christopherisfoive

[christopherisfoive]

Hiiii I love your works. You're such an amazing writer 🫶💕🌷 can i please request prompt 4,7,15 with minho

listen. y’all say enemies to lovers and sharing a bed in the same sentence and suddenly minho’s all over here. i had no choice but to give him wings and a grudge. thank you for the request 💫🖤

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[christopherisfoive]

Tethered by Moonlight

AU: Faerie Realm Rivalry | Prompts: 4. Jealousy that turns into something more 7. “You can’t flirt your way out of this one.” 15. Sharing a bed for the first time

Faerie!minho x Faerie!reader

a/n: I am trying my best here

The path between the Light and Shadow realms shimmered beneath your boots, lined with silver blossoms that pulsed with moonlight. You hated every step. Mostly because he was walking beside you.

Minho, prince of the Shadow Court, moved like the shadows themselves—quiet, smug, and always a step ahead. He’d barely spoken a word since the Queen of Light sent you off on this cursed diplomatic mission together, but the silence wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Alive with the tension between your courts… and something else.

“You know,” he said finally, brushing a hand along a glowing branch, “I’m surprised you didn’t beg your court for a different partner.”

“I did,” you muttered. “They sent me anyway.”

He smirked. “So we’re both suffering.”

You shot him a glare. “Speak for yourself. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Oh? Like who?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

But later, when a fae from your court appeared at the market you passed through—a healer you’d once trained with—and greeted you with an excited hug, you felt the shift. Minho was stiff. Eyes dark, jaw tight. He didn’t say a word as you laughed softly, reminiscing, but his energy buzzed cold behind you.

When you rejoined him, his voice was low. “Friend of yours?”

“An old one,” you said, frowning. “Why?”

“No reason.”

He didn’t look at you for the rest of the evening.

You were both invited—forced, really—to attend the Moonlight Gathering, a diplomatic celebration hosted by a neutral realm. Fae from all courts mingled beneath canopies of glowing flora, enchanted music floating in the air. The space shimmered with glamours and illusions, but none could hide how your blood simmered when Minho brushed past you, dressed in his ceremonial blacks, lined with stardust thread.

“Try not to start a war,” he said, voice low beside your ear. “Not tonight.”

You turned slowly, offering a smile laced with sugar and venom. “Only if you behave.”

His smirk flickered. “Define ‘behave.’”

The night dragged on in a haze of tense diplomacy. You watched him from across the gathering as he charmed a high-ranking dryad, laughing low, eyes sparkling. Your grip tightened on your goblet, the shimmering wine sloshing gently against the rim.

Felix, another emissary from the Light Court, leaned toward you. “You’re staring.”

“I’m observing,” you said, sharper than you intended.

“Mhm.” He gave you a knowing look. “You always observe him like that?”

You didn’t answer.

Later, Minho approached you again, this time cornering you beneath a canopy of hanging crystal vines. His tone was unreadable. “You disappeared.”

“You were busy,” you replied coolly.

He tilted his head. “Jealous?”

You stepped forward, breath catching as your shoulders nearly touched. “You wish. Not everyone is hypnotized by your charm.”

A pause.

Then: “You can’t flirt your way out of this one.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be,” he said, eyes scanning your face.

“And you’re not as smug as you act,” you shot back.

The vines glimmered around you, responding to the energy between your bodies—something faerie magic never let lie.

For a moment, you were sure he might kiss you.

He didn’t.

Instead, he turned and walked away—again.

And you hated the part of you that wished he hadn’t.

The mission had been simple in theory: retrieve the stolen relic from the rogue sprites before it crossed into the Shadowlands. But nothing in the Faerie Realm ever stayed simple. The sprite den was rigged with illusions, and the moment your boot hit the mossy floor, the traps began to spiral.

Now, with your back against a tree pulsing with hex energy and your magic depleted, you were surrounded by three snarling sprites—until Minho dropped in, blades flashing silver in the moonlight.

He moved fast—too fast—with lethal precision that never ceased to irritate you.

“Behind you!” you called, voice sharp.

“I see it,” he growled, barely ducking in time to avoid a jagged obsidian spear.

Together, you fought. Not in sync, but not apart either. That was the problem—always close, always clashing, never quite on the same side.

When the last sprite dropped and the air finally stilled, you whirled on him.

“You almost got us both killed.”

“I saved your life.”

“You took too long.”

Minho stepped closer, still breathing hard. “Maybe if you hadn’t gone in blind, I wouldn’t have had to clean up your mess.”

Your jaw clenched. “You always do this—act like you’re the only one who can fix things.”

“Because I usually am!” His voice cracked out, sharp as flint. “You’re reckless.”

“You’re arrogant.”

A beat passed.

The forest hummed with your fury, the energy between you taut and alive. His chest was rising fast. Yours, too.

“I had it handled,” you said finally, voice tight.

“You almost died.”

“So what?” you snapped. “Would that make your life easier?”

He stared at you then—really stared. Not with his usual smirk, not with ice. Just… something hollow. Something quiet.

“Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Your mouth opened—but no words came. Because the silence after that felt heavier than the fight.

And then he turned away.

Again.

But this time, it hurt more than you were ready to admit.

The walk back through the forest was soaked in silence.

Even the wind held its breath.

Minho walked ahead, just enough distance to make a point, not enough to truly leave you behind. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand stayed close to the hilt of his blade, even though the danger had passed.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Twilight slipped in between the trees, painting everything in ghostly blue. By the time you reached the abandoned watchpost — a moss-covered outpost from some forgotten war — night was swallowing the realm whole.

You dropped your pack at the threshold of the crumbling stone hut. Minho followed, wordless, his expression unreadable.

Inside, the space was barely big enough for two. Dust clung to the air, broken only by the soft hiss of the fire he wordlessly lit. You sat on opposite sides, legs drawn in, not meeting each other’s gaze.

Still, the tension coiled in the quiet.

You stole a glance at him. A faint bruise darkened his jaw. A scratch traced along his collarbone, barely hidden beneath the loose fold of his tunic.

“You didn’t heal that,” you said quietly, breaking the silence without knowing why.

He didn’t look at you. “Didn’t have time.”

You reached into your satchel and pulled out the small vial of salve. Tossed it toward him. He caught it, barely.

“You could’ve died,” you said.

“So could you.”

The fire crackled between you like a living thing.

“You didn’t have to come back for me.”

He finally looked up.

“I did.”

Your breath caught. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have sounded like it did.

You stood and moved to the far corner, laying out your blanket without a word. He stayed by the fire, unmoving.

Minutes passed.

Then—

“…Don’t go. Not yet.”

His voice was low. Strained. Like it cost him something to say.

You paused, fingers stilling against the worn fabric beneath you.

“…Why?” you asked.

He didn’t answer at first. Then—

“I don’t want to fight like that again,” Minho said, gaze fixed on the fire. “I don’t want you thinking I don’t care if you live or die.”

You swallowed hard. “Then stop acting like you don’t.”

His eyes finally met yours — dark, shadowed, but honest.

“Y/N…” he began, voice soft and cracking.

You looked away. Not ready. Not yet.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was waiting.

The fire was down to embers.

You laid stiff as stone on the scratchy blanket, curled against the farthest wall of the hut, listening to the wind scrape against the stones outside. The cold had sunk into your bones, but you would sooner bite your tongue than admit it out loud.

Especially with him sitting on the opposite side, arms crossed, jaw tight, still clearly stewing from the earlier argument.

You didn’t know what annoyed you more—how childish he was, or how your chest still twisted at the thought of him freezing alone by the door.

When he finally moved, it was with a quiet rustle, the creak of old floorboards underfoot. You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

You could feel him.

“You're shivering,” he muttered.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You snapped your eyes open. “What are you doing?”

Minho stood near your side of the hut now, blanket in hand, expression unreadable. The golden light from the embers cast sharp angles on his face, turning his usual apathy into something harder.

“I’m not letting you freeze because you’re too stubborn to say you’re cold.”

You sat up, defensive. “And I’m not sharing a blanket with someone who can't stand me five hours out of the day.”

He raised a brow. “I don’t recall you being any warmer.”

You glared, but when another gust of wind slithered through the cracks in the wall, your resolve cracked just enough. You tugged the blanket around your shoulders tighter, biting your tongue.

He didn’t ask again.

He just lay down beside you—slowly, carefully—his back to yours at first. A wide enough gap for plausible deniability.

But your bodies were still heat-starved. And the cold didn’t care about pride.

Eventually, you shifted. He did too. The space between you shrank until your backs were brushing, your spines lined up too neatly, like the tension had found a way to press itself into your bones.

“You know,” you whispered bitterly, “you make me want to scream.”

“Likewise,” he said softly.

Silence. Then—

“But if I have to choose between being cold or being near you…” His voice dropped. “I’ll take this. Even if it kills me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because your throat was tight, and your heart was thudding traitorously loud. You stared into the darkness, eyes wide, body wound tight and still aching for warmth.

Then, barely a whisper:

The faint gray of early morning crept in through the wooden slats of the hut, casting pale streaks across the dirt floor. You hadn’t slept much. Not really. Not with the uneven rhythm of Minho’s breathing brushing against your back and the quiet hum of unsaid things crackling louder than the fire ever had.

When he shifted beside you, you instinctively held your breath. The warmth between you thinned as he moved, his body pulling away from yours with practiced silence.

He was already sitting up, lacing his boots. You caught the way his shoulders tensed when you finally spoke.

“Don’t go. Not yet.”

His hands paused mid-knot.

You hated how small your voice had come out. But it was honest—too honest. And now it just hung there, delicate and vulnerable, like a secret you couldn’t stuff back into your chest.

Minho didn’t turn around immediately. The quiet stretched between you like a second blanket—heavy, suffocating, loaded with meaning.

“Y/N,” he said slowly, voice rough from sleep and something else. “If I stay… I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep pretending.”

That stung.

You sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “Pretending what?”

He finally turned, eyes meeting yours across the narrow gap. “That I don’t care.”

You sucked in a breath.

The tension from last night still clung to the room—but it had shifted. No longer sharp and biting. Now it pulsed—heavy, aching, laced with want and resentment all tangled together.

Minho’s gaze dropped to your blanket-wrapped knees. “You hate me, remember?”

“Do I?”

That made him look at you again—really look.

His voice was soft now. Careful. “You tell me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Maybe you didn’t know. Or maybe you did, and it scared the hell out of you.

But you said, “You’re still sitting here.”

He smiled. Barely.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I am.”

And for just a moment—before either of you could think better of it—he leaned in. His forehead touched yours, barely there, breath warm between you.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

Just a choice.

A promise hanging in the quiet.

[christopherisfoive]

Every day is another day is another day

[christopherisfoive]

hii i was wondering if i could req 14&18 with changbin pls!

hiii thank you so much for the request!! 🥹💕 I had a lot of fun writing this one — producer!Y/N and idol!Changbin ended up being a little messier (and softer) than I expected, but I hope you enjoy the slow burn tension and that eventual shift

Read HERE !!

[christopherisfoive]

LEVELS

Pairing: Changbin x Producer!Reader Prompts: 14. Enemies to lovers tension , 18. “Don’t go. Not yet.” Setting: Studio, late-night session (REQUEST)

The beat had been looping for ten minutes.

You leaned back in the creaky desk chair, fingers tapping impatiently on your phone, trying not to sigh out loud. Across the studio, Changbin stood with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like the fate of his entire career rested on this one snare hit.

"You changed it," he said finally, not looking at you.

You didn’t flinch. “Yeah. The old one buried your vocals.”

"I liked the old one."

You turned to him slowly, meeting his eyes. “You like a lot of things that don't work in the final mix.”

Behind Changbin, Chan and Jisung froze. Chan was mid-sip of his energy drink. Jisung paused with a chip halfway to his mouth. Slowly, they turned to glance at each other—wide-eyed, silently communicating the shared pain of being stuck in the room during this again.

Changbin scoffed. “Right. Because you always know better.”

Your fingers tightened around the mouse. “You asked for feedback. Don’t whine when it’s not what you want to hear.”

From the couch, Jisung audibly inhaled like he was bracing for impact. “Uh… should I go warm up the other studio?”

Chan gave him a sharp look and whispered, “Don’t move. She’ll hear you.”

“I heard that,” you muttered, clicking back into the project.

Changbin stepped closer, ignoring the others. “I’m not whining. I’m disagreeing.”

Your chair creaked as you turned to him. “Then disagree. But don’t waste my time.”

He opened his mouth to fire back—but didn’t. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the screen behind you, watching the waveform quietly. His jaw ticked. You could practically feel the tension vibrating through the small room.

Chan shifted awkwardly. “…You guys want us to, uh, go get dinner or something?”

“No,” Changbin said at the same time you muttered, “Maybe.”

The quiet that followed was thick and awkward, broken only by the low looping beat and Jisung’s slow, cautious chip crunch.

Finally, Changbin mumbled, “I’m not trying to fight. Just… want it to sound right.”

You softened, slightly. “So do I.”

The tension didn’t dissolve—but it curled, subtle and strange. You felt his eyes on you even after he stepped back, like the last word hadn’t really been said yet.

Chan and Jisung gave each other another look—somewhere between “they’re hopeless” and “they’re definitely in love”—but wisely chose to say nothing.

Not yet, anyway.

The fluorescent lights in Studio B buzzed faintly as you sorted through vocal layers alone, trying to decompress from the earlier chaos. You didn’t expect anyone to follow you—definitely not him. But the door opened anyway, and in walked Changbin.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flickering around the room like he was still arguing with you in his head.

You didn’t look up. “What?”

“I didn’t like how that ended.”

You tapped the spacebar a little too hard, stopping the track. “What, us fighting in front of your members? Yeah, not my favorite either.”

He scoffed. “I wasn’t the only one with an attitude.”

Now you looked at him. Really looked. His brows were furrowed, mouth set, but something behind his eyes looked…off. Like he wasn’t here to pick another fight, but didn’t know how to do anything else.

“Well, I guess that’s what happens when someone acts like they know everything about production because they’ve been in a booth a few times,” you said, voice clipped.

“That’s not fair,” he snapped. “I’ve been working on my own music longer than you’ve been at this company.”

“And yet,” you muttered, turning back to your screen, “you’re still in my studio.”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud—but it was full. Heavy with things neither of you would say out loud. Not yet.

He moved behind you then, not close, but enough that you could feel the weight of his presence. Close enough that the silence shifted into something else entirely.

“You’re good at what you do,” he said, voice lower. “I just hate when you act like you’re the only one who cares.”

You didn’t reply at first. You couldn’t.

Because the thing was—you did care. A lot. And so did he.

You just showed it by keeping everything tight. Professional. Controlled. While he pushed back, challenged you, pressed into every soft spot like he was trying to find the line you wouldn’t cross.

And maybe this was it. Or maybe not yet.

“I’m going home,” you said eventually, standing.

But before you could grab your bag, his voice cut in, sharp.

“Running off again?”

You met his eyes. “I’m not running. I just know when to leave before something gets said that can’t be taken back.”

This time, he didn’t stop you.

But he didn’t leave either.

“Let’s try that one more time, Jeongin-ah. You were a little ahead of the beat, but the tone was great.”

Your voice was softer now, warm and patient, the exact opposite of the sharpness it carried yesterday.

Jeongin, standing in the booth with his headphones around his neck, grinned sheepishly. “My bad, noona. I’ll get it this time.”

Changbin was across the room, leaned back on the couch, jaw tight.

He hadn’t meant to show up today, but Chan had asked all of 3RACHA to sit in on vocal comp sessions to help shape the new track. He didn’t expect you to be here, running the session.

He also didn’t expect to feel like this—on edge, watching you be kind. Just not to him.

Hyunjin stepped in next and you lit up a little, laughing quietly as he teased you about coffee orders and pitch correction. Felix arrived mid-session, bringing iced Americanos for everyone and getting a shoulder pat from you in thanks.

It was the same smile. The same voice. But something about it twisted inside him.

He hadn’t seen you smile like that at him in weeks.

Or maybe you never had.

“You want to add anything here?” Chan asked, nudging Changbin with his shoulder.

He snapped out of it. “What?”

Chan gave him a look. “You’ve been zoning out since Jeongin started. You alright?”

“Fine,” Changbin muttered. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t even glance over.

He hated that he noticed. Hated that it mattered.

Because the moment he raised his voice to you, everything changed—and now, you were polite. Civil. Friendly, even.

To everyone but him.

The session wrapped smoothly, and you gave each member clear notes and encouraging feedback, lingering in the booth with Felix a bit longer while he asked about his vocal placement.

Changbin stayed seated. Didn’t move. Just watched.

And when you finally turned off the mic and began packing up your laptop, your eyes met his for the briefest second.

Cool. Flat. Professional.

Then they moved on, like he wasn’t even there.

Studio A – Two Days Later

The door creaked open as you adjusted the mic stand, glancing up just as Seungmin walked in.

“Hey,” you said, giving him a small nod. “We’ll warm up with the second verse—don’t overthink the run at the end, it sounded clean last take.”

“Got it,” Seungmin replied, setting his water down and slipping on the headphones. He was always easy to work with—calm, focused, sharp. There was a quiet rhythm to your sessions together that didn’t need much fuss.

You clicked the track into play and leaned back in your chair, jotting down timestamps.

From the corner of the room, Changbin’s voice cut through. “He was flat on ‘breathe.’ Let’s take it again.”

You paused the track, head tilting. “I was going to do another take anyway.”

“But he’s flat,” Changbin said again, arms crossed, irritation already simmering behind his words.

Seungmin glanced between the two of you, lips pressed together like he knew where this was headed.

“He’s barely flat,” you countered, voice cool. “A little vocal warmth in that line sounds better than forcing it clean.”

Changbin’s laugh was dry. “Since when do we settle for barely?”

You blinked at him. “Since it fits the tone. Since it’s a creative choice. Since—”

“You’re ignoring technical flaws.”

“And you’re micromanaging.”

Silence settled over the room. Seungmin slowly slipped the headphones off, sensing it wasn’t his place to mediate.

Chan and Jisung were off in another studio today, and there was no one here to stop this one from unraveling.

“I’m just trying to make the song better,” Changbin muttered.

Your hands curled into fists, but your voice stayed even. “No, you’re trying to win something that doesn’t exist.”

He stiffened. You could see it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes flicked away like he didn’t want you to see what that line landed.

But you did. You saw it all.

You turned back to the board. “Seungmin, take five.”

He nodded quietly and stepped out.

The door shut behind him, and the silence that followed wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was personal.

“You never fight like this with anyone else,” Changbin said finally, voice low.

You didn’t turn. “Maybe because no one else turns every session into a battle.”

He stepped closer, tension radiating off him. “Or maybe you save the worst of you for me.”

You slowly turned your chair toward him, eyes narrowing. “You really want to go there right now?”

He looked at you, mouth opening like he had something else to say—but nothing came out. Just that same storm behind his eyes, one you weren’t sure either of you had the words to weather.

The studio was behind you, but his voice was still in your head.

You sat on the floor of your apartment, the light from your laptop casting pale shadows on the wall as your unfinished notes for the track blinked up at you. You hadn’t touched them since getting home.

Every little thing about today kept looping. The way Changbin looked at you like you were the one sabotaging things. Like he couldn’t separate you from the producer role. Like he didn’t want to.

You dropped your head into your hands, exhaling sharply.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Working with Stray Kids had been one of the most creatively fulfilling experiences of your career. But lately, it felt like every session with him chipped away at your confidence—at your patience. It wasn’t just professional disagreement anymore. It was personal. He made it personal.

A soft ping pulled you from your thoughts. A message from Chan.

hey, everything okay? you left kinda fast.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys.

Then, another ping.

we want you here. the rest of us do. i do too. just… talk to me if you’re thinking of walking.

You didn’t respond. Not yet. You weren’t even sure what to say.

Because part of you was thinking about walking. Not because you wanted to quit, but because staying meant seeing him again. Fighting him again. And somewhere along the way, you’d stopped being sure if this friction was something you could work through—or something that had already broken too much.

You closed the laptop.

Maybe you just needed time. Maybe you needed distance.

But if Changbin noticed your silence tomorrow—or the next day, or the day after that—he’d know it wasn’t about the music anymore.

It was about him.

You arrived ten minutes early. Not to be productive. Just to breathe.

The studio lights were a little too bright, the coffee a little too bitter, and your reflection in the glass of the booth looked like someone else entirely. Still you—but muted. Quieter.

When the door opened and Changbin walked in, you didn’t even flinch.

"Morning," he said, cautiously.

You nodded. "Morning."

That was it.

The rest of the group trickled in slowly. Seungmin was first, offering a small smile your way. Chan and Han followed, already in mid-conversation about edits from the night before. When Hyunjin asked how you were, you said "good" and nothing else.

And when Changbin started talking through the plan for the day—tempo tweaks, layering ideas, minor adjustments to Seungmin’s part—you simply nodded. Took notes. Said, “Got it,” in the softest voice imaginable.

No pushback. No counters. No fire.

Chan glanced up from his laptop. Han did too.

Even Jeongin, who was just passing through with a banana milk in hand, paused and looked between you and Changbin.

The silence after one of Changbin’s notes stretched too long.

“Y/N?” he asked.

You blinked once, pulling yourself back. “That’s fine. Let’s go with that.”

“…Really?” There was something off in his tone.

You gave a small smile. “Yeah.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like your body had been taken over by someone else.

When Seungmin came in to record, you didn’t follow the usual back-and-forth. Just quietly adjusted levels, nodded at the right moments, and told him he sounded great. Even when he flubbed a note.

Seungmin looked uneasy. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said. Then added, “Let’s move on.”

You felt eyes on you the entire time. Mostly his.

Changbin’s voice was strained when he finally said, “We’re taking a break.”

No one argued.

You stood, turning away to tidy up some cords, not because they needed it—just to avoid his eyes.

Behind you, you heard him say it—low and frustrated.

“She’s not fighting anymore.”

And then Chan, quieter: “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

A break was needed. Where would be better than the studio breakroom? You didn’t hear him come in, but you knew it was him. The air always shifted with Changbin. Dense. Unsettled.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. Just kept staring into your coffee cup like it held the answers to everything you didn’t want to say out loud.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he said. “Not with you pretending like nothing’s wrong.”

You finally looked up, but your expression was unreadable. “There’s nothing wrong. We’re working. That’s all we’ve ever done, right?”

He looked pained. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

“Hide what?” you snapped. “That I’m tired? That every time I open my mouth in a session, you shut me down or talk over me? You made me feel like shit in front of your members, Changbin. Constantly. And now you wanna have a heart-to-heart like none of that happened?”

His mouth opened, then closed. His fists clenched at his sides. “That’s not what I meant to do.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“I know,” he growled, frustrated. “I know I messed up, but that doesn’t change—” He stopped himself, voice catching before pushing forward. “It doesn’t change the fact that I love you.”

You blinked, stunned—but it didn’t land sweet. It felt heavy. Messy.

You laughed once, bitter. “You love me? Is that what this has been? Belittling me in front of everyone, picking fights, acting like I don’t know what I’m doing? That’s how you show love?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“But you did,” you cut in. “So what am I supposed to do with that? Just pretend it didn’t matter because you’ve decided now you’re in love with me?”

He stepped closer, but you held your ground.

“I’m not asking you to pretend,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I didn’t know how to handle it. The way I felt about you. I was stupid. I thought pushing you away would make it easier.”

You scoffed. “And did it?”

“No,” he admitted. “It made everything worse. Especially now that you won’t even look at me like you used to.”

You paused, jaw tightening. “I can’t forget how you made me feel.”

“I don’t want you to forget,” he said. “I want to earn it back. Every piece I broke.”

The silence stretched.

You looked away first, arms folding protectively across your chest. “I don’t trust you. Not yet.”

“I know,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “But don’t go. Not yet.”

You hesitated. Your hands tightened around your coffee cup.

“I’ll stay,” you said, barely above a whisper. “But only if you mean what you said—and if you’re ready to prove it.”

“I will,” he said without blinking. “Whatever it takes.”

Recording Studio – A Few Days Later

You hadn’t said much since that night. Not more than necessary. You showed up on time, prepped the session, and avoided looking at Changbin for too long. But he was there—already in the booth, headphones on, waiting for your cue.

Chan, Han, and Seungmin sat nearby, eyes flicking between the two of you like spectators waiting for the bell to ring.

You clicked the talkback mic. “Okay, Changbin. Let’s try verse two again.”

His eyes met yours through the glass, and instead of the usual nod and go, he… smiled. Genuinely. No sarcasm, no smugness.

“Got it, Y/N.”

You blinked. It was the first time in months he’d said your name without a bite.

He rapped the verse cleaner this time—focused, grounded. You let it finish before pressing the mic again.

“Good take,” you said. “But maybe try softening that last word. You’re punching it too hard for the tone.”

“Right,” he said immediately. “You’re right. I’ll do that.”

The room went still.

Jisung blinked. Chan raised his eyebrows. Even Seungmin looked up from his phone.

“Did he just—agree with her?” Jisung whispered to Chan.

“She didn’t have to fight him,” Seungmin added, stunned.

You ignored them, staring at the console, pretending your heart wasn’t skipping weirdly in your chest.

Another take. Another clean pass. No arguing. Just him listening.

When he came out of the booth, you stepped back to give him space. But he stopped next to you, one hand resting on the console, the other lightly brushing your notebook aside to glance at your notes.

“Thanks,” he said, softly. “You always know how to fix it.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. He was so close, the studio lights painting shadows under his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Well…someone’s gotta make you sound good.”

He chuckled. Low, warm.

Jisung looked between you two, then stage-whispered to Chan, “Are they flirting or are we hallucinating?”

“You’re not hallucinating,” Chan muttered, rubbing his temple. “I don’t know what’s happening either.”

You tried not to smile as you turned back to the console. But when Changbin brushed past you—shoulder grazing yours—it lingered.

Something had changed.

And you weren’t sure what it was yet.

But for once, it didn’t feel like war.

[christopherisfoive]

Im so sleepy

[christopherisfoive]

hiyaaa 14 and 15 wit lino???

🧾 Order up for @anon! You asked for #14 Enemies to lovers tension and #15 Sharing a bed for the first time with our favorite menace, Minho—and your order has been brewed to perfection 🍽️✨ Hope you enjoy this slow-burn college AU chaos called "Offside"—it gets messy in the best way.

Read HERE !!

[christopherisfoive]

Offsides

Pairing: Minho x Reader Setting: College AU — Soccer Team Prompts: #14 Enemies to lovers tension, #15 Sharing a bed for the first time (REQUEST)

The university soccer field was quiet in the early morning, the sky still warming into blue as you set the cones out. As team manager, you were used to the silence—used to being the first one on the field and the last one to leave. It was your job to make sure things ran smoothly. Equipment. Water. Schedules. And, most annoyingly, Minho.

He strolled in ten minutes late like it was part of the routine, hoodie draped half-off one shoulder, earbuds in, hair tousled like he didn’t just roll out of bed—but wanted you to know he did.

“Morning, manager,” he drawled, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“I’m fashionably late,” he said, stretching lazily. “It’s different.”

You shot him a dry glare. “The only thing fashionable about you is your ability to ignore the team group chat.”

“That’s just a skill.” He grinned wider. "Jealous?"

You turned back to your clipboard, muttering, “Of your inability to follow rules? Please.”

He walked past you, close enough for your elbow to graze his arm, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, softly, he added, "Relax, Y/N. I'm just here to win the game."

You didn’t say it, but your stomach flipped. He knew what he was doing.

Coach announced the lineup for the away game in a neighboring city, and with it came the logistics you dreaded most—organizing the hotel situation. The team would be bunking up two to a room.

You passed out the slips. "Double-check who you're paired with."

Felix looked delighted with his roommate. Hyunjin groaned at sharing with Changbin. And Minho? Minho walked up with his usual bored expression, took one glance at his paper, and raised an eyebrow.

"You sure about this?"

You took the slip back from him. It had your name next to his.

"There must be a mistake," you muttered, already turning to double-check the files.

“Nope,” Coach called out. “We’re short one room. Y/N, you’re with Minho.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but Coach was already halfway to the parking lot.

Minho stood beside you, utterly amused. “Try not to kick me in your sleep, yeah?”

You shoved the clipboard into his chest. “Try not to snore like a dying engine and we’ll be fine.”

But later that night, when you both stood at the threshold of the single queen bed in your shared room, the silence was suddenly heavy with something different—charged and unspoken.

He dropped his bag and glanced your way. "I'll take the floor if you want."

You crossed your arms. "What, suddenly chivalrous?"

"Just trying to keep the peace, manager."

You hated the way he said it—soft, teasing, like he knew it would stick in your head later.

And it would.

The hotel lobby buzzed with post-check-in chaos—duffel bags thudding to the floor, cleats clattering against tile, and Hyunjin loudly complaining about the lack of vegan options in the vending machine.

Coach rounded everyone up with a clap. “Dinner’s in thirty. Lobby. Dress decently. You represent the school.”

You changed quickly, opting for something casual but clean, pulling your hair back as you glanced at your reflection. As you stepped into the lobby, Minho was already leaning against the wall, arms crossed, dressed in black slacks and a half-buttoned shirt like he wasn’t even trying to look that good.

He met your eyes briefly before looking away.

Dinner was at a loud chain restaurant packed with other college teams. The table was long and uneven, chairs mismatched and too close together. You ended up between Hyunjin and Minho, shoulder to shoulder with him in a way that made your skin hyper-aware.

Conversations buzzed around you, laughter rising every few seconds, but your own voice felt stuck in your throat.

“Hey,” Minho said suddenly, leaning toward you, his voice low. “Relax.”

You looked at him, surprised. “I am relaxed.”

“You’re stabbing your fork into that salad like it owes you money.”

You didn’t laugh—but you almost did. Instead, you focused on your plate, muttering, “Maybe it does.”

He smiled at that, but didn’t push further. The rest of the meal was a quiet war of proximity: the accidental brushes of knees, his hand grazing yours when he passed the water pitcher, the small glances exchanged between mouthfuls of food.

Hyunjin eventually left to join another conversation further down the table, and the space beside you felt quieter, heavier.

“You still mad about the room situation?” Minho asked.

You paused before answering. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”

Minho hummed. “You can take the bed tonight. I’m serious.”

You turned to him. “And where are you going to sleep? On the carpet? That’s ridiculous.”

He met your eyes, steady and unreadable. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

There was something unspoken between you, stretching tight under the warm lighting. You looked away before you could respond.

Dinner ended with too many leftovers and a round of cheers from the other tables. On the walk back, Minho stayed close but quiet, hands stuffed into his pockets, head tilted slightly toward you as if he was waiting for something you weren’t ready to say yet.

Back in the hotel room, silence fell again. One bed. Two people. Too many thoughts.

But neither of you made a move toward the floor.

The room lights were dim, one of the lamps flickering faintly in the corner. You kicked off your sneakers and slipped off your hoodie, folding it neatly over the chair in the corner. The silence was strangely loud—no TV, no background chatter—just the rustling of bags and the hum of the hotel air conditioning.

Minho was already at the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth with the door halfway open. He caught your eyes in the mirror for a second before looking back down. You waited, pacing a little, until he rinsed and wiped his mouth with a towel.

“All yours,” he mumbled, voice low and nonchalant.

You nodded in thanks, brushing past him, careful not to touch.

Inside the bathroom, you splashed cold water on your face, hoping it would calm the flutter beneath your ribs. You stared at your reflection a little too long, then brushed your teeth slowly, like time would stretch out and keep you from going back out there.

When you finally returned, Minho had pulled on a loose gray tee and black sweatpants, his hair messy from running his hands through it. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head tilted back like he’d been staring at the ceiling for a while.

You went to the other side, quietly plugging your phone into the outlet and folding your legs onto the mattress.

“You can sleep first,” you said without looking at him.

Minho glanced over. “I’m not tired.”

You didn’t answer.

You turned off the lamp on your side, and the room sank into soft shadow. Only the faint glow of Minho’s phone lit the space now. Neither of you lay down. Not yet.

“I’m not gonna steal the blanket,” he muttered eventually.

You bit back a smile. “Good. I hate fighting in my sleep.”

Minho snorted under his breath, the sound small and real.

A beat of quiet passed.

“You always this quiet before bed?” he asked.

“Only when I have to share it with someone who makes me want to scream during the day.”

Minho turned slightly toward you, the tension between you simmering again—but this time, quieter. Closer.

“Guess you’ll have to scream into your pillow tonight, then.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

And eventually, both of you shifted down beneath the blanket, backs to each other, the space between you thin as a whisper. The bed felt too small and too big all at once.

You didn’t fall asleep right away. Not with the way your heart thudded at every small shift of the mattress.

Not with him so close.

The minutes dragged. Maybe even hours. You weren’t sure how long it had been since the room went dark, but you knew neither of you had fallen asleep.

You could hear Minho’s breathing—steady, but not deep enough to mean he was asleep either.

You shifted slightly, just enough to pull the blanket up to your shoulders. The movement made the mattress dip, and he moved a fraction, almost like he’d felt it too.

“You still awake?” His voice was quiet. Unusually quiet.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Another silence. But this one felt more loaded.

“This bed’s smaller than I thought,” he said.

“Maybe you’ve got a big head,” you replied, but your voice lacked bite. You were too aware of him, too aware of the heat radiating off his side of the bed.

He let out a short laugh, low and quiet. “You really don’t let up.”

You faced the ceiling. “Neither do you.”

The air thickened. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer.

“You ever stop to think maybe we don’t hate each other as much as we pretend to?”

You blinked. The words hit you in a place you weren’t ready for.

You didn’t answer.

Neither did he.

Instead, both of you stayed still. Close but distant. Minds racing while bodies pretended to sleep.

Then his hand brushed against yours beneath the blanket—just barely. A featherlight touch. You didn’t move it away.

And that one small contact crackled louder than any fight you’d ever had.

It was too warm.

The room’s air conditioning was functional—barely. Maybe it was the nerves, maybe it was the way your thoughts had started spiraling ever since your hands brushed, but your skin felt clammy and the sheets only made it worse.

Beside you, Minho shifted again with an annoyed exhale, then suddenly sat up.

You opened your eyes. “What are you doing?”

He peeled his shirt off in one clean movement and tossed it to the side. “It’s hot.”

Your voice shot up an octave. “Okay, but—now?”

He laid back like nothing happened. “Didn’t realize we were on a schedule.”

You blinked at the ceiling, blanket suddenly too warm and too thin at the same time. “You could’ve… warned me.”

He turned his head slightly, voice lazy and amused. “Would it have made a difference?”

You didn’t answer. Because no—it wouldn’t have.

There was a long pause. Then, just when you thought maybe it would settle:

“You’re the one who keeps looking over here.”

“I’m not!”

“You are.” His voice dropped, smug and low. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it.”

You gritted your teeth and rolled to face the other direction. “Go to sleep, Minho.”

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying himself now. “Sweet dreams, manager.”

You didn’t sleep for a while.

You don’t know what time it is when you wake. Maybe you hadn’t really fallen asleep at all.

The room is darker now, the city lights from the window casting faint silver lines across the bedspread. You’re still facing the wall. You can feel Minho behind you, not touching but close enough that the space feels tight.

You try not to think about the heat of his skin. Or the rise and fall of his breathing. But then—

"You still awake?"

His voice is quiet, careful.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you earlier,” he says.

You shift slightly, turning just enough to glance back at him. “What were you trying to do then?”

Minho’s eyes are on the ceiling. His voice is soft but steady. “I don’t know. You just… always get under my skin. And not in a bad way. It’s annoying.”

You blink, the heat in your chest rising. “You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost smiling. “But you like me anyway.”

You stare at him, pulse ticking up. The air between you shimmers, almost buzzing.

“Minho…”

His gaze finally meets yours, sharp even in the dark.

He leans in slightly, then stops just short. “You were about to say something.”

“So were you.”

The silence swells again, pressing close. His hand finds yours under the covers—fingers brushing, waiting.

And then—

“Were you about to kiss me?” you whisper, barely breathing.

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time.

“No,” he says, just before leaning in fully, brushing his lips over yours once—gentle, unhurried. “I am.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not rushed. It’s not messy.

It’s just… inevitable.

You woke up warm.

Too warm.

Minho’s arm was draped over your waist, your back flush against his chest. His breath was steady, slow against the curve of your neck. At some point in the night, the pillow barrier had vanished. So had any sense of personal space.

And that would’ve been fine—if the door hadn’t opened.

"Yo, Minho, coach wants—"

Hyunjin’s voice froze mid-sentence.

You blinked. Minho groaned softly behind you.

Hyunjin stood in the doorway with two water bottles, his mouth parted in shock. “Oh.”

You sat up way too fast, pulling the comforter up instinctively like it could somehow hide the truth. “Hyunjin. Oh my god—”

“I didn’t see anything!” he announced, tossing the bottles in the air and turning around like he’d been burned. “I’m leaving! I’m blind!”

You heard him shout down the hallway. “FELIX. FELIX. I SAW SOMETHING I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO SEE—”

Minho dropped back against the pillow, eyes closed. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”

You flopped onto your back beside him, covering your face. “You think they’ll forget?”

He laughed, low and smug. “No chance.”

A knock came at the door—louder this time. Then Felix’s voice: “Are you guys dating or was Hyunjin hallucinating again?”

You groaned. “I’m going to die.”

Minho reached over and tugged you back under the covers. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

His tone was soft. Teasing. Familiar.

You peeked up at him, cheeks warm. “You really don’t care?”

He smirked. “Not if you don’t.”

The hallway outside erupted in chaos. Someone banged on the door again. There were definitely photos being taken.

And yet, somehow, it didn’t matter—not when he was looking at you like that.

[christopherisfoive]

Nowhere To Hide

Bestfriend! Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: mutual masturbation, porn, closet sex, rough sex, first time together, desperate thrusting, overstimulation, hand over mouth, biting, semi-public sex, stifled moans, creampie, aftershocks, dazed clinging, emotionally intense

Word count: 4.1k

Summary: you’re just his best friend; his open-minded, dangerously close, overly flirty best friend. so when hyunjin tells you he can’t watch porn unless someone else is in the room… you roll your eyes and let him do it. but you don’t expect to stay. you don’t expect to watch. and you definitely don’t expect to end up with his hand around your mouth, legs shaking, his cock deep inside you in a locked closet at a house party four days later.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You and Hyunjin had always been open with each other.

It was part of the reason your friendship worked — that weird, shameless kind of bond where nothing was off-limits. He could talk to you about anything. You could say things that would’ve made other people flinch, and he’d just laugh, head tipped back, telling you that your brain was his favorite place in the world.

There were no rules. Just you, and him, and the strange little rhythm you’d fallen into over the years. Late-night hangouts, casual sleepovers, the occasional too-long hug when one of you needed something unspoken. No lines ever crossed, but plenty blurred.

So when he asked you to come over that night — casual, chill, just to hang — you didn’t think twice.

You showed up in your usual post-shower state: oversized hoodie, bare legs, the kind of soft cotton underwear that felt like home. His place was warm, clean in a way that said he’d tried to impress you without saying it out loud.

He opened the door, hair messy, smile crooked. “You’re late.”

“You’re lucky I came at all.”

He stuck his tongue out. “You always come when I ask.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping in.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of the night. But somehow, two episodes into whatever trashy dating show you’d landed on, something shifted.

“Do you mind,” Hyunjin said, reaching lazily for his iPad, “if I put something else on?”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

You didn’t expect him to open his browser and pull up porn.

“Hyunjin—”

“Don’t freak out,” he said, like this was totally normal. “I’m not gonna jerk off. Just… I don’t know. I like having it on sometimes.”

You stared at him. “With me right here?”

“That’s the point.”

You blinked.

“I can’t enjoy it when I’m alone,” he said with a small shrug. “It’s not hot unless someone else is in the room. I’m not gonna do anything unless you want me to. I just… I don’t know. It feels less sad this way.”

You stared at him, mouth opening, then closing.

“Hyune,” you said slowly. “That’s not normal.”

He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “You say that like I’m trying to be normal.”

Your instinct was to say no. To laugh it off. To tell him he was fucking insane and grab your shoes. But you didn’t.

Instead, you sighed, shaking your head, and muttered, “Fine. But you’re not allowed to make this weird.”

“I never make anything weird.”

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

He winked. “And yet… you’re still here.”

⸻

The video was loud. That was the first problem. The moans were high and breathy and clearly real — not the fake, over-the-top stuff that was easy to ignore.

The second problem was Hyunjin himself.

He didn’t just watch it. He felt it. Breathing in these slow, shallow hitches. Sinking back into the pillows like he was alone, even though you were right there.

You weren’t even watching the screen. You were watching him.

His mouth was slightly open. His chest rose and fell under the soft black tee he’d half-tucked into those stupid grey sweatpants — the ones you’d teased him about a thousand times for being too dangerous.

And then… he moved.

Just a shift of the hips at first. Then his hand — long fingers twitching — rested near his thigh. A rub. Absentminded at first. Then another. Slower. Firmer.

Your stomach dipped.

He groaned, soft and low. His head tilted back.

And that sound — fuck, that sound — sent a pulse straight between your legs.

You tried to ignore it. You tried so hard. But your body was already reacting before your brain could process what was happening. Your thighs pressed together. You adjusted your hoodie. You stopped breathing entirely when his eyes flicked toward you and then dropped — low, slow, hungry.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He smiled — a little too knowingly — and exhaled. “Fuck, she sounds like you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The girl. On the video.” His voice was dreamy, almost dazed. “She moans like you.”

You stared at him. “How would you even know that?”

He looked at you then, eyes dark and shining. “You think I’ve never heard you?”

Your skin went hot. “Hyunjin—”

“I wasn’t trying to. But you always leave your door cracked. And sometimes I’d just be passing by and then… you’d make this sound. Like you didn’t know how to stop yourself.”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but then he moaned again. This time because of you. He was hard now. Very visibly hard.

“God,” he whispered. “Why is this so much hotter with you here?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your body was buzzing. Your underwear damp. And every inch of space between you suddenly felt razor-thin, unbearable.

“Touch yourself,” he said, almost breathless.

You shook your head, barely.

He leaned in, voice low. “Please.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I need it,” he said, groaning again as he pressed into his palm. “And I don’t want to be the only one.”

His eyes flicked to your legs.

“You’re turned on.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” His voice was firmer now. “I can see it. The way your thighs are clenched. The way you’re breathing.”

You looked away. He reached out, gently brushing your knee.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“I swear,” he said, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. But if you want this even a little… just stay.”

You exhaled. Shaky. Unsure. Wet.

And you stayed. Neither of you said anything for a long moment.

The porn still played softly in the background, but it was just noise now — the tension in the room had turned so dense it pressed in on your skin like heat, like breath.

Hyunjin dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. His hand hadn’t left his lap.

You were still watching him.

And he was watching you watching him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Your chest tightened. “No.”

That was all he needed.

He shifted closer, just barely, and let out a sound — low, needy — as he rolled his hips against his palm. The motion was subtle, but it jolted through you like lightning. He rubbed again, slow, firm, a deliberate drag of pressure down the thick line in his sweatpants.

Your thighs clenched instinctively. You were soaked. You could feel it — the press of cotton against slick skin, the fluttering ache that had been growing steadily in your core from the moment he started moaning.

He looked drunk off it. His mouth was open, panting softly. His eyes flicked over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes.

“Touch yourself,” he said again, quieter this time. “I want to see what you look like when you’re needy.”

You let out a breath that trembled.

Your hand moved before your mind could stop it — sliding under the hem of your hoodie, then beneath the waistband of your underwear. Hyunjin’s eyes followed every inch.

“Oh my god” he whispered.

Your fingers dipped into yourself. Soaked.

Your breath hitched hard.

Hyunjin groaned — loud, ragged — and dropped his head back against the headboard, his hand now gripping the full length of his cock over his sweats. The bulge was thick and heavy, straining the fabric.

“Fuck, you’re touching yourself,” he rasped. “I can’t believe you’re actually…”

You moaned — quietly, shakily — and he snapped his eyes open.

“Say something,” he begged. “Tell me what you feel like.”

“I’m wet,” you whispered, eyes closing. “I’ve never been this wet just from watching someone.”

That made him gasp.

“God—fuck—” He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, and suddenly you couldn’t look away.

He was long, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with pre-cum.

You whimpered.

His eyes fluttered shut at the sound.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he muttered. “You know that? Just—so fucking pretty when you touch yourself like that. Show me more.”

You moved your fingers again, slow and deliberate, spreading the slickness and brushing over your clit. Your hips arched subtly into the motion, breath stuttering.

Hyunjin watched like a man starved.

“I want to taste you,” he said suddenly, voice broken. “Fuck—I want my face between your legs so bad.”

Your whole body shuddered.

He jerked himself once, twice — not fast, but hard. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize the way it felt while staring at you.

You moaned again, louder this time. Embarrassed at how fast your body was unraveling.

“I’ve thought about this before,” he confessed, still stroking. “Not like this exactly. But… you. Under me. Wet and panting. Saying my name.”

You bit your lip, fingers moving faster now. “I didn’t think we’d ever—”

“Me neither,” he whispered. “But now I don’t even want to stop.”

The air was charged, burning.

You were close. So close it was making your knees tremble.

Hyunjin leaned in again, his free hand brushing against your thigh as if asking for permission.

You didn’t stop him.

His lips were inches from your ear when he whispered, “Let me help.”

You paused. Swallowed.

He watched you — tense, hopeful, ruined — until you nodded.

And then… the shift happened.

Hyunjin slipped his hand down, fingers brushing yours under the band of your underwear. You gasped, but didn’t pull away. He cupped you gently, middle finger sliding through the mess you’d made.

“Oh my fucking god,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

Your head dropped against his shoulder.

“You made me like this,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” he said, voice shaking. “You like watching me stroke my cock for you?”

You whimpered again. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He slid his finger in, slow and deep, while still stroking himself with the other hand. You cried out, biting down on your hoodie sleeve as he moved inside you, curling slightly.

“Come for me,” he said, lips against your temple. “Please. I want to see you fall apart.”

It didn’t take long.

Your body clenched tight, the pressure building sharp and sudden until it broke — heat flooding you from the inside out, your voice catching as you gasped and ground against his hand.

Hyunjin let out a desperate groan and came right after you, hot and heavy against his stomach, chest rising in ragged breaths as his hips jerked through the last few strokes.

You both collapsed sideways into the pillows, breathing hard, sweaty, trembling.

For a moment, it was quiet.

Then—

“That was…” you began, voice wrecked.

“I know.” He laughed, still panting. “I know.”

You turned your head to look at him. His hair was a mess. His lips were red. His eyes were soft now — not teasing, not smug. Just open.

“That didn’t feel casual,” you whispered.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“No,” he said. “It didn’t.”

You didn’t know what would come next.

⸻

The worst part wasn’t what happened between you.

It was the silence after.

The way everything between you and Hyunjin felt louder because no one was talking about it.

You’d spent the last three nights pretending that orgasm hadn’t happened. That your fingers hadn’t tangled with his. That he hadn’t whispered I want to taste you while stroking himself, eyes on your mouth.

You didn’t talk about it. You couldn’t.

But the tension between you? You may as well have been shouting.

He sat closer now. Looked longer. He didn’t tease like he used to — not playfully, not harmlessly. Now every glance had heat. Every brush of skin felt intentional.

So when Jisung shouted across the living room, “Let’s play hide and seek — losers get a punishment dare,” you already knew something was going to go wrong.

Because you and Hyunjin couldn’t be trusted anymore.

⸻

You didn’t even plan to hide in the closet.

You were laughing, breathless, the count ticking down — Ten! Nine! Eight! — and you darted around a corner in the hallway looking for literally anywhere to disappear.

The closet door was cracked open.

You pushed in and—

“Shit—!”

A hand reached out to yank you the rest of the way in.

Hyunjin.

He shoved the door closed behind you both, muffling your gasp, then exhaled hard against your ear.

You were chest to chest. Pressed flush to him. The closet was barely the size of a broom closet — coats brushing your cheeks, the smell of old cedar, the wood beneath your bare feet cool from the tile.

“Seriously?” you whispered, half-giggling. “You’re here?”

“You ran into me,” he hissed. “Be quiet—”

Footsteps passed in the hallway. The sound of someone shouting: “Not in the bathroom!”

You both stilled.

And then you started laughing.

Quiet, breathy little giggles that made your shoulders shake. His hands were on your hips now, steadying you, his face so close you could feel his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Shhh,” he whispered, amused. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“It’s your fault,” you whispered back.

“Yeah?” His breath ghosted your cheek. “Pretty sure it’s yours.”

Your back hit the wall as you shifted to give him room. But there was no room. Nowhere to go.

His thigh brushed up between yours. Your knee bent just slightly.

And that’s when you felt it.

The slow, unmistakable press of something hard against your hip.

You froze.

Hyunjin did, too.

“Hyunjin—?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. His breath had turned shallow, his forehead dropping forward slightly to rest against the wall beside your head.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I can’t help it.”

His voice was low. Strained. Honest.

You swallowed.

It didn’t feel like a joke. It didn’t even feel like a dare. It just… was. Real. Present. Pressed right up against you.

The memory of that night came rushing back — the way he gasped when you moaned, the wet sound of your bodies moving in sync, the look in his eyes when he touched you like it meant something.

And now you were here.

Too close. Too warm. Your short dress had ridden up when he pulled you in, and your bare legs were brushing his sweatpants with every shaky inhale.

You should’ve moved away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you whispered, “This is dangerous.”

He nodded. Barely. “I know.”

Your hands were on his chest, fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. His hands still sat heavy on your hips. Neither of you were breathing quite right.

And then—you shifted.

Just the smallest movement. An unconscious roll of your hips as you tried to balance.

And Hyunjin let out the quietest, shattered groan.

Your stomach dropped.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?” But your voice was thinner now.

“That.”

You did it again. Just to be sure. The press of your core against him was slow, experimental — your thin underwear the only barrier between your body and the thick, hard line of his cock beneath his sweats.

He whined.

Low, soft, desperate.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt him tremble.

“You can’t grind on me like that,” he breathed.

“You were already hard.”

“And now you’re already wet.”

The words punched the breath out of your lungs.

You didn’t say anything — couldn’t — and instead let yourself roll against him again, slowly this time, hips rocking once more into his.

His mouth dropped open. You felt it brush your skin.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

The coats swayed faintly beside you as he gently pressed you back into the wall, his hands tightening at your waist, thumbs brushing under the edge of your dress.

You gasped quietly as he rocked up into you, the friction too good, too familiar.

“I think about it every night,” he whispered, like it hurt. “The way you sound when you come. How soft you were. How hot your hand felt over mine.”

You were burning.

Your body responded before your mind did — rocking again, your arms slipping up around his neck to muffle a soft, stuttering moan into his shoulder.

He cursed under his breath.

Then he stilled. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned in — your lips brushing his, breath against breath, heart in your throat.

And that’s when the closet door creaked.

“Anyone in here?” someone called.

You and Hyunjin froze.

Your mouth hovered over his.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared.

The door didn’t open.

Footsteps passed.

And the second you were alone again, Hyunjin exhaled.

You were still catching your breath when you heard it.

The soft click of the inside lock.

Hyunjin had turned the tiny latch on the closet door — sealing you both inside.

Your eyes darted to his, wide, breathless, heart kicking.

“What are you doing—?”

But he was already shifting you, gentle but firm.

Turning you in the dark, pressing your front to the wall of the closet, your palms flat against the wood paneling, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

His voice came at your ear, low and wrecked. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

His hands slid up your thighs — slow, reverent, shaking slightly — fingers brushing the hem of your dress, pushing it higher until it was bunched around your hips.

You gasped when you felt it — the warm weight of his cock, thick and flushed, freed from his sweats and nestled right in the crease of your thighs. Hot, hard skin against the damp cotton of your panties.

“Hyunjin—” You tried to say something. Anything.

But then he rocked forward.

And your mind blanked.

The first thrust wasn’t deep, wasn’t precise — just a desperate press of his cock between your thighs, dragging the thick head right along your clothed pussy.

You whimpered.

Your knees nearly buckled.

His breath left him in a shaky hiss. “Holy fuck—”

You didn’t realize you were moving until you were rocking back against him — instinctive, helpless — meeting every slow rut of his hips with the arch of your spine.

The friction was perfect.

Each thrust of his cock between your thighs rubbed right against your clit through the soaked fabric. It felt filthy. Overwhelming. Like a fever dream you didn’t dare wake up from.

And then his mouth was on your neck.

Hot, open, wet kisses down your jaw, your pulse, his tongue tasting your skin like he’d wanted to for years. His hands grabbed your hips, greedy now, pulling you tighter against him with every roll of his body.

You were panting, trembling, moaning softly into the wall with every pass of his cock between your slick thighs.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice unraveling, “you feel so—shit—so soft.”

You turned your head, breath shallow, eyes finding his in the dark.

“Hyunjin,” you whispered.

His mouth crashed into yours before the word could fully leave you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate.

Tongue and teeth, lips parted, mouths gasping against each other like this kiss had been trapped between you for years. Like he was starving for it. Like you’d never survive it.

You grabbed at his hair. He groaned into your mouth.

His hand slid up your front, fingers curling under the fabric of your dress, and suddenly he was palming your breast — rough, hungry, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace of your bra.

You arched into his hand.

He bit your lip.

You whined, trembling, your voice cracking. “I need you.”

He froze.

Your words hung in the air — too raw, too loud, too real.

Then he growled, deep in his chest.

And his hand moved.

Down your stomach. Past the waistband of your underwear. Two fingers slid through your soaked slit and came away dripping.

He hissed, whispering something under his breath you couldn’t catch.

Then he hooked his fingers under your thong — pulled it aside.

And you felt him.

The head of his cock, hot and heavy, slipping between your folds. Your knees nearly gave out.

“Are you sure?” he breathed. “Fuck—tell me.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes. Please—”

He didn’t wait another second.

He gripped your hip, braced a hand on the wall beside your head, and with a single smooth thrust, sank into you.

You gasped — loud and broken.

He groaned like it hurt.

Like he’d been dreaming of this for too fucking long.

You could barely breathe.

He filled you so completely you felt split open. Every inch of him slid deep, hot and thick, your body clenching around him like it had been aching for this—like it knew him.

Hyunjin stayed still at first.

Forehead to your shoulder, panting, hand tight on your hip like he was trying to ground himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You whined — a low, raw sound — hips rolling back into him, your fingers scraping the wall for anything to hold on to.

That was all it took.

His restraint snapped.

His hips drew back.

And then he started fucking you.

It wasn’t slow anymore.

It wasn’t careful.

It was frantic, overwhelming, wet — the obscene slap of skin-on-skin muffled only slightly by the coats around you, your slick dripping down the inside of your thighs with each thrust.

You tried to be quiet. You really did.

But every time his cock drove into you, you couldn’t stop the moans — breathy and soft at first, then high and frantic as his pace picked up.

And when a louder gasp escaped your mouth—

His hand clamped over it.

Large, warm, shaking fingers curled across your lips, muffling the helpless sounds spilling from you as he pounded into you from behind.

You whimpered into his palm.

His voice broke right beside your ear. “I’m sorry, baby—I need you quiet—can’t let them hear—”

You nodded. Barely.

But your body was shaking. Your walls fluttering around him. And Hyunjin knew you were close.

So he got mean.

Rougher.

He slammed into you harder, his cock dragging across all the right spots, your thighs trembling from the pressure of each thrust — and the filthiest part? You were soaked. The squelch of your cunt around him was wet and loud and pornographic, and it only made him fuck you harder.

You bit down.

Hard.

Right into the base of his palm as his hand stayed tight over your mouth.

He groaned, bucking into you like it drove him insane.

“Shit—fuck, just like that—”

He lost rhythm for a second, stuttering into you, hand slipping from your mouth to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your head back, mouth against your skin again.

Then he bit down.

His teeth sank into the soft curve of your shoulder as he buried himself deep, his moans muffled into your skin.

You swore you blacked out for a second.

You couldn’t tell which way was up anymore — just the overwhelming drag of his cock, the heat in your belly, the white-noise roar in your ears as your orgasm crept higher, hotter, inevitable.

“Fuck—Hyunjin—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he groaned. “I feel you, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

You came with a cry into his wrist, your whole body spasming.

Everything snapped — the pressure, the tension, the weeks of unsaid things between you, all of it boiling over in that moment as you fell apart on his cock.

He barely held it together.

You felt him twitch inside you, pace faltering, his voice falling to ragged, desperate whimpers.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh my god, I’m gonna—can I—inside—?”

You nodded, dazed. “Yes—yes, please—”

One more thrust. Deep. Hot.

And he came with a bitten-off moan into your neck, his body jerking hard as he spilled into you — thick, hot spurts of cum painting your insides, his cock buried deep as he rode out every last pulse, twitching and trembling.

You slumped forward, boneless.

His arms caught you. Held you there.

Both of you breathing like you’d run miles. Sweaty. Shaking. Still joined, still stuffed full.

The closet spun in silence.

And when his hand finally fell from your mouth, you whispered — voice shot, lips swollen —

“…We can’t ever just be friends again, can we?”

And Hyunjin, still inside you, kissed your shoulder like it was a promise.

“No,” he said. “We’re so fucked.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: HIIIIIIIIII!!!! Breakfast is served (or lunch or dinner lol) 😂 personally i think this is the filthiest hyunjin fic i have written… right? I cant even remember lol! So i got that closet idea from this edit… saw it and my brain short-circuited 😭🫠❤️ And now we are here!

Give this a lot of love! Also update; i have officially started writing my first original novel 🥹 ahhhhh

Taglist: @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura

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STRAY KIDS & SKZOO!!! 🩷☺️🩵✨🫧💜🥹💚🌷

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Han in Orlando

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skzoo everywhere all around the world

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seunguns of the day 💪

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kiss kiss 😘, shy shy 🙈

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“you’re lucky we’re just friends” – ft. skz besties who are not acting platonic

best friend skz x reader fake texts

was just tryna be flirty n funny but now they wanna risk it all

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Cold Burn Update

I hope you’re all doing well. I wanted to take a moment to update you on the status of Cold Burn. After much thought, I’ve decided to put the current story on hold indefinitely. At the moment, I’m not feeling the passion or inspiration to continue it, and I don’t want to rush something that I’m not fully invested in.

I truly appreciate all the support and love you’ve given to the story so far, and I’m sorry for any disappointment this may cause. I don’t have a clear timeline for when or if I’ll return to it, but if I do, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Thank you for understanding, and I hope you’ll continue to support me, whether I return to this story or venture into something new.