums against you, savouring every inch of the taste, the warmth, the overwhelming slick. His nose nudges your nub, lips parting to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s the sweetest fruit.

  Your hands are threading into his hair, tugging without thought. Chan groans deep into you, the vibration making your spine curve off the bed.

  He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. His tongue flicks and flattens and circles and dips, teasing your entrance just enough to taste the flood of slick before returning to your swollen, needy clit. His soft lips wrap around it, suctioning onto you so hard, pulling cries and whimpers from your throat like he’s conducting you with every movement of his mouth. Your angel voice serenades him with a melodic blend of pleas and his name.

  “Mmm, please, Chan—please please please.”

  He moans at your voice, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he lets himself sink into the rhythm. Suck, flick, lap. Over and over. Every sound you make is a reward, every roll of your hips a command he obeys. And when your thighs start to clamp around his head, twitching, your hips trying to rock into his face, he succumbs to your needs.

  He wants you to ride his mouth. Wants to feel you fall apart against his tongue.

  His hands slide under your ass, tilting your hips up, and he dives in deeper. His tongue thrusts into your soaked hole, curling, then returns to your clit. His spit mixes with your slick, a wet, messy potion painted across his chin and lips.

  Your sound is broken, wreaked, gasping out his name, your moans pleading for a release. Delinquent hips roll into him, chasing after a high that was just one step out of your reach.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Because he knows he has you right where he wants you. So, he just groans low and needy into your cunt and tightens his grip as you finally writhe into bliss.

  Your thighs lock around his head, your entire body bowing into the orgasm that crashes through you in high tides. You’re clenching, fluttering wildly as your slick gushes against his tongue, and Chan drinks it down, groaning like he’s in heaven.

  He is in heaven.

  He holds you there through every aftershock, licking you gently, kissing your clit with the kind of affection that makes your thighs quiver and your core clench again, helplessly sensitive.

  When he finally pulls back, your slick adorns the lower half of his face, glistening in the low light. He kisses your inner thigh one more time, eyes still heavy with his own desperation.

  “Did so well, angel, so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick and ruined.

  You gaze up at him with your fucked-out eyes, his masterpiece of a mess, panting like you just surfaced from the deep.

  Eyes dark and dazed, Chan hovers above your body. He’s not sure if he should crawl away or curl into you. 

  But you make the decision for him, because even through the waves of release, the high hadn’t ebbed. It couldn't, with the excruciating stretch of his sweatpants still tented between your legs, or the weight of his adoration still anchoring you both to the bed.

  You find the slopes of his jaw with your fingertips, still quivering from how he wrecked you, and Chan leans into your touch, a planet to the sun.

  “I want to ride you,” you whisper.

  It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a soft, unrelenting need, looped around both your hearts and tugged tight.

  Chan’s breath halts.

  He swears something stutters in his chest. His eyes flutter open, and for a second, he’s stripped of every coherent thought. Just nerves lit like fire and a heartbeat so loud it rattles in his ears.

  “You…” he starts, then trails off, his voice low and deliciously ruined from having your slick coating his pharynx. His throat bobs. “You wanna be on top?”

  You nod slowly, brows knit like this is something fragile. Sacred.

  It is.

  It is, because it’s not about wanting control—it’s about trust. And Chan has never felt so honoured to give and receive it.

  He presses a kiss to your wrist, then your palm, then the center of your chest where your heart still dances from the work of his mouth.

  “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. Take me.”

  He shifts under you carefully, pulls off his sweatpants and boxers in one go, leaving his thick, aching length pulsing and flushed and glistening against the lower valley of his stomach. 

  You crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Chan’s hands instinctively settle on your hips. His head falls back against the pillow, the cords of his neck tight with restraint. He looks at you, his angel made of moonlight and the answer to every unnamed prayer he’s ever breathed through grit teeth in lonely hours.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he swoons, a mellow confession. 

  Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the way his abs twitch under your touch. His cock jumps when you slide your slick folds along the base of him, and Chan swears under his breath, knuckles blanching as he grips your hips tighter.

  The glide is slow, indulgent. It was your way of savouring him. You rub against him, your clit catching the ridge of his tip each time you rock forward, and Chan’s breath punches out of him in stuttered gasps. His eyes never leave your face sporting kiss-swollen lips, and dreamy dropping eyes, even as his hips buck helplessly under you.

  “Fuck,” he groans, eyes fluttering. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  With tests negative and your eggs surrendered to the control of coloured pills, you brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you and every flicker of pleasure across your face as though it’s the most exquisite art. 

  And when you finally sink down, slowly, divinely, the bare heat of you enveloping him inch by tremoring inch, Chan moans so deeply it sounds torn from his soul.

  His eyes sew shut. His hands grip your thighs like he’s afraid he’ll float off the earth if he lets go.

  He doesn’t speak at first. He breathes languidly. Shudders.

  Until his brain is finally able to relocate his mouth, and he pushes out a meek, “Fuck—please.”

  You move at a lax pace, and Chan meets each motion with a gentle rock of his hips. 

  It’s consuming, the way your warm, gummy walls slide against his hardened rod, the way he disappears into you with each grind of your hips. The remaining potion of your arousal and his spit gush over his bare tip and dribbles down his length.

  And your face—fuck, it was going to ravish him, ruin him far past the limits of your cunt. Pretty pout merged into an oh, eyes barely open before they shut tight. You were godly.

  You ride him like you’re claiming him, and Chan surrenders to you.

  His hands roam your body, thumb brushing over the curve of your breast, then gripping your waist. His gaze stays locked to your being and nothing but, drinking in the little gasps you spill, the arch of your back when you angle just right, the way your walls flutter around him when he groans your name.

  There’s nothing more beautiful than this, than you above him, owning him, loving him, making him come undone piece by piece.

  The way you move on him is poetry turned to flesh. Each roll of your hips is a verse, each sigh a stanza, and Chan is completely spellbound, caught in the flow of your body, unwinding the syllables of your name under his breath.

  He’s close.

  Gosh, he’s been close since the second you sank onto him, but now, the pressure wraths tight and hot at the base of his spine, every nerve lit like a fuse, and Chan knows he doesn’t have much longer until he’s helplessly falling apart for you.

  So, he brings a thumb to your nub and presses a slow circle into it.

  You mewl and clench around him, soft and fluttering, and his hips jerk. His head presses back against the pillow with a low, desperate groan. 

  “Baby,” he pants in a rough voice, thumb still working into you, “I’m not gonna last–”

  “I want it,” you whisper, almost boarding on a breathless mewl. “Want you to come inside.”

  More like wanted him dead.

  Chan’s mouth falls open in a silent moan, his whole body tightening beneath yours. His fingers dig into your hips, anchoring himself to the moment, his thumb coaxing you into your second orgasm until you're twitching above him, eyes shut tight, mumbling his name in a high sob.

  He’s spilling into you, hot and thick and endless.

  His mind whites out. His breath stutters. He feels like he’s burning and being saved all at once.

  You don’t stop. You keep moving, riding him through every wave of it, milking him with slow, deep grinds that draw out his pleasure until it teeters on overwhelming.

  “Fuck,” he chokes out, his voice wreaked, “just like that– oh god, angel, I’m yours–”

  His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as you finally still. He’s still twitching inside you, still pulsing weakly, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky drips that smear where your bodies press together.

  It’s messy and intimate and utterly undone.

  And Chan has never loved anything more.

  His lips find your shoulder, your neck, your temple. Kisses soft as the air after a storm, trying to say everything his tongue is too ruined to form.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, dizzy with adoration.

  You hum, cheek nuzzled into his hair, and Chan closes his eyes, his whole body still twiching, but grounded now by the feel of your heartbeat against his.

  “I mean it,” he whispers, thumbing lazy circles into your spine. “You’re everything.”

  When you finally move off him, Chan’s hands follow you instinctively, always touching, always holding. He props himself up on his elbows, watching with simmering greed as his cum slowly drips from between your thighs, glossy and slow.

  He almost can’t stop himself when two of his fingers scrape his hot seed back up, pressing the coated pads against the opening of your hole. You squirm with a soft mewl.

  “It’s spilling out of you,” he breathes, his voice dressed in awe. “Wanna stuff it back in you, baby. Can I?”

  You nod, eyes hooded, pout parted with wisping breaths.

  “Words, angel.” His own are broken, eyes so soft, so full of all the love and admiration known to humankind.

  “Yes,” you breathe.

  And that’s all Chan needs to hear before he’s gently laying your precious body against the sheets and leisurely replacing his fingers with himself, pushing into you softly, grazing your walls slowly, fucking his cum back to your core with love for your surging through his vessels and bones and nerves.

  Both your bodies twitch, overstimulated, your eyes glassed over with threatening tears pooling at each of your squinting corners.

  Yet, Chan wouldn't have wanted it any other way, simply because it was with you.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  whoever you are reading this, you are beautiful.

── thank you for reading ❝ RIDE ❞ ᝰ.ᐟ

© CHANIFESTO 2025

[chanifesto]

new fic layout who dis >⩊<

❝ RIDE ❞ 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝘵. 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛

𝑖𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ. . . you’re ovulating and want to ride chan.

𝑃. bang chan x afab!reader 𝐺. straight smut homie 𝑊𝐶. 3.2k 𝐶𝑊. [MDNI] explicit sexual content, softdom!bangchan, pet names (baby, sweet girl, angel), mating press (for like 2 secs, no intercourse), oral (f rec.), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home!), allusions to STI testing and birth control, creampie, the slightest amount of breeding kink + overstimulation in the end, chan wants to play, he’s so in love, ugh he’s such a sweetie, a feral sweetie 𝑅𝛮. written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina (more like wap). all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  wrote this bc i’m also ovulating and want to ride chan.

“Already so hot for me, hm?”

  Yes. You were. And you were nearly bare beneath Chan’s heavy gaze if not for your cute, little panties, the crotch soaked through, practically translucent, enough to wet the touch of whatever—whoever—dared to feather over the fabric adorning your sacred, seeping hole.

  Chan has you spread before him on his sheets at the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out to rest delicately on his naked shoulder, the other pushed to your chest, your foot dangling over his hand pressing into the plush back of your thigh.

  You were a dream come to life below him, the wettest dream composed only for the eyes of a man like him, too far past the pathetic cognitive confines of a teenage dirtbag. You were a fallen angel on his sheets, and all Chan could do was relish in how gone you were, how hot and wet and desperate you were, just for him.

  He licks his bottom lip and lets his heavy, barely open eyes wash down your body, drinking in the mess he’d made of you—he hadn’t even touched you yet.

  You’re basked atop the luscious pool of sheets, eyes dark and chasmic, begging into his dark chocolate orbs for his hands, mouth, and cock to ravish you. Your cheeks are flushed, hot with need, and your lips swell, pink and wet from what felt like centuries of making out before Chan had you in your current state. Your mouth parts to let the string of quick, deep breaths wisp out of your thoracic limits, heightened from the soft arch of your back. Your breasts heave with respiration, nipples pebbled against the comfortable coolness of the room, pleading to be pinched and sucked.

  Chan’s eyes wander down to the cloth between your legs, and the sight wreaks him. Your panties are ruined, lucid with slick that seems to gush out of you sans constraint, the never-ending patch diffusing throughout the cotton.

  God, Chan loved you like this, loved your desperation and obedience and wetness for him the few days a month you were in heat. It gave him a chance to really provide for you, give you everything and anything you needed to cool you off until you were whining to go again. Every month, he was ready, aching to make his baby feel so, so good.

  He feels searing blood pump into his cock, hardening his rod against the already taut fabric of his sweatpants. He slowly peers back into your eyes and catches a familiar glint that tells him you can’t wait any longer. There’s a mellow smirk accompanying his heavy-lidded eyes, a simple mask to help him ignore how all he wants to do is fall to his knees and pout his lips over your clit for the next hour.

  “This is okay?” He’d already asked more than once, but it was never enough for Chan.

  You writhe beneath him and softly moan. “Yes, Chan.”

  The fingers dancing over your ankle leisurely feather down your leg. “What do you need, baby?”

  Your hips writhe, and you whine. “Need you inside, Chan, please.”

  He hums, the pads of his fingers now running across the back of your thigh, leg still stretched out near his head.

  He’ll give it to you, and gosh did he want to do you in good. He wanted you gushing under him, mumbling incoherently from the luxurious pressure of his thrusts, but Chan also wanted to play, just for a little. He wanted to see how far he could string out his sweet girl’s desperation until she was begging for exactly what she needed.

  He pushes down on your leg, rendering it a matching pair with its twin, and leans into you. His hands cage you under him near your waist, the heat of your supple skin fogging over his fingers. The back of your legs rest against his hard, broad body, sculpting you into a mating press.

  Chan nuzzles his nose against yours. Both your eyes have succumbed to the weight they bear, whispering to a close before your lips mold into the other.

  He kisses you softly, granting you just enough pressure to push you into overdrive. Your hands fumble up his shoulders, finding purchase in his hair, gripping tight. You tug him closer, greedier. A groan, low and guttural, vibrates out of him and trembles down to your core.

  His hot mouth sucks up your bottom lip, lets it swell in his mouth, coats it with his spit. It rolls back out when he feels your heat squirm against the curve of his cock.

  Chan pulls himself from the warmth of your face. He wants to watch your brows scrunch, watch your wet lips pout when he grinds the hard curve of his length into your clothed cunt.

  It’s too much and not enough, like the first breath of air when you resurface from underwater. He’s so hard, and his cock rubs just right, deliciously over your clit. You press your head into the mattress, your hands clutch at his hair as you try to meet the agonizing motion of his hips. You pout and mewl up at him.

  He smiles, wicked and smug. Then kisses you, slow and sweet.

  Chan’s plush lips flutter down your jaw and neck, ghosting over your breast before he sucks your hardened nipple into his blazing mouth. You moan, bucking up against the ghost of his now absent hips. 

  His tongue flattens over your peak, covering it with a glistening sheen. He sucks and circles and flicks before he sucks hard off of you with a pop, wasting no time fastening his lips back to your skin to kiss down to the only clothed part of your body.

  Chan wants to play, wants to take his time pushing you to a release, but he feels a ticking in the pit of his own abdomen, and he knows he won’t last much longer without giving you exactly what you needed, so he slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tugs.

  The lacey band slides past your hips, past the level of your cunt when the crotch latches off with a resisting damp stick. A thin string of your slick stretches out to the wet splotch on your panties, drooping down onto the sheets when the fabric raises too far up your thighs and clears your feet.

  Chan’s hand smooths your thigh onto his shoulder, while the other works near the base of the bed to bunch your panties into a ball of fabric that is soon to never return to your underwear drawer.

  You're a sight for the books, art fit for museums beyond human capability. Now that you were completely bare beneath his gaze, slick, glistening proof of your arousal drooling onto the plush cotton towel he’d (thankfully) laid out just for you, Chan thinks—no, he knows—he’ll have to ravish you. And he’ll do it by fucking all of the pretty thoughts he has about you straight into your core.

  Your seeping pussy coaxes him in, the sight calling his lips to gently kiss over your thigh, each press a brand of affection seared into your flesh. He’s already half-drunk on the scent of you.

  And God, the scent. It’s divine. Heady and thick and achingly familiar. It wraps around him, makes his head light, his cock throb against the too taut seam of his pants. His tongue darts out to taste the air, to imagine what you’d feel like on it, and the moment his mouth finally hovers over your heat, he has to exhale a slow, ragged breath through his nose to keep from burying his face in you like a starved man.

  “Look at this mess, baby,” he mumbles, heavy eyes flickering up to catch yours through the haze. “Gonna suck it all out of you, yeah?”

  You almost can't stop yourself from rutting into him when he cherishes you with his first lick.

  The flat of his tongue starts from your dripping entrance and slides up to your clit in one long, sinful drag. You jolt with a sharp inhale, thighs twitching on his shoulders as your head falls back with a low moan. He hums against you, savouring every inch of the taste, the warmth, the overwhelming slick. His nose nudges your nub, lips parting to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s the sweetest fruit.

  Your hands are threading into his hair, tugging without thought. Chan groans deep into you, the vibration making your spine curve off the bed.

  He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. His tongue flicks and flattens and circles and dips, teasing your entrance just enough to taste the flood of slick before returning to your swollen, needy clit. His soft lips wrap around it, suctioning onto you so hard, pulling cries and whimpers from your throat like he’s conducting you with every movement of his mouth. Your angel voice serenades him with a melodic blend of pleas and his name.

  “Mmm, please, Chan—please please please.”

  He moans at your voice, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he lets himself sink into the rhythm. Suck, flick, lap. Over and over. Every sound you make is a reward, every roll of your hips a command he obeys. And when your thighs start to clamp around his head, twitching, your hips trying to rock into his face, he succumbs to your needs.

  He wants you to ride his mouth. Wants to feel you fall apart against his tongue.

  His hands slide under your ass, tilting your hips up, and he dives in deeper. His tongue thrusts into your soaked hole, curling, then returns to your clit. His spit mixes with your slick, a wet, messy potion painted across his chin and lips.

  Your sound is broken, wreaked, gasping out his name, your moans pleading for a release. Delinquent hips roll into him, chasing after a high that was just one step out of your reach.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Because he knows he has you right where he wants you. So, he just groans low and needy into your cunt and tightens his grip as you finally writhe into bliss.

  Your thighs lock around his head, your entire body bowing into the orgasm that crashes through you in high tides. You’re clenching, fluttering wildly as your slick gushes against his tongue, and Chan drinks it down, groaning like he’s in heaven.

  He is in heaven.

  He holds you there through every aftershock, licking you gently, kissing your clit with the kind of affection that makes your thighs quiver and your core clench again, helplessly sensitive.

  When he finally pulls back, your slick adorns the lower half of his face, glistening in the low light. He kisses your inner thigh one more time, eyes still heavy with his own desperation.

  “Did so well, angel, so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick and ruined.

  You gaze up at him with your fucked-out eyes, his masterpiece of a mess, panting like you just surfaced from the deep.

  Eyes dark and dazed, Chan hovers above your body. He’s not sure if he should crawl away or curl into you. 

  But you make the decision for him, because even through the waves of release, the high hadn’t ebbed. It couldn't, with the excruciating stretch of his sweatpants still tented between your legs, or the weight of his adoration still anchoring you both to the bed.

  You find the slopes of his jaw with your fingertips, still quivering from how he wrecked you, and Chan leans into your touch, a planet to the sun.

  “I want to ride you,” you whisper.

  It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a soft, unrelenting need, looped around both your hearts and tugged tight.

  Chan’s breath halts.

  He swears something stutters in his chest. His eyes flutter open, and for a second, he’s stripped of every coherent thought. Just nerves lit like fire and a heartbeat so loud it rattles in his ears.

  “You…” he starts, then trails off, his voice low and deliciously ruined from having your slick coating his pharynx. His throat bobs. “You wanna be on top?”

  You nod slowly, brows knit like this is something fragile. Sacred.

  It is.

  It is, because it’s not about wanting control—it’s about trust. And Chan has never felt so honoured to give and receive it.

  He presses a kiss to your wrist, then your palm, then the center of your chest where your heart still dances from the work of his mouth.

  “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. Take me.”

  He shifts under you carefully, pulls off his sweatpants and boxers in one go, leaving his thick, aching length pulsing and flushed and glistening against the lower valley of his stomach. 

  You crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Chan’s hands instinctively settle on your hips. His head falls back against the pillow, the cords of his neck tight with restraint. He looks at you, his angel made of moonlight and the answer to every unnamed prayer he’s ever breathed through grit teeth in lonely hours.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he swoons, a mellow confession. 

  Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the way his abs twitch under your touch. His cock jumps when you slide your slick folds along the base of him, and Chan swears under his breath, knuckles blanching as he grips your hips tighter.

  The glide is slow, indulgent. It was your way of savouring him. You rub against him, your clit catching the ridge of his tip each time you rock forward, and Chan’s breath punches out of him in stuttered gasps. His eyes never leave your face sporting kiss-swollen lips, and dreamy dropping eyes, even as his hips buck helplessly under you.

  “Fuck,” he groans, eyes fluttering. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  With tests negative and your eggs surrendered to the control of coloured pills, you brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you and every flicker of pleasure across your face as though it’s the most exquisite art. 

  And when you finally sink down, slowly, divinely, the bare heat of you enveloping him inch by tremoring inch, Chan moans so deeply it sounds torn from his soul.

  His eyes sew shut. His hands grip your thighs like he’s afraid he’ll float off the earth if he lets go.

  He doesn’t speak at first. He breathes languidly. Shudders.

  Until his brain is finally able to relocate his mouth, and he pushes out a meek, “Fuck—please.”

  You move at a lax pace, and Chan meets each motion with a gentle rock of his hips. 

  It’s consuming, the way your warm, gummy walls slide against his hardened rod, the way he disappears into you with each grind of your hips. The remaining potion of your arousal and his spit gush over his bare tip and dribbles down his length.

  And your face—fuck, it was going to ravish him, ruin him far past the limits of your cunt. Pretty pout merged into an oh, eyes barely open before they shut tight. You were godly.

  You ride him like you’re claiming him, and Chan surrenders to you.

  His hands roam your body, thumb brushing over the curve of your breast, then gripping your waist. His gaze stays locked to your being and nothing but, drinking in the little gasps you spill, the arch of your back when you angle just right, the way your walls flutter around him when he groans your name.

  There’s nothing more beautiful than this, than you above him, owning him, loving him, making him come undone piece by piece.

  The way you move on him is poetry turned to flesh. Each roll of your hips is a verse, each sigh a stanza, and Chan is completely spellbound, caught in the flow of your body, unwinding the syllables of your name under his breath.

  He’s close.

  Gosh, he’s been close since the second you sank onto him, but now, the pressure wraths tight and hot at the base of his spine, every nerve lit like a fuse, and Chan knows he doesn’t have much longer until he’s helplessly falling apart for you.

  So, he brings a thumb to your nub and presses a slow circle into it.

  You mewl and clench around him, soft and fluttering, and his hips jerk. His head presses back against the pillow with a low, desperate groan. 

  “Baby,” he pants in a rough voice, thumb still working into you, “I’m not gonna last–”

  “I want it,” you whisper, almost boarding on a breathless mewl. “Want you to come inside.”

  More like wanted him dead.

  Chan’s mouth falls open in a silent moan, his whole body tightening beneath yours. His fingers dig into your hips, anchoring himself to the moment, his thumb coaxing you into your second orgasm until you're twitching above him, eyes shut tight, mumbling his name in a high sob.

  He’s spilling into you, hot and thick and endless.

  His mind whites out. His breath stutters. He feels like he’s burning and being saved all at once.

  You don’t stop. You keep moving, riding him through every wave of it, milking him with slow, deep grinds that draw out his pleasure until it teeters on overwhelming.

  “Fuck,” he chokes out, his voice wreaked, “just like that– oh god, angel, I’m yours–”

  His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as you finally still. He’s still twitching inside you, still pulsing weakly, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky drips that smear where your bodies press together.

  It’s messy and intimate and utterly undone.

  And Chan has never loved anything more.

  His lips find your shoulder, your neck, your temple. Kisses soft as the air after a storm, trying to say everything his tongue is too ruined to form.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, dizzy with adoration.

  You hum, cheek nuzzled into his hair, and Chan closes his eyes, his whole body still twiching, but grounded now by the feel of your heartbeat against his.

  “I mean it,” he whispers, thumbing lazy circles into your spine. “You’re everything.”

  When you finally move off him, Chan’s hands follow you instinctively, always touching, always holding. He props himself up on his elbows, watching with simmering greed as his cum slowly drips from between your thighs, glossy and slow.

  He almost can’t stop himself when two of his fingers scrape his hot seed back up, pressing the coated pads against the opening of your hole. You squirm with a soft mewl.

  “It’s spilling out of you,” he breathes, his voice dressed in awe. “Wanna stuff it back in you, baby. Can I?”

  You nod, eyes hooded, pout parted with wisping breaths.

  “Words, angel.” His own are broken, eyes so soft, so full of all the love and admiration known to humankind.

  “Yes,” you breathe.

  And that’s all Chan needs to hear before he’s gently laying your precious body against the sheets and leisurely replacing his fingers with himself, pushing into you softly, grazing your walls slowly, fucking his cum back to your core with love for your surging through his vessels and bones and nerves.

  Both your bodies twitch, overstimulated, your eyes glassed over with threatening tears pooling at each of your squinting corners.

  Yet, Chan wouldn't have wanted it any other way, simply because it was with you.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  whoever you are reading this, you are beautiful.

── thank you for reading ❝ RIDE ❞ ᝰ.ᐟ

© CHANIFESTO 2025

[chanifesto]

this is insane !

ᯓᡣ𐭩 mr. fix it | yeon sieun

pairing: yeon sieun x afab!reader (weak hero)

synopsis: yeon sieun was notoriously known as your program’s tech handyman. when he wasn’t hunched over calculus problem sets, sieun was busy fixing his peers' laptops, for a price of course—one that was nonexistent for you because you seemed to make his software hard.

genre: another smutty university au

word count: 6.9k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, grinding, making out, oral (f rec.), pussydrunk!sieun, piv sex, protected sex, many consent checks, sieun is so so gone for you, you are literally his pretty little angel, if devotion was a person it would be him, sieun can’t figure out his goddamn integral

reader notes: written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina. reader is described to look ‘small’ at one point. all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

this fic was requested – thank you so much, i loved coming up with the concept .ᐟ

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐ park jihoon uggghhhh need need need him. had the most exquisite time picking out the concept pictures.

“You broke it again?”

  His voice sounds flat, but there's a tinge of hope, a sense of subdued anticipation perking his last few syllables.

  Sieun stares at the half-solved integral on his desk, phone pressed to his cheek, screen cold against his skin, fingers loosely gripping the sides. The warm glow of his lamp casts a nimbus over the mess made of a barely punched in calculation and his calculus textbook, pages worn from flipping back and forth between the chapter problem sets and appendix answers. Outside his window, the campus sky is dim, too gray for six in the evening.

  “I didn’t break it!” Your voice crackles through the line, scratchy with frustration. Sieun can hear your breath over the receiver, rough and rushed.

  “It just won’t turn on,” you continue, “I don’t know what happened. I just opened my tabs, and then—dead.” 

  He exhales. “And you tried plugging it in?”

  “Yes, Sieun. I tried everything you taught me—nothing worked,” you huff, “I have an essay due Monday, and everything I need to write it is on this damn laptop.”

  You sound slightly breathless, your voice hoarse with the kind of air that clings to lungs on chilly evenings. Wind rushes past the speaker, muddling your words with static. Sieun’s ears pick up on this.

  “Where are you,” he asks, dull, but more abrupt than intended.

  You’re silent for a few beats.

  “Outside.” Another gust of wind bleeds through the receiver.

  He feels the warmth of perspiration prick across his palms. “Where?”

  The brisk, hollow rustle of plastic, and then, “Walking to your dorm.”

  Sieun feels his breath dissipate in the back of his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” you start. Sieun squeezes his eyes upon hearing these words in your soundwaves, words he thought were too unnecessary when masked in your voice.

  “I saw the forecast, there’s going to be rain—shoot, I forgot my umbrella, I knew I was forgetting something—anyways, I figured I'd head over to yours before it hit,” there’s an unmistakable sincerity in your voice, “I really need you right now, Sieun.”

  Need to murder him, he thought. Clearly, that was more fitting for the illusive objective of your last sentence, one that roused his hand to the back of his neck, called his fingers to smooth over his golden skin, wailed for them to curl against his flesh in hopes of helping him get a grip of himself. Literally.

  He sighs, half flustered, half enlivened. “You’ll be here soon?”

  “Yeah, just five minutes more.”

  There’s a pause. “Okay.”

  A quick exhale breaks past your lips, a restrained puff of air that had been trapped in the back of your throat, waiting for a green light to let it loose. “Thank you, Sieun.”

  He can still feel the ghost of icy plastic against his cheek when you cut the call. Unfocused eyes cloud over the sheets and pens and smudged writing lazing atop his desk.

  Of course. 

  Of course you’re coming over. Because why wouldn’t you? Your laptop’s dead, and he’s the tech guy, and this is just what happens. He fixes things.

  And right now, you need him to fix your things. He couldn’t help but feel his heart jump at the idea, an eagerness creeping into his chest, fogging up his lungs and grabbing hold of the air that dared to escape up his trachea.

  Sieun, as cold as he seemed, felt warmth fixing your things, like he’d swallowed the sun and it dissolved into his blood. Unlike the peers on your campus, he does it for you free-of-charge—hell, he thinks he’d pay you just to let him fidget around with your laptop’s battery that burns to touch or the program functions you can’t seem to figure out even after using the ‘help’ tab. He’d never admit to it though.

  Not yet, at least.

  His eyes flicker to the unfinished problem adorning his notebook, numbers and symbols half-formed, abandoned mid-line. The solution sits just out of reach.

  Much like you.

  His unfinished integral mocks him.

  Your cheeks are flushed, supple and radiant, the dermal symptom of cool drizzle and dewy autumn air. Sieun’s eyes surf the strands of your hair, glinting from subtle rain droplets that catch even in the dim fluorescent light of his dorm hallway.

  You look small like this in his doorway, backpack straps sagging over your shoulders, your sweater sporting little wet spots that are sure to smell like petrichor. Your hands tightly clutch a white plastic bag to your abdomen, the vertices of a cardboard box poking out at him.

  You smile at him, small and sweet and a little flustered. “There was some drizzle when I turned onto your lane.”

  Sieun’s gaze, currently traveling across the ridges tenting your plastic bag, snaps to your face.

  “Oh.” It’s a soft expression, a barely-there phoneme he manages through concern for you—how dare the clouds cry over your angel face?—and some muffled curiosity.

  Sieun just can’t help the fall of his gaze. He stares blankly at the bag in your hands. He’s not surprised when you take notice.

  “It’s brownie mix!”

  He peers at you again.

  “Brownies?”

  You grin sheepishly, fiddling with the plastic handles. “Yeah, I thought, well– you work so hard, you deserve a fun break, one you can get a sweet treat out of!” You pause. “And, I guess it’s also thanks for my laptop. You’ve saved me a lot of money I already don’t have, more than once now.”

  He’s still staring at you, face blank, unreadable, lips sealed in a line, but his eyes gleamed. Whether it was annoyance or humour, you weren’t sure, but his dreamy, tired eyes gleamed.

  Your eyes go wide. “Oh gosh, I should’ve asked you if brownies were okay. They looked so good on the box, I just had to pick them up. You could be allergic to chocolate, or maybe you don’t even like brownies–”

  “Brownies are cool.”

  Sieun watches your lips halt their rambling, configured mid-sentence, before they slowly spread into a toothy grin, one that radiates a warm feeling into his bones and almost—almost—makes his lip twitch up to match yours.

  All you needed to do was force start.

  That’s all.

  No hardware to trifle with, no delinquent software meddling with your computer programs.

  All Sieun had to do was press a couple buttons in tandem before your screen lit back up to life, resurrected from its cry of wolf.

  Your cheeks had heated, bashful from your ignorance, but also a little humoured.

  They blazed further when you caught sight of the calculus massacre on his desk, hurried apologies spilling past your pretty lips to wash out the guilt that crawled up your chest.

  Sieun reassured you all was well—It’s fine, I was almost done anyways—with a look in his eyes that had you capitulating to his sincerity.

  “Can I repay you with brownies?” you had prompted, fingers twiddling behind your back as if it would have subliminally helped rouse the answer you sought after.

  Sieun slowly flattened your laptop to a shut before his Bambi eyes peaked at you and whispered exactly what you needed to know, exactly what you wanted to hear.

  So, you’d both clambered in his tiny, cozy dorm kitchen, ingredients and bowls and utensils scattered across granite, instructions serenading the walls in your voice, Sieun’s hands working to mix the dark sea of cocoa batter.

  You had assumed the role of a conductor but managed to pull a mess over you like a magnet. Whatever hadn’t been mixed into the warm batch of brownies basking atop Sieun’s countertop had found consolation on your being—cocoa powder and melted butter and drying batter decorated your skin and sweater.

  Sieun thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

  Of course, Sieun had missed any defiant ingredient attacks entirely.

  You’d both picked up a piece each, melted chocolate furnishing your mouths while Sieun, starry-eyed and attentive, listened to you babble about your stress baking and how, no matter the many times you made something, you’d always be left with a bit of a messy souvenir from the process.

  It was during this instance when the rain had hit.

  Hard and harsh and pattering ferociously against the window of his measly living room. You and Sieun had snapped your heads at the sound, sticky embellishments of chocolate coating your fingers.

  You’d looked so worried, so consumed in the thought of how you’d walk home through what was practically a typhoon. You hadn’t checked for a storm warning, all you’d known was a chance of rain. Your umbrella wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  You’d looked so worried, so it felt almost natural when Sieun suggested you just stay over.

  “...Really?” Your eyes were breaking past their sockets, and Sieun had nerely felt the weight of his words crash over him until your orbs softened and he saw the ghost of a smirk brush past your lips.

  “Yeah, you can’t get home through that,” his voice had been tinged with his radiation of care for you. His eyes swept over your chocolate-covered frame. “You can use my shower if you want. I’ll give you some clean clothes to wear.”

  You’d obliged. Quite happily.

  And now, Sieun sat at his desk, unfinished integral staring up at him, the muted sound of his shower silking through the wall, almost louder than the merciless storm outside his window. 

  Sieun hadn’t touched his sheets or pens since he’d retreated to his room, changed into his own set of nightwear, and lowered himself into his desk chair. He couldn’t focus.

  How could he? When you were just a dozen feet away, naked and wet under the rush of his shower.

  He knew he shouldn’t think about it, begged himself not to, but when his mind slipped over the way you had chocolate powder flowering your neck and underneath your sweater, he couldn’t help but let his mind run, just a little.

  Run over the way your fingers probably tucked under the bottom of your sweater, dragging it up along your beautiful body and over your head. What had you worn underneath? Had you even worn anything? 

  In Sieun’s little fantasy, you hadn’t. You’d been bare for him under your clothes, and he’d been ready, quick to ravish you, to kiss and suck and bite at your warm skin.

  But, that was just a fantasy.

  In reality, it didn’t matter whether or not you’d worn anything underneath your sweater. Sieun had just helped you out, made things a little easier for you, eased your anxiety by offering an innocent sleepover so you wouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself to what was the making of an ocean outside his dorm.

  It didn’t matter, just like his integral, still unfinished. Deferred. Mocking.

  The blood had barely made it to his cock before it was rushing back to his brain.

  A couple minutes more of unsuccessfully undressing the math symbols littering his half-blank page and you were padding your way into his room, feet bare, heels marginally lifted off the cold floor of his dorm. Your clothes were folded, carried atop your forearms, and your cute body was swallowed in his t-shirt and shorts, sleeves too long, neck hole too wide, fabric swaying just over your knees with each of your scampered steps.

  You gaze at Sieun from the edge of his bed, clothes now tucked away in your backpack, the hem of his shirt twirling in your fingers. 

  God, Sieun thought you looked ethereal, bare-faced and in his clothes. The warm, mellow glow of his desk lamp illuminates your face like a halo. Your sweet angel eyes are drowning him far past the storm outside.

  Sweet oblivious angel eyes. If only they could see the mess he’d made of you in his head.

  “Are you ready to sleep, or do you want to study some more?” Your voice is so soft, so melodious bouncing within the confines of his skull, and your eyes twinkle just right, brightened from his lamp and the mere cast of moonlight simmering through his window.

  “I’m done,” Sieun starts, “You take the bed. I’m going to sleep in the living room.”

  He’s about to push himself up when you cross your cute arms, defiant and determined. He watches your eyes narrow, eyebrows dip with a scrunch.

  “Absolutely not!” you chide, your squint piercing. Sieun stares, half stood. He sits back down.

  “It’s not fair to you! I showed up, practically unannounced, had you press a couple buttons on my laptop because I was too incompetent to figure it out myself, then made you make brownies with me against your will since you don’t take any economic compensation! And I know you’re not done with your problem set, I can see it from here. It’s exactly how you left it before we made those godforsaken brownies! I completely butted into your evening and messed up your studying, so you best believe you’ll be sleeping in your own bed and getting a good night’s rest!”

  You puff at the end, like you’d said it in one breath, forearms glued to each other, fingers digging into your biceps.

  Sieun is still staring at you, face blank, eyes gentle.

  “You’re not incompetent.”

  You blink.

  “That’s not the point, Sieun.” You huff, pointing to his blankets. 

  “Now, get to bed.”

  His eyes flick, your attention on his bed now shared. There’s an ease in the air, one that helps to hoist Sieun from his desk chair, click his lamp off, and carry himself over to the side of his bed. He lifts the corner of his duvet, slides underneath, and lets it fall over him. All without a peep.

  His eyes scan to your frame, still at the edge of his bed, still in his too-baggy clothes, still looking too ethereal for him to indulge below the moonlight’s gaze, even in your quarrelsome stance.

  You stare back at him.

  “Okay… good.” You sound stifled, almost suspicious of his obedience.

  Your arms unclasp, a little dazed at how fast he’d listened to you. With a hesitant scratch to your neck, you shuffle to what would be your side of Sieun’s bed, just for tonight.

  Even though Sieun wishes it could be a less transient arrangement.

  But he was doing this to help you. 

  Afterall, you’d looked so worried.

  Sieun watches your warm body roll onto his mattress, feels it dip with your added weight from across. You shamble to face him, the duvet bunching in your hands, a relaxed, content tilt gracing your lips. Your cheek presses against the pillow, eyes squinting with warmth and kindness and gratitude and what Sieun could describe as a fatally contagious ray of tranquility.

  You look so sweet like this, cuddled into his bed in clothes—his clothes—that swallow your body whole. The rain had slowed, granting permission to an even larger crowd of moonlight to flow over your face.

  Sieun thought you were unreal, a mythical being from a dreamy world far beyond the current celestial limits.

  A mythical being who saw him only for his technological abilities.

  You were only here for tonight. Sieun was just helping you.

  Because you had looked so worried.

  So, he rolls onto his side, nearing the edge of the bed, hands tittering close to an abyss.

  “Goodnight,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother to pull the duvet to his front, lets it hang just over his side, as if any extra movement would make him appear more visible to you.

  You gape at his back.

  “Sieun!”

  Sieun closes his eyes. Perhaps the world around him wouldn’t see him if he couldn’t see the world.

  You puff, a frustrated push of air that has Sieun squinting his eyes shut further. He feels the duvet minutely ruffle behind him, feels the dip of the mattress sink gradually.

  “I don’t get it, are you actually upset?” Although you were quiet, you sounded so disgruntled, confused. Sieun could only wish he was better at this so he wouldn’t have to bear your honey-like voice convey such emotion, like thrones stuck in a cloud.

  But, Sieun was Sieun. A man of minimal words who spoke the truth and nothing but—until now.

  “No, just trying to get a good night’s rest.” Just trying to keep my mind off you, so close, for just one night.

  “Ugh! Will you just turn around so I can talk to you?”

  Your hand reaches out and grips the collar of Sieun’s shirt, a tight grip pulling him towards you, a gentle grip to avoid attempted murder.

  His eyes pop open, a hand catching onto the taut fabric around his neck. If there was the slightest chance Sieun’s conscious was to succumb to strangulation tonight, he thinks he’d only remember the warmth of your fingers fogging over the back of his neck.

  Sieun yields to your force, falling onto his back. Why are you so damn strong?

  With a hatch of his neck, his eyes find yours in the dark room, the patch of moonlight from his window dimmed from the roar of thunder and familiar strikes of heavy droplets against the glass.

  There’s light provocation simmering through your face, playful like a child in a game of tag.

  “Talk about what?” His voice is quiet but firm, his body a statue sandwiched between the mattress and sheets, daring not to move a millimeter.

  You peer at him, words hanging along the tip of your tongue, as if debating whether they were worth speaking into the medium shared between your beings.

  You decide they are.

  “I know you take a fee from others when you fix their laptops.” There’s a quirk in his neck, a twitch at the corner of his lips that urges you further. “You’ve never taken one from me, even when I mention it. Why is that?”

  Sieun feels a gradual quickening of his heartbeat at this concoction of your voice, and, like the start of a tornado, the thoughts in his head rampage into a whirlwind.

  To be or not to be? Sieun, who previously seemed to lack any cognitive resources to solve his monster integral, was now calculating his next move with rigorous intricacy.

  Maybe it was the kick in adrenaline that had him instigating your little game.

  Sieun chose to be.

  “Why do you think?”

  Your eyes narrow in an instant, the entire play a chain reaction. Were you also debating your next actions, words? Were you also aware of the string snapping taut between you, tense and nearing a strong, sudden tear?

  Sieun definitely was. Like always, he knew what he was getting himself into, knew he was igniting something far beyond repair, unlike the many laptops he’d resurrected.

  Sieun knew what he’d started. He’d calculated it, perhaps from the very beginning, from the moment he uttered the word “stay.”

  He was just helping you, for one night. Just one night.

  You’d looked so worried, of course.

  Perhaps Sieun had wanted your eyebrows to furrow from another force of nature—him.

  Say something.

  A quirk to your lips. Dark shadows in your eyes.

  And a hand reaching out for his neck, this time to pull him to the plushest centre of your visage.

  His lips graze the fullness of yours when you whisper in a breath.

  “I knew to force start.”

  Sieun isn’t spared a chance to retaliate his sockets stretching back when you press into him.

  The dense pressure molds his own lips flush against yours, an electric fog swarming your face and down the flanks of your neck.

  It’s a reflex, an abrupt, consuming, greedy reflex, when his arm curls over your back, big hand hastily grazing along your spine to knot into your hair.

  Had Sieun fallen asleep?

  This has to be a dream.

  But your lips were too soft against his, too warm.

  And your back curved so well along his forearm, strands so luxurious curled around his fingers.

  Your hand on his chest, basking down his torso… Sieun believes he doesn’t possess even a speckle of the imagination required to muster a feeling as heavenly as that.

  Definitely not enough to muster a feeling as heavenly as your hand sliding over him through his thin flannel pajamas.

  You were a fallen angel who had come to play unsacred games.

  And Sieun proved to be a worthy opponent.

  His fingers grip around the base of your skull to pull you from his lips.

  His eyes are heavy with a murmur of inquisition, flitting over your lips before boring into your own with words unspoken. You mirror his gaze with equal weight, savouring his quiet inhale when you push further down over his hardening curve, feathering your hand up to rest against the supple part of his abdomen.

  “You know where this is going.” It was a statement, a quiet, breathless, almost restrained mutter carrying all the responsibility and uncertainty and anticipation littered within Sieun.

  You gaze, knowing, unbothered.

  “This is what you want? This is what you came for?”

  “Yes,” you whisper, “Take it as part of my thanks.”

  “I thought the brownies were your thanks.”

  You smirk. “That was just the appetizer.”

  Sieun scoffs quietly, a humble pfft to accompany the fingers gently rubbing over the bottom of your scalp, a means of easing into his next utterance.

  You were drowning in his milk chocolate orbs, a velvety sea full of nothing but care and adoration and awe for you.

  “Are you sure you want to go further?” Any quieter and the storm battering upon his window would have drowned his sound completely.

  “Yes, Sieun.”

  That was everything he needed to hear.

  A gentle push to your neck has your lips pressing back into the plushness of his own.

  It’s a slow kiss, chaste but blazing with the need you’d both been bearing for months. You move against the other, the ghost of anticipation urging you further into it.

  Sieun definitely is not dreaming.

  All his prior frustration, graced from his still unsolved practice set and the many long, agonizing weeks of indirect contact with you, melts away, leaving a tender warmth to dry in its place. Your lips feel as soft as—no, they were softer, so much softer, and warm like sun rays on cold skin—the many times he’d imagined the ghost of them wisping against his.

  A transient ghost, barely lasting a mere tortuous ten seconds. He’d stop himself from savouring it, pry the ghost away before his hopes shot higher than the sky above him.

  But now, you were here, tangible, with your mortal lips on his. They were so supple, so plush and warm and real. And they were flush against his. No one else but him.

  Sieun had spent so long denying your fabricated being, the one who would distract him from his problem sets, urge him to isolate from the many gadgets his peers would throw his way in times of technological misfortune.

  Sieun decided it was finally time to show you what your ghost had been doing to him.

  He sucks in your bottom lip, hands grazing over your hips to pull you over his growing hardness with a delicate hold, treating your vessel like original vintage artwork. Fragile. Authentic. Godly.

  The duvet shifts against your back while you shift over him, the core of your heat finding solace over his own. The hem of his borrowed t-shirt rides up your torso like it knows what’s coming.

  It’s an abrupt, consuming, visceral feeling when you first connect with the stiff rod bulging against the stressed material of Sieun’s pajamas.

  It’s the same for Sieun, so when a small groan muses from the depths of his throat at the feeling of your heat radiating along his length, he remains basking in its aftermath.

  Lips still working into each other, you almost don’t acknowledge the slow, tantalizing roll of your hips.

  Sieun does, and it drives him crazy.

  Sieun, who was always so cool, composed, and distant was now growing hot and undone, all while pressing himself further into you, meeting you at an undefined middle, ridding any and all separation from your heating bodies from the insufferable vexation of need.

  His hands knead into your hips, bearing your heat further along him, before they configure to push himself up while embracing you flush against his chest.

  You’re consuming him, physically and mentally. Your lips on his, your body wrapped tightly around his own, hot cunt slowly grinding over the hard curve of his cock, a barrier of too much fabric plastered between your beings and pushing you both into frustrated desperation.

  Your name, your scent, the suppleness of your skin, they all fog his head, conquer it with the ghost of you.

  Both your mortal and immortal forms had possessed him, consumed him whole until he was nothing but a spec of utter devotion to you and you only.

  Your hips grind again, slow, sinful, and Sieun’s breath stutters against your mouth.

  You feel the shiver that rebounds through him like a tremor, feel the tight grip of his hands at your waist falter before steadying again, tighter this time, as if he needs to anchor you, or maybe himself.

  His lips leave yours only to trail hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, your crescent of skin beyond the shirt’s collar, the devotion in each press of his mouth turning you molten.

  “You feel…” he murmurs, barely audible, like he’s speaking to himself, “…too good. Too good to be real.”

  You tilt your hips forward again, slower, answering him with equal desperation, and Sieun’s head tips back, a ragged exhale pulling from his throat. The sight strikes you—his lashes trembling, his brows knit together in pleasure so raw it borders on pain. He looks ruined.

  Kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, shades of pink colonizing his visage in the shower of eventide luminosity.

  You don’t realize you’ve gasped until his gaze finds you again, pupils blown wide and gleaming with disbelief. His thumbs rub along your hip bones, a fragrant sensation even through the fabric of his shorts you adorned.

  Your hands glide under his shirt, pushing up until he’s reaching for the edge himself, prying the shirt past his head and letting the fabric fall to the cold hardwood beneath his bed.

  His hands slip beneath the hem of your own, and his touch is hesitant, wavering, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he reaches too far.

  “Can I…?” he asks, voice husky and threadbare, already tugging at the fabric.

  You nod. His hands glide up, slow and reverent, brushing over the curves and valleys he’s only ever imagined, each touch leaving heat in its wake. 

  He drinks in the sight of you like he’s been thirst-starved for days, gentle eyes falling over your face and down to your taut peaks. You weren’t a ghost anymore—you were a dream, glowing and radiant beneath the muted haze of damp moonlight.

  And when your bare chest presses to his, skin to skin, nothing between you but the thundering pace of your hearts, Sieun chokes out a soft, desperate moan.

  The ghost of you has vanished.

  What remains is you—real and soft and warm and all his.

  And he’s no longer a boy haunted by longing. He’s a man who’s finally allowed to feel.

  Your fingers find the nape of his neck, weaving into the soft strands of his hair, and the sound he lets out—broken, hushed, completely unguarded—settles somewhere deep in your chest.

  Sieun’s lips return to yours with more urgency now, less caution, the kind that only comes when desire and restraint blur into the same overwhelming thing. His tongue traces your bottom lip before slipping inside, gentle, exploratory, worshipping, like he’s memorizing you.

  Every movement of his hips under you is hesitant but needy, as if he’s still trying to slow himself down, still trying to process that you’re not slipping away.

  “You’re driving me insane,” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse and cracking like lightning behind the storm-glassed windows.

  He kisses you again, softer now, almost like an apology for how his hands are now gripping at the swell of your thighs with mounting desperation.

  Then, with a breath that shakes against your lips, Sieun pulls back. Only just.

  “Lie back,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with something you’ve never heard from him before. Anticipation, maybe. Hunger, definitely.

  You do, painfully unlatching from his warmth and sinking into the pillow behind you.

  Sieun follows, crawling down the length of your body like a man crossing sacred ground, his drowsy gaze never leaving you. It lingers on the slope of your neck, the lines of your collarbone, the tender stretch of skin bare to the cool air of his bedroom. Each inch he memorizes like scripture, utterly fascinated and unspeakably enamoured.

  “You’re…” he begins, almost too quiet to even comprehend, but trails off, like no word quite fits what you are to him.

  And then you see it. The way adoration turns to ache.

  A valley of creases between his brows, a marginal slit parting his pout, the quickened wisps of air trailing out of him. He’s wrecked, far past.

  And you had barely touched him.

  Sieun’s hands slide up your thighs, calloused fingertips brushing along the waistband of the very shorts he lent you, the ones riding too low on your hips, the ones he's dreamed about you in far too many nights to count.

  He kisses the inside of your knee.

  Then your thigh.

  Then the soft dip just above your hip bone.

  His hands move, thumbs hooking into the waistband. There’s a beat—one last, wordless check—and then he draws them down.

  And stops breathing.

  You’re bare beneath them. No panties. Just slick, glistening proof of how long you’ve wanted this too.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, like it’s been torn from him. His jaw goes slack, eyes shadowed with affection and disbelief. “You didn’t wear—?”

  He doesn't finish. He can't.

  His hands twitch.

  You’ve rendered Yeon Sieun speechless.

  Sieun blinks once, twice, like he’s trying to process the sight before him, trying not to let it undo him entirely.

  But it does.

  It does.

  He swallows hard, jaw flexing as his eyes drag along the slick sheen glistening between your thighs, warm and glimmering and pooling out of you sans constraint.

  His hands settle on your hips again, firm, needy, desperate.

  “You’ve been like this this whole time?” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes flickering up to meet yours, the question half-shattered already. “Wearing my shorts… like this?”

  You don’t have time to answer.

  Because Sieun leans in, drawn like a man starved, mouth ghosting just above your heat and breathing you in.

  His composure fractures there.

  A low, guttural sound breaks from his throat as he presses a slow, devoted kiss to your core. Just one.

  Then another. Then again, deeper, wetter, until his tongue slides through your dampened heat with a shuddering groan of restraint and craving colliding all at once.

  Your hips twitch and Sieun’s grip tightens instinctively, his fingers digging into your waist to anchor you to him like you might vanish otherwise.

  His tongue moves again, slow and patient, still trying to worship even while losing his mind.

  But you’re so wet, and he’s so gone.

  Each soft moan that slips from your lips draws another shaky exhale from him, each roll of your hips a crack in his control.

  He tries to keep it measured. Gentle.

  But then he hears you gasp his name, all broken and raw, and something inside him snaps.

  His pace quickens.

  He licks into you deeper, more desperate, tongue flicking, flattening, circling like he’s chasing a high that stubbornly runs just a step out of his reach. His nose brushes your clit and he doesn’t even think to pull back.

  He wants it all.

  You feel his moan against you, deep and wrecked, and you realize:

  Sieun isn’t composed anymore.

  He’s hungry.

  Possessed.

  And completely, unbearably devoted to the taste of you.

  You’re gasping now, each breath shallower than the last, and Sieun can feel you trembling beneath his palms.

  It spurs him on, wrecks him in ways he never knew were possible.

  His thumbs rub slow circles into your hips, as if to soothe you, steady you, but his mouth is relentless, nose tirelessly working into your nub. His tongue is languid one moment, then firmer the next, lapping through your folds with aching, focused precision, memorizing all that makes you fall apart.

  You roll into a nimble arch, head tipping back, and your thighs quiver where they rest over his shoulders.

  “Sieun—” you whimper.

  His name breaks in your throat, and that’s what crumbles him.

  He groans into you again, the vibration shooting straight through your core as he licks you harder now, deeper, more rhythmic, mouth coaxing you right to the edge, right to the place he’s been aching to take you.

  His hands are cradling your hips now, keeping you spread open, helpless, vulnerable, his.

  And then he whispers it, barely audible, a prayer into your skin.

  “Come for me.”

  Your breath catches.

  “Let me taste all of you,” he mumbles again, like he’s asking for divinity, like your pleasure is holy.

  And when you finally do, when your body tenses and your thighs clamp tight around his head and that beautiful cry of his name leaves your lips, Sieun doesn’t stop.

  He groans into you, licking you through it, drinking it in like he’s never tasted something more sacred.

  Like he’s never belonged more to anything—anyone—than he does to you in this moment.

  And even after the tremors still, even when you’re limp and gasping and glowing beneath him, he keeps kissing you softly, as if he can’t bear to let you go just yet.

  As if this is how he says I’ve wanted you like this forever.

  You’re still panting when he pulls back, lips slick and pink, eyes hooded and blown wide with awe. He looks stunned. Disheveled. Like a man undone by worship.

  But you, squirming and aching and desperate to have all of him, manage to find your voice.

  “Sieun,” you whisper, reaching for him. Your fingers trail along his jaw, coaxing him up until he’s hovering over you again. “I want more.”

  His breath hitches.

  Your palm slides over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his ribs. “I want you inside me.”

  Sieun stills completely.

  And then his eyes close, jaw tightening as if your words alone could undo the last shreds of his composure.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough with disbelief.

  He kisses you, not hard, not hurried, but slow and deep, like it’s all he can do to keep from losing control. You savour the heady taste of your slick coating his lips. He presses his forehead to yours, and mutters shakily, “One second.”

  You watch as he reaches for the drawer beside his bed and pulls out a condom from the crumpled blue box Hu-min had shoved at him weeks ago with a stupid grin and no explanation.

  He’d meant to throw them out. He hadn’t.

  He tears the foil open with controlled fingers and slides his flannels and boxers off his body, finally bearing himself free.

  He’s thick, flushed, already leaking from the tip. He hisses under his breath as he rolls the condom on, fingers twitching like he’s barely holding it together.

  When he settles between your thighs, eyes drowning in your sight, the air changes.

  Gone is the boy who’s too quiet, too closed off, too powered from the urge of indignation.

  What remains is Sieun drowned in passion, eyes wide and dreamy and dazed by the sight of you spread open for him, the warmth of your body beckoning his own.

  “You sure?” he asks again, voice almost too tender.

  You nod, pulling him down into a kiss, and guide him with a soft whisper, “Yes. Please, Sieun. I want all of you.”

  He exhales shakily.

  Then he lines himself just beyond your heat, and with a leisurely push of his hips, he slides inside.

  You both gasp.

  You’re hot and wet and hug onto his inching cock, and he sinks in like he’s always meant to belong there. 

  “God—” he grits, arms quavering on either side of you as he tries not to lose it too fast, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

  “You’re…” His voice cracks. “So good. So—gosh, I don’t—”

  You wrap your legs around him, anchoring him to you, and moan when he rocks forward again, deeper this time. You feel everything, every inch, every pulse, every lazed drag.

  He starts slow, shallow, testing your fit, his own restraint. His hips roll into yours with a tender kind of ache, like he’s afraid to break you, like each inch of him inside you is a miracle he can’t fully comprehend.

  But your body answers with desperate softness, clinging to him like silk caught in wind. You tilt your hips, chasing more friction, and whimper at the way his cock presses deeper, fuller, perfectly where you need him.

  Sieun moans, a sound so broken and quiet it nearly guts you.

  “Please,” you breathe, clutching at his back, your voice hitching with each movement. “Don’t hold back.”

  His jaw clenches. His eyes flutter shut.

  And then he moves deeper, hips rocking into you with a fluid rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your legs tighten around him.

  The friction is delicious. The stretch, overwhelming yet cosmic.

  Sieun presses closer, burying his face further into your neck, panting softly against your skin.

  “You’re so—” He chokes on a groan as your walls flutter around him. “You feel unreal.”

  You drag your nails lightly down his spine, whispering back between moans.

  He fucks into you slowly, like it’s sacred. Each thrust is a vow, a prayer, an unraveling. His hands are everywhere—one gripping your thigh to anchor you to him, the other cradling your jaw like you’re too precious to let go.

  Your body sings for him. You meet each movement with your own, hips rising to greet him, rolling and shifting to take him deeper, to keep him close.

  Your moans mingle with his gasps, the heat between you building with every thrust, until there’s nothing left of restraint, only the desperate, languid drag of two bodies finding rhythm in devotion.

  Sieun lifts his head to look at you—really look—and what he sees makes his hips stutter.

  Your face, flushed and shining, lips parted, still pink and swollen, eyes glassy with bliss and admiration.

  You’re breathtaking. And right now, you were his.

  He moans again, broken and stunned, and leans down to kiss you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t, slow, messy, teeth grazing lips, all while his hips begin to move faster, harder, chasing something he’s never dared imagine before you.

  Your bodies are slick with heat and need, the world around you reduced to nothing but the way he fits, the way he fills, the way he worships you with every thrust.

  Sieun is whispering your name like a lifeline, like it’s the only word he knows, murmured into the skin of your throat, your jaw, your lips, as if it can tether him to reality while he teeters on the edge of something vast and consuming.

  “You feel so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse and reverent. “So perfect—you’re perfect.”

  Your back arches, body shuddering as he angles his hips just right, deep and slow and precise, hitting that spot inside you that makes gush over his length.

  Your moans turn high and breathless, desperate.

  “Sieun—” you gasp, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “I’m close—oh god—”

  He knows. 

  He feels it, the way you start to flutter and squeeze around him, the way your breaths collapse into whimpers. And even through the haze of his own rising pleasure, Sieun slows down just enough to draw it out for you, to feel every quivering second of it.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispers, breath stuttering. “Come, please.”

  And you do.

  It rushes over you in waves—white-hot, pulsing, unstoppable—your climax washing through your entire body with a strangled moan, your limbs tightening, your voice shaking as you cry out his name.

  Sieun swears under his breath, something desperate and soft, and then he loses it.

  The way you clamp around him, slick, pulsing, so warm, is all it takes to send him spiraling. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, muscles trembling as the pressure finally breaks. He groans, deep and guttural, and spills into the condom with a few last shallow thrusts, his whole body curling into yours like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together.

  And when it’s over, when the tremors in both your bodies begin to subside and your chests press together in exhausted, blissful rhythm, he stays. 

  Buried in you, breathless, consumed. His forehead pressed to yours, his lashes fluttering, lips ghosting your cheek.

  And finally, his lips quirk at the corners, gracing his features with a small, gentle smile.

  Because he decides he won’t be washing his shorts.

  And he thinks he’ll get you to ruin another pair when you bring your laptop over for him under the guise of fixing it again.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  i decided for a soft, feral rendition of sieun’s university au. this will be the last weak hero fic i write before i move onto skz and atz! need more? you can read hyuntak’s version over here  ⌯⌲  smart girl

───── how do we feel about starting a taglist?

© chanifesto

[chanifesto]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ride | bang chan

pairing: bang chan x afab!reader

synopsis: you’re ovulating and want to ride chan.

genre: straight smut homie

word count: 3.2k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, softdom!bangchan, pet names (baby, sweet girl, angel), mating press (for like 2 secs, no intercourse), oral (f rec.), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home!), allusions to STI testing and birth control, creampie, the slightest amount of breeding kink + overstimulation in the end, chan wants to play, he’s so in love, ugh he’s such a sweetie, a feral sweetie

reader notes: written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina (more like wap). all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  wrote this bc i’m also ovulating and want to ride chan.

“Already so hot for me, hm?”

  Yes. You were. And you were nearly bare beneath Chan’s heavy gaze if not for your cute, little panties, the crotch soaked through, practically translucent, enough to wet the touch of whatever—whoever—dared to feather over the fabric adorning your sacred, seeping hole.

  Chan has you spread before him on his sheets at the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out to rest delicately on his naked shoulder, the other pushed to your chest, your foot dangling over his hand pressing into the plush back of your thigh.

  You were a dream come to life below him, the wettest dream composed only for the eyes of a man like him, too far past the pathetic cognitive confines of a teenage dirtbag. You were a fallen angel on his sheets, and all Chan could do was relish in how gone you were, how hot and wet and desperate you were, just for him.

  He licks his bottom lip and lets his heavy, barely open eyes wash down your body, drinking in the mess he’d made of you—he hadn’t even touched you yet.

  You’re basked atop the luscious pool of sheets, eyes dark and chasmic, begging into his dark chocolate orbs for his hands, mouth, and cock to ravish you. Your cheeks are flushed, hot with need, and your lips swell, pink and wet from what felt like centuries of making out before Chan had you in your current state. Your mouth parts to let the string of quick, deep breaths wisp out of your thoracic limits, heightened from the soft arch of your back. Your breasts heave with respiration, nipples pebbled against the comfortable coolness of the room, pleading to be pinched and sucked.

  Chan’s eyes wander down to the cloth between your legs, and the sight wreaks him. Your panties are ruined, lucid with slick that seems to gush out of you sans constraint, the never-ending patch diffusing throughout the cotton.

  God, Chan loved you like this, loved your desperation and obedience and wetness for him the few days a month you were in heat. It gave him a chance to really provide for you, give you everything and anything you needed to cool you off until you were whining to go again. Every month, he was ready, aching to make his baby feel so, so good.

  He feels searing blood pump into his cock, hardening his rod against the already taut fabric of his sweatpants. He slowly peers back into your eyes and catches a familiar glint that tells him you can’t wait any longer. There’s a mellow smirk accompanying his heavy-lidded eyes, a simple mask to help him ignore how all he wants to do is fall to his knees and pout his lips over your clit for the next hour.

  “This is okay?” He’d already asked more than once, but it was never enough for Chan.

  You writhe beneath him and softly moan. “Yes, Chan.”

  The fingers dancing over your ankle leisurely feather down your leg. “What do you need, baby?”

  Your hips writhe, and you whine. “Need you inside, Chan, please.”

  He hums, the pads of his fingers now running across the back of your thigh, leg still stretched out near his head.

  He’ll give it to you, and gosh did he want to do you in good. He wanted you gushing under him, mumbling incoherently from the luxurious pressure of his thrusts, but Chan also wanted to play, just for a little. He wanted to see how far he could string out his sweet girl’s desperation until she was begging for exactly what she needed.

  He pushes down on your leg, rendering it a matching pair with its twin, and leans into you. His hands cage you under him near your waist, the heat of your supple skin fogging over his fingers. The back of your legs rest against his hard, broad body, sculpting you into a mating press.

  Chan nuzzles his nose against yours. Both your eyes have succumbed to the weight they bear, whispering to a close before your lips mold into the other.

  He kisses you softly, granting you just enough pressure to push you into overdrive. Your hands fumble up his shoulders, finding purchase in his hair, gripping tight. You tug him closer, greedier. A groan, low and guttural, vibrates out of him and trembles down to your core.

  His hot mouth sucks up your bottom lip, lets it swell in his mouth, coats it with his spit. It rolls back out when he feels your heat squirm against the curve of his cock.

  Chan pulls himself from the warmth of your face. He wants to watch your brows scrunch, watch your wet lips pout when he grinds the hard curve of his length into your clothed cunt.

  It’s too much and not enough, like the first breath of air when you resurface from underwater. He’s so hard, and his cock rubs just right, deliciously over your clit. You press your head into the mattress, your hands clutch at his hair as you try to meet the agonizing motion of his hips. You pout and mewl up at him.

  He smiles, wicked and smug. Then kisses you, slow and sweet.

  Chan’s plush lips flutter down your jaw and neck, ghosting over your breast before he sucks your hardened nipple into his blazing mouth. You moan, bucking up against the ghost of his now absent hips. 

  His tongue flattens over your peak, covering it with a glistening sheen. He sucks and circles and flicks before he sucks hard off of you with a pop, wasting no time fastening his lips back to your skin to kiss down to the only clothed part of your body.

  Chan wants to play, wants to take his time pushing you to a release, but he feels a ticking in the pit of his own abdomen, and he knows he won’t last much longer without giving you exactly what you needed, so he slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tugs.

  The lacey band slides past your hips, past the level of your cunt when the crotch latches off with a resisting damp stick. A thin string of your slick stretches out to the wet splotch on your panties, drooping down onto the sheets when the fabric raises too far up your thighs and clears your feet.

  Chan’s hand smooths your thigh onto his shoulder, while the other works near the base of the bed to bunch your panties into a ball of fabric that is soon to never return to your underwear drawer.

  You're a sight for the books, art fit for museums beyond human capability. Now that you were completely bare beneath his gaze, slick, glistening proof of your arousal drooling onto the plush cotton towel he’d (thankfully) laid out just for you, Chan thinks—no, he knows—he’ll have to ravish you. And he’ll do it by fucking all of the pretty thoughts he has about you straight into your core.

  Your seeping pussy coaxes him in, the sight calling his lips to gently kiss over your thigh, each press a brand of affection seared into your flesh. He’s already half-drunk on the scent of you.

  And God, the scent. It’s divine. Heady and thick and achingly familiar. It wraps around him, makes his head light, his cock throb against the too taut seam of his pants. His tongue darts out to taste the air, to imagine what you’d feel like on it, and the moment his mouth finally hovers over your heat, he has to exhale a slow, ragged breath through his nose to keep from burying his face in you like a starved man.

  “Look at this mess, baby,” he mumbles, heavy eyes flickering up to catch yours through the haze. “Gonna suck it all out of you, yeah?”

  And then, he licks.

  The flat of his tongue starts from your dripping entrance and slides up to your clit in one long, sinful drag. You jolt with a sharp inhale, thighs twitching on his shoulders as your head falls back with a low moan. He hums against you, savouring every inch of the taste, the warmth, the overwhelming slick. His nose nudges your nub, lips parting to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s the sweetest fruit.

  Your hands are threading into his hair, tugging without thought. Chan groans deep into you, the vibration making your spine curve off the bed.

  He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. His tongue flicks and flattens and circles and dips, teasing your entrance just enough to taste the flood of slick before returning to your swollen, needy clit. His soft lips wrap around it, suctioning onto you so hard, pulling cries and whimpers from your throat like he’s conducting you with every movement of his mouth. Your angel voice serenades him with a melodic blend of pleas and his name.

  “Mmm, please, Chan—please please please.”

  He moans at your voice, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he lets himself sink into the rhythm. Suck, flick, lap. Over and over. Every sound you make is a reward, every roll of your hips a command he obeys. And when your thighs start to clamp around his head, twitching, your hips trying to rock into his face, he succumbs to your needs.

  He wants you to ride his mouth. Wants to feel you fall apart against his tongue.

  His hands slide under your ass, tilting your hips up, and he dives in deeper. His tongue thrusts into your soaked hole, curling, then returns to your clit. His spit mixes with your slick, a wet, messy potion painted across his chin and lips.

  Your sound is broken, wreaked, gasping out his name, your moans pleading for a release. Delinquent hips roll into him, chasing after a high that was just one step out of your reach.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Because he knows he has you right where he wants you. So, he just groans low and needy into your cunt and tightens his grip as you finally writhe into bliss.

  Your thighs lock around his head, your entire body bowing into the orgasm that crashes through you in high tides. You’re clenching, fluttering wildly as your slick gushes against his tongue, and Chan drinks it down, groaning like he’s in heaven.

  He is in heaven.

  He holds you there through every aftershock, licking you gently now, soft and slow, kissing your clit with the kind of affection that makes your thighs quiver and your core clench again, helplessly sensitive.

  When he finally pulls back, your slick adorns the lower half of his face, glistening in the low light. He kisses your inner thigh one more time, eyes still heavy with his own desperation.

  “Did so well, angel, so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick and ruined.

  And you? 

  You're his masterpiece of a mess, panting like you just surfaced from the deep.

  Eyes dark and dazed, Chan hovers above your body. He’s not sure if he should crawl away or curl into you. 

  But you make the decision for him, because even through the waves of release, the high hadn’t ebbed. Not fully. Not with the excruciating stretch of his sweatpants still tented between your legs. Not with the weight of his adoration still anchoring you both to the bed.

  You find the edges of his jaw with your fingertips, still quivering from how he wrecked you, and Chan leans into your touch, a planet to the sun.

  “I want to ride you,” you whisper.

  It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a tethered need, soft but unrelenting, looped around both your hearts and tugged tight.

  Chan’s breath halts.

  He swears something stutters in his chest. His eyes flutter open, and for a second, he’s a man stripped of every coherent thought. Just nerves lit like fire and a heartbeat so loud it rattles in his ears.

  “You…” he starts, then trails off, his voice wrecked and low. His throat bobs. “You wanna be on top?”

  You nod slowly, brows knit like this is something fragile. Sacred.

  It is.

  Because it’s not just about wanting control—it’s about trust. And Chan has never felt so honored to give and receive it.

  He presses a kiss to your wrist. Then your palm. Then the center of your chest, where your heart still dances from the work of his mouth.

  “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. Take me.”

  He shifts under you, careful, soft, pulls off his sweatpants and boxers in one go, leaving his thick, aching length pulsing and flushed and glistening against the lower valley of his stomach. 

  You crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Chan’s hands instinctively settle on your hips. His head falls back against the pillow, the cords of his neck tight with restraint. He looks at you, his angel made of moonlight and the answer to every unnamed prayer he’s ever breathed through grit teeth in lonely hours.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he swoons, a mellow confession. 

  Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the way his abs twitch under your touch. His cock jumps when you slide your slick folds along the base of him, and Chan swears under his breath, knuckles blanching as he grips your hips tighter.

  The glide is slow, indulgent. It was your way of savoring him. You rub against him, your clit catching the ridge of his tip each time you rock forward, and Chan’s breath punches out of him in stuttered gasps. His eyes never leave your face—kiss-swollen lips, dreamy dropping eyes—even as his hips buck helplessly under you.

  “Fuck,” he groans, eyes fluttering. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  With tests negative and your eggs surrendered to the control of coloured pills, you brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you—every breath, every flicker of pleasure across your face—as if it’s the most exquisite art. 

  And when you finally sink down, slowly, divinely, the bare heat of you enveloping him inch by tremoring inch, Chan moans so deeply it sounds torn from his soul.

  His eyes sew shut. His hands grip your thighs like he’s afraid he’ll float off the earth if he lets go.

  He doesn’t speak at first. Just breathes. Shudders.

  Then, softly, “Fuck—please.”

  You move, slow at first, and Chan meets each motion with a gentle rock of his hips. 

  It’s consuming, the way your warm, gummy walls slide against his hardened rod, the way he disappears into you with each grind of your hips. The remaining potion of your arousal and his spit gush over his bare tip and dribbles down his length.

  And your face—fuck, it was going to ravish him, ruin him far past the limits of your cunt. Pretty pout merged into an oh, eyes barely open before they shut tight. You were godly.

  You ride him like you’re claiming him, and Chan surrenders to you.

  His hands roam your body, thumb brushing over the curve of your breast, then gripping your waist. His gaze stays locked to your being and nothing but, drinking in the little gasps you spill, the arch of your back when you angle just right, the way your walls flutter around him when he groans your name.

  There’s nothing more beautiful than this, than you above him, owning him, loving him, making him unravel piece by piece.

  The way you move on him is poetry turned to flesh.

  Each roll of your hips is a verse, each sigh a stanza, and Chan is completely spellbound, caught in the cadence of your body, unwinding the syllables of your name under his breath.

  He’s close.

  Gosh, he’s been close since the second you sank onto him, but now, the pressure wraths tight and hot at the base of his spine, every nerve lit like a fuse, and Chan knows he doesn’t have much longer until he’s helplessly falling apart for you.

  So, he brings a thumb to your nub and presses a slow circle into it.

  You mewl and clench around him, soft and fluttering, and his hips jerk. His head presses back against the pillow with a low, desperate groan. 

  “Baby,” he pants, voice rough, thumb still working into you, “I’m not gonna last—”

  “I want it,” you whisper, almost boarding on a breathless mewl. “Want you to come inside.”

  And it’s over.

  Chan’s mouth falls open in a silent moan, his whole body tightening beneath yours. His fingers dig into your hips, anchoring himself to the moment, his thumb coaxing you into your second orgasm until you're twitching above him, eyes shut tight, mumbling his name in a high sob.

  And then, he’s spilling into you, hot and thick and endless.

  His mind whites out. His breath stutters. He feels like he’s burning and being saved all at once.

  You don’t stop, not yet. 

  You keep moving, riding him through every wave of it, milking him with slow, deep grinds that draw out his pleasure until it teeters on overwhelming.

  “Fuck,” he chokes out, his voice wreaked, “just like that—oh god, angel, I’m yours—”

  His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as you finally still. He’s still twitching inside you, still pulsing weakly, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky drips that smear where your bodies press together.

  It’s messy. Intimate. Utterly undone.

  And Chan has never loved anything more.

  His lips find your shoulder, your neck, your temple. Kisses soft as the air after a storm, trying to say everything his tongue is too ruined to form.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, dizzy with adoration.

  You hum, cheek nuzzled into his hair, and Chan closes his eyes, his whole body still twiching, but grounded now by the feel of your heartbeat against his.

  “I mean it,” he whispers, thumbing lazy circles into your spine. “You’re everything.”

  When you finally shift off him, Chan’s hands follow you instinctively, always touching, always holding. He props himself up on his elbows, watching with simmering greed as his cum slowly drips from between your thighs, glossy and slow.

  He almost can’t stop himself when two of his fingers scrape his hot seed back up, pressing the coated pads against the opening of your hole. You squirm with a soft mewl.

  “It’s spilling out of you,” he breathes, his voice is threaded with awe. “Wanna stuff it back in you, baby. Can I?”

  You nod, eyes hooded, pout parted with wisping breaths.

  “Words, angel.” His own are broken, eyes so soft, so full of all the love and admiration known to humankind.

  “Yes,” you breathe.

  And that’s all Chan needed to hear before he’s gently laying your precious body against the sheets and leisurely replacing his fingers with himself, pushing into you softly, grazing your walls slowly, fucking his cum back to your core with love for your surging through his vessels and bones and nerves.

  Both your bodies twitch, overstimulated, your eyes glassed over with threatening tears pooling at each of your squinting corners.

  Yet, Chan wouldn't have wanted it any other way, simply because it was with you.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  whoever you are reading this, you are beautiful.

© chanifesto ── may 2025

[chanifesto]

work on the fic that's been sitting in my drafts for 2 months ❌

update my theme ✅

[chanifesto]

i hit 300 followers a couple days ago ??

it is absolutely mind-boggling to me that over 300 humans find my art endearing enough to stay connected to it. 300 beautiful humans want to spend their time with me and the silly scenarios i use my meek cognitive resources to conjure?? truly, truly it's insane.

i literally started with zero followers when i posted my first fic. i spent many, many agonizing hours writing it over the span of 5 days. did i think it would take off and get over 1.5k notes? absolutely not. did i bear my heart and let my soul drip into the words through my fingers anyway? of course i did.

i love writing. i am merely an amateur (though i've been at it since 2015), but it sincerely is my refuge. i am constantly growing and finding myself through the words wisping out of my soul, and i never wish to stop.

alas, i will not be doing an event. i apologize if you read through this with the expectation of more reader-favourable outcomes. i simply wanted to thank you all for just being here. i've been partially MIA these past two months due to me busting my balls trying to get a fic done for felix of skz. it's currently sitting at just over 15K words.. and it's not even done yet... hopefully that makes up for the lack of event ;o alongside my extracurriculars, i've also started a new placement (which is also where i'm writing this from!1!) so that takes up some of my time as well. still, i am trying my best to get the ultimate version of my felix fic posted.

circling back to the root of these rambles–– thank you all to the moon and beyond for joining me on this journey <3

with love, lee ❦.

[chanifesto]

oh gosh, this is high praise :(

in recent times, i haven't been well acquainted with any of the words dripping out of my fingers and onto my screen. i wish to better my writing and give you more and more and more until all the wows have left your being.

thank you, this is just as much for you as it is for me <3

ᯓᡣ𐭩 mr. fix it | yeon sieun

pairing: yeon sieun x afab!reader (weak hero)

synopsis: yeon sieun was notoriously known as your program’s tech handyman. when he wasn’t hunched over calculus problem sets, sieun was busy fixing his peers' laptops, for a price of course—one that was nonexistent for you because you seemed to make his software hard.

genre: another smutty university au

word count: 6.9k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, grinding, making out, oral (f rec.), pussydrunk!sieun, piv sex, protected sex, many consent checks, sieun is so so gone for you, you are literally his pretty little angel, if devotion was a person it would be him, sieun can’t figure out his goddamn integral

reader notes: written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina. reader is described to look ‘small’ at one point. all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

this fic was requested – thank you so much, i loved coming up with the concept .ᐟ

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐ park jihoon uggghhhh need need need him. had the most exquisite time picking out the concept pictures.

“You broke it again?”

  His voice sounds flat, but there's a tinge of hope, a sense of subdued anticipation perking his last few syllables.

  Sieun stares at the half-solved integral on his desk, phone pressed to his cheek, screen cold against his skin, fingers loosely gripping the sides. The warm glow of his lamp casts a nimbus over the mess made of a barely punched in calculation and his calculus textbook, pages worn from flipping back and forth between the chapter problem sets and appendix answers. Outside his window, the campus sky is dim, too gray for six in the evening.

  “I didn’t break it!” Your voice crackles through the line, scratchy with frustration. Sieun can hear your breath over the receiver, rough and rushed.

  “It just won’t turn on,” you continue, “I don’t know what happened. I just opened my tabs, and then—dead.” 

  He exhales. “And you tried plugging it in?”

  “Yes, Sieun. I tried everything you taught me—nothing worked,” you huff, “I have an essay due Monday, and everything I need to write it is on this damn laptop.”

  You sound slightly breathless, your voice hoarse with the kind of air that clings to lungs on chilly evenings. Wind rushes past the speaker, muddling your words with static. Sieun’s ears pick up on this.

  “Where are you,” he asks, dull, but more abrupt than intended.

  You’re silent for a few beats.

  “Outside.” Another gust of wind bleeds through the receiver.

  He feels the warmth of perspiration prick across his palms. “Where?”

  The brisk, hollow rustle of plastic, and then, “Walking to your dorm.”

  Sieun feels his breath dissipate in the back of his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” you start. Sieun squeezes his eyes upon hearing these words in your soundwaves, words he thought were too unnecessary when masked in your voice.

  “I saw the forecast, there’s going to be rain—shoot, I forgot my umbrella, I knew I was forgetting something—anyways, I figured I'd head over to yours before it hit,” there’s an unmistakable sincerity in your voice, “I really need you right now, Sieun.”

  Need to murder him, he thought. Clearly, that was more fitting for the illusive objective of your last sentence, one that roused his hand to the back of his neck, called his fingers to smooth over his golden skin, wailed for them to curl against his flesh in hopes of helping him get a grip of himself. Literally.

  He sighs, half flustered, half enlivened. “You’ll be here soon?”

  “Yeah, just five minutes more.”

  There’s a pause. “Okay.”

  A quick exhale breaks past your lips, a restrained puff of air that had been trapped in the back of your throat, waiting for a green light to let it loose. “Thank you, Sieun.”

  He can still feel the ghost of icy plastic against his cheek when you cut the call. Unfocused eyes cloud over the sheets and pens and smudged writing lazing atop his desk.

  Of course. 

  Of course you’re coming over. Because why wouldn’t you? Your laptop’s dead, and he’s the tech guy, and this is just what happens. He fixes things.

  And right now, you need him to fix your things. He couldn’t help but feel his heart jump at the idea, an eagerness creeping into his chest, fogging up his lungs and grabbing hold of the air that dared to escape up his trachea.

  Sieun, as cold as he seemed, felt warmth fixing your things, like he’d swallowed the sun and it dissolved into his blood. Unlike the peers on your campus, he does it for you free-of-charge—hell, he thinks he’d pay you just to let him fidget around with your laptop’s battery that burns to touch or the program functions you can’t seem to figure out even after using the ‘help’ tab. He’d never admit to it though.

  Not yet, at least.

  His eyes flicker to the unfinished problem adorning his notebook, numbers and symbols half-formed, abandoned mid-line. The solution sits just out of reach.

  Much like you.

  His unfinished integral mocks him.

  Your cheeks are flushed, supple and radiant, the dermal symptom of cool drizzle and dewy autumn air. Sieun’s eyes surf the strands of your hair, glinting from subtle rain droplets that catch even in the dim fluorescent light of his dorm hallway.

  You look small like this in his doorway, backpack straps sagging over your shoulders, your sweater sporting little wet spots that are sure to smell like petrichor. Your hands tightly clutch a white plastic bag to your abdomen, the vertices of a cardboard box poking out at him.

  You smile at him, small and sweet and a little flustered. “There was some drizzle when I turned onto your lane.”

  Sieun’s gaze, currently traveling across the ridges tenting your plastic bag, snaps to your face.

  “Oh.” It’s a soft expression, a barely-there phoneme he manages through concern for you—how dare the clouds cry over your angel face?—and some muffled curiosity.

  Sieun just can’t help the fall of his gaze. He stares blankly at the bag in your hands. He’s not surprised when you take notice.

  “It’s brownie mix!”

  He peers at you again.

  “Brownies?”

  You grin sheepishly, fiddling with the plastic handles. “Yeah, I thought, well– you work so hard, you deserve a fun break, one you can get a sweet treat out of!” You pause. “And, I guess it’s also thanks for my laptop. You’ve saved me a lot of money I already don’t have, more than once now.”

  He’s still staring at you, face blank, unreadable, lips sealed in a line, but his eyes gleamed. Whether it was annoyance or humour, you weren’t sure, but his dreamy, tired eyes gleamed.

  Your eyes go wide. “Oh gosh, I should’ve asked you if brownies were okay. They looked so good on the box, I just had to pick them up. You could be allergic to chocolate, or maybe you don’t even like brownies–”

  “Brownies are cool.”

  Sieun watches your lips halt their rambling, configured mid-sentence, before they slowly spread into a toothy grin, one that radiates a warm feeling into his bones and almost—almost—makes his lip twitch up to match yours.

  All you needed to do was force start.

  That’s all.

  No hardware to trifle with, no delinquent software meddling with your computer programs.

  All Sieun had to do was press a couple buttons in tandem before your screen lit back up to life, resurrected from its cry of wolf.

  Your cheeks had heated, bashful from your ignorance, but also a little humoured.

  They blazed further when you caught sight of the calculus massacre on his desk, hurried apologies spilling past your pretty lips to wash out the guilt that crawled up your chest.

  Sieun reassured you all was well—It’s fine, I was almost done anyways—with a look in his eyes that had you capitulating to his sincerity.

  “Can I repay you with brownies?” you had prompted, fingers twiddling behind your back as if it would have subliminally helped rouse the answer you sought after.

  Sieun slowly flattened your laptop to a shut before his Bambi eyes peaked at you and whispered exactly what you needed to know, exactly what you wanted to hear.

  So, you’d both clambered in his tiny, cozy dorm kitchen, ingredients and bowls and utensils scattered across granite, instructions serenading the walls in your voice, Sieun’s hands working to mix the dark sea of cocoa batter.

  You had assumed the role of a conductor but managed to pull a mess over you like a magnet. Whatever hadn’t been mixed into the warm batch of brownies basking atop Sieun’s countertop had found consolation on your being—cocoa powder and melted butter and drying batter decorated your skin and sweater.

  Sieun thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

  Of course, Sieun had missed any defiant ingredient attacks entirely.

  You’d both picked up a piece each, melted chocolate furnishing your mouths while Sieun, starry-eyed and attentive, listened to you babble about your stress baking and how, no matter the many times you made something, you’d always be left with a bit of a messy souvenir from the process.

  It was during this instance when the rain had hit.

  Hard and harsh and pattering ferociously against the window of his measly living room. You and Sieun had snapped your heads at the sound, sticky embellishments of chocolate coating your fingers.

  You’d looked so worried, so consumed in the thought of how you’d walk home through what was practically a typhoon. You hadn’t checked for a storm warning, all you’d known was a chance of rain. Your umbrella wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  You’d looked so worried, so it felt almost natural when Sieun suggested you just stay over.

  “...Really?” Your eyes were breaking past their sockets, and Sieun had nerely felt the weight of his words crash over him until your orbs softened and he saw the ghost of a smirk brush past your lips.

  “Yeah, you can’t get home through that,” his voice had been tinged with his radiation of care for you. His eyes swept over your chocolate-covered frame. “You can use my shower if you want. I’ll give you some clean clothes to wear.”

  You’d obliged. Quite happily.

  And now, Sieun sat at his desk, unfinished integral staring up at him, the muted sound of his shower silking through the wall, almost louder than the merciless storm outside his window. 

  Sieun hadn’t touched his sheets or pens since he’d retreated to his room, changed into his own set of nightwear, and lowered himself into his desk chair. He couldn’t focus.

  How could he? When you were just a dozen feet away, naked and wet under the rush of his shower.

  He knew he shouldn’t think about it, begged himself not to, but when his mind slipped over the way you had chocolate powder flowering your neck and underneath your sweater, he couldn’t help but let his mind run, just a little.

  Run over the way your fingers probably tucked under the bottom of your sweater, dragging it up along your beautiful body and over your head. What had you worn underneath? Had you even worn anything? 

  In Sieun’s little fantasy, you hadn’t. You’d been bare for him under your clothes, and he’d been ready, quick to ravish you, to kiss and suck and bite at your warm skin.

  But, that was just a fantasy.

  In reality, it didn’t matter whether or not you’d worn anything underneath your sweater. Sieun had just helped you out, made things a little easier for you, eased your anxiety by offering an innocent sleepover so you wouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself to what was the making of an ocean outside his dorm.

  It didn’t matter, just like his integral, still unfinished. Deferred. Mocking.

  The blood had barely made it to his cock before it was rushing back to his brain.

  A couple minutes more of unsuccessfully undressing the math symbols littering his half-blank page and you were padding your way into his room, feet bare, heels marginally lifted off the cold floor of his dorm. Your clothes were folded, carried atop your forearms, and your cute body was swallowed in his t-shirt and shorts, sleeves too long, neck hole too wide, fabric swaying just over your knees with each of your scampered steps.

  You gaze at Sieun from the edge of his bed, clothes now tucked away in your backpack, the hem of his shirt twirling in your fingers. 

  God, Sieun thought you looked ethereal, bare-faced and in his clothes. The warm, mellow glow of his desk lamp illuminates your face like a halo. Your sweet angel eyes are drowning him far past the storm outside.

  Sweet oblivious angel eyes. If only they could see the mess he’d made of you in his head.

  “Are you ready to sleep, or do you want to study some more?” Your voice is so soft, so melodious bouncing within the confines of his skull, and your eyes twinkle just right, brightened from his lamp and the mere cast of moonlight simmering through his window.

  “I’m done,” Sieun starts, “You take the bed. I’m going to sleep in the living room.”

  He’s about to push himself up when you cross your cute arms, defiant and determined. He watches your eyes narrow, eyebrows dip with a scrunch.

  “Absolutely not!” you chide, your squint piercing. Sieun stares, half stood. He sits back down.

  “It’s not fair to you! I showed up, practically unannounced, had you press a couple buttons on my laptop because I was too incompetent to figure it out myself, then made you make brownies with me against your will since you don’t take any economic compensation! And I know you’re not done with your problem set, I can see it from here. It’s exactly how you left it before we made those godforsaken brownies! I completely butted into your evening and messed up your studying, so you best believe you’ll be sleeping in your own bed and getting a good night’s rest!”

  You puff at the end, like you’d said it in one breath, forearms glued to each other, fingers digging into your biceps.

  Sieun is still staring at you, face blank, eyes gentle.

  “You’re not incompetent.”

  You blink.

  “That’s not the point, Sieun.” You huff, pointing to his blankets. 

  “Now, get to bed.”

  His eyes flick, your attention on his bed now shared. There’s an ease in the air, one that helps to hoist Sieun from his desk chair, click his lamp off, and carry himself over to the side of his bed. He lifts the corner of his duvet, slides underneath, and lets it fall over him. All without a peep.

  His eyes scan to your frame, still at the edge of his bed, still in his too-baggy clothes, still looking too ethereal for him to indulge below the moonlight’s gaze, even in your quarrelsome stance.

  You stare back at him.

  “Okay… good.” You sound stifled, almost suspicious of his obedience.

  Your arms unclasp, a little dazed at how fast he’d listened to you. With a hesitant scratch to your neck, you shuffle to what would be your side of Sieun’s bed, just for tonight.

  Even though Sieun wishes it could be a less transient arrangement.

  But he was doing this to help you. 

  Afterall, you’d looked so worried.

  Sieun watches your warm body roll onto his mattress, feels it dip with your added weight from across. You shamble to face him, the duvet bunching in your hands, a relaxed, content tilt gracing your lips. Your cheek presses against the pillow, eyes squinting with warmth and kindness and gratitude and what Sieun could describe as a fatally contagious ray of tranquility.

  You look so sweet like this, cuddled into his bed in clothes—his clothes—that swallow your body whole. The rain had slowed, granting permission to an even larger crowd of moonlight to flow over your face.

  Sieun thought you were unreal, a mythical being from a dreamy world far beyond the current celestial limits.

  A mythical being who saw him only for his technological abilities.

  You were only here for tonight. Sieun was just helping you.

  Because you had looked so worried.

  So, he rolls onto his side, nearing the edge of the bed, hands tittering close to an abyss.

  “Goodnight,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother to pull the duvet to his front, lets it hang just over his side, as if any extra movement would make him appear more visible to you.

  You gape at his back.

  “Sieun!”

  Sieun closes his eyes. Perhaps the world around him wouldn’t see him if he couldn’t see the world.

  You puff, a frustrated push of air that has Sieun squinting his eyes shut further. He feels the duvet minutely ruffle behind him, feels the dip of the mattress sink gradually.

  “I don’t get it, are you actually upset?” Although you were quiet, you sounded so disgruntled, confused. Sieun could only wish he was better at this so he wouldn’t have to bear your honey-like voice convey such emotion, like thrones stuck in a cloud.

  But, Sieun was Sieun. A man of minimal words who spoke the truth and nothing but—until now.

  “No, just trying to get a good night’s rest.” Just trying to keep my mind off you, so close, for just one night.

  “Ugh! Will you just turn around so I can talk to you?”

  Your hand reaches out and grips the collar of Sieun’s shirt, a tight grip pulling him towards you, a gentle grip to avoid attempted murder.

  His eyes pop open, a hand catching onto the taut fabric around his neck. If there was the slightest chance Sieun’s conscious was to succumb to strangulation tonight, he thinks he’d only remember the warmth of your fingers fogging over the back of his neck.

  Sieun yields to your force, falling onto his back. Why are you so damn strong?

  With a hatch of his neck, his eyes find yours in the dark room, the patch of moonlight from his window dimmed from the roar of thunder and familiar strikes of heavy droplets against the glass.

  There’s light provocation simmering through your face, playful like a child in a game of tag.

  “Talk about what?” His voice is quiet but firm, his body a statue sandwiched between the mattress and sheets, daring not to move a millimeter.

  You peer at him, words hanging along the tip of your tongue, as if debating whether they were worth speaking into the medium shared between your beings.

  You decide they are.

  “I know you take a fee from others when you fix their laptops.” There’s a quirk in his neck, a twitch at the corner of his lips that urges you further. “You’ve never taken one from me, even when I mention it. Why is that?”

  Sieun feels a gradual quickening of his heartbeat at this concoction of your voice, and, like the start of a tornado, the thoughts in his head rampage into a whirlwind.

  To be or not to be? Sieun, who previously seemed to lack any cognitive resources to solve his monster integral, was now calculating his next move with rigorous intricacy.

  Maybe it was the kick in adrenaline that had him instigating your little game.

  Sieun chose to be.

  “Why do you think?”

  Your eyes narrow in an instant, the entire play a chain reaction. Were you also debating your next actions, words? Were you also aware of the string snapping taut between you, tense and nearing a strong, sudden tear?

  Sieun definitely was. Like always, he knew what he was getting himself into, knew he was igniting something far beyond repair, unlike the many laptops he’d resurrected.

  Sieun knew what he’d started. He’d calculated it, perhaps from the very beginning, from the moment he uttered the word “stay.”

  He was just helping you, for one night. Just one night.

  You’d looked so worried, of course.

  Perhaps Sieun had wanted your eyebrows to furrow from another force of nature—him.

  Say something.

  A quirk to your lips. Dark shadows in your eyes.

  And a hand reaching out for his neck, this time to pull him to the plushest centre of your visage.

  His lips graze the fullness of yours when you whisper in a breath.

  “I knew to force start.”

  Sieun isn’t spared a chance to retaliate his sockets stretching back when you press into him.

  The dense pressure molds his own lips flush against yours, an electric fog swarming your face and down the flanks of your neck.

  It’s a reflex, an abrupt, consuming, greedy reflex, when his arm curls over your back, big hand hastily grazing along your spine to knot into your hair.

  Had Sieun fallen asleep?

  This has to be a dream.

  But your lips were too soft against his, too warm.

  And your back curved so well along his forearm, strands so luxurious curled around his fingers.

  Your hand on his chest, basking down his torso… Sieun believes he doesn’t possess even a speckle of the imagination required to muster a feeling as heavenly as that.

  Definitely not enough to muster a feeling as heavenly as your hand sliding over him through his thin flannel pajamas.

  You were a fallen angel who had come to play unsacred games.

  And Sieun proved to be a worthy opponent.

  His fingers grip around the base of your skull to pull you from his lips.

  His eyes are heavy with a murmur of inquisition, flitting over your lips before boring into your own with words unspoken. You mirror his gaze with equal weight, savouring his quiet inhale when you push further down over his hardening curve, feathering your hand up to rest against the supple part of his abdomen.

  “You know where this is going.” It was a statement, a quiet, breathless, almost restrained mutter carrying all the responsibility and uncertainty and anticipation littered within Sieun.

  You gaze, knowing, unbothered.

  “This is what you want? This is what you came for?”

  “Yes,” you whisper, “Take it as part of my thanks.”

  “I thought the brownies were your thanks.”

  You smirk. “That was just the appetizer.”

  Sieun scoffs quietly, a humble pfft to accompany the fingers gently rubbing over the bottom of your scalp, a means of easing into his next utterance.

  You were drowning in his milk chocolate orbs, a velvety sea full of nothing but care and adoration and awe for you.

  “Are you sure you want to go further?” Any quieter and the storm battering upon his window would have drowned his sound completely.

  “Yes, Sieun.”

  That was everything he needed to hear.

  A gentle push to your neck has your lips pressing back into the plushness of his own.

  It’s a slow kiss, chaste but blazing with the need you’d both been bearing for months. You move against the other, the ghost of anticipation urging you further into it.

  Sieun definitely is not dreaming.

  All his prior frustration, graced from his still unsolved practice set and the many long, agonizing weeks of indirect contact with you, melts away, leaving a tender warmth to dry in its place. Your lips feel as soft as—no, they were softer, so much softer, and warm like sun rays on cold skin—the many times he’d imagined the ghost of them wisping against his.

  A transient ghost, barely lasting a mere tortuous ten seconds. He’d stop himself from savouring it, pry the ghost away before his hopes shot higher than the sky above him.

  But now, you were here, tangible, with your mortal lips on his. They were so supple, so plush and warm and real. And they were flush against his. No one else but him.

  Sieun had spent so long denying your fabricated being, the one who would distract him from his problem sets, urge him to isolate from the many gadgets his peers would throw his way in times of technological misfortune.

  Sieun decided it was finally time to show you what your ghost had been doing to him.

  He sucks in your bottom lip, hands grazing over your hips to pull you over his growing hardness with a delicate hold, treating your vessel like original vintage artwork. Fragile. Authentic. Godly.

  The duvet shifts against your back while you shift over him, the core of your heat finding solace over his own. The hem of his borrowed t-shirt rides up your torso like it knows what’s coming.

  It’s an abrupt, consuming, visceral feeling when you first connect with the stiff rod bulging against the stressed material of Sieun’s pajamas.

  It’s the same for Sieun, so when a small groan muses from the depths of his throat at the feeling of your heat radiating along his length, he remains basking in its aftermath.

  Lips still working into each other, you almost don’t acknowledge the slow, tantalizing roll of your hips.

  Sieun does, and it drives him crazy.

  Sieun, who was always so cool, composed, and distant was now growing hot and undone, all while pressing himself further into you, meeting you at an undefined middle, ridding any and all separation from your heating bodies from the insufferable vexation of need.

  His hands knead into your hips, bearing your heat further along him, before they configure to push himself up while embracing you flush against his chest.

  You’re consuming him, physically and mentally. Your lips on his, your body wrapped tightly around his own, hot cunt slowly grinding over the hard curve of his cock, a barrier of too much fabric plastered between your beings and pushing you both into frustrated desperation.

  Your name, your scent, the suppleness of your skin, they all fog his head, conquer it with the ghost of you.

  Both your mortal and immortal forms had possessed him, consumed him whole until he was nothing but a spec of utter devotion to you and you only.

  Your hips grind again, slow, sinful, and Sieun’s breath stutters against your mouth.

  You feel the shiver that rebounds through him like a tremor, feel the tight grip of his hands at your waist falter before steadying again, tighter this time, as if he needs to anchor you, or maybe himself.

  His lips leave yours only to trail hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, your crescent of skin beyond the shirt’s collar, the devotion in each press of his mouth turning you molten.

  “You feel…” he murmurs, barely audible, like he’s speaking to himself, “…too good. Too good to be real.”

  You tilt your hips forward again, slower, answering him with equal desperation, and Sieun’s head tips back, a ragged exhale pulling from his throat. The sight strikes you—his lashes trembling, his brows knit together in pleasure so raw it borders on pain. He looks ruined.

  Kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, shades of pink colonizing his visage in the shower of eventide luminosity.

  You don’t realize you’ve gasped until his gaze finds you again, pupils blown wide and gleaming with disbelief. His thumbs rub along your hip bones, a fragrant sensation even through the fabric of his shorts you adorned.

  Your hands glide under his shirt, pushing up until he’s reaching for the edge himself, prying the shirt past his head and letting the fabric fall to the cold hardwood beneath his bed.

  His hands slip beneath the hem of your own, and his touch is hesitant, wavering, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he reaches too far.

  “Can I…?” he asks, voice husky and threadbare, already tugging at the fabric.

  You nod. His hands glide up, slow and reverent, brushing over the curves and valleys he’s only ever imagined, each touch leaving heat in its wake. 

  He drinks in the sight of you like he’s been thirst-starved for days, gentle eyes falling over your face and down to your taut peaks. You weren’t a ghost anymore—you were a dream, glowing and radiant beneath the muted haze of damp moonlight.

  And when your bare chest presses to his, skin to skin, nothing between you but the thundering pace of your hearts, Sieun chokes out a soft, desperate moan.

  The ghost of you has vanished.

  What remains is you—real and soft and warm and all his.

  And he’s no longer a boy haunted by longing. He’s a man who’s finally allowed to feel.

  Your fingers find the nape of his neck, weaving into the soft strands of his hair, and the sound he lets out—broken, hushed, completely unguarded—settles somewhere deep in your chest.

  Sieun’s lips return to yours with more urgency now, less caution, the kind that only comes when desire and restraint blur into the same overwhelming thing. His tongue traces your bottom lip before slipping inside, gentle, exploratory, worshipping, like he’s memorizing you.

  Every movement of his hips under you is hesitant but needy, as if he’s still trying to slow himself down, still trying to process that you’re not slipping away.

  “You’re driving me insane,” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse and cracking like lightning behind the storm-glassed windows.

  He kisses you again, softer now, almost like an apology for how his hands are now gripping at the swell of your thighs with mounting desperation.

  Then, with a breath that shakes against your lips, Sieun pulls back. Only just.

  “Lie back,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with something you’ve never heard from him before. Anticipation, maybe. Hunger, definitely.

  You do, painfully unlatching from his warmth and sinking into the pillow behind you.

  Sieun follows, crawling down the length of your body like a man crossing sacred ground, his drowsy gaze never leaving you. It lingers on the slope of your neck, the lines of your collarbone, the tender stretch of skin bare to the cool air of his bedroom. Each inch he memorizes like scripture, utterly fascinated and unspeakably enamoured.

  “You’re…” he begins, almost too quiet to even comprehend, but trails off, like no word quite fits what you are to him.

  And then you see it. The way adoration turns to ache.

  A valley of creases between his brows, a marginal slit parting his pout, the quickened wisps of air trailing out of him. He’s wrecked, far past.

  And you had barely touched him.

  Sieun’s hands slide up your thighs, calloused fingertips brushing along the waistband of the very shorts he lent you, the ones riding too low on your hips, the ones he's dreamed about you in far too many nights to count.

  He kisses the inside of your knee.

  Then your thigh.

  Then the soft dip just above your hip bone.

  His hands move, thumbs hooking into the waistband. There’s a beat—one last, wordless check—and then he draws them down.

  And stops breathing.

  You’re bare beneath them. No panties. Just slick, glistening proof of how long you’ve wanted this too.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, like it’s been torn from him. His jaw goes slack, eyes shadowed with affection and disbelief. “You didn’t wear—?”

  He doesn't finish. He can't.

  His hands twitch.

  You’ve rendered Yeon Sieun speechless.

  Sieun blinks once, twice, like he’s trying to process the sight before him, trying not to let it undo him entirely.

  But it does.

  It does.

  He swallows hard, jaw flexing as his eyes drag along the slick sheen glistening between your thighs, warm and glimmering and pooling out of you sans constraint.

  His hands settle on your hips again, firm, needy, desperate.

  “You’ve been like this this whole time?” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes flickering up to meet yours, the question half-shattered already. “Wearing my shorts… like this?”

  You don’t have time to answer.

  Because Sieun leans in, drawn like a man starved, mouth ghosting just above your heat and breathing you in.

  His composure fractures there.

  A low, guttural sound breaks from his throat as he presses a slow, devoted kiss to your core. Just one.

  Then another. Then again, deeper, wetter, until his tongue slides through your dampened heat with a shuddering groan of restraint and craving colliding all at once.

  Your hips twitch and Sieun’s grip tightens instinctively, his fingers digging into your waist to anchor you to him like you might vanish otherwise.

  His tongue moves again, slow and patient, still trying to worship even while losing his mind.

  But you’re so wet, and he’s so gone.

  Each soft moan that slips from your lips draws another shaky exhale from him, each roll of your hips a crack in his control.

  He tries to keep it measured. Gentle.

  But then he hears you gasp his name, all broken and raw, and something inside him snaps.

  His pace quickens.

  He licks into you deeper, more desperate, tongue flicking, flattening, circling like he’s chasing a high that stubbornly runs just a step out of his reach. His nose brushes your clit and he doesn’t even think to pull back.

  He wants it all.

  You feel his moan against you, deep and wrecked, and you realize:

  Sieun isn’t composed anymore.

  He’s hungry.

  Possessed.

  And completely, unbearably devoted to the taste of you.

  You’re gasping now, each breath shallower than the last, and Sieun can feel you trembling beneath his palms.

  It spurs him on, wrecks him in ways he never knew were possible.

  His thumbs rub slow circles into your hips, as if to soothe you, steady you, but his mouth is relentless, nose tirelessly working into your nub. His tongue is languid one moment, then firmer the next, lapping through your folds with aching, focused precision, memorizing all that makes you fall apart.

  You roll into a nimble arch, head tipping back, and your thighs quiver where they rest over his shoulders.

  “Sieun—” you whimper.

  His name breaks in your throat, and that’s what crumbles him.

  He groans into you again, the vibration shooting straight through your core as he licks you harder now, deeper, more rhythmic, mouth coaxing you right to the edge, right to the place he’s been aching to take you.

  His hands are cradling your hips now, keeping you spread open, helpless, vulnerable, his.

  And then he whispers it, barely audible, a prayer into your skin.

  “Come for me.”

  Your breath catches.

  “Let me taste all of you,” he mumbles again, like he’s asking for divinity, like your pleasure is holy.

  And when you finally do, when your body tenses and your thighs clamp tight around his head and that beautiful cry of his name leaves your lips, Sieun doesn’t stop.

  He groans into you, licking you through it, drinking it in like he’s never tasted something more sacred.

  Like he’s never belonged more to anything—anyone—than he does to you in this moment.

  And even after the tremors still, even when you’re limp and gasping and glowing beneath him, he keeps kissing you softly, as if he can’t bear to let you go just yet.

  As if this is how he says I’ve wanted you like this forever.

  You’re still panting when he pulls back, lips slick and pink, eyes hooded and blown wide with awe. He looks stunned. Disheveled. Like a man undone by worship.

  But you, squirming and aching and desperate to have all of him, manage to find your voice.

  “Sieun,” you whisper, reaching for him. Your fingers trail along his jaw, coaxing him up until he’s hovering over you again. “I want more.”

  His breath hitches.

  Your palm slides over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his ribs. “I want you inside me.”

  Sieun stills completely.

  And then his eyes close, jaw tightening as if your words alone could undo the last shreds of his composure.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough with disbelief.

  He kisses you, not hard, not hurried, but slow and deep, like it’s all he can do to keep from losing control. You savour the heady taste of your slick coating his lips. He presses his forehead to yours, and mutters shakily, “One second.”

  You watch as he reaches for the drawer beside his bed and pulls out a condom from the crumpled blue box Hu-min had shoved at him weeks ago with a stupid grin and no explanation.

  He’d meant to throw them out. He hadn’t.

  He tears the foil open with controlled fingers and slides his flannels and boxers off his body, finally bearing himself free.

  He’s thick, flushed, already leaking from the tip. He hisses under his breath as he rolls the condom on, fingers twitching like he’s barely holding it together.

  When he settles between your thighs, eyes drowning in your sight, the air changes.

  Gone is the boy who’s too quiet, too closed off, too powered from the urge of indignation.

  What remains is Sieun drowned in passion, eyes wide and dreamy and dazed by the sight of you spread open for him, the warmth of your body beckoning his own.

  “You sure?” he asks again, voice almost too tender.

  You nod, pulling him down into a kiss, and guide him with a soft whisper, “Yes. Please, Sieun. I want all of you.”

  He exhales shakily.

  Then he lines himself just beyond your heat, and with a leisurely push of his hips, he slides inside.

  You both gasp.

  You’re hot and wet and hug onto his inching cock, and he sinks in like he’s always meant to belong there. 

  “God—” he grits, arms quavering on either side of you as he tries not to lose it too fast, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

  “You’re…” His voice cracks. “So good. So—gosh, I don’t—”

  You wrap your legs around him, anchoring him to you, and moan when he rocks forward again, deeper this time. You feel everything, every inch, every pulse, every lazed drag.

  He starts slow, shallow, testing your fit, his own restraint. His hips roll into yours with a tender kind of ache, like he’s afraid to break you, like each inch of him inside you is a miracle he can’t fully comprehend.

  But your body answers with desperate softness, clinging to him like silk caught in wind. You tilt your hips, chasing more friction, and whimper at the way his cock presses deeper, fuller, perfectly where you need him.

  Sieun moans, a sound so broken and quiet it nearly guts you.

  “Please,” you breathe, clutching at his back, your voice hitching with each movement. “Don’t hold back.”

  His jaw clenches. His eyes flutter shut.

  And then he moves deeper, hips rocking into you with a fluid rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your legs tighten around him.

  The friction is delicious. The stretch, overwhelming yet cosmic.

  Sieun presses closer, burying his face further into your neck, panting softly against your skin.

  “You’re so—” He chokes on a groan as your walls flutter around him. “You feel unreal.”

  You drag your nails lightly down his spine, whispering back between moans.

  He fucks into you slowly, like it’s sacred. Each thrust is a vow, a prayer, an unraveling. His hands are everywhere—one gripping your thigh to anchor you to him, the other cradling your jaw like you’re too precious to let go.

  Your body sings for him. You meet each movement with your own, hips rising to greet him, rolling and shifting to take him deeper, to keep him close.

  Your moans mingle with his gasps, the heat between you building with every thrust, until there’s nothing left of restraint, only the desperate, languid drag of two bodies finding rhythm in devotion.

  Sieun lifts his head to look at you—really look—and what he sees makes his hips stutter.

  Your face, flushed and shining, lips parted, still pink and swollen, eyes glassy with bliss and admiration.

  You’re breathtaking. And right now, you were his.

  He moans again, broken and stunned, and leans down to kiss you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t, slow, messy, teeth grazing lips, all while his hips begin to move faster, harder, chasing something he’s never dared imagine before you.

  Your bodies are slick with heat and need, the world around you reduced to nothing but the way he fits, the way he fills, the way he worships you with every thrust.

  Sieun is whispering your name like a lifeline, like it’s the only word he knows, murmured into the skin of your throat, your jaw, your lips, as if it can tether him to reality while he teeters on the edge of something vast and consuming.

  “You feel so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse and reverent. “So perfect—you’re perfect.”

  Your back arches, body shuddering as he angles his hips just right, deep and slow and precise, hitting that spot inside you that makes gush over his length.

  Your moans turn high and breathless, desperate.

  “Sieun—” you gasp, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “I’m close—oh god—”

  He knows. 

  He feels it, the way you start to flutter and squeeze around him, the way your breaths collapse into whimpers. And even through the haze of his own rising pleasure, Sieun slows down just enough to draw it out for you, to feel every quivering second of it.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispers, breath stuttering. “Come, please.”

  And you do.

  It rushes over you in waves—white-hot, pulsing, unstoppable—your climax washing through your entire body with a strangled moan, your limbs tightening, your voice shaking as you cry out his name.

  Sieun swears under his breath, something desperate and soft, and then he loses it.

  The way you clamp around him, slick, pulsing, so warm, is all it takes to send him spiraling. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, muscles trembling as the pressure finally breaks. He groans, deep and guttural, and spills into the condom with a few last shallow thrusts, his whole body curling into yours like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together.

  And when it’s over, when the tremors in both your bodies begin to subside and your chests press together in exhausted, blissful rhythm, he stays. 

  Buried in you, breathless, consumed. His forehead pressed to yours, his lashes fluttering, lips ghosting your cheek.

  And finally, his lips quirk at the corners, gracing his features with a small, gentle smile.

  Because he decides he won’t be washing his shorts.

  And he thinks he’ll get you to ruin another pair when you bring your laptop over for him under the guise of fixing it again.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  i decided for a soft, feral rendition of sieun’s university au. this will be the last weak hero fic i write before i move onto skz and atz! need more? you can read hyuntak’s version over here  ⌯⌲  smart girl

───── how do we feel about starting a taglist?

© chanifesto

[chanifesto]

1.5k is crazy work

ᯓᡣ𐭩 mr. fix it | yeon sieun

pairing: yeon sieun x afab!reader (weak hero)

synopsis: yeon sieun was notoriously known as your program’s tech handyman. when he wasn’t hunched over calculus problem sets, sieun was busy fixing his peers' laptops, for a price of course—one that was nonexistent for you because you seemed to make his software hard.

genre: another smutty university au

word count: 6.9k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, grinding, making out, oral (f rec.), pussydrunk!sieun, piv sex, protected sex, many consent checks, sieun is so so gone for you, you are literally his pretty little angel, if devotion was a person it would be him, sieun can’t figure out his goddamn integral

reader notes: written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina. reader is described to look ‘small’ at one point. all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

this fic was requested – thank you so much, i loved coming up with the concept .ᐟ

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐ park jihoon uggghhhh need need need him. had the most exquisite time picking out the concept pictures.

“You broke it again?”

  His voice sounds flat, but there's a tinge of hope, a sense of subdued anticipation perking his last few syllables.

  Sieun stares at the half-solved integral on his desk, phone pressed to his cheek, screen cold against his skin, fingers loosely gripping the sides. The warm glow of his lamp casts a nimbus over the mess made of a barely punched in calculation and his calculus textbook, pages worn from flipping back and forth between the chapter problem sets and appendix answers. Outside his window, the campus sky is dim, too gray for six in the evening.

  “I didn’t break it!” Your voice crackles through the line, scratchy with frustration. Sieun can hear your breath over the receiver, rough and rushed.

  “It just won’t turn on,” you continue, “I don’t know what happened. I just opened my tabs, and then—dead.” 

  He exhales. “And you tried plugging it in?”

  “Yes, Sieun. I tried everything you taught me—nothing worked,” you huff, “I have an essay due Monday, and everything I need to write it is on this damn laptop.”

  You sound slightly breathless, your voice hoarse with the kind of air that clings to lungs on chilly evenings. Wind rushes past the speaker, muddling your words with static. Sieun’s ears pick up on this.

  “Where are you,” he asks, dull, but more abrupt than intended.

  You’re silent for a few beats.

  “Outside.” Another gust of wind bleeds through the receiver.

  He feels the warmth of perspiration prick across his palms. “Where?”

  The brisk, hollow rustle of plastic, and then, “Walking to your dorm.”

  Sieun feels his breath dissipate in the back of his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” you start. Sieun squeezes his eyes upon hearing these words in your soundwaves, words he thought were too unnecessary when masked in your voice.

  “I saw the forecast, there’s going to be rain—shoot, I forgot my umbrella, I knew I was forgetting something—anyways, I figured I'd head over to yours before it hit,” there’s an unmistakable sincerity in your voice, “I really need you right now, Sieun.”

  Need to murder him, he thought. Clearly, that was more fitting for the illusive objective of your last sentence, one that roused his hand to the back of his neck, called his fingers to smooth over his golden skin, wailed for them to curl against his flesh in hopes of helping him get a grip of himself. Literally.

  He sighs, half flustered, half enlivened. “You’ll be here soon?”

  “Yeah, just five minutes more.”

  There’s a pause. “Okay.”

  A quick exhale breaks past your lips, a restrained puff of air that had been trapped in the back of your throat, waiting for a green light to let it loose. “Thank you, Sieun.”

  He can still feel the ghost of icy plastic against his cheek when you cut the call. Unfocused eyes cloud over the sheets and pens and smudged writing lazing atop his desk.

  Of course. 

  Of course you’re coming over. Because why wouldn’t you? Your laptop’s dead, and he’s the tech guy, and this is just what happens. He fixes things.

  And right now, you need him to fix your things. He couldn’t help but feel his heart jump at the idea, an eagerness creeping into his chest, fogging up his lungs and grabbing hold of the air that dared to escape up his trachea.

  Sieun, as cold as he seemed, felt warmth fixing your things, like he’d swallowed the sun and it dissolved into his blood. Unlike the peers on your campus, he does it for you free-of-charge—hell, he thinks he’d pay you just to let him fidget around with your laptop’s battery that burns to touch or the program functions you can’t seem to figure out even after using the ‘help’ tab. He’d never admit to it though.

  Not yet, at least.

  His eyes flicker to the unfinished problem adorning his notebook, numbers and symbols half-formed, abandoned mid-line. The solution sits just out of reach.

  Much like you.

  His unfinished integral mocks him.

  Your cheeks are flushed, supple and radiant, the dermal symptom of cool drizzle and dewy autumn air. Sieun’s eyes surf the strands of your hair, glinting from subtle rain droplets that catch even in the dim fluorescent light of his dorm hallway.

  You look small like this in his doorway, backpack straps sagging over your shoulders, your sweater sporting little wet spots that are sure to smell like petrichor. Your hands tightly clutch a white plastic bag to your abdomen, the vertices of a cardboard box poking out at him.

  You smile at him, small and sweet and a little flustered. “There was some drizzle when I turned onto your lane.”

  Sieun’s gaze, currently traveling across the ridges tenting your plastic bag, snaps to your face.

  “Oh.” It’s a soft expression, a barely-there phoneme he manages through concern for you—how dare the clouds cry over your angel face?—and some muffled curiosity.

  Sieun just can’t help the fall of his gaze. He stares blankly at the bag in your hands. He’s not surprised when you take notice.

  “It’s brownie mix!”

  He peers at you again.

  “Brownies?”

  You grin sheepishly, fiddling with the plastic handles. “Yeah, I thought, well– you work so hard, you deserve a fun break, one you can get a sweet treat out of!” You pause. “And, I guess it’s also thanks for my laptop. You’ve saved me a lot of money I already don’t have, more than once now.”

  He’s still staring at you, face blank, unreadable, lips sealed in a line, but his eyes gleamed. Whether it was annoyance or humour, you weren’t sure, but his dreamy, tired eyes gleamed.

  Your eyes go wide. “Oh gosh, I should’ve asked you if brownies were okay. They looked so good on the box, I just had to pick them up. You could be allergic to chocolate, or maybe you don’t even like brownies–”

  “Brownies are cool.”

  Sieun watches your lips halt their rambling, configured mid-sentence, before they slowly spread into a toothy grin, one that radiates a warm feeling into his bones and almost—almost—makes his lip twitch up to match yours.

  All you needed to do was force start.

  That’s all.

  No hardware to trifle with, no delinquent software meddling with your computer programs.

  All Sieun had to do was press a couple buttons in tandem before your screen lit back up to life, resurrected from its cry of wolf.

  Your cheeks had heated, bashful from your ignorance, but also a little humoured.

  They blazed further when you caught sight of the calculus massacre on his desk, hurried apologies spilling past your pretty lips to wash out the guilt that crawled up your chest.

  Sieun reassured you all was well—It’s fine, I was almost done anyways—with a look in his eyes that had you capitulating to his sincerity.

  “Can I repay you with brownies?” you had prompted, fingers twiddling behind your back as if it would have subliminally helped rouse the answer you sought after.

  Sieun slowly flattened your laptop to a shut before his Bambi eyes peaked at you and whispered exactly what you needed to know, exactly what you wanted to hear.

  So, you’d both clambered in his tiny, cozy dorm kitchen, ingredients and bowls and utensils scattered across granite, instructions serenading the walls in your voice, Sieun’s hands working to mix the dark sea of cocoa batter.

  You had assumed the role of a conductor but managed to pull a mess over you like a magnet. Whatever hadn’t been mixed into the warm batch of brownies basking atop Sieun’s countertop had found consolation on your being—cocoa powder and melted butter and drying batter decorated your skin and sweater.

  Sieun thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

  Of course, Sieun had missed any defiant ingredient attacks entirely.

  You’d both picked up a piece each, melted chocolate furnishing your mouths while Sieun, starry-eyed and attentive, listened to you babble about your stress baking and how, no matter the many times you made something, you’d always be left with a bit of a messy souvenir from the process.

  It was during this instance when the rain had hit.

  Hard and harsh and pattering ferociously against the window of his measly living room. You and Sieun had snapped your heads at the sound, sticky embellishments of chocolate coating your fingers.

  You’d looked so worried, so consumed in the thought of how you’d walk home through what was practically a typhoon. You hadn’t checked for a storm warning, all you’d known was a chance of rain. Your umbrella wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  You’d looked so worried, so it felt almost natural when Sieun suggested you just stay over.

  “...Really?” Your eyes were breaking past their sockets, and Sieun had nerely felt the weight of his words crash over him until your orbs softened and he saw the ghost of a smirk brush past your lips.

  “Yeah, you can’t get home through that,” his voice had been tinged with his radiation of care for you. His eyes swept over your chocolate-covered frame. “You can use my shower if you want. I’ll give you some clean clothes to wear.”

  You’d obliged. Quite happily.

  And now, Sieun sat at his desk, unfinished integral staring up at him, the muted sound of his shower silking through the wall, almost louder than the merciless storm outside his window. 

  Sieun hadn’t touched his sheets or pens since he’d retreated to his room, changed into his own set of nightwear, and lowered himself into his desk chair. He couldn’t focus.

  How could he? When you were just a dozen feet away, naked and wet under the rush of his shower.

  He knew he shouldn’t think about it, begged himself not to, but when his mind slipped over the way you had chocolate powder flowering your neck and underneath your sweater, he couldn’t help but let his mind run, just a little.

  Run over the way your fingers probably tucked under the bottom of your sweater, dragging it up along your beautiful body and over your head. What had you worn underneath? Had you even worn anything? 

  In Sieun’s little fantasy, you hadn’t. You’d been bare for him under your clothes, and he’d been ready, quick to ravish you, to kiss and suck and bite at your warm skin.

  But, that was just a fantasy.

  In reality, it didn’t matter whether or not you’d worn anything underneath your sweater. Sieun had just helped you out, made things a little easier for you, eased your anxiety by offering an innocent sleepover so you wouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself to what was the making of an ocean outside his dorm.

  It didn’t matter, just like his integral, still unfinished. Deferred. Mocking.

  The blood had barely made it to his cock before it was rushing back to his brain.

  A couple minutes more of unsuccessfully undressing the math symbols littering his half-blank page and you were padding your way into his room, feet bare, heels marginally lifted off the cold floor of his dorm. Your clothes were folded, carried atop your forearms, and your cute body was swallowed in his t-shirt and shorts, sleeves too long, neck hole too wide, fabric swaying just over your knees with each of your scampered steps.

  You gaze at Sieun from the edge of his bed, clothes now tucked away in your backpack, the hem of his shirt twirling in your fingers. 

  God, Sieun thought you looked ethereal, bare-faced and in his clothes. The warm, mellow glow of his desk lamp illuminates your face like a halo. Your sweet angel eyes are drowning him far past the storm outside.

  Sweet oblivious angel eyes. If only they could see the mess he’d made of you in his head.

  “Are you ready to sleep, or do you want to study some more?” Your voice is so soft, so melodious bouncing within the confines of his skull, and your eyes twinkle just right, brightened from his lamp and the mere cast of moonlight simmering through his window.

  “I’m done,” Sieun starts, “You take the bed. I’m going to sleep in the living room.”

  He’s about to push himself up when you cross your cute arms, defiant and determined. He watches your eyes narrow, eyebrows dip with a scrunch.

  “Absolutely not!” you chide, your squint piercing. Sieun stares, half stood. He sits back down.

  “It’s not fair to you! I showed up, practically unannounced, had you press a couple buttons on my laptop because I was too incompetent to figure it out myself, then made you make brownies with me against your will since you don’t take any economic compensation! And I know you’re not done with your problem set, I can see it from here. It’s exactly how you left it before we made those godforsaken brownies! I completely butted into your evening and messed up your studying, so you best believe you’ll be sleeping in your own bed and getting a good night’s rest!”

  You puff at the end, like you’d said it in one breath, forearms glued to each other, fingers digging into your biceps.

  Sieun is still staring at you, face blank, eyes gentle.

  “You’re not incompetent.”

  You blink.

  “That’s not the point, Sieun.” You huff, pointing to his blankets. 

  “Now, get to bed.”

  His eyes flick, your attention on his bed now shared. There’s an ease in the air, one that helps to hoist Sieun from his desk chair, click his lamp off, and carry himself over to the side of his bed. He lifts the corner of his duvet, slides underneath, and lets it fall over him. All without a peep.

  His eyes scan to your frame, still at the edge of his bed, still in his too-baggy clothes, still looking too ethereal for him to indulge below the moonlight’s gaze, even in your quarrelsome stance.

  You stare back at him.

  “Okay… good.” You sound stifled, almost suspicious of his obedience.

  Your arms unclasp, a little dazed at how fast he’d listened to you. With a hesitant scratch to your neck, you shuffle to what would be your side of Sieun’s bed, just for tonight.

  Even though Sieun wishes it could be a less transient arrangement.

  But he was doing this to help you. 

  Afterall, you’d looked so worried.

  Sieun watches your warm body roll onto his mattress, feels it dip with your added weight from across. You shamble to face him, the duvet bunching in your hands, a relaxed, content tilt gracing your lips. Your cheek presses against the pillow, eyes squinting with warmth and kindness and gratitude and what Sieun could describe as a fatally contagious ray of tranquility.

  You look so sweet like this, cuddled into his bed in clothes—his clothes—that swallow your body whole. The rain had slowed, granting permission to an even larger crowd of moonlight to flow over your face.

  Sieun thought you were unreal, a mythical being from a dreamy world far beyond the current celestial limits.

  A mythical being who saw him only for his technological abilities.

  You were only here for tonight. Sieun was just helping you.

  Because you had looked so worried.

  So, he rolls onto his side, nearing the edge of the bed, hands tittering close to an abyss.

  “Goodnight,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother to pull the duvet to his front, lets it hang just over his side, as if any extra movement would make him appear more visible to you.

  You gape at his back.

  “Sieun!”

  Sieun closes his eyes. Perhaps the world around him wouldn’t see him if he couldn’t see the world.

  You puff, a frustrated push of air that has Sieun squinting his eyes shut further. He feels the duvet minutely ruffle behind him, feels the dip of the mattress sink gradually.

  “I don’t get it, are you actually upset?” Although you were quiet, you sounded so disgruntled, confused. Sieun could only wish he was better at this so he wouldn’t have to bear your honey-like voice convey such emotion, like thrones stuck in a cloud.

  But, Sieun was Sieun. A man of minimal words who spoke the truth and nothing but—until now.

  “No, just trying to get a good night’s rest.” Just trying to keep my mind off you, so close, for just one night.

  “Ugh! Will you just turn around so I can talk to you?”

  Your hand reaches out and grips the collar of Sieun’s shirt, a tight grip pulling him towards you, a gentle grip to avoid attempted murder.

  His eyes pop open, a hand catching onto the taut fabric around his neck. If there was the slightest chance Sieun’s conscious was to succumb to strangulation tonight, he thinks he’d only remember the warmth of your fingers fogging over the back of his neck.

  Sieun yields to your force, falling onto his back. Why are you so damn strong?

  With a hatch of his neck, his eyes find yours in the dark room, the patch of moonlight from his window dimmed from the roar of thunder and familiar strikes of heavy droplets against the glass.

  There’s light provocation simmering through your face, playful like a child in a game of tag.

  “Talk about what?” His voice is quiet but firm, his body a statue sandwiched between the mattress and sheets, daring not to move a millimeter.

  You peer at him, words hanging along the tip of your tongue, as if debating whether they were worth speaking into the medium shared between your beings.

  You decide they are.

  “I know you take a fee from others when you fix their laptops.” There’s a quirk in his neck, a twitch at the corner of his lips that urges you further. “You’ve never taken one from me, even when I mention it. Why is that?”

  Sieun feels a gradual quickening of his heartbeat at this concoction of your voice, and, like the start of a tornado, the thoughts in his head rampage into a whirlwind.

  To be or not to be? Sieun, who previously seemed to lack any cognitive resources to solve his monster integral, was now calculating his next move with rigorous intricacy.

  Maybe it was the kick in adrenaline that had him instigating your little game.

  Sieun chose to be.

  “Why do you think?”

  Your eyes narrow in an instant, the entire play a chain reaction. Were you also debating your next actions, words? Were you also aware of the string snapping taut between you, tense and nearing a strong, sudden tear?

  Sieun definitely was. Like always, he knew what he was getting himself into, knew he was igniting something far beyond repair, unlike the many laptops he’d resurrected.

  Sieun knew what he’d started. He’d calculated it, perhaps from the very beginning, from the moment he uttered the word “stay.”

  He was just helping you, for one night. Just one night.

  You’d looked so worried, of course.

  Perhaps Sieun had wanted your eyebrows to furrow from another force of nature—him.

  Say something.

  A quirk to your lips. Dark shadows in your eyes.

  And a hand reaching out for his neck, this time to pull him to the plushest centre of your visage.

  His lips graze the fullness of yours when you whisper in a breath.

  “I knew to force start.”

  Sieun isn’t spared a chance to retaliate his sockets stretching back when you press into him.

  The dense pressure molds his own lips flush against yours, an electric fog swarming your face and down the flanks of your neck.

  It’s a reflex, an abrupt, consuming, greedy reflex, when his arm curls over your back, big hand hastily grazing along your spine to knot into your hair.

  Had Sieun fallen asleep?

  This has to be a dream.

  But your lips were too soft against his, too warm.

  And your back curved so well along his forearm, strands so luxurious curled around his fingers.

  Your hand on his chest, basking down his torso… Sieun believes he doesn’t possess even a speckle of the imagination required to muster a feeling as heavenly as that.

  Definitely not enough to muster a feeling as heavenly as your hand sliding over him through his thin flannel pajamas.

  You were a fallen angel who had come to play unsacred games.

  And Sieun proved to be a worthy opponent.

  His fingers grip around the base of your skull to pull you from his lips.

  His eyes are heavy with a murmur of inquisition, flitting over your lips before boring into your own with words unspoken. You mirror his gaze with equal weight, savouring his quiet inhale when you push further down over his hardening curve, feathering your hand up to rest against the supple part of his abdomen.

  “You know where this is going.” It was a statement, a quiet, breathless, almost restrained mutter carrying all the responsibility and uncertainty and anticipation littered within Sieun.

  You gaze, knowing, unbothered.

  “This is what you want? This is what you came for?”

  “Yes,” you whisper, “Take it as part of my thanks.”

  “I thought the brownies were your thanks.”

  You smirk. “That was just the appetizer.”

  Sieun scoffs quietly, a humble pfft to accompany the fingers gently rubbing over the bottom of your scalp, a means of easing into his next utterance.

  You were drowning in his milk chocolate orbs, a velvety sea full of nothing but care and adoration and awe for you.

  “Are you sure you want to go further?” Any quieter and the storm battering upon his window would have drowned his sound completely.

  “Yes, Sieun.”

  That was everything he needed to hear.

  A gentle push to your neck has your lips pressing back into the plushness of his own.

  It’s a slow kiss, chaste but blazing with the need you’d both been bearing for months. You move against the other, the ghost of anticipation urging you further into it.

  Sieun definitely is not dreaming.

  All his prior frustration, graced from his still unsolved practice set and the many long, agonizing weeks of indirect contact with you, melts away, leaving a tender warmth to dry in its place. Your lips feel as soft as—no, they were softer, so much softer, and warm like sun rays on cold skin—the many times he’d imagined the ghost of them wisping against his.

  A transient ghost, barely lasting a mere tortuous ten seconds. He’d stop himself from savouring it, pry the ghost away before his hopes shot higher than the sky above him.

  But now, you were here, tangible, with your mortal lips on his. They were so supple, so plush and warm and real. And they were flush against his. No one else but him.

  Sieun had spent so long denying your fabricated being, the one who would distract him from his problem sets, urge him to isolate from the many gadgets his peers would throw his way in times of technological misfortune.

  Sieun decided it was finally time to show you what your ghost had been doing to him.

  He sucks in your bottom lip, hands grazing over your hips to pull you over his growing hardness with a delicate hold, treating your vessel like original vintage artwork. Fragile. Authentic. Godly.

  The duvet shifts against your back while you shift over him, the core of your heat finding solace over his own. The hem of his borrowed t-shirt rides up your torso like it knows what’s coming.

  It’s an abrupt, consuming, visceral feeling when you first connect with the stiff rod bulging against the stressed material of Sieun’s pajamas.

  It’s the same for Sieun, so when a small groan muses from the depths of his throat at the feeling of your heat radiating along his length, he remains basking in its aftermath.

  Lips still working into each other, you almost don’t acknowledge the slow, tantalizing roll of your hips.

  Sieun does, and it drives him crazy.

  Sieun, who was always so cool, composed, and distant was now growing hot and undone, all while pressing himself further into you, meeting you at an undefined middle, ridding any and all separation from your heating bodies from the insufferable vexation of need.

  His hands knead into your hips, bearing your heat further along him, before they configure to push himself up while embracing you flush against his chest.

  You’re consuming him, physically and mentally. Your lips on his, your body wrapped tightly around his own, hot cunt slowly grinding over the hard curve of his cock, a barrier of too much fabric plastered between your beings and pushing you both into frustrated desperation.

  Your name, your scent, the suppleness of your skin, they all fog his head, conquer it with the ghost of you.

  Both your mortal and immortal forms had possessed him, consumed him whole until he was nothing but a spec of utter devotion to you and you only.

  Your hips grind again, slow, sinful, and Sieun’s breath stutters against your mouth.

  You feel the shiver that rebounds through him like a tremor, feel the tight grip of his hands at your waist falter before steadying again, tighter this time, as if he needs to anchor you, or maybe himself.

  His lips leave yours only to trail hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, your crescent of skin beyond the shirt’s collar, the devotion in each press of his mouth turning you molten.

  “You feel…” he murmurs, barely audible, like he’s speaking to himself, “…too good. Too good to be real.”

  You tilt your hips forward again, slower, answering him with equal desperation, and Sieun’s head tips back, a ragged exhale pulling from his throat. The sight strikes you—his lashes trembling, his brows knit together in pleasure so raw it borders on pain. He looks ruined.

  Kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, shades of pink colonizing his visage in the shower of eventide luminosity.

  You don’t realize you’ve gasped until his gaze finds you again, pupils blown wide and gleaming with disbelief. His thumbs rub along your hip bones, a fragrant sensation even through the fabric of his shorts you adorned.

  Your hands glide under his shirt, pushing up until he’s reaching for the edge himself, prying the shirt past his head and letting the fabric fall to the cold hardwood beneath his bed.

  His hands slip beneath the hem of your own, and his touch is hesitant, wavering, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he reaches too far.

  “Can I…?” he asks, voice husky and threadbare, already tugging at the fabric.

  You nod. His hands glide up, slow and reverent, brushing over the curves and valleys he’s only ever imagined, each touch leaving heat in its wake. 

  He drinks in the sight of you like he’s been thirst-starved for days, gentle eyes falling over your face and down to your taut peaks. You weren’t a ghost anymore—you were a dream, glowing and radiant beneath the muted haze of damp moonlight.

  And when your bare chest presses to his, skin to skin, nothing between you but the thundering pace of your hearts, Sieun chokes out a soft, desperate moan.

  The ghost of you has vanished.

  What remains is you—real and soft and warm and all his.

  And he’s no longer a boy haunted by longing. He’s a man who’s finally allowed to feel.

  Your fingers find the nape of his neck, weaving into the soft strands of his hair, and the sound he lets out—broken, hushed, completely unguarded—settles somewhere deep in your chest.

  Sieun’s lips return to yours with more urgency now, less caution, the kind that only comes when desire and restraint blur into the same overwhelming thing. His tongue traces your bottom lip before slipping inside, gentle, exploratory, worshipping, like he’s memorizing you.

  Every movement of his hips under you is hesitant but needy, as if he’s still trying to slow himself down, still trying to process that you’re not slipping away.

  “You’re driving me insane,” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse and cracking like lightning behind the storm-glassed windows.

  He kisses you again, softer now, almost like an apology for how his hands are now gripping at the swell of your thighs with mounting desperation.

  Then, with a breath that shakes against your lips, Sieun pulls back. Only just.

  “Lie back,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with something you’ve never heard from him before. Anticipation, maybe. Hunger, definitely.

  You do, painfully unlatching from his warmth and sinking into the pillow behind you.

  Sieun follows, crawling down the length of your body like a man crossing sacred ground, his drowsy gaze never leaving you. It lingers on the slope of your neck, the lines of your collarbone, the tender stretch of skin bare to the cool air of his bedroom. Each inch he memorizes like scripture, utterly fascinated and unspeakably enamoured.

  “You’re…” he begins, almost too quiet to even comprehend, but trails off, like no word quite fits what you are to him.

  And then you see it. The way adoration turns to ache.

  A valley of creases between his brows, a marginal slit parting his pout, the quickened wisps of air trailing out of him. He’s wrecked, far past.

  And you had barely touched him.

  Sieun’s hands slide up your thighs, calloused fingertips brushing along the waistband of the very shorts he lent you, the ones riding too low on your hips, the ones he's dreamed about you in far too many nights to count.

  He kisses the inside of your knee.

  Then your thigh.

  Then the soft dip just above your hip bone.

  His hands move, thumbs hooking into the waistband. There’s a beat—one last, wordless check—and then he draws them down.

  And stops breathing.

  You’re bare beneath them. No panties. Just slick, glistening proof of how long you’ve wanted this too.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, like it’s been torn from him. His jaw goes slack, eyes shadowed with affection and disbelief. “You didn’t wear—?”

  He doesn't finish. He can't.

  His hands twitch.

  You’ve rendered Yeon Sieun speechless.

  Sieun blinks once, twice, like he’s trying to process the sight before him, trying not to let it undo him entirely.

  But it does.

  It does.

  He swallows hard, jaw flexing as his eyes drag along the slick sheen glistening between your thighs, warm and glimmering and pooling out of you sans constraint.

  His hands settle on your hips again, firm, needy, desperate.

  “You’ve been like this this whole time?” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes flickering up to meet yours, the question half-shattered already. “Wearing my shorts… like this?”

  You don’t have time to answer.

  Because Sieun leans in, drawn like a man starved, mouth ghosting just above your heat and breathing you in.

  His composure fractures there.

  A low, guttural sound breaks from his throat as he presses a slow, devoted kiss to your core. Just one.

  Then another. Then again, deeper, wetter, until his tongue slides through your dampened heat with a shuddering groan of restraint and craving colliding all at once.

  Your hips twitch and Sieun’s grip tightens instinctively, his fingers digging into your waist to anchor you to him like you might vanish otherwise.

  His tongue moves again, slow and patient, still trying to worship even while losing his mind.

  But you’re so wet, and he’s so gone.

  Each soft moan that slips from your lips draws another shaky exhale from him, each roll of your hips a crack in his control.

  He tries to keep it measured. Gentle.

  But then he hears you gasp his name, all broken and raw, and something inside him snaps.

  His pace quickens.

  He licks into you deeper, more desperate, tongue flicking, flattening, circling like he’s chasing a high that stubbornly runs just a step out of his reach. His nose brushes your clit and he doesn’t even think to pull back.

  He wants it all.

  You feel his moan against you, deep and wrecked, and you realize:

  Sieun isn’t composed anymore.

  He’s hungry.

  Possessed.

  And completely, unbearably devoted to the taste of you.

  You’re gasping now, each breath shallower than the last, and Sieun can feel you trembling beneath his palms.

  It spurs him on, wrecks him in ways he never knew were possible.

  His thumbs rub slow circles into your hips, as if to soothe you, steady you, but his mouth is relentless, nose tirelessly working into your nub. His tongue is languid one moment, then firmer the next, lapping through your folds with aching, focused precision, memorizing all that makes you fall apart.

  You roll into a nimble arch, head tipping back, and your thighs quiver where they rest over his shoulders.

  “Sieun—” you whimper.

  His name breaks in your throat, and that’s what crumbles him.

  He groans into you again, the vibration shooting straight through your core as he licks you harder now, deeper, more rhythmic, mouth coaxing you right to the edge, right to the place he’s been aching to take you.

  His hands are cradling your hips now, keeping you spread open, helpless, vulnerable, his.

  And then he whispers it, barely audible, a prayer into your skin.

  “Come for me.”

  Your breath catches.

  “Let me taste all of you,” he mumbles again, like he’s asking for divinity, like your pleasure is holy.

  And when you finally do, when your body tenses and your thighs clamp tight around his head and that beautiful cry of his name leaves your lips, Sieun doesn’t stop.

  He groans into you, licking you through it, drinking it in like he’s never tasted something more sacred.

  Like he’s never belonged more to anything—anyone—than he does to you in this moment.

  And even after the tremors still, even when you’re limp and gasping and glowing beneath him, he keeps kissing you softly, as if he can’t bear to let you go just yet.

  As if this is how he says I’ve wanted you like this forever.

  You’re still panting when he pulls back, lips slick and pink, eyes hooded and blown wide with awe. He looks stunned. Disheveled. Like a man undone by worship.

  But you, squirming and aching and desperate to have all of him, manage to find your voice.

  “Sieun,” you whisper, reaching for him. Your fingers trail along his jaw, coaxing him up until he’s hovering over you again. “I want more.”

  His breath hitches.

  Your palm slides over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his ribs. “I want you inside me.”

  Sieun stills completely.

  And then his eyes close, jaw tightening as if your words alone could undo the last shreds of his composure.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough with disbelief.

  He kisses you, not hard, not hurried, but slow and deep, like it’s all he can do to keep from losing control. You savour the heady taste of your slick coating his lips. He presses his forehead to yours, and mutters shakily, “One second.”

  You watch as he reaches for the drawer beside his bed and pulls out a condom from the crumpled blue box Hu-min had shoved at him weeks ago with a stupid grin and no explanation.

  He’d meant to throw them out. He hadn’t.

  He tears the foil open with controlled fingers and slides his flannels and boxers off his body, finally bearing himself free.

  He’s thick, flushed, already leaking from the tip. He hisses under his breath as he rolls the condom on, fingers twitching like he’s barely holding it together.

  When he settles between your thighs, eyes drowning in your sight, the air changes.

  Gone is the boy who’s too quiet, too closed off, too powered from the urge of indignation.

  What remains is Sieun drowned in passion, eyes wide and dreamy and dazed by the sight of you spread open for him, the warmth of your body beckoning his own.

  “You sure?” he asks again, voice almost too tender.

  You nod, pulling him down into a kiss, and guide him with a soft whisper, “Yes. Please, Sieun. I want all of you.”

  He exhales shakily.

  Then he lines himself just beyond your heat, and with a leisurely push of his hips, he slides inside.

  You both gasp.

  You’re hot and wet and hug onto his inching cock, and he sinks in like he’s always meant to belong there. 

  “God—” he grits, arms quavering on either side of you as he tries not to lose it too fast, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

  “You’re…” His voice cracks. “So good. So—gosh, I don’t—”

  You wrap your legs around him, anchoring him to you, and moan when he rocks forward again, deeper this time. You feel everything, every inch, every pulse, every lazed drag.

  He starts slow, shallow, testing your fit, his own restraint. His hips roll into yours with a tender kind of ache, like he’s afraid to break you, like each inch of him inside you is a miracle he can’t fully comprehend.

  But your body answers with desperate softness, clinging to him like silk caught in wind. You tilt your hips, chasing more friction, and whimper at the way his cock presses deeper, fuller, perfectly where you need him.

  Sieun moans, a sound so broken and quiet it nearly guts you.

  “Please,” you breathe, clutching at his back, your voice hitching with each movement. “Don’t hold back.”

  His jaw clenches. His eyes flutter shut.

  And then he moves deeper, hips rocking into you with a fluid rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your legs tighten around him.

  The friction is delicious. The stretch, overwhelming yet cosmic.

  Sieun presses closer, burying his face further into your neck, panting softly against your skin.

  “You’re so—” He chokes on a groan as your walls flutter around him. “You feel unreal.”

  You drag your nails lightly down his spine, whispering back between moans.

  He fucks into you slowly, like it’s sacred. Each thrust is a vow, a prayer, an unraveling. His hands are everywhere—one gripping your thigh to anchor you to him, the other cradling your jaw like you’re too precious to let go.

  Your body sings for him. You meet each movement with your own, hips rising to greet him, rolling and shifting to take him deeper, to keep him close.

  Your moans mingle with his gasps, the heat between you building with every thrust, until there’s nothing left of restraint, only the desperate, languid drag of two bodies finding rhythm in devotion.

  Sieun lifts his head to look at you—really look—and what he sees makes his hips stutter.

  Your face, flushed and shining, lips parted, still pink and swollen, eyes glassy with bliss and admiration.

  You’re breathtaking. And right now, you were his.

  He moans again, broken and stunned, and leans down to kiss you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t, slow, messy, teeth grazing lips, all while his hips begin to move faster, harder, chasing something he’s never dared imagine before you.

  Your bodies are slick with heat and need, the world around you reduced to nothing but the way he fits, the way he fills, the way he worships you with every thrust.

  Sieun is whispering your name like a lifeline, like it’s the only word he knows, murmured into the skin of your throat, your jaw, your lips, as if it can tether him to reality while he teeters on the edge of something vast and consuming.

  “You feel so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse and reverent. “So perfect—you’re perfect.”

  Your back arches, body shuddering as he angles his hips just right, deep and slow and precise, hitting that spot inside you that makes gush over his length.

  Your moans turn high and breathless, desperate.

  “Sieun—” you gasp, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “I’m close—oh god—”

  He knows. 

  He feels it, the way you start to flutter and squeeze around him, the way your breaths collapse into whimpers. And even through the haze of his own rising pleasure, Sieun slows down just enough to draw it out for you, to feel every quivering second of it.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispers, breath stuttering. “Come, please.”

  And you do.

  It rushes over you in waves—white-hot, pulsing, unstoppable—your climax washing through your entire body with a strangled moan, your limbs tightening, your voice shaking as you cry out his name.

  Sieun swears under his breath, something desperate and soft, and then he loses it.

  The way you clamp around him, slick, pulsing, so warm, is all it takes to send him spiraling. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, muscles trembling as the pressure finally breaks. He groans, deep and guttural, and spills into the condom with a few last shallow thrusts, his whole body curling into yours like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together.

  And when it’s over, when the tremors in both your bodies begin to subside and your chests press together in exhausted, blissful rhythm, he stays. 

  Buried in you, breathless, consumed. His forehead pressed to yours, his lashes fluttering, lips ghosting your cheek.

  And finally, his lips quirk at the corners, gracing his features with a small, gentle smile.

  Because he decides he won’t be washing his shorts.

  And he thinks he’ll get you to ruin another pair when you bring your laptop over for him under the guise of fixing it again.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  i decided for a soft, feral rendition of sieun’s university au. this will be the last weak hero fic i write before i move onto skz and atz! need more? you can read hyuntak’s version over here  ⌯⌲  smart girl

───── how do we feel about starting a taglist?

© chanifesto

[chanifesto]

oh my god !!! most definitely <3

[ fangirling to the max, i believe this is how it would feel if chan spared the millisecond of a glance at me in a crowd ]

i've gotten back to writing it after a very, very long and much needed break. i can't wait to hear your thoughts once it's published ! although i must warn, it's getting quite lengthy..

so. . . it's definitely been a minute

i've been busting my bum trying to get through the intro (i repeat, the INTRO) for a lee felix x f!reader fic i was inspired to write after reading this fic by @skzophreniic. anyways, i now have severe writer's block <3

catch you when i'm cured!

[chanifesto]

so. . . it's definitely been a minute

i've been busting my bum trying to get through the intro (i repeat, the INTRO) for a lee felix x f!reader fic i was inspired to write after reading this fic by @skzophreniic. anyways, i now have severe writer's block <3

catch you when i'm cured!

[chanifesto]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ride | bang chan

pairing: bang chan x afab!reader

synopsis: you’re ovulating and want to ride chan.

genre: straight smut homie

word count: 3.2k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, softdom!bangchan, pet names (baby, sweet girl, angel), mating press (for like 2 secs, no intercourse), oral (f rec.), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home!), allusions to STI testing and birth control, creampie, the slightest amount of breeding kink + overstimulation in the end, chan wants to play, he’s so in love, ugh he’s such a sweetie, a feral sweetie

reader notes: written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina (more like wap). all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  wrote this bc i’m also ovulating and want to ride chan.

“Already so hot for me, hm?”

  Yes. You were. And you were nearly bare beneath Chan’s heavy gaze if not for your cute, little panties, the crotch soaked through, practically translucent, enough to wet the touch of whatever—whoever—dared to feather over the fabric adorning your sacred, seeping hole.

  Chan has you spread before him on his sheets at the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out to rest delicately on his naked shoulder, the other pushed to your chest, your foot dangling over his hand pressing into the plush back of your thigh.

  You were a dream come to life below him, the wettest dream composed only for the eyes of a man like him, too far past the pathetic cognitive confines of a teenage dirtbag. You were a fallen angel on his sheets, and all Chan could do was relish in how gone you were, how hot and wet and desperate you were, just for him.

  He licks his bottom lip and lets his heavy, barely open eyes wash down your body, drinking in the mess he’d made of you—he hadn’t even touched you yet.

  You’re basked atop the luscious pool of sheets, eyes dark and chasmic, begging into his dark chocolate orbs for his hands, mouth, and cock to ravish you. Your cheeks are flushed, hot with need, and your lips swell, pink and wet from what felt like centuries of making out before Chan had you in your current state. Your mouth parts to let the string of quick, deep breaths wisp out of your thoracic limits, heightened from the soft arch of your back. Your breasts heave with respiration, nipples pebbled against the comfortable coolness of the room, pleading to be pinched and sucked.

  Chan’s eyes wander down to the cloth between your legs, and the sight wreaks him. Your panties are ruined, lucid with slick that seems to gush out of you sans constraint, the never-ending patch diffusing throughout the cotton.

  God, Chan loved you like this, loved your desperation and obedience and wetness for him the few days a month you were in heat. It gave him a chance to really provide for you, give you everything and anything you needed to cool you off until you were whining to go again. Every month, he was ready, aching to make his baby feel so, so good.

  He feels searing blood pump into his cock, hardening his rod against the already taut fabric of his sweatpants. He slowly peers back into your eyes and catches a familiar glint that tells him you can’t wait any longer. There’s a mellow smirk accompanying his heavy-lidded eyes, a simple mask to help him ignore how all he wants to do is fall to his knees and pout his lips over your clit for the next hour.

  “This is okay?” He’d already asked more than once, but it was never enough for Chan.

  You writhe beneath him and softly moan. “Yes, Chan.”

  The fingers dancing over your ankle leisurely feather down your leg. “What do you need, baby?”

  Your hips writhe, and you whine. “Need you inside, Chan, please.”

  He hums, the pads of his fingers now running across the back of your thigh, leg still stretched out near his head.

  He’ll give it to you, and gosh did he want to do you in good. He wanted you gushing under him, mumbling incoherently from the luxurious pressure of his thrusts, but Chan also wanted to play, just for a little. He wanted to see how far he could string out his sweet girl’s desperation until she was begging for exactly what she needed.

  He pushes down on your leg, rendering it a matching pair with its twin, and leans into you. His hands cage you under him near your waist, the heat of your supple skin fogging over his fingers. The back of your legs rest against his hard, broad body, sculpting you into a mating press.

  Chan nuzzles his nose against yours. Both your eyes have succumbed to the weight they bear, whispering to a close before your lips mold into the other.

  He kisses you softly, granting you just enough pressure to push you into overdrive. Your hands fumble up his shoulders, finding purchase in his hair, gripping tight. You tug him closer, greedier. A groan, low and guttural, vibrates out of him and trembles down to your core.

  His hot mouth sucks up your bottom lip, lets it swell in his mouth, coats it with his spit. It rolls back out when he feels your heat squirm against the curve of his cock.

  Chan pulls himself from the warmth of your face. He wants to watch your brows scrunch, watch your wet lips pout when he grinds the hard curve of his length into your clothed cunt.

  It’s too much and not enough, like the first breath of air when you resurface from underwater. He’s so hard, and his cock rubs just right, deliciously over your clit. You press your head into the mattress, your hands clutch at his hair as you try to meet the agonizing motion of his hips. You pout and mewl up at him.

  He smiles, wicked and smug. Then kisses you, slow and sweet.

  Chan’s plush lips flutter down your jaw and neck, ghosting over your breast before he sucks your hardened nipple into his blazing mouth. You moan, bucking up against the ghost of his now absent hips. 

  His tongue flattens over your peak, covering it with a glistening sheen. He sucks and circles and flicks before he sucks hard off of you with a pop, wasting no time fastening his lips back to your skin to kiss down to the only clothed part of your body.

  Chan wants to play, wants to take his time pushing you to a release, but he feels a ticking in the pit of his own abdomen, and he knows he won’t last much longer without giving you exactly what you needed, so he slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tugs.

  The lacey band slides past your hips, past the level of your cunt when the crotch latches off with a resisting damp stick. A thin string of your slick stretches out to the wet splotch on your panties, drooping down onto the sheets when the fabric raises too far up your thighs and clears your feet.

  Chan’s hand smooths your thigh onto his shoulder, while the other works near the base of the bed to bunch your panties into a ball of fabric that is soon to never return to your underwear drawer.

  You're a sight for the books, art fit for museums beyond human capability. Now that you were completely bare beneath his gaze, slick, glistening proof of your arousal drooling onto the plush cotton towel he’d (thankfully) laid out just for you, Chan thinks—no, he knows—he’ll have to ravish you. And he’ll do it by fucking all of the pretty thoughts he has about you straight into your core.

  Your seeping pussy coaxes him in, the sight calling his lips to gently kiss over your thigh, each press a brand of affection seared into your flesh. He’s already half-drunk on the scent of you.

  And God, the scent. It’s divine. Heady and thick and achingly familiar. It wraps around him, makes his head light, his cock throb against the too taut seam of his pants. His tongue darts out to taste the air, to imagine what you’d feel like on it, and the moment his mouth finally hovers over your heat, he has to exhale a slow, ragged breath through his nose to keep from burying his face in you like a starved man.

  “Look at this mess, baby,” he mumbles, heavy eyes flickering up to catch yours through the haze. “Gonna suck it all out of you, yeah?”

  And then, he licks.

  The flat of his tongue starts from your dripping entrance and slides up to your clit in one long, sinful drag. You jolt with a sharp inhale, thighs twitching on his shoulders as your head falls back with a low moan. He hums against you, savouring every inch of the taste, the warmth, the overwhelming slick. His nose nudges your nub, lips parting to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s the sweetest fruit.

  Your hands are threading into his hair, tugging without thought. Chan groans deep into you, the vibration making your spine curve off the bed.

  He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. His tongue flicks and flattens and circles and dips, teasing your entrance just enough to taste the flood of slick before returning to your swollen, needy clit. His soft lips wrap around it, suctioning onto you so hard, pulling cries and whimpers from your throat like he’s conducting you with every movement of his mouth. Your angel voice serenades him with a melodic blend of pleas and his name.

  “Mmm, please, Chan—please please please.”

  He moans at your voice, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he lets himself sink into the rhythm. Suck, flick, lap. Over and over. Every sound you make is a reward, every roll of your hips a command he obeys. And when your thighs start to clamp around his head, twitching, your hips trying to rock into his face, he succumbs to your needs.

  He wants you to ride his mouth. Wants to feel you fall apart against his tongue.

  His hands slide under your ass, tilting your hips up, and he dives in deeper. His tongue thrusts into your soaked hole, curling, then returns to your clit. His spit mixes with your slick, a wet, messy potion painted across his chin and lips.

  Your sound is broken, wreaked, gasping out his name, your moans pleading for a release. Delinquent hips roll into him, chasing after a high that was just one step out of your reach.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Because he knows he has you right where he wants you. So, he just groans low and needy into your cunt and tightens his grip as you finally writhe into bliss.

  Your thighs lock around his head, your entire body bowing into the orgasm that crashes through you in high tides. You’re clenching, fluttering wildly as your slick gushes against his tongue, and Chan drinks it down, groaning like he’s in heaven.

  He is in heaven.

  He holds you there through every aftershock, licking you gently now, soft and slow, kissing your clit with the kind of affection that makes your thighs quiver and your core clench again, helplessly sensitive.

  When he finally pulls back, your slick adorns the lower half of his face, glistening in the low light. He kisses your inner thigh one more time, eyes still heavy with his own desperation.

  “Did so well, angel, so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick and ruined.

  And you? 

  You're his masterpiece of a mess, panting like you just surfaced from the deep.

  Eyes dark and dazed, Chan hovers above your body. He’s not sure if he should crawl away or curl into you. 

  But you make the decision for him, because even through the waves of release, the high hadn’t ebbed. Not fully. Not with the excruciating stretch of his sweatpants still tented between your legs. Not with the weight of his adoration still anchoring you both to the bed.

  You find the edges of his jaw with your fingertips, still quivering from how he wrecked you, and Chan leans into your touch, a planet to the sun.

  “I want to ride you,” you whisper.

  It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a tethered need, soft but unrelenting, looped around both your hearts and tugged tight.

  Chan’s breath halts.

  He swears something stutters in his chest. His eyes flutter open, and for a second, he’s a man stripped of every coherent thought. Just nerves lit like fire and a heartbeat so loud it rattles in his ears.

  “You…” he starts, then trails off, his voice wrecked and low. His throat bobs. “You wanna be on top?”

  You nod slowly, brows knit like this is something fragile. Sacred.

  It is.

  Because it’s not just about wanting control—it’s about trust. And Chan has never felt so honored to give and receive it.

  He presses a kiss to your wrist. Then your palm. Then the center of your chest, where your heart still dances from the work of his mouth.

  “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. Take me.”

  He shifts under you, careful, soft, pulls off his sweatpants and boxers in one go, leaving his thick, aching length pulsing and flushed and glistening against the lower valley of his stomach. 

  You crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Chan’s hands instinctively settle on your hips. His head falls back against the pillow, the cords of his neck tight with restraint. He looks at you, his angel made of moonlight and the answer to every unnamed prayer he’s ever breathed through grit teeth in lonely hours.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he swoons, a mellow confession. 

  Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the way his abs twitch under your touch. His cock jumps when you slide your slick folds along the base of him, and Chan swears under his breath, knuckles blanching as he grips your hips tighter.

  The glide is slow, indulgent. It was your way of savoring him. You rub against him, your clit catching the ridge of his tip each time you rock forward, and Chan’s breath punches out of him in stuttered gasps. His eyes never leave your face—kiss-swollen lips, dreamy dropping eyes—even as his hips buck helplessly under you.

  “Fuck,” he groans, eyes fluttering. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  With tests negative and your eggs surrendered to the control of coloured pills, you brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you—every breath, every flicker of pleasure across your face—as if it’s the most exquisite art. 

  And when you finally sink down, slowly, divinely, the bare heat of you enveloping him inch by tremoring inch, Chan moans so deeply it sounds torn from his soul.

  His eyes sew shut. His hands grip your thighs like he’s afraid he’ll float off the earth if he lets go.

  He doesn’t speak at first. Just breathes. Shudders.

  Then, softly, “Fuck—please.”

  You move, slow at first, and Chan meets each motion with a gentle rock of his hips. 

  It’s consuming, the way your warm, gummy walls slide against his hardened rod, the way he disappears into you with each grind of your hips. The remaining potion of your arousal and his spit gush over his bare tip and dribbles down his length.

  And your face—fuck, it was going to ravish him, ruin him far past the limits of your cunt. Pretty pout merged into an oh, eyes barely open before they shut tight. You were godly.

  You ride him like you’re claiming him, and Chan surrenders to you.

  His hands roam your body, thumb brushing over the curve of your breast, then gripping your waist. His gaze stays locked to your being and nothing but, drinking in the little gasps you spill, the arch of your back when you angle just right, the way your walls flutter around him when he groans your name.

  There’s nothing more beautiful than this, than you above him, owning him, loving him, making him unravel piece by piece.

  The way you move on him is poetry turned to flesh.

  Each roll of your hips is a verse, each sigh a stanza, and Chan is completely spellbound, caught in the cadence of your body, unwinding the syllables of your name under his breath.

  He’s close.

  Gosh, he’s been close since the second you sank onto him, but now, the pressure wraths tight and hot at the base of his spine, every nerve lit like a fuse, and Chan knows he doesn’t have much longer until he’s helplessly falling apart for you.

  So, he brings a thumb to your nub and presses a slow circle into it.

  You mewl and clench around him, soft and fluttering, and his hips jerk. His head presses back against the pillow with a low, desperate groan. 

  “Baby,” he pants, voice rough, thumb still working into you, “I’m not gonna last—”

  “I want it,” you whisper, almost boarding on a breathless mewl. “Want you to come inside.”

  And it’s over.

  Chan’s mouth falls open in a silent moan, his whole body tightening beneath yours. His fingers dig into your hips, anchoring himself to the moment, his thumb coaxing you into your second orgasm until you're twitching above him, eyes shut tight, mumbling his name in a high sob.

  And then, he’s spilling into you, hot and thick and endless.

  His mind whites out. His breath stutters. He feels like he’s burning and being saved all at once.

  You don’t stop, not yet. 

  You keep moving, riding him through every wave of it, milking him with slow, deep grinds that draw out his pleasure until it teeters on overwhelming.

  “Fuck,” he chokes out, his voice wreaked, “just like that—oh god, angel, I’m yours—”

  His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as you finally still. He’s still twitching inside you, still pulsing weakly, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky drips that smear where your bodies press together.

  It’s messy. Intimate. Utterly undone.

  And Chan has never loved anything more.

  His lips find your shoulder, your neck, your temple. Kisses soft as the air after a storm, trying to say everything his tongue is too ruined to form.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, dizzy with adoration.

  You hum, cheek nuzzled into his hair, and Chan closes his eyes, his whole body still twiching, but grounded now by the feel of your heartbeat against his.

  “I mean it,” he whispers, thumbing lazy circles into your spine. “You’re everything.”

  When you finally shift off him, Chan’s hands follow you instinctively, always touching, always holding. He props himself up on his elbows, watching with simmering greed as his cum slowly drips from between your thighs, glossy and slow.

  He almost can’t stop himself when two of his fingers scrape his hot seed back up, pressing the coated pads against the opening of your hole. You squirm with a soft mewl.

  “It’s spilling out of you,” he breathes, his voice is threaded with awe. “Wanna stuff it back in you, baby. Can I?”

  You nod, eyes hooded, pout parted with wisping breaths.

  “Words, angel.” His own are broken, eyes so soft, so full of all the love and admiration known to humankind.

  “Yes,” you breathe.

  And that’s all Chan needed to hear before he’s gently laying your precious body against the sheets and leisurely replacing his fingers with himself, pushing into you softly, grazing your walls slowly, fucking his cum back to your core with love for your surging through his vessels and bones and nerves.

  Both your bodies twitch, overstimulated, your eyes glassed over with threatening tears pooling at each of your squinting corners.

  Yet, Chan wouldn't have wanted it any other way, simply because it was with you.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  whoever you are reading this, you are beautiful.

© chanifesto ── may 2025

[chanifesto]

eyes blurry with stars and awe. your writing is my muse.

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect. 

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again? 

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him. 

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric. 

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

contine this: His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

[chanifesto]

⋆ . ˚ recommendations of my most beloved authors and fics. enjoy .ᐟ

please be sure to show these authors and fics some love. reblog and shower their works with some loving comments; likes are but a measly contributor to their encouragement! authors work so so hard on their work, your love and support will encourage them to continue creating their art <3

(m) = mature/18+ | (s) = suggestive | (f) = fluff | (a) = angst

꣑ৎ 𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝜈 𝑎𝑢𝘵ℎ𝘰𝑟𝑠

i'm always hoping to see their work on my feed. if i don't, i'll reread their previous ones bc i admire their art sm ;o

@skzophreniic @sunboki @seungisms @sluttywoozi @hwajin @seospicybin @jj-one @skzdarlings

꣑ৎ 𝑛𝑠𝑓𝑤 (m)

── stray kids

the spoiled series [ot8] by @sunshinesfreckless skzotel guest relations masterlist [ot8] by @ skzophreniic sharing a bed series [ot8] by @ skzdarlings pas de trois [h.h & h.j] by @chansdoll (m) (f) (a) evermore masterlist [b.c & h.h] by @ seospicybin (m) (f) (a)

── skz [ bang chan ]

wrong movie ticket by @leriexoxo order for daddy by @ skzophreniic still not yours by @baby-yongbok dimple by @forlix

── skz [ hwang hyunjin ]

stop the world i wanna get off with you by @jeonginsleftcheek cam masterlist by @ seospicybin dog sitting by @ skzophreniic

── skz [ han jisung ]

track 12 by @ skzophreniic traffic jam by @leriexoxo i want it by @dollracha accidental nudes by @leriexoxo

── skz [ lee felix ]

beach hazard by @sunshinesfreckless skill issue? more like dick issue by @hyunniesamericano smoke sprite by @ hwajin

── atz [ choi san ]

wicked, wild, and yours by @onlyforwoosan first things first by @ sluttywoozi moonshine peaches by @maho6any

── atz [ jeong yunho ]

new light by @kitten4sannie bibliophile by @tangerineastronaut out of the woods by @ sluttywoozi

── svt [ kim mingyu ]

save the date by @goldenhourology

꣑ৎ 𝑠𝑓𝑤

── stray kids

he calls you a gold digger [ot8] by @4linos (a)

── skz [ bang chan ]

fan service by @shinhyunjin (f) what remains unspoken by @ sunboki (f) (a) scenarios by @channies-wolfchan (f)

── skz [ hwang hyunjin ]

kiwi princess by @astraystayyh (f) little white lies by @shinhyunjin (f) "can you kiss me?" by @ sunboki (s) (f)

꣑ৎ ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝘰𝑛𝑠 / 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑠 / 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠

── stray kids

literally any by @seungisms literally any by @sunboki literally any by @bbokicidal literally any by @sluttywonwoo [ applicable for svt as well ! ] that venom body roll [b.c / h.h / h.j / l.f / y.j] by @pixie-felix (m)

── skz [ bang chan ]

nsfw alphabet by @ skzophreniic (m) sfw alphabet by @ skzophreniic (f)

── skz [ lee minho ]

boyfriend minho who... by @jisungsdaydreamer

── skz [ hwang hyunjin ]

camellia by @ hwajin (f) mornings with hyunjin by @astraystayyh (f)

── atz [ choi san ]

gentle giant by @uurstruly (s) (f) (a)

── svt [ kim mingyu ]

older bf!mingyu by @cherriicou

── svt [ vernon ]

decorations by @chwerio (f) belt loops by @chwerio (f)

꣑ৎ 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑢

── stray kids

literally any by @ sunboki he calls you clingy [hyung line] [maknae line] by @dreamyfelixx (a) fwb!skz and horny memes [ot8] by @hyuneflix (m) she's fine, she's mine [l.f] by @cosmicalily (f) where'd you go? [hyung line] [maknae line] by @seochanhwang (m) instagram stories with bf!skz [ot8] by @kick127 (f)

─── all of these amazing fics/content belong to their rightful owners! i am not claiming them as my own, just trying to share some fabulous art <3

[chanifesto]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ride | bang chan

pairing: bang chan x afab!reader

synopsis: you’re ovulating and want to ride chan.

genre: straight smut homie

word count: 3.2k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, softdom!bangchan, pet names (baby, sweet girl, angel), mating press (for like 2 secs, no intercourse), oral (f rec.), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home!), allusions to STI testing and birth control, creampie, the slightest amount of breeding kink + overstimulation in the end, chan wants to play, he’s so in love, ugh he’s such a sweetie, a feral sweetie

reader notes: written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina (more like wap). all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

۶ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  wrote this bc i’m also ovulating and want to ride chan.

“Already so hot for me, hm?”

  Yes. You were. And you were nearly bare beneath Chan’s heavy gaze if not for your cute, little panties, the crotch soaked through, practically translucent, enough to wet the touch of whatever—whoever—dared to feather over the fabric adorning your sacred, seeping hole.

  Chan has you spread before him on his sheets at the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out to rest delicately on his naked shoulder, the other pushed to your chest, your foot dangling over his hand pressing into the plush back of your thigh.

  You were a dream come to life below him, the wettest dream composed only for the eyes of a man like him, too far past the pathetic cognitive confines of a teenage dirtbag. You were a fallen angel on his sheets, and all Chan could do was relish in how gone you were, how hot and wet and desperate you were, just for him.

  He licks his bottom lip and lets his heavy, barely open eyes wash down your body, drinking in the mess he’d made of you—he hadn’t even touched you yet.

  You’re basked atop the luscious pool of sheets, eyes dark and chasmic, begging into his dark chocolate orbs for his hands, mouth, and cock to ravish you. Your cheeks are flushed, hot with need, and your lips swell, pink and wet from what felt like centuries of making out before Chan had you in your current state. Your mouth parts to let the string of quick, deep breaths wisp out of your thoracic limits, heightened from the soft arch of your back. Your breasts heave with respiration, nipples pebbled against the comfortable coolness of the room, pleading to be pinched and sucked.

  Chan’s eyes wander down to the cloth between your legs, and the sight wreaks him. Your panties are ruined, lucid with slick that seems to gush out of you sans constraint, the never-ending patch diffusing throughout the cotton.

  God, Chan loved you like this, loved your desperation and obedience and wetness for him the few days a month you were in heat. It gave him a chance to really provide for you, give you everything and anything you needed to cool you off until you were whining to go again. Every month, he was ready, aching to make his baby feel so, so good.

  He feels searing blood pump into his cock, hardening his rod against the already taut fabric of his sweatpants. He slowly peers back into your eyes and catches a familiar glint that tells him you can’t wait any longer. There’s a mellow smirk accompanying his heavy-lidded eyes, a simple mask to help him ignore how all he wants to do is fall to his knees and pout his lips over your clit for the next hour.

  “This is okay?” He’d already asked more than once, but it was never enough for Chan.

  You writhe beneath him and softly moan. “Yes, Chan.”

  The fingers dancing over your ankle leisurely feather down your leg. “What do you need, baby?”

  Your hips writhe, and you whine. “Need you inside, Chan, please.”

  He hums, the pads of his fingers now running across the back of your thigh, leg still stretched out near his head.

  He’ll give it to you, and gosh did he want to do you in good. He wanted you gushing under him, mumbling incoherently from the luxurious pressure of his thrusts, but Chan also wanted to play, just for a little. He wanted to see how far he could string out his sweet girl’s desperation until she was begging for exactly what she needed.

  He pushes down on your leg, rendering it a matching pair with its twin, and leans into you. His hands cage you under him near your waist, the heat of your supple skin fogging over his fingers. The back of your legs rest against his hard, broad body, sculpting you into a mating press.

  Chan nuzzles his nose against yours. Both your eyes have succumbed to the weight they bear, whispering to a close before your lips mold into the other.

  He kisses you softly, granting you just enough pressure to push you into overdrive. Your hands fumble up his shoulders, finding purchase in his hair, gripping tight. You tug him closer, greedier. A groan, low and guttural, vibrates out of him and trembles down to your core.

  His hot mouth sucks up your bottom lip, lets it swell in his mouth, coats it with his spit. It rolls back out when he feels your heat squirm against the curve of his cock.

  Chan pulls himself from the warmth of your face. He wants to watch your brows scrunch, watch your wet lips pout when he grinds the hard curve of his length into your clothed cunt.

  It’s too much and not enough, like the first breath of air when you resurface from underwater. He’s so hard, and his cock rubs just right, deliciously over your clit. You press your head into the mattress, your hands clutch at his hair as you try to meet the agonizing motion of his hips. You pout and mewl up at him.

  He smiles, wicked and smug. Then kisses you, slow and sweet.

  Chan’s plush lips flutter down your jaw and neck, ghosting over your breast before he sucks your hardened nipple into his blazing mouth. You moan, bucking up against the ghost of his now absent hips. 

  His tongue flattens over your peak, covering it with a glistening sheen. He sucks and circles and flicks before he sucks hard off of you with a pop, wasting no time fastening his lips back to your skin to kiss down to the only clothed part of your body.

  Chan wants to play, wants to take his time pushing you to a release, but he feels a ticking in the pit of his own abdomen, and he knows he won’t last much longer without giving you exactly what you needed, so he slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tugs.

  The lacey band slides past your hips, past the level of your cunt when the crotch latches off with a resisting damp stick. A thin string of your slick stretches out to the wet splotch on your panties, drooping down onto the sheets when the fabric raises too far up your thighs and clears your feet.

  Chan’s hand smooths your thigh onto his shoulder, while the other works near the base of the bed to bunch your panties into a ball of fabric that is soon to never return to your underwear drawer.

  You're a sight for the books, art fit for museums beyond human capability. Now that you were completely bare beneath his gaze, slick, glistening proof of your arousal drooling onto the plush cotton towel he’d (thankfully) laid out just for you, Chan thinks—no, he knows—he’ll have to ravish you. And he’ll do it by fucking all of the pretty thoughts he has about you straight into your core.

  Your seeping pussy coaxes him in, the sight calling his lips to gently kiss over your thigh, each press a brand of affection seared into your flesh. He’s already half-drunk on the scent of you.

  And God, the scent. It’s divine. Heady and thick and achingly familiar. It wraps around him, makes his head light, his cock throb against the too taut seam of his pants. His tongue darts out to taste the air, to imagine what you’d feel like on it, and the moment his mouth finally hovers over your heat, he has to exhale a slow, ragged breath through his nose to keep from burying his face in you like a starved man.

  “Look at this mess, baby,” he mumbles, heavy eyes flickering up to catch yours through the haze. “Gonna suck it all out of you, yeah?”

  And then, he licks.

  The flat of his tongue starts from your dripping entrance and slides up to your clit in one long, sinful drag. You jolt with a sharp inhale, thighs twitching on his shoulders as your head falls back with a low moan. He hums against you, savouring every inch of the taste, the warmth, the overwhelming slick. His nose nudges your nub, lips parting to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s the sweetest fruit.

  Your hands are threading into his hair, tugging without thought. Chan groans deep into you, the vibration making your spine curve off the bed.

  He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. His tongue flicks and flattens and circles and dips, teasing your entrance just enough to taste the flood of slick before returning to your swollen, needy clit. His soft lips wrap around it, suctioning onto you so hard, pulling cries and whimpers from your throat like he’s conducting you with every movement of his mouth. Your angel voice serenades him with a melodic blend of pleas and his name.

  “Mmm, please, Chan—please please please.”

  He moans at your voice, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he lets himself sink into the rhythm. Suck, flick, lap. Over and over. Every sound you make is a reward, every roll of your hips a command he obeys. And when your thighs start to clamp around his head, twitching, your hips trying to rock into his face, he succumbs to your needs.

  He wants you to ride his mouth. Wants to feel you fall apart against his tongue.

  His hands slide under your ass, tilting your hips up, and he dives in deeper. His tongue thrusts into your soaked hole, curling, then returns to your clit. His spit mixes with your slick, a wet, messy potion painted across his chin and lips.

  Your sound is broken, wreaked, gasping out his name, your moans pleading for a release. Delinquent hips roll into him, chasing after a high that was just one step out of your reach.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Because he knows he has you right where he wants you. So, he just groans low and needy into your cunt and tightens his grip as you finally writhe into bliss.

  Your thighs lock around his head, your entire body bowing into the orgasm that crashes through you in high tides. You’re clenching, fluttering wildly as your slick gushes against his tongue, and Chan drinks it down, groaning like he’s in heaven.

  He is in heaven.

  He holds you there through every aftershock, licking you gently now, soft and slow, kissing your clit with the kind of affection that makes your thighs quiver and your core clench again, helplessly sensitive.

  When he finally pulls back, your slick adorns the lower half of his face, glistening in the low light. He kisses your inner thigh one more time, eyes still heavy with his own desperation.

  “Did so well, angel, so perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick and ruined.

  And you? 

  You're his masterpiece of a mess, panting like you just surfaced from the deep.

  Eyes dark and dazed, Chan hovers above your body. He’s not sure if he should crawl away or curl into you. 

  But you make the decision for him, because even through the waves of release, the high hadn’t ebbed. Not fully. Not with the excruciating stretch of his sweatpants still tented between your legs. Not with the weight of his adoration still anchoring you both to the bed.

  You find the edges of his jaw with your fingertips, still quivering from how he wrecked you, and Chan leans into your touch, a planet to the sun.

  “I want to ride you,” you whisper.

  It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a tethered need, soft but unrelenting, looped around both your hearts and tugged tight.

  Chan’s breath halts.

  He swears something stutters in his chest. His eyes flutter open, and for a second, he’s a man stripped of every coherent thought. Just nerves lit like fire and a heartbeat so loud it rattles in his ears.

  “You…” he starts, then trails off, his voice wrecked and low. His throat bobs. “You wanna be on top?”

  You nod slowly, brows knit like this is something fragile. Sacred.

  It is.

  Because it’s not just about wanting control—it’s about trust. And Chan has never felt so honored to give and receive it.

  He presses a kiss to your wrist. Then your palm. Then the center of your chest, where your heart still dances from the work of his mouth.

  “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, baby. Take me.”

  He shifts under you, careful, soft, pulls off his sweatpants and boxers in one go, leaving his thick, aching length pulsing and flushed and glistening against the lower valley of his stomach. 

  You crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Chan’s hands instinctively settle on your hips. His head falls back against the pillow, the cords of his neck tight with restraint. He looks at you, his angel made of moonlight and the answer to every unnamed prayer he’s ever breathed through grit teeth in lonely hours.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he swoons, a mellow confession. 

  Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the way his abs twitch under your touch. His cock jumps when you slide your slick folds along the base of him, and Chan swears under his breath, knuckles blanching as he grips your hips tighter.

  The glide is slow, indulgent. It was your way of savoring him. You rub against him, your clit catching the ridge of his tip each time you rock forward, and Chan’s breath punches out of him in stuttered gasps. His eyes never leave your face—kiss-swollen lips, dreamy dropping eyes—even as his hips buck helplessly under you.

  “Fuck,” he groans, eyes fluttering. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  With tests negative and your eggs surrendered to the control of coloured pills, you brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you—every breath, every flicker of pleasure across your face—as if it’s the most exquisite art. 

  And when you finally sink down, slowly, divinely, the bare heat of you enveloping him inch by tremoring inch, Chan moans so deeply it sounds torn from his soul.

  His eyes sew shut. His hands grip your thighs like he’s afraid he’ll float off the earth if he lets go.

  He doesn’t speak at first. Just breathes. Shudders.

  Then, softly, “Fuck—please.”

  You move, slow at first, and Chan meets each motion with a gentle rock of his hips. 

  It’s consuming, the way your warm, gummy walls slide against his hardened rod, the way he disappears into you with each grind of your hips. The remaining potion of your arousal and his spit gush over his bare tip and dribbles down his length.

  And your face—fuck, it was going to ravish him, ruin him far past the limits of your cunt. Pretty pout merged into an oh, eyes barely open before they shut tight. You were godly.

  You ride him like you’re claiming him, and Chan surrenders to you.

  His hands roam your body, thumb brushing over the curve of your breast, then gripping your waist. His gaze stays locked to your being and nothing but, drinking in the little gasps you spill, the arch of your back when you angle just right, the way your walls flutter around him when he groans your name.

  There’s nothing more beautiful than this, than you above him, owning him, loving him, making him unravel piece by piece.

  The way you move on him is poetry turned to flesh.

  Each roll of your hips is a verse, each sigh a stanza, and Chan is completely spellbound, caught in the cadence of your body, unwinding the syllables of your name under his breath.

  He’s close.

  Gosh, he’s been close since the second you sank onto him, but now, the pressure wraths tight and hot at the base of his spine, every nerve lit like a fuse, and Chan knows he doesn’t have much longer until he’s helplessly falling apart for you.

  So, he brings a thumb to your nub and presses a slow circle into it.

  You mewl and clench around him, soft and fluttering, and his hips jerk. His head presses back against the pillow with a low, desperate groan. 

  “Baby,” he pants, voice rough, thumb still working into you, “I’m not gonna last—”

  “I want it,” you whisper, almost boarding on a breathless mewl. “Want you to come inside.”

  And it’s over.

  Chan’s mouth falls open in a silent moan, his whole body tightening beneath yours. His fingers dig into your hips, anchoring himself to the moment, his thumb coaxing you into your second orgasm until you're twitching above him, eyes shut tight, mumbling his name in a high sob.

  And then, he’s spilling into you, hot and thick and endless.

  His mind whites out. His breath stutters. He feels like he’s burning and being saved all at once.

  You don’t stop, not yet. 

  You keep moving, riding him through every wave of it, milking him with slow, deep grinds that draw out his pleasure until it teeters on overwhelming.

  “Fuck,” he chokes out, his voice wreaked, “just like that—oh god, angel, I’m yours—”

  His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as you finally still. He’s still twitching inside you, still pulsing weakly, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky drips that smear where your bodies press together.

  It’s messy. Intimate. Utterly undone.

  And Chan has never loved anything more.

  His lips find your shoulder, your neck, your temple. Kisses soft as the air after a storm, trying to say everything his tongue is too ruined to form.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, dizzy with adoration.

  You hum, cheek nuzzled into his hair, and Chan closes his eyes, his whole body still twiching, but grounded now by the feel of your heartbeat against his.

  “I mean it,” he whispers, thumbing lazy circles into your spine. “You’re everything.”

  When you finally shift off him, Chan’s hands follow you instinctively, always touching, always holding. He props himself up on his elbows, watching with simmering greed as his cum slowly drips from between your thighs, glossy and slow.

  He almost can’t stop himself when two of his fingers scrape his hot seed back up, pressing the coated pads against the opening of your hole. You squirm with a soft mewl.

  “It’s spilling out of you,” he breathes, his voice is threaded with awe. “Wanna stuff it back in you, baby. Can I?”

  You nod, eyes hooded, pout parted with wisping breaths.

  “Words, angel.” His own are broken, eyes so soft, so full of all the love and admiration known to humankind.

  “Yes,” you breathe.

  And that’s all Chan needed to hear before he’s gently laying your precious body against the sheets and leisurely replacing his fingers with himself, pushing into you softly, grazing your walls slowly, fucking his cum back to your core with love for your surging through his vessels and bones and nerves.

  Both your bodies twitch, overstimulated, your eyes glassed over with threatening tears pooling at each of your squinting corners.

  Yet, Chan wouldn't have wanted it any other way, simply because it was with you.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  whoever you are reading this, you are beautiful.

© chanifesto ── may 2025

[chanifesto]

and i thought 500 was insane

ᯓᡣ𐭩 smart girl | go hyuntak

pairing: hyuntak x afab!reader (weak hero class 2)

synopsis: a university au in which hyuntak, determined and mighty and ready for anything, turns to mush in your presence. that is, until he has you turning into mush under him.

genre: somewhat of a smutty slowburn

word count: 8.1k

warnings: [MDNI!] explicit sexual content, softdom!hyuntak, making out, grinding, pet names (baby, pretty girl, smart girl) nipple play, oral (f rec.), fingering, piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it! please!), mentions of STI testing and birth control,  just enough consent checks, absolute devotion, your insides are soft, his outsides are hard, gosh he’s such a simp for you, i have never written smut before proceed with caution

reader notes: written with afab!reader in mind. reader has breasts, a vagina, and hair long enough to fall over their shoulder. all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.

⋆. ۶ৎ˚⊹₊⟡˖ ࣪ 𝓵𝓮𝓮’𝓼 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓾𝓭𝓮 ࿐ i am feverishly starved for this man. it’s only right i dedicate my first post to him. enjoy (at least, i hope you do).

Hyuntak thought his heart was about to ram out of his chest.

  He was perfectly serene ten minutes ago, when it was just him, Hu-min, Jun-tae, and Si-eun at a booth in the university cafeteria. Perfectly serene basking in hoarse laughter at Hu-min’s flimsy puns. Perfectly serene, before you padded towards their table alongside Hu-min’s girlfriend, a textbook caged against your chest, the slightest quirk of a smile clutching at the corners of your pretty lips in response to something Hu-min’s girlfriend had whispered to you.

  You slid into the bench opposite of him at the other end of the table, quietly greeting the other boys as you slipped your tote off your shoulder. If Hyuntak hadn’t been ambushed by his own nervous system, he would have seen the kind eyes you offered him instead of finding a sudden interest in the nutrition facts of his energy drink.

  He was perfectly serene ten minutes ago, before you got there.

  And now you sat there, gently scribbling in your agenda, your plush bottom lip softly caught between your teeth, unaware of the fevered anguish you had inflicted upon him.

  Hyuntak, who was previously doubled over in laughter, was now pressed against the back of his chair, sweaty palms rubbing ever-so-slightly against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Heat had begun to ghost down the sides of his face to his neck. The last time he was this strung out was for his first basketball tournament, and that was seven years ago. Gosh, the things your presence did to him.

  Hyuntak curtly flips over his wrist to check the time on his watch, just as he did thirty seconds ago, and thirty seconds before that. 

  His chest expands in a quiet huff. He had fifteen minutes before he had to leave for his class, more like twenty since the first ten minutes of the hour are allotted for students to relocate between possible back-to-back classes. Hyuntak always believed he could get to his classes in five—a belief he always proved wrong.

  It was the start of a new semester, so it only made sense to depart earlier than he usually would to locate his lecture hall in time for class. This logic was foreign to him, he was never concerned about getting to class on time, just as long as he showed up.

  But he had to get away from you.

  Had to get away from this feeling you were giving him, the feeling you gave him whenever you came around.

  Hyuntak only ever saw you with Hu-min’s girlfriend—your best friend—and that, too, was usually just on campus. You would show up to their group together, and then you would flip open a textbook or write in your agenda or type notes onto your laptop. It seemed like it didn’t matter where you were, you were always studying, always ready to put that pretty brain of yours to work.

  And that’s how it typically was. Hyuntak had never exchanged more than a few words with you because you were always studying, but he was slowly charmed by you. 

  He adored the scrunch of your eyebrows when you were stuck on a practice question, adored the tip of your tongue sticking through your pouting lips whenever you were writing something, adored the way your hair would fall over your shoulder whenever you leaned into your textbooks.

  He adored you, but he loathed the feeling you gave him.

  The tight chest, the heartbeat on a rampage, it was all so foreign to him. Hyuntak, who was usually so poised, so vigorous, and sometimes a little arrogant, was absolute mush in the palm of your hand.

  And you didn’t even know it.

  Hyuntak slid his chair back with a crisp screech, pushing himself up into a stiff stance while catching the looks of the acquaintances around him.

  “What’s wrong, Gotak? Where are you going?” Hu-min questioned, a reminiscent grin charming his features from what must be the aftermath of a joke Hyuntak was too zoned out to hear, his arm slung over the shoulders of his girlfriend and head hung back to look at Hyuntak’s face.

  “I have class.”

  It’s an abrupt response accompanied by Hyuntak’s darting eyes at Hu-min before he swiftly leans down and collects the strap of his backpack in a tight grasp.

  Hu-min reaches for his phone on the table, tapping the screen. “But you don’t have class for another…”

  “Fourteen minutes, I know,” Hyuntak brisky replies, straightening up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. His eyes remain downcast as he shuffles with rapid feet to the side of the table, his hand rushing to grab the back of his chair to push it in.

  “So why-”

  “I need to find the lecture hall,” Hyuntak spurts out, his eyes bulging at Hu-min against his own will. Hu-min’s eyebrow quirks into a raise, his eyes holding Hyuntak’s in a quiet stare.

  “Where is it?”

  This is not a voice Hyuntak was expecting to hear. This was the last voice Hyuntak needed to hear.

  Hyuntak’s billowing eyes find themselves striking at your figure standing at the other end of the table, your tote hung over your shoulder and textbook gripped within the embrace of your arms once again. When did you even get up? Did you always move so quietly?

  “Huh?” The dumb-witted sound clambers out of his throat. Did Hyuntak imagine that? He doesn’t think so, but he hopes so.

  “Uh, where is it?” Your voice is quieter when you repeat yourself, almost hesitant, “I was going to look for my lecture hall now, too. I thought, if yours is in the same building, we could walk there together.”

  Hyuntak stares at you blankly, eyes still bulging.

  Did Hyuntak imagine that?

  He had to have. There’s no way you’d pay him any mind, no way you’d want a guy like him around you, walking you to class, beside you and breathing the same air as he walked you to said class. What if your hands brushed on accident? You probably wouldn’t want that, you probably think he has sweaty hands, all calloused from the rough rubber of basketballs and the many years of taekwondo. You probably think his fingers are grimy and his hair is greasy and his teeth are yellow and his breath smells bad and his–

  “Or– we don’t have to.”

  Your voice is nimble, but it’s enough to stir Hyuntak out of his head. His eyes blink at the sudden impact of mental whiplash.

  “We’re probably in different buildings anyway–”

  “North building.”

  Hyuntak’s breath had entered his lungs but had not returned back out of him. He stood still watching you, waiting for your response, and if you weren’t fast enough, Hyuntak thought he might faint from lack of oxygen.

  You gaze at him, and then your plump lips tug into a small smile.

  “Me too.”

  ⊹₊⋆✩⋆₊⊹

  Hyuntak’s fists were moistened with perspiration, and the cool winter air made no difference to the toasting skin of his face. It definitely didn’t help that you were trotting beside him, your textbook cuddled in your cute arms, your soft hair wisping with each breath of wind.

  Hyuntak was determined to stare at anything but you. The trees lining the brick path, the students walking in all sorts of directions, the static dead leaves caught in the corner of a building. What a coincidence that all these things happened to be on the opposite side of him, the side that had no indication of your being.

  Your acknowledgement of this was unfortunate for Hyuntak, whether you realized it or not, so when he heard the sound of your mellow voice prick his ears, he couldn’t help the way his shoulders jumped and head snapped.

  “Do you not like me?”

  You said it with a chuckle, eyes kind but curious, squinting at him, assessing what his body was subconsciously trying to tell you.

  His shoulders had dropped but remained strained closer to his midline. His lips had pursed into a clueless pout, eyebrows drawn and stiff, conjuring a faint patch of creases between them. His wide eyes, however, glinted, in awe or fear you did not know. But, they glinted.

  And then, Hyuntak eased. Like water, his body flowed into his more natural posture. His fingers flexed in his sweatpant pockets and his eyebrows anchored down. His eyes, faintly glossed, blinked into a squint.

  He was an idiot.

  “No, I do like you– I mean, I don’t not like you, you’re cool. I just, yeah, I think you’re cool,” he blurts, “Why do you ask?”

  His face is blank as he eyes you. Your lips spread out marginally in amusement.

  “You’re always laughing around with Hu-min and the others before I show up. Then you get all quiet and distant,” you explained, “It gives me the feeling that you don’t want me around. I thought you just didn’t like me.”

  Oh, he was such an idiot.

  “I don’t like you?– No, what, why would you think that? That’s absurd.” Hyuntak almost doesn’t feel himself scowling. You watch him, amusement still soaking through your face. “You’re always studying, I’ve barely spoken to you. I barely even know you.”

  You gaze with a giggle.

  His scowl tightens. “Just– can you– gosh,” he huffs, “What room is your lecture in?”

  “One fifty.”

  Hyuntak’s scowl simmers. His eyebrows knit together.

  “That’s where my lecture is.”

  “Linear algebra?” You question.

  His features question you in return. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, we must be in the same class then.”

  Hyuntak feels sweat begin to coat the insides of his fists again. He never expected to see you in any of his classes. He had never seen you in any of them before. And linear algebra? What could you possibly need linear algebra for? You obviously weren’t in his program, so what’s with this?

  “Do you need to take it for your program?” 

  You shake your head. “It’s my elective.”

  Of course, you, with your angel face and luscious hair and pretty, big brain, were taking linear algebra as your elective.

  “Right, okay,” Hyuntak huffs.

  Of course you were.

  ⊹₊⋆✩⋆₊⊹

  It had become routine for you and Hyuntak to walk to your shared class together. Hyuntak, who was always five minutes late rather than early, found himself showing up to the lecture hall and waiting for the previous class to finish. And you? You were always right there, right by his side.

  As the semester progressed, so did your friendship with Hyuntak. It started with faint encounters—he would ask you simple questions about lecture material during lecture breaks. Soon, the two of you had started doing the assigned practice problems together in the campus library. At first, it was just after class. Then, Hyuntak decided he needed more of your help.

  Or perhaps, he just needed more of your time.

  Hyuntak was quite competent in mathematics. As quick as you were with solving problems, Hyuntak offered himself as fair competition. He definitely benefited from the wisdom you could bestow upon him, but he most definitely did not leech off of it. No, Hyuntak was quite competent. He just needed more you.

  Hyuntak’s nervous system gradually surrendered to him. He found, the more time he spent with you going over questions, he no longer felt a winding in his chest, no longer felt his breath retreat from its post. His hands remained as dry as the Sahara, and he wouldn’t want them any other way.

  Eventually, Hyuntak found himself asking you to cafes—wouldn’t it be nice to study with a warm drink? 

  You had obliged with no hesitation, leaving Hyuntak with a pleasant feeling fogging through his chest and vessels and bones.

  He took you to cafes littered across the city, all around the campus exterior. A French cafe, an Italian cafe, he’d even taken you to a cat cafe, one where you were both guaranteed to get the least amount of work done, falling victim to tufts of fur and fluff.

  When he learned of your love for reading, Hyuntak took you to a book cafe and watched, no, admired as you browsed through the shelves, grazing the spines of different books with your pretty fingers, eyes wide and marveling.

  The only mistake Hyuntak had made was taking you to a cafe that specialized in your favourite drink. He almost didn’t fathom the anguish that smacked him when you moaned in pleasure from your first sip.

  “Mmm.”

  He couldn’t move a nanometer. He couldn’t swallow the sip he had taken from his own drink. He could only listen to you, hear your ethereal sound reverberate within the walls of his head.

  “God, this is so good. Where did you find this place?”

  Hyuntak gapes at your plush lips, the gate to all the pretty sounds that could be elicited from the deepest parts of you. He can’t help but let his own lips tingle at the ghost of what yours might feel like against them, what they’d look like wrapped around his tip–

  “Hyuntak?”

  He thinks he can feel the hot blood that was rushing to his cock freeze in his vessels.

  He swallows. “Huh?”

  “I said, it tastes so good, where do you keep finding these places?”

  Your eyes look so innocent peering at him, so oblivious to the dirty picture Hyuntak had painted of you, of your lips, your sound…

  “Oh. I just, I guess I know my way around the city,” he muses, “I like to try new things, new places out.”

  “Well, keep trying out new places,” you say. Then, you take another sip, “Mmm, it’s so good, Hyuntak.”

  Yeah, taking you here was definitely a mistake.

  ⊹₊⋆✩⋆₊⊹

  The semester was nearing an end, and so came the final round of assignments.

  A wave of tension had ambushed the entire collegiate crowd. The library was full to the brim with students cramping over assignment materials and lecture content, the hallways of each building were full of chatter either discussing chapter solutions or champagne problems. No one had missed being swallowed by this sea of stress.

  You and Hyuntak had succumbed to it fully.

  “This question makes no sense,” Hyuntak muttered, slowly swaying himself in a chair in the empty classroom you’d both colonized, staring at the assignment question that lit up his laptop screen, chewing down on his lip and winding a pencil through his long fingers.

  You stood before him facing the black board, chalk painting your fingers as you scrutinized the scribbles you had flowered the board with, trying to make sense of the question at hand.

  “There was something similar to this in chapter thirteen, but it’s not quite the same...” you murmured.

  Hyuntak forces out a heavy huff. You shuffle to face him.

  “We can stop now, we’ve put in a good amount of work, and we’re making progress,” you suggested, watching his form swaying, basking atop the chair like he owned the entirety of the university.

  He was clad in a tight black t-shirt. You couldn’t help but wonder at his biceps, swoll from crossing his arms. His legs were spread, concealed in black sweats to match. His hair, tousled over his eyes from his veiny hand raking through his strands each time he felt a slap of tension gifted from the assignment question. And his eyes, god his devil eyes, they drank your figure in like red wine.

  He sighed, still eying you. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s stop here.”

  You nodded and turned to collect your things.

  There was a pause, and then, “Would you…”

  Your head swiveled to face Hyuntak again, your hand reaching into your tote with your pencil case. “Mhm?”

  Hyuntak had stopped swaying, his feet planted against the floor. His biceps, still crossed against his chest, swelled at you. His bottom lip rolled between his teeth.

  “Would you wanna come over to mine on Saturday?” His voice is timid, but it doesn’t waver, “We can finish working on the assignment. And, I can make us ramen.”

  Hyuntak blurted the last comment in hopes of further persuading you into his humble abode. Luckily for him, it seemed to have worked, and he almost clutched his chest as his heart fluttered to the ring of your giggle.

  “Sure, I’ll see you Saturday,” you smile, “Promise you’ll make it good?”

  Hyuntak grins and sticks out his pinky.

  ⊹₊⋆✩⋆₊⊹

  Saturday had circled around, and Hyuntak was circling around his coffee table, kneeling to, once again, fix the vanilla-scented candle—the one he had bought and lit just for you—before moving it back to its original place, when you knocked at his door.

  Hyuntak heaved himself up off his carpeted floor. His heart was steady, his lungs didn’t betray him, and his nose was happily lazing in the scent of warm ramen and vanilla, but he still found himself wiping his hands across the front of his sweatpants as he walked over to the door, his hands scrunching at the soft material before reaching for the knob.

  He pulled it open, revealing you on the other side, and he swears he feels his heart stop for a millisecond.

  You looked the way you always did, if anything, you were just a little more undone. Bare faced, your delicate hair combed back in a clip. You had worn a flimsy black t-shirt—gosh, no bra?—that fit snug along your torso, and a pair of sweatpants that hung low on your hips. Your tote was slung over your shoulder, and your linear algebra textbook was pressed between your forearms and trunk.

  You hoisted your textbook snug against your chest once you took in Hyuntak, his welcoming frame swallowed in one of his favourite blue hoodies.

  It takes a second for Hyuntak to find his words before he’s welcoming you into his apartment.

  “Hey, come in,” he started, “did you find the place okay?”

  You scrambled through the door, giving him a smile. “Yeah, it wasn’t too bad.”

  He’s closing the door behind you when you shimmy your feet out of your shoes. “That’s good–”

  “I think I figured it out!” You declared, traipsing over to his coffee table in a hurried skip.

  He watched you take out your supplies, organizing them across the surface of his coffee table, adoring your grace and need for order.

  He feels warm, his lips spread in a closed smile, and he thinks the ramen will just have to wait until you’ve had a chance to giddily fill him in on all your ideas.

  He carries himself over to the couch and plops down. You sat with your back turned to him, kneeling in front of the coffee table, laying out the notes you had written up since your last study session.

  You’re too far for him to hear all the solutions your incredible brain had come up with, so Hyuntak pats the spot next to him. You turn your head.

  “Get up here, let me hear your theories.”

  Your eyes gaze into his before traveling down to his hand on the couch. You nod.

  Collecting your things and joining him on the couch, you start handing him your notes, reciting the details of the solution you had been working towards. He nods along, listening to you ramble about how chapter thirteen had been conjoined to some topics in chapter fifteen, or at least that’s what he’s able to make out of it.

  Hyuntak can’t concentrate with your thigh brushing against his every time you move around to grab another sheet or book or pencil. He’s holding your notebook, reading your writing and little scribbles, but nothing's getting through to him. He can hear your voice—your angel voice—but he’s not comprehending the jumble of letters you're spitting out.

  He can hear your voice, and god he wants to comprehend you so bad, but his mind is racing, running away from his conscious morality, and taking him to a tavern that offers nothing but hot, liquid lust.

  Hyuntak feels searing blood surging through his body, feels it pool into the rod between his legs. His face is starting to heat up, and he’s afraid of leaving moist fingerprints on your pretty notes. His breath is starting to gallop, his chest raising just a bit higher and falling just a tad deeper. Hyuntak, who had grown to be so cool and calm around you, was now hot and desperate, and instead needed you around him.

  Your thigh feels so supple against his, feels so grippable. Hyuntak can’t help but wonder what both of them would feel like pressing into the sides of his face–

  “Hyuntak, are you listening?”

  You’re looking at him, your eyes kind, pitifully unaware of how Hyuntak had you spread out in his head.

  “Huh?” Hyuntak doesn’t think he can conjure any other sound, let alone move any muscle in his body. Your notebook rests in his lap, balancing against the wrath of a hardening cock you were faultlessly oblivious to.

  Your lips tug into a mellow frown. “I was telling you how we approached the matrix incorrectly in the beginning. Hold on, maybe I should just show you the textbook chapter I’m referring to.”

  You turn towards the coffee table and reach over for the textbook, bending just enough for the dainty lace of your white panties to peak over the band of your sweatpants.

  Hyuntak thinks he might cry.

  “Y/N…” It comes out as a soft mumble, just audible enough to get your attention, wisping out of his mouth and traveling through the now viscous, honey-like air.

  You swivel towards him, the textbook sitting in your lap. The lace of your panties shy back into hiding.

  “Mhm?”

  You’re gazing at him with those godforsaken prudent angel eyes. His feel so heavy, so full of heat and desire, and he’s staring at you with them, begging you to unravel the things you were doing to his body.

  He thinks you need a little help, so he lifts the notebook from his lap, unveiling his aching cock stretching into the tightening fabric of his sweats.

  He watches your eyes shift to the subtle action, watches the skin around them spread back, and—fuck, your pupils are dilating?

  His breathing has deepened, and his dark eyes droop into begging slits. He needs you so bad, has been needing you all these months, but he doesn’t just need your body.

  “These weren’t my intentions,” his voice is so low, so gentle, bordering on a whisper, “please believe me. I’ve liked you for– fuck, I don’t know, a millenia I think.”

  His eyes wash all over your face, searching for any indication of a reaction, perhaps even reciprocity. He follows your eyes traveling back up to meet his. 

  Your gaze is velvety, eyes heavy-lidded and chasmic. You’re staring at his lips, parting with each deep breath he takes.

  “Do you like me too?” Hyuntak’s heartbeat hurts. His heart rhythmically hammers against its thoracic confines.

  You nod. His heart cramps.

  He needs to hear you, has to savour his name rolling off your tongue in a sweet confession.

  One of his hands slowly reaches up to the clip imprisoning your hair, unclipping it and letting your hair brush down your neck.

  The clip falls from his hand and onto the space on the couch behind you. He snakes his hand past your hair, lets his fingers graze into a delicate hold on the back of your neck. He gently rubs. 

  “Words, baby.”

  You think you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

  “I like you, too, Hyuntak,” you murmur.

  Hyuntak exhales.

  “Please, can I kiss you?” It’s a muted whimper.

  You pry the textbook and sheets of notes off your lap, pushing them onto the couch beside you, before you lean into Hyuntak, answering him more viscerally than he had calculated.

  The hand on your neck is hooking you in, responding to your movement.

  The heavy lids of your eyes give up, closing to a shut.

  You definitely can’t breathe now, and there’s no point in trying because your lips are molding into the plush pinkness of Hyuntak’s.

  It’s such a desperate kiss, you're both moving into the plushness of the other. You think you can taste his hunger on his lips, and you think you might wail because he tastes starved.

  Hyuntak swats your notebook onto the couch beside him, fingers gripping into the supple flesh of your neck and slowly grazing down your back. His hand falls to your hip, squeezing it, his other hand clutching your opposite thigh to work you onto his lap.

  Your body yields to him. Lips still moving into one another, you let him guide your hips onto his.

  You break away, noses grazing, breaths deep. And then, you’re latching back onto each other.

  The seconds melt, stretching like honey between your mouths. It’s slow, then urgent, and everything in between. It’s you and Hyuntak pouring months of anticipation and desperation into each other. Your lips are swelling against the other, saliva mixed into a drowsy potion that you both keep lapping at.

  Hyuntak’s hands are gripping onto your hips, and you find yourself grinding your heat down into his hardness. He groans, his sound reverberating into you, and grips harder, pushing himself up into you. His body responds to you unconsciously.

  Your lips are melting into one another, your hips are joined right where you both needed each other, separated by what you both thought was too much fabric. The leisurely friction heats the slit between your legs. You feel the hard curve of his cock rubbing the moistening patch on your panties into your hole.

  Hyuntak’s hands are silking their way into your shirt, rubbing and gripping your bare waist, when he breaks away.

  He’s panting, his voice hoarse, nose chafing yours. “Bedroom?”

  “Please.”

  And then your lips drive back into each other.

  You’re wrapping your arms around his neck, his around your waist, when he pushes the two of you into a stand, staggering across his apartment to his bedroom with your body pressed against his. Your hands are feeding into his hair, tugging, luxuriating in the softness of his strands. You feel him moan against your lips.

  When you break away, it’s almost painful. You didn’t need to breathe anymore, you just needed his mouth on yours, lips working into yours, sucking your tongue against his. 

  He lowers you onto his bed, and you finally get to see what had become of him.

  His lips are swollen, red and covered in a blend of your spit, parted to let the string of quick, deep breaths flow out of him. His hair is fluffed, strands sticking out to where your hands had been, almost aching, reaching out for your touch again. Dark strands loll over his eyes, his heavy, heavy eyes that crawl over your body, licking, biting, sucking at your supple skin with his leaden gaze.

  You’re no different. Your pout has swelled, pink and wet. Your nipples pebble against the material of your shirt, breasts raising with each hallowing breath that flutters past your lips, weeping out for his hands to touch them. You’re leaning back on your hands, your legs spread into brackets fit just for Hyuntak’s frame.

  His hands reach back and grab onto his hoodie, pulling it over his head, letting it fall from his pulsing forearm and to the ground.

  His golden skin looks so warm to touch, and you think you might reach out to graze your fingers down the ridges of his tight torso, but Hyuntak is already moving.

  He’s leaning down into you, his arms caging your waist, warm hand brushing along your lower back. He’s catching your lips in an embrace, softly sucking onto your bottom lip, licking it and letting it swell in his mouth, then pulls away to look at you.

  His fingers rub the fabric of your t-shirt between their tips. “Can I take this off?”

  “Yes,” you breathe.

  There’s a warm glint in his eyes, and then he nods. His hands slide under your shirt, savouring the heat of your waist, before lifting it up and over your head.

  There’s an inviting coolness in Hyuntak’s room, and it hits your fiery skin, dousing over the upper half of your body, hardening your nipples even more.

  You peek up at Hyuntak.

  He’s already gazing at you, eyes soft, smooth like melted milk chocolate, slowly breathing through his nose. Your shirt falls from his hand, onto the blue pool of his hoodie.

  Hyuntak is taken by the sight of your half-naked body. He thinks he nearly salivates when his eyes fall over your pretty tits, the most beautiful pair he thinks he’ll ever see. Perfect, simply because they were yours. He can’t help but let his tongue scrape against the roof of his mouth, trying to mimic the way he wants to lave over your hardened nipples.

  There’s a genial quirk to his swollen lips. Your cheeks start to flush, heating from the warmth of his gaze, and you feel a wistful smile takeover your features.

  Hyuntak leans back down into you. A strong arm curves against your back, the pads of his fingers whisper with the soft hairs prickling across the back of your neck.

  He delicately pulls you down against his mattress, and you let him. His forearm rests near your head, keeping him above you as he kisses you again, slow and wet. 

  His bare torso is so warm against yours. He’s bent over the edge of his bed, grinding down into you again. Your thighs are grazing his flanks, heels pressing into the edge of his bed, hips grinding up to answer his, scavenging for more traction.

  Hyuntak’s arm is pressing your body into his, desperately trying to dissolve your beings together. The feeling of your tits rubbing against his chest makes him shiver with anticipation.

  His big hand skims down your back, circling lazily over your waist. It climbs higher up, inching closer to your breast, until his palm smoothes over your peak. 

  You sigh into his mouth, and Hyuntak is urged to give you more, whatever you need, so he can hear more of your ethereal sounds.

  He gathers as much of you as he can into the cup of his hand, pressing into your pretty tit, and gives it a soft squeeze. You moan into him, and he bucks his hips harder into you.

  His thumb murmurs slowly over your nipple, rubbing a languid circle around it, rousing a whine from the back of your throat.

  Hyuntak groans, pulling away from your lips with a pop, and plants an urgent kiss to the corner of your mouth. He kisses down your jaw, mouth open and hot, onto your neck, gently sucking at your skin. 

  You’re too swept in the feeling of his hot lips loitering down your complexion to realize Hyuntak has a destination in mind. 

  His tongue flattens over your pebbled nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

  “Mmmm.”

  Hyuntak sucks harder, swirling his tongue over the tip of your peak. His hand is pushing more of your breast into his mouth. 

  Your lips vibrate with moans. Your slick is pooling into your panties, splurging within your pussy lips with each grind Hyuntak offers. Your toes curl into the comforter because of how desperately you're pushing your hips into his. One of your hands is clutching at his hard shoulder, the other basking through his hair.

  You needed more, god you needed so much more.

  You're pulling Hyuntak’s head off your chest, your fingers gripping into his hair. His lips suck off your nipple, leaving it with a sheen of his saliva, a thin sliver of spit being the only thing connecting him to your breast.

  He pops off with a moan, eyes shut tight at the feeling of your tugging at him. He opens them, lids shadowing his sight with desire. 

  Your eyes are pleading, soaking him in. “Need more, Hyune.”

  Hyuntak feels your order shoot straight to his throbbing dick, then nods.

  And his lips are back on your skin, soft as sin.

  “I’ll give it to you, baby, gonna give it to you so good,” he murmurs against you, moving down your body.

  His fingers hook into the band of your sweats. “M’gonna make you feel so good.”

  You’re up, leaning back against your forearms. You lift your hips to let him tug your sweats off your legs.

  He draws them off, kneeling in between your legs on the edge of the bed. His hands skim over your legs, fingers trailing absentmindedly over the expanse of your skin.

  You’re an angel beneath him, almost bare on his sheets if not for your white panties, the cute little bow that decorates the waistband inviting Hyuntak to unwrap you. His eyes dance over you, over the wet patch that renders the fabric just under your hole translucent. 

  Fuck, you were a wet dream, the most beautiful, cinematic wet dream rejuvenated into reality, spread out just for him, soaking just for him. Hyuntak takes in your angel form, and he is weak. 

  You were lying there all pretty, on his bed, and Hyuntak can’t help but think the months of prowling with the torturous feeling your presence gave him was irrefutably worth it.

  Hyuntak clasps a hand over one of your ankles, lifting it up to rest on his shoulder, fingers lightly grazing up and down. He grapples with the whimper that threatens to spill out of him.

  “Look so pretty, so perfect for me.” He licks his lips. “Been such a smart girl, hm? Need to reward you.”

  Hyuntak wants to stand there, idolizing you with parted lips, watching your tits expand with each of your breaths, eyes droop with need, hips twitch with hopelessness. But he has to give you what you need, has to make you feel good.

  He itches to make you feel good. He has to, after all, you’d been working so hard this semester.

  So, he slowly drops to his knees in front of you and pulls your thighs onto his shoulders.

  He can smell your heady wetness through your panties, now lucid from your deprivation. He breathes out against you.

  His air cools the patch of slick. It’s a potent sensation that has your back curving off the sheets.

  “Take them off, please,” it leaves your lips concealed in a whine.

  Hyuntak brushes the tip of his nose against your aching bud, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the soaked patch.

  You’re cunt flutters, trying to clamp down on emptiness. You whimper.

  Hyuntak slings his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, dragging them through your legs before they finally clear your feet.

  He’s gripping your thighs down into his shoulders, drinking in the sight of you, bare and spread for him. 

  “Such a pretty cunt… my smart, beautiful girl,” he mumbles, eyes drowning in the sight of your glistening pussy, watching your stickiness pool out of you. He wants to savour you, wants to drag his tongue through you with selfishness and greed until he knows his taste buds will be coated with you for days. He wants to take his time, but you had been so good, so smart, working so hard, and you needed him so badly. The last thing Hyuntak wanted to do was deny you for his own pleasure.

  He decides he’ll hold you down and savour you another time, before he crashes into you.

  Hyuntak licks a thick strip from your hole to your clit. It’s such a delicious feeling, there’s a moan breaking through your voice box, and your hips are delinquently rolling themselves into his tongue.

  He sucks your clit into his mouth, licking once across its surface, and letting it go. His tongue squishes through your folds, driving back to dig the tip into your hole, and doing it all over again like a broken record.

  The sounds are filthy, wet with lust. You can hear Hyuntak sucking on your clit, hear his tongue squelch and squish through your slick. Moans and whimpers are clambering out of you, whether you want them to or not.

  He’s sucking your bud when you feel the tip of his middle finger flit around the outskirts of your cunt. He can feel your walls clench, trying to suck him in, and he smirks against you at your need.

  But he can’t hold back on you, so he lets it sink in, lets you coat his finger with your wetness, lets you squeeze around him, before he pulls it back out and glides it back in with his ring finger.

  The stimulation is just right. It feels so good with his fingers slowly pumping into you, his mouth sucking and licking your aching nub. You fall back against the sheets, shutting your eyes and dragging the tips of your toes over Hyuntak’s back. Your hand trails down your front, finding his tousled locks, and you twine your fingers into them.

  Hyuntak groans against you, stimulating your clit further. He curls his fingers, digging them deeper into your cunt. He slightly flexes them out when you clench around him, resisting your confines and giving you a larger stretch.

  You’re breathing faster, deeper, just as Hyuntak’s fingers are working into you. You feel heat spread through your face, down into your chest and through your limbs. Your hips roll with the wave of Hyuntak’s hands. There’s a coiling at your core that has you moaning for more.

  Hyuntak feels you rolling your hips harder against him, feels your thighs starting to squeeze the sides of his face, feels you tugging harder at his hair, and he knows he’s drawing you closer to a release. So he plants his fingers in deep and curls them against the spot that has you gushing, whimpering his name over and over, until finally, you twitch, your cunt clenches, fluttering open and shut, and you're a whining mess above him.

  Hyuntak lets his fingers rest in your contracting cunt when he pulls away from your clit. He brings his thumb to gently rub against it, helping you come down from your release.

  Hyuntak is wrecked. His lips are parted, coated with your slick that dribbles down his chin. His hair is messed from your hold, spiking out and flatted against his forehead. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, draining in how undone you are. 

  Your sweet, swollen lips are parted, deep pants escaping through them and making your breasts heave with each breath. You let go of his hair, dragging your hand up to grip onto the sheets near your head.

  He watches you, and soon becomes aware of his hips bucking against the side of his bed, trying to catch a release of his own.

  He’s so hard it hurts, so wet he’s soaked a small patch of his own through his boxers and into the material of his sweats.

  Hyuntak doesn’t think his body has ever been so desperate for someone. He’s desperate for you, the girl who’s been unintentionally tampering with his breathing, setting his heart ablaze with white fire, making his palms sweat up a sixth ocean for the past few months.

  And now, Hyuntak thinks he finally has you desperate for him, right where he wants you, leaking onto his sheets and moaning his name.

  Hyuntak was the most fortunate idiot in the world.

  “Did so good, baby, you look so pretty right now,” he sighs, licking at the taste of you on his lips. You peek open your eyes and take him in.

  He slowly pulls his fingers out of you with a squelch, leaving you empty and squeezing onto nothing.

  “Wanna taste?” 

  You nod. “Mhm.”

  He brings his fingers to your lips, coats them with your wetness. They part just enough for him to slide them in. You drag your tongue around them, sucking them further into your mouth, and Hyuntak strains to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his head. He thinks he might cum from watching you, feeling you, so he pulls his fingers back, enduring your suction. 

  They latch off with a pop.

  “Want you inside, Hyune. Fuck me, please,” you’re mumbling.

  Hyuntak was going to combust. Your words grip onto his paining dick, and he’s bounding onto his feet.

  His thumbs slide under the waistband of his boxers, and he pushes them down with his sweats. His cock is springing out, bobbing against his lower stomach, veins pulsing out of his skin. His tip is sticky, glossed over with his precum.

  “I have some condoms, Hu-min gave them to me,” he clarifies with a mutter, hoping you don’t get the idea that he's been anticipating sexual encounters, “I’ll grab one–”

  “No,” you murmur, “Want you bare.”

  Gosh, were you trying to kill him?

  He gapes at you. “Are you– are you sure?”

  You lazily nod, heaving, back still arched. “I cleared my test, and I’m on birth control.”

  He takes a second to process what you said, process the fact that you wanted him bare inside you, then slowly nods, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. “Okay… okay, I tested negative, too.”

  He mounts himself onto the bed, kneeling before you, fingers rubbing over your knees. You’re slowly breathing, looking up at him with your fucked out eyes.

  “You’re sure, baby?”

  “Yes.”

  And then Hyuntak is caging himself over you, sliding his hand up your thigh and hooking it over his hip.

  “Wrap your legs around me, pretty girl.” You obey him.

  He hoists you closer to his abdomen and shifts you up until your head digs into his pillows. He lowers himself onto his forearms, his fingers looping into your hair, the soft strands that stray over the pillows.

  Your gaze is drowsy, reaching out into his eyes and drawing him in. Hyuntak is reeling his head lower, giving into your spell. His lips feather over your own until he’s pressing them down into a kiss far too innocent for your current arrangement.

  Your legs, wrapped snug over Hyuntak’s hips, drag him down until the length of his cock rubs into your wettening folds and he’s whining into your mouth.

  He pulls back his head. God, he needs to be in you so bad.

  He snakes a hand down to line himself against your hole, rubbing his tip against you, making you writhe your hips for more.

  “Please, Hyuntak,” you whimper, and that’s enough to do him over.

  Hyuntak sinks into you, and you moan in tandem.

  Your walls are so hot, so inviting, hugging around him like you never want him to leave. He’s pushing himself in, feeling each of his inches get sucked in by your confines.

  He looks into your half-open eyes. “Okay?”

  “Mmm, Hyune, feels so good, so full.”

  He breathes out a moan, dropping his head into your shoulder. Your reassurance drives all the scorching blood in his body to the only part of him that’s buried in you.

  Hyuntak slowly pulls himself back out, dragging his veiny rod against your pulsing walls, before he’s sinking himself back into you, filling you full.

  He flattens his hand against your back, curving you into his chest, feeling your tits press into him. Then, he’s grabbing onto your hip so he can really start pounding into you.

  The squelch of your pussy around his pumping cock fills the room, your little gasps and broken whimpers serenade the fibres in his ears. His open mouth rests against the base of your neck, wreaked moans sinking into your warm skin. Your hands are in his already unkempt hair, nails digging into his neck and scraping over his upper back. 

  He’s fucking into you slow, deliberate, letting you feel all his passion, trying to get you to acknowledge the hard times you had given him, or rather, all the times you had gotten him hard. He wasn’t greedy before, but now? Hyuntak believes he has all the right to take you exactly how he wants.

  Make you feel the stretch of his cock in your gushing cunt.

  Make you whimper and whine over the loving manner with which he pumps himself into you.

  He snaps his hips, squeezes onto yours, and grinds his dick deeper into you. His tip grazes your g-spot, and you clench around him, trying to keep him in, trying to make him stay there and rutt into your spot over and over until you’re coming for him all over again. You squeeze your legs around him, attempting to bury him further into you.

  But Hyuntak pulls himself out with a groan, pushing against the hold of your cunt and legs. He bucks himself deep inside you again and pulls out with a fastened pace.

  He’s so hard, so deep, but he’s still so gentle, so raw. His fingers are wreathing through your hair, the pad of his thumb is circling over your hip bone, and he’s mumbling against the supple skin of your neck.

  “Taking me so well, baby, fuck.”

  “Feel that? Feel how hard you made me? It’s all for you, just for you.”

  “Been getting me so hot and hard for months. Gonna fuck it all into you now, m’gonna make you take it.”

  You’re whining at his words, rolling your hips to match his pace.

  The hand on your hip is smoothing over your lower stomach, his palm pressing into it when he pounds into your g-spot again. You’re whimpering at the friction of his tip against your sweet spot, gripping whatever part of him you can get your hands on. Then, he’s sliding his hand down, his fingers pushing your swollen clit out from under its hood, and rubbing down into it.

  The pressure is enough to make you twitch, chasing your second release. Hyuntak is still rutting himself into you when you feel the coil burst in the depths of your abdomen, you cunt finally giving in and clenching down on his cock again and again and again.

  “God, Hyune– nngh.”

  Hyuntak’s hot, heavy eyes are pouring into yours when you come undone for him again. He basks in the moans trailing out of your parted mouth, and when he hears you repeating his name, masked in lewd whines, he feels a coiling of his own brewing deep within him.

  His abs tighten, arms bulge, hands gripping into your hair. His mouth falls open with groans, and he whimpers your name when the tense string finally tightens and snaps. His hips are worn, bucking into you hopelessly, wretchedly, and his deviled cock is draining your spent pussy walls with his hot seed.

  He’s spurting into you, and you're clenching onto him, wrapping your tight walls around him and sucking up each drop he has to offer you.

  He fucks his cum deep into you with one more thrust before his hips slow to a stop inside you. He’s still lazily rubbing over your clit, halting with a chuckle when he feels you squirm from overstimulation.

  You're both panting, noses rubbing softly, and Hyuntak wants to stay like this forever, with his cock stuffing you and your cunt full of his searing cum. But he knows he can’t, and he can feel himself softening, so he delicately starts to pull himself out of you. 

  You let out a low mewl in protest, and Hyuntak answers you with a mellow whine of his own.

  He twists himself to lay on his side next to you. His eyes wash over you, over your hair sprawled in a sea around your head on his pillows, your plush, still swelling pink lips, your eyes, now soft and kind, squinting at him when you smile up at him.

  Hyuntak melts, and knows he’s never seen anything more beautiful. He wants to wrap you up in blankets and kiss you all over your glowing face, but he thinks you’d benefit more from something edible.

  So, he smiles back at you and says, “I made ramen, I promised you, didn’t I?”

  You giggle, your hands reaching for his neck and pulling him down to your lips.

  “Maybe after one more round?” you suggest, mumbling against him, eying him with a playful twinkle.

  Hyuntak thinks he feels his blood mockingly rush back into his cock, and he’s a goner.

  The ramen will just have to wait. Again.