cloudetra

[cloudetra]

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently.

CHAPTERS:

DOUBLE FEATURE: CHAPTER ONE

Or you can read it on my Patreon:

DOUBLE FEATURE: CHAPTER TWO

Or you can read it on my Patreon:

DOUBLE FEATURE: CHAPTER THREE

Or you can read it on my Patreon:

DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER will be released Friday, June 27th.

Or you can read it early on my Patreon:

[cloudetra]

Hands On My Throat 2

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

PART TWO

Tags: jealousy, kitchen sex, semi public sex, unprotected sex, breeding, emotional angsty smut, confessions, hand-over-mouth kink, light choking, possessive behavior, teasing, light exhibitionism, loud group reactions, post-smut comedy

Word count: 2.4k

Summary: You and Chan may have gotten away with sneaking off for a dangerous quickie in the kitchen—but you definitely didn’t get away with it quietly. When you return to a suspiciously quiet living room full of your friends, all eyes are on you. Spoiler alert: everyone knows. And Chan? He’s not shy about claiming what’s his.

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

<<Prev

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Weeks Later…

You still crashed at Chan’s. Still wore his shirts. Still stole his hoodies and helped him fold laundry on Sundays. He still touched you—more now, and far less innocently. His hand around your throat in the hallway, your legs over his shoulders in the shower, his voice wrecked in your ear when he whispered mine.

But when the sun was up and your friends were around, it was like nothing had changed.

Because neither of you had said anything.

Because technically, you weren’t… anything.

Just best friends who sometimes fucked each other dumb.

So, you didn’t overthink it when Jisung plopped down beside you at Chan’s house one night, slinging an arm over your shoulders like he always did.

You were curled up on the couch—legs stretched out over Jisung’s lap like you had no idea what your body was doing.

Which, of course, you did.

But it was harmless, right?

You and Ji had always been like this. Teasing. Playful. His hand on your calf, your fingers brushing the back of his neck when you leaned over to whisper something about the movie’s terrible dialogue. Laughing when he joked about running away with you if your dream man didn’t show up by thirty.

And Chan?

Chan was seated on the opposite side of the room, beer in hand, back slouched against the armrest of his own damn couch like he was trying not to break the bottle between his fingers.

You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Jisung casually reached to tug at a string on your hoodie.

You didn’t see how hard he gripped the cushion when you threw your head back laughing, swatting Jisung’s chest when he made some inappropriate quip about how “you were looking dangerously inviting tonight.”

But Binnie did.

Binnie was seated closest to Chan, and the energy was radiating. Like a storm behind a dam.

He peeked between Chan and you—then leaned closer, nudging Chan’s shoulder, voice low.

“You good?”

Chan didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on your face like a warning. Or a dare.

“Dude,” Binnie tried again. “You’re gonna snap that bottle.”

Then Jisung did it.

He leaned in, finger trailing your thigh playfully before he whispered something that made you laugh loud enough to turn heads.

That was it.

Chan’s jaw flexed.

When Jisung nudged your side and joked, “Damn, you’re really sweet today—what’d I do to deserve this kind of attention?” you laughed along, but something tensed inside you.

Because Chan was still watching. Still unsuccessfully pretending not to be bothered.

And when your gaze flicked to him—when your eyes met his—you saw it.

The jealousy.

The storm.

And something else.

Something ugly.

You didn’t get to think about it too long because the moment Jisung leaned a little closer to whisper something dumb in your ear, Chan’s voice sliced across the room.

“Yo, you good, Ji?”

You both looked up.

Jisung blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

Chan’s smile was all teeth. “Cool. Then take your fucking arm off her.”

The room froze.

It wasn’t loud. But it hit like a slap.

You blinked.

Jisung’s arm dropped instantly. “Whoa. Chill, bro.”

Chan didn’t answer. Just turned and walked off—shoulders tense, hands shoved in his pockets.

You stood up.

Followed him down the hall.

Found him in the kitchen, staring out the window, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep from exploding.

“Chan…”

He didn’t turn around. “What?”

“What the hell was that?”

“What was that?” He finally turned. “You were all over him.”

You folded your arms. “We always joke like that.”

“Not like that.”

“Are you seriously jealous right now?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, voice tight. “Am I allowed to be?”

That shut you up.

Because no. Not officially.

You weren’t his.

Not on paper.

But in every other way?

He was yours.

And you were his.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You sleep in my bed. You moan my name. You suck my dick like you were born for it—and then I have to stand there and watch you flirt with someone else like I’m not in the room?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

He reached for you—gripped your waist like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I am jealous,” he said quietly. “I’m fucking jealous. And I don’t even know if I have the right to be. Because we never said what this is.”

You looked up at him—heart in your throat.

“I don’t want you touching anyone else,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone else touching you. And I know that makes me sound like a possessive prick but—”

“Good,” you said, cutting him off.

His brow furrowed. “Good?”

You nodded slowly. “Because I don’t want anyone else but you.”

He stared at you.

And then? He kissed you.

Right there. In the kitchen. With his hand wrapped tight in your shirt and his mouth hot and desperate over yours like he couldn’t take one more second of uncertainty.

He kissed you like a man unhinged.

Hands fisting your shirt, mouth clashing with yours, dragging you backward until your hips bumped the edge of the counter. His tongue was deep, claiming, and when your fingers slipped into his hair—tugging hard—he moaned against your lips like he needed the pain.

“Mine,” he whispered into your mouth. “I don’t care if it’s selfish. I don’t care if it’s messy. I need you to be mine.”

You gasped as he lifted you—effortless—hoisting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing. The red solo cup tipped and spilled behind him. Neither of you noticed.

Your legs parted automatically. His hips slotted between them, his hands sliding down your back to pull you close, his forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to anchor himself.

“I can’t watch it again,” he panted. “You touching someone else. Laughing with them like that. Even if it means nothing—you mean everything to me.”

Your chest clenched.

And maybe it was the tension of weeks you’d danced around. Maybe it was the feel of his hands gripping your ass. Maybe it was just finally hearing the truth—his truth—but something in you broke open.

You cupped his cheeks. “Then say it.”

He blinked, breath catching.

“Say you want me. Say this is more than just sex.”

“I do,” he said immediately. “Fuck—I do. It was never just sex for me. You think I let anyone else sleep in my bed? Wear my clothes? Use my toothbrush like it’s nothing?”

You grinned. “Okay, that one’s still a little gross.”

He groaned, laughing against your throat before nipping it. “You know what I mean.”

You nodded, fingers stroking his hair, lips brushing his temple.

Then—because you couldn’t help it—you whispered, “You were kinda hot when you got mad.”

He froze.

You smirked.

“Don’t give me that look, Chris. You stormed off like a jealous ex and then growled at Ji like a possessive boyfriend. I was, like… kinda turned on.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a wrecked groan. “You’re evil.”

You laughed—and then gasped when his hand slid under your thigh, gripping hard.

“You like testing me, huh?”

You shrugged. “You’re cute when you pout.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming. “And what am I when I fuck you into the kitchen counter so everyone knows you’re mine?”

Your breath hitched. “Dangerous… but you wouldn’t”

He licked into your mouth again—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Then don’t test me again,” he warned. “Because next time? I’ll bend you over right in front of them.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You wouldn’t.”

His voice was a growl. “Try me.”

You bit your lip.

And in that moment—your legs wrapped around his waist, his hair tangled between your fingers, the sound of your friends laughing faintly down the hall—you realized something:

You didn’t need a label. You had him.

His body. His voice. His possessiveness. His softness. His broken jealousy. His perfect rage.

And he had you.

All of you.

Even the bratty parts you hid from everyone else.

Especially those.

Which is why the kiss should’ve ended there.

It should’ve been the resolution, the wrap-up to a long overdue conversation—but when your back hit the fridge and his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth, you knew.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

His hands were wild, greedy. One on your waist, the other slipping under the hem of your skirt with a low groan like he couldn’t wait another second.

You gasped into his mouth, instinctively glancing toward the hallway—but Chan didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just mouthed hotly down your jaw as he muttered, “Be quiet for me, baby… You can do that, yeah?”

You nodded, already breathless.

He kissed you again—rough, possessive—and the next thing you felt was your panties snapping at the sides. The elastic gave way with a soft pop, fabric torn and tugged from between your legs so fast it made your knees buckle.

Your gasp was sharp.

“Shhh,” he whispered, holding you steady, already stuffing the torn panties into his hoodie pocket like a prize. “Be a good girl now.”

You whimpered.

He turned you around.

Hands flat on the counter, chest pressed to the cool marble as he shoved your skirt up and dragged his fingers between your thighs.

“Still so wet,” he groaned. “You fucking like this. You like knowing they’re all out there—thinking you’re so innocent.”

His fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing.

You bit down hard on your fist.

He lined up behind you—cock already out, flushed and heavy against your ass—and the second he pushed in, slow but deep, your mouth dropped open in a silent scream.

You clawed at the counter, legs shaking.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “This pussy…”

You tried to move—anything to brace yourself—but he clamped one hand over your mouth and gripped your hip with the other, pulling you back into every thrust.

“Don’t make a sound,” he breathed into your ear. “Not one fucking sound.”

It was brutal.

He was brutal.

Thrusting hard enough to jolt the counter, angled so deep you saw stars. Your body rocked with every snap of his hips, and the stretch burned in the best way, overwhelming and messy and silent only because you had to be.

“Should’ve fucked you like this the second you walked in tonight,” he growled. “Skirt all cute, acting like you wouldn’t be under me by the end of the night.”

You moaned against his palm.

He leaned closer, biting your ear. “You know who you belong to, right?”

You nodded frantically.

“Say it.”

He pulled his hand away for just a second, and you gasped, “Yours. Always yours.”

That was it.

He snapped.

One arm locked around your waist, the other clamped over your mouth again as he pounded into you like he needed to mark you from the inside out. The sounds of your skin slapping echoed far too loud in the kitchen—anyone could walk in, but neither of you could stop.

His breath was ragged against your neck, hips stuttering.

“Gonna come,” he warned, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Where do you want it, baby?”

You tried to answer—but all that came out was a broken, needy cry into his hand.

And then he buried himself one last time—deep, full, pulsing.

You felt it all.

Every twitch. Every drop.

His forehead dropped to your back, his entire body trembling.

And when he finally pulled out, panting, sweat-drenched, and completely wrecked?

He kissed the back of your neck. Still holding your ruined panties in his pocket.

—

You tried to fix your hair in the hallway mirror.

Chan didn’t even try to hide the smirk on his face as he tugged his hoodie back over his head, still smug with your ruined thong tucked in his pocket and your lipstick barely smudged off his throat. You were still catching your breath, still trying to remember how to walk, when he reached for the door to the living room.

“Act natural,” you whispered.

He snorted. “You just screamed into my hand like a porn star in my kitchen and now you want natural?”

You slapped his chest. “Shut up—just… act like we weren’t gone that long.”

You stepped in first.

The living room was too quiet.

Way too quiet.

Your eyes bounced from person to person—every single one of your friends was staring at you. The TV was on, but the volume was muted. The speakers were dead silent. Drinks half-lifted, conversations paused.

All of them watching.

You blinked.

Chan stepped in behind you, and the second the door clicked shut, a low wolf whistle cut through the silence.

“That was so fucking hot,” Jisung said.

“That was so fucking hot,” Hyunjin echoed at the same time.

Both of them turned to each other in shock. “Jinx,” they said in unison, then burst into laughter.

And just like that?

The room exploded.

“Oh my god—were you guys actually—”

“In the kitchen?”

“Bitch, we were out here!”

“Did you break anything?”

“I KNEW IT—I TOLD YOU THEY WERE FUCKING!”

“Wait, wait—back it up!” Jisung shouted, standing on the couch like a referee. “You left here acting like you were about to throw hands—how did it go from ‘we’re just best friends’ to raw-dogging next to the spice rack?”

The noise was chaos.

Everyone talking at once.

Seungmin was already miming pelvic thrusts. Someone else yelled “PLOT TWIST!” like they were live-tweeting it. Your face was on fire, and Chan?

Chan was thriving.

He let the chaos rise for a beat, then casually slid his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side like he’d done it a million times. His fingers curled possessively at your hip.

“Well,” he said, smirking at the group. “I don’t think I need more explanations, do I?”

The room erupted.

You covered your face with your hands, groaning, and Chan just laughed, tugging you closer, letting everyone else lose their minds while he leaned in and whispered, “You’re never living this down.”

You peeked at him from between your fingers. “Neither are you.”

“Good,” he murmured, voice low and cocky. “Let ‘em talk.”

He kissed your temple.

And just like that?

You weren’t hiding anymore.

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

Authors note: There we have it!! Part two! Its short but i had to deliver since alot of you asked for it! Thanks for all the encouragement really, you guys are the best!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @minchanlimbo@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

[cloudetra]

Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension

Word count : 9.6k

Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.

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

Next>>

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

There was no knock. There never was.

Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

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

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

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[cloudetra]

⍣ ೋ 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.

[cloudetra]

[cloudetra]

His Spoiled Diamond

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Seungmin x fem!reader

Summary: He loves spoiling the girl he's always had a weak spot for.

Warnings: GETTING RAILED AT CHAUMET.

A/N: Again, I hope the Seungmin stans are happy with me.

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Han ୨ৎ Leeknow ୨ৎ Changbin

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Before the ring, before the coat,

there were a thousand little things.

Limited edition sneakers that vanished from shelves in seconds — but somehow landed at her door, no receipt, no note, only the faintest scent of his cologne lingering on the box.

A first edition poetry book she’d once brushed her fingers over in a dusty Paris stall — slipped onto her desk like a secret, bound in velvet, her name handwritten inside the cover.

Fresh flowers every Friday — never the forced perfection of roses, but wild, tangled stems like the ones she always lingered over at the street markets, chaotic and soft and alive.

A signed vinyl from her favorite band — though she’d never mentioned it aloud, only ever hummed a few verses under her breath while working.

Tiny velvet boxes tucked into the lining of her suitcase when she traveled — each cradling delicate jewelry that whispered against her skin like a private kiss.

Cashmere sweaters in muted colors, the kind that seemed to melt against her body, always fitting her too perfectly to be coincidence.

Matching mugs after a single offhand comment — because “coffee tastes better when we drink from the same cup.”

And the notes.

The notes tucked everywhere.

In her sketchbook.

In the pages of her planner.

In the back pocket of her jeans.

Eat well. Rest. You are loved.

He never asked for thanks.

Never expected anything back.

He just gave.

And gave.

And gave.

Until loving her was no longer something Seungmin did, it was something he was.

───── ୨ৎ ─────

The ring came first.

A delicate band of white gold, cold and precise, sliding onto her finger with the effortless certainty of something that had always belonged there.

No grand confession.

No speeches.

No fireworks.

Just Seungmin, sprawled lazily on the sofa in a worn gray hoodie, tapping idly at his phone, voice low and distracted:

“Come here.”

She did — barefoot, sleep-heavy, the hem of his old T-shirt brushing her thighs.

He caught her wrist, pulled her closer, thumbed the ring onto her finger with a slow, almost absent-minded care.

“Needed everyone to know you’re mine,” he murmured, not even looking up.

She stared at the band — thin, heavy with diamonds, an unmistakable signature of wealth and intimacy — and something in her chest cracked open.

She hadn’t asked.

Hadn’t needed to.

He simply knew.

“Thank you, Minnie,” she whispered, dazed.

He smiled — lazy, dangerous — and tugged her down onto his lap like it was nothing.

“Good girl.”

───── ୨ৎ ─────

The Burberry came next.

Not just any trench coat.

Custom-tailored in London.

Soft tan suede that caught the light like honey, stitched inside with a muted plaid, a luxury secret meant for no one else to see but him.

It arrived at her studio sealed in a heavy garment bag, a handwritten note folded into the pocket:

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself too, my pretty artist. Love, your biggest fan.”

She wore it for him — and only the coat.

Bare beneath the suede, skin kissed pink by the evening light filtering through the windows.

When Seungmin walked in, he didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just set the coffee he brought onto the table with mechanical precision and stalked toward her.

His fingers — deceptively gentle — found the belt first.

Loosened it with one slow pull.

Pushed the fabric open, revealing her inch by inch, like he was unwrapping something breakable.

His voice came low, nearly unrecognizable.

“You’re not allowed to tease if you can’t handle the consequences, princess.”

She tried to answer.

Tried to be coy.

But he had her caged against the table before a word left her mouth, the coat puddling around her hips, his hand sliding under to cup the soft heat of her, bare and wet and already trembling.

“Messy little thing,” he muttered against the delicate shell of her ear, fingers slipping between her folds, cruelly light.

“All worked up just from wearing what I bought you?”

She whimpered — helpless, desperate.

Seungmin only smiled, slow and sharp and certain.

───── ୨ৎ ─────

The salon was a dream in gold and velvet.

Quiet, cloistered, hidden high above the noise of Paris.

A room only a handful of names would ever see.

Bathed in the soft shimmer of chandelier light, surrounded by display cases that held entire kingdoms in a single velvet box.

She stood in her new Heels on the thick carpet, wearing in the Burberry dress she got a few days ago, Seungmin’s jacket — oversized, drowning her, his scent clinging to every thread.

And behind her, Seungmin.

Solid. Warm.

His hands already roaming under the fabric, tracing the bare curve of her waist.

“You deserve all of it,” he murmured against her ear, voice a low, reverent rasp.

“Pick anything, baby. Everything.”

She opened her mouth to protest — to say it was too much, too outrageous —

But he was bunching up her dress, already sliding inside her with a slow, claiming thrust, stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Point,” he said, voice rough with control.

She whimpered, balancing herself against the cool glass of the nearest case, knees shaking.

The stretch of him was almost too much, slow and deliberate, designed to make her mind unravel.

“I c-can’t,” she gasped.

Another roll of his hips — patient, devastating.

“You can,” Seungmin growled, nipping at the shell of her ear.

“You will. That’s an order.”

Trembling, she lifted a hand — barely able to focus through the haze of him — and pointed to a delicate tiara nestled in silk.

Diamonds like crushed stars, curling into the shape of laurel leaves.

Seungmin hummed approvingly, hips grinding deep into hers.

“Good girl.”

He signaled with a glance — no words needed — and somewhere behind them, the silent, discreet attendant slipped away to prepare the piece.

The rhythm of his thrusts was mercilessly slow — dragging every heartbeat out into an eternity —

but he never stopped.

Never let her escape the feeling of being filled, owned, adored.

“More,” he whispered.

She shuddered, gasping as he thrust deeper.

“More, baby. I want you spoiled until you forget how to say no.”

Her hand shook as she pointed again —

A necklace of pink sapphires, delicate as a vine.

A ring with a solitary emerald the color of spring rain.

A pair of earrings so intricate they looked spun by spiders from silver moonlight.

Each time, a reward — a deeper push, a ragged praise against her skin.

“That’s it,” Seungmin breathed, voice cracked open with emotion.

“That’s my girl. My spoiled, perfect thing.”

Her moans tangled with the hush of the salon, the shimmering quiet of obscene wealth around them.

She could barely stay upright, slick and trembling against the glass, but he held her there — one hand splayed over her stomach, the other sliding between her thighs, coaxing her higher.

“You deserve it,” he whispered, almost desperate now.

“Deserve everything in this room. Deserve the fucking world.”

When she finally broke — gasping his name, stars bursting behind her eyelids — Seungmin caught her in his arms, steady and unshakable.

He stayed buried deep inside her, rocking her through every aftershock, pressing kisses into her hair.

Only when she could breathe again did he lift her chin with a gentle finger, forcing her dazed eyes to meet his.

“You get everything you pointed at,” he said simply.

“And next time —”

He kissed her, slow and devastating.

“— you’ll ask for more.”

And she knew, with a dizzy, aching certainty —

It had never been about the jewelry.

Never about the price tags or the diamonds.

It was about him.

The way he worshiped her with his hands, his body, his soul.

The way he made her believe she was worth all the treasures of the earth.

The way, in a gilded room full of untouchable riches,

she would always be the most priceless thing in his world.

───── ୨ৎ ─────

Studio nights became different after that.

She’d curl up in the corner, sketching, pretending not to watch him —

but always, always feeling the weight of his gaze settle over her, heavy and possessive.

Later, he would press her into the couch, mouth hot and unhurried against her skin, stripping her down to nothing but gasps and trembling hands.

He never rushed.

Seungmin never rushed.

He licked into her slowly, like he had all the time in the world, teasing the sensitive places with maddening flicks of his tongue, dragging sweet, broken sounds from her lips.

“You taste even sweeter when you’re spoiled rotten,” he breathed against her, lapping at her until her thighs shook around his shoulders.

“Bet you don’t even realize how wet you get when you know you’re mine.”

She sobbed, writhing helplessly, and he only chuckled low in his throat — wicked, adoring — before pushing her over the edge with a single rough swipe of his tongue.

───── ୨ৎ ─────

Later still, when she tried to ride him — all messy kisses and trembling thighs — Seungmin caught her hips with brutal tenderness.

“Slow,” he ordered against her mouth, dragging her down on him inch by devastating inch.

“You’re gonna feel every second of it, princess.”

Tears blurred her vision, overwhelmed —

and Seungmin just smiled, soft and cruel, brushing them away with the pad of his thumb.

“That’s it.

Let me ruin you properly.”

When she broke apart, clutching at him, he held her right there, buried deep inside, cradling her through every aftershock, whispering against her hair:

“My pretty little artist.

Made just for me to love.”

───── ୨ৎ ─────

And when she fell asleep on his chest —

her fingers tangled in the Burberry coat thrown over them like a second skin —

Seungmin only kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes.

Because she gave him what no money could buy.

No brand could match.

No amount of luxury could counterfeit.

She gave him loyalty.

She gave him tenderness.

She gave him a home.

And that?

That was enough.

More than enough.

It was why he spoiled her.

Why he would keep spoiling her.

Why he would tear down the whole world if it ever dared to touch her.

Because she was his girl.

Because she was his peace.

Because in a life full of noise and endless want

she was the only thing he ever truly needed.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

[cloudetra]

Call It What You Want

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI

Genre: friends with benefits to lovers, smut, fluff

Summary: You and Hyunjin have been doing this 'friends with benefits' thing for a while now. But let's be real. You love him. And when he starts showing similar feelings, you're terrified. And it leads to a whole lot of Hyunjin-style drama.

“Fuck, princess,” Hyunjin groaned, voice wrecked, “you’re so tight.”

He had you pinned to the bed, as he fucked you like the world’s about to end. His hips snapped against yours, each thrust hitting so deep you’re seeing stars. Galaxies even. His lips were on your neck, sucking bruises - which would have your art class whispering for weeks.

You pressed your eyes shut, losing yourself in him completely. The way he moved in and out of you. The soft wet sounds that filled the room. And him whispering the filthiest things in your ear.

You were barely coherent, nails digging into his back, pulling him closer. Hyunjin had this glint in his eye, as he shifted slightly, hitting that spot, and you choked out a moan, tugging at his short dark strands.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and your orgasm hit you so hard, and you whimpered his name, clenching around him so tight, making him curse.

His thrusts turned sloppy as he whispered, “Fuck, that’s it,”

He came just as hard, burying himself deep inside you, and you were both panting, sweaty messes when he finally collapsed beside you. Pulling you close, he kissing your temple, and you let yourself enjoy it, just for a second.

It started about an year ago at a frat party you were dragged to by your friend, Jennie. You’d been sulking in a corner, nursing a warm beer, when Hyunjin, already tipsy, waltzed over, and declared you “the hottest grump he’d ever seen.” You’d scoffed at him, but in less than ten minutes, you had somehow ended up making out in his room upstairs.

One thing led to another, and now you were in this absurd, hilarious mess called, friends with benefits.

---

Hyunjin: You left your glasses on my nightstand. I can bring it over

You: Bring it to class tomorrow

Hyunjin: I’m keeping them hostage. 

You: Hyunjin 🙄

Hyunjin: Sleepover tomorrow? I’ll make pancakes.  

You: Maybe. But only for the pancakes.  

Hyunjin: Liar. You want my pancakes and you know what.

Hyunjin: Night, Nerd Queen 😘

You: Night, Hwang.  

---

You smiled at your phone, heart doing that stupid flip again. You knew you shouldn't be feeling like this. You two were friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. But every time you were with him, you fell for his stupid smile and his childish self way harder than you liked to admit. 

It was a Friday night, and you were curled up in your dorm, binge-watching a new series, when your phone started buzzing.

Hyunjin's frat was organizing a party, and he was probably charming the socks off everyone with his stupidly perfect face. You were trying to stay strong - no running to him tonight - because if you kept giving in to his every whim, he would surely figure out that you were completely, pathetically in love with his dramatic ass. 

And that was a secret you kept locked in a vault.

But Hyunjin? He wasn't making it easy. Your phone lit up again, and you caved, glancing at the screen.

---

Hyunjin: Babbyyyyyy where are you 😭 This party sucks without you! 

Hyunjin: Seriously, come over. I miss your face.  

You: You’re drunk, aren’t you? I’m staying in. Go flirt with your bros. 

Hyunjin: Drunk? Me? Pshh. Ok maybe a lil. But I only wanna flirt with youuuu.

Hyunjin: Come over, I’m lonely.

You: Lonely? Go cuddle Felix.

Hyunjin: Felix doesn’t moan like u do. 

You: Nope. I’m in my PJs, and I'm comfy. You’re on your own tonight.  

Hyunjin: I'm coming to you then. Can't escape me.  

You: Hyunjin, no. Stay at your party. You’re too drunk to walk across campus.  

Hyunjin: Too late. I'm on my way. Gonna cuddle you so hard you forget ur own name. 😤  

You: Oh my god. 

Hyunjin: I'm gonna climb into your bed and never leave. 

You: I’m locking my door.  

Hyunjin: You won't. You love me too much. 😘 Be there in 10. Wear that sweater I like.

---

You groaned, tossing your phone onto your bed. You should lock your door, but you don’t. Instead, you fix your hair, pull on that oversized sweater (the one he liked, because apparently you’re weak). Your heart did that stupid fluttery thing again, and you hated it. You were supposed to be the cool, studious introvert. But here you were. 

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on your door. You opened it, and there he was, looking like a dishevelled Greek god. His short hair and forehead glistening with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and his leather jacket slipping off one shoulder.

He gave you a sunny smile, his eyes lighting up when he saw you.

“My girl!” he slurred, stumbling forward and wrapping you in a sloppy hug. He smelled like beer and his cologne, and it was so unfairly intoxicating. “Told ya I’d come. Missed you so much.”

“You’re so drunk, Jinnie,” you said, but you were smiling as you guided him inside, shutting the door. “How did you even make it across campus without falling into a bush?”

“Love,” he declared dramatically, flopping onto your bed. “Love gave me wings.”

He patted the bed, saying “C’mere, nerd. I need cuddles.”

Then he decided that he couldn't wait, and grabbed your wrist, tugging you down next to him. You landed with a squeak, and he immediately buried his face in your neck, nuzzling like a needy puppy.

“Fuck, you smell so good. Like… home and sexy books.”

“Sexy books?” You laughed, pushing at his chest, but he’s clinging to you like a koala. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he mumbled. “God, I love you.”

He's drunk, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. But your poor heart wished that he did. Meanwhile, his hands slid under your sweater, and you yelped as his cold fingers grazed you stomach to move up and cup your breasts.

“Hyunjin! Your hands are freezing!”

“Then warm me up,” he whined, and before you could stop him, he was crawling under your sweater, tugging it up and burrowing into it. “Lemme in, it’s cozy in there.”

“Oh my god, you won't fit under my sweater!” you laughed.

He was wiggling, his head and shoulders all the way under the fabric.

“You’re gonna rip it!” you squealed, but he just hummed, pressing his face into the space between your breasts. 

“Worth it,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “Wanna live here forever. You’re so soft. And warm.”

You were dying, torn between shoving him off and melting at how stupidly cute he was. He was still trying to fit into your sweater, but finally gave up with a huff and whine and said, “Fine.”

And then settled for wrapping his entire body around you instead. He threw a leg over yours, arms squeezing you tight, face buried in your chest (half submerged in your sweater).

“This’ll do. For now.” he said, and you hummed, stroking his back. 

“You’re such a baby,” you said, and you both remained silent as his breathing slowed and you thought he was falling asleep. But then he murmured, “Love you…so fucking much. You’re my everything.”

Your heart stopped. You froze, hand still on his back, waiting for him to laugh it off or say something dumb. But he just snuggled closer, sighing like he was finally at peace. You swallowed hard, emotions bubbling up.

You loved him too. His childish giggles, his unhinged texts - but saying it felt too big, too scary. So you just hold him, letting the moment linger.

“Sleep, you idiot,” you whispered, kissing the top of his head (poking out through the neckline of your sweater). He hummed, already half-gone, and soon he was snoring softly, clinging to you like you’re his lifeline.

---

Hubby: Morning, wifey 😘 You're so cute when you sleep. Didn't wanna wanna wake you up. Let's go get some breakfast?

You: WIFEY? You changed your contact name to HUBBY? Hyunjin, I’m going to murder you.  

Hubby: Murder your husband? Harsh, babe.

You: You’re not my husband. You’re a silly boy who needs to stop stealing my phone.  

Hubby: I don’t have to steal anything. You're mine. Your phone’s mine. Deal with it, nerd.

You: You're delusional.

Hubby: Call it what you want

Hubby: Now come gimme a kiss, I’m dying😩  

---

You rolled your eyes, yet you were grinning like an idiot before kicking your feet and squealing into your pillow.

---

Later that day, you were in the library, trying to study, but Hyunjin had other plans. 

---

Hubby: Wifey, I’m lonely 😢 Lets study together. 

You: Stop calling me that. And I’m not falling for your tricks. I’m studying.  

Hubby: Tricks? Don't be so mean my love

You: I’m muting you.  

Hubby: You can’t mute your soulmate. Be real fir once, you can't resist me. 

You:  You're so full of yourself.

Hubby: Come over and you'll be full of me too 😉

You: Omg HYUNJIN. 

Hubby: Lmao you're so easy to rile up. Ok, I’ll be good. Love u, wifey. 

---

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. He was so stupidly endearing, and you hated how much you loved it. You were about to reply when a shadow fell over your table. You looked up, and there stood Hyunjin, holding a coffee and grinning. 

“Surprise, wifey!” he said, loud enough for it to echo through the library. He slid into the seat across from you, completely ignoring everyone’s glares. “Coffee for my love.”

“You’re not my husband,” you hissed, but you took the coffee. “And how are you even here? Don’t you have class?”

“Nope,” he said, leaning forward, chin in his hands. “Had to see you. I knew you'd be wearing those glasses and looking so cute…makes me wanna bend you over this table.”

Your jaw dropped, and you kicked him under the table. “Hyunjin! We’re in a library!”

He laughed, unbothered, and grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles.

“Can’t help it.” 

You snatched your hand back, face burning.

“You’re insane. Go away before I get kicked out.”

“Nope,” he said again, scooting closer until his knee brushed yours. “I’m staying. Gotta protect my wife from nerdy predators.”

He winked, and you were so torn, because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe this was real. But this whole thing started off on sex. And you were worried that he'd get bored and he'd get over you. 

You tried to focus on your notes, but Hyunjin was making it absolutely impossible - humming softly, doodling “Mr. & Mrs. Hwang” in your notebook. You give him a glare and yanked your book away, ruining the cute doodle he was working on. 

He gave you a pouty look, and you narrowed your eyes at him. The usual Hyunjin would whine or tackle you into a hug. But he did none of that. Instead he stood up, putting your pen down as he held your gaze, and then just walked away. 

You watched him disappear, and for the first time ever, you were terrified. 

It has been three days since the library incident, and you’re losing your mind. No “wifey,” no texts about bending you over a library table. 

Nothing. Just… silence. The worst part? You missed it. You missed his childish whining, his needy cuddles, his sweet face. You tried to play it cool, but by day four, you were a mess.

You had just finished class and were walking towards the campus cafe, when you spotted him. Hyunjin. Reading. You did a double take, nearly spilling your drink. Since when did Hwang Hyunjin, read a book that thick? He was sitting under a tree, leaning against the trunk, looking so soft in his hoodie and glasses (glasses?!). Your heart squeezed, but you were also annoyed.

You marched over, plopping down next to him. He glanced up, one eyebrow raised, and went back to his book. No grin, no nothing. Just a cool, “Hey.”

“Hey?” you repeated, incredulous. “That’s it? Why are you ignoring me?”

He closed his book, looking at you with a neutral expression that was so unlike him it was creepy.

“I’m not ignoring you. I’m just… reading.”

“Reading?” You narrowed your eyes. “You haven’t spoken to me in days. What’s your deal?”

He shrugged, and said, “Figured you were sick of my ‘needy bullshit.’ You kept telling me to stop, so I stopped.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. He was being… serious?

“I didn’t mean stop everything. You’re acting like we’re strangers.” you snapped.

“I’m giving you space,” he said, his voice is tight. “You said I was too much. So, here’s not-too-much Hyunjin. Happy?”

Happy? You were miserable. But he was staring at you, all sulky and gorgeous, and you realized that he was on strike. No kisses, no touching, no sex. He was punishing you for resisting, and oh, it was working.

“You’re pouting,” you said, poking his cheek.

He swatted your hand away, but there was a flicker of his usual playfulness.

“Am not,” he muttered, turning back to his book. “Go study or whatever. I’m fine.”

You stared, heart twisting. He was hurt, and you did this. You pushed him away, and now he has dialled it back to zero. But you weren't letting him win this. You needed your Hyunjin back, drama and all.

You couldn't take another day of this cold-shoulder nonsense. You mustered the courage for what you were about to do, and walked to the frat house. Ignoring the party raging downstairs, you headed straight for Hyunjin’s room. You didn't knock - you just barged in, and there he was, at his desk, sketching. He was in a loose tank top, hair messy, pencil moving with that focused intensity that made him look so unfairly hot. He glanced up, startled, then leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Ever heard of knocking?” he asked, but there was a spark in his eyes, like he'd been waiting for you.

“Nope,” you said, shutting the door. “We need to talk.”

He raised an eyebrow, playing it cool, but that pout’s still there, lingering. “Talk then. I’m listening.”

You took a deep breath, heart pounding. You’ve been resisting him for months, pretending you were not in love with him. But you were done fighting. You reached into your pocket and pull out the ring pop you had bought on a whim at the campus store - a cheap plastic band with a strawberry-flavored candy “diamond.” It was ridiculous, but you were desperate.

“Hyunjin,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you away. I was scared. Because I have wanted more for a while now. I don't want to be someone you sleep with. I wanna be more. I miss you. I miss being your wifey. I miss you so damn much.”

His eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything, so you kept going, holding up the candy ring.

“You wanna be my husband? Fine. Here’s your ring. Marry me, you idiot.”

For a second, he just stared, and you felt like you'd broken him. Then his face blooms - eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, grin so wide it could overshadow the sun. He looked so happy, so Hyunjin, it was like the room got brighter.

“Wifey,” he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re proposing? With a candy ring? Fuck, that’s so cute. I think I'm gonna cry.”

“Please don’t cry,” you said, but you’re grinning too, heart racing. “Just say yes so I can stop feeling like an idiot.”

“Yes yes yes,” he said, jumping up and grabbing your face, kissing you so hard you stumbled back. His lips were soft and desperate, and you kissed him back, hands tangling in his hair, and it was like the world snapped back into place. He was yours, drama and all, and you were his.

The kiss deepened, all tongue and heat, and you were both gasping, pulling at each other like you’ve been starved. He lifted you onto his desk, knocking over his pencils and sketchbooks, and you laughed against his mouth.

“Careful, Hubby,” you teased, and he groaned, kissing you harder.

“Say it again,” he murmured, hands sliding under your shirt, warm and needy. “Please.”

“Hubby,” you whispered and he practically whimpered, pressing himself closer, lips trailing down your neck. You made out for what felt like hours, all sloppy kisses and wandering hands, until your lips were swollen and your hearts pounding.

Finally, you pulled back, both of you panting. He had the candy ring on his finger, and he looked so genuinely happy and excited.

“I love you so much,” he said, holding up his hand to admire the ring. “Strawberry’s my favorite.”

“You’re such a dork,” you mumbled, but you were beaming, because he’s your dork. “I love you, Jinnie.”

---

Hubby: My heart’s gonna explode.  

You: You survived the strike, you’ll live.

Hubby: Never. You looked so hot with that ring, though. Oh fuck, I'm hard again. 

You: HYUNJIN. Behave for five seconds.  

Hubby: Can’t. I’m married to the hottest nerd ever. I’m gonna kiss you forever.

You: I love you baby

Hubby: Fuck, I love you. My wifey. My nerdy goddess. I’m never shutting up again, you know that, right?  

You: Good. I missed your dramatic ass. 

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

[cloudetra]

Just Another Work Trip

Coworker! Changbin x Fem Reader

Tags: work husband, hotel room, honeymoon suite, alcohol, teasing, size kink, oral (m,f receiving), unprotected sex, cum swallowing, fingering, smut, squirting.

Word Count: 7k

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple work trip—until a hotel mishap landed them in the honeymoon suite with complimentary wine and only one bed. Now she’s in a robe, asking him questions no sober co-worker should, and he’s showing her exactly what those hands can do. “Strictly professional” goes out the window the moment he pulls her onto his lap.

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

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

It started like every other work trip: you and Changbin sitting side by side at the airport gate, bleary-eyed, under-caffeinated, and already bickering over the window seat.

“You sat by the window last time,” you’d argued, cradling the sad excuse for coffee from the airport kiosk in your hands.

He’d scoffed. “That was a thirty-minute flight. This one’s four hours.”

“Exactly. And I want to sleep.”

“So do I.”

You’d stared each other down for a full five seconds before he let out the most dramatic sigh imaginable and said, “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”

You’d won.

He’d sulked for most of the flight, arms crossed, hoodie up, headphones in. Every time you so much as adjusted your blanket, he’d shot you a theatrical side-eye, like you’d stolen his birthright instead of just the window seat.

Typical. Completely and utterly typical.

You and Changbin had somehow morphed from casual coworkers into a chaotic work-marriage no one at the office dared question. You got placed on all the same projects, shared the same relentless travel schedule, and had grown unreasonably good at finishing each other’s sentences and snacks. And yeah, maybe there was a little too much banter, a little too much comfort—but it was harmless. Easy. Familiar.

This trip was supposed to be just another notch on your shared itinerary—three days in a new city, back-to-back meetings, and one brutally long conference presentation. The company had handled the booking: flights, hotel, transportation. All you had to do was show up and try not to strangle each other before day three.

But the universe had other plans.

“There must be a mistake,” you’d said when the front desk clerk handed you one key card instead of two.

The clerk had looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry. There was an overbooking with our standard rooms. The only available one is a double occupancy—two beds, same room.”

You’d glanced at Changbin.

He’d just shrugged. “Not a big deal. We’ve shared worse.”

He wasn’t wrong. That time you both passed out in the same hotel armchair after a midnight movie marathon haunted your spine for days. So you’d agreed. Took the key. Went up. Unpacked. Brushed it off.

Until it started raining.

Not just a drizzle—a storm. Angry, dramatic, cinematic. Lightning cracked across the sky, thunder rolling in deep waves. And then, of course, came the leak.

Right above Changbin’s bed.

“Is that…?” he’d asked, frowning up at the slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip landing dead center on his pillow.

You’d just groaned. “Oh, come on.”

Ten minutes later, you were both back at the front desk, windblown and damp, with matching scowls. The clerk, to their credit, looked genuinely mortified and offered you an upgrade on the spot.

“The honeymoon suite,” they’d said. “It’s the only available room we have tonight. At no extra charge.”

You hadn’t even hesitated. Just nodded, grabbed the new key, and marched back to the elevator, two complimentary glasses of wine clinking in your hand while Changbin dragged your bags behind you.

“You think they’ll have better pillows?” he’d muttered, side-eyeing the golden panel on the elevator wall as you ascended.

“If there’s a leak in this one,” you’d deadpanned, “we’re getting on the next flight home.”

The elevator dinged.

The hallway was soft-lit and velvet-carpeted. Somewhere, from speakers you couldn’t see, romantic piano music drifted through the air.

“This feels fancy,” you’d muttered.

“This feels suspicious,” Changbin had countered, holding up the room key like it might bite him.

You slid the card into the lock. You barely registered the soft click of the key card before Changbin pushed open the hotel room door, dragging both your suitcases behind him like the absolute mule he always insisted on being.

“Okay, new room, no leak, no mildew, no funky smells—” he started, glancing back at you with a grin, until his voice cut off.

You walked in behind him.

And froze.

There was a towel swan on the bed.

Two towel swans, actually. Nuzzling. Beaks forming a heart.

Rose petals were scattered across the king-sized mattress like a florist had a breakdown. The lights were dimmed. There was a chilled bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket on the side table. A card in gold script read “Congratulations on your forever!”

You and Changbin looked at each other.

Silence.

Then he blinked. “Did we… just get married?”

You snorted. “I feel like I should at least get a kiss first.”

He stared at you for a beat. “I’d settle for a thank-you. I did carry your bag.”

“Oh my God.” You threw your purse on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed and collapsed onto the edge dramatically. “They really gave us the honeymoon suite.”

Changbin was still standing there, staring at the bed like it might explode.

“You think it’s too late to ask for separate rooms?”

You glanced at the wall where a MASSIVE hot tub sat right in the open, complete with rose petals floating in the water.

“…Yes.”

Another beat. Then he exhaled hard through his nose and set the luggage down.

“Well. At least there’s wine.”

You eyed the champagne. “And bubbles.”

He raised a brow. “If you think I’m sharing a bathtub with you—”

“Relax, Binnie. I wouldn’t subject you to that much of my bare skin.”

He snorted. “Please. I’ve seen worse.”

You froze. “You have?”

He smirked. “Yeah. The time you accidentally FaceTimed me while shaving your legs with your camera flipped.”

You gasped. “You SWORE you didn’t look!”

He just laughed and flopped onto the bed next to you.

You threw a pillow at him. It missed. He was still laughing.

And god—despite the heart-shaped pillows and mildly alarming amount of romance, it still felt easy. It was still you and Changbin.

Just you two.

Like always.

But… maybe not for much longer.

—

The room was ridiculous.

That was your first thought as you wandered in fully, suitcase forgotten just inside the doorway. Golden light poured from hidden fixtures, casting a warm glow over the white marble floors and the enormous bed—plush, pristine, and obnoxiously heart-shaped. Seriously. A heart-shaped bed.

Changbin wheeled the bags in behind you and stopped dead. “They weren’t kidding.”

“Nope.” You turned in a slow circle, eyes skating over every absurd romantic detail—rose petals on the bed, champagne on ice, a bathroom the size of your apartment with a jacuzzi tub that looked like it came from a music video. “We’re living someone else’s honeymoon.”

“Do you think we’re allowed to eat the chocolate swans?” he asked, already making a beeline for the tray beside the champagne.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever not lead with food?”

He popped one into his mouth before answering. “You’re welcome to be mad about it, but it’s the only way I know how to cope with emotional distress.”

You snorted and dropped onto the velvet loveseat by the window, kicking off your shoes. “Is that what this is? Emotional distress?”

“Uh, yeah?” He gestured to the bed with dramatic flair. “I’m sharing a honeymoon suite with my work wife. You think that’s not psychologically damaging?”

“I’m your work wife now?” You looked over at him, biting back a smile.

“Don’t act surprised. Everyone knows it. I’ve seen the way people look at us when we bicker on Zoom.”

“They look at you with pity.”

He threw a pillow at you. It missed and thudded softly onto the floor.

You didn’t pick it up.

Instead, you reached for the envelope on the nightstand—handwritten, sealed in gold. You cracked it open and read aloud, doing your best overly breathy romantic voice: “Welcome, lovers. May your stay be filled with intimacy and bliss.”

You and Changbin locked eyes for a beat.

Then burst out laughing.

“Should we write them a thank you card?” you managed between wheezes. “Tell them you snore like a chainsaw and I steal all the blankets?”

“You’re not stealing my blankets,” he said, already tugging one corner of the duvet onto his side like he was marking territory.

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at him in return.

He caught it with one hand.

“Truce?” he asked.

You held out a pinky.

He linked his with yours.

And just like that, it was easy again.

⸻

Later, after you’d both settled in—bags unpacked, room-service menu discarded, and the novelty of the ridiculousness dulled to a low, comfortable hum—you found yourself standing in front of the mirrored bathroom, wrapped in the hotel’s soft white robe, hair still damp from your shower.

When you walked out, he was already lounging on the bed, robe on, one arm thrown behind his head like this was a normal Tuesday night and not a total departure from reality.

He looked at you and grinned. “You clean up alright.”

You rolled your eyes. “You look like a skincare commercial.”

“I am the skincare commercial.”

You padded barefoot across the plush rug and slid onto the other side of the bed, careful not to touch but not exactly far either.

Between you sat the half-empty bottle of the complimentary wine and two crystal glasses, condensation beading down the sides.

Changbin handed you yours without looking. His thumb brushed your fingers as you took it.

You didn’t mention it.

“Cheers,” he said softly, lifting his glass.

“To what?”

He shrugged. “Surviving the leak. The free chocolate. Not murdering each other. Take your pick.”

You clinked your glass to his. “To the best fake honeymoon ever.”

The wine was sweeter than you expected. Rich and smooth, settling warm in your chest. Silence stretched between you, not awkward, not tense—just full.

You turned your head, finding him watching you in that lazy, amused way he always did when he wasn’t thinking too hard about it. Except… maybe he was thinking. You couldn’t tell.

“So,” he said eventually, voice low and thoughtful. “If this were a real honeymoon, what do you think we’d be doing right now?”

You raised a brow. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Is it?”

You took a slow sip, giving yourself a moment. “Well. Statistically? Probably fighting about what side of the bed we want. Or deciding which spa package to book. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or…” You glanced down at your glass, swirling the wine gently. “Or doing exactly this, I guess. Drinking wine in robes. Pretending we’re not thinking weird thoughts.”

The words had slipped out before you’d really processed them. You half expected him to laugh it off or make a joke.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you for a moment longer, head tilted, like you were suddenly a question he hadn’t realized he wanted to answer.

You cleared your throat, suddenly too warm. “I mean. Not weird weird. Just—like—hypothetical weird. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” he asked, voice dipping into something softer, something unreadable.

You dared a glance his way. He was still leaning back, still relaxed—but his eyes had changed. Darker. Curious.

The robe slipped slightly off one of his shoulders. Not on purpose. Not seductive. Just real.

And that was somehow worse.

Your voice felt quieter now when you spoke. “How much wine have you had?”

He looked at his glass. “Not enough.”

The wine had mellowed into a comforting buzz in your veins. You’d stretched your legs across the bed somewhere between the second glass and your last laugh, robe slipping just enough to bare your calf. Changbin was still beside you, close but not too close—legs crossed, head tilted lazily against the headboard, the neck of his robe loosened in a casual, effortless way that made it hard not to glance twice.

He looked… peaceful.

And a little too good.

You weren’t used to that. Not this version of him. This wasn’t at work Changbin, cracking jokes to ease the pressure. This wasn’t on a panel Changbin, charming and sharp and annoyingly put together.

This was something softer.

Something real.

“So,” he said, voice smooth and unhurried. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced at him over your glass. “Is this the part where you confess a deep, dark secret and ruin the friendship forever?”

“Not yet,” he teased, then shifted a little to face you better. “What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

You blinked. “Wow, we’re just going there, huh?”

“It’s a honeymoon suite,” he said with a shrug. “Feels wrong to talk about quarterly projections.”

You huffed a laugh and tilted your head, thinking. “Okay. There was this one guy who took me to a jazz bar and then spent the entire night telling me how women don’t really like jazz.”

Changbin winced. “Oof.”

“And then he made me split the bill because, and I quote, ‘chivalry is dead, but feminism isn’t.’”

“Double oof.”

You laughed, swirling your wine. “Your turn.”

“Worst date?”

“Mmhmm.”

He took a slow sip. “There was a girl who brought her ex-boyfriend to our first date.”

You stared. “Like… in spirit?”

“No. Physically. In the flesh. Said she needed me to see why I should be better than him.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

Your wine almost came out your nose.

He looked smug.

“You ask one now,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Make it good.”

You turned toward him, mirroring his posture without realizing. “Okay. Be honest—how many people have you actually been in love with?”

That stopped him.

His mouth tugged into a thoughtful little line as he leaned his head back against the wall. “One. Maybe. I think.”

“You think?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I loved the idea more than the person. But at the time… it felt real.”

You nodded, gaze dropping to your glass. “I know what you mean.”

He looked at you again, carefully. “How about you?”

You bit your lip. “One. Definitely. And it wrecked me.”

Silence hummed for a moment. Not heavy. Just present.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling, “we’re getting too real. I need something spicy.”

You laughed. “Oh, now you want spicy?”

He grinned. “What’s the most inappropriate thought you’ve ever had in a professional setting?”

You nearly choked. “You can’t ask me that!”

“I just did.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. There was one time—don’t judge me—I zoned out in a meeting and started imagining what our boss would look like tied up in duct tape.”

Changbin lost it. “WHAT?!”

“It wasn’t sexual!” you said, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. “I was bored and I had intrusive thoughts!”

He was wheezing beside you, his whole body shaking with it. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

You bumped your foot against his leg. “Okay, your turn. Juicy. No backing out.”

He gave you a slow, deliberate look. “Alright. Be honest. Have you ever thought about hooking up with a coworker?”

The room suddenly felt warmer.

You blinked once. Twice. “Define thought about.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You took a sip of your wine to dodge the question, but your smile gave you away.

He laughed again, soft and low. Then leaned in just a little, not enough to be invasive—just enough to feel it. “Want to tell me who?”

You raised a brow. “That’s not how this game works.”

“Then ask me something equally dangerous.”

You thought for a second, your voice dropping a note. “Have you ever fantasized about someone you shouldn’t?”

His answer didn’t come immediately.

His gaze flicked to yours. And held.

“Yes,” he said. Quiet. Honest. No smile.

Your heart skipped, just once.

You were both still smiling—but it wasn’t the same smile as before. There was something else beneath it now. Something new.

And neither of you had touched yet.

You swirled what was left in your glass, eyes drifting to the long fingers wrapped around his. You’d seen those hands type like a madman during crunch time, juggle a phone and a coffee and still manage to open doors for you without missing a beat. Efficient. Reliable. Strong.

But tonight—bare, relaxed, just resting on his thigh—they looked different.

They looked like trouble.

“You keep staring,” he murmured, breaking the silence. There was no tease in his voice this time. Just quiet observation.

You blinked, caught. “Sorry,” you said, though you didn’t look away.

He didn’t move either. Didn’t hide them. Just let you look.

Blame it on the wine. Blame it on the robe. Blame it on the goddamn honeymoon suite and the way his thigh flexed every time he shifted.

You tipped your head slightly, swirling your wine again. “Can I ask you something I wouldn’t normally ask?”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “That’s what we’ve been doing, isn’t it?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, then let the words slip, soft but deliberate.

“What else do you use your hands for, Changbin?”

The room went still.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. He didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t brush it aside. Just let the question hang in the charged air between you.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, not smug—curious.

“Is that a real question?” he asked, voice just a little deeper now. “Or are you fishing?”

You shrugged, playing coy. “Maybe I’m just trying to see if you’ll answer.”

He looked down at his hand, then flexed his fingers like he was considering their résumé. “I guess it depends,” he said, tone still light but eyes heavy. “Do you want the PG version or the one that might ruin our work relationship forever?”

You felt your breath catch. Just for a second.

Then you smiled—something slow and unhurried. “I think you already know which one I want.”

He studied you like you’d just shifted into someone he hadn’t met before. Not in a bad way. In a what else have I been missing? way.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t close the space. His voice stayed calm, cool.

“You sure you’re ready for that answer?”

“Are you?” you asked back, matching his energy perfectly.

Another beat of silence stretched—this one taut.

And then, finally, he leaned back against the headboard again, robe falling open just a little more at the chest. “Maybe you’ll have to ask again when the bottle’s empty.”

A challenge.

A dare.

And it tasted better than the wine.

It was him who poured the next glass. He didn’t ask. Just reached over and filled yours before topping off his own, eyes flicking up to meet yours while he did it. You watched the dark red swirl in his glass as he leaned back again, lips already parted like he was waiting for your next move.

“Your turn,” he said, voice like warm velvet. “You asked about my hands. I get to ask about your mouth.”

You raised an eyebrow, smile tugging at your lips. “That wasn’t the rule.”

“It is now.”

You let your teeth graze your bottom lip, then sat up straighter, tugging your robe just a little tighter—like it could hold in all the heat threatening to spill over.

“Well,” you started slowly, tipping your glass toward your lips, “My mouth… talks too much.”

He nodded, playing along. “I’ve noticed.”

“It gets me into trouble.”

“I believe that.”

You paused, gaze sliding down his chest and back up again. “And sometimes, when the moment’s right, it makes very bad decisions.”

There it was again—that flicker of something dark in his eyes. His knuckles brushed his jaw as he stared at you, thumb dragging lightly across his bottom lip.

“Define ‘bad,’” he said.

You pretended to think. “Kissing someone I’m not supposed to.”

“Who says you’re not supposed to?”

You cocked your head. “I don’t kiss my coworkers.”

“Not even your work husband?”

You laughed—light and quick, like the sound could make the tension less thick. It didn’t.

“I especially don’t kiss my work husband.”

He let the silence settle again. Let it stretch, let it breathe.

“Shame,” he finally murmured, so quiet you barely heard it over your own pulse. “I’ve always wondered.”

Your throat went dry. The wine wasn’t helping anymore. You set your glass down, fingers lingering on the stem.

“My turn,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What else do you think my mouth could do?”

You asked it sweetly. Too sweetly.

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, it came in a slow exhale. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might tell you.”

And you knew—you knew—if you asked again, this night wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to.

But wasn’t that the point?

⸻

The bottle was nearly empty now—just enough for one more glass, but neither of you reached for it. It wasn’t the wine anymore. It was him. The way he leaned, one elbow hooked over the back of the couch, robe falling open just enough to tease the curve of his chest, the ripple of muscle along his arm. You kept pretending you weren’t looking. He wasn’t pretending anymore.

“I’ve got another one,” he said, voice lower now, like he was scared the walls might hear. “You ever think about someone at work when you’re… alone?”

You blinked slowly, a breath catching in your throat.

He gave you that smile—that one. Lazy and slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You don’t have to answer. But I think I already know.”

You stared at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. The robe was sliding from your shoulder and you let it, warmth blooming beneath his gaze when his eyes dropped—slow, like he was memorizing the skin there.

“What gave me away?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he wasn’t supposed to ask.

“You talk about me like I’m a safe space,” he said. “But you look at me like you’re dying to be unsafe.”

Oh.

You didn’t have a comeback for that.

Instead, you let the silence hold, the tension hum and twist and pull tighter between you, wrapping around your neck like silk.

“Your turn,” he added, voice now a rasp.

You wet your lips, eyes locked to the soft plush of his mouth, your thoughts nowhere innocent.

“Do you ever…” You hesitated. “Touch yourself to the thought of someone you shouldn’t?”

His jaw flexed. His hand shifted on his thigh—big hand, strong, veins trailing up thick forearms like a map of your current obsession.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Once or twice.”

“Just once or twice?”

He grinned. “More if I’m being honest.”

You swallowed hard. “Someone from work?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Your thighs clenched under your robe. You shifted just slightly, trying to ignore the ache building there. You shouldn’t be asking this. Shouldn’t be feeling this. But God, you were. Every look, every word, every pause between them—it was dragging you deeper.

“I like your hands,” you said softly. “They’re big.”

His eyebrow ticked up. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Bet they’re good at a lot of things.”

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, the space between you closing like a whisper. The scent of wine and hotel soap and something him filled your head.

“You have no idea.”

Your breath hitched. “Then tell me.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached out—slow, deliberate—and tucked your robe back over your shoulder, fingertips grazing your collarbone like he was giving you a warning.

Or a promise.

The touch barely lasted a second. But your skin burned for minutes after.

He didn’t answer you with words.

Just leaned back on the couch, his eyes locked to yours, like he was reading your pulse through your throat. You were holding your breath, thighs clenching beneath the soft fabric of your robe, fingers twitching where they rested on the cushion between you.

“I can show you,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate.

Then he reached out—big, sure hands gripping just under your knees—and pulled.

You gasped as your body slid toward him, robe parting with the motion, baring the soft skin of your thighs, your breath catching as you ended up half in his lap, one leg thrown over his. His hand settled there, fingers splayed wide against your thigh. The heat of his touch seared into your skin, slow and possessive, like he was claiming the right to touch you just because you let him.

You were still holding your robe closed at your chest, but the loose tie was slipping, barely hanging on.

“Changbin…”

His hand moved higher, fingers gliding up your thigh beneath the robe, until he was brushing where your inner thighs met, close enough to feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of your panties. Your hips bucked, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

“I knew you were soft,” he whispered, mouth close enough to your ear to make your skin shiver. “But I didn’t think you’d let me feel you like this.”

You tilted your head, lips parting. “Would you stop if I said no?”

His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and fuck, he was hard. So hard it almost scared you.

Almost.

“No,” he said, rough and honest.

And then his fingers slid further, pushing past the edge of your panties, slow, slow, until they dipped between your folds. You were wet—ridiculously so—and the groan that ripped from his throat made your whole body tremble.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re soaked.”

You clutched at his shoulder, nails digging into thick muscle. “You did that.”

“I know.” He looked smug. Devastating.

Then his fingers moved—two of them rubbing slow circles right over your clit, while his other hand kept you anchored in his lap like he was never letting you go. Your robe fell further open, your chest heaving, your mind slipping.

It should’ve been impossible to feel so exposed and so safe at the same time.

But that was the problem with Changbin—he was always your soft place to land.

Until now.

Now he was the one making you fall.

—

You should have stopped him.

You should have at least said something—drawn a line, made a joke, laughed off the tension and blamed the wine. But his fingers were already moving between your legs like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting for this longer than he was willing to admit.

And maybe… so had you.

You opened your eyes—when did they even close?—and found him already watching you, gaze pinned to your face like he was memorizing every twitch, every gasp, every shiver.

“Keep looking at me,” he murmured, voice thick and dark, like it curled out from the pit of his chest. “I wanna see what it does to you.”

You did.

You couldn’t look away, not with the way his fingers slipped down—deeper—before pressing up inside you with careful, measured pressure. You clenched around them immediately, a choked sound escaping your lips as your hips rolled down into his palm.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hands gripping the robe at your chest, holding it closed like that could protect you from the way he was pulling you apart.

“You’re not hiding anything from me,” he said, dragging his thumb right across your clit as he pumped his fingers inside you. “Not anymore.”

Your mouth dropped open, a moan barely catching in your throat. He didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Every movement was precise, deliberate, deep—like he was learning you, claiming you, devouring you with nothing but his hand and that look in his eyes.

The robe slipped from one shoulder, the tie loosening completely. You felt it fall open, heat licking up your chest as your breasts bared to the warm air between you.

Changbin looked down.

Then back up at your face.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

The softness in his voice broke you. The wave of pleasure hit harder, thighs trembling as you ground helplessly against his palm. You gasped, full-body shuddering, your legs twitching as you came undone under his hands—his perfect, thick, merciless hands.

He didn’t stop right away. He let you ride it out, watched every second of it like it was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

And then, finally, when you collapsed forward against his chest, panting, dizzy, heart racing—he held you there. One big hand resting on your back, the other sliding out from between your legs, slow and slick with you.

You lifted your head.

He brought his fingers to his mouth.

And sucked them clean.

You moaned, helplessly, mouth falling open as your entire body lit up again.

“I think you were about to tell me what else that mouth can do,” he said, lips wet, voice low and dangerous.

You bit your lip, dizzy and brave and aching for more. “If I show you, you better not hold back.”

His eyes flared.

“Then get on your knees.”

You didn’t move right away.

You stayed right there in his lap, your bare chest brushing his robe, your breath mingling with his—cheeks flushed, lips parted, his fingers still glistening where he’d tasted you. His command hung in the air like thick smoke. Get on your knees.

But you weren’t done taking control.

So instead, you cupped his jaw with both hands and pulled him into you.

The first kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy or slow or hesitant. It was hungry—all tongue and teeth and gasping mouths, the kind of kiss that knocked the breath from both of you. His hands gripped your waist hard, pulling you down tighter against the bulge pressing thick and hot beneath his loosened robe.

He groaned into your mouth.

“You’ve been holding that in, huh?” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, lips swollen from the heat.

“So have you,” he growled, and kissed you again—slower this time, like he was savoring it, like he never wanted to stop.

But you did.

Because now it was your turn.

You pulled away with a smirk, slipping off his lap and lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs. The robe around his waist had already parted just enough to tempt you, revealing his thighs—thick and muscular, tanned and gorgeous—and the heavy shape of his cock beneath the last thin layer of fabric.

Your fingers traced along his legs first. Just to feel. Just to watch him twitch and tense as your nails dragged along muscle and skin.

Then your hands went to his robe.

You parted it slowly.

And there he was—thick, heavy, flushed, and fully hard, resting against his stomach like he was built to be worshipped.

Your mouth watered.

“Oh my God, Changbin…”

He smirked, cocky and breathless, one hand curled into the edge of the couch, the other sliding through your hair.

“You gonna keep staring?” he said, voice rough. “Or are you gonna show me what else your mouth can do?”

You looked up at him through your lashes.

And leaned in.

The first kiss was to the base—soft and slow. Then your tongue dragged up the side of him, long and wet and filthy, until your lips wrapped around the head and you gave him just a taste of what was to come.

He moaned—loud, guttural, wrecked—as his hips bucked up and his fingers tightened in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch like he was trying to stay tethered to this plane of reality. You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, your lips stretched wide around his cock, the wet sounds echoing obscenely off the marble and glass of the suite.

“Fuck,” he groaned, thighs trembling under your palms. “You’re gonna make me come—”

You looked up at him with a glint in your eye, slow and teasing as your tongue flicked over the swollen head.

He growled.

“Shit—shit, babe, stop—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But you didn’t stop.

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, until his voice cracked into a moan that was so wrecked, so desperate, it made your thighs clench in response.

And then he broke.

With a low, dangerous groan, he yanked you off of him—your lips wet and swollen, breath coming in short gasps—and pulled you up onto your feet.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered, voice rough, pupils blown.

You opened your mouth to tease him again, but he spun you around before you could speak.

His hands slid under your robe, parting the fabric, exposing the bare curve of your ass.

“Changbin—” you gasped, but your voice hitched when he bent you forward over the back of the couch, your cheek pressed to the soft fabric, your breath catching.

“Been dying to know what you feel like,” he muttered, his chest pressing to your back, cock hard against your thigh. “You want this?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, already aching for him.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m done playing nice.”

He dragged the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds—teasing, even now—but his hands gripped your hips like a man on the edge.

And then, in one deep, slow thrust—

He filled you.

You gasped—moaned—arching back into him as he bottomed out, thick and perfect and so deep it left you trembling.

“Oh my God, Changbin—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice low and primal. “Feel me, babe. Take every inch.”

And then he moved—slow at first, letting you adjust, dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, each thrust harder than the last. You clung to the couch, the sound of skin meeting skin, of your moans tangled with his, echoing loud in the suite.

“Could’ve fucked you in that damn robe,” he growled, his hand slipping around to toy with your clit, “but you wanted to get on your knees and ruin me first, huh?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a whimper—broken, breathless, begging for more.

And baby?

He gave it to you.

Your moans were unraveling now—high, helpless, and shameless—as Changbin’s thrusts rocked you forward, your robe long forgotten, his cock stretching you wide from behind. He was relentless, chest heaving, sweat beading at his temple, muscles flexing as he pistoned his hips into you.

But then he paused—deep inside you, breath ragged—and his hands slipped lower, gripping your thighs.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted you like you weighed nothing, muscles straining deliciously under your gaze as he carried you to the bed. You clutched at his shoulders, drunk on him, on the raw strength of him.

He laid you down gently—like you were precious—before dragging your legs apart, kneeling between them, cock glistening with your slick.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “So fucking pretty. Open. Dripping. All for me.”

He didn’t wait.

He plunged back in with a growl—slow, deep, delicious—his gaze locked to yours like he wanted to watch every flicker of pleasure cross your face.

You cried out, hands flying to his arms, nails digging into thick, corded muscle as he started to fuck you again, steady and purposeful, hips grinding into yours like he owned your body.

“Taking me so well,” he breathed, one hand trailing up your stomach to squeeze your tits, thumb rolling over your nipple as his other arm slipped under your waist to hold you steady. “You were made for this—for me.”

You whimpered, back arching, the coil in your belly tightening.

“Bet you’ve thought about this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “About what these hands could do to you. About how good I’d fuck you.”

You whimpered a “yes,” eyes glassy.

He smirked—dark, devastating—and slammed into you harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say what this cock does to you.”

“It—It ruins me,” you gasped. “Changbin, fuck—you’re ruining me.”

“That’s right,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “Look at you. Moaning under me, tits bouncing, eyes rolling back. Just a desperate little thing who loves getting split open by her fucking work husband.”

You cried out—louder now—hips lifting to meet every thrust, dizzy with the stretch, the heat, the filth in his voice.

He reached between you again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, dirty circles as he fucked you into the mattress.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped. “Wanna feel you come around my cock. Wanna watch you fall apart while I’m buried so fucking deep inside you.”

You were close—so close—knees trembling, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. And still, he didn’t let up.

“Please, Changbin—fuck—don’t stop—don’t ever stop,” you gasped, legs trembling around his hips, your voice cracked and soaked in desperation.

And god, the way he looked at you—like you were his favorite sin—his most addicting addiction. His fingers rubbed faster, his hips rolled deeper, until your entire body was locking up beneath him.

“Yeah?” he rasped, dark eyes drinking in every twitch and whimper. “You wanna come for me? Make a mess all over my cock, baby? Do it—come on. Be my filthy little girl.”

That was it.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave—sharp and consuming—ripping through your body in shuddering waves. You screamed his name as your body seized and your vision blurred, hips jerking up uncontrollably—

—and then it happened.

Your muscles clenched and released and the gush of liquid burst free, soaking his cock, his thighs, the sheets. You tried to stifle the cry of embarrassment, but Changbin froze, cock twitching inside you as his jaw dropped.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hissed, pulling out to watch your release drip down your thighs. “You just fucking squirted for me?”

You whimpered, face flushed, barely able to catch your breath.

“Holy shit,” he growled, eyes wild now. “You’re insane—you’re fucking perfect.”

And then he was on you again, kissing you hard, tasting your whimpers, before pulling back with a ragged breath and gripping your jaw.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, voice thick with lust. “Let me finish in that sweet fucking mouth of yours.”

You obeyed, lips parting, tongue out—and he groaned, cock twitching at the sight of you so willing, so ruined and ready to be filled.

He knelt over you, pumping his cock fast and desperate, eyes locked to your face.

“Look at you—fuck—mouth open, tits bouncing, all wrecked and dripping for me. Gonna shoot it all down your throat, baby. Gonna fill you up like you deserve—ah, fuck—”

And then he came.

Hard.

Thick, hot spurts painting your tongue, your lips, some hitting your cheek as he moaned your name like a prayer. You swallowed it down greedily, humming as his body shook from the force of it, hand still in your hair.

When he finally stopped, chest heaving, he looked down at you—licking his release off your lips—and let out a low, devastated sound.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, collapsing beside you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

⸻

You didn’t even realize how quiet the room had gotten until the only sound left was your heartbeat, still pounding in your ears. Your body felt like it was floating, boneless and warm, draped across tangled sheets and a man who had just made you forget your name.

Changbin.

His arms were already around you, strong and solid, like they’d always known how to hold you after wrecking you that good. His fingertips traced lazy shapes across your spine, dragging goosebumps over your skin with every stroke.

“You okay?” he murmured against your forehead, voice thick with exhaustion and a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Mmm,” you hummed, barely able to lift your head, “I think you broke me.”

He chuckled, deep and raspy, and kissed your temple. “Nah. You’re unbreakable, remember?”

You smiled softly, letting your fingers trail along his chest—slick with sweat, firm with muscle. The kind of body that should be framed in a museum. Or worshipped. Which, you did. Very well, if the dazed look in his eyes was anything to go by.

He shifted, pulling the covers over you both, then tucked you closer like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of you too far. His hand rubbed your hip, soothing and possessive.

Then came his voice—quiet, laced with affection and mischief.

“Normally…” he began, brushing a kiss to your hairline, “I’d take you out on a date first before fucking you into a mattress.”

You laughed softly, nuzzling into his chest.

“But,” he continued, smiling now, “I guess we can reverse the order… There’s that place you mentioned earlier—the popular restaurant with the fancy drinks and overpriced desserts?”

Your breath caught, warmth blooming in your chest. You lifted your head, eyes meeting his.

“Are you asking me out?”

He smirked, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “I’m saying tomorrow night, I’m gonna show up like a gentleman. Pull out your chair, get you dessert, and pretend I didn’t already have you on your knees in a hotel suite.”

You grinned, heart pounding for an entirely new reason now. “Smooth.”

“I try.” He kissed you again, slower this time. Softer. Sweeter. Like he was sealing a promise.

And in that moment, wrapped up in hotel sheets and each other, you both knew—this wasn’t just a work trip anymore.

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

Authors note: so i watched the YouTube video with Changbin and the noona from 2nd gen and there was just something about the way changbin was laidback and holding a conversation that got me thinking ❤️

I hope you enjoyed this, many of you dont like to read Binnie but i promise his fics are hot! So dont forget to like, comment (love those) and reblog!!! I’ll drop the link to my masterlist below☀️🐷🐰

Masterlist

[cloudetra]

i had to speak about this because this is genuinely eating me alive. so fucking disappointing and upsetting.

i swear, some of y’all are the most disrespectful, entitled people i’ve ever seen. what the actual fuck is wrong with you? the kids are finally on the south american leg of their world tour, their first time in brazil, and instead of giving them the love and respect they deserve, some of you are out here acting like complete clowns.

stalking their hotel? crowding outside and filming them while they’re on the goddamn balcony? are you kidding me? they can’t even step out to breathe without a fucking camera shoved in their face. that’s not admiration, that’s obsession. and not the good kind.

and then they go to the beach, probably thinking they could relax and enjoy a moment of peace.. but no. y’all are out there too, filming them like they’re fucking zoo animals. make it make sense !!!!! what part of the word 'privacy' is so hard to understand? these are real people. human beings. the level of audacity is insane. do you even realize how suffocating that must feel? they’re literally on the other side of the world from home, wanting to meet their fans, their supporters from around the world, excited but probably exhausted, and this is how you treat them? so fucking disappointing.

but no, it doesn’t stop there, because of course it doesn’t! let’s talk about the absolute vile shit that happened after the chile concert. some of you had the nerve, no, the fucking gall.. to bash chan. over what? ghosting bubble for a week? after his group was mobbed at the airport? after one of his teammates nearly fell because of fans trying to stick to them? really?

a line of enlightenment, he’s not your personal entertainment service. he’s a human with a life, responsibilities, and feelings. he needed a damn break. he deserved it. maybe he was tired. maybe he just wanted to exist without the constant pressure of pleasing millions of people. but no, that’s too much for some of you to comprehend.

and then, when he finally comes back, the first thing he does is check in on his home country. because, in case you missed it, oh wait, you didn’t, you just didn’t care— sk was dealing with wildfires. literal, destructive wildfires. but y’all wanted him to just pretend that didn’t exist? the man asked if the weather was okay in his home country, and you psychos lost your shit.

calling him slurs? cursing him out? saying he only cares about k-stays? because he dared to check on his country? some of you even said you’re selling your concert tickets like that’s some sort of punishment. quite frankly, do it, i dare you. better and sensible stays are out there who actually deserve to attend their concert. go sell your tickets. stray kids don’t need “fans” like you there.

and what makes it worse? chan probably saw all of that. every disgusting comment. y’all made him feel like shit. you really sat behind your screens and tore down the most caring, selfless man who has done everything for his team pretty much his family, those around him, his company, and the fandom. after all the sleepless nights, the constant work, the emotional labor, this is what he gets? and then he comes back to bubble. those messages. are you fucking serious? that broke me. that genuinely broke me.

chan doesn’t deserve this. none of the guys do. i’m so goddamn tired of this toxic shit. y’all claim to love them, but the second they don’t cater to your every whim, you turn on them like a pack of wolves. being a stay isn’t about getting constant attention. it’s not about thinking you own them. it’s about supporting them, respecting them, and appreciating everything they do. if you can’t do that, leave. nobody fucking wants you here.

and before anyone says, 'but i didn’t do any of that!' — good! then this isn’t about you. but if you ever catch yourself excusing this behavior, staying silent while your so-called stay-friends act like actual bitches, or brushing it off as 'just criticism,' then yeah, you’re part of the problem. and i’m done sugarcoating that shit.

protect skz. respect skz. and for the love of everything, leave chris alone. i’m fucking done.

[cloudetra]

Thinking about a bf that loves how much of a slut his girl is.

He’s silently waiting for her to give him those sweet baby doll eyes when she wants a little taste of him.

He’s pondering all the ways he could drain her, fuck her, love her, and treat her all the time.

He’s throbbing at the thought of how wet she is just sitting next to him. How easily she’ll let him slip a hand between her thighs. How long she’ll hold out from fidgeting and bucking her hips for a little more of his tender touches. How well her folds spread along his fingers and the slick that pours out when he sinks them into her tight hole for a split second of warmth.

He’s focused on filling and stretching her pretty cunt. Addicted to making it creamy and sensitive in the bliss of a barely private moment. And all because his sweet little girl couldn’t wait until they got home.

He’s stretching her with two, three, maybe even four thick fingers. Feeling her legs shake and her cunt tighten. His mouth waters and his pants stretch tight like the muscle of his jaw as he tries to hide a coy smile. Proud of his little slut. Proud of his needy baby. Proud to be feeding her stupidly high sex drive.

Because whatever his baby wants she gets.

He’s so so so kind. So patient. So calm. While she whines and spreads her legs a bit more, whispering pleads in his ear for him to let her cum all over his hand, but he lets her beg for it until those whispers turn to stupid fuckable whines.

Sometimes a little slut needs to cry for a prize and he’ll make her do it every time.

Because that’s just how he is and how he likes it…

- Bang Chan, Yang Jeongin, & Lee Minho.

Enjoy this - 🖤 Mrs. Bahng

[cloudetra]

this was so amazing ........ one of the best binge reads i've ever done ‼️‼️

Quid Pro Quo Masterlist

Summary: A cute, bubbly astrophysics major agrees to tutor Chan in differential equations. In exchange, the unapologetic fuck boy will tutor her in the bedroom so that she can take things to the next level with her boyfriend, Changbin. As you each learn from one another, what starts as a no-strings-attached deal takes a surprising turn. At the end of the semester, someone catches feelings, and it’s not you.

Inspired by a random request I saw on Tumblr sometime last year.

Fuck Boy Bang Chan x Reader (f); Changbin x Reader (f); Smut

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, some violence, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

My Masterlist

[cloudetra]

i’m so soaked about jeongin being a brother’s bestfriend please make a smut out of it 🥹

oh my goshhh (｡•́︿•̀｡) one of my fav tropes is brothers bsf so this is right up my alley hehe cw. jeongin is kinda a meanie, super filthy, pillow humping. also reader is Seungmin’s brother.

Brothers best friend! Jeongin who finds out you have a little (fat) crush on him and decides he wants to abuse the power he has over you! He likes the idea of you fantasizing and obsessing over him; he likes the control and the way you melt to his touches and advances. Jeongin will come over to your house under the excuse of “i just wanna hang out with Seungmin“ when in reality, the second he gets a chance alone with you he’s actively toying with your poor little heart. He’s taunting you and flirting and ultimately turning you on to no end.

To Jeongin, it’s no surprise when one night when he’s sleeping over with your brother he finds you hopelessly humping a pillow while whinily saying his name. He can’t believe it; he knew you were pathetic, but this was an entirely new thing. Your hair falling down your front with your head hung, whispering his name, your hips rolling over the plush pillow between your thighs. Its dark yet Jeongin can catch glimpses of your pretty body through the sliver of light peaking through the doorway. He takes in the image, then the audio before he’s pushing the door open with a soft creak, closing it with a thud. You obviously jump, abandoning the embarrassing act you were just committing as you stare at your older brothers best friend, horror painting your expression. Jeongin is far from surprised, honestly. And the way he stares at you, predatory, was a little unsettling to you. Red heat rushed through your entire body, silently staring in complete horror at your stupidity. He was going to tell you off— he was disgusted. There’s no other explanation for the way he was staring at you.

Until you watch him glide through the room in less than a second, tugging you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You squeak but there’s not a single part of you that fights; you give in immediately to his eager, harsh moves. The first time he pushes his fat, leaky tip into you it’s enough to make your eyes roll, jaw slack as you cream so hard around him. Jeongin’s grin grows, his eyes dilated as he doesn’t wait for your orgasm to play out, he instead shoves himself deeper within your perfect convulsing walls. Sighing with a whine at the tightness of your pussy. There’s an urgency to the way he fucks; no breaks, it’s like he’s been waiting for this moment to fill you.

“Have you ever been fucked like this, hm? Like a slut?” Jeongin grits, pressing your tummy down with the flat of his palm, pushing you into the mattress because your hips won’t stop rising from overstimulation, “You’re so fuckin’ tight, I’m losing it…” He asks questions and speaks rambling but doesn’t wait for responses. “Gotta be quiet… don’t want your brother to hear, right? The walls are pretty thin, y’know…” He taunts you with a smirk, laughing before a moan cuts through.

“Feels better than that pathetic pillow, yeah, baby?” The nickname sends waves of pleasure you’ve never felt before through your body. You whimper, frantic as you feel some foreign knot of pleasure filling your tummy. You’re clutching his sleeves, whimpering, eyes widening. “Innie— ahh, fuck, I think I h-have to pee—“

But it’s not that! And Jeongin knows that, which is why he keeps stuffing himself into you, pecking the sweet spot inside of you whilst his thumb toys with your clit lazily. His eyes never breaking away from you as you convulse, back arching off the bed as you fight his hold… until the bubble inside of you bursts and you’re feeling liquid drench your inner thighs and Jeongin’s pelvis. Clear liquid squirts out of you, eyes rolling and chest heaving. Jeongin is prideful, continuing to overstimulate your clit with his thumb, drawing every nasty noise out of you.

You’re not quiet anymore! Any more noise and Jeongin is worried Seungmin would hear. So he removes his thumb from your clit, fucking you faster because he’s not done, and covers your mouth, pressing hard on your mouth while shushing you fervently. You’re heaving and fighting for breath, eyes wet as you stare at him pleading.

“What did I say? Shut up, or I’ll leave you like this,” Jeongin slipped out of you, his cock smacking against his tummy from how quickly he did so. You clambered, reaching with a soft cry, nails plucking into his neck as you pleaded, “N-no! Please, need more…”

His cock head taps on your clit, his hand guiding his dick up and down your sensitive, swollen folds. You’re spent, but you’ve got more to give. “Mm, pretty lil slut wants more? Knew you were a whore, baby.”

[cloudetra]

𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐞—𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Biker AU, Stray Kids one shot

Synopsis: A certain dark haired leader of a biker club caught your attention online and you've been watching his weekly races in secret—or so you thought. Little did you know, this handsome biker already knows about his cute little stalker...

Content Warnings: Stalking but online. Smut🔞 after a bit of plot. Unprotected sex, P in V (from the behind), riding, rough, dirty talk(?), ass slapping, pet names, choking(kinda—), aftercare in the shower. Chris is a tease (maybe like a bit?).

Minors do not interact!!!

Note: 17 days late, but better than never— HAPPY NEW YEAR! I've been wanting to draw and write biker Chan for a LONG LONG TIME, so finally here it is. (Yes that drawing is done by me haha)

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count: 5.6k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Zoom

The bike flashed away into the stretching tracks in a blink of an eye, leaving a trail of excitement and dust in its wake. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices drowned out by the fading growl of the engine.

You pushed your hood further over your head to cover your hair flying in that direction, blending into the mass of onlookers while your eyes stayed glued to the figure disappearing into the night.

Christopher Bang Chan.

Did an accidental misclick on a hashtag "NightRider" lead you into his world? Yes.

You did have an unexplainable attraction towards bikes. It was the thrill, the speed, the freedom. Even if you couldn't ride one, the way bikes looked like a beast that could conquer the roads, it fascinated you.

But this— this wasn't just an attraction towards the sleek BMW S1000rr that was speeding this evening. No.

A random late-night scroll had led you to a short video of him—helmet off, his hair dark slightly tousled, a cocky grin tugging at his lips as he dismounted his bike like he owned the world. That pulled you like a magnet to steel.

You watched him, racing the tracks with swift motion, in practice ease, over taking every other rider, everything about him demanding attention.

Every other rider was left in his dust, and the cheers of his friends, 7 guys echoed above the deafening roar of the engines.

"Teach these bastards why they can’t touch you!” one of them bellowed, pumping his fist in the air, his blood red hair catching the rays of the setting sun.

“Eat that, losers!” another laughed, slapping the back of the guy next to him as they all leaned against their bikes, eyes glued to Chan’s figure dominating the track.

In a final swift, Chan drifted his bike as he reached the finish line, the tires screeching against the asphalt in a perfect arc. A plume of smoke curled up from under the wheels, his dimpled grin flashing at his victory and triumph.

The lingering growl of his bike continued as he sat there for a moment, one leg propped on the ground as if soaking in the chaos he had just commanded. His friends were the loudest of all, their jeers and cackles cutting through the noise.

Chan finally killed the engine and swung off the bike with the same effortless grace that had first caught your attention online. He pulled off his helmet, shaking his head slightly to ruffle his dark hair into place.

His eyes gleamed with a mix of adrenaline and triumph as he tucked the helmet under one arm and began walking toward his friends.

“That’s how it’s done, you fucking legend!” yelled one in a strong Australian accent, smacking Chan’s shoulder, the redhead taking his helmet from him and handing in a water bottle.

“Told you it wasn’t even a competition,” Chan quipped, his voice smooth but laced with that cocky edge that made your stomach flip.

The crowd began descending, slowly leaving you alone in your place, your hood over your head, covering your face slightly. Just as you were about to look away, his eyes briefly landed on you.

Your breath caught in your throat at the intensity of his gaze on you. It was like he knew who you were but that was impossible. You've been secretly coming to the race every Saturday (telling your parents that you're going to the library) ever since you discovered his page and of course he doesn't know who you are.

It's out of the question.

Chan's smirk deepened, something wicked flashing in his expression. You quickly looked away, pretending to fidget with your phone, but you could still feel the heat of his gaze.

Before you made a fool of yourself, you stood up and walked towards the end of the track, pulling your hood lower to shield your face. Just as you were about to step into the shadows, a sharp, confident whistle cut through the air, freezing you in your tracks.

Your heart was pounding in your ears, you didn't turn around but felt Chan's lingering gaze pressing against your back. You turned slightly to see through your shoulders but then turned around and walked away as if you didn't hear anything at all.

“That chick’s been here for the last four weeks.” Minho commented, his voice casual as he tipped back his can of Red Bull.

Chan didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the spot where you had disappeared into the shadows. His jaw tensed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his gaze.

He could still picture the way you had glanced over your shoulder for a split second, like you’d been caught but refused to admit it.

"Oi, Chan," Felix called out, snapping him out of his thoughts. "You losing your touch, mate?"

The group erupted in laughter, their cackles echoing against the emptying track.

“Maybe she’s got better taste than you thought,” I.N added, smirking as he leaned against his own bike.

"She’ll come around." Chan said smoothly, shrugging nonchalantly, the cocky edge in his voice masking the intrigue bubbling beneath the surface.

"Will she now?" Hyunjin mocked, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure?"

"Trust me," he said, his tone low and deliberate. "No one comes to my races four weeks in a row without a reason." A devilish smirk tipped the corner of his lips that made the guys exchange glances.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't." Changbin interrupted, pushing himself upright with a sharp look.

"You don't even know what I was thinking." Chan shot back, running a hand through his dark, tousled hair. "Besides, if she keeps coming back, she’s going to slip up eventually. And when she does…”

Changbin rolled his eyes at him and grabbed a Red Bull from the ice box. He knew that Chan wasn't going to listen to what he's gonna say anyway.

Chan walked towards his bike and hoped on, revving his engine as it roared to life and slipping his helmet on. He glanced at his friends, his smirk turning downright wicked.

"Then what?" Hyunjin asked, crossing his arms.

"She wanted my attention, so she got it. And I want something in return.”

With that, he sped off into the night, leaving the guys behind in a cloud of smoke and laughter.

***

"Three, two, one, let's gooo!..."

You kept scrolling through Instagram reels, nothing interesting that grabbed your attention.

But you couldn't stop thinking about Chan...

It's Saturday, four o'clock in the evening. His races start at five. You went through his Instagram and TikTok, creating a folder in your saves for his biking videos and you catch yourself rewatching his highlights again and again.

Were you guilty for stalking him online? A bit—but you couldn't stop it. His bike didn't even fascinate you anymore the way it did the first time. You just were feeling obsessed with him.

The race track was only a few blocks away from you and you couldn't help but think, could he have crossed your home? You never noticed it but now everytime you hear a speeding engine, you look out your window, hoping it's Chan.

Yeah you were pretty much obsessed.

You went back to Chan's account and scrolled down his feed, opening some of his old posts when suddenly the phone slipped out of your hand and fell on your face.

"Fuck!" You yelped, rubbing your forehead, eyes widening as you glanced at the screen in horror.

Oh fuck—

You accidentally liked a picture of him from two years ago.

The red heart stared back at you, mocking your clumsiness, your heart sank as panic took over.

“Oh, no, no, no…” you whispered, scrambling to unlike it. You tapped the heart again, watching it disappear, but the damage was already done. Your phone trembled in your hands as you stared at the post, your reflection visible in the darkened screen.

It was a picture of him leaning casually against his bike, wearing a tank top with his buff arms crossed, a majestically inked dragon flexing on his bicep.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath, clutching your forehead. Does he get notifications for old likes? Does Instagram even do that?

You sat up, your mind racing just as fast as his bike. He had half a million followers, so maybe he wouldn’t notice, right? But what if he did? What if he checked? What if he remembered your face from the track and connected the dots?

"Calm down," you whispered, trying to reason with yourself. "He probably won’t even notice."

But deep down, a small voice in the back of your mind said otherwise.

Because if there was one thing you’d learned about Chan from watching him race, it was that he noticed everything.

~

"She'll be here today." Chan said, tossing the Red Bull can in the trash and turning towards his friends.

Seungmin tilted his head, looking up from his phone, arching a skeptical brow. "Oh, so now you're a psychic?"

Chan rolled his eyes, leaning casually against his bike. “No. She's been coming every Saturday, there's no way she'll not come today."

“You’ve been stalking your stalker?” Felix chimed in, his deep voice carrying a note of amusement as he slipped his hands in the pocket of his pants.

Chan smirked, unbothered by the jab. “I don’t need to stalk. She makes herself obvious. Hood up, always at the same damn spot. Like clockwork.”

“Maybe she’s just here for the bikes,” Seungmin said with a shrug, going back to scrolling on his phone. Chan shook his head, his smirk widening.

Chan shook his head, his smirk widening. “Nah, it’s not the bikes anymore. Her eyes practically screamed busted when I whistled at her.”

“That’s because you’re fucking annoying.” Jisung piped up, sipping from his own can of soda. “If someone whistled at me in public, I’d leave too.”

The group laughed, but Chan’s gaze remained steady, fixed on the track like he was already envisioning you standing there.

"Race instead of me." Chan effortlessly tossed his keys at Changbin.

"What?" Changbin caught the keys with a sharp reflex, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"If she's really into the bikes, she wouldn't care if the rider is different. But if that's not the case..." His smirk grew wider.

"Then she'll know it's not me the second you hit the track." Chan finished, rolling his helmet between his hands. "She’s been watching me, not the bike. Let’s see if she’s as observant as I think."

Changbin raised an eyebrow, twirling the keys in his hand. “So, you’re basically using me as bait?”

“Not bait,” Chan corrected, handing Changbin his helmet and clapping him on the shoulder. “More like... a decoy. Just ride, keep it clean, and make it convincing. Wear my helmet, keep your head down, and let me handle the rest.”

“This is either genius or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.” Felix said, shaking his head.

“Shut up and watch,” Chan said, his tone light but confident. He turned back to Changbin. “You good?”

Changbin sighed, slipping the helmet on. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t blame me if I win and your little stalker realizes you’re not as fast as you think.”

The group laughed again, but Chan was already focused, his gaze cutting across the other riders getting ready for the race and watching the crowd gather, waiting for his shadowed muse.

The air began getting slightly colder, riders hopping on their bikes getting ready for the race. Chan stood with the guys, his back facing the crowd and his face hidden with a hoodie, watching Changbin rev up the engine.

He gave a small thumbs to Bin who responded with his own one and held the handle, preparing to flash away.

You finally managed to slowly get in your spot blending in with the crowd, your usual hood on, hair in front to shield your face, eyes glued on the riders before you.

At this point it felt silly than anything else, sneaking around every Saturday like you were some undercover agent. But you couldn’t stop yourself. The magnetic pull Chan had on you was impossible to ignore, even if you didn’t fully understand it yourself.

Your eyes scanned the lineup of riders, automatically locking onto the sleek, black BMW S1000rr. The sound of its engine roaring to life sent a familiar thrill through you, but something felt... different tonight.

The rider atop the bike gave a sharp nod, helmet obscuring his face. You couldn’t tell, but the way he usually carried himself—effortless confidence paired with a hint of smugness—seemed oddly subdued.

Your heart sank slightly. Was he even here tonight?

You pushed the thought away, gripping the edge of your hoodie to ground yourself. Focus. It didn’t matter. You were here for the race, for the thrill, not for him.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself since the last four races.

The countdown began, the cheers of the crowd growing louder with each passing second. The sound of engines revving filled the air, and you found yourself leaning forward slightly, anticipation buzzing through your veins.

Three... Two... One—

The riders shot forward, a blur of color and speed tearing down the track. Your eyes stayed glued to the black bike, trying to shake the unease gnawing at the back of your mind.

Is it him?

You watched curiously for the first two rounds, pushing away the feeling that it's not Chan but when it was the third round and you still didn't see his dramatic drift at the curved corners of the track, you were sure that it really wasn't Chan racing.

You leaned backwards exhaling and pulling out your phone, your interest in the race quietly dying down.

"I caught you princess..." A smug grin spread across Chan's face who had been secretly watching you but the race.

Hyunjin, who had also been watching you with Chan, waiting for him to be wrong, sighed dramatically, pulling a crumpled fifty out of his pocket and slapping it into Minho’s palm.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, shooting Chan a side glance. "She really is here for you man."

Chan chuckled, low and confident. “Told you,” he said, brushing past them as he made his way toward you.

You were distracted with the reels playing on your phone to notice until he sat next you, your eyes fell on that unmistakable silver bracelet you recognised instantly.

Your heart pounded in your ears.

“Enjoying the race?” a low, teasing voice asked, so close you could feel the faint vibration of it in your chest. You stiffened, your head snapping up.

And there he was. Bang Chan.

Sitting casually next to you, leaning back like he owned not just the seat, but the entire universe. His hoodie was slightly pushed back, giving you a perfect view of his sharp jawline and those maddening dimples that tugged at his smirk.

For the first time, you noticed how sharp his features were up close—perfectly sculpted, how his lashes framed those piercing eyes that seemed to see right through you.

You swallowed hard, your nerves threatening to spill over, but you kept your guard up and tried to calm your racing heart.

“You okay there, princess?” he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe... me?”

You quickly snapped out of it, your face heating. “I’m fine,” you said, sitting straighter and forcing your voice to sound steady. "And I think you've mistaken me, I don't really know you."

Your lie was so bland, it practically hung in the air like a neon sign screaming caught red-handed.

Chan raised an eyebrow, playfully scoffing as he ran a hand through his hair. “Is that so?” he said, his tone laced with mock sincerity. He leaned in slightly, and you caught a faint whiff of leather and something distinctly him—sharp, clean, and deathly intoxicating.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice firm despite the heat rising in your cheeks. “I don’t really follow bikers.”

“Hmm.” He tapped his chin theatrically, his eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Funny, because someone who doesn’t follow bikers somehow managed to stumble across my page. And, oh, what’s this?” 

He mimicked scrolling on an invisible phone, his grin wicked. “Liked a post from two years ago? Now, that’s dedication for someone who doesn’t know me.”

Your stomach did a somersault, and for a moment, you were certain your face betrayed you. But you quickly composed yourself, leaning back slightly and crossing your arms. “That was an accident,” you said coolly, trying to ignore the way your pulse thundered in your ears.

Chan tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “So you accidentally clicked on my profile, accidentally scrolled back two years, and accidentally double-tapped? Seems like a lot of accidents for one person.”

You huffed, glaring at him. “Are you always this full of yourself?”

“Only when I’m right.” He shot back smoothly, his dimpled grin so close now, you could count the faint freckles dotting his cheekbones. 

You could do nothing to calm your racing heart as Chan adjusted his seat and leaned back, watching whoever was racing in his place. He didn't say a word after that, just stayed silent and concentrated on the track.

You kept glancing at him with the corner of your eyes without fully turning, focusing on the race as well, but you could have sworn that he could hear your pounding beats in your chest over the screeching tires.

Of course whoever was riding in on behalf of Chan won tonight's race in an equally dramatic drift, you caught Chan smirking and nodding proudly. You were unsure what to do and stood in your place while the crowd began standing up, then when you were about to leave, a hand wrapped around your wrist.

"Where are you off to now?" His dark eyes glinted under the dim lights, mischief oozing from every inch of his expression.

“You’ve been sneaking in to watch the race for weeks, and now that you’ve got what you wanted, you’re just gonna leave? That’s kinda rude, don’t you think?” 

You bit your lip, debating your next words. His confidence was infuriating, but it was also… dangerously attractive. Finally, you sighed, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Fine,” you said, crossing your arms. “Maybe I did. So what?”

Chan blinked, momentarily caught off guard by your honesty, before breaking into a wide grin. “Well, that’s a first. Didn’t think you’d actually own up to it.”

“Is there a point to this conversation?” you shot back, your tone laced with feigned impatience, though your pulse still raced from his lingering touch.

Chan tilted his head, eyeing you thoughtfully, then exhaled a sharp breath. “Don’t you think it’s time you saw what it’s like on the track?”

You blinked at him, your breath hitching. “What are you talking about?”

He straightened up, fixing his hoodie. “I’m offering you a ride, princess. Around the track. Are you up for it, or not?”

The sass in his tone lit a fire in you. You loved bike rides, the rush of speed, the wind in your hair—but doing it with him? That felt like stepping into dangerous territory. Still, your pride wouldn’t let you back down.

You crossed your arms, feigning indifference. “Fine. Let’s see if your riding skills are as good as your ego.”

Chan chuckled, the sound deep and low, and it sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. “Careful what you wish for, princess,” he said, stepping closer. “You might not be able to handle it.”

You scoffed, though your heart was pounding. “We’ll see about that.”

You followed Chan as he descended the stairs and made his way towards his friends, all of them surrounded with their own bikes, cans of Red Bull, wearing leather jackets.

“Yo, I.N!” Chan called out as you approached, his voice carrying over the noise of the dispersing crowd. He looked up from his phone, his expression curious.

“What’s up?” I.N asked, his brows lifting when he saw you trailing behind Chan.

Chan jerked his chin toward I.N’s helmet, which was resting on the bike parked beside him. “Hand that over. Our guest needs it.”

I.N blinked, clearly surprised. “Wait, she’s riding with you?”

“Finally got yourself a passenger?” Minho, who was leaning casually against his own bike, snorted.

“Just a little gratitude to her for being so kind and showing up to my races every week.” Chan replied smoothly, throwing you a sidelong glance.

Your cheeks flushed crimson but you didn't say anything. You couldn't because you felt like your throat was shut tight.

The group erupted into low chuckles, Minho gave Chan a knowing look, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

“Don’t mess up my helmet,” I.N said, handing it over. “It's my favourite one.” 

You hesitated for a moment, then took it, your fingers brushing against his. “Don't worry, I won't.” You said softly. 

The group watched you curiously as if they were waiting for you to make a mistake but Chan’s gaze was the only one you cared about. He stepped closer, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear.

“Nervous?” he asked, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk.

You lifted your chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Not even a little.”

His smirk deepened. “Good. Don't hold back and enjoy the ride.”

Changbin threw the keys at Chan and handed him the helmet, moving aside revealing the sleek black BMW, shining under the bright full moon light.

Chan got on the bike and you climbed up behind him. The tension crackled between you like static, and you couldn’t decide if you wanted to throttle him—or hold on tighter.

The engine roared to life, the deep, guttural sound vibrating through your body. Your grip on the seat tightened as Chan revved the engine, his dimpled smirk still firmly in place as he glanced back over his shoulder at you.

With a swift twist of his wrist, the bike shot forward, the sudden burst of speed forcing a gasp from your lips. Instinctively, your hands flew to his waist, gripping tightly as the world blurred around you.

The track stretched out like a silver ribbon under the moonlight, the cool night air whipping past your face, your hair dancing in the wind like a wild, untamed spirit. Chan maneuvered the bike with practiced ease, leaning into sharp turns and accelerating down straightaways.

The bike slowed slightly as he leaned into another turn, and you took the chance to glance at him. The confidence in his posture, the way his shoulders moved with the bike—it was magnetic.

“Enjoying the view?” he teased, his voice cutting through the wind.

You scowled, your cheeks heating. “Focus on the road, Chan.”

“I always do,” he replied smoothly. “But you’re making it a little hard, princess.”

Your grip on his waist tightened involuntarily, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you might regret. The speed continued until Chan slowed down, pulling to a stop at the other side of the track, the starting point looking like the size of an ant.

The sudden stillness was deafening compared to the roar of the engine moments ago. The cool night air clung to your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating between you and Chan.

He shifted slightly, his body still straddling the bike as he turned his head toward you, his dark eyes glinting under the pale glow of the moon. “Tight grip you’ve got there, princess,” he said, his voice low and teasing. 

“Didn’t think you’d want to hold on that bad.”

***

“Ah-Chan—” your moans poured out of your lips like an erotic symphony, blood rushing down like a flood bursting out of a dam as you felt his length inside of you, breasts bouncing up and down. 

Oh you were holding on that bad. 

“Ride my cock, baby. Good girl.” Chan hissed, your pussy clenching him so nicely it drove him wild. 

What started off him not knowing your existence to getting to know eachother to now him fucking the senses out of you escalated fast. 

You can't lie, you did have fantasies about him during the nights when you scrolled through his socials. Imagining how he would be in bed. Those dirty nights when you moaned his name, imagining his cock replacing your vibrator. 

Would he be gentle? A complete opposite to the menace he was on the road?

Boy you were wrong. He was anything but gentle.

He was rough. Hard. Strong. And you enjoyed that very much. 

Chan's hand fisted your hair as he pulled you towards him, his lips crashing yours drinking the taste of you. Your fingers clung onto his shoulder, nails grooving scars on his smooth skin, rocking your hips for more friction. 

His cock filled you completely, stretching you in ways that made your vision blur. Every upward snap of his hips drove you closer to the edge, the friction against your walls making your toes curl.

“Chan—” you whimpered, breaking the kiss to gasp for air, your head falling back as his pace quickened.

He didn’t let up. If anything, the sight of you unraveling only spurred him on. His mouth trailed down your throat, teeth grazing your skin before he latched onto the sensitive spot just above your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

His lips latched on your erect nipple, sucking and licking on it, the obscene sounds of him groaning feeling like music to your ears.

Wetness gushed down your thighs and onto his, a sinful symphony of wet, desperate noises that only fueled the fire between you.

“So fucking perfect for me.” he praised, his lips brushing against your ear as he pinched and played with your slick nipple that sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. 

You felt so dirty and depraved, shamelessly riding his cock, his praises turning you on even more.

“Should I punish this pussy for stalking me baby? Hmm?” His hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb finding your swollen clit, triggering an orgasm to break free just from his words.

He already “punished” you for stalking him by bending you over and fucking you to oblivion on his bike a week ago but he is so cocky and mean, he loved using that every chance he got.

“Or should I fuck you from behind and wreck you till you make a sweet mess all over my cock?” 

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as your release slammed through you, your body convulsing and your walls clenched around him, drawing a deep, guttural moan from his lips. 

You couldn't even process the aftershocks of your climax and before you knew it, you were on all fours, Chan's eyes glued on your glistening slick pussy, the angry tip of his cock grazing and teasing your swollen folds. 

“Chan— mngh,” you pushed back against him, whining with need, feeling the anticipation rebuild as you kept feeling the tip nudge against your entrance.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” he teased, his voice a dark purr that sent a shiver down your spine. “Barely gave you time to breathe, and here you are, already begging for me to ruin you again.”

Your fingers clenched the sheets, your body trembling from the mix of frustration and desire. “Please, Chan,” you breathed, voice muffled and desperate.

“Please, what?” he sneered, leaning down so his chest pressed against your back, his silver chain and bracelet on his wrist touching your skin, cold. 

His breath was hot against your ear, and his hand slid up your body to grip your throat. “You want me to fuck you? Say it.” 

Your cheeks burned, but the heat between your legs overshadowed any embarrassment. “I need you to fuck me, Chan,” you whispered, then louder, “Ruin me. Wreck me.”

He groaned at your words, his hand tightening slightly around your throat. “Good girl. That’s what I like to hear.”

Without another word, he thrust into you in one brutal stroke, knocking the air from your lungs. Your hands flew forward to steady yourself, a gasp tearing from your throat as he set a punishing pace, his hips slamming into yours with a force that had the bed creaking beneath.

“Look at you,” he continued, his tone dripping with arrogance. “So fucking cock-drunk, you can’t even think straight.” 

You tried to speak, but he cut you off with a sharp thrust that made you cry out. His grip on your waist was bruising, holding you in place as he pounded into you mercilessly. 

Every stroke hitting deeper, harder, until you were a squirming mess beneath him. His balls slapped against your clit, an almost tight hand around your throat had your vision going white.

His teeth sank into your soft skin, leaving a ruthless mark on your shoulder and his hand met with a sharp slap! on your ass. The pleasure of it overlapped the pain, relentless drilling on your sloppy cunt that made you grab the headboard.

“FUCK! I can't—” Your cries echoed off the walls of your bedroom, loud and feral.

“You can’t what?” Chan snarled, his voice laced with mockery as he dragged his cock out almost completely before slamming back in, hitting that spot and your skin meeting with another sharp slap! 

His teeth grazed your earlobe as his hand gripped your hip tightly, holding you in place. “Can’t take me? Too much for this tight little cunt?”

“Y-yes—no—I don’t know!” you sobbed, your fingers clawing at the headboard as your body quivered beneath him.

His hand slid up on your throat, pulling you upright so your back was flush against his chest. The new angle made you scream, his cock hitting even deeper, harder, the relentless pace leaving you on the verge of tears.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice gravelly and thick with lust. “Scream for me, baby. Let the whole world know who’s making you feel this good.”

The way his cock kept hitting the right spots made you climb higher and higher, the knot tightening, only seconds away from snapping, your whimpers and moans poured out endlessly.

“I'm gonna come— I'm—”

You couldn't even finish your sentence as the second orgasm left you shaking, trembling and reeling beneath him. Your walls clamped down on his cock, pulling him deeper until he spilled his seed in you.

“Fuck.” Chan groaned, his grip on your throat loosening as he chased his own release. His hips stuttered, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips, cock twitching as he pumped you full.

Breaths ragged and heavy, the room was mixed in scents of mint and sex. Chan collapsed forward, but braced himself to avoid crushing you beneath his weight.

“You did so good, baby,” He murmured, his voice low and thick, trying to catch his breath while he nipped your sensitive skin.

Both of you were drenched in sweat, the mingling of your bodies making the heat in the room unbearable, yet neither of you moved.

His cock softened inside you, but he didn’t pull out. Instead, he just leaned forward kissing the nape of your neck and shifted slightly, you winced at the feeling of him still inside you, oversensitivity making your nerves spark.

Slowly your bodies untangled and he fell on his back next to you, the both of you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of what just happened settling in. 

You gently turned your head to see Chan, who was lost in his own thoughts. He felt you watching him and he turned too, a soft smile tipping the corner of his lips, his fingers brushing a few strands of hair from your face.

His eyes trailed down your body, skin peppered with his bite marks and hickeys, something unusually painful stung in his chest even though he had never felt that before.

You moved closer to him, pecking a sweet kiss on his nose that made him knit his brows smiling.

“I’m okay, you didn’t hurt me if you think you did.” You said reassuringly.

Chan let out a soft breath, his smile faltering for a moment as he studied your face. His fingers ghosted over a particularly dark bruise on your collarbone, his touch featherlight.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual, his teasing edge nowhere to be found. 

You rolled your eyes, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Of course.” He huffed out a laugh, the sound vibrating against your cheek and kissed your forehead.

Chan got up from the bed and carried you in his arms towards the shower, you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, letting out a content sigh as your head rested against his chest.

Under the spraying water, the steam curled around the two of you, but his touch was what kept you warm. 

He grabbed a washcloth and the soap, lathering it before starting at your shoulders. His touch was slow and deliberate, careful not to press too hard as he cleaned every inch of your skin. 

When he reached your bruised hips, his lips ghosted over one of the marks that made your heart flutter. 

Once he was satisfied, he handed you the cloth, smirking faintly. “Your turn, princess.”

You laughed softly, taking it from him and mimicking his careful actions. You then saw the scratch marks and crescent scars you had left on his skin, etched like tiny badges.

Your fingers ghosted over them as you cleaned him, a pang of guilt flashing through your chest.

“Sorry about these,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Chan chuckled, his smirk softening into something warmer. “Don’t be. I like them."

Heat rose up your cheeks and you let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

When you reached his bicep, you couldn’t resist tracing the outline of his tattoo, your fingers brushing over the ink that decorated his skin.

“You really are full of surprises,” you said, your voice soft.

His brow quirked. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like this,” you said, gesturing between the two of you. “The rough biker with the soft side. Didn’t think I’d ever see it.”

He smirked, pulling you closer under the spray of water. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into him anyway, letting the water cascade over both of you. Pearl-like drops of water slid down your bodies, your back pressed against the cold titles as Chan's mouth claimed yours. 

After the shower Chan changed into his clothes and you slipped into comfy sweats, he grabbed his keys and helmet from the living room, walking toward the door with a cool, confident stride.

“My race is on Saturday,” He said, slipping on his helmet. “I hope you'll be there, princess.” 

A chuckle escaped from your lips, your mind going back to how you went watch his races every Saturday without him knowing who you were. 

“I guess I’ll see you there, then.”

Chan nodded, opening the front door and stepping out, you watched him climb on his bike, revving the engine back to life. With a twist on the handle, he zoomed out into the night, flashing away into the stretching darkness leaving a trail of himself behind.

You couldn’t help but think that stumbling across that video online of a certain biker had definitely been the best misstep of your life.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Enjoyed this one shot? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Here's a bigger and better quality picture of my drawing of Biker Chan:

Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

[cloudetra]

hey guys......... i lied ☺️🎀💝❤️‼️

i won't be doing a part two for changbin's fanfic anytime soon, just because i don't like how it turned out. it's just lowkey an ass story tbh 😿

i AM currently working on a full length fic with minsung featuring chris, and a small little step-brother jisung drabble 😁

thanks guys pls don't stone me to death ❤️

GUYS IM WORKING ON THE SECOND PART OF THE FANFIC I SWEAR I WAS IN THE HOSPITAL FOR A WHILE 😪

[cloudetra]

STOP LIKING THIS PLEASE 😭😭😭😭

PROMPTED WRITING

PROMPT:

“Hey, is that blood on your clothes?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe?”

“That’s not a question that’s supposed to be answered with another question.”

WC: 700

Ayano Aishi x friend!reader (platonic)

At first, you’d pretended not to notice it. At school, she would show up late to class frequently, and multiple students have been going missing. And you would never suspect your friend of kidnapping or murder, but it was begging to become unavoidable.

You’d caught her with blood-stained clothes and a body bag more than a few times. You’ve never confronted her about it, because you treasure your friendship, but some day, you might have to.

Now, you found yourself, face to face with Ayano, in a crimson splattered uniform. To say you were scared was an understatement. It had to be paint, right? Ayano could never do anything as morally wrong as murder.

“Oh. Y/N.” She muttered in her usual monotone voice. She slowly hid her hands behind her back, but as she did, you caught a glimpse of something silver glinting in the fluorescent lights overhead. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just… um…” you trailed off, unsure if staying here to talk to her while she was supposedly armed was a good idea. “Just getting something from the vending machine.”

She nodded. “Well, I’ll see you around. Bye.” She turned around and started walking off, and as she did, you saw her tuck the same silver object into her school bag. A red liquid steadily started seeping through the fabric of the bag.

“Wait! Ayano!” You called after her. She turned around and looked at you with a stoic expression, her black ponytail whipping around as her head did.

“Is…Is that blood? On your clothes?” You ask, wringing your hands. You could have sworn you saw a smirk cross her features, but it was gone as fast as you saw it.

“Hm, I don’t know. Is it?” She asked you with half lidded eyes, seemingly annoyed. You gulped. Her glare was scary. “That’s not the kind of question that needs a question.” You look away, afraid to look her in the eye.

 She rolled her eyes and took her leave.  You watched her form retreat and slowly get smaller, until she turned the corner and was gone.

“That’s about all the evidence I have, officer.” You look down at the metal table, your hands folded in your lap. The detective nodded. “Thank you, miss Y/N. One of the officers will escort you out.” He said emotionlessly. You nod and get up from the steel chair. One of the policemen buzz you out of the interrogation room and you finally can see the sun again.

Yet, you immediately walk around the building into the sketchy alleyway, where a feminine silhouette is leaning against the wall with her arms folded. She grins sinisterly, and her teeth glint in the light of the sun. She steps forward, her face now exposed by the light shining down on the Earth. It’s your best friend, Ayano.

You put your hands in your pockets and kick at the dirt on the ground. “Are you sure this plan will work? I think the police force is smarter than you think.” Her grin dissipates. “They may be smart, but I’m smarter.” She tells you, walking a few steps closer to you. You fight the urge to step away. You know what she’s done. No one else does. Only you.

Once she’s close enough, she caresses your face softly, a stark contrast to her true intentions. To manipulate you. ��You’re having doubts, aren’t you?” She sighs softly, her minty breath blowing in your face. Suddenly, Ayano grips your face harshly. “That’s too bad. If you want them to live, you’ll stick with me. Understood?” She mutters. “Yes.” You reply, coming out muffled because of the harsh grip on your cheeks.

She releases you, and you rub your face to soothe the burning of where her nails dug into the flesh there. She scoffs, then walks out of sight. You watch her leave, a pang of sadness in your chest. What have you done? 

[cloudetra]

ARE YOU TODAY’S DATE?

BECAUSE YOURE 10/10

[cloudetra]

GUYS IM WORKING ON THE SECOND PART OF THE FANFIC I SWEAR I WAS IN THE HOSPITAL FOR A WHILE 😪