heartwithoutaname

[heartwithoutaname]

chan + fem!reader • warning! slow burn sensual smut. use of aphrodisiac. soft dom!chan. oral(f receiving). dry humping. light kink (breeding kink implied). • 4,6k • m.list

Teaser ⟩ a candle lit during a power outage filled the room with a soft vanilla scent—completely unaware of the aphrodisiac hidden within. as the night grew warmer, so did chan’s need, his hands wandering with a desperate hunger he couldn’t deny.

the sound of rain tapping against the window pulled your attention away from your phone. It was pouring, like the sky was dumping buckets, and yet chan was still locked away in his studio. you didn’t want to go to bed without him, so you decided to wait—but his work was taking longer than expected.

a flash of lightning suddenly lit up the entire room, followed by a loud clap of thunder that echoed through the walls. you decided to check on him one last time, but as soon as your feet slid off the edge of the bed, darkness swallowed the room whole.

the power had gone out.

the house, already quiet, grew even more still, but the silence didn’t last long. footsteps made their way to your door, slow and steady, and moments later, chan stepped into the room—with the flashlight on his phone lighting his path.

despite how tired he looked, his lips curled into a soft smile the second he saw you. “I almost thought you cut the power just to stop me from working,” he teased lightly, stepping closer. he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead—and somehow, the simple warmth of his lips against your skin made the heaviness in your chest loosen for a moment.

“I guess it’s finally time to use those candles we bought,” chan said, his voice suddenly excited. you let out a quiet laugh—he always had a thing for scented candles, always talked about how those sweet, hazy scents helped him relax during stressful work nights.

you followed after him as he left the room, his flashlight guiding you to the kitchen. he rummaged through one of the drawers for a while—until he finally pulled out a few candles, smiling softly as he found the ones he’d been looking for.

lifting one up, he brought it closer to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent before handing it to you.

he watched you closely as you leaned in toward it. “like it?”

a soft vanilla aroma spread around you, not too strong, but enough to gently tickle your nose, and make your head feel just a little hazy. “mhm...yeah,” you nodded, meeting his eyes, “It’s already warming me up somehow.”

after lighting the second candle, chan joined you on the bed, the soft glow and warm scent wrapping around you like a blanket. you felt a deep sense of calm settle in, the room quiet except for the rain tapping gently against the windows.

a comfortable silence lingered for a while—

until you felt his hand resting over yours.

“you’re cold,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his chest. he guided your hand over his heart, fingers intertwining as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

In that moment, you both quietly thanked the power outage. as if the universe had turned everything off just to make room for this.

“your skin... it’s so soft.” his voice came out barely above a whisper. his thumb continued to caress the back of your hand in slow, almost reverent circles. but something shifted—like the gentle touch wasn't enough anymore.

his fingers traveled upward, brushing past your wrist with featherlight strokes, gliding along your arm with deliberate slowness. when he reached your shoulder, he paused for a moment—then changed direction, sliding down along your side until his hand slipped beneath your shirt.

the sudden contrast of his warm palm on your bare waist made you inhale sharply, your breath hitching in your throat. the scent of vanilla that once felt comforting now wrapped around your senses more densely, almost dizzying.

you blinked, realizing the drowsiness from earlier had completely dissolved.

and It wasn’t just you.

beneath your hand, you felt his chest rise and fall—uneven, shaky, like he was trying to suppress something. your eyes met his, and in an instant, his gaze dropped to your lips. “something...” he muttered, voice hoarse, thick with tension. “It’s burning inside me.”

a tremor rippled through him as he exhaled—

not from fear, but restraint. like he was fighting the instinct to pull you closer, to drown in whatever was growing between you.

you weren’t any different from him. the heat pooling between your legs was almost dizzying, making it hard to keep your body still. your senses felt heightened—like every breath, every touch, was amplified and humming under your skin.

chan noticed the way your body tensed beneath him, and without a word, he gently laid you back against the mattress, sliding on top of you with careful precision. his hands braced on either side of your head, framing your face in the flickering glow of candlelight. the shadows danced across his features, but it was his eyes that truly pulled you in.

“do you feel it too?” his voice was low, gravelly, as if each word scraped against the edge of restraint. his gaze was locked on yours, but there was a tremble in his eyes—not his hands, not his breath—just his eyes. he looked torn. like he was fighting something inside him—a need, an ache, that had started small but was now unbearable.

something was crawling under his skin, not just lust, but something deeper, something possessive… addictive. the scent, the warmth of you, the way you looked at him—it was undoing him slowly.

his fingertips hovered near your cheek but didn’t quite touch. the space between you buzzed with tension, thick and electric. It felt like…if you reached for him, just once—he’d give in entirely. but for now, he was holding on by a thread.

waiting.

needing your permission to fall apart.

you didn’t answer. there was a burning lump in your throat, like your body was reacting faster than your words ever could. so you simply nodded—just the slightest movement. but it was enough for him.

chan’s breath hitched, his chest rising in one deep inhale as he closed his eyes. something shifted. he moved slowly, his hand sliding down to your wrist. even that soft touch made your whole body flinch, from the sheer sensitivity that had taken over you. everything felt amplified. It was like every nerve was tuned to him.

he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, not harshly, but firm—like he needed to keep you grounded, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he let go.

then, he leaned in. you felt his breath ghost across your neck, hot and slow—and your own breath stuttered in your chest.

“my heart’s racing,"

he whispered, voice nearly cracking under the weight of it. his eyes were shut, his lips barely grazing your skin as he breathed you in. “I feel like I’m touching you for the first time…”

the brush of his nose against your neck made your thighs press together, a quiet plea your body whispered before your voice could.

“chan…” his name slipped out, soft and broken—barely a breath. but even that was enough to draw a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat. you heard the muttered curse under his breath, thick with restraint.

he lifted his head. his eyes met yours—blazing, dark, desperate.

and there it was.

a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple, catching the flicker of candlelight as it fell. but you knew. that heat wasn’t from the room. It was from him. from whatever it was coursing through his veins, setting him on fire.

he leaned in closer, one hand planted firmly beside your head, the other still wrapped around your wrist like a lifeline.

“I can’t—” his voice cracked, low and wrecked. “I can’t hold back much longer.”

just after those last words left his lips, chan leaned in and captured your mouth with his. the kiss was messy—rushed, almost desperate. he moved like he was chasing something he couldn’t quite reach, each press of his lips followed by a shallow breath, only to dive back in like it still wasn’t enough. his hands didn’t move much, but his mouth said everything; hungry, breathless, wanting.

when the kiss finally broke with a soft, wet sound, his lips didn’t stop. they traveled down to your chin, then dipped lower to your neck. you felt him there—teeth grazing the skin, a delicate bite that sent a wave through your body. his breath was scalding hot against your throat, so vivid it made your pulse thrum louder. you closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into him completely, silently offering your body up to be explored. and he did—like he’d waited too long for this, like he wasn’t just touching your skin, but claiming every inch of it with reverence and quiet hunger.

his hands were restless, moving with a clear intention. before you knew it, they slipped under your shirt. the moment his fingers brushed over your already stiffened nipples, a low, satisfied sound escaped his lips.

he pulled back for a second, just enough to create distance, though the pressure below was already starting to ache. his hand found yours, guiding it slowly down—right to where he was hardest.

"can you feel that?" he whispered, voice barely audible yet full of desire. the second your palm cupped the heat of his arousal, he shut his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath that trembled between control and need. you nodded silently in response. "good," he murmured, lips curling just slightly. "now come here."

within seconds, you were straddling his lap, the heat of your body settling right over his aching length. the thin layers of clothing between you did nothing to dull the friction—if anything, it made everything worse. chan’s hands gripped your hips firmly, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. he pulled you against him, grinding you down with a desperation he could barely contain. a guttural sound rumbled from his throat, low and raw. "f-fuck—" he choked out, his voice ragged.

the pleasure shot through him like lightning, overwhelming and fast and almost too much. the way your weight pressed down on him, how your heat aligned perfectly with his swollen arousal—it was driving him insane. for a second, he thought he might actually come undone right there, just from the pressure, from the way you fit against him like that.

every breath he took was heavy, laced with need. his head dropped against your shoulder as he muttered, “fuck, why does this feel so... intense?" for a moment, he seemed lost—like he couldn’t quite place what was happening to him—but the hunger in his eyes said it all. he didn’t want to stop. not now. not ever.

he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to stop. every time your clit brushed against his hardness, a sharp pulse throbbed deep inside you, demanding more. you couldn’t hold back, your hips began to move slowly, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence.

chan clenched his jaw, fingers digging harder into your hips as if trying to anchor you down. your name slipped from his lips, not as a plea but almost like a reprimand—like you were doing something you shouldn’t, and he was supposed to warn you.

"If you keep going—" he warned, voice low and strained, "I’m gonna... come right here, in my pants."

gross, chan thought, a flash of embarrassment prickling through him at the idea of coming just from the friction—without a single finger inside his pants. but his body didn’t care.

It was too warm. too damn hot.

every piece of fabric on him suddenly felt heavier, like a suffocating weight pressing down, making it impossible to think clearly.

chan’s pre-cum seeped slowly through the fabric, warm and slick, pooling in places that made it impossible to think straight. his breath was shallow, unsteady as a bead of sweat traced a slow path from the curve of his neck down to his collarbone. he inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but his mind was already consumed.

his hands slid from your hips up to your shirt without hesitation, gripping and pulling it up. you raised your arms to help, your bare skin coming into view, heart pounding against his gaze.

a shaky breath escaped him as his eyes locked onto your chest. unable to resist, he took you beneath him again, his gaze never leaving your breasts. fingers toyed with the edge of your shorts, exploring with deliberate intent while his lips descended to your skin.

he licked your nipples slowly, tasting, teasing, then bit gently—soft enough to make you shiver but sharp enough to mark the moment. every sound you made, every subtle reaction of your body, was etched into his memory, fueling his hunger all the more.

his lips traveled downward, tracing a slow path to your stomach. he glanced up at you, eyes dark and intense, before murmuring a gentle command, “lift your hips, baby.”

you obeyed without hesitation, helping him pull your shorts and underwear down together. his hands reached your inner thighs, urging you to part them just for him.

a deep sigh escaped him as his eyes took in the glistening wetness, illuminated softly by the flickering candlelight. you caught the subtle swallow he tried to hide, the raw hunger barely contained beneath his calm exterior.

then he leaned down, fingers sliding out slowly from your slit to feel just how wet you were. his two thumbs gently parted your lips. he didn't care how messy or soaked you were. he wanted more. a slow drip of spit slid down, warm and deliberate, and at the touch of his breath, your hips jerked involuntarily.

chan bent to the spot where his saliva had landed, dragging his tongue over you in a slow, hungry lick from bottom to top. a satisfied sound rumbled deep in his throat as a subtle vibration pulsed through your pussy, sending shivers that echoed deep inside you.

his tongue lingered around your entrance, circling it with slow, deliberate motions, tasting you like something forbidden and sacred. then, as if the need consumed him whole, he buried his face deeper between your thighs, like he wanted to disappear inside you.

your moans came out louder, less controlled. your chest rose and fell rapidly, the heat overwhelming, his mouth relentless. there was a rhythm to his tongue, steady and calculated, but maddening—perfectly torturous.

when he finally pulled back for just a moment, you saw it—the glistening shine on his lips, your wetness coating him like proof of his obsession. he looked wrecked. chest heaving, pupils blown wide. and then, in a rough growl that came from deep in his throat, he muttered, completely undone "you're dripping… fuck, you're soaking my face."

and still, his fingers dug into your thighs like he never wanted to let go, like your taste was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"come on my face, yeah?" he asked in a single, ragged breath, his voice cracked open with desperation. his eyes —those eyes— never left yours, dark and heavy with hunger, dragging every last bit of restraint out of you. something stirred deep inside you at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever crave. everything already felt too much, too warm, too intense...and his gaze made it impossible to hold on.

and despite asking, he didn’t wait for an answer.

he dove back in. tongue relentless, lips messy, completely lost in the taste of you. your hands found his hair, fingers curling, hips moving without thought. the pressure in your core tightened, unbearable, unbearable, until—

your breath shattered.

It hit all at once, like a wave crashing through you, body seizing as you cried out, a broken moan torn from your throat. he didn’t move an inch, didn’t ease up, not even as you came. Instead, he groaned into you, deeper than before, letting your release coat his face. you could feel how soaked he was, how wet everything had become —his mouth, his chin, the noises he made— obscene, low, needy.

when he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen and glistening, jaw tight like he was barely holding it together. he looked up at you like he’d just been baptized, completely wrecked. “you’re so beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

he whispered—his voice low, reverent. the corners of your lips lifted ever so slightly at the praise, a breath of calm wrapping around you both, if only for a heartbeat.

but then you felt it—his bulge, twitching and throbbing beneath the strained fabric of his pants, pressed firm against your thigh. that quiet moment shattered in the heat pooling between you.

a soft grunt left his lips, and he pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot and uneven. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t keep these on,” he muttered, almost to himself. desperation dripped from his voice.

he pulled back just enough to shove his pants down with shaky hands, underwear following fast, revealing just how painfully hard he was. his cock sprang free, flushed, veined, the tip glistening from how worked up he’d been just from pleasuring you.

“I need to be inside you,” he growled, voice tight and raw. “I’ve waited long enough…”

he lined himself up, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance—hot, leaking, throbbing with the kind of need that made his breath catch. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, fighting the urge to just sink in all at once.

but he didn’t. he couldn’t. not when you were looking up at him like that. not when every shaky breath of yours curled around his ribs like a soft plea.

“I’m gonna go slow, okay?” he whispered, voice thin and trembling. “wanna feel every inch of you…”

one hand gripped your thigh, anchoring himself, while the other gently caressed your cheek—his thumb brushing over your lips like he was grounding himself through touch.

and then, so slowly it made your breath hitch, he pushed in. just the tip.

a low moan spilled from his mouth, half-choked, needy and raw. “fuck—so warm… you’re gonna ruin me already” he murmured, barely above a whisper, like the words weren’t even meant to be heard.

he paused, panting softly as he tried not to lose himself right then and there. his fingers dug into your skin as he pressed in a little deeper, inch by inch, reverent, almost shaking. he whispered again, like it still hadn’t fully hit him. “feels too good…”

his hips trembled, not from movement, but from restraint. every time he sank deeper, it was followed by a quiet, desperate sound—something between a sigh and a moan—like your body was unraveling him second by second.

chan stayed still inside you for a moment, not daring to move. his fingers gently caressed the softness of your hips, forehead resting against yours, breaths tangled in the warm space between. chest to chest, skin slick with sweat, the silence around you was only filled by your shared, shaky exhales.

the candle’s flickering light danced lazily across the walls, casting golden shadows that curled and slid along chan’s back. every time the flame wavered, the glow would shift, revealing the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles strained from holding back.

you had just come undone from his mouth—your body still trembling, overly sensitive. so when he slid into you, slow and deliberate, the stretch was overwhelming. your eyes fluttered shut, lips parted with a breathless gasp. the fullness was too much. too intimate. too good.

he noticed.

"too much?" he whispered, his voice strained, as if he was barely holding himself together. “fuck. you’re so tight, I can feel everything…”

his own sensitivity showed all over his face. his brows were furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth. he’d been waiting—aching—for this, and now that he was finally inside, every second was electric. but he still didn’t move. his hands just roamed over you softly, and he leaned into your neck, breathing you in.

“just… let me stay here for a second,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “I can’t move yet, I’ll fucking lose it.”

your chest was rising and falling quickly, body still buzzing with leftover waves. the pressure between you both was intense—almost unbearable in the best way. his breath grazed your skin as he clung to the moment, buried in you, not even fully inside yet, but already trembling from the closeness.

and then—the candle flickered again, the flame making a soft crackling sound just as chan began to move. carefully. gently. but with something trembling beneath the surface, something desperate.

he pulled out slowly, barely halfway, just to ease back in again, deeper this time. the stretch burned just right, your walls fluttering around him, still soaked and pulsing from before. you gasped, hands gripping his arms, fingertips sinking into the muscle like you needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself again.

“c-chan,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “too deep…”

he froze instantly, chest heaving against yours, clearly affected by the sound of your voice—by the way you said his name. his hand found your jaw, tilting your face to look at him.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips. “I’ll stop—fuck, I’ll stop if you need.”

but you didn’t want him to stop. not even close. you shook your head, a soft breathless, “don’t,” escaping your lips.

that was all he needed.

he rolled his hips again, still slow, but firmer now. every thrust was calculated, intentional. he wasn’t slamming into you. no. he was feeling everything. memorizing everything. letting himself get drunk off the tight heat around him, the way you clenched every time he pushed a little deeper. the candlelight flickered again, briefly illuminating his flushed face, the raw emotion in his eyes.

“oh my god..” you breathed out, arching your back, your body moving to meet his rhythm without even thinking. he groaned softly, lips ghosting over your collarbone. “you feel so fucking good… fuck, baby, you're perfect—just like that, yeah?”

his thrusts grew slightly faster, a little deeper with every push. you felt everything. the wetness. the fullness. the way he pulled out almost completely before sliding back in with a soft, desperate sound caught in his throat.

“please,” you whispered, voice cracking. he looked up, eyes wild and glassy, breath caught. “what do you need, sweetheart?” he asked, barely able to speak through how much he was holding back.

“you. just—don’t stop.” and he didn’t. his rhythm built slowly, pressure curling deep inside you with every thrust. he reached places that made your toes curl, your eyes roll back. each movement was rougher, needier. controlled at first—but clearly unraveling.

“you’re taking me so well,” he murmured into your skin. “so fuckin' tight around me… it’s driving me insane.” you moaned his name again, and it nearly broke him.

your body trembled beneath him, every thrust pushing you closer to that dizzying edge. your nails dragged down his back, leaving faint red trails he wouldn’t mind seeing the next morning. “chan— fuck— I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he gasped, voice cracking as he tried to keep his pace steady—but it was slipping. “I feel you. you're so close… I can feel it.” his hips snapped forward harder now, rhythm reckless, losing any restraint he had left. the slap of skin meeting skin echoed louder, messier, more desperate. his breath stuttered against your neck as he muttered broken praises—"so good," "so tight," "my pretty baby taking it all"—like a prayer on repeat.

“you’re squeezing me—fuck, just like that—don’t stop, please don’t stop—” his voice cracked on the last word, and his hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. “let go for me, sweetheart. wanna feel you come on me again. need it.”

your legs wrapped tighter around his waist instinctively, pulling him impossibly close as your climax finally crashed over you—sharp, electric, overwhelming. you cried out his name like it was the only word you knew, body spasming beneath him, and he nearly collapsed from the way you pulsed around him.

“shit—fuck—” he groaned, losing rhythm entirely as you clenched down, milking every last bit of control out of him. he buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged, hips stuttering.

“where do you want it, baby?” he rasped, voice barely holding together, needy and frantic. “tell me. please."

his rhythm turned frantic, deeper, rougher, chasing the edge with all the restraint of a man starved. your body was still trembling from your orgasm, oversensitive, twitching with every thrust—and he could feel it. feel how you clenched around him, how your walls fluttered, inviting him in deeper, tighter.

“shit—baby—” he hissed, voice cracking into a moan. “you’re gonna make me—fuck—”

he barely managed to lift his head, his gaze locking with yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted and trembling. “wanna come inside,” he breathed. “let me… wanna fill you up. need to—fuck, I need to.”

you nodded, barely coherent, breath catching. “yes, please… inside, chan.”

that was it. he let out a raw, guttural sound—somewhere between a sob and a growl—as he sank deep and stilled, buried to the hilt. his body tensed above you, head dropping to your shoulder as his hips twitched through the release. warmth flooded into you as he came, wave after wave, chanting your name like a lifeline.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, breath shaky. “fuck.. I’m so deep in you… you take it so well. you’re meant for me.”

you could feel every throb, every pulse of him inside, and it only made you cling tighter. the air was thick with the sound of your breaths, your heartbeats syncing, bodies tangled, still trembling from the intensity.

after a moment, he raised his head, kissed your temple with a soft hum. “you okay, baby?” he whispered, voice hoarse and full of warmth.

and god, despite the sweat, the mess, the ruined sheets—everything felt perfect.

the air felt heavier now—not from lust, but from the silence that came with release. the rhythm had slowed, and so had time. your skin buzzed with the aftermath, oversensitive, warm, kissed all over with sweat and love. chan collapsed beside you with a soft groan, still catching his breath, hand reaching for yours instantly, fingers locking like it was instinct.

neither of you spoke for a few seconds. just… breath. the kind that came from letting go too much and feeling too much.

he nuzzled into your shoulder, hair damp, his voice barely a whisper. "you okay? was that… too much?" you shook your head softly, too blissed out to form words. so instead, you turned, tucked your nose under his chin, and let out a hum—content, safe, full.

“I can’t believe we actually—” he started, then cut himself off with a sheepish laugh. you felt it rumble in his chest before he said, “I think I literally begged you to come on my face. that—uh. that happened.”

you burst into a breathy laugh, your body jolting slightly from the sudden movement. “yeah, you were kind of…” you paused, pretending to think, “feral.”

chan groaned and covered his face. “nooo, don’t remind me. that damn candle or whatever was in that incense—pure evil.” you looked over. the candle on the desk flickered innocently, as if it hadn't just witnessed the filthiest hour of your lives.

“It’s still going,” you teased, “should we be scared?”

“we should file a restraining order.” he deadpanned.

but then, he got quiet again. and his hand came up to trace slow circles on your side, his voice barely a breath. “but seriously… you’re so beautiful when you fall apart for me.” the words hit different now. no lust behind them. just warmth.

and for the first time since it all started, your eyes met in the dim candlelight—no tension, no rush. just two people wrapped up in each other, sweaty, tired, and impossibly soft.

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support!

taglist: @velvetmoonlght @laylasbunbunny @inishij @m-325 @itvenorica124

[heartwithoutaname]

The brightest stars in the sky 🌟

[heartwithoutaname]

Cool. Totally love being emotionally, mentally, and physically wrecked on a random Tuesday afternoon. Excuse while I try to remember how to breathe properly.

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Exes to lovers with years of tension | Fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), face riding | Protected sex because Minho is a King | Overstimulation, squirting, rough sex | Hair pulling, light choking, possessive behavior | Filthy talk™ and degrading praise | Clit play so intense you might ascend | Reader is gone. dumb. dripping | Minho lives upstairs. You live upstairs now too. It’s canon.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

[heartwithoutaname]

The Cuddle Crisis

-> Chan doesn't normally sleep well. This is no secret. Until the night he accidentally ends up cuddling with you and wakes up feeling like a new man. Now he has a proposition for you...

solo idol!chan x manager!fem!reader

one bed trope, fluff, idol!au, friends to lovers

18K

warnings: cursing, hospital visit, a brief implication of sex but nothing explicit, MC suffers from anxiety, Chan suffers from severe insomnia

story idea credit to Lisa Maloney on tiktok. this is for @fly-you-dam-fools bc I think you're really cool and you deserve cuddly chan <3

-------------------------------------------------------

"Wait...what did you say?"

Chan is just as flabbergasted as you are, except he's managing to stay level headed. You, on the other hand, appear to be ready to slap this poor hotel lobby receptionists into next year.

"I'm sorry, but maybe you got mixed up somehow in the system, or you made a mistake while booking. But it says clearly that you only booked one room."

"I booked two. There's two of us. I obviously booked two. Check again."

"I'm sorry, ma'am--"

"Don't call me ma'am. Just get us another room, please," you sigh, knowing that the finance team will rip you a new one for spending over budget for this trip.

Youth Magazine couldn't just do a virtual interview. Noooo! God forbid they interview the Christopher Bang over a video call. Not like literally every other magazine publishing house ever.

The hotel receptionist flashes a grim expression and hisses, "We kinda don't have any other vacancy."

You drop your bag on the counter, pausing your search for the company card to instead give this idiot a scowl. "Kinda?'

"We're booked," he corrects and straightens his back. "Apparently, there's a really popular singer coming into town, and he's rumored to be staying at one of the hotels on this block. Every hotel from here to the next town over is full of people hoping they'll catch a glimpse of him."

"You don't say."

You hear Chan snicker behind you from under his hoodie. He's got his mask over his mouth and nose, drawstrings pulled, and head lowered to the ground. He's doing his part to remain inconspicuous, and here you are dropping the ball on the one thing you thought would be the easiest to plan.

"Look," you try to level with the staff, "it's very important we get two rooms. Can't you do anything?"

He just shakes his head. "Unless someone cancels last minute, I don't have anything else to offer you."

"Fine," you sigh in defeat, "we'll just take the one room. And some extra towels, blankets, and pillows, please. No wake up call. If we get a wake up call, I will press charges."

"Understood." He gulps. "I'll have the extra bedding and towels sent up right away. Here's your key."

You snatch the keycard from his fingers and toss your bag back over your shoulder. "Thanks."

With Chan following close behind, you take the lead up to the top floor of the hotel. Down the hall to the last room, you tap the card against the lock until it lights up green, and you can walk in.

Neither of you speak once inside. There's a process for this. It involves a careful scan of the room, scavenging for any hidden cameras or microphones that could have been planted by toxic fans, tabloids, or stalkers. Once you've thoroughly checked the room and are satisfied, you motion for Chan to relax.

He removes his hood and mask, and takes a deep breath through his nose.

"Smells like laundry detergent."

"They definitely sprayed some kind of air freshener in here. Way too much if you ask me."

"Lavender is nice though."

That's Chan. Always looking on the bright side of things. He has this uncanny ability to find the good in just about any situation. Being the realist that he is, he never downplays suffering, pain, or sadness. But he also never forgets to take note of the heart within hardship. You've always appreciated that about him.

The two of you unpack just what you'll need for the night. Tomorrow morning, you'll get ready for his interview with the magazine, and then head to the shooting site for his photoshoot for the cover. It's a short schedule, only a day. But you don't want to be late or make things unnecessarily stressful on Chan. He deals with so much as it is.

He plops down on the bed, limbs spread like a starfish across the mattress.

"Feels nice."

"I'm glad you like it. I'm sorry we have to share a room. I should have been more careful when booking to make sure they didn't make any mistakes."

"Nah, don't worry about it," he waves it off. "Besides, we've shared a room before."

You slowly turn away, hands rummaging through your bag as your voice softens to a mumble, "Yeah, in high school."

"What was that?"

"Nothing," you flash him a smile. "Do you need help setting up your laptop?"

"Oh, I think I got it. You don't mind if I use the desk, do you?"

"Of course, not. Take all the space you need."

That's right. You and Chan have been on this adventure together since high school. When he became an idol trainee, you landed your first internship at the same entertainment company. You're not sure why the agency decided you should be trained as Chan's assistant, but they paired you two up pretty quickly. Since then, the two of you always found your ways back to each other. Until that fateful day when the company made you his official manager. And he was officially stuck with you.

It's a little heartwarming, and humbling, to know that wherever you go, Chan follows. He's come to trust you wholeheartedly. After years of training together, debuting, traveling, and growing, there's not much you two don't know about each other. There’s not much you two haven't done together.

Well...there is one thing.

Knock knock

"I got it." You answer the door, opening it just enough to receive the extra towels and bedding from room service, and then quickly locking it again.

"Okay," you lay out a blanket and a pillow on the ground beside the wall, "this will do for one night."

Chan walks over to investigate. While you seem satisfied with your work, hands on your hips and a nod of your head, Chan is...not convinced. He frowns.

"Hmm."

"Hmm, what?"

"It looks...uncomfortable."

"What are you talking about?" You lay down on the makeshift bed and pretend to snuggle in. "It's perfectly fine."

He tisks his tongue and shakes his head. "I don't know. You hate sleeping on the floor."

"I've slept on the floor before. Need I remind you of our trainee days?"

"Oh, believe me, I remember being a trainee very well. I also remember you waking up with aches in your back and crinks in your neck from sleeping on the floor every night."

"Chan, everyone slept on the floor."

"Yeah. But you were the only one who woke up feeling like absolute crap because of it."

He's right. As hard as you try, you've never slept on the floor well. It's never been comfortable, regardless of how many blankets you use.

"I'm sleeping on the floor, and you're in the bed. End of discussion," Chan says with a stern cross of his arms.

You shoot up to your feet. "No way! You've got an interview and a photoshoot tomorrow. I can't let you sleep on the ground. As your manager, I insist you sleep in the bed."

"No."

"Chan."

"No! ___, come on. You won't sleep on that. It doesn't bother me, and it's only one night. I promise I won't tell any of your supervisors you let me sleep on the ground. Okay?"

He read your mind. Yeah, that's the main thing you're worried about. What would the higher ups at JYPE think if they found out you let their beloved star idol sleep on the hard ground of a hotel room while you enjoyed the plush mattress of a queen-sized bed?

They'd strip you of your job faster than Chan's rap.

"You promise?"

He smiles at you and holds out his pinky. "Promise."

"Fine." You wrap your pinky around his, watching his smile grow. "But just tonight. Tomorrow, you get your own bed."

"Deal."

::

It's December. Chan failed to consider that fact when he oh-so-chivalrously insisted on sleeping on the floor so you could have the bed. Now here he is, trying to shiver silently under his single blanket that barely covers his toes because it's for a twin sized child.

He rolls onto his side. Then rolls onto his other side. Honestly, he's trying. But damn it, the floor has never been comfy for him either. He's just better at hiding the fact that he hates sleeping on the floor. You were always much more vocal about it, waking with actual bruises on your body from tossing and turning.

Even when Chan would sneak extra blankets onto your spot or give you one of his pillows, you still managed to somehow end up with spots on your back and arms. Chan always felt bad about that. But you were there to train to be a manager. His manager.

There were other factors that kept Chan from sleeping well, starting from when he became a trainee. But it really hit hard after he debuted. Insomnia was just part of the idol package, especially with the amount of involvement he has in the production of his own music. Not many other idols get that opportunity, so when he was presented with it, he snatched it up.

Now he pays the price of poor sleep wherever he goes, really. A large part of it is his job, the stress, the competition, the image bearing. Being an idol isn't easy. He's pretty sure nothing can fix his poor sleeping habits at this point.

"Pssst," you whisper through the dark, peering over the edge of the bed, at where Chan is struggling on the floor, "are you asleep?"

"No," he replies back hushed, "why?"

"You're making a lot of noise tossing and turning like that."

"Sorry, I'll try to stay still."

"No, that's not what I meant," you say empathetically. "The floor is really uncomfortable, isn't it?"

He doesn't want to admit you were right, but he also knows that if he confesses to being uncomfortable on the ground, it'll only make your guilt worse. He doesn't want that either.

"I'm fine."

"You're miserable."

Damn it, you're good. You can always tell. Chan should have known. You can usually read him perfectly.

"Do...do you want to sleep in the bed?"

"I already said, ___, I'm not going to make you sleep on the floor."

"I won't sleep on the floor," you explain slowly. "I'll stay up here. You can sleep on the left side."

Oh. Not what Chan was expecting. Perhaps the seeping of the night and the lack of sight through the dark has affected your judgement. Or perhaps you're desperate for some quiet, so you're willing to offer anything to get him to be still.

Either way, Chan doesn't want to intrude by any means. But he is cold down here. And his side hurts. And his feet stick out. And he's starting to get a headache.

"If you're sure it's okay..."

"It's just one night, right?"

"Right."

You crawl back into the bed, scooting as far as you can onto the right side of the mattress, curling into yourself so as to leave as much space for Chan as possible.

Chan slides under the blanket, staying as close to the left edge of the bed as he can. With your backs to each other and the room draped in silence, you both start to relax into the comfort of each other's safe presence and the cushiness of the duvet.

"Goodnight, Chan."

"Goodnight, ___. And thank you."

"Don't mention it. Seriously, don't tell anyone."

He chuckles, "Wouldn't dream of it."

::

It's so damn warm, cozy, and wonderful. Even the sound of the alarm going off isn't enough to infiltrate Chan’s utopia right now.

A deep inhale through the nose, a snuggle closer to his pillow, a nuzzle into the warmth of your neck--

Wait, what?

His eyes slowly open only to find the back of your hair cascading down the pillow he's sharing with you. His legs are entangled with yours beneath the sheets, and his arm hangs nonchalantly across your waist. When he attempts to move it away, he realizes you've got a hand clenched around his hand, refusing to let him go.

Unsure of what to do, he allows you to adjust, a low groan to let him know you don't appreciate the way he jerked away.

“___,” he whispers your name, but you don't reply.

Instead, you roll over in his arms and bury your face into the crease beneath the pillow and his chin, nuzzling your nose into his collar. Your breath is warm on his skin. If he let himself, he could easily fall back asleep and potentially sleep for many more hours. There's something scarily safe about holding you like this.

This place shouldn't feel so familiar and lovely. But it does. His mind races with reasons not to let this go on. Because this is too much, too close, too intimate. You don't have this sort of relationship, and he certainly doesn't want to take advantage of your sleeping state. But then, the steady rise and fall of your breathing lulls him in closer, the warmth of your arms seeps in, and in a split moment, it feels so fucking right.

Still, he hesitates. If he gives in, if he enjoys this, does it mean something? Does it make him too vulnerable? Or even worse...a pervert.

His hands twitch, debating whether to tighten the hold around your waist or create distance. But the comfort is undeniable, the way your heart slows just a little, the way your body instinctively relaxes into him as if every bad thought and anxiety is melting away because he's got you. He's here.

He gently rubs your back. “Hey, ___. It's time to get up.”

“Five more minutes,” you mumble, barely audible, coated in sleep.

It feels as if you want to be held by him. Your body is begging him to stay.

But Chan is in a battle between craving closeness and fearing what it means. And in the middle of it all, he realizes -- he really doesn't want to move.

The alarm has automatically snoozed at this point, so it's bound to go off in the next few minutes anyway. What's five more minutes in the grand scheme of things?

In a moment of blissful weakness, Chan pulls you closer. He tucks you fully under his chin, uses his leg to mold your body to his, pulls the cover over your shoulders, and closes his eyes.

It feels good to feel you breathe. Your arm wraps around his middle as your contentment enthralls his spirit. The very essence of calmness perpetrates his chest and puts his heart at ease. For the first time in a long time, Chan feels absolute peace in this bed, holding you, sleeping deeply.

He can't remember the last time he slept this well. Maybe it was back in high school?

Damn. He could stay here forever. That's saying something considering he hasn't been able to consistently sleep longer than four hours max since he became a trainee. Even on days he didn't have a schedule to wake him up, he got up after a few hours, unable to keep himself asleep. His body didn't feel rested. His mind didn't feel refreshed. His soul didn't feel recharged.

But this. This right now. You.

Holding you is restful. Feeling you is refreshing. Sleeping next to you is recharging.

If he slept like this every night, life wouldn't feel so overbearing all the time. If he could restart every day like this, life wouldn't be so stressful.

And oh god, when you slip your leg between his just to be that little bit closer, his whole body reacts. Shockwaves of what he can only describe as cuddle serotonin flood his head, telling him to bring you closer in whatever ways possible.

It's only thanks to the smallest dose of consciousness he has left at this moment that he doesn't roll over on top of you. But his sense of reason can't override the temptation to place his mouth against your skin, feeling your morning warmth against the sensitive flesh of his lips.

Your chin lifts to make room for him, as if you asked him to be on your neck. A sigh from the depths of your soul escaping at the first touch his lips to your pulse. He feels your heartbeat ever so subtly pick up pace, and it captures his attention in a curious way.

It's gotta be hormones talking, but he wants to pucker his lips so badly and just kiss skin. Kiss some part of you, any part of you.

He shouldn't. He shouldn't—

BANG BANG BANG

Both of you jerk awake in a split moment, bodies untangling as you suddenly roll away from his chest and from between his legs.

He catches your sleepy expression, lidded, tired eyes searching the situation for a reason as to why you were being so affectionately cuddled by him.

Chan isn't sure what to do, so he freezes where he is with his arms open. For a moment, you just stare at each other, striving to get back to reality but struggling to wake up fully.

BANG BANG BANG

Whoever is at the door tries the door handle, but of course it's locked. They continue to bang on the door with no mercy.

You frantically grab your phone and check the time. With a gasp and "oh fuck" under your breath, you scramble out of bed. Your sleep shorts are twisted and your tank top is riding up your midriff.

Chan keeps his eyes down. He's processing that he was holding your bare skin a moment ago and didn't even consider the fact that the reason he thought you were so cuddly was because you weren't wearing a bra.

You spy through the peephole while tying a robe around your pajamas. When you see who it is, you mutter another curse and grab the keycard.

Then you open the door just enough to slip into the hallway.

Chan can't do much but wait as he listens to the subtle yelling just outside the room.

A few moments later, you come back inside acting very small and quiet. Chan throws the blankets away and rushes to you.

“Who was that?”

“The director.”

“Oh…what's wrong?”

“It's almost 2pm. You missed the interview with Youth Magazine.”

“I missed it?”

“Chan, I'm so sorry." Are those tears forming in your eyes? "It's all my fault. I should have gotten us up at the first alarm. I can't believe I didn't set a backup. I can't believe I fucked up this much.”

"Hey, it's okay. It's just an interview." But he can tell you're not in a place to be reassured after whatever hell the director just yelled at you. "What about the photoshoot?”

You sigh, blinking away any wetness from your eyes, rubbing your hands over your face. “You're due on set in an hour, so we have to get ready and leave like right now.”

Any and all contentment Chan felt from you while in bed is gone. You're utterly distressed and frantic as you run around the hotel room, backtracking to get this and forgetting to grab that.

As the two of you head for the door, Chan gently pauses you by the shoulder. “Look at me,” he says, “everything is gonna be okay. Being late once is not the end of the world.”

“Except for the fifty thousand fans that will be waiting to charge the JYPE building, and the fifty thousand dollars it'll cost the company.” You somehow manage a chuckle, but it's forced and fake. “Come on, you're due for make-up ten minutes ago."

::

The photoshoot went well. You're not surprised. Chan always delivers. You're convinced the man doesn't have a bad side. He could make a trash bag look good.

Youth Magazine was understanding and agreed to move his interview into the late evening. Unfortunately, it kept Chan from having dinner, but he did get to finish his schedule for the day without any further late calls or unexpected surprises.

Ever the professional, Chan ended his interview with an exclusive sneak peek about his upcoming single. Something the magazine had not asked for, but it smoothed over any leftover ruffled feathers and left the relationship between JYPE and Youth Magazine in good condition. Chan really is the perfect idol.

You're constantly looking over your shoulder for the remainder of the day, especially during his interview. It's not like anyone could possibly know Chan was late because he was cuddling you, but it also seems as though everyone who looks at you somehow knows. And it freaks you out.

The day starts, operates, and finishes in a state of anxious foot tapping.

Chan seems unbothered by it all though.

You double check with the driver while Chan finishes changing back into his street clothes and getting his makeup removed.

“I don't understand. Why can't we leave tonight?”

“Because Chan was late, we're almost six hours behind schedule. We had to switch flights back to Korea,” the staff explains. “You're due at the airport first thing tomorrow, but for now, the company got one more night at the hotel. You need to take Chan back to his room.”

Because Chan was late. Because your ass felt too good being cuddled by Chan’s ridiculously warm arms.

He wasn't even supposed to be cuddling you! The only reason you let him in the bed was because he clearly wasn't sleeping well on the ground. He's the one who promised to stay on his side and then ended up practically on top of you.

“Oh, by the way,” the staff adds, "the company executive called. He wants to talk to you as soon as you get back. In his office.”

As much as you want to, you can't place the blame on anyone else. You knew it was time to get up, but instead, you let him pull you closer for “five more minutes.”

Those five minutes are gonna cost you your job.

Chan joins you in the car after he gets the run down of the new flight schedule. He asks you what's wrong, but you only eye the rearview mirror where the staff is eyeing the two of you in the back seat.

“Nothing,” you answer with the best smile you can muster. “I'll order you room service when we get back. What do you want for dinner?”

“A burger.”

“Pineapple?”

“I’ll kill you.”

::

While the temptation was certainly there, you ended up sparing poor Chan and ordering his regular burger. It would have been easy to mess with him, but he had a hard day of cleaning up your mess and patching up relationships between the company and Youth Magazine. He deserves a break.

You also got to eat for the first time today, thank god. Another few minutes and your stomach might have caved in. Past the point of hangry, the deafening silence that had settled between you and Chan for the past hour was inclination enough. You needed food.

With a full tummy and dark sky, it was time to settle in for a few hours before you would need to head to the airport. The company couldn't have rebooked a later flight? You swear they got a 6am boarding time just to punish you.

“I might stay up a bit and work on a song. I haven't had a lot of inspiration lately, but maybe I can manage to get something down."

“Oh, really?” you reply as Chan sits at the desk and opens his laptop. “I figured you would be exhausted after today."

“A little, but I’m fine. You can turn off the light so you can sleep.”

“But then you'll be sitting in the dark. That's not good for your eyes."

“It's only for an hour or so, don't worry about me, ___, seriously.”

Oh. But you do. You worry that it won't be for an hour or so, because it never is. It never has been, even when he was a trainee. Chan stayed up night after night working on album after album. Once he got into the groove, there was no getting him out. Breaking Chan’s concentration was like breaking cement.

You know this because you were always the one people called when Chan showed up with bags under his eyes and falling asleep in the makeup chair. He has a horrible habit of not sleeping, and you, as his manager, have the hardest job in the world: making sure he sleeps.

“You know, you'll have the entire flight tomorrow to work on stuff. Sure you don't want to just sleep a few hours now?”

He turns around in the chair to see you pulling the covers down, a small smirk cracks on his lips. “Or, I'll have the entire flight tomorrow to sleep.”

“You don't sleep on planes.”

“Touché.”

“Come on,” you temptingly gesture to the waiting pillows and blankets, “just a few hours and then you can work to your heart's content. Please take care of yourself and get some rest first?”

Chan could easily say no and ignore you, but he likes it when you care about him like this. And yeah, maybe you're just doing your job as his manager. But sometimes it feels more like a friend concerned for a friend. Sometimes Chan can even convince himself you feel a little bit more for him than just a concerned childhood friend. But then he has to come back to reality where you're his manager and nothing more.

“Fine,” he gives in and shuts his laptop off. “I'll sleep first. If you insist.”

“I do.” You smile victoriously as he gets under the covers, pulling them up to his chin and snuggling himself in.

He looks at you and gives a flat smile while you set TWO alarms. “Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You're welcome – hey, what are you doing?”

You pause, halfway to the ground. “What?”

Chan peers over the edge of the bed, grimacing at the makeshift blanket and pillow on the floor. The one you're laying down on.

“Why are you down there?”

“I'm going to sleep,” you answer, as if it should be obvious.

“There?”

“Yes, here.”

“___, we already had this discussion.”

“Yeah, but that was before…”

Should you be saying this right now? You're not an idiot and you're not in denial, obviously Chan knows the state in which he woke up this morning. But there was no time or space to discuss it when it happened, so now you're here, at the end of the day, trying to maneuver a conversation around potential awkwardness. And you hate it.

“Before?”

“You know...”

“We cuddled."

Que the awkward silence. If he could have avoided this, he would have. But it's not his character to ignore something so significant.

That is…did you find it significant? Or do you care at all? Maybe you didn't think it was a big deal. Or even worse, maybe you thought he was bothersome.

“Did it bother you that much?” he asks slowly.

“It doesn't matter if it bothered me or not. We're not like that. I'm your manager, I mean…it shouldn't have happened.”

“You're right," he agrees from a professional standpoint, "but you sleeping on the floor shouldn't happen either.”

“Chan–”

“It's just for one more night. Not even a full night, just a few hours. Here,” he places a pillow in the middle of the bed, “we’ll use a wall and everything.”

“I don't know…”

“You want me to sleep, right?”

“Well, yeah. But the floor is--

“I won't be able to sleep knowing you're on the floor when there's plenty of room up here. And I won't cuddle you again.”

“Promise?”

He holds out his pinky finger, purposefully sitting all the way back on the bed so you have to crawl half way onto the mattress to reach him.

“Promise.”

::

You wake up to your first alarm, thanks to the volume being on max and a recently developed fear of being cuddled back to sleep by a certain someone. Despite his promise, you definitely expected to be waking up to the solid, warm feel of his chest and the smell of his leftover cologne on his neck.

However, the first thing you notice upon opening your eyes is a distinct lack of warmth. The second was the soft sound of snoring -- from the floor.

You sit up, blinking away the sleep from your eyes, and sure enough, there he is sprawled out on his back on the ground, a blanket half-draped over him like he couldn't even be bothered to fix it properly.

You frown as he slowly stirs awake to the sound of the alarm. “Why are you on the floor?”

His eyes crack open, and for a moment, he just stares at the ceiling, as if debating how to answer. Then he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. “I fell.”

“You fell?”

“Yep.” He stretches his arms over his head before sitting up, the blanket falling off his lap. “Rolled right off in the middle of the night. Figured it wasn’t worth the effort to climb back up.”

You stare at him, unimpressed. “You rolled off a queen-sized bed?"

“Mhm.”

“And instead of getting back in bed like a normal person, you just… stayed down there?”

"That is correct."

“You’re lying."

He scoffs, placing a hand over his chest like you've wounded him by even suggesting such a thing. “I would never.”

You playfully toss a pillow at him, and he barely reacts in time when it hits him square in the face.

“Try again,” you say, arms crossed.

He groans dramatically, rubbing his hands over his face before mumbling, “Fine. I couldn’t sleep.”

"You couldn't sleep in a bed, so you chose the floor where you can't sleep?"

His jaw clenches, lips purposely sealed as if he's worried he might accidentally reveal something he's not supposed to. Of course, you notice how he suddenly refuses to meet your gaze.

“Look, it was either that or--" he stops himself and restarts the sentence. “It was just easier this way.”

You tilt your head, studying him closely as he gets up for the restroom. And then it hits you.

"You were scared of cuddling me again, weren't you?"

Chan stops in his tracks, his back to you so you can't see his face. “No comment.”

"You promised.”

“And I kept that promise,” he says, suddenly turning around to face you, eyes gentle but serious, "by removing myself from the situation.”

You stall on the bed, eyes narrowing at him as your brain processes his words. A pillow wall -- haphazard but deliberate -- wasn't enough to keep him contained to his side of the mattress?

Your gaze flickers to the makeshift bed on the ground, then back to him, his shameful gaze on the floor with a hand on the doorknob to the bathroom, waiting for the chance to escape this conversation.

And then it hits you.

The only way he could stop himself from cuddling you was to remove himself from the equation entirely. He didn’t trust himself. At least, his waking self could force distance, but the part of him that surfaced when asleep was a different picture. After all, last night, he hadn’t even realized what he was doing until he woke up with you in his arms. What was stopping him from holding you again? A few pillows?

You swallow hard, something twisting a painful knot deep in your chest. He wanted to keep his distance. But instead of trusting sheer willpower, he chose his own discomfort over possibly making you uncomfortable.

And for some reason, that realization unsettles you more than if he’d simply pulled you close again.

"Chan, I... I mean, thank you I guess, but I didn't expect--"

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles and disappears into the bathroom, locking the door.

::

It's been three weeks of a slow, painful decline since he returned to Seoul. Something is up with Chan, and for the first time in almost ten years, he doesn't immediately know how to fix the problem.

He's irritated, drowsy, short with everyone, and frustrated about everything. Even when eating, he's annoyed and distracted, as if experiencing the worst hangover of his entire life.

At first, it was subtle. A missed alarm here, a forgotten word there. He noticed his hands trembling when he reached for coffee, but figured he just hadn't had his caffeine yet. And then the dark circles under his eyes started to deepen, his skin grew paler as if it was being stretched too thin.

By the second week, exhaustion was dragging him like chains. His thoughts became sluggish and slow, and his emotions were frayed at the edges. He was quick to snap and even quicker to crack. All his conversations blurred together, and he caught himself zoning out mid-sentence, struggling to remember what he was even talking about.

By the third week, it was almost like moving through a dream at all times of the day. He saw visions swimming in front of his eyes when he stood up too fast. At one point, he had to grip the nearest surface to steady himself. His body ached, his head pounded, and no amount of caffeine helped anymore. Reality felt like a distant dream, surreal, like he was watching life from the outside. When he did try to get some sleep, it didn't come easily. Most nights it didn't come at all.

His body and mind are screaming for rest, but he can't turn his brain off -- trapped in a cycle of exhaustion that seems never ending.

No sleep for three weeks. He feels like death.

He tries to remember the last time he slept soundly. The Youth Magazine trip, when he woke up in a hotel bed encased in your arms, your nose pressed into his sternum, taking in his scent and matching the inhale and exhale of his lungs.

Cuddling you felt safe, lovely. It was warm, both from the physical closeness and the quiet reassurance that he's not alone. The steady rhythm of your heart beating in time with his, your breathing in perfect synchrony, the way his arms wrapped around you in a protective embrace. Like a silent promise that, in that moment, everything was okay.

It was the feeling of being held together when the world was crumbling outside, but he didn't care about the world. He couldn't be bothered when he had you in his bed. The softness of your shared breaths and gentle fingertips tracing absentminded patterns on skin. There was no rush, no need for words, just the quiet certainty that he was wanted, safe, and exactly where he should be.

What he would give to sleep like that again. It's not a want, it's a need at this point.

He tried body pillows, heated blankets, every sleep-help thing in the book. He even attempted hypnosis but turns out the pendant he bought online was a plastic scam.

He's so close to breaking, the pain is far past physical. It's mental. Psychological. Emotional.

His spirit is breaking.

Work, work, work all day and no measurable amount of sleep to be had in three weeks.

He knows the cure. But even in this state, he doesn't feel like he can ask you for it. It's unprofessional and would make you uncomfortable. He cares about you too much to even put you in the position of considering it.

In the meantime, you've been hustling and bustling all over JYPE just trying to keep it together. After a horrific scolding from the company executive, you've been on high alert, constantly on edge because the company is watching for any slight screw up that could cost you more than just your job. Once fired from one of the biggest entertainment companies in the country, you can bet your ass no one else is going to want you.

In fact, you've been so busy with managing Chan's schedule that you've neglected to notice his declining health. He's going above and beyond his work load, but that's sort of normal for him. He pushes the limits of music on a regular basis, and it's not uncommon for him to work several days straight.

So, you pushed that nagging feeling that something is wrong with Chan to the back of your mind. It sounds counterintuitive, but your list of priorities is only growing, and you don't really have space to worry about Chan right now.

That is, until the photographer of Chan's latest modeling gig gives you a call.

You weren't on set because you were preoccupied setting up his next trip to Japan for a charity event. But when you heard he passed out on set and was being taken by ambulance to the hospital, you immediately dropped your work and rushed to his side.

"The patient is showing signs of dehydration, malnourishment, and severe sleep-deprivation. I suspect he's gone about three weeks in this condition. He's been administered fluids which should help, and he's resting for now, but he needs quality sleep and meals from now on. Let him sleep here as much as possible, but he's free to leave whenever he wakes up. He needs calories sooner than later, so make sure he eats when you take him home."

"Thank you, doctor," you reply kindly as you receive paperwork for his release.

The doctor leaves the room, and here you are, sitting next to your unconscious idol in a hospital bed with an IV drip in his arm and barely any color in his cheeks.

How did you let this happen? How did you let it get this far? How did you manage to ignore every fucking sign that Chan was not okay, and brush it off as if it was nothing? 

This is on you. 

You sit stiff in the hospital chair, hands clenched in your lap as you watch him – sick, exhausted, hooked up to an IV like it's the only thing tethering him to reality. Your chest tightens with guilt because you noticed. You noticed everything. The dark circles under his eyes, the way he swayed on his feet, how his hands trembled when he reached for something. All of it. 

And you didn't say anything. Because other things were "more important."

But you should have said something. You should have called him out. You should have made him rest before he ended up in the hospital.   

Your fingers curled into fists. You let him push himself too far, convinced yourself that he was fine when deep down, you knew he wasn’t. And now, here he is in the hospital because you didn't feel like adding another priority to your list. 

This is on you.

The guilt sits heavy on your chest, suffocating until it becomes physical aches. But scolding yourself wouldn't change anything. What matters now is making sure he never, never, ends up like this again. 

He slowly inhales, his eyes gently opening to the sight of a blindingly white hotel room. He looks around, gaze eventually landing on the tube in his arm and following it up to the IV bag above his head. 

“Hey…” you say gently, hand on his bed but not touching him just yet, “how do you feel?” 

“Dizzy,” he replies honestly. “I guess I really did pass out, huh?” 

“Yeah, you scared me. I got a call while you were on the way here and came as fast as I could. The doctor said you're dehydrated, malnourished, and sleep deprived. He also said we can go whenever you're ready, but there's no rush, seriously. We’ll stay as long as you want, so you can rest.” 

“Oh.” His voice is monotone, aura stale and emotional walls too thick and tall for you to breach right now. “Thanks for coming.” 

But his thank you doesn't sound very genuine. It sounds more like “thanks for doing your job,” and there's no heart behind it. He doesn't look at you. He just stares up at the ceiling, seemingly focused on breathing and whatever thoughts are swimming around in that beautiful head of his.  

“Chan…” you begin, reaching out to take his hand, but he moves it away. 

You sit still, too still, hands now folded neatly in your lap as if keeping them steady will somehow anchor the rest of you. Your face is calm, composed, but the silence stretches on for far too long, the weight of unspoken words pressing against your throat until you're forced to either speak or choke. 

“I haven't been a very good manager, have I? I haven't been there for you when you needed me. I was so caught up in my own shit, feeling sorry for myself because I was yelled at a little bit. Like that's an excuse to place you at the bottom of my priorities.” 

Then, without permission, a tear slips free. Then another. You don't wipe them away, don't even blink them back. But they steal your voice, leaving your lips parted in a breath for a moment longer. 

“Even when I saw you struggling, I chose to ignore it, when I should have put your health and safety first. And I don't have a goddamn reason for why I treated you like that, because that's not how I feel about you. You're so fucking important to me, Chan, but I failed to show you that because I was stupid. I was so stupid.” 

Your chest rises and falls in measured breaths, a practiced stillness, but the dampness on your cheeks betrays your supposed composure. So, you swallow hard, clench your fingers a little tighter, and force yourselves to speak even though your voice has gone weak and started to crack.

"I should have been there. I should have said something the first time I noticed you hadn't eaten anything all day. I should have advocated for your health the first time I saw your hands shaking. But instead I just let it happen. And I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Chan...please forgive me…but if you don't, I understand.” 

He looks over at you, eyes softening and heart opening. Chan exhales slowly, the kind of breath that carries exhaustion, but also something softer – understanding. His gaze lingers on you, reading the pain in your eyes, the weight of guilt pressing down on you. 

He reaches over to place his hand on yours, the feeling of a tear dripping from your chin onto his knuckles. His grip is weak, but the warmth is there. You can feel it. 

"I forgive you,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, squeezing lightly. “I know you care, even when you fail to show it. Granted, I should’ve taken better care of myself instead of making you feel responsible for something that was never yours to carry alone. We're supposed to be in this together, right?” 

His thumb brushes over your hand, a silent reassurance that you haven't lost him. His walls aren’t up forever, but they’re cracking, letting you in with the little strength his body can muster at this point. 

"But that means you need to forgive yourself too,” he murmurs. 

You nod. You'll get there. It won't be immediate, and you'll probably apologize a few more times before his forgiveness fully sinks in, but it'll happen eventually. In time. You'll get there. 

:: 

“Home sweet home!” 

You cheer as the two of you finally walk past the threshold of Chan’s apartment. It smells like vanilla and sandalwood, like home. You take a deep breath in, letting the scent surround you and comfort you. You love the way his apartment smells, mainly because it smells like him. You always feel good and safe when you're here. 

“I'll unpack tomorrow,” Chan tells you with a tired yawn. “What time am I supposed to be at the site again?” 

“Nope!” You drop his last bag by the wall and begin ushering him towards his room. “No more schedule for you, sir.” 

“Hey, wait what?” he giggles, trying to see over his shoulder as you use both hands on his back to physically push him down the hallway. “What about the–” 

“I got it covered!” 

“But I'm supposed to–” 

“Not anymore!” 

You manage to get him into his room, a proud and stern smile on your face as you gesture to his mattress. “Time for bed. And then you're eating a full breakfast when you wake up. Do you need to change or brush your teeth first?” 

Chan lets out an airy laugh, waving a finger between the two of you with a shake of his head. “Nah ah, absolutely not. I know you're worried about me, but this is not how things are gonna work.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You can't babysit me. I'm not a toddler.” 

“I'm not babysitting you.” 

“You're standing in my doorway, waiting for me to get ready for bed.” 

“To make sure you go to sleep.” 

“Like a toddler.” 

“Like a patient, which you are.” 

He just rolls his eyes, leaning on one arm against the doorframe, smiling down at you fondly. “I'm a grown-ass man, if you didn't notice.” 

“Look,” you say very plainly, arms crossed as you peer up at him, “the doctor said that you are severely sleep deprived, and you need to sleep well. As your manager, it is my job to make sure you sleep well. So, tell me what you need to be able to sleep well.” 

The question hangs in the air, simple yet paralyzing.

Chan stills completely, mid-breath, mid-thought. His body locks up as if any movement might expose what he’s actually thinking. His gaze flickers around the room, suddenly hyper-focused on nothing in particular.

What does he need to sleep well? The answer is instant, obvious. 

You. 

Just you, close enough that he can feel your warmth, feel your breathing, let himself relax in a way he hasn't been able to, well, since forever. 

But how the hell is he supposed to tell you that? How the hell is he supposed to tell you all he needs are your cuddles? 

His throat feels tight, his pulse loud in his ears. He knows he should answer honestly, but every possible response feels too revealing, too vulnerable. So he stays frozen, battling the war in his head, until he finally forces a swallow and mutters, voice quieter than intended. 

"I don’t know."

“Come on, yes you do. Just tell me. I want to help.” 

“I really don't know, okay?” He turns away, hand running through his hair while his words threaten to run away. “I mean, I just don't sleep well. It's just one of those things, I guess.” 

“I think you do know,” you narrow your eyes, speaking gently, “you just don't want to say it for some reason.” 

Fuck you and your intuitive nature. That ability to read him so well will one day be his ultimate downfall, if that day isn't right now. 

You're right though. He just doesn't want to say it, because it might scare you. Might make you uncomfortable. Might cross a line he's been very careful not to cross for the last decade.

Then what happens? He loses you? That doesn't seem very fair. 

Chan rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. 

You raise an eyebrow, taking a step closer to show that whatever he's got to say isn't going to scare you away. "Chan, let me help you. What's going on?” 

“Fine,” he gives in. “But you can't, I mean, I don't want to push you away.” 

Push you away? Why should this push you away? You know whatever it is won't change anything for you, but if he needs that assurance, you're more than okay to give it to him. 

He sits on the bed to fidget with the blanket, nerves exponentially rising within his chest at what he's about to confess. 

You sit beside him. “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” 

“I haven’t slept – really slept in, like, weeks." 

“Right. That’s why you’re here."

“But,” he takes a deep breath, finally looking at you, "there was one time recently that I slept really well. It was the best sleep I've gotten in years.” 

“Okay, great!” you exclaim, eager to hear about when and how you can help him get some more of that magic, quality sleep. “When was it?” 

“Youth Magazine.” He had to spit it out quickly, or he wasn't sure he would go through with it. But once it's out, the entire atmosphere shifts. 

You pause, blinking. "You mean…” 

“Yeah. With you.” 

“You slept well when we cuddled?” 

“Not just well,” Chan explains. "It was like, holding you allowed me to release stress I didn't even know I was carrying. It felt so right to have someone next to me, holding onto me, feeling safe with me. I think you might have actually healed part of me to be honest. Is that totally crazy?” 

“No. No, you're not crazy.” You swallow, glancing away for a moment before meeting his gaze again. Your voice is softer this time, unsure but sincere. "I’m glad it helped."

Chan would suspect he just made everything worse were it not for the subtle color on your cheeks and the shy, hidden smile in the corners of your mouth. 

“___?” 

You hesitate for a moment, fingers fidgeting slightly in your lap. Then, after a beat, you turn to face him as well. 

“Yes?” 

“I know this is kind of a weird request, and you can absolutely say no. I won't take it personally, and we can pretend this conversation never happened….will you stay?” 

“Stay?” 

“Stay here. With me. I think I can actually get some rest if you're close to me.”  

Your heart skips a beat at that one. "Chan…"

He quickly rushes to add, "You don’t have to! If it’s weird or if you’re uncomfortable, I get it. I just – I don’t know, it’s been so hard to shut my brain off, and last time when you were in my arms, it was like,” he sighs as if finally remembering the feeling of peace, “easy.” 

You don't disagree. What Chan doesn't know is you've been thinking a lot about that night too. And you realized fairly quickly that you enjoy sleeping next to someone, feeling their weight in your arms, waking to their scent on you. 

At least, you liked waking to Chan’s scent. 

You should go. That’s what your head is saying. It’s the reasonable choice, the one that keeps a safe distance, the one that makes all this mean nothing.

Stay. That's what your heart is saying. It's the emotional choice. The one that validates your desire to care for Chan, the one that allows you to be close to him, the one that makes all this mean something. 

When you study him – tired eyes, hesitant hands gripping the blanket like he’s bracing for disappointment – you feel something within you snap. 

He slept well because of you. The realization settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. He needs rest. He needs comfort. He needs you. 

Your chest tightens because you know that if you walk away right now, he won’t stop you. He’ll let you go. That's the kind of man he is. But he’ll go back to sleepless nights, and you'll spend the whole night wondering if you made the wrong choice.

What's one more night in the grand scheme of things? If it doesn't work, then you walk away knowing you did everything you could to help him sleep well. If you think about it, this would fall under the duties of your managerial position. It's in your job description to do whatever is needed to properly care for, manage, and support your idol. 

“You really think if we cuddle…it'll help you sleep better?” 

“Yes. I do.” 

"Alright,” you whisper, watching his entire body practically melt at the sound of your voice. “I’ll stay. Just for tonight. If this doesn't work, we never speak of it again.” 

Chan crosses his heart. 

You believe him. 

::

The silence between you grew thick with unspoken words. He sits on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the blanket. It's warm and soft and serves as a reminder of how warm and soft you felt the morning he woke up with you. He almost can't believe you actually agreed to this. 

It's not like he asked you for sex, but for some reason, what you're about to do feels even more intimate. At least sex can be emotionless and mind-numbing. Cuddling you…the idea is different. 

Chan isn’t stupid. He's pretty sure he won't be able to cuddle you and not develop some kind of feelings. But he puts the possibility to the side and focuses on you, making sure you're not doing this out of guilt or because you feel obligated. 

Deep down, he wants you to want to cuddle him too. It won't feel genuine unless he gets that “five more minutes” feel you had last time. He wonders if it can happen again if it doesn't happen naturally. 

He feels the other side of the bed dip under your weight as you climb in, slipping under the covers and gently laying your head on the pillow. 

You're wearing a large shirt – his large shirt, actually. 

Turns out you weren't expecting him to ask you to stay the night, so you didn't bring pajamas or a toothbrush or face wash. 

You hesitated only for a moment before looking at him, eyes meeting in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. A deep inhale, rising chest, and a gentle exhale without ever leaving his gaze.

Chan swallows, his gaze flickering down to where the fabric of his shirt drapes over you, then back to your face. There's something unreadable in his expression – soft, hesitant, like he's still wrapping his head around the fact that you're actually here.

Then he slowly – so as not to scare you, he supposes – climbs under the covers next to you. 

At first, he lays his head down as you turn onto your side to face him. The two of you allow the moment to sink in, feeling out the line you're about to cross, intentionally this time. If it was anyone else, you would be questioning your own sanity. But for some reason, the longer you spend falling into his eyes, the safer you feel in the moment. 

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, "Come here."

The bed shifts as you adjust, a little hesitant at first, but eventually placing yourself inside his arms and against his chest. Then, cautiously, he wraps an arm around you, his movements slow until he feels you relax into him. A bit of a snuggle closer so you can get fully comfortable. 

His exhale is a bit shaky, a reminder that even though he's the one who asked for this, he's not invincible to your touch. 

For a moment, neither of you speak, both of you simply taking in the moment and trying to adjust to the many, many new feelings happening right now. The room is quiet except for the slow, steady rhythm of your breaths mingling in the space between you. 

His grip tightens, barely noticeable, but you feel it in every joint of your body. As if he needs to convince himself you’re really there. As if he needs to convince himself this may actually work. His body is solid and firm, and despite the hesitation in his movements, he holds you like he doesn’t want to let go. 

You don't want him to either. 

Then, in the quiet, you feel it. The way his muscles start to unwind, the stress he’s been carrying slowly melts away. He tucks your head under his chin as he brushes against your hair. Another exhale, but it's softer this time, less shaky. 

"This…this is nice," he whispers. 

“Yeah,” you mutter in reply and gently snuggle in a little more, “it is.” 

It’s almost imperceptible, the way his fingers twitch against your back, like he’s resisting the urge to hold you even closer. His breathing evens out now, and then his arm hangs further over your waist, and his body turns further into you. 

For all his exhaustion, for all his need for rest, you are what unravels him the most. You are what finally brings him past the edge of sleep. 

And as he topples over that edge, he finds it simply too much to guard his tongue as it picks whatever thought is at the front of his mind and pushes it out his mouth. 

"You’re warm," he murmurs, his voice drowsy and low. His grip tightens just a fraction. “And soft.” 

Like a miracle, he finally drifts off to sleep. 

At first, you aren't sure how to feel. There's awareness in every inch of your body moving from the tips of your toes to the top of your head tucked sweetly under his chin. The way his arm drapes over your waist, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, the slowed heartbeat behind his ribs. You can feel his warmth seeping into you through every inch your bodies touch, the weight of him grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

But as the minutes passed, as the night lulled you into a sense of security and softness, something about knowing he was finally resting made your heart ache. You didn't fully understand just how high strung he had become until now – until you felt the way his body collapsed into sleep. No longer carrying the weight of exhaustion. 

When he finally fell asleep, you felt yourself fall too. You fall for the feeling of being his stuffed animal, his safe blanket, his body pillow. 

Before you know it, you begin relaxing too. The steady beat of his heart in your ears, the quiet hum of his snoring. It was soothing (as soothing as snoring can be). Chan is familiar in many ways, and it becomes scarily obvious that this feeling could become far more familiar far faster than you anticipated. 

You told yourself you’re only staying for his sake. But now, lying here with his arms around you, thinking about the morning kinda sucks. You haven't even fallen asleep yet, but you aren't looking forward to waking up. Because when you wake up tomorrow, you have to leave and…. 

Overthinking will only make you agitated, so you close your eyes and attempt to sleep, letting yourself dissolve into his scent as sleep overtakes your mind. 

“Goodnight, Chan.” 

:: 

“Good morning!” 

Chan has always been pleasant and professional. He's known for being a ray of sunshine wherever he goes, even on long, exhausting days. Ever the respectful gentlemen, the kind of guy you trust to have fans ranging from as young as nine years old. 

But this? Yeah, he gets odd looks for this kind of energy. 

“What is it?” he sings, jumping into the make-up chair. “Is my skin already glowing?”  

As a matter of fact, it is. His make-up artist doesn't quite know what to do with him at this point. Having glowing skin is a good thing, for sure! But it's kinda hard to do his make-up when he can't stop smiling like an idiot every five seconds. 

It's not just his make-up artist. It's the director, the producer, the staff, the choreographer, the camera director, the executives, the set manager, the photographer – everyone has taken note of this sudden but energetic change in Chan, and since mentioned it to you. 

Being his manager, it's only appropriate they would tell you. After all, you're supposed to know every food and drink and vitamin and pill that enters his body. How much he's exercising. How much he's eating. How much he's working. 

How much he's sleeping. 

In fact, Chan has slept a significant more number of hours since you started sleeping next to him. He falls asleep within minutes and stays asleep the whole night. He went from getting max three hours, to sleeping like a baby for a solid seven or eight hours on the regular. There was one night last week he slept for ten hours straight, cuddling you from behind like a teddy bear. 

If you hadn't gotten up to use the bathroom, he probably would have slept longer. 

Happy…cuddling you makes Chan happy. 

And not just happy. Euphoric. 

It's not just a change in his energy. It's a change in his emotions. He handles stress better. He digests food better. He remembers schedules better. 

It's hard to believe all this positive impact happened because you started cuddling with him.  

But you can't tell people that – or rather, you're not going to tell people that. It's better they don't know. So, you let them create as many conspiracy theories as they wish. 

Oh, and people have speculated plenty. The following are some of the most popular guesses. 

#1) Chan is on new meds. 

#2) Chan is officially spiraling and will crash any day. 

#3) Chan is getting a little help falling asleep at night from a…special friend. 

You're not a super big fan of that last one. Mainly because it's a little too close to the truth. And perhaps it's all in your head, but you think people have been watching you a little too suspiciously lately, and it's messing with your anxiety. 

Chan is working the camera, taking shots for his upcoming album cover. Eyes on point, vibe immaculate, body sculpted. God, the camera loves him. 

You step onto the set, arms straining under the weight of a towering stack of binders, higher than your own forehead. Maybe you should have swallowed your pride and taken two trips. But you didn’t, and now you’re paying for it.

Your foot catches on a taped-down cord, one you definitely should have seen, and suddenly, the world tilts. The binders fly from your grasp, papers scattering like fallen leaves.

And then SPLAT!

Your face meets the floor. Hard. The pain is instant, a dull throb forming at your forehead, but you barely have time to register it before—

"___! Oh my god, are you okay?!” 

Chan is there before you even open your eyes, hands steadying you, one under your arm and the other securing your waist as he helps you sit up. He doesn’t even glance at the mess you've made, doesn’t even care about the papers littering the floor…he only cares about you.

His eyes search your face, worried and intense, as his thumb gently brushes over the spot on your forehead.

"Chan," you say, voice tight with embarrassment as you pull away. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You fell. Pretty hard, actually." His brows knit together like you’re the ridiculous one for even asking. "I’m helping you."

"You just ran off in the middle of your shoot," you whisper, eyes darting to the small crowd that’s now gathered. Heat creeps up your neck, the weight of too many eyes on you. 

"Because you fell," he says again, firmer this time. His gaze doesn’t waver. "You’re more important than some pictures."

Your heart swells at the notion, but you shake your head. "I'm fine. Please, just go back."

"Are you sure you don’t need ice, or—"

"Chan."

"I could grab a hat from the closet if you're worried about a bump—"

"Chan, stop."

"I could ask the staff to put signs around the cords so you don’t trip again—"

"Chan!"

He shuts up this time. 

You sigh, voice softening. "Please, go do your job, and I'll do mine.” 

The light in his eyes dims until there's very little left. Your words knocked the wind out of him more than you intended. His lips part, as if he wants to argue, wants to insist on helping, but then he presses them together, swallowing whatever protest he may have had. 

His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, he looks down. He nods once, muttering a short “okay” before standing to his feet in quiet reluctance.

He doesn’t say anything as he turns away, doesn’t look back as he makes his way in front of the camera again. But there’s a stiffness in his shoulders now, a weight in the way he walks, like he's trying not to show how much your dismissal stung.

Seeing him this way feels like shit, but as others help you gather your binders and stand to your feet, you keep telling yourself it's better this way. It's better that there be not even a hint of anything more than professionalism between the two of you, lest someone figure out the truth. 

:: 

It's nice to be wearing your own pajamas, although you haven't been too upset wearing Chan’s shirt to sleep in for the last several nights. There's just something about your matching silk tank and shorts that makes you sleep luxuriously well, and you’ve missed the feeling of your favorite pj’s. It's lucky Chan had an extra drawer available for you to keep your bedtime stuff in his room. 

It didn't take long for the two of you to develop a nighttime routine. But tonight is a little different… 

Chan sits on the bed, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his lower lip jutting out just enough to make his pout obvious. His brow sits in the slightest frown, eyes locked onto the wall with a silent complaint, like he’s waiting for you to fix whatever injustice you’ve committed.

“What’s that face for?” you ask upon exiting the bathroom, pausing in front of him. 

He shifts a little, huffing under his breath, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. When you don’t immediately respond, he tilts his head dramatically to the side, giving you the full effect of his sulky (endearing) expression. 

You shrug, “Alright, nevermind then.” 

As you turn around, his hand catches your wrist, gently keeping you from going too far. 

He lets out an exaggerated sigh, like a child who didn’t get their way. "Are you really gonna ignore me when I look this sad?" he mumbles low and utterly tragic.

You can't help but find him charming when he's like this. It's rare you see this side of him, so when it appears, it's difficult not to lean into the act. 

“No,” you come back to him, his fingers still holding onto your wrist, “but you need to tell me what's wrong.” 

"I was only trying to help,” he mumbles, tracing abstract pictures with his finger over your pulse. 

You nod. "Are you talking about earlier today?"

"Yeah. I saw you fall. You literally hit your head on the floor. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, but you shoved me off."

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you sit down on the bed beside him. His pout loosens as you slide your wrist out of his grip to instead hold his hand. 

"Chan," you say, softly meeting his eyes, "I didn't mean to shove you off. I'm sorry. I was just embarrassed. Everyone was watching, and I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, "It was a big deal! You fell so hard. I wasn’t just gonna stand there and pretend I didn’t see it."

His grip tightens, fingers curling hesitantly around yours. 

"I know," you murmur. "I know you were just looking out for me. And I appreciate it. Really.” 

He stays quiet for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line. “Then…why did it feel like you didn’t want me there?” 

Your heart tugs at the vulnerability in his voice, the way his brows are still slightly furrowed, like he’s not sure if he should be feeling hurt or just letting it go.

"I just didn’t want to cause a scene. People are already talking, and I didn't want to give them any more reason to gossip about you.” You squeeze his hand gently. “But I did want you there, Chan."

He finally looks directly at you, the tension in his shoulders softening just a little. "You sure?"

You nod. "Mhm."

There’s a beat of silence before he huffs, ever the dramatic one. "Fine. But next time, I am getting you ice, whether you like it or not." 

You chuckle, nudging him playfully. "Deal."

“I'm still upset about it though…” he says with a tilt of his head towards the bed, big doe eyes silently asking you if it's finally time to get under the covers. 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, but there's a spike in your heartbeat that's unavoidable. The undeniable excitement you've been harboring lately for these cuddle sessions is about to become a problem. 

Yes, you've begun to look forward to these small moments. Chan is a great cuddler, and he only gets more cuddly every night. So much so, you scared yourself just thinking about the possibility of not being able to sleep next to him anymore. 

This whole thing started for Chan’s sake, but it's become a crutch for you. A craving. 

That sense of sinking into the sheets next to him, his strong arms wrapping around your body and pulling you close. As if he really wants you. As if he can't be without you. 

And if you let yourself, you can imagine for a moment, that he thinks of you as more than a glorified teddy bear. 

You sigh, settling into his arms, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against his forearm. "I'm nervous people will find out about this," you admit, voice barely above a whisper, “and they’ll judge, and they'll never understand, and everything will change.” 

You realize that your words imply you're scared of all this ending, that you're more invested in cuddling with Chan than you let on. But it's true. It's not only for him at this point; you've become increasingly dependent on his cuddles just as he depends on yours. 

Chan doesn't respond right away. Instead, he tightens his arms around you just a little, his hands rubbing slowly, comfortingly up and down your body. He knows your lines by heart at this point and traces them from memory. 

"No one's going to find out," he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “I promise, we’ll be careful. Everything’s going to be okay."

You close your eyes and scoot in closer to feel more of him pressed against you. "I trust you. Honest, I do. But I can’t help feeling anxious about it…what if this all blows up, and I don't get to be your manager anymore?” 

"They wouldn’t do that." Chan’s voice is steady, certain as he traces his fingers up and down your spine. 

"But what if they did?"

"Then I’d threaten to leave the company."

You blink at him. "Chan, you’re under contract."

“I’ve got enough dirt on the company to get out of it."

You stare at him for a beat before deadpanning, "You would blackmail JYPE just to keep me as your manager?"

"Yep." 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, placing your head back down, drawing whatever random shapes you want over his shirt. "Wow. That’s so romantic. You really know how to make a girl’s heart skip a beat, huh?"

"I am an idol," he says smugly.

"You know, if I didn’t become a manager in the industry, I would have been a hardcore K-pop stan."

Chan perks up a little. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. I’d be that fan who always got tickets to your fan meets, recorded fancams at every concert, held up signs that said, ‘Chan, why’d you invite so many people to our date?’"

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Well, those are some of my favorite fans, so..."

You grin, tilting your head up to look at him as he tilts his chin down to meet your gaze. "Guess I was meant to be in your life one way or another, huh?"

His eyes soften, thumb drawing circles on your back to lull you closer to sleep. 

“Yeah,” Chan hums softly, like he's considering your words a bit deeper than you intended them to be. Then he shifts closer, rolling towards you. “Guess so.” 

His chin dips, and before you can process it, you feel the familiar warmth of his nose brushing against the side of your neck.

You tense, just for a second. Not because it’s unwelcome, but because you weren’t expecting it. But Chan doesn’t pull away. He just nuzzles in, slow and deliberate, the tip of his nose grazing your skin as he exhales softly against your pulse.

It’s not new. Actually, he figured out pretty quickly that you love this, that it makes you melt in more ways than one. But tonight, with your nerves still buzzing and your thoughts racing, it feels more meaningful than usual.

Your hands instinctively clutch at his arm as a small, involuntary shiver runs down your spine. He must feel it, because his hold on you tightens just slightly, his breath fanning across your neck in a way that makes warmth spread through your chest.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He could. He's close enough, and the thought has definitely crossed your mind before. If he did…would you stop him? 

But he doesn’t.

And yet, as you settle further into his embrace, your anxiety dulling under the steady rhythm of his breathing and the weight of his presence, you realize that maybe…just maybe…you kinda wish that he would. 

:: 

It started with a late night movie, because you had the evening free for the first time in forever, and Chan invited you over to keep him company during his night in. It went well, and the convenience of already being at his apartment for bedtime worked out for the two of you. 

Then it was an early dinner and a late movie at his place.

Then it was virtual afternoon meetings AND dinner AND a late movie at his place. 

Eventually, you were finding any excuse possible to give so you could be around him. 

You grew accustomed to eating with him, hearing about his day, telling him about yours, encouraging one another, giving advice, venting about your shared hatred for the executive director. A nightly routine naturally developed before you climbed in bed together to sleep. 

Things progressed slowly from there. Over the course of a few months, your life adjusted ever so casually to fit your new routine with him. And while sneaking around never became less stressful, per say, it did become second nature. 

Chan learned exactly how to act in public so as not to raise suspicion (or your nerves). And you learned more of his tells and sleeping habits so as to help him get the best sleep possible.

When Chan laid next to you and opened his arms, your brain instinctively released that sweet hit of serotonin, and it wasn't long before you found yourself highly addicted. 

But you can never admit that to him. After all...you're his manager. 

This evening, the volume on his TV is low, just something playing in the background, neither of you really paying attention to the film at all. You have far too much paperwork to finish. 

Chan flops onto the couch next to you, stretching with a groan, loudly announcing his exhaustion after back-to-back schedules that day. 

You roll your eyes. “You know, you have no one to blame but yourself.” 

“What do you mean?” His arm lands on the couch behind you. 

“You overworked yourself today.” 

He clicks his tongue in defiance. “I did my job.” 

“You did your job, the mover’s job, the stage hand’s job, the performance director’s job–” 

“They needed help.” 

You shake your head. He’s always been like this – helpful to a fault, always taking on more than he should. 

“They had each other. You, on the other hand, have been running on fumes for weeks now.” 

Chan huffs, but instead of arguing further, he drops his head back against the couch with a heavy sigh. “Maybe I just like keeping busy.”

“And maybe I need you to take it easy because you have a solo stage tomorrow you can't be burned out for.” 

Chan cracks one eye open, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You need me to take it easy?”

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Because if you push yourself too hard and mess up your performance, guess who’s going to have to deal with your grumpy, self-loathing ass?”

His smirk fades into something softer. “You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough.” 

He doesn’t argue this time. Instead, he sows his lips shut, sinking further into the couch. You take that as a small victory. At least he’s not immediately running off to do more work. 

You finish your last document and shut your laptop, placing it on the floor, so you can finally relax on the couch next to him. 

It starts with some space. A shift here, a scoot there. You're not sure exactly when, but at some point his arm falls off the back of the couch and lands around your shoulder. 

Then, at some point, your head drops lightly against his shoulder, and your body turns into his. It doesn't take long for his arm to drape across your waist now. Without thinking, you lean further into him, legs naturally tucking against his.

Neither of you acknowledge it.

Neither of you move away.

He draws mindless shapes across your back, his breathing deep and steady. It’s so casual, so normal – and maybe that’s what makes it all the more dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not sure if this is still about sleep, or if it’s something else entirely. 

His fingers continue to trace lazy patterns up and down your waist, every so often dragging your shirt with it only for it to fall again. But you notice those few moments his bare finger brushes against your bare skin, like it's second nature, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

And yeah, one could argue that he has. He's certainly traced the lines of your body as he's fallen asleep before, always claiming it soothes him to feel you under his fingertips. 

But this is different. 

As the movie plays on, you find yourself thinking less about the plot and more about the way he feels under your weight. 

This isn’t about sleep.

This isn’t about comfort. 

This is about Chan. 

And suddenly, you’re acutely aware that your heart is racing solely because of him.

Eventually, the evening sunset turns dark, and the leaning against him turns into laying on him. 

And now, here you are, tummy on top of his tummy, cheek on his chest as his head lays on the arm rest, and his hand lazily strokes your back. He's watching the TV, his heartbeat singing against your ear, soft and calm, unconsciously making your heartbeat copy the rhythm. 

You shift slightly, resting your chin on his chest, watching him react to the movie. Every so often, his tummy bounces when he chuckles at the cartoon, making you bounce with it. You wonder if he even realizes he’s petting you, or that you've been fidgeting with the loose seam of his shirt for the last half hour. 

And that’s when it hits you. 

This is the first time you've cuddled without the expectation of immediate sleep. 

This is just the two of you. Being close. Because you want to be. Because it feels right. 

And suddenly, that realization makes your heart beat just a little too fast, telling your anxiety that you're about to be in grave danger of feeling too much. 

Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers twitch against his shirt as the weight of that realization settles over you, making you feel heavy on top of him. The warmth of his touch, the steady rise and fall of his breathing – it’s too right. Too easy. Too natural. Too good. 

You're starting to treasure it too much. Way too much. Eventually, all this has to end, right? If just thinking about it hurts this much…how much more will it hurt when… 

You need space.

Slowly, you shift away, carefully untangling yourself from him as you sit up to straddle his waist instead. 

Chan blinks, his arm falling to the empty space on his chest where you’d just been. “What’s wrong?”

You force a small smile, rubbing your face as if that’ll clear your head. “I’m just tired. Ready to turn in for the night.”

He doesn't hesitate to grab the remote and stop the movie. 

“Okay,” he says easily, already sitting up as well, holding you in place so you don't fall off his lap. “Whatever you want, ___.” 

Whatever you want? Why did he say your name like that? Like he genuinely cares about you. So soft. So certain. Like he’d do anything for you, no questions asked. Like your comfort, your needs, your wants matter more to him than anything else. 

It’s not the first time he’s said your name, clearly. Not even the first time he’s looked at you with that quiet sincerity in his eyes. But tonight feels different. Or maybe you’re just feeling different.

That's dangerous. 

Because if you allow yourself to believe, even for a single second, that this is something more, then you’re stepping into uncharted territory. 

One where the lines between comfort and affection blur.

One where cuddling isn’t just about helping him sleep anymore.

One where you’re not sure if you’d be able to stop, even if you needed to. 

You shake the thought away, forcing a small smile as you nod, pretending like nothing has changed inside your mind. But as he’s here, holding you so delicately in his lap, watching you with those careful – dare you say, loving – eyes, you realize everything is changing. 

He stretches slightly before gesturing for you to go first, so you stand up. Then he stands up as well, gesturing for you to follow him down the hall. 

But your feet don't move. You're just shifting your weight from one leg to the other.

Chan (of course) notices immediately. His brow furrows. “What is it?”

You frown down at your legs, rolling your ankles slightly. “I think my legs fell asleep from laying on the couch.” 

His concern melts into an affectionate smirk. “Seriously?” 

You nod, small, with an unconscious pout. 

“You know you could just ask,” he whispers as if it's some sort of secret. “I don't mind.” 

You blink. “Mind what?” 

Before you can react, he makes his move, swift and effortless as his arms sweep under your knees and back. He lifts you bridal style, bouncing you once to make sure you're secure. 

A surprised noise escapes you. “Chan! Oh my god, what–?” 

“You said your legs were numb,” he reminds you, grinning as if he wanted to do this. “Let me help.”

“This is not what I meant! Put me down!” 

But he just smiles and says, “Nope.” And he starts his way towards his bedroom. 

Your retorts start serious, but they gradually change to giggles the faster he walks, as if he just can't wait to get you into bed. 

He’s careful as he lays you down, adjusting the blankets before slipping in beside you. But he doesn't pull the blankets up just yet. 

Without hesitation, he reaches down, his hands wrapping around your calves as he starts massaging slow, gentle circles into the muscles. 

You blink at him, reaching down to place a hand on his. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he mutters and pushes your hand away, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His thumbs press lightly into your skin, his touch warm, soothing. “I can't sleep until I've made sure you're okay.” 

Oh god, there's something about his eyes when he meets yours. They're completely innocent, but there's something in them that terrifies you. Not because you're scared of Chan…you're scared of yourself. 

You bite your lip, trying to steady your heart as it begins racing faster and faster. His eyes are so open, so trusting, almost too much for you to handle in this moment. There’s nothing but warmth in them, an earnestness that makes your stomach churn in fear. But it's the way he's looking at you, with that gentle patience, that understanding, that makes you feel so safe. 

Your eyes naturally glance at his lips. 

Stop! You can't do this! 

Your pulse quickens, and it feels like your chest is too small for everything inside it. You should pull away. You should run as fast as you can. But you can’t move. Can’t convince yourself to leave the warmth of his presence when it feels so right. 

You didn't think it was possible to physically feel the moment you fall in love with someone…but it's happening. There's no denying it anymore. 

You've been falling in love with Chan for god knows how long. And right now, in this exact moment, you've officially fallen in love with him. 

You force yourself to look away, trying to calm the wild beat of your heart, but the damage has already been done. You’re sure he didn't mean to, but Chan did it; he simultaneously healed and hurt you in the exact same moment. 

“___?” He manages to bring your attention and eyes back to him. 

“Hm?” 

His hands pause. “Why are you crying?” 

You blink, surprised at the wetness on your cheeks, and quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand, but it’s too late. He’s already seen.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, a weak attempt to brush it off. “I’m fine.” 

But his gaze never wavers, and his concern only grows as he shifts to the top of the bed beside you, his thumb gently grazing your cheek. “Don’t lie to me. What’s going on?”

He means well, but the warmth of his touch on your face only makes everything harder. 

“Just a long day…” you trail off, unable to finish. You know he knows you're lying anyway. 

But instead of edging you on and insisting on an explanation, Chan gently lays you down, his arm as your pillow and his body as your shield. You hide yourself in him as he pulls the covers over your shoulder. 

You're crying over a boy for the first time in your life. And it's over Chan…and he doesn't even know it. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. The cuddles, the closeness, pretending this is all normal, like you’re not harboring feelings much deeper than just friendship. 

It’s getting dangerous. The feeling sinks deep in the pit of your stomach as you lay next to him, and his warmth envelops you. His hand brushes against yours, and it's like a thousand fireworks pop under your skin. It’s getting harder to breathe – or are you just crying too hard? 

It's too much to ignore the way your heart races when he hums gently to sooth your whimpers, when he looks at you like you matter more than you should let yourself believe you do. 

The realization settles into your bones, heavy and terrifying, but also…inevitable. It’s been there for a while, hasn’t it? Lurking beneath every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every heartbeat that races just a little too fast when he pulls you close.

You're fucking in love with him. How could you not be? 

Every night spent in his arms, every whispered conversation in the dark, every quiet laugh shared between just the two of you – it's all led to this moment. To the undeniable truth pressing against your ribs, demanding to be acknowledged. 

You love him. And he doesn't even know. 

The thought terrifies you, makes your hands shake as you tuck them away so he can't see them physically trembling. Do you say something? You can’t keep pretending this is just comfort, just habit, just something casual between friends.

Because it’s not. Not for you at least. 

But if you tell him…how can you continue to be by his side as his manager?

Then again, how can you continue to be by his side at all? Will these feelings grow more and more every day if you stay?

Eventually, you start to drift off, and the tears dry under your eyes. As you feel sleep take over your body, Chan’s arms tighten around you, offering a silent promise of protection. 

Perhaps for the last time. 

When you're right on the brink of unconsciousness, while the world is blurred and sounds feel thick, a gentle puff of warm breath hits your earlobe alongside gentle words your tired brain can't quite make out. 

:: 

Chan smiles out at the crowd. Twisting in a single, white chair, he answers questions from the MC with practiced ease. 

Of course, the majority of the stage today is scripted, with some flexibility to share pre-screened details and stories, given he finishes in the appropriate time limit. 

But Chan misses the genuineness of a fully free stage. When he has a microphone and nothing else. When it's just him and STAY, being together, enjoying the moment. 

You're always sure he gets those moments during interview stages. But unfortunately, his stage management was given to someone else for this event. Someone just as capable, but far less accustomed to how you do things. This substitute manager doesn't have an inch of space to spare for idol-fan connection. 

Chan doesn't want to complain though. 

It's been hell for you with whatever side projects the executive director assigned. You showed up at butt crack o’clock this morning, and he hasn't really seen you all day. 

“So, Chan,” the MC cheerily continues, checking their notecards, “how does it feel to be the most successful idol in the industry right now?” 

Another scripted question. 

"Thank you for the kind words. Really, it's an honor to be where I am today, and I'm just really grateful to have this opportunity to do what I love. Of course, I always strive to improve and challenge myself, so I’ll continue working hard to give my fans the best music and performances. I wouldn’t be here without all of you, so thank you so much for your support! I love you guys!” 

The MC smiles as the fans cheer. “Of course, the fans support you a hundred percent, and I'm sure they are a huge source of motivation for you. But is there anyone else you want to shout out? Someone…special?” 

Not a scripted question. 

It catches Chan briefly off guard. He has to collect himself for a moment, quickly hide his surprised expression so the camera doesn't pick up on any unpreparedness. 

“Oh, umm, of course! Yeah, I couldn't have done it without the support of the amazing staff and my team. Every achievement is a collective effort–” 

“But is there anyone specific you want to mention,” the MC interrupts, a saucy lift of their brows as they speak, “a special girl in your life, maybe? I'm sure the fans would love to know.” 

Okay, this is definitely off script. Chan makes a mental note to report this MC after the show is over because what the actual hell? 

Are they seriously asking him if he has a personal, romantic relationship behind the scenes? Are they trying to pressure him in front of a live audience right now? 

Chan forces a smile, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He’s trained for moments like this, and he's faced plenty of curveball questions in the past. But this one? This one hits different. His gaze flickers to the camera, to the crowd, to the team of staff behind the scenes. 

It's incredible how quickly his mind turns to you in this moment. 

The MC’s grin only widens, clearly enjoying the uncomfortable tension building in the air, as if this is what they aimed for.

"Oh gosh, you're gonna make me shy," Chan begins, hearing the fans’ voices slowly aweing from the crowd. Even though his pulse quickens, he keeps his voice steady, "I mean, my fans are my baby girls and baby boys, so they are my special someone. I love you, STAY!” He makes a heart to the audience, a successful response coming back to him. 

The MC doesn’t let up though. "Ah, but come on. You must have someone special. You’re the hottest thing in the industry right now, Chan! Surely, there’s someone who makes your heart skip a beat, right?"

His fingers tighten around his microphone, tongue in cheek. He clears his throat, mentally reminding himself that sticking to the safe answers is the most important thing right now. 

“I’m really focused on my career and STAY. I think we've come a long way, but we've still got a long way to go. We can go even higher and higher – there's no stopping us if we work together. That’s really what keeps me motivated.” 

The MC, sensing it’s not going to go any further, reluctantly shifts gears. "Alright, alright. We’ll respect your privacy,” a wink, “for now."

For now? The fuck you will. 

As the interview continues, Chan can’t shake the seed of uneasiness the MC has planted. He hates how the question, casual as it seemed, dug deep into something he’s been trying to bury. 

Perhaps for too long. 

::

Chan sits on his bed, arms crossed, staring at the floor. He can’t focus on anything it seems. His thoughts keep swirling around, always coming back to one thing. One person. 

You. 

He can't shake the memory of last night. Something was very wrong, even if you weren’t ready to share exactly what. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if the closeness has become uncomfortable for you. 

When he picks you up, when he clings to you, when you’re both wrapped up in each other. It feels easy for him. But perhaps you feel burdened? 

The cuddling, the late-night talks, the way his heart skips whenever you get close. He's not stupid; every night, he feels the tension growing between you both, and he wonders if maybe it’s getting awkward for you. 

Is that why you cried? 

Was it something he said? Something he did – the massage maybe? 

He just wants to take care of you like you take care of him. Is that such a bad thing? 

On stage, you were the answer to that MC’s question. All his success these last months is largely thanks to your cuddles, as weird as some might find that truth to be. 

But if it makes you cry…maybe the two of you should stop.

The thought rips through his chest like shrapnel, sharp and sudden, leaving behind shreds of devastating loss – feelings he was not prepared to encounter.

Why does this hurt so damn much? 

The realization crashes into him like a wave he wasn’t braced for, dragging him down father and father into depths suffocating and inevitable. And then he finally realizes...

He's in love with you. 

Of course, he's in love with you. 

That’s what this ache is. This all encompassing ache that seems to infect every nerve ending and bone in his body. That’s why the thought of you leaving feels like the end of his entire world. It’s not just sleep. It’s not just comfort. 

It’s you. All of you. 

He’s fallen for you somewhere between the sleepy mornings and quiet nights, in the curve of your smile and the weight of your head on his chest. And now, knowing that what brought you close might be the very thing pushing you away…he can barely breathe. 

If cuddling him hurts you that much, if it makes you that uncomfortable, of course, you should stop. But if the two of you stop cuddling, he'll be miserable. 

Oh god, how can he be so selfish as to even consider continuing something that clearly hurts you!? How can he even think to go on like this when you're so obviously not okay with it anymore?

He's decided. He'll tell you the truth about how he feels, and if things end, then things end. 

He has to be ready to let you go if that's what you want. 

He has to trust that if he puts his heart in your hands, you'll walk away if you need to. 

Even if it leaves him shattered. 

A soft knock on the door. 

It's you. 

His heart perks up inside his chest like it always does when it hears you coming. He has to remind it to settle down…there's probably no cuddles tonight. Or ever again.

He stands up and moves toward the door, mentally preparing himself before he opens it. 

Maybe it's the dim entry glow that catches your eyes, making them softer and warmer than usual. Or maybe it’s the way his oversized shirt is draped over your arm, just waiting to be worn. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that there's a chance he's about to break his own heart. 

Or maybe you're just that devastatingly beautiful to him. 

For your sake, he’ll pretend you're not ruining him as tragically as you are. 

You blink up at him, seemingly oblivious to the war inside his mind. A soft smile, a tilt of your head – fuck, do you even know what you do to him?

He takes a breath, but it doesn’t help. This may be harder than he thought (not that he thought it would be easy). 

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” you reply sweetly, your uneven smile already signaling that something is wrong. Of course, Chan already knew that. You never knock anymore. 

“Come on in,” he welcomes you, stepping aside and closing the door behind you. “We should probably talk.” 

“I think so too.” 

Chan pauses at the door. “You do?”

“Yeah,” you exhale, steadying yourself as you enter his apartment. “There's something I need to tell you.” 

Chan leads you to the couch where you can both sit. It seems whatever you have to say will cause you to be unbalanced if your nervous knees are any indication. He's never seen you quite like this before, and it's rather concerning. 

What he has planned to say is on the back burner until further notice. All he wants now is to listen to you and hopefully help support some of the obvious weight you carried into the apartment. 

“What is it?” he asks, moving to place a hand on your shoulder, but pulling back at the last moment. 

“Chan… I’ve decided to resign as your manager.”

His brows pull together, eyes wide with a quiet panic. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what, and his entire posture has stiffened. He wasn't braced for that kind of impact, and the punch of your words to his gut has knocked the air right out his lungs. 

“What? But we've been a team since trainee days. I don't understand. Why now?” 

“Because, I…”

God, this is harder than you thought – you can only hesitate for so long until the words have to come out. You owe him the truth, but it seems you underestimated just how difficult it would be to confess what you're really thinking. 

He's looking at you like the solid ground beneath him will turn into water, and you're his only lifeline. If you leave, he's surely condemned to sink. 

There’s a different kind of fear in his gaze now, something deeper than just confusion. Like he’s trying to read between the lines, trying to piece together if you’re sick, if someone hurt you, if something happened that maybe he can fix. 

Chan. Always believing he can fix anything. And usually, he can at least mend a few scratches…but you're not sure there's anything that will be able to mend the heartbreak you've brought upon yourself. Not even him. 

“I just need some space,” you finally say. 

He leans in slightly, tilting his head to better see your face when you look away from him.  

“I knew it.” 

You glance at him. “Knew what?” 

“This is all my fault,” he groans, shooting to his feet, one hand raking through his hair as he starts to pace. “I crossed the line. I should’ve known I was making you uncomfortable, but I didn't want to give you space. I got selfish, and I didn't even stop to think about how it was affecting you.”

He turns sharply and drops to his knee in front of you, eyes searching yours with raw desperation. “I never meant to make you feel pressured or obligated or, fuck, guilty. I never should have asked you to go so far beyond your responsibility as my manager. I just…” His voice falters, shaking as he takes your hands in his. “I’m so sorry, ___. You have to know I’d never want to hurt you. I didn’t mean for things to get so messy. All this, this is all on me. All of it."

“No, Chan, wait,” you stop him by gripping his hands, speaking quickly before he starts rambling more, “it's not you. It's me. I'm just…not cut out for this industry.” 

You didn't come in here with the intention of lying, but now that you're next to him, here of all places, it's proving tumultuous to tell him the real reason behind your decision. 

But maybe this is better. Maybe this way, you can save some hurt feelings. Save yourself some anguish. 

He slowly stands up, arms crossing and expression turning stale. 

“Well, that's bullshit.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I'm sorry, but that's actually bullshit. ___, you're the best manager in the industry. Everyone knows that.” 

You stand as well with a sharp scoff. “That's not true. I make more than my share of mistakes, and I've been lacking as your manager for months. If I don't resign, JYPE will probably fire me.” 

“That's ridiculous!” Chan insists. “What kind of mental spiral did you go down to even get that idea?” 

“I didn't!” 

“Well, I'm sorry, but that's the most absurd thing I've heard in my life. And I don't know why you think I would ever believe shit like that.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, trying to regain a foothold as every solid piece of ground starts crumbling underneath you. 

You just said the first thing that came to mind that's not the truth, and clearly Chan isn't buying any of it. With your face in your hands and your shoulders sagging in exhaustion, you take a deep breath. 

“Can't you just let me lie?” 

“No,” he says calmly, taking a step closer. “Whatever it is, is obviously hurting you. How could I let you suffer behind a lie?” 

“Because maybe it's better if you don’t know the truth. Maybe that way, I don't have to lose you completely.” 

“Why would you lose me?” Chan whispers, cupping your cheeks in his warm hands and bringing you closer. “Listen. There's nothing you could ever do that would make you lose me. If you want me to let you walk away, you better give me a damn good reason why I should.” 

“Do you promise?” 

“I promise.” 

You take a shaky breath, your pulse pounding in your ears. The moment stretches into hours, taut and heavy. Dreadfully, you look up at him, your chest tightening at the sight of the gentle concern written across his face, and you almost lose your nerve again. Because no matter what kind of promise he makes, you know that after he hears the truth, he won't be able to keep it. There's no possible way he could. 

“I’ve developed feelings for you,” you say quietly. “And it’s not professional. I’ve tried to ignore it, to stay objective, but it’s not working. Being your manager isn't right anymore. I'm falling for you, and I’m afraid being in love with you is making things way too complicated. So, I want to leave...while I still have some of my heart left in tact."

Chan freezes, eyelids fluttering with each word you speak. He doesn't reply, doesn't move, doesn't breathe. 

You smile, small and sad, and take a step back, allowing his hands to drop through the air. “That’s the truth. Having these feelings and being close to you hurts too much. So, I'm turning in my resignation tomorrow.” 

For several moments, there’s only silence.

You wait for him to say something, anything, but he just stands there. You can’t tell if it’s anger, disappointment, or confusion blanketing his features. Maybe it’s all of them. 

“Chan? Aren’t you going to say something?” 

Still no reply. His chest starts to lift and fall as he breathes again, his lips parting as if he wants to speak. But he doesn't. 

Your hands drop uselessly to your sides, everything in the air settling into nothing. You were so terrified to admit your feelings, and now his anticlimactic response leaves you feeling worthless and unheard. 

You should have known it was too much to hope that he might have some kind of perfect response to something so sudden and messy. 

“I’m sorry,” you add softly. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I should go.” 

You turn toward the door, heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else, including your footsteps. Your chest caves in on itself, throat tight from holding back the wave threatening to crash over you. You don’t want to cry. Not again. Certainly not in front of him.

You make it three steps. 

And then suddenly– 

His fingers around your wrist, gentle, but with a desperation that stops you cold. 

You freeze, feet numb as he tugs you back, just enough to spin you around. The world tilts, your vision blurry from unshed tears, and before you can even process what’s happening– 

He's pulled you in. 

One hand still around your wrist, the other around your waist, holding your body flush to his. And his lips on yours like a dam that's broken from the pressure. 

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s raw, reckless, full of everything he's ever felt but never said. His kiss translates a sense of fear, desperate longing, and the panic of almost losing you. His heart is in every movement, every push and pull, trembling and wide open. 

Every emotion he buried. Every time he misread the signs. He puts his everything into this very kiss. So you can feel it all. 

And you kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

You're not careful. You're not logical. Because this is not the product of a slow realization. It’s a need. It’s a confession. It’s everything that’s been simmering under the surface from the very first night you climbed into his arms and called it “just cuddling.” 

Your hands are in his hair, and his are gripping your shirt around your hips before your mind even has time to catch up to what’s happening. The air around you disappears, replaced only by the sensation of his mouth moving against yours like it’s the first time he’s breathed all day. 

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. You’re both still catching your breath. He pushes forward to brush against your lips lightly, dragging his hands further around your waist to pull you against him more, as if he can't be close enough. 

“Don't be afraid to fall. I'll catch you.” 

“Chan…does that mean…?” 

He smiles, just a little before moving his lips to be beside your ear, and whispers, “I'm in love with you too.” 

Your breath catches again. Not from nerves this time, but from sheer disbelief. Relief. The feeling returning to your feet on the ground.

You pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are so close, so full of warmth and truth, and there’s no trace of hesitation. No regret. Just him, looking at you like he’s known he's loved you for forever, but finally now has the courage to say it.

“Say it again,” you whisper, barely audible, afraid he'll disappear if you blink.

He leans in once more, lips brushing your cheek as he murmurs, “I’m in love with you.”

“Again?” 

“I’m in love with you,” the other cheek this time, voice softer, like a vow. 

Your arms close around his neck, and he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because to him, you are. Your head tucks into the curve of his shoulder, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you breathe easily.

You're not sure what exactly happens now, except for when Chan scoops under your legs and wraps them around his waist, so he can carry you to the bedroom. 

Tonight, his bed is visited by more than just cuddles. But the important part is that there’s no pretending. No agreements. No routines. 

Just love. 

And the steady beat of his heart against yours long after the sun peeks through his windows, and he's turned off the alarm more than once. 

::

general taglist: @nightmarenyxx @cherriive @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @hityoulikebahng @imfoive @imeverycliche @velvetmoonlight @hannieslittlerockstar @staybabblingbaby @somber-reads @hyunjinxxs @straberieslee

[heartwithoutaname]

HOW DO YA'LL EDIT LIKE THIS?!

THE LIP SYNC IS SOOO CRAZY. INSANE.

ctto

[heartwithoutaname]

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.

Call Me Yours

“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

[heartwithoutaname]

Felt every word of this

𝐈'𝐦 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬—𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids one shot

Synopsis: He's moving out. But before he does, he gives you something that you'll remember forever...

Warnings: SMUT 🔞, Angst, Tension. Unprotected sex. Non!idol au. Tears, pet names (baby), beginning of long distance, oral (f. recieving), face sitting, multiple orgasms/rounds.

Minors do not interact!!!

Note: The reason why I wrote this

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:6.2k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Everyone was gathered up in the living room, the table filled with sushi takeout and drinks, music playing on the TV and dim LED lights sparkling, casting a shadow on the walls.

The usual group was here, Jisung already cracking open a beer, Hyunjin in the corner taking videos for his story, and you… sitting beside Chan on the floor, knees brushing.

He laughed at something Seungmin said, head tipping back slightly, dimples flashing. God, that smile. It still hit you like the first time.

But underneath the laughter, there was a heaviness that clung to your chest. This wasn’t just another hangout. This was the last night.

He was moving out tomorrow. New job. New city. And you weren’t going with him.

“Drink?” he asked, his voice low as he leaned closer, holding out a can.

You nodded, accepting it with a quiet “Thanks,” your fingers grazing him. The night passed in a blur of noise and smiles. But your eyes kept drifting back to him.

His hoodie sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his silver ring and bracelets catching the light as he drummed the table absently. The way he leaned back and watched everyone with that gentle gaze.

The way he caught your eye…and held it.

Eventually everyone said goodbye one by one, until it was only you and Chan staying behind in your apartment. You decided to throw him a leaving party. That's the least you thought you could do.

As you started clearing the table, throwing away the takeout boxes and soda cans in the kitchen trash, you suddenly felt something, almost like a warm blanket enveloping you.

"You okay?" Chan's voice was gentle.

You turned, looking at him but not entirely through your shoulder. “Yeah. Just… weird. That you’re really going.”

He exhaled through his nose, stepping closer. “Yeah. It doesn’t feel real.”

"Hmm," you hummed as you loaded the glasses into the dishwasher.

You felt him step closer to you and lean on the counter, watching your weirdly calculated moves. "You'll be dropping me at the airport tomorrow won't you?"

He asked and you turned up to meet his gaze almost immediately, your heart squeezed behind your ribcage but you played a smile.

"Of course." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

The dishwasher door creaked shut with a soft click, but neither of you moved. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, quieter, like the rest of the apartment had dimmed, leaving just the two of you caught in this pocket of time that neither wanted to let slip away.

Chan's gaze lingered on you, as if memorizing your features, your tired eyes, the faint curve of your lips, the way you stood just a little tenser than usual. You knew he noticed.

He always did. That was one of the worst parts about this—how well he knew you.

"You don’t have to,” he said softly. “If it’s too hard.”

You furrowed your brows, stepping closer until there was hardly space between you. “Don’t say that.”

“But it is hard, isn’t it?” he murmured, his voice low, raw. “For me too.”

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? Instead, your hand moved on its own, resting lightly against his chest.

His heart was racing. Just like yours. Maybe worse.

He covered your hand with his own, fingers wrapping around yours like they were always meant to be there.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the lump in your throat wouldn’t let you speak. You just stood there, tangled fingers between you, until he leaned down, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

The moment was soft. Heavy. Intimate in a way that made your lungs ache.

He pulled away just enough to look at you. Then slowly, wordlessly, his hand left yours and found your cheek, warm and steady. He gently squeezed your soft flesh, your face instantly flushed in a gentle smile.

"Squeeze squeeze," he teased, pinching a tiny bit harder. "I'll miss these."

You let out a soft chuckle, one that sounded more like a breath than anything else. “I’ll miss you doing that,” you whispered, voice trembling just enough for him to notice.

He let go of your cheeks and smoothed his thumb over them instead, the pad brushing back and forth like he was trying to ink in the shape of you. His gaze dropped, flicking from your eyes to your lips to the small part of your chest that rose and fell with every uneven breath you took.

The silence that stretched between you both was too much.

His hand was still on your face, fingers brushing your skin so softly it made you dizzy. The kind of touch that lingered. That said, I wish I had more time.

Before you knew it, your lips parted and he leaned down, his lips inches away from touching yours. He smelled like cedar and fresh laundry. Like comfort. Like home. His hand slid behind your neck, fingers threading gently through your hair.

But then, when the proximity was too much to bear, you turned your head, just the slightest ever, but that was enough to reject what was about to come.

"You'll regret doing that."

Was it possible to taste poison just from words? In this moment it surely seemed like. Your words weren't harsh, but it hit him like a car crash in slow motion.

"I will regret not doing it," He said roughly, almost like a command.

Your throat closed around a lump you couldn’t swallow. Your fingers gripped the fabric of his hoodie at his waist, not pulling him in, not pushing him away, just holding on.

“Chan…”

“Tell me to stop. Say it like you mean it… and I will.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Not when he looked at you like that. Not when your body was already arching subtly toward his, a magnetic pull you’d both tried so hard to ignore for too long.

Still, your voice came out strained. “This doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know.”

“And tomorrow, you’ll still be gone.”

"But we've still got like fifteen hours more, baby."

You looked up at him with tears brimming your lashes at the sound of that pet name slipping past his lips.

"I'm not your baby."

"You are my baby,” he repeated, voice low and hoarse. His thumb brushed your cheek, then traced the edge of your jaw, “You always will be. Whether I’m here, or halfway across the world.”

Your heart gave a sharp tug.

Fifteen hours. That’s all you had. Fifteen hours of pretending like it wasn’t ending. Fifteen hours to fall apart, and maybe fall into each other one last time.

The last rational thought in your head screamed at you to turn back before you shoved it aside and crushed your lips against his. It was desperate, messy, laced with all the years worth of hesitation finally giving out beneath the weight of goodbye.

You moaned into the kiss, fingers fisting his hoodie as he pressed you against the kitchen counter, the cool marble a jarring contrast to his feverish touch. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

Your fingers went up his neck to tug his locks of curly hair, holding onto him like a salvation from destruction as he lifted you off the counter and carried you, stride purposeful and fast, toward your bedroom. His mouth never left yours, lips swollen, breaths tangled, his hands gripping you like he was afraid you’d vanish mid-step.

He kicked the door open, didn’t bother turning on the light. The soft LED glow from the hallway spilled across your sheets, painting your skin in colors of dusk and heartbreak.

Then climbed over you like you were something he was about to ruin—willingly.

Chan’s lips crushed on yours again as he tore your clothes off one by one and removed his shirt, leaving you in your underwear and revealing his bare torso. It wasn’t the first time you have seen him shirtless but it was the first time he saw you like this.

Sweet curves, soft thighs, the perfect tits—fuck you were heaven.

Your skin burned under his stare. Goosebumps rose across your body, even though the room was warm. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way he felt you, nothing had barely started but he was already going through a thousand mental positions to take you in.

He leaned down again, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, then over your collarbones. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured against your skin.

“You know I won’t,” you whispered back, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging just enough to make him groan.

That was all he needed.

He slid down your body slowly, his mouth trailing a heated path over your chest, pausing at your bra. With a flick of his fingers, it was off and forgotten and his mouth latched onto one of your erect nipples while his hand kneaded the other. You gasped, arching into him, the wet heat of his tongue sending pulses straight to your core.

“Chan—” your voice cracked as your toes curled.

He looked up at you, lips slick, eyes hooded and hungry. Then took the nipple back into his mouth, while his hand explored the expanse of your warm skin.

“Let me taste you.” He whispered after long seconds of sucking, leaving the sensitive buds covered with his saliva.

You nodded without hesitation.

With practiced ease, he tugged down your panties and tossed them aside. Then he pulled you toward the edge of the bed, lifting one leg over his shoulder again, the silver anklet giving a soft chime that made him pause and smirk darkly.

“That sound’s going to fuckin’ haunt me when I leave,” he said under his breath.

His eyes fell on your pussy, wet and needy, glazing and perfect that he lost his mind at the sight of it. He leaned and brushed his lips over your awaiting clit, his breath fanning over you. Before you could respond, his head dipped between your legs and your thoughts shattered.

His tongue slid through your folds with devastating precision, slow at first, taking his time like he had all fifteen hours to make you unravel. Your fingers immediately flew to his hair, hips bucking against his mouth, but he only gripped your thighs tighter, holding you down.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmured, voice muffled and sinful.

You tried but you couldn’t. Not when his mouth and tongue were working wonders. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked and the moan that escaped you was like a sound of relief. He went between slow, teasing swipes and intense flicks over your swollen bud that made you whimper his name. 

He slid a finger into you, then two, then three curling them just right, syncing every thrust with the movement of his tongue.

His other hand sunk into the flesh of your soft thighs, tight enough to leave his prints, his tongue assaulting your clit and fingers scissoring in you.

Your hips bucked up, wanting more friction and he gave it to you without hesitation. He looked up at you, his mouth never leaving your core, your chest was rising and falling, one hand tugging his hair and the other intertwining with his as he ate you out.

The second the tips of his digits kissed the sweet spot inside you, all thoughts vanished and you came faster than you could register it happening, body trembling, thighs clenching around his head. He groaned against you as you rode out your high, not stopping until you were writhing.

Tears had run down your face, not out of hurt but the sheer sensation of pleasure but he was just getting started. He finally pulled away, his lips were slick with you, his chin wet, and his eyes feral.

He crawled up your body, kissing the inside of your thigh, your stomach, your chest, until his mouth met yours again and you could taste yourself on his tongue. His arm slipped under your waist as he scooped to sit up, his dangerous dark eyes boring into you. 

“Sit on my face.” He commanded and you could have sworn your face bursted red. 

“W-what?” You blinked, your breathing still a bit uneven, heat flooding your cheeks and between your legs. “I just came…”

“And you’ll come again and again for the whole night,” he said, whiskey eyes locked on yours. “Now be a good girl and ride my mouth.”

Your breath hitched, and your heart thudded so hard you swore he could hear it. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then lower, where your legs still trembled from the orgasm he had just coaxed out of you like it was nothing. His hands never stopped caressing—one trailing up your spine, the other gripping the curve of your ass.

Slowly, he leaned back against the headboard, broad chest gleaming with sweat, hair tousled, lips still swollen.

You straddled his chest tentatively at first, your hands braced against the headboard for balance.

“C’mon, higher,” he coaxed, gripping your hips with both hands, dragging you up his torso, bracing your knees on either side of his head as you hovered above his mouth. 

He didn’t give you time to second guess it. He looked up at you with such hunger, such devotion, that any embarrassment melted away under the weight of his worship.

“C’mere, baby,” he said lowly, voice like gravel. “Let me drown in you.”

His hands slid up your thighs, guiding your hips down until your dripping core hovered just above his face. He held you there for a moment, inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as if your scent alone was enough to drive him insane.

Your breath caught as you obeyed, lowering yourself slowly. And then his mouth was on your pussy.

He licked a broad, slow stripe through your folds, groaning like a man starved, like he couldn’t believe you were real. You gasped, your hands gripping the headboard behind him as your thighs closed around his head.

His tongue was relentless, circling, flicking, teasing your clit before diving down to fuck you with his mouth. Every movement was pure filth and precision, like he knew exactly how to pull the most obscene sounds from you.

You tried to lift your hips—overwhelmed by the stimulation—but he gripped your ass hard, forcing you to stay put.

“Don’t fucking run,” he murmured against your soaked core. “Take it.”

Your hips began to roll on instinct, grinding against his mouth as your thighs squeezed tighter around his head. The slurping sounds, his groans, your whimpers, it was all shameless, carnal and perfect.

“Chr—Chan, fuck—I, I can’t…” you cried, your body trembling, overwhelmed and raw from how good he was.

“Yes, you can,” he growled, tongue flicking furiously over your clit, one hand sliding between your cheeks to tease your other hole with the pad of his thumb then up the curve of your waist to hold you against him.

Every flick of his tongue, every suck on your clit sent another wave of sensation crashing into you. The angle made it too intense but the sounds coming from below you? The wet, filthy sounds of him feasting on you like you were his last meal?

They only made you grind harder.

He moaned again, louder this time, his tongue plunging into you while his nose nudged your clit, teeth grazing your bundle of nerves, giving you everything. You gasped, head falling forward and your hands holding the headboard so hard your knuckles turned white.

The outline of his bulge was now visible, his cock straining his pants that it felt like it could break out and spring free any second. 

Your hips stuttered, thighs squeezing around his head, and you cried out his name as the second orgasm ripped through you—stronger, messier, overwhelming. Your whole body shook with it, tears threatening again from how good it felt. How deep it went.

Your body snapped.

You came with a strangled sob, back arching as your vision blurred, your essence gushing into his mouth and dripping down his chin. He moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, his grip on your hips keeping you firmly pressed to his mouth until he milked every last tremble from you.

When you finally collapsed off him, your body limp and shaking, he caught you with strong arms and pulled you against his chest. His eyes were nearly black as he licked his lips, savoring you.

“Fucking angel,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked. “You taste like sin.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he flipped you onto your back again. His body loomed over yours, chest heaving. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, and your eyes dropped directly to the dark happy trail going down to the thick length of him, flushed and hard, standing heavy against his abs. 

You guessed enough times that he was big, but fuck he was huge. There’s no way he’d fit.

Chan lifted your leg, the anklet dangling as he rested it on his shoulder before grazing the pre-cum leaking tip against your puffy folds. The contact made you whimper, your back arched ever so lightly off the mattress, the bulbous head continuing to tease your needy entrance.

You hiccuped, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy as you watched his chest rise and fall like a storm waiting to break. He looked at you, eyes blazing, mouth parted, chest still heaving. His hand slid along your outer thigh, his thumb grazing the anklet.

“You're—” your voice broke, almost barely, “You wouldn't—,” gosh how could you say that out loud? You've had your fair share of filthy thoughts about him but when did it happen? Nothing prepared you for that.

“You were saying?” he murmured, cocking his head slightly, voice lower now. A dangerous kind of calm, like the quiet just before thunder.

You swallowed, lashes fluttering. “You wouldn’t fit.”

His gaze darkened at that. A shiver rolled down your spine at the way his lips tugged into a grin. Not mocking but possessive.

“We will make it fit,” he said. 

He guided his length down again, dragging the tip through your folds, soaking it with your slick, teasing the swollen entrance that was already clenching around nothing.

“See how wet you are for me?” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “Your body already knows.”

You whined when he rubbed the head against your entrance again, firm, slow, achingly controlled. 

He leaned over you, lips ghosting over your mouth as he whispered, “I’m not going to just fuck you. I'm going to make you feel everything. You're going to take what I give you and that's all that's going to be with you forever.”

You swallowed hard, eyes locked with his and letting the tension of his words echo in your mind. 

He laid his hard thick shaft on top of your stomach, leaving a trail of anticipation surge through your body. “That’s how far I’ll go. How far you’re gonna take me.” His voice unfolded like layers of velvet and you were already on liquid fire.

Your fingers pressed into the stiffness of his biceps, bracing yourself as he finally began to push in.

Just the tip at first, easing into your swollen entrance with careful control, stretching you slow, watching your face the entire time. You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, back arching, mouth parting, but he stilled.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded darkly.

You obeyed, looking up at him, trembling.

“Good girl,” he growled, before he sunk in the rest of the way, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside you. To the very spot he showed that was going to reach. 

Your bodies were flush, your walls wrapped tight around him. Your mouth opened in a silent cry, and he let out a guttural moan that vibrated straight through your chest.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just held you like that. Letting you feel and adjust to all of him.

“Too—big, ha,” your acrylics grooved crescents deep enough to leave scars on him, forcing your tight walls to accommodate him. 

“You're taking me so fucking well baby,” he brushed his lips against the corner of your eye, holding back from spilling his load right then and there.

Then slowly he began to thrust when the stretching discomfort was replaced, hips moving with a rhythm that felt punishing but reverent. As if he was trying to memorize the plush of your pussy before time ran out.

Every stroke hit deep, right against the spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, and the way he angled your leg higher against his shoulder only opened you more, made you more vulnerable to his every movement.

“You were mine,” he panted, lips brushing against yours. “You always are.”

“Even if you go?” you choked out, clutching his back as he drove into you again.

“Especially if I go.”

Your head fell back in a scream when his cock hit you in a strong stroke that left no air in your lungs. 

The leg resting on his shoulder shifted as he leaned in closer, folding you further until he was practically in your chest, your bodies perfectly molded, your skin flushed and slick with sweat.

He hissed, sinking in, your gummy walls continuing to clamp him. He growled and cursed loudly as he drilled into your hole, leaving no space for either one of you to breathe. 

He let you straighten your legs and then suddenly one hand slipped under your back to arch you toward him, the other tangled into your hair, holding you there as he kissed you. All teeth and tongue and breathless moans between your sobs.

You didn’t know where the tears started. Maybe it was the intense fucking. Maybe it was the weight of goodbye closing in on your chest. Maybe it was him—this version of him—falling apart inside you.

His thrusts faltered slightly, and you felt him throb deep inside. “So. Fucking. Tight.”

“God yes—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop,” you whimpered, as your hips began to buck up to meet his, chasing the high clawing its way through your veins.

He kissed you deeply, swallowing every sound you made as he drove into you faster, rougher, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall. The anklet jingled with every thrust, a wicked reminder of just how vulnerable, how claimed you were beneath him.

“Oh my—Chan—”

“Right there?” he smirked, rolling his hips again and again into that perfect angle, his hand coming up to press gently on your stomach. “You feel me deep in there, baby?”

You nodded frantically, eyes squeezing shut as your walls clenched around him.

“I want you to remember this,” he said, leaning down to kiss your temple, then your cheek. “Every time you touch yourself. Every time you're alone.”

“This—”thrust—“how I'm making you feel now”—thrust—“this is mine.”

So many emotions were rushing through your mind, not a single one coherent. One was the pain of him leaving, the other was the pleasure he was giving, and the other knowing that you still have him before you're helpless to stop him. 

But despite all those emotions, the tears were still unstoppable. They leaked from the corners of your eyes, down to your face, that crushed his soul. 

“Baby…baby…” he slowed his pace, looking straight into you. 

“Relax, just relax, I'm right here with you.” he whispered, his voice a soft plea as he cupped your face with trembling hands. The pad of his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could slip down to your ear.

His thrusts had slowed, just the bare roll of his hips now, like he was afraid to hurt you, like he was grounding himself in your trembling body. “Talk to me,” he murmured, forehead against yours, breaths mingling. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You shook your head. You couldn’t speak. The knot in your throat was too thick. It wasn’t just sadness, it was the overwhelming contradiction of loving someone you weren’t allowed to keep and watch him go.

“It’s nothing,” you rasped, but he didn’t believe you. You knew he didn’t. He kissed the center of your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth like he was trying to kiss the hurt away.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly, voice thick. “Don’t pretend it’s nothing when you’re breaking right in front of me.”

Your lip trembled. “Because you’re leaving. Because this—this isn’t just sex, and you know that. You know that.”

He froze. His breath hitched like he’d just been stabbed in the ribs. His eyes trailed down to where you both joined and then back up, pressing his mouth to yours; desperate, searing, tasting of both love and goodbye. “I know,” he whispered against your lips. 

“I know. But if I ask you to come with me, would you?”

You stiffened beneath him. His body was still inside yours, his warmth wrapped around you, and yet…the question sucked all the air from the room. He already knew the answer but a part of him hated himself for asking anyway.

“I—” You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Just the silence of your hesitation. Your hands gripped his biceps, fingertips digging in like if you held tight enough, you could stop time.

His eyes were searching yours now. Hopeful. Already hurting.

“I can’t,” you finally whispered. The words shattered between your lips like glass.

His entire frame went still. Then he looked away, blinking hard, his jaw clenching as he withdrew just slightly, like the truth burned too much to stay close.

You closed your eyes shut, more tears streaming down your face. Regret slashed across his face, he leaned in fast, brushing away the cold streaks with his lips. 

“I’m sorry…”—kiss— “I’m sorry baby, I shouldn’t have asked you that,”—kiss— “but I’m here with you right now and I need you to be with me please.” He kissed your flushed hot cheeks frantically.

You nodded helplessly, your fingers tangling into his hair, pulling him closer. You gasped as he pressed deeper inside you again, the stretch burning in the most beautiful way. His hands cradled your face as he began to move, imprinting himself into your very soul.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice ragged as he rolled his hips, grinding against that sweet spot inside you. “It’s only you and me right now.”

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed and glassy as they locked onto his. He smiled softly at you, and you did too, with trembling lips, tracing the line of his sharp jaw with your finger tips. 

“You'll be okay,” he said quietly.

You tensed. “Don’t—”

He kissed the top of your head before you could argue, holding you tighter. “No. Let me say this.”

You let him. Even though your chest already ached with the weight of it.

“You're strong, you always are. And I need to believe that when I'm gone, you'll still be smiling, laughing and living your life.” 

The weight of  his words felt awfully too much to register, so painful but true, and yet, he was still here. Still buried inside you, still holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“I'm only one flight away. Maybe a few hours but I can always come back. I want you to be strong for you and me. But until you can, I will be for the both of us. Okay?” 

Your breath hitched, your eyes glistening as you nodded, unable to speak. His grip on your waist tightened as he moved harder now, his hips snapping with more urgency as your thighs wrapped around his waist. His pelvis brushed your clit with every thrust, and the tension built so fast it almost hurt.

He reached down between your bodies, finding your swollen nub with his fingers, skilled and relentless. His other hand laced with yours above your head, pinning it into the pillow as he kept rocking into you, deliberate and deep.

You clenched around him with every drag of his cock, every swirl of his fingers, and soon you were panting, chasing the high that built with blistering intensity.

“I want you to come for me again,” he growled, teeth grazing your lower lip. “Soak me. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm slammed into you like a wave, pulling a scream from your throat as your body arched off the bed, legs trembling, fingers clawing at him. You clenched around him so tight that he cursed loud and broken. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” he choked out, hips stuttering.

“Inside,” you whispered without thinking. “Please. Want to feel you.”

He didn’t think twice. His hips jerked as he spilled hot white ribbons deep inside you with a strangled groan, cock twitching mercilessly and collapsing against you, panting into your neck. You held him as his body blanketed yours, sweaty and warm. His cock still buried deep, twitching inside you as your walls pulsed in aftershocks.

You both remained tangled in each other, breathless and spent, before you opened your eyes to look at him. Eyes red-rimmed, lips kiss-bruised. “More. I want more.” you whispered, shoving down any other thought that threatened to creep up your head.

He lifted his head just enough to see your face. The way you looked at him, soft and broken and hungry for something only he could give, made his chest tighten painfully.

“Yeah?” he whispered, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “You want more, baby?”

You nodded, bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes glistening. “Don’t stop. Just… make it go away.”

His heart cracked wide open. Because he knew exactly what it was. The morning. The distance. The ache of knowing this was borrowed time. And he would give you everything he had until there was nothing left.

He kissed you again, slow and deep this time, dragging his tongue along yours as he began to move inside you once more. Gentle, languid thrusts that had you gasping all over again. You were so sensitive, every stroke made your body tremble, but you welcomed it. Welcomed him.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your lips, grinding into you with purpose. “How full you are with me?”

“Mhm,” you whimpered, arms tightening around his neck. “Don’t stop, please…”

“Never,” he swore, kissing your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “As long as you want me, I’m yours.”

Your hips rose to meet his, your slick making every movement seamless, soaked with him. His release still inside you, mixing with your own, making each thrust filthy and maddeningly raw. 

It was too much. It was never enough.

His lips trailed down to your neck, sucking at the skin just above your pulse, marking you like instinct. Your fingers dragged down his back, nails scoring lightly along his spine, and he hissed against your skin.

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and you gasped again as he hit deeper, brushing against that raw, sensitive spot that made your toes curl and your walls clamp down around him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hips stuttering again. “So fucking perfect around me. Can’t get enough of you.”

The shape of his thick cock was basically engraved inside your pussy, the way it kept kissing the spot again and again in a plap! plap! plap!

You felt another wave begin to build but slower this time. A soft burn instead of a wildfire. It crawled up your spine, wound itself around your lungs, and settled deep in your belly.

You didn’t care how many times you climaxed tonight. Didn’t care how messy it was or how sore you’d be. All you wanted was to feel him. To lose yourself in him over and over until the sun came up and you had no more tears left to cry.

His mouth never left your skin. His hands never stopped touching you, holding you like a man who couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

You came again—harder this time, with a sharp cry into his shoulder—and he followed, body shuddering, forehead pressed to yours as he emptied himself inside you again, deeper, slower, like he was planting himself there. Like he needed to leave a part of himself in you to survive the goodbye.

You both climbed and crashed together over and over till it was physically impossible to go further. Only then did you stop, covered in sweat, filled with his cum, breaths erratic and hearts lost. 

Your fingers curled into his hair, cradling his head against your chest as you both tried to breathe. It was everything you never said. Everything you wouldn’t say tomorrow at the airport. 

Everything he gave you tonight instead.

His final gift.

His goodbye.

***

The next morning you woke up in Chan’s arms, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, your legs tangled like vines under the sheets. The soft golden light of dawn painted the room in a gentle hue, but it did nothing to ease the weight pressing on your chest.

His hold on you had loosened—reluctantly. You barely stirred as he kissed your shoulder, one last lingering touch before he slipped out of bed. You listened to the soft patter of his steps, the creak of the bathroom door, and the rush of the shower.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a plain black shirt and faded jeans from last night, hair damp and curling at the ends, his eyes softened the second they met yours. He hesitated in the doorway like he wasn’t ready either. 

You got out of bed and quickly freshened up as well, he made you both a coffee and after the quick breakfast he moved to you, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “Let’s go.”

The ride to his apartment was quiet. Hyunjin was already outside waiting when you pulled up. He raised a brow at the two of you but didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. He knew.

As Chan ran to change into a new outfit, grab his suitcase and passport from inside, Hyunjin leaned against the car and gave you a small smile, one laced with quiet understanding. “You holding up?”

You nodded, even though your throat was tight. “Trying.”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Me too.”

Hyunjin hopped into the driver’s seat of your car once he returned, Chan and you slipping to the back. You leaned into Chan’s shoulder, letting the feel of his warmth, his scent, his breathing sink in. 

He kept rubbing slow, soothing circles into your hand with his thumb, like he was trying to do the same to you too. The ride to the airport felt like both forever and not long enough.

At the airport, everything moved too fast. 

Check-ins, security lines, gate numbers, it all blurred into a whirlwind of fluorescent lights and boarding calls. But somehow, time slowed when you reached the final point. The spot where you couldn’t follow.

The barrier.

“Hyunjin,” Chan turned first to his best friend, pulling him into a firm hug. “Take care.”

Hyunjin hugged him back tightly. “You know I will. You as well, yeah?” He gave him a soft clap on the back, his voice a little thick. “Text when you land.”

Then Chan turned to you.

You weren’t ready.

You didn’t know if you ever could be.

His eyes were unreadable at first. Then he reached up slowly, fingers hooking the chain around his neck, the one he’d worn for as long as you could remember.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already leaning forward, slipping it over your head, the cool metal brushing against your skin before it settled above your heart.

His fingertips lingered there. Over your chest. “Now I’m always with you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Every heartbeat.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast.

“No matter the time zone, the miles, the bullshit that comes between us, I’ll still be yours. I love you. Alright?”

Your lips parted in a silent cry, eyes filling again. “You promise?”

I love you too 

“I do.” He smiled, but it trembled. “I promise you I’ll come back. But until then… hold on to this.”

He wrapped you tightly in his arms, fresh tears slid down your cheeks, soaking his hoodie. He gave you one last kiss. Gentle. Final. Brushing his lips on your forehead, then stepped away before he could change his mind.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he turned toward the gate and then disappeared. You reached for him instinctively but Hyunjin was there, whose arms caught you as your knees buckled, as the sobs broke loose from where you’d buried them all morning.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to, just held you as you sobbed into his chest, til your shaking slowed. 

Until the pain settled into something quieter.

“You’ll see him again,” Hyunjin whispered eventually, resting his chin on your head. “Don’t worry.”

You clutched the chain at your neck and nodded.

Because even though your heart felt like it had shattered into a thousand pieces, you knew one thing for sure.

Chan carried half of them with him. And you carried his.

No matter the distance.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Enjoyed this one shot? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca @greyyeti

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Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

[heartwithoutaname]

BANG CHAN — dominATE NYC D2 (250619)

[heartwithoutaname]

250618 god's menu @ dominATE world tour in new-york

[heartwithoutaname]

© gureumchan

[heartwithoutaname]

🫦😮‍💨

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>>

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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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[heartwithoutaname]

Reread while waiting and hoping for a part two…

[Between Blinds]

…or the one where you and your boyfriend move into the apartment across from a stranger who watches you like you're his religion.

Notes: I wrote this on the bus with a very christian lady staring at my phone, we should talk about the perks of speaking more than one language more often. And this got very filthy very fast. Voyeur!Jisung, Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: Male voyeur, AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, established relationship (Chan x Reader), implied Jisung x Reader, implied Chan x Jisung, implied threesome, masturbation (male), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, obsessive thoughts, oral sex (M&F receiving), edging, nipple sucking, overstimulation, creampie, jealousy, possessive thoughts, Jisung is both into you and Chan but no direct mention of his sexuality. [6.9k words]

At first, it was just the package. Just a plain cardboard box, unmarked beyond the usual scuffs of transit, awkward in Jisung’s arms as he stood outside his door staring at the label like it might rearrange itself into something that made sense. A minor error, meaningless on the surface, but he lingered there anyway, blinking at it, turning it over in his hands like it might confess a secret. He almost set it down on the floor, planning to forget it entirely, when the sound of footsteps came from the stairwell—steady, unhurried, a rhythm he’d come to know too well in time. That was the first time he saw him.

Chris. He remembered the name not because it was offered, but because of how it was delivered, on the tail end of a smile that was too casual, too intimate for a stranger, the kind of smile that made you feel like you were already part of something you didn’t ask to join. Chris had that unassuming warmth that drew people in without trying, a little breathless from the stairs, curls falling over his forehead beautifully, hoodie damp where it clung to his collarbone, the fabric of his t-shirt pulling faintly across lean muscle beneath and there was nothing theatrical about him, no arrogance, just a quiet ease that made Jisung feel off-balance in a way he didn’t like. Oh—yeah, that’s mine, he’d said, reaching out with one hand, scratching the back of his neck with the other, sheepish in the way people are when they’re used to being forgiven. The old owner mentioned the delivery guy keeps mixing the buildings up. Sorry about that.

His voice was sweeter than Jisung expected, not intimidating, but steady, calming, the kind of tone that could talk you down from a panic or pull you in closer just by dropping a few decibels. And then, before Jisung could process any of it—you appeared behind him, barefoot, quiet, wrapped in an oversized sweater that slid off one shoulder like silk, your eyes found his in the space of a breath, curious but unguarded, and he felt something catch low in his stomach, a flicker of heat he hadn’t braced for. Chris turned slightly, handed you the box without looking, and your fingers brushed as you took it. Jisung saw the way your lips parted to thank him, soft, polite, something like kind, and his mind emptied out. He smiled, maybe, nodded, said something automatic. He couldn’t remember.

What he did remember was the quiet afterward. The door shutting, the way the hallway felt empty in a different way now, like something had been pulled out of it. He told himself it was nothing, just a wrong package, a wrong building. Just a smile, just a look.

But after that, he started noticing.

He realized your apartment—also 4C, just like his—was directly across from his own. The street between the buildings wasn’t wide, barely more than a narrow passage of concrete, barely wide enough for one car to crawl through. Your living room sat in perfect alignment with his, like some architectural coincidence designed to feed obsession with large windows, flowing curtains always slightly parted, not wide open, but enough.

Enough for Jisung to see the way you moved through the space like you belonged there, like you'd always belonged there. The way you padded barefoot across the rug, sometimes with a mug cradled in both hands, sometimes with your hair twisted up and a pen tucked behind your ear, sometimes mid-laugh, phone to your cheek, your body swaying with the rhythm of a life well-worn into the walls around you. He noticed how you adjusted the pillows on the couch a certain way before sitting, how you always turned on the lamp in the far corner first, how you lit incense near the window and waved the smoke with your fingers like you were blessing the room.

And Chris—Chris moved differently. Deliberate, controlled, like every step, every gesture had already been measured out and accounted for before he even entered the room. He always took off his shoes the same way, lined them up neatly by the door, his coat went on the same hook every time, folded precisely at the collar and when he sat, it wasn’t just a boyish sprawl—it was a kind of quiet command, back straight, shoulders down, fingers steepled against his lips as he listened to you speak. There was no excess in him, no wasted movement as he poured tea without spilling and smoothed the blanket over the couch with an almost unconscious precision.

Yet, with you, something in him changed. Not slackened, he was still crisp around the edges, but softened, like the sharpness of him bent inward when he touched you. Jisung saw the way Chris brushed your hair back from your face, the way he pressed a kiss to your temple like a ritual, not routine, he watched Chris hold you with a quiet thoroughness, a kind of intentional care that never once looked performative, never rushed, never careless, always with a kind of reverence that made Jisung feel like he was intruding on something sacred.

At first, he kept his distance, just watched casually, leaned an elbow on his windowsill with headphones on, pretending not to be paying attention. Until it became routine. A quiet ritual of sorts, he’d turn the lights low in his apartment when the sun dipped below the skyline, phone forgotten on the floor as he curled against the frame, sometimes with tea, sometimes just with silence. He watched as Chris came up behind you at the stove, arms winding around your waist, lips brushing your neck, watched you curl into him on the couch, your body tucked against his like a second skin, watched the way Chris would tip your chin up when he kissed you like he couldn’t stand the distance of even an inch.

It wasn’t dirty, not at first, not really. It was fascination. Jisung liked watching how you lived, how you existed together, like the world didn’t press on you the way it pressed on everyone else. There was ease in the way you laughed, grace in how Chris followed you with his gaze like he never wanted to miss a single moment of you being you. That was the part that haunted Jisung the most, that gaze, that silent hunger in Chris’s eyes every time he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you, talk to you, love you.

At first, Jisung envied him—envied the way Chris moved through your world like he belonged there, thinking he wanted to be Chris, to have his steadiness, his place beside you, but that wasn’t it, it just wasn't. He didn’t want to be him, instead, he wanted to be there, in that space between you, with you, be part of the golden, honey-drenched world behind your windows, where everything looked softer, quieter, warmer than anything that lived in his own dim apartment, not just watching from the outside like some ghost of a boy stuck behind glass, half-alive in the flicker of someone else's intimacy.

He knew it wasn’t healthy. Knew it crossed a line, maybe several, but every time he told himself to stop, every time he pulled the curtain shut and tried to turn away, some small part of him whispered to look just a little longer, just until the lights turned off, just until the sound of your laughter faded, just until the window went dark again and he could pretend, for a few seconds longer, that he belonged to the world inside it.

It got worse by the second week.

That was when the heat really began to coil in his stomach—slow, molten, thick with something he didn’t want to name, something wrong in a way that didn’t stop him. It curled low and deep, anchored itself inside him like a hook, tugging every time he looked too long, every time he told himself he wouldn't and then did anyway. Jisung told himself he wasn’t a voyeur. That he wasn’t the type to press his fingertips against the glass like a starving thing just to get closer to something he could never touch, never deserve, but by the second week he had already memorized the slope of Chris’s spine when he walked out of the bathroom towel-draped and steaming from a shower, the way water clung to his shoulder blades, glistening in the hallway light as he stretched his arms overhead and cracked his neck, fluid, unselfconscious, clean in a way Jisung felt filthy just for witnessing. Unaware, or maybe indifferent, to who might be watching.

And Jisung watched. God, he watched.

It wasn’t like Chris paraded around naked, he was discreet at first, but there were slivers, glimpses. Moments when he moved from the bathroom to the bedroom with nothing but a towel slung low across his hips, droplets carving paths down the thick lines of muscle across his chest and stomach, skin pale, smooth, firm. There was a kind of animal grace in the way he moved, tense but lazy, like he could snap into motion at any moment but chose not to. And Jisung found himself staring—frozen, breath shallow—when Chris ran a hand through his wet hair and wiped at the back of his neck, exposing the hard cut of his jaw and the veins that ran like subtle roads down his forearms.

He wasn't sure if you were as innocent. Maybe you didn’t know you were being watched, maybe you did, there were nights Jisung couldn’t tell—nights when the way you moved felt too careless to be entirely unknowing, too precise to be accidental, but not deliberate enough to be certain. You would drift barefoot through the apartment wearing only that thin robe, the one that clung to your body like it didn’t quite belong to you, like it might slip off at any second if you breathed too deep, the one that fell just barely long enough to be decent, and even then, barely, he could see the shadow of your thighs through the fabric, the line of your collarbone catching in the lamplight, the slow bend of your body when you set something down and the way the robe shifted with you, slipping at the chest or parting just enough to make his throat go dry. As if none of it mattered, as if no one was watching.

There were nights when the distance between you and Chris seemed to vanish completely, when the gentle undercurrent of touch and glance gave way to something heavier, something Jisung could feel humming through the glass. It would start small, Chris brushing a strand of hair from your face, his hand lingering a moment too long against your cheek, your eyes would soften, your body would lean into his just slightly, almost imperceptibly, like gravity had a preference. And then you’d kiss him. Slow at first, like a secret, like you needed him to breathe.

Like every part of you had been made to fit into his hands, and he touched you like he knew it, kisses that started soft but deepened fast, turned hungry. Sometimes Chris would press you up against the wall near the window, mouths locked together, and Jisung would sit there, transfixed, pulse hammering in his ears, so hard and aching he couldn’t even look away. He knew it wasn’t polite, knew it was a kind of sickness, this yearning, but he couldn’t help it, it wasn’t just lust—not really. It was the way you fit. The way you moved around each other like you’d rehearsed it for years, the kind of chemistry that radiated off you both like heat from a fevered body.

He wanted it. Not just to see it—he wanted to be part of it, a hand on your thigh, your mouth on his neck, Chris’s voice, low and strained, in his ear, telling him where to go, how to touch you. He thought about it more often than he admitted, hand wrapped around himself in the dark as he imagined the weight of Chris’s body above him, the sound of your breath in his mouth, soft and sweet and desperate. And It scared him a little, how vivid the fantasies became, how natural it started to feel, like your apartment wasn’t across the street, but just on the other side of a thin wall. As if he knocked, really knocked, you might open the door and invite him in with a crooked smile and a whisper of, we’ve been waiting for you. He wanted you both, wanted to taste the way you kissed, wanted to feel Chris’s hand pressed firm to the back of his neck, grounding him, wanted to sink into your warmth and never come back out.

But the curtains always closed just before it went too far, always. Right when hands started sliding beneath clothes, right when your body arched into Chris’s touch and his mouth found the curve of your throat, the curtains would draw, soft and deliberate, and the golden light would fade, leaving only the outline of movement behind linen. A tease, a dream, a punishment that Jisung would sit in for long minutes, heart beating too fast, forehead against the glass, hands clenched white in his lap.

He’d never hated anything the way he hated those goddamn curtains. Those thin, useless things always hovering in that maddening in-between, whispering just enough of what he couldn’t have. They taunted him, soft, drifting folds, fluttering like breath against glass, like a veil over something sacred. Every time they shifted, they gave him just a sliver, a glimpse of skin, a shadow moving, the curve of a shoulder, a mouth half-parted, teasing, withholding, smirking in silk. He wondered how could a man hate fabric and yet, he did, viscerally, with every inch of him.

Until that night, were the curtains didn’t close.

It was past one, well past, the kind of hour where the city outside had gone quiet, even the neon signs dulled with exhaustion. The streets emptied like something sacred had settled over them, ans Jisung hadn’t meant to be awake. He’d told himself he wouldn’t look tonight, not again, not after how raw he’d felt the night before, sitting there in the dark with his chest heaving and his hands shaking, guilt eating at him like rot. But something tugged at him anyway, something that lived in the soft meat of obsession, that whispered just check, and he did. You were there.

The lights were dim, just the kitchen ones casting a low amber wash across the apartment, warm and hushed, like a secret, and Chris was home again. He must have been gone for a few days—Jisung had noticed the difference, the quiet vacancy in the space, the way you moved slower, like the air around you had thickened in his absence, but now he was back, standing in the kitchen barefoot, his shirt discarded somewhere out of view, damp curls curling over his forehead like he’d just stepped out of the shower or maybe the rain. His jeans were slung low on his hips, unbuttoned like he hadn’t gotten around to finishing undressing, like he didn’t need to. And you were against him.

Jisung stopped breathing.

You had your back to the counter, perched slightly on the edge, legs parted around Chris’s hips, your robe was gone—just a tank top now, one of his maybe, nearly sheer with wear, clinging to your body like it belonged there. No bra. He could see the soft press of your nipples through the thin fabric, and Chris had his hands on your thighs, fingers gripping just under the hem of your shorts, dragging you closer, slotting himself between your legs like it was the most natural place in the world.

And it wasn't much, not really, just kissing. But it was that kind of kissing, the kind that made heat pool low in Jisung’s stomach, that made his skin burn beneath his clothes and his throat tighten with something ugly and sweet. Chris moved one one hand to the back of your neck, tilting your head just right, the other braced against your hip as he kissed you slow, deep, filthy, like he was trying to taste the days he’d missed, like he was going to fuck you with his mouth before he ever touched anything else.

Your hands roamed across his back, dragging fingernails lightly over muscle, down his spine, anchoring him to you and Jisung could see the subtle roll of your hips against him, the way Chris groaned, actually groaned, into your mouth and pulled you in harder, as if he couldn't stand to leave even a sliver of space between you.

Jisung sat frozen, air barely moving in and out of his lungs. He felt fevered, too hot in his skin, like something shameful and electric was crawling through him knowing he should look away, should close the curtain, turn the lights on, snap himself out of it. But he didn’t, he couldn’t and he was hard, of course he was, but he didn’t touch himself just yet telling himself he wasn't like this. Just clenched his jaw, fists white-knuckled in his lap as his gaze stayed locked on the scene playing out behind that golden window like it had been staged just for him.

Chris’s lips were at your neck now, biting soft and slow, and your head tilted back with a gasp. Jisung could practically feel it. The heat between you, the way your bodies pulled at each other like magnets, like gravity had nothing to do with it. His eyes burned from not blinking, chest tight with the ache of it.

He should stop, this was the line he promissed he wouldn't cross, but when Chris dipped his head lower, mouth ghosting over your chest, and you arched into him with your hands tangled in his hair— Jisung’s breath hitched, and he leaned forward, so close to the glass now his forehead almost touched it. The curtains stayed open.

You slid off the counter like you’d done it a hundred times, thighs brushing Chris’s hips, your mouth still clinging to his like it couldn’t bear to let go. Jisung watched your fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans, slow, teasing, deliberate. You said something—he couldn’t hear it, but the words were pressed close to Chris’s mouth, your lips brushing his jaw, and whatever it was made Chris huff out a broken, desperate sound that cracked through Jisung’s ribs like a fault line.

Chris leaned back against the counter now, his hands braced on either side, chest rising and falling in hard, uneven pulls. He looked wrecked already, barefoot, shirtless, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen from your kisses. And you were looking at him like he was something to be devoured.

Jisung’s whole body tensed when you dropped to your knees.

It was slow, intentional, like something sacred, like worship. Your hands slid up Chris’s thighs, pushing the denim lower, revealing more skin inch by inch. Jisung could see the muscle twitch in Chris’s abdomen, his head tipping back with a soft shudder, eyes fluttering closed as your mouth trailed kisses along his hip, just above the waistband of his boxers. You were taking your time, drawing it out. Making him feel every second of your mouth on his skin. And Chris let you—he stood there, shaking slightly, hands tightening on the counter behind him, letting you have him.

Jisung’s breath caught hard in his throat, his whole body rigid with heat. His cock throbbed beneath his waistband, aching, pulsing. He still didn’t touch himself—couldn’t—but his legs pressed together unconsciously, his breath stuttering as he stared, helpless and hungry and burning.

Chris finally looked down at you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pushing, just there, tender and possessive. You looked up at him as you kissed the inside of his thigh, your mouth so close now, breath warm against him. And he nodded—just once, slow, reverent, whatever passed between you in that moment, Jisung could feel it. The intimacy of it, the trust, the unbearable heat of knowing you were about to wreck each other in ways no one else ever could.

And then your mouth was on him.

Jisung’s whole body jerked. He couldn’t see everything—Chris’s hips blocked the view—but he saw the way Chris reacted. His fingers clenched in your hair. His head hit the cabinet behind him with a soft, stunned thud, lips parting around a moan Jisung couldn’t hear but felt. His hips bucked once, instinctive, and your hands smoothed up his thighs, grounding him, controlling him. You were working him slow, deep, obscene—and Chris looked like he was barely holding it together.

Jisung’s throat was dry. His heart beat like it was trying to claw its way out as he didn’t dare move, afraid that if he blinked, it would all vanish. That the curtains would snap shut, and he’d be left with nothing but the echo of Chris’s face, tilted toward the ceiling, lips parted in silent pleasure. He wanted to look away.

He couldn’t.

Jisung’s hand moved without conscious thought—palm pressing down hard over the bulge in his sweatpants, grinding slow, just enough pressure to take the edge off the sharp, aching tension coiled in his gut. It was shameful, disgusting, and he hated how good it felt, how right, like his body had been waiting for permission, like it had known from the start this was inevitable. Across the narrow stretch of night, in the golden-lit window, you were still on your knees. Still unhurried, still devastating.

Chris’s hand was in your hair now, holding you there—not rough, not demanding, but trembling with restraint. His chest heaved with every breath, shoulders taut, head tilted down just far enough to watch you. His lips moved—murmuring something, maybe your name, maybe a string of curses—and you moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk forward against your mouth.

Jisung’s hand pressed harder, grinding the heel of his palm against himself with a low, shuddering breath. He didn’t pull his cock out—wouldn’t let himself—but the friction was unbearable. It felt like his whole body was drawn tight around that single point of contact. His thighs were tense, jaw locked, forehead slick with sweat as he imagined what your mouth felt like, imagined the way your lips stretched around Chris’s length, the soft glide of spit down your chin, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the warm hush of your kitchen. Imagined kneeling beside you, your hands guiding him toward your mouth, your eyes glittering with invitation.

Chris pulled you off with a gasp. Not harsh—desperate,as if he let you keep going he’d lose control too fast. His cock glistened in the low light, thick and flushed and heavy between his legs, and Jisung made a sound low in his throat, breath catching. He palmed himself harder now, head tipping back against the air, thighs spread wider as his hips rolled into the pressure.

Then you were standing again, your mouth red and shining, your eyes half-lidded as you leaned in to kiss him. It was messy now—hot, gasping, sloppy, Chris gripped your waist and hauled you into him, your legs wrapping around his hips as he lifted you onto the counter. The tank top slipped higher, and Jisung caught a flash of bare skin beneath, the soft underside of your breast dragging against Chris’s chest. He pressed himself between your legs again, grinding against you through the thin fabric of your shorts, your hips rolling to meet him with a rhythm that was building, dangerous. Chris’s mouth moved down your neck, his hand sliding up your thigh, thumb tracing maddening circles along the edge of your underwear and you let your head fall back, baring your throat, moaning something soft that Jisung imagined was abreathless plea.

Jisung’s hips bucked, his hand was moving now, slow and firm through the soft fabric, trying to muffle the twitch of his cock and the spiraling tension clawing up his spine. He was barely breathing, completely still except for that rocking grind, that pulse of shame and hunger that had fused in him like something alive. He wanted to be between your thighs, wanted Chris’s hands on him, wanted to be crushed between you, used by you, owned by you. The image burned into his brain, red and bright and holy.

And still, the curtains stayed open.

Chris's hand slipped beneath your shorts, and Jisung saw it—saw your body jolt, your thighs twitch around his hips, your mouth part on a gasp that never made a sound but looked like it could’ve shattered glass. Chris didn’t rush. His fingers moved with purpose, with a confidence that told Jisung this wasn’t new—this rhythm, this need—but that it never got old, either, he knew you, knew every inch of you and he touched you like a man possessed.

Jisung pressed his palm harder over his cock, the pressure maddening, frustrating, almost not enough. His whole body burned—skin flushed, lips parted, breath coming in soft, shallow pants as he watched Chris's fingers work beneath the fabric. Your hips ground into him, chasing every stroke, your hands tight around his shoulders like you needed the anchor. Jisung couldn’t see what Chris was doing under there, not really—but he didn’t have to. The way your body writhed against him, the way your breath hitched and your back arched—God, he knew.

And Chris—fuck, Chris looked ruined with want. That heavy, dark hunger in his eyes never wavered, fixed on you like he could burn through you with just his gaze, his arm, corded with muscle and dusted in a sheen of sweat was locked around your waist, thick veins running the length of his forearm as he held you flush to him like it cost him something not to bury himself deeper. Pale skin flushed at the neck, chest heaving with every breath, his shirt clung to the ridges of his torso, the fabric damp and stretched across his broad shoulders and his mouth was at your ear now, lips brushing skin as he murmured things too low for Jisung to hear—things that made you whimper, made your spine curve, made your fingers dig into his side like you needed to hold on. His other hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers splayed wide, thumb stroking your pulse like he needed the proof that you were there with him, alive and shaking for him.

He kept you so close, so tightly pressed to him that it looked like even a sliver of space between you would’ve been unbearable. Your tank top had slipped from one shoulder, leaving the slope of it bare, and Chris dipped his head low, lips grazing the hollow between your collarbones, his teeth followed, dragging against your skin in a slow scrape, and the groan he let out was felt more than heard—raw, hungry, like he wanted to swallow you whole too. All the while, his fingers moved lower between your thighs with unrelenting focus, working you open with the same precision in his touch as in his stare, like he was memorizing every reaction you gave him, carving it into his bones.

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against Chris’s, and Jisung’s whole body clenched at the intimacy of it. How close you were, how much you needed each other, how was more than just sex—it was like watching gravity itself bend to keep you tethered, like neither of you could bear the thought of being apart.

Jisung palmed himself harder now, biting his lip to keep from groaning. His cock throbbed, trapped in his pants, leaking, aching, he was so close to the edge he could barely see. Every drag of Chris’s fingers between your legs echoed in his bones, every soft grind of your hips made his own twitch in response, involuntary and shameful and so good. He could almost feel the heat of your bodies, the slick friction of sweat-slick skin, the sound of your breath tangled together as Chris lifted your tank top, just enough to expose one breast, and his mouth was on you a second later—wet, hungry, reverent. Your back arched, thighs squeezing around his hips, one hand tangling in his hair as he sucked your nipple between his lips and groaned into your skin.

Jisung whimpered, actually whimpered. His hand stilled, just for a second, like the shame had caught up with him—but the ache didn’t fade. The image was seared behind his eyes, hot and pulsing and real, Chris between your legs, your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, the desperate, grinding rhythm of your hips, the wet sheen of spit and sweat and need.

He didn’t want to come, not yet, ot like this, but he was so close—his thighs trembling, stomach tight, his cock leaking into his boxers with every shallow roll of his hips against his palm as he clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut for half a breath, trying to hold on. But when he opened them again— Chris had pulled your shorts to the side, he was on his knees now, and your hands were in his hair, head thrown back, thighs spread wide and trembling— Jisung couldn’t look away.

He broke.

There wasn’t a single moment he could point to—no line crossed or switch flipped, just the slow, suffocating build of it, the pressure mounting minute by minute until it shattered through him with quiet, devastating finality. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, skin on skin, hot and slick and aching and his breath punched out of him like he’d been hit. He curled his fingers around his cock, finally, desperately, the contact sending a bolt of pleasure through his spine so sharp it bordered on pain.

Across the gap, through that glowing rectangle of heat and shadow, you were spread open on the kitchen counter, thighs trembling, eyes half-shut. Chris had your legs over his shoulders, arms wrapped under your hips to keep you anchored, face buried between your thighs like he lived there and you—God, you looked like you were unraveling for him. Head tipped back, mouth parted, hand clutching at your own breast through your shirt, fingers pinching and pulling in rhythm with his tongue.

Jisung’s fist moved in tight, steady strokes, his thumb catching the slick at the tip, smearing it down as he exhaled sharp through his nose, eyes locked on your trembling form as his hips bucked up into his palm, quiet curses tumbling out under his breath. He didn’t even try to stop anymore, didn’t pretend. He was fucking himself to you—because of you—and it felt like he’d been waiting his entire life to do it. He imagined the way your thighs would feel around his head, the way you’d look down at him, fingers buried in his hair, whispering praise or filth, maybe both. He imagined Chris watching, not angry, mot jealous, inviting, holding you open while Jisung fucked you with his tongue, whispering in your ear how beautiful you looked with two of them between your legs. Maybe touching himself, maybe touching him, too.

His strokes got faster.

Chris was devouring you. His head moved in slow, hungry rolls, hands gripping your thighs like they were the only thing tethering him to earth as your hips lifted off the counter with every pass of his tongue, back arching, hands grasping at anything—his hair, the edge of the counter, your own thighs. One of your legs slipped, and he caught it easily, lifting it higher, spreading you further, like he wanted to crawl inside you and never leave.

Jisung bit down on the inside of his wrist to keep from moaning. He was fucking into his fist now, panting, feverish, cock slick, throbbing in his palm, and every soundless cry from your mouth made him squeeze harder, stroke faster, chasing the edge with dizzying speed. Chris pulled back for a breath—his face wet with you, lips swollen, eyes dark, he said something—filthy, judging by the look on your face and you reached for him instantly, dragging him up into another kiss, tasting yourself on his mouth.

Jisung whimpered aloud. He was close, so fucking close, pressing his forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass, his fist pumping slick and hard. You were rolling your hips against Chris now, grinding against the thick bulge in his jeans, your bodies moving together like instinct, like gravity, like sin. He could see the outline of your soaked underwear, the twitch of your thighs, the glazed, desperate look in your eyes.

Jisung's hand moved faster, tighter, the heat of his palm soaked through with slick, every stroke sending sparks ricocheting up his spine. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps, lips parted, sweat sticking to his temples, the waistband of his sweats digging into his hips. He was right there—right fucking there—his toes curling, thighs clenching, that tight electric coil in his gut threatening to snap. One more stroke and he’d fall apart.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He stopped.

Choked on the pleasure like it was smoke in his lungs, fingers trembling as he hovered on the brink of release. The ache in his cock was unbearable, pulsing, angry, but the guilt clawing at the edge of his consciousness tasted even worse. His stomach twisted. His whole body rebelled against the denial, twitching with frustration and need as he squeezed the base of his shaft hard, biting down on his lip so sharp he tasted blood.

He shouldn't, but still, he watched.

Chris was back between your legs, one arm locked around your waist to keep you close as he rutted against you, still clothed, his cock grinding into your soaked panties through the thin denim. His mouth was back at your breast, kissing and sucking and moaning into your skin while you clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the world, your tank top was halfway off, your thighs spread wide over the counter, the waistband of your shorts bunched at one side, giving Jisung teasing, impossible flashes of wet lace and flushed skin. You rolled your hips with each drag of Chris’s cock against your center, your face open and needy and completely lost in it. You were beautiful, wrecked, gone.

Jisung could feel his heartbeat in his cock, throbbing, pulsing like it was trying to crawl out of his skin. His hand hovered, twitching, aching for friction as he palmed himself again—lightly this time, barely there—just enough to send another sharp, punishing jolt of pleasure racing through him. His knees nearly gave out, but he wouldn’t come, not yet. Not until he saw everything.

Chris pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand dragged down your stomach, slow and reverent, disappearing between your legs again as you cried out—mouth open, hips twitching—and Jisung imagined his fingers sliding through you, rubbing slow circles over your clit, spreading you open and working you like he owned you. He watched Chris lean in and kiss your throat, slow and tender, whispering against your skin and you said something back, breathless, smiling faintly through the haze.

Jisung let his hand fall away completely.

His cock twitched in protest, leaking, the ache twisting deeper in his belly like hunger left unfed. He wanted to scream, to beg, but instead, he pressed his forehead to the glass harder and let the edge swallow him whole, trembling and ruined and completely, utterly yours.

Chris’s hand disappeared again beneath your shorts, and this time your whole body answered with a sudden jolt, hips lifting, thighs tightening around his sides like they knew what was coming. Your arms looped around his neck, mouth brushing his, your forehead to his. The closeness between you felt unbearable even from across the street. Jisung could see the way you looked at him. Not just with want, but with this deep, surrendered sort of hunger. Like you needed him inside you just to breathe again.

Chris said something, a low murmur against your lips. You nodded.

That was it.

He reached between you again, this time with both hands, one tugging your shorts down to your knees, the other undoing his jeans. The sight was dizzying, hurried but still patient somehow, like he couldn’t help himself anymore but didn’t want to rush it either. His boxers slid low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy, and Jisung sucked in a ragged breath as Chris stroked himself once, slow and tight from base to tip, his eyes locked on your face the whole time. You leaned back, bracing yourself on your elbows, your legs wide, panties askew, the wet shine of your cunt catching the kitchen light like something sacred. Chris lined himself up, and then—slowly, so slowly—he pushed inside.

Jisung’s breath caught like it had been yanked from his throat. His knees buckled slightly, one hand grabbing the edge of the windowsill to steady himself while the other slipped beneath his waistband again. He spat into his palm, quick, messy, desperate, and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking slow, drawn-out pulls as he watched.

Chris sank into you with all the reverence of a man crawling into heaven. His jaw was clenched, eyes squeezed shut as he buried himself to the hilt, your body arching to take him, thighs trembling around his hips and when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, hands braced on either side of the counter, he just held there for a second, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like the feeling of you wrapped around him was too good, too much.

Jisung stroked himself tighter, slick and slow, each movement winding that coil inside him even tighter. He couldn’t hear you so well—but he didn’t need to, he saw it, the way you gasped when Chris pulled back just a little, then thrust forward again with a slow, grinding rhythm. The way your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth falling open in a moan so soft and deep it looked like it could’ve been a prayer.

Chris set the pace, deliberate, devastating, each thrust slow and thick like he was savoring the drag, the way your body clung to him, the way you gasped just under your breath like you were trying not to fall apart too soon. He moved with maddening control, hips rolling with that signature, almost unbearable precision, like he knew exactly how to undo you and had no intention of rushing it. His brows were drawn tight in concentration, sweat sliding down his temples, jaw slack with restraint as he watched himself disappear into you over and over again, how the muscles in his thighs flexed with every grind, his abs tightening on every exhale, and there was something reverent in the way he held your hips like he needed the anchor.

And Jisung—God, Jisung wanted in. Not just to watch, not just to jerk off like some pathetic afterthought in the dark, he wanted to be there, between you, under you, with you. He wanted Chris’s hands on him, wanted to feel those strong, veiny arms pinning him down, that pale, sweat-slick chest pressed tight to his back while Chris fucked both of you open. He wanted to taste you where you were stretched around him, wanted to hear you beg with your mouth on his while Chris fucked you slow and deep and unrelenting.

But more than anything, more than anything, he wanted Chris—wanted to feel the weight of him, the heat of him, the strength in his thighs as they braced around him, the way his voice would drop when he moaned Jisung’s name. He wanted to be split apart on Chris’s cock, wanted to sob into the sheets while Chris held his hips and took him apart like it was nothing, like he belonged to him. He wanted to know how it felt to be the one under that gaze, those dark, hungry eyes locked on his face like he was the sweetest thing Chris had ever tasted. He was so hard he could barely breathe, the ache inside him sharp and deep and endless, and still it wasn’t enough—because he didn’t just want to watch, he wanted to be wanted, by you, by him.

One of your hands slipped down between your legs, fingers circling your clit in sync with his rhythm, and Jisung bit down hard on a curse, his throat tight with want. He could see how soaked you were, the way your slick spread along Chris’s cock every time he pulled back, glistening under the dim light, every inch of him sheathed in the evidence of how good he was making you feel. And the worst part—the most intoxicating—was how Chris looked at you: lips parted, eyes dark and drowning, completely gone for it, like the feeling of you wrapped around him was the only thing keeping him breathing. Jisung could feel it, the echo of your pleasure, the weight of Chris’s need, like it was his own, like he was the one being split open by that slow, relentless rhythm.

He pumped his cock faster now, his palm wet and hot with spit and precome, thighs tensing with every stroke. The wet sound of skin against skin didn’t reach his ears, but he could imagine it—could hear it in his head, along with the imagined moans, the whimpers, the broken cries of his name that Chris would drink from your mouth like they were everything he’d ever needed.

From across the dark gap of air and glass, Jisung watched, broken open.

His strokes had grown frantic. Not messy—purposeful. His palm was soaked, his thighs trembling, every pull of his hand slick and tight and cruel. His forehead stayed against the window, fogging the glass with each ragged exhale, breath syncing unconsciously to the rhythm of Chris’s hips slamming into yours. He was past shame now, far past hesitation, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Inside the golden-lit kitchen, you were close—so close—your fingers gripping Chris’s back, hips twitching each time he bottomed out. Your head dropped back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open on a moan he couldn’t hear but could feel. as Chris’s hand slipped between your bodies, and the moment his fingers touched you, your whole body arched, taut and sharp as a bow drawn tight, and you broke.

You came in his arms, gasping, shaking, your body trembling with release and Chris held you through it, breathing harshly against your neck, hips slowing but not stopping, like he needed just a little more, just a few more thrusts. He kissed you hard, sloppy, full of tongue and teeth and something deeper, and then it broke.

He came too, Jisung saw it, felt it, like a tremor in the air, a ripple that broke the tension in Chris’s body all at once. The way his spine arched, taut and straining, every sculpted line of him trembling as he sank in deep one final time, hips grinding flush against you in a slow, desperate press. His mouth fell open on a ragged gasp, eyes screwed shut so tightly his lashes trembled, sweat catching in the curve of his brow. Muscles locked, back flexed, chest heaving, he poured into you with a groan so guttural it seemed to tear from somewhere deep inside him, something unguarded and almost broken. His jaw clenched hard against your shoulder, stifling the sound like it was too raw to give voice to, while his arms caged around you like he’d fall apart if he let go. Every inch of him, his shaking thighs, his trembling hands, the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in the world, made it impossible for Jisung to look away, he was glowing and wrecked all at once, every breath caught on the edge of a prayer or a curse, and that—that impossible sight of Chris undone—was what unraveled Jisung.

He came with a stifled sound punched into the crook of his arm, his hand pumping hard, his cock jerking between his fingers. It hit him like a wave, violent and full, his hips bucking, breath breaking as he spilled over his palm and into the waistband of his pants, vision blacking at the edges from how long he’d held it back. It was dizzying, blinding, delicious. He tipped against the window, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin and inside the apartment across from him, you and Chris held each other in the dim kitchen light—still tangled together, still panting, still glowing in the aftershock of what you’d shared. Jisung wiped his hand absently on his shirt, but his eyes never left the view.

Not even when you finally reached out, smiled at him lazily, and pulled the curtains closed.

[heartwithoutaname]

One of my favorite writers atm. Show this blog some love!! They deserve it.

C H A I N B I T E R

bang chan x reader | silver chain. pouty moans. and the lesson he teaches you when you act up.

🔞synopsis: he comes home from tour. you pout, you ignore his texts, you act up—because you want him mean. he keeps the chain on. and when you bite it? he folds you in half, fucks you dumb, and doesn’t let you cum until you’re crying, drooling, and begging for the cock you’ve been bratting for. he ruins you. then holds you like you’re breakable. because you are—and you’re his favourite thing to break.

💌a/n: welcome to filth friday, sluts. 🧷this fic is dedicated to the chokehold that silver chains + pouty brattiness + missionary with a vengeance have on my brain. chan keeps the chain on. you bite it. he loses his mind. we all win. p.s. reblogs = love. comments = spit in my mouth. tags = my new religion. p.p.s. missionary is not vanilla when he growls in your ear and denies your orgasms p.p.p.s. if you reblog this while still recovering? i see you. i respect you.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY. minors do not pass go, do not collect the chain | explicit sexual content | dom!bang chan, soft menace energy, and a very smug mouth | sub!reader with brat tendencies that get corrected | jewellery kink (chain stays ON. you bite it. he breaks.) | missionary sex but feral — folded position, deep strokes, held down, no escape | denial / edging | cockdrunk reader | dirty talk, degradation + praise mix (“mine.” “good girl.” “you don’t get to cum yet.”) | aftercare | breeding kink tones | crying & tears of pleasure | pouty!reader energy (literally the reason this entire fic exists. pout responsibly.)

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » TASTE — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The apartment feels colder without him.

It’s not actually cold—you’re curled up on the couch in nothing but his oversized hoodie, bare legs tucked beneath you, a mug of tea half-drunk on the coffee table. But it’s the kind of cold that seeps under your skin when the bed’s too big, the silence too loud, and your vibrator’s not doing the fucking job.

Your phone buzzes again. You don’t look.

You already know it’s him.

You’ve been ignoring him all day—not completely, just... enough. Left him on read once or twice. Gave him one-word replies. Didn’t answer the FaceTime this morning, even though you’d woken up with your hand between your thighs, aching from a dream you couldn’t finish.

It’s not fair, you know that. He’s on tour. He’s busy. He’s doing everything right—checking in, calling, sending those stupid audio messages that make your stomach flip when he whispers, “Miss you, baby. So much.”

But you’re needy.

Touch-starved. Cramps in your hips from curling up in bed alone. Horny to the point of irrational.

And the worst part? You can see him. Online. Onstage. Living in your phone like some cruel ghost. There he is at rehearsal. Dripping in sweat, shirt half-off, silver chain swinging with every breath. There he is in a fan-captured clip, laughing, flexing, biting his lip while dancing to your favorite track like he’s not out here ruining your life. And now? Now he has the audacity to send a mirror selfie. In the fucking studio. With the chain. The bracelets. The goddamn veins.

You nearly throw your phone across the room.

Instead, you sink deeper into the couch, bite the sleeve of his hoodie, and scream into the fabric.

“Fucking menace,” you mumble against your wrist.

He didn’t do anything wrong. That makes it worse.

Because now, every time you shift your hips, every time you think about his hands pinning you down and that cold metal chain slapping your chest while he fucks you stupid—

You can’t breathe.

You glance at your phone.

Three new messages.

[CHAN]: baby [CHAN]: don’t ignore me please [CHAN]: did i do something? talk to me

Your lip wobbles. Goddammit.

No. No. You’re supposed to be mad. Not real mad. Just pouty. Irritated. Like a girl whose boyfriend hasn’t been around to wreck her properly in over two weeks.

You don’t want sweet texts.

You want teeth on your throat. Fingers in your mouth. You want him to press your legs up and fuck the attitude out of you until you’re crying and clinging to his stupid chain like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.

Your gaze flicks to the bedroom door.

Then to the drawer.

You reach for the vibrator. Pause. Throw it back in.

“Fuck it,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

If he were here, you wouldn’t even need it. He’d just look at you, and you’d be done for.

You bury yourself deeper into the cushions, grumbling, annoyed with the world. The room smells like him. The hoodie smells like him. Your whole body aches from missing him—not emotionally. Physically. Raw, feral want.

So you ignore the phone again.

Because if he really misses you? Let him come get you. Let him walk through that door and make it up to you with his chain swinging and his hands on your throat. Let him see what happens when he makes a needy girl wait too long.

The keys hit the lock at 1:37AM.

You hear them before you see him—metal clinking, a shuffle, a low curse. You barely manage to mute the TV before the door swings open.

He’s here.

And he looks like sin.

Black hoodie half-zipped, chain glinting just above the collar. His damp hair is pushed back with one hand, the other dragging his suitcase inside. His duffel slumps to the floor. Then he sees you—curled on the couch, one leg bare, still in his hoodie, sleeves covering your hands.

For a second, he just stares. Then that mouth curves. “You’re still up.”

You shrug, trying to look casual. You are not casual. Your thighs are clenched under the throw blanket, and your heart’s pounding like you weren’t just imagining that exact chain slapping against your collarbone while he fucks you into the mattress.

“Barely,” you say, voice too innocent.

His gaze drops to your bare thighs. Then back to your face. “Didn’t answer my texts.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

He huffs out a soft laugh. That cocky, knowing one. “Oh. It’s like that?”

You don’t reply. Just stretch with an exaggerated yawn, lifting your arms enough for the hem of his hoodie to ride up. No shorts. Just skin. His tongue runs across his bottom lip. The chain shifts with the way he breathes, catching the lamplight.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Not really.”

“Mhm.” He drops his hoodie onto a chair. “So the blanket, the hoodie, and no pants—that’s just what you wear now?”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“All smug.”

He grins. Oh no. He knows. Of course he knows.

“Baby,” he says, stepping closer. “You’ve been bratting out all week. You think I can’t tell?”

Your breath catches. Heat coils instantly in your gut.

“Didn’t say anything when I sent you that mirror pic. Left my voice note on read. Ignored the one where I said I wanted to fuck you through the floor.” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Nothing to say now either?”

You stare up at him. Slowly pull the blanket off your lap. “I missed you,” you admit, soft.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I missed you too.”

A pause. Then—

“I also know that pout’s not about feelings.”

“What’s it about, then?”

He’s standing over you now, hands on his hips, chain resting just beneath his throat. “It’s about the fact that you haven’t been fucked in two weeks.”

You look away. Cheeks hot. “And?”

“And you’re soaked just from seeing me walk in the door.”

You shoot him a glare, but it’s weak at best. He sees right through it. And worse? You see his jaw flex—barely—before he lets out a dark, low laugh.

“Get up.”

You blink. “What?”

“Up.”

You rise slowly, confused. He reaches forward and lifts the hoodie—his hoodie—up and off your body in one smooth motion. You shiver at the loss of warmth. Now you’re just standing there in panties and nothing else.

He steps back. Eyes dark. “You waited for me like this?”

You nod, shy now. “Wanted to be ready,” you mumble.

His lips part just slightly. His gaze drops, lingers on your hips, then snaps back up.

And then—

His hands are on your thighs, fast.

“Jump.”

You don’t think. You obey.

He catches you with ease, arms firm under your thighs, the chill of his bracelets biting into your skin. Your breath hitches as your legs wrap around his waist, chest flush against his. His chain presses cold between your breasts, and he’s not even trying to hide the way he grinds against your panties on instinct.

“You think I don’t know what that look means?” he murmurs, voice brushing hot against your cheek. “Little pout. Ignoring my calls like I wouldn’t drop everything to ruin you the second I walked through the door.”

You squirm against him, but he tightens his grip—just enough to pin your hips in place.

“Could’ve told me, baby,” he breathes, walking toward the bedroom. “Could’ve just said, ‘Chan, I’m wet and I miss your cock.’ I’d have flown home yesterday.”

He kicks the bedroom door open without a pause. Keeps walking until your back hits the mattress in a controlled drop. You bounce once, hair a mess, legs open, breathing ragged.

He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s starving.

Then he peels off the hoodie.

His shirt follows. Then the pants. He leaves the jewelry. Every bit of it. Rings, bracelets, and that fucking chain.

You swallow hard, mouth dry.

“Want me to take it off?” he teases, watching your eyes follow the chain.

You shake your head. “Keep it.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. Voice barely a whisper now. “Wanna see it dangling, wanna bite it.”

That does something to him. His jaw flexes. His cock twitches against the band of his briefs. “Fuck.” He climbs onto the bed like a man possessed. Cages you under him in one smooth motion, his hands planted firm beside your head, chain dangling just above your lips.

You glance up at him, pupils blown wide.

“Say it again.”

“I want to bite it.”

“While I’m inside you?”

“Yes.”

“While I’m ruining that little attitude?”

“Please.” You barely finish the word—“please”—before he’s kissing you like he’s making up for every second he’s been gone.

It’s not sweet. It’s hungry.

His mouth claims yours with a groan, hot and wet and open, tongue sliding past your lips like he already knows what you taste like. His chain swings between you, brushing your throat every time he shifts, a cold contrast to the heat pouring off his skin.

You moan into the kiss. He drinks it like oxygen.

Then he sinks down fully, settling between your thighs with the kind of weight that makes you feel pinned—owned. His cock presses hard against the soaked fabric of your panties, still trapped behind his briefs, but thick enough to make you gasp when he grinds down. “Fuck, baby,” he groans into your mouth. “You’ve been holding out on me. This pussy’s starving.”

Your back arches. You’re soaked, the wet patch obvious now—heat meeting heat as he rocks against you, slow and punishing, like he’s savoring every drag of his cock over your clit.

“Thought about this every night,” he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “This exact spot. These hips. The way you whimper when I press right… here—”

He thrusts just right. Your head falls back.

He kisses down your neck, slow and greedy. The cold metal of his chain follows, dragging like ice down your collarbone, between your breasts.

“Missed this fucking body,” he breathes, licking a stripe along your throat. “Missed the way you twitch for me. How you bite your lip to keep quiet.”

He grinds down again. And again. Until your hips start chasing his, until your nails dig into his back.

“Chan,” you pant, “I—I need—”

He shushes you with another kiss, deeper this time. He kisses you until you can’t think, until all you can do is cling to him, his chain brushing your lips like it wants to be bitten.

You’re pulsing through your panties. You know he feels it. You feel the smirk when he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You gonna make a mess before I’m even inside?”

You glare. He chuckles darkly. “Go on then, baby. Rub that pretty cunt all over my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

You moan—needy, wrecked—and tilt your hips up into him, grinding against the thick ridge of him through both layers of fabric. “Fucking please,” you whimper. “Want you so bad.”

“You’ve got me,” he growls. “You have me.”

His hand slips between your bodies, pushing his briefs down just enough for his cock to spring free—hot, flushed, already leaking. He swears low under his breath.

“God, baby. Look what you do to me.”

Then he presses himself against your soaked panties again, bare cock against soaked fabric, and grinds. Slow. Deep. Purposeful.

“You feel that?” he grits. “You feel how hard I am for you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes, yes—Chan, please—”

“You want me to rip these off?” You can barely speak. “Or you wanna be good and ask nicely?”

You can barely speak.

Your whole body is tense—writhing beneath him, soaked and shaking and on the edge of sobbing for it. He sees it. Loves it. The way your breath catches. The way your thighs twitch around his waist. “C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “One sweet word, and I’ll give you everything.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “Please,” you whisper. “Take them off. Please, Chan—need you…”

That’s all it takes.

He groans softly, like the sound is pulled from deep in his chest, and finally—finally—hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties. He drags them down your legs like he’s unwrapping you. Not fast. Not greedy. Just slow, like he’s enjoying every second of you bare and spread beneath him. When they’re off, he kisses the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Then higher.

But he doesn’t go where you want. No. He climbs back up your body, and you think—thank God, he’s going to fuck me—But instead, his mouth goes to your chest.

“So fucking pretty,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours as he kisses just above your heart.

His hand palms one breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaks under his touch. His mouth follows—hot, open, wet—and he sucks, slow and deep.

You gasp. He groans. The sound vibrates through your chest.

Then he pulls back just enough to nip—just a little—right over the mark he made. “That feel good, baby?”

You nod, breathless. “Y-Yeah—more—”

He moves to the other breast. Does the same. Tongue first. Then lips. Then teeth. Your back arches into him, hands twisting in the sheets. The chain dangles against your sternum, cold and perfect, catching in the valley between your tits as he worships you. “Could spend hours right here,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your nipple. “Could make you cum just from this.”

“Please,” you pant. “I need more—Chan, please, I—”

He hushes you again with a kiss.

Then he trails down. And down. And down. Mouth dragging over your stomach. Teeth grazing the curve of your waist. He settles between your thighs, breath warm and heavy against your dripping cunt.

But he doesn’t lick. Not yet.

“God, baby,” he groans, almost reverent. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimper. Try to lift your hips. He holds you down. “Be good,” he warns softly. “Be still.”

You try. You really do.

But then he spits—just a little—hot and slick onto your clit, and you jerk like you’ve been shocked. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, smirking as he leans in.

And then—then—he licks. One slow, torturous stripe up your cunt. Flat tongue. No mercy.

You moan, loud, thighs clamping around his head.

He groans into your pussy, pressing his mouth harder, licking deeper, like he’s starving. His chain dangles against your inner thigh now, cool and maddening with every pass.

And just when you start to build—just when your toes curl, your body tenses, and you’re right there—

He pulls back. “Nuh uh,” he says, voice thick and smug. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You sob. He kisses your thigh, then blows softly on your wet, throbbing clit just to be cruel. “You’re gonna cum with me inside you,” he murmurs. “With this chain in your mouth, and my cock so deep you forget your own name.”

Your hips twitch. Your eyes roll back. He grins at the sight.

And his mouth returns to your cunt like a man addicted—like he’s missed this more than sleep, more than air, more than the stage itself. His tongue licks deeper now, deliberate, dragging slick through your folds and sucking gently at your clit like he knows exactly how much you can take.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans against you. “Tastes like you missed me.”

You cry out, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. He lets you. For now. Then—

His fingers join the party.

Two of them, thick and slick, pressing at your entrance and sliding in with no resistance. Your walls clench instantly.

“Oh my God—Chan—!”

“Shhh. You’re fine.” He curls them. “You’re so fucking fine.”

His lips wrap around your clit again just as his fingers start thrusting—slow at first, then deeper, firmer, building rhythm. Every drag hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

You’re so close it’s shameful. Your hips roll into his face. Your moans are embarrassingly loud now. And just as you hit that edge—

He pulls away again. His mouth gone. Fingers stilled inside you.

“Wha—why—” you gasp, blinking through the haze.

He looks up from between your thighs. His lips are slick, his chin glistening, the chain glinting as he rises slightly, his fingers still buried to the knuckle in your fluttering pussy.

“Brats don’t get to cum without permission.”

You whimper. Physically ache. “Channie, please—”

“You gave me attitude. You ignored me. You made me wait.”

He slides his fingers out slowly, watching them glisten in the low light. You’re dripping. He presses them back in—just one knuckle—then pauses again. “Now you’ll wait.”

“I said sorry—”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes—”

“Then you’ll be good.” His voice is soft, dangerous. “Keep those legs open. Take what I give you. And you don’t cum until I say.”

You nod frantically.

“Say it,” he demands, pushing his fingers in deep again.

“I won’t cum,” you gasp. “Not unless you say.”

“Good girl.”

And just like that—his mouth is back.

He fucks you with his fingers while he sucks your clit with precision. Every moan you make only spurs him on. He watches your body unravel, his chain swinging between your breasts with every jolt of pleasure.

You’re shaking again. So close it hurts. Your eyes roll back—your legs tremble—your whole body’s about to give out—

“Don’t,” he warns, pulling his mouth off just enough to speak. “Don’t even think about it.”

Your hips jerk. He curls his fingers and presses his tongue harder. “Not until I say.”

You’re crying now. Wrecked. Gutted. Desperate. And still, he doesn’t let you have it.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips wet against your thigh. “You feel that? That’s what brats get.”

“Channie, please,” you sob. “I need it—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll—”

“I know you will,” he coos.

Then he withdraws completely.

You scream.

“You’re gonna be so fucking good for me now,” he mutters, climbing back over you.

His cock, thick and flushed, brushes against your inner thigh. You’re slick enough he could slide right in. But he doesn’t. Not yet. He leans in, chain swinging.

“Open your mouth.”

You do. He places the chain between your lips. “Bite.”

You bite. The chain presses cold between your teeth, sharp metal on your tongue, a mouthful of him. Of ownership. Of need. You moan around it as he grips your thighs tighter, spreads them wider, and finally—finally—guides his cock to your soaked, twitching entrance.

“Look at that,” he breathes, staring down between your legs. “You’re begging for it.”

You are. Your pussy flutters, aching, empty for so long you can barely think. His tip nudges your entrance, hot and heavy and thick, and just the brush makes your whole body tense.

“Been saving this for you,” he murmurs, dragging his cock slowly through your folds. “Didn’t even jerk off on tour. You know how fucking hard that was?”

You whimper around the chain.

He grins. “Yeah, you do.”

Then—without warning—he pushes in. Just the head. You sob.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans. “So tight. So wet. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically, teeth clenched on the chain. Your walls spasm around him, already trying to pull him deeper. And he gives it to you. Inch by inch. Stretching you slow, deliberate, merciless. You feel everything. Every vein. Every ridge. Every twitch and pulse.

By the time his hips finally press flush against yours, you’re shaking.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He stills. Deep. Thick. Fucking perfect.

You can’t breathe. You can’t move. You’re so full it borders on painful, the burn and pressure delicious in its cruelty. He leans down over you, forearms braced beside your head. The chain swings, slipping from your perfect lips but brushing them.

You’re clenching around him—helpless, desperate—and he doesn’t move.

“That’s right,” he breathes. “Hold me. Grip me tight like that.”

He pulls halfway out. You sob. Then thrusts back in. Hard. And stills again. You’re drooling at this point, chest heaving, vision blurred.

“You think you can brat your way into getting fucked?” he growls, mouth brushing your ear. “You think this pussy deserves to cum yet?”

You shake your head. Tears well.

“That’s right. Not yet. Not fucking yet.”

Then he starts to move. Slow. Deep. Devastating.

His hips roll with purpose, like every stroke is a lesson, a punishment, a promise. His cock drags against every swollen nerve inside you, hitting that spot so precisely it almost feels cruel. And he doesn’t let up—not even a little.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice thick. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You nod, barely. You’re breathless, moaning with every slow, relentless thrust.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “You’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re gripping him like a vice, your legs trembling around his waist, the chain now hanging loose across your chest—dragging over your nipples every time he fucks into you just right.

He leans in, kisses your jaw, then your throat. His hips grind at the end of each thrust, pressing his cock even deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“This pussy’s mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

You gasp, voice wrecked. “It’s yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours—Channie—it’s yours—!”

His pace picks up. Not fast, but harder. More pressure. More control. He’s fucking you like he owns you—like he earned this. Like he waited two weeks for the chance to bury himself so deep in you, you’d never forget what it felt like to be full of him.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, sweat dotting his temple. “My bratty little baby. Thought you could tease me, huh?”

You whine—shaking beneath him, overstimulated already, toes curling with every thick, slow stroke.

“Missed this cock so much,” he murmurs, voice rough as he licks the sweat from your neck. “Should’ve begged. Should’ve dropped to your knees the second I got home.”

He pulls out just slightly—just the tip—before slamming back in, hard.

You scream.

He does it again. And again. Punishing. Precise.

“But no,” he growls. “You wanted to act up. So now? You get fucked how I say.”

Your hands claw at his back. Your nails leave marks. Your eyes roll back when he grabs your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod, crying now.

“You wanna fall apart all over my cock?”

You sob, “Please.”

He leans down. Mouth at your ear. Voice like a fucking curse. “Then earn it.”

He lets go of your throat, pulls your legs up higher around his hips, changes the angle—and fucks into you so deep you see white. Your hands shoot up, grabbing at his chain again. You yank it between your teeth, moaning around the metal like it’s your only lifeline.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Bite down. Be good. Take every inch.”

He’s fucking you hard now. Relentless. The bed slams against the wall, your cries muffled by the chain in your mouth, your body trembling under his. You don’t know where he ends and you begin. All you know is his voice, his cock, his chain, and how fucking close you are.

He knows it too.

Your body is a mess beneath him—shaking, leaking, barely holding on. Your mouth is full of chain and nothing else makes sense. You’re right there.

So he changes it up. Again.

Without warning, he pulls out—just for a second—and grabs your thighs.

You whimper in confusion, but he’s already moving.

He presses your legs together, tight, then lifts them up and folds them toward your chest, locking your thighs against him with one arm. The angle is obscene—your pussy now swollen, dripping, needy, completely exposed to him like a fucking feast.

He lines up again.

“Hold still.”

You can’t move anyway. He thrusts back in, all at once. You moan.

“Oh my god—”

“Yeah?” he growls, voice cracking. “That’s what you wanted?”

His arm flexes as he locks your legs to his chest, other hand gripping the headboard for leverage as he slams into you—deep, brutal, unforgiving.

Your mouth falls open. The chain slips from your lips, damp and clinking against your chest as your head tips back, jaw slack.

You’re drooling. Literally. You don’t even realize it. And still—still—he doesn’t let you cum. “You feel that?” he pants. “Hear how fucking wet you are?”

Slap slap slap—your pussy sounds obscene, slick gushing down your ass, pooling beneath you as he fucks into the tight, hot mess he’s made of you.

“You fucking live for this cock, don’t you?”

You nod, eyes rolled back, moaning like you’ve already cum three times.

“Say it,” he snaps, thrusts slamming into you. “Say you’re cockdrunk. Say you need it.”

You try.

Nothing comes out.

You’re babbling, lips trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“What’s that, baby? Can’t talk?” he mocks, voice half-gone, fully feral. “Already gone and I haven’t even let you cum?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and angry, twitching with the effort to hold back—but he doesn’t break. Not yet.

He wants you ruined.

He wants you begging.

“Not yet,” he growls. “You’re not there yet.”

You choke on a sob, head thrashing, arms reaching up to grab anything—his wrist, his chain, the sheets—but it’s not enough. The pressure in your gut is unbearable. Your cunt’s fluttering around him like you’re already mid-orgasm. You’re leaking down his balls, dripping from the stretch, absolutely wrecked.

And he loves it.

“You’ll cum,” he promises, fucking deeper, harder. “But not until you break. Not until you’re drooling and sobbing and begging for it with that pretty little voice I own.”

Your brain’s gone fuzzy.

Nothing left but heat and pressure and the sound of him—filthy, brutal, mercilessly deep. Your body isn’t even yours anymore. You’re limp in his hold, legs pressed together and pinned to his chest while his cock splits you open over and over, dragging against that spot inside you with every punishing thrust.

And you still haven’t cum. You can’t cum. Not until he says.

“Come on, baby,” he growls, his voice wrecked with effort. “Where’s that sweet little voice now?”

You sob, drooling down your chin, lips trembling around broken words that won’t form. “Nngh—Ch-Chan, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he moans. “Beg for it.”

Your hands claw uselessly at the sheets. “P-please,” you cry. “Please—I n-need—I can’t—Channie, please—your cock, I need it—need to cum—please—”

Your cunt clenches around him so hard it nearly makes him lose rhythm. He grunts, digging his fingers into your thighs, pace faltering just enough to grind deep before resuming that relentless rhythm.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he snarls. “Dripping all over me, baby. You’re gonna ruin the bed.”

“I-I don’t care—please, please—”

Your body twitches, helpless under him, tears leaking into your hairline, mouth open and glossy, his name the only thing you know how to say.

“Say what you are.”

“Wh—what?”

He thrusts hard, knocking the breath out of you. “Say what. You. Are.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours—I’m your fucktoy—I’m cockdrunk, I—”

“You’re what?”

“I’m cockdrunk, Channie—please—please let me cum—”

He slams into you so deep you nearly scream, chest arching into his grip, your vision flickering to white. “That’s right,” he moans, voice unravelling. “That’s my baby. All mine. This pussy—mine. Say it.”

“Yours—yours—yours—!”

“You wanna cum?”

“Please—”

“Then fucking do it.”

Your body shatters. It’s not even an orgasm—it’s a detonation. You clamp down around him, sobbing, your whole body convulsing as wave after wave crashes through you. You can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t even scream. All you can do is feel.

Feel him. Feel the stretch. Feel your pussy gush around his cock as you cum so hard it feels like it might kill you.

He doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” he groans, fucking you through it. “Fucking soak me, baby—fuck—fuck—you’re milking my cock—”

Your mind’s gone. You’re nothing but a trembling, cockdrunk mess, tears and drool smeared across your face, still whispering “yours, yours, yours” under your breath like a prayer.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he pants, voice cracked and breaking. “Gonna fill you up—fuck—can I, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes fluttering. “Give it to me—want it—want all of it—please—”

And then he breaks.

He fucks into you one last time—deep, desperate, final—and lets go with a raw, shuddering moan as he empties inside you, cock pulsing, hot cum spilling into your still-clenching pussy.

“Fuckfuckfuck—baby—”

He collapses over you, chain dragging across your chest, both of you soaked, panting, trembling messes.

And still…

You whisper, barely conscious, lips ghosting his ear: “Yours.”

Your body is done. You don’t even register the moment he pulls out—all you feel is the warmth spilling down your thighs, his cum leaking out slow and heavy as your pussy pulses in the aftermath.

You try to speak. Nothing comes out but a sigh and a tiny broken whimper.

He huffs a soft laugh above you, lips brushing your temple as he shifts just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth. You’re too wrecked to return it—eyes fluttering, fingers twitching in the sheets, hair a sweaty halo around your face.

“That’s what my pouty baby gets, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and too smug. “Act like a brat, get fucked stupid.”

You let out a soft, slurred noise.

He kisses you again—this time on your nose. Then your forehead. Then both cheeks. “You did so good for me,” he whispers, hand cupping your jaw. “Took it all like my perfect girl."

You blink up at him. Barely coherent. “Mmhnn…you’re…annoying.”

“Aww,” he coos, grin wide. “You sound so mad for someone who just came like her soul was leaving her body.”

“You ruined me.”

“Damn right I did.”

He kisses your lips, slow and deep, like he’s trying to pour himself back into you. His tongue licks into your mouth with lazy heat, but now it’s tender. Now it’s grounding. His chain is still resting against your skin. You reach up, weakly tug it.

“Still on,” you whisper.

“You earned it,” he says softly. “Might keep it on since you like it that much.”

Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he notices.

“Oh, now you’re getting greedy again?” he laughs, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’re leaking my cum and still trying to start something?”

You whine. He grins and kisses you quiet again. Then he finally shifts—gently—lifting your legs, helping you unfold from the wrecked, folded position. You hiss when your body relaxes, muscles trembling. He hushes you instantly. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

He eases you onto your side, tugs the blankets up, and disappears for just a moment.

You hear the faucet. The soft clink of a glass.

He returns with a warm towel, cleans you carefully—between your thighs, over your stomach, around the curve of your ass where the sheets are soaked. You flinch at first, but his touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “My messy, fucked-out girl.”

He kisses your knee.

“My perfect pouty baby.”

Then he tosses the towel aside, climbs into bed, and pulls you into his chest like he’s never letting go. You curl up instantly—limp, warm, safe. His arms wrap around your back, one hand stroking your spine. His lips stay near your temple.

You nuzzle in deeper. “Gonna sleep for a week,” you mumble.

“Gonna feed you first,” he murmurs. “Then let you sleep. Then fuck you again.”

“Chan—”

“What?” he grins. “My baby was hungry. I provided.”

“Provided a near-death experience.”

“You’re welcome.”

You laugh—weakly. He presses a kiss right over your pulse. “You okay?” he asks, quiet now. Real. “Too much?”

You shake your head against his chest. “Perfect.”

“Good. ‘Cause next time, I’m making you cum around my tongue five times before I even think about fucking you.”

Your breath catches. He just smirks.

“Sleep now, sweetheart,” he whispers, grinning against your hair. “You’ve earned it.” And you do—out like a light, drooling on his chest while he smirks like the menace he is.

[heartwithoutaname]

250618 dominATE New York D1 

© chngbnluvbot

[heartwithoutaname]

250618 | dominATE NY D1

© spring's whisper

[heartwithoutaname]

༝ you’re safe. i’m here. and when i’m here, nothing can hurt you ༝