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#bang chan drabbles
milkteabinniechan · 2 days
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you're my baby, say it to me
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MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY | ☕
warnings: mentions of menstruation, panty grinding, aftercare <33
a/n: I just needed a soft chan for when I am going through it during that time of the month. This is purely self indulgent :((
Soft Channie who sings your favorite songs while you rest. The strumming of the guitar like soft kisses. Soft Channie who makes your favorite drink, perfect amount of cream and sugar, to ease your cramps.
Soft Channie who massages your feet while you talk about your latest TV show, all the drama happening between your favorite characters. Soft Channie who listens intently, pressing his palms into the palm of your feet, telling you how cute you look when you talk about your interests.
Soft Channie who cautiously grinds on top of your panties, knowing even the slightest stimulation will help your menstrual pain. Holding his shirt between his teeth, he slowly thrusts his hips into your soft, clothes cunt.
Soft Channie who lets small, pathetic whimpers leave his lips, careful not to push you too far or thrust too quickly. Soft Channie who is desperate to cum, his tip swollen and red against your fabric. Your clit poking through ever so slightly, to brush against it.
Soft Channie with impatient beads of cum forming at the tip. The shaft of his cock pulsating faster. You grab his face and force him to make eye contact, knowing it will be the end of him
Soft Channie who pours himself on top of you. Covering and coating you entirely. Soft Channie who apologizes again and again for making such a mess, kissing and cleaning you profusely.
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ft-3racha · 1 day
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Hiii!
Soft sex with Chan? 👀🩷
If not it’s ok!!
absolutely !!
i do think that chan is 100% the guy to be into rough stuff as much as he is into soft sex, as long as it‘s with you, the person he loves.
he would make sure to let you know how much he apprechiates your body and take his goddamn time, giving you slow and deep, sensual kisses, your tongues dancing around each other while breathy moans and whines escape your throat.
chan would slowly drag his lips down your neck, leaving kisses, bites and licks all over your soft skin, mumbling little praises more to himself than anything else. your body instantly responds to his actions as you grind yourself on him, your most sensitive parts rubbing against his.
„you are so beautiful.“
„keep on making those sounds for me, pretty. so good f‘me.“
„fuck, i love it when you grind on me. feels so good, baby.“
foreplay would be a necessity, since that man is a god with those pretty lips of his and absolutely knows how to make you fall apart on them, so he would do exactly that…at least once, maybe twice if you beg for it nicely, since that is his favorite thing to hear; your moans, especially when you cum and can‘t get enough of him, so you beg for him to do it again, lightly tugging on his soft curls while his hands stroke your thighs.
„please channie, make me cum again.“
„it feels so good chris, please don‘t stop.“
after all the prepping and taking his time, his patience will leave him eventually, because his cock is rock hard, pre-cum leaking in his briefs (which he looses as fast as he can at that point). even after cumming already, you‘re still so needy for him to take you. and he will. once he is positioned, in missionary, because he loves looking at your face as he enters you, you feel him do exactly that. he slowly pushes into you, and you involuntarily hold your breath at the stretch, because no matter how many times you guys fucked before, the feeling is always absolutely incredible. he‘d take a second or two before moving, every stroke of his slow and deep, precisely hitting that spot inside of you that makes you go absolutely feral. chan would kiss you, whisper sweet nothings into your ear as he fucks into you, the sounds of your bodys colliding filling the room.
„you take me so well, absolutely made for my cock.“
„so good, so fucking tight.“
„feels so good around me, angel. so damn good.“
you‘d see stars with the way his cock makes you feel. your legs would wrap around his hips, nails clawing in his back as your orgasm approaches. he‘d tell you to hold on just a moment longer, his strokes getting sloppier and sloppier, indicating that he, too, is close. and with a deep groan and your name rolling off of his plump lips he‘d cum, sending you over the edge right with him. the feeling of him spilling into you makes your orgasm ten times more intense, maybe even triggering a second one (if possible, that depends on you).
„gonna fill you up baby, mark you as mine.“
„you gonna cum? just a second longer, hold on for me. i‘m almost there, my love.“
„fuck, angel. i‘m so close, can feel you squeezing me so tight.“
and afterwards? we all know this man is an absolute angel. he‘d make sure you are okay, would clean you up and give you something to drink. chan would take his time to talk about what just happened and ask if everything was absolutely okay with you or if he did anything to make you uncomfortable. he‘d make sure to shower you with kisses before having an actual shower with you, your guys‘ favorite takeout already ordered and comfy clothes waiting to be put on your freshly washed bodies.
„are you okay, angel?“
„here, drink up. you did so well for me, baby.“
„i love you unconditionally.“
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yxngbxkkie · 4 months
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baby fever (b.c)
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this man needs to chill because i can only take so much 😭 ngl, this is probably the most i've written in a while, and i'm really glad to provide some cute fics for you guys 🩷 i hope you like it!
feedback is greatly appreciated 🥰
“Do you have everything?” Chan asks you while unloading the rental car.
You take a peek into the back seat of the car, making sure both of you had everything. “I don't see anything,” you reassure him.
Chan walks towards your mother's house, presents stacked in his hands. You gently rub his back as you walk up the steps. You knock a couple of times before opening the door, announcing your presence.
“My baby's home!” Your mother's voice reaches your ears, causing you to grin ear to ear.
You give her a quick hug before making sure Chan gets into the house okay. You shut the front door behind him and rest a hand on his forearm.
“Do you need help with anything?” You ask him, moving to grab a couple of the gifts.
“I got it, baby,” he reassures you with a head shake. He leans down to press a quick kiss on your lips before walking over towards the Christmas tree.
You giggle to yourself, gently biting your lip after he walks away. Your mother nudges your arm, snapping you from your thoughts. You lift your head to look at her, seeing a smirk on her lips.
“When's the wedding?” She jokes with you.
A groan leaves your lips as you start to feel embarrassed. “Not for a little while,” you tell her with a shy laugh. Your gaze finds Chan, silently watching him distribute the presents. “I don't even know if he wants to marry me.”
She lets out a scoff, crossing her arms over her chest. “Honey, that boy is infatuated with you. He'd be crazy not to marry you.”
“We'll see where life takes us,” you mention, the smile on your lips growing when you meet your boyfriend's eyes.
“I want to be the first one to know if he does propose,” your mother whispers into your ear as she walks by, joining everyone in the kitchen.
You playfully roll your eyes, keeping yourself from blushing. Chan gives the older woman a quick hug as she walks by before making his way back to you.
“What were you two chuckling about?” He asks, tapping his fingertip on the tip of your nose.
“Just girl stuff,” you vaguely lie, leaning on your toes to kiss his lips. Chan hums into the kiss, his hands grabbing a hold of yours.
He mumbles a quick, "I love you," against your lips, planting one more kiss before fully pulling away. “Why don't we go say hi to everyone,” Chan mentions, squeezing your hands in his.
You nod your head and lead him into your kitchen. You greet the rest of your family, giving them hugs and kisses. You make grabbing hands at the toddler in your big sister's arms.
“Hi, baby boy,” you squeal, holding the one and half year old baby. He smiles at you, bringing his tiny hand to your cheek. “You're getting so big!”
You rest the baby on your hip, lightly bouncing him in your arms. Ji-ho squeals and kicks his little legs into your side. You release a little cry and point at the little man.
“Watch your feet, mister! You're gonna hurt Auntie,” you chuckle, adjusting his legs so they're sitting comfortably.
“He loves to kick,” your sister mentions, walking over to her son. “I forgot to tell you.”
You playfully scoff as she pinches the boy's cheeks. “That would've been some crucial information, Joon,” you tell her with a smile.
Chan moves to stand behind you, and you can hear him coo at Ji-ho. You glance over your shoulder, watching him smile at your nephew. His dimples are present, and you can feel your heart fluttering in your chest.
“Do you want to hold him?” You ask him, turning to face him.
Your boyfriend's gaze moves from you to your older sister. “Would that be okay?” He asks her politely.
“Of course!”
Chan takes the baby from you, lifting him higher for a quick second before resting him on his hip. “Hi, buddy,” he whispers in his baby voice, tickling his stomach.
Ji-ho squeals again, more giggles coming from the baby's lips. He rests his head on Chan's shoulder, his tiny hands gripping his shirt. Your heart feels like it's swelling even larger as you witness your boyfriend interacting with him.
You pull your phone out and snap a couple of photos. He'd make such a great dad… You think to yourself as Chan starts walking around the kitchen with Ji-ho.
Your mother pats your back gently, snapping you from your thoughts. She gives you a knowing smile before nodding her head towards Chan.
“Baby,” you call out to him, capturing his attention. You motion your head towards the hallway. Your sister takes Ji-ho from him as you excuse the two of you.
Chan slips his arms around your waist as you walk down the hallway. You rest your hands on top of his, and you feel like your heart's going to fly out of your chest.
“Everything okay?” He whispers into your ear while stepping into your childhood bedroom.
You nod your head and gently shut the door. His eyes dance between you and the bedroom door. You take a couple of steps towards the taller man, resting your hands on his cheeks.
“Have I told you how much I love you?” You ask in a whisper, gently stroking his cheek.
“Of course,” he whispers back to you, placing his hands on your hips. “What's this ab-”
You cut him off by leaning on your toes, kissing his lips. A moan leaves his lips while his grip on you tightens. One of your arms wraps around his neck as you deepen the kiss.
Chan pulls away from you abruptly, and you attempt to chase his lips, not having enough. “Baby, baby,” he mumbles, moving his hands to your arms. “What's gotten into you?”
You feel embarrassed at how needy you are, but seeing him with a baby has made you a little feral. He gently rubs your arms as you find yourself looking at the carpet.
“I might have baby fever,” you whisper loud enough for him to hear.
He giggles and bends down a little to look in your eyes. “Oh yeah?” He smiles at you, bringing one of his hands to your cheek.
You can feel your cheeks begin to blush, and you push him playfully. “You know what? I hate you,” you laugh, moving past him to lay on your bed.
Chan laughs with you and lays down beside you. “I love you too, baby,” he grins ear to ear before kissing your forehead. He peppers more kisses all over your face. “So, you want a baby?”
A groan leaves your lips after hearing his question. “Not right now, obviously,” you tell him, finding his hand before lacing your fingers together. “But, in the future, I'd like to have a family with you.”
His lips find yours and he kisses you passionately. Your free hand grips the sweater he's wearing, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.
Chan pulls away and rests his forehead on yours. “I would love to have a family with you, baby.”
~
tagging: @strawboorybunny @reddesert-healourblues @spacegirlstuff @moon0fthenight @foxinnie8 @like-a-diamondinthesky @prettymiye0n
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thevampywolf · 4 months
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𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞, 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞
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☆ Genre: Idol!Chan, fluff
☆ Warnings: Lightly suggestive
☆ Request: No
☆ Characters: Chan, Y/N, Han, Changbin, Hyunjin
☆ Word Count: 2.5k
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“Just give us two hours,” Y/N pleaded with Jisung as she pulled the bags she had brought with her away from him. She batted away a sneaky Changbin who sniffed hard at the scent of food wafting from the bags. “Guys! Two. Hours. It's not that hard.”
“But you have food,” Jisung whined, trying to lunge for the bag.
“So do you!” Y/N pointed to the table in the middle of the main room. “Go eat yours.”
“But yours smells better,” Changbin sighed. “Why are we any different to Chan?”
Y/N's nostrils flared in mild exasperation. “Are we in a relationship, my dear, dear Changbin?”
“Yes,” Changbin, Jisung and Hyunjin chorused.
Y/N sighed. “I should have known that you guys automatically came along with Chan.”
“Get one, get seven free,” Jisung said helpfully.
At that, Y/N shook her head. She smiled as she opened up one of the bags; she was glad she bought an extra box of the large sushi platters Chan enjoyed, and as she pulled it out, she pointed at her wide eyed friends.
“If I give you this, will you leave us alone for at least two hours?” Y/N bargained with them. “Promise me.”
“Thanks Y/N, you're the best!” Changbin guffawed as he grabbed the sushi. He ran to their table in excitement and Y/N snorted with quiet laughter at his enthusiasm. “Oh - we promise!”
“If you're going to do anything gross, warn us first,” Hyunjin drawled. “I don't want to throw up.”
Y/N smacked him with the bag.
“Come out in three hours or we'll have a problem,” Jisung raised his fists in a comical manner, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply that they turned into one, thick line across his forehead. “We need to play Uno.”
Y/N groaned. “Fine. Deal. Any interruptions and I'll add on an extra fifteen minutes … got it?”
Jisung flashed her with a toothy grin. He then nudged her towards Chan's bedroom, his eyes crinkling. “Have fun.”
Smiling at him, Y/N nodded.
She pushed open the door and held the bags aloft in satisfaction as she stepped into the room. “I brought food!”
Chan's cheer was heavily muffled; looking around, Y/N found him half hidden by his wardrobe, his top half completely engulfed in swatches of fabric, their hangers tinkling as he moved his shoulders.
“Baby?” Y/N laughed. “Why can I only see your butt? I mean … not that that's a bad thing.”
She lightly tapped his behind, giggles erupting from her mouth.
Another muffled chuckle later, Chan emerged. His skin was red up to his hairline, and despite looking like a singed lobster, the man held out a neatly folded pile of clothes.
“Found it!” Chan exclaimed proudly. “Couldn't find my favourite hoodie. Stop slapping my butt.”
Y/N giggled. She placed the bags down on his bedside table before moving towards him; she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him sweetly on his smiling lips.
“You're already wearing a hoodie, Chantopher,” Y/N pointed out as she tugged at the tassels hanging from his hood.
Chan started to laugh. His nose was bright red and overly warm as his face bumped against hers, his lips kissing her cheek. “Not for me. For you!”
“For me?” Y/N cocked her head to the side.
“Date night attire,” Chan grinned. He peered down at her clothes. “You can't get into bed with jeans.”
Y/N giggled as she smoothed her hands over her clothes. “Okay, you have a point.”
Chan's face glowed with his dimpled smile as he tossed the hoodie to her. “Here. I have some bottoms around here somewhere … “
Once Y/N had discarded her day clothes and was snuggled up in Chan's soft ones, the couple dived onto Chan's small bed. Opening credits of their favourite movie flashed on the wide TV infront of them, the colourful lights on either side bouncing off of Y/N and Chan in waves of pink, blue and purple. The atmosphere was soft, warm, and utterly relaxing - the epitome of what being with Chan felt like.
Sat cross legged ontop of his duvet, Chan reached for the bags Y/N had brought. His face shone with joy as he pulled out the food, his fists waving happily in the air.
“There was another box of sushi,” Y/N said as she watched Chan pry the lid off of one of the trays. “But your children are a handful.”
“Our children,” Chan chuckled. He leaned over ever so slightly, his shoulder brushing Y/N's as he kissed her temple. “It's okay. We have plenty … ah, it all looks so good. I was so hungry.”
“I had a feeling you might be,” Y/N smiled as she hugged her knees to her chest. “You've been way too busy … probably haven't been eating much.”
It had been a heavily gruelling month for Chan; his schedule seemed to grow heavier and heavier with every second that he spent awake, and even though it pained him, the man hadn't been able to see Y/N as much as he would have liked. But Y/N was more understanding than he could have hoped for. She cheered him on as best as she could, sending him gentle reminders throughout the day: to eat well, to drink water, to take a break and massage his wrists, to stretch and to stare out of the window so his eyes wouldn't combust … she didn't always expect a reply, instead contenting herself on the notion that Chan would listen regardless of how busy he was.
Chan appreciated her way of looking out for him more than she could ever comprehend. She was always there for him, and even on the days where he couldn't see her, Chan knew she wasn't the type to get upset about it. She understood him and his job better than he understood himself, sometimes … and that was something Chan knew he would never take for granted.
Today was the first day in weeks where Chan didn't have priorities piling up on his broad shoulders like heavy boulders. He had the evening to himself, and even though he was exhausted beyond words, Chan knew exactly who he wanted to spend his time with.
Y/N had suggested spending their evening together in the comfort of his own home. He could relax while spending time with her; it was a win-win situation, and not for the first time did Chan have to surpress the urge to scream and yell out of his overflowing love for her.
After laying out the arrangement of food on his bedspread, Chan set the bags to the side before leaning over. He tugged at a bag of his own with a grunt, and Y/N watched in curiosity as he pulled it up beside him.
“I have snacks,” Chan laughed as he pulled out packets. “And I bought ice cream specifically for you. It's in the freezer.”
“Legend,” Y/N thumped him on his arm in a playful gesture; but Chan yelped in pain anyway, dramatics painted all over his face. “Wait … did that hurt?”
“Nah,” Chan rubbed his arm. “Yeah. Kinda. It's no biggie … I just pulled a muscle. Maybe several.”
Tutting at the man, Y/N leaned over and kissed his arm softly. “What did you do?”
“Take a guess?”
Y/N stuck her tongue out at him. “You have to stop being so careless in the gym.”
“I know, I know,” Chan pulled a gormless face as he pulled apart a pair of chopsticks. “I just can't help it sometimes.”
“Well, start helping it,” Y/N rolled her eyes. She took the chopsticks Chan was holding out to her with a smile, and after tapping them against his in their signature way, she immediately reached for a piece of sushi.
Chan watched Y/N chew her sushi; her cheeks were puffy and her eyes sparkled as she savoured the flavour. The man couldn't help but grin adoringly, his eyes turning into crescent moons as his smile grew wider and wider.
Y/N reached for a bottle of water, completely unaware. She swallowed a quarter of it before realising Chan was staring at her; almost choking at the realisation, Y/N placed a hand on her chest.
“ … What?” She asked slowly.
Chan started to laugh. He shook his head. “Nothing. Keep eating.”
Doing as she was told, Y/N reached for another piece. Chan continued to simper over her and he soon rested his chin upon the palm of his hand, completely forgetting about how hungry he was.
For some reason, watching the love of his life eat was filing in itself.
“Aren't you eating?” Y/N asked suddenly. The bridge of her nose was pink, Chan's gaze causing heat to rise up in her cheeks.
Chan sighed dreamily. “Just watching you eat makes me feel full.”
Coughing, Y/N pushed him lightly. “Stop it.”
“Stop what, hmm?” Chan teased her as he slid his arms around her waist. Heat radiated off of the both of them in scorching bursts, and Chan couldn't help himself when he rubbed his nose against Y/N's cheekbone. “Feeling shy?”
“Christopher,” Y/N wheezed as she dropped her chopsticks onto the platter. She covered her burning face with her fingers, Chan's flurry of giggles making her heart leap. “Let me eat.”
“Okay, okay,” Chan chuckled. He kissed her cheek, ruffling her hair up before reaching for his own chopsticks again. “Let's eat.”
Leaning back against Chan's pillows, Y/N stole glances of the man every so often. She hid the contagious smile that kept threatening to cross her face due to how adorable he looked; Chan's cheeks were purple under the lights, and his downturned eyes were wide and innocent as he focused on the film in front of him. Every now and then, his face would contort before smoothing out again; watching closely, Y/N noticed him pressing a hand to his left shoulder, and her face softened.
She made a mental note to massage the pain out of him as soon as they had finished eating.
Reaching for another piece of sushi, Y/N felt her chopsticks hit against something hard. She looked down to see her utensils around Chan's, their chopsticks forming a small pyramid over the last piece of sushi.
Laughing suddenly, Chan withdrew his chopsticks. “Take it.”
Y/N shook her head. “You have it.”
“I'm really full,” Chan patted his stomach. “Go on … have it.”
Y/N pouted. “But I've had loads.”
Smiling, Chan picked up the piece. Y/N watched as he lifted it to his mouth, his eyes on hers.
“Here comes the aeroplane … “ Chan suddenly sang in a childlike voice as he waved the sushi infront of Y/N's face. “Say ‘ah’.”
Despite the giggles that she let out, Y/N was adamant. She shook her head again. “Nope.”
Chan frowned. “Baby, I'm gonna get really upset if you don't eat this.”
Y/N was slightly convinced. She sighed. “Fifty fifty?”
Chan's lips twitched. “If I say yes, will it make you happy?”
“Very happy,” Y/N grinned.
“You take the first bite then,” Chan held the sushi out to her. “I'll eat the rest.”
Peering down at the salmon roll, Y/N mentally measured the distance her teeth could bite into. Knowing exactly what she was doing, Chan burst into a fit of laughter.
“Baby, just eat the fucking sushi,” Chan chuckled under his breath.
“Fine, fine,” Y/N grinned. She took a bite of it before pushing Chan's arm towards him. “Yours.”
Chan dropped the last half of the sushi into his mouth with a happy grin. He wiggled around the bed with contentment as he gathered up the empty packaging, and he stretched over to toss it into his rubbish bin.
“Do you wanna eat these now or later?” Chan asked, gesturing to the rest of the food.
“I'm fine. Unless you're still hungry?” Y/N replied.
Chan shook his head. He dumped the bags onto his table before holding his arms out in eagerness to Y/N.
Y/N smiled. But she shook her head.
Chan's face fell. “You don't wanna cuddle?”
“I wanna cuddle you,” Y/N grinned. She held her own arms out, patting the space between her legs. “Come here.”
“Really?” Chan asked. Surprised but pleased, the man shuffled into the space Y/N had made for him; she even pulled the duvet out from underneath them both, and soon they were both tucked up under the warmth of it.
Y/N kissed the back of Chan's neck as she slid her arms around his waist. “Lean back.”
Listening to her instruction, Chan let his body fall back into Y/N's; he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at the feeling of her wrapped around him, comfort already flooding through his body.
“You know … “ Chan murmured as Y/N started to run her hands up his arms with gentle pressure. “I love cuddling you. But this just … I needed this.”
Y/N giggled quietly against the man's curls. “I know.”
“I really missed you,” Chan continued, his eyes drooping as he gazed at the TV. “I'm sorry I've been so busy.”
“Don't apologise,” Y/N hummed as she pressed her fingers to the curve of his shoulders. His muscles were incredibly tense, and the man grunted as she used her thumbs to begin smoothing the rigid knots out of him. “I missed you too. But it can't be helped, you know?”
Chan hummed in agreement. He shifted a little in the woman's grip, pain throbbing under the surface of his skin.
“Can I take this off?” Y/N whispered. She brushed her fingers over his hoodie.
“Yeah,” Chan nodded. He sat up again, and Y/N slid the hoodie up and over his body in a cloud of cologne, leaving his top half bare. She set it to the side before pulling him back into her again, her head dipping as she kissed the lines of his shoulders.
As Chan melted into the curve of her body again, he rested his hands on Y/N's thighs that stretched out on either side of him. Her fingers were careful yet firm as she began massaging his body again; she took her time, each one of her strokes against his tender muscles full of love and care, and she smiled when she felt the man slowly relax over time. It was like she could feel the stress and tension melting off of him, just as she could feel his shoulders and upper back become softer, more supple, the tautness considerably lessened.
“I love you so much … “
Y/N wasn't sure if Chan had intended on saying the words out loud. They were almost slurred, soft, and incredibly quiet; peering down at him, Y/N saw that Chan's eyes were completely shut, and she wondered if perhaps he was talking in his sleep.
“I'm awake,” Chan breathed a moment later, reading her mind. “I just … wanted to tell you.”
Grinning to herself at how adorable the man in her arms looked, Y/N pressed a long kiss to the top of his head. Pulling the duvet up and around his shoulders, Y/N let her fingers trail down his torso before she securely hugged him around his waist, her cheek pressed to the nape of his neck.
“I love you too.”
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jl-micasea-fics · 10 months
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I Really F**king Like You | bc
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↳ Tinder matched and subsequently ghosted by the hot guy that lives across from you, you’re mostly resigned to singleton life, dejected and somewhat fed up. That is, until a screwed up delivery turns things around, in the most unexpected of ways.
↳ Bang Chan x female reader
↳ 10.7k
↳ Strangers to lovers, DILF/single dad Chan, neighbours au, online dating au, romance, angst with a happy ending, eventual smut
! Explicit content, adult themes, suitable for 18+ readers only !
「© August 2022, reposted May 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」
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Flat 2.
As in, the accommodation between flats one and three.
As in, the residence opposite yours.
As in, the living space occupied by him.
You’d had a good day, up until this point. Work had been relatively peaceful, save for that one particularly stubborn customer that simply couldn’t grasp the concept of needing proof of purchase for a refund.
You suppose that in this moment, you know how that customer had felt. Looking down at the neatly strung brown paper parcel in your hands, you’re confused, concerned, and more than a little annoyed.
The label on the box reads, stark and clear, ‘Copper Court, Flat 2’. Yet here you are, having retrieved it from your pigeon hole; and your pigeon hole most certainly isn’t labelled ‘Flat 2’.
Your first thought is to shove the parcel in his pigeon hole, and you would, were it not already stuffed full to the brim with letters and magazines, spam leaflets from the local takeaway offering twenty percent off pizzas on a Tuesday.
A good neighbour would just take it up to Flat 2. A good neighbour would empty the pigeon hole of its current postal nightmare and take that up too, hand delivering it with a smile.
But here’s the thing.
You’ve been making an active point of avoiding the guy from Flat 2. Whether it’s leaving ten minutes earlier for work or opting to take the stairs to the third floor rather than risking inescapable metal confinement via the elevator, the sudden decline in your once frequent run-ins is no accident.
And really, you don’t think you can be blamed for that. If someone had told you three weeks ago that you’d be inexplicably Tinder matched with the guy living opposite you, only to be stood up on the night of your first date and subsequently ghosted, you’d be loath to believe them.
But that’s exactly what happened.
You hadn’t known of his closeness, at first. Indeed, at first, it was as ordinary a back and forth as with any other guy you’d matched with; the routine flirt and tentative banter, testing and exploring one another to see if you did indeed match as the software so claimed. The realisation was a gradual process. You’d catch sight of him in the hall, around the building, when taking the bins out and so on, and his face began to inspire a desperate familiarity in you, until the penny eventually dropped.
Still, ever aware of coming on too keenly, you kept the revelation to yourself, wondering if he too might smile at you long enough one day in passing to put two and two together, to realise you were the girl he’d just texted ‘good morning, sweetheart’.
Bang Christopher Chan grew on you too quickly, if you’re to be truthful about it.
It was easy to talk with him, and you spent many a consecutive hour doing just that, hooked to your phone awaiting the next message. You immediately liked the fact that the conversations could be nothing deeper than pizza topping preferences or most favoured emojis, yet could just as readily divert to politics, issues dear to your heart or his. Indeed, it was a bonus that you never once felt as though your values might be compromised, if you were to pursue something more. His gentle nature was apparent in most everything he said, in the way he put things. The kind of guy to text in full sentences and use proper punctuation, he never chose too harsh a word or made too strong a point, and while normally such a thing would frustrate, Chris’s ability to empathise and adapt quickly became a thing you admired; a sign of maturity often lost on guys his age.
All of this goes without even mentioning the physical aspect of things. You’re fairly dubious when it comes to the physicality of Tinder matches; as is anyone, you suppose. It’s a near unspoken norm that full-body shots are at least a few years old and have been touched by a form of editing software; some more obvious than others. Chris’s profile picture was a candid shot of his dimpled smile, curls of chestnut coloured hair peeking out from under a Supreme snapback. He had a guitar draped across his lap, balanced by lean arms that were conveniently exposed thanks to the loose black tank. He looked relaxed, content, like wherever he was and whoever he was with in that moment were all he could wish for. And it’s real. You know it’s real; you’ve seen it in person, by the passing encounters and silent elevator rides during which you surreptitiously admired the stature of his physique, well-proportioned and temptingly strong.
A self-confessed feminist, pro-choice advocate and generally well-rounded good guy, Chris seemed almost too good to be true.
And if something appears that way, it almost always is.
A table for two at Frankie’s, Saturday, eight pm. An arrangement you’d been looking forward to since his invitation four days prior, even going out of your way to pick up a new outfit and indulge in an extra blown out blow-dry.
It took you until precisely nine-thirty to realise he wasn’t going to show.
There’s a unique sense of embarrassment that comes from being stood up; paying the bill for your three glasses of red under the sympathetic eyes of the waiter who assured you that you looked lovely, leaving alone with a weight of inadequacy in your chest. You’d called—of course you had—to no response. You’d messaged, two or three variations of ‘is everything okay?’, again, to no response. You even debated knocking on his door to seek explanation, but promptly chickened out when faced with the reality that doing so would reveal you knew exactly who he was for the majority of your time talking.
Naturally, the spiral that followed was inevitable. You still wonder if opting not to approach him before the date was a mistake or not; perhaps he would have felt more obliged to attend if you had, if only for fear of the awkward living circumstances it’d create if he didn’t. Indeed, nobody wants to live in any kind of close proximity to a date they’ve ghosted.
After that, the texts stopped. Your life went back to how it was before Chris became a small—but consistently wanted—part of it, and while you have no solid reason to feel so glum about it, it’s no mistake that you do.
Either way, this is where you find yourself.
Miserably close to a guy you had relatively high hopes for, fondling his parcel in the foyer of your shared apartment block.
A good neighbour would just take it up to Flat 2.
You’re not a good neighbour.
Balancing the parcel atop the rack of pigeon holes, shucking your bag to your shoulder and making a beeline for the elevator, you internalise the nagging at the back of your mind that condemns you for being so spineless, so unneighbourly. Fuck that voice.
As the elevator drags up to the third floor, the metal doors creak open painfully, and you step out to your corridor. Passing flats one and six on your left and right respectively rewards the usual chatter from behind their doors, the steady thump of a stereo. The walls are explicitly thin in this building; it’s one of the more run-down you’ve lived in, you’ll confess, but the rent is the key sticking point. It’s suspiciously cheap for being so close to the city centre, but you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
It's as you approach your own solitary door, fishing your keys from the side pocket of your bag, that the elevator pings abruptly.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m telling you it never arrived.”
A voice you’ve only ever heard through said thin walls bleeds down the corridor. A quick side glance confirms that it is indeed Christopher that’s just disembarked, that’s currently striding down the hall towards you, phone held to his ear.
“I literally just checked, it’s not here. When are they saying it was delivered?”
Something cold and heavy whirls in your gut, the earlier nagging voice returns amongst droves of obnoxious off-key fanfares.
“Well they didn’t. Are you sure they got the right place?” he huffs.
The keys in your hand seem heavier than they ever have; was it always so difficult to unlock a damn door?
“Okay, well, if you could get them to call me I’ll sort it out directly with them,” he rakes a hand through his curls, brows pulled together. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Sliding the key into your lock, it’s as he approaches his own door that he finally seems to notice you, a faint smile crossing his face.
“Hi,” he offers, as is customary for your interactions. He looks tired; the dark circles under his eyes attest to it, as does the tension rolling off him in waves. He’s sporting his usual loose gym shorts and black tank; despite it being early onset winter. You wonder if he even feels the cold at all.
“Hi.”
Your chest tightens with your feeble greeting, the bitter possibilities of what you could be saying to him right now, had he turned up that night, sitting sadly at the back of your mind. He’s about to unlock his door, a lanyard of keys wound around his hand, when he stops.
“Actually,” he scratches the back of his neck, hops a step towards you, “are you, uh, just coming in?”
You blink at him, confused, peering around the door partway closed.
“I mean, back into the building?”
“Y— Yeah.”
He nods, takes his shot, “You didn’t happen to see a brown parcel in my pigeon hole, did you? Or anywhere in the foyer?”
You’re not a good neighbour.
“It’s just that I was waiting for this package and the couriers are saying they’ve delivered it, but I can’t find it,” he explains hurriedly. “I thought maybe you might have seen something?”
Your words clog up your throat, render you mute. You’re sure you probably look the picture of guilt, but if you do, Chris doesn’t register it.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter,” he waves it off with a sheepish smile, backs away. “It’s not your problem. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“I— It’s fine,” is all you manage to stammer as he affords you a stunted bow of unnecessary apology, disappears into his apartment.
Closing your own door, you suppose you probably didn’t picture you first proper conversation with Chris that way. In truth you didn’t envisage a first conversation with him at all, given the way he so readily ghosted you. Granted, he doesn’t know you’re the same person, but that hardly serves to make you feel better.
Snubbed feelings aside, your immediate course of action is remedial. Shrugging off your bag and coat, you count to a beat of ten before slipping back out of your apartment and legging it down the corridor, opting for the stairs in the name of swiftness. In the bleak entrance foyer, home only to an empty wire magazine rack wobbling in the corner, courtesy of the early winter breeze that floods in through the wide-open double doors, you rush to the pigeon holes.
There’s nothing there, just as Chris reported, but to be extra safe you check each and every compartment, on top of the rack where you initially left it, below, beside. Even the street trashcan gets a once over; people are notorious for throwing their unwanted mail in there.
Deflated, feeling guiltier than ever, you’re certain there’s no sign of it, which points to only one obvious thing.
Making your way sullenly back up to your apartment, the justifications begin: someone could have taken his parcel anyway, whether you left it out or not. The main entrance to Copper Court is accessible by any random person; it’s been a source of constant complaint for the residents. The courier company will just send him a new package, they’ll take responsibility. These things happen all the time. It’s not your fault. It’s not your problem. Indeed, Chris said so himself.
So, why then, do you find yourself standing outside his apartment, hand poised to knock?
By the time Chris answers, it’s too late to turn tail and run.
“Hi,” he blinks. Customary.
“I took your parcel out of my pigeon hole and left it in the open. I think someone took it.”
The confession tumbles from your mouth in a horrendous spew of word vomit, relieving the gut-wrenching guilt that inspired it to replace with tepid mortification.
Chris’s brows pull together, lips drawn in a thin line.
“What?”
“Someone—your couriers, I guess—put your parcel in my pigeon hole. I took it out,” you elaborate, prickly heat crawling up the nape of your neck.
“And you couldn’t have, like, put it in mine?” he asks, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s unimpressed. (Arguably, you can’t; the grim hallway carpet is just too interesting).
“I… No. Yours was crammed too full. That’s probably why they put it in mine.”
There’s a beat of silence, Chris hums under his breath, sighs, “You didn’t think to just bring it up to me?”
You’re not sure why you feel like a child in the midst of a telling off, but there’s no mistaking that you definitely do. His tone of condescension, whether deliberate or not, is doing something inexplicably coarse to your mood.
“You could try keeping your pigeon hole tidy in the first place?” you glare up at him, finally finding the will to meet his gaze head on. “Just an idea.”
“Really?” he scoffs. “You’re getting hostile with me?”
“I’m not getting hostile. I’m just saying, if you ever picked up your mail, the couriers wouldn’t have to deliver your shit to the wrong place.”
“It was hardly the wrong place; we live next door to each other.”
“I’m not your delivery girl.”
“Oh, so you have to be a delivery girl to act like a decent human being?”
Thoroughly riled up, you snap, “Right, because you would know all about being a decent human being.”
Chris’s jaw locks, his eyes narrowing, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
And in your state of adolescent tantrum, in full recognition that what you’re doing is akin to throwing your toys—and everything else—out of the pram, you dive straight off the proverbial cliff edge to say what this is really all about for you, welcoming the rocks below.
“You ghosted me, Chris.”
The moments that follow are suspended in tension; Chris’s mouth hangs a little slack as the realisation sinks in, you hope he doesn’t hear the way your heart hammers against your ribcage. Lean fingers rake brown curls off his forehead, his shoulders sag as he mumbles, “I knew I recognised you from somewhere. Shit.”
That’s a surprise, in itself. He’s never shown any sign that he knows you at all, not in your passing greetings or any other of your frankly lacklustre encounters. You suppose you could stand firm and demand an explanation, answers, any reason that might make you feel better about the whole thing, but really, you don’t know if it would make any difference.
What you had with Chris was too early to be labelled anything—a relationship in the very infancy of its development—and while it hurts to be discarded the way you were, you’ve no right to hold him to any guilt.
You just wanted him to know, is all.
That you were the one that waited for him for hours. That you were the face to the name he so readily abandoned. That you could have been more to him, if only he’d taken the chance.
You shrug, forcing a smile that doesn’t really come.
“Call it karma. You stood me up, your parcel goes missing. Now we’re even.”
Chris grimaces, but doesn’t argue.
Neither does he try to stop you as you shove back into your apartment, slamming the door with a finality that, you think, puts an end to that short chapter—footnote—of your romantic life.
That night, you sleep better than you have in a while.
In the morning, you open Tinder for the first time since your failed date, swiping right and left like nothing’s changed at all.
In the afternoon, you start chatting with two new guys you’ve matched with; one is a personal trainer, intimidatingly handsome, built like a softly swelling plushie. The other is a dancer, keen cat lover, with a penchant for overusing emojis.
In the evening, you’re alone again, a microwave dinner for one and glass of cheap Rioja in accompaniment. You almost don’t hear the shallow knock on the door over the sound of your own pity party, muting your tenth comfort screening of The Social Network and craning like a meerkat to be sure it isn’t just your loneliness manifesting as auditory fuckery.
There’s another knock.
No fuckery here.
Untangling yourself from the fleece blanket you’re wrapped in, you shove yourself up and pad the short distance to your front door, remote in hand. Common sense dictates you should probably peep through the peep hole, (arguably its sole purpose), to assess who’s calling on you at this hour. Rioja dictates you enjoy the surprise.
Sliding the latch down and unhooking it, you pull the door open a measure, enough so that your glare can be adequately conveyed.
Or, at least, you’d meant to glare. But when the caller presents themselves as an (almost) six-foot hunk of damn such as is stood in front of you, it’s difficult to glare. Extremely difficult.
“C— Chris?”
“Hi…”
Customary.
He looks like he’s stepped straight from the pages of a Vogue rag; minus the pretentious. Dark slacks tighten across his thighs and crotch in a way far too becoming, a loose black button-up shirt hangs open at the chest line; hang being the key word. There are more buttons left undone then there are closed, the chasm of his broad, pale chest shown off. Finished with a snug leather jacket that adds an air of casual to the smart, his chestnut hair left to its usual tempting curls, he’s a sight for sore, sore eyes.
“What are you…?” you clutch at the remote, gesturing vaguely.
He brings his hands around from behind his back, producing a bottle of white wine.
“I thought maybe we could share this.”
“We?”
“Right. We. You and I. Us.”
The smile he’s offering you is temptingly boyish, the white of his teeth sharp behind plush lips. He lifts his brows expectantly, presenting the bottle enticingly.
“Please?” he pleads.
Bewildered, you don’t know how you’re supposed to deny him when he shows up at your door looking like that. You shuffle aside, swing the door open properly, “Come in.”
Visibly relieved, Chris enters on your invitation, wine nestled in the crook of his left arm. The glances he casts around your place make you immediately nervous, his trying and failing to conceal the nosy urge that admittedly overcomes everyone when invited into someone’s personal space.
He follows you over to the living space, seeming at relative ease with it all. You suppose the flats themselves don’t radically differ in size or layout from one to the other, when it comes down to it.
“Ah,” he exclaims, pointing to the red-stained empty wine glass on your coffee table, “you beat me to it, huh?”
You shrug, tapping the remote incessantly against your thigh, “I’ll get some clean ones.”
“Let me,” he bounds forward, free hand raised to stop you enroute to the kitchenette.
You acquiesce, watching as he roams your kitchen space, opening cupboards and peering into each one in turn until he happens upon the only two clean wine glasses you have left.
Settling against the arm of the chair, you wonder when he’ll address the elephant in the room. Several days ago, he couldn’t be bothered to show up for a date you’d planned. Now, he’s invading your space after an argument, with no rhyme or reason to support it. You were entirely prepared for the cold war to settle over the tatters of your relationship, ready to live in stoic civility until one of you inevitably moved on to other things.
This, you weren’t quite expecting.
When Chris returns with two glasses of white wine, hands you one and keeps the other for himself, he lifts it in quiet cheers of your drinking together, pursing his lips to take a sip.
And the word vomit makes a second debut.
“What are you doing?”
Your question comes out like an accusation, though you don’t mean it to. Chris blinks, stops mid-sip, sighs heavily.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t really know?” he scratches the nape of his neck, wildly endearing.
“No. You stood me up. We fell out yesterday. Now we’re having casual drinks?” you state.
He grimaces, almond eyes narrowing, “I know. I know it’s weird.”
“A little.”
“I think I just…” he hesitates, searches for the words. “I wanted to apologise.”
The trepidation on his face is clear, inspiring warmth in your chest that you will away immediately.
“I don’t really do this kind of thing.”
“Apologise?” you quip, perhaps overcompensating with the blasé.
“No,” he heaves a gentle laugh. “Date.”
Oh.
“It’s not an excuse, I know. There’s no accounting for being an asshole.”
Something heavy shifts in your gut, the gentle sincerity in his eyes seems to belittle your irritation without even meaning to.
“Something came up that night,” he continues, swallows, “I won’t bore you with details but it was… yeah. Difficult.”
“You could have just texted me,” you offer gently. “I’d have understood.”
“I should have. I’m sorry I didn’t. To be totally honest, my feet kind of didn’t touch the ground until a few days later, and by then, I was too embarrassed to reach out to you.”
His honesty is abundantly clear, sets you to unease. You’d almost prefer he straight up tell you didn’t want to meet with you, in the end. At least that would make this less bittersweet.
He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, “I’m sorry. Really. I’d like us to at least get along, if we can. Living so close and all, it only seems right that we try.”
A lump of insidious sadness hardens in your throat, even in the face of his soft smile, the dimples in his cheeks that melt your frosty exterior. Whatever his reasons, the apology is so clearly genuine you suppose you’d have to be a special kind of bull-headed fool to maintain anger with him now.
Clearing your throat, you lift your glass to his, poised to clink.
“To getting along?” you pose.
The dimples deepen as he nods in agreement, gently tips the lip of his glass to yours.
“To getting along.”
 ***
Three weeks since the establishment of friendship with your inexplicably attractive neighbour, and indeed, the attraction has only grown.
It’s a hilariously ironic thing, to covet that which you’d given up on only a short while prior, suffering in silent yearning while your ‘new friend’ indulges you in the latest jingle he’s written for the detergent commercial he’s been contracted for.
“It’s good,” you nod along to the upbeat ditty, perched cross legged on your sofa as he occupies the floor, laptop on coffee table.
It’s become something of a minor routine, the late-night weekday camping at your place. Chris shows up with dinner and snacks, a new movie to watch or new track to show you. The company is nice, as is the time that flies by when you’re together. Indeed, you lament the weekends, when he seems to disappear off the face of the earth until Monday comes back around again. Your working days are spent mostly looking forward to these darkened hours, which you recognise is a wholly unhealthy vice to cling to when your hopes of something more are barely extinguished.
But a vice is a vice, and you’re far from prepared to let go just yet.
“Really?” he grimaces.
“Sure. As far as jingles go, it’s top notch.”
Chris groans, throws his head back, exposes the thick column of his throat. Adam’s apple stark and veins prominent, the low, rumbling pitch of his voice plants nasty little thoughts in the very pit of your subconscious, ones that you can’t bear to entertain if you hope to remain coherent. His trademark black tank gapes appallingly at the extra-wide sleeves as he drags his hands through his freshly washed curls, lean muscle flexing in the motion.
You tear your eyes away before the usual arousal can settle in too heavily. Even so, it’s always there. Quietly humming under the surface of your platonic interactions, chronically unrequited.
No more has been said of the prior Tinder match. No more has been said of his reasons for standing you up. No more has been said of anything, really, that holds any weight past the carefully friendly rapport you’ve constructed.
And that’s fine, you suppose. Rather a friend to occupy your time than another lonely night spent swiping left and right.
Although, speaking of…
Stretching out on your sofa, craning back to the arm where your phone rests, you grab it and start scrolling, pulling up Tinder while Chris busies himself on the laptop. You’ve a few messages to respond to. One from the personal trainer that reads:
>> cool. we should kick it sum time
And one from the dancing cat lover:
>> i’d love to meet up if you’re down
Side eyeing an oblivious Chris from around your phone, you neglect the messages, just as you’ve done every day since you got them. For right under their chat threads, sits your and Chris’s. It’s ancient history now, and by rights you probably should have deleted it, just as you’re sure he has.
If only self-destruction didn’t feel so good.
Tapping the thread, you read over the past messages, scrolling slowly over them:
>> Good morning, sweetheart.
>> I hope you have a good day today.
>> Make sure you eat!
Chris is still working on his laptop, headphones drawn up.
>> So, The Social Network was a hit. Loved it. Thanks for the recommendation.
>> Sweet dreams.
The same heavy sadness that reminds you of wasted potential curls around your body, pulling you into its icy embrace. It’s a profoundly bitter sensation, to be so close to someone yet feel so far from them. At least, in the ways you wish to be close.
“Tinder?”
Chris’s sudden question—as if even a question at all—pulls you from your lonely reverie with enough aplomb for you to drop your phone, sending it tumbling to the carpet face-up.
Chris sees the screen; you know he does. The sudden stiffness to his frame, the immediate aversion of your gaze simply screams awkward. You scramble for the device, shoving it into your jeans pocket and—for his sake and yours—depart to the kitchenette for something.
Amidst the silence that follows, Chris eventually asks, “You’re still on Tinder?”
“Yeah,” you admit, because why wouldn’t you, now that you’ve been caught?
“Are you, uh, talking to anyone?”
You shrug, erring once more on the side of honesty, “A few people.”
“A few, huh?” he scratches the nape of his neck, as is habit, you’ve learned. “That’s cool.”
“What about you?” you grasp the opportunity with both hands, throttling it for all its worth. “Do you still use it?”
“Me? Nah.”
You flash a glance back at him, surprised.
“Really?”
He shakes his head, meets your gaze across the space. You’ve no reason not to believe him, of course, but he certainly has no reason not to be using it as far as you’re aware.
“Why not?” you do your best to sound conversational, rummaging around in the fridge for... fuck it, a bottle of water.
“Don’t know. Just don’t feel the need,” he answers.
You hum in realisation, recalling his statement from so long ago.
“Right. You don’t do the dating thing.”
“What?”
“You said you don’t date,” you repeat, swinging the fridge closed, clutching the cool plastic. “Remember?”
Chris furrows his brow, “Yeah. I guess I did say that.”
You’re not sure what to make of that, whatever meaning the weight behind his words conveys is lost on you.
“You didn’t delete our chat.”
Shit.
“What?”
“Our chat,” Chris repeats, “you didn’t delete it.”
“Oh, that?” you laugh, unscrewing the water bottle cap, as though you don’t know exactly what he’s talking about. “I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
Chris observes you stoically, silently, a flush of heat creeps up your neck.
“I mean, does it even matter?” you’re rambling. “Not everyone deletes their chats consistently, you know? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
His question lights a fire under the quietly simmering embers of your hope, your sensibility rushes all at once to stamp it out. He’s playing devil’s advocate.
“Of course not. Honestly, it’s kind of weird to think about now. We were matched on Tinder. Us.”
You laugh a streak of desperation veiled as hilarity at the unthinkable idea of your matching; like it’s not something you think about every day. You’re trying too hard to play it off, and you know it. You just hope he doesn’t.
“I don’t think it’s weird.”
You almost drop the water bottle.
“Y— You don’t?”
Chris shakes his head, settles back on his hands.
“No. We get along, don’t we?”
You swallow, nod mechanically.
“We have similar tastes and interests. There’s nothing weird about that.”
“Yeah, but, Tinder matched us romantically, Chris. We’re just friends,” you reel off.
The way Chris drops his gaze and hums makes your gut churn inexplicably. He lets his head fall to the side; the sharp profile of his jawline captured by the glow of his laptop.
“I really wish I could have come that night. I wish things had been different.”
This time, you do drop the bottle.
Through clammy palm and trembling hand it slips, meeting the floor with a dense thud that spurts icy liquid across the laminate, over your bare feet. You gasp and hop backwards, knocking against the fridge in the process, and by the time you register that Chris is standing in front of you, you’re more than mortified.
“Shit, are you alright?” he laughs, grabbing the roll of paper towels from atop the nearby counter. Immediately, he draws off a few pieces, draping them on the puddles haphazardly. As the towels darken and swell with liquid, you snatch the roll from his hand, wielding it not unlike a sword as you point it at him.
“What the hell does that mean?” you croak.
Chris holds his hands up in defence, draws his bottom lip between his teeth, “What do you think it means?”
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t make me guess and feel even more insane than I already do.”
“I drive you insane?” he cocks his head.
Tension tight in your shoulders, you clutch the paper towels like your life might depend on it, exacting the frustration you only wish you could take out on him in ways entirely unbecoming of a friendship.
“I— That’s not what I said—”
Chris says nothing; simply drops his arms to his sides, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. It only serves to wind you up further.
“You’re fucking infuriating,” you hiss, about fit to pop.
Rounding the mess on the floor—paper towel sword shoved into his arms—you march back to the sofa, about to fling yourself on it in despair when a hand around your wrist stops you dead.
The motion is cool, controlled as Chris drags you back to him, maintaining just enough distance to brush it off, should the need arise. Held still, suspended in the gaze he pins you with, your skin prickles with his touch.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
His instruction is stern, serious. Like nothing you’ve ever heard from him. You wonder what it says about you that your insides positively melt with the authoritative tone.
“You didn’t delete our chat,” he repeats, quiet, “tell me why.”
You swallow hard, doing your best to sound chill amidst the misplaced excitement vibrating through your bones, “I’m lazy.”
“Right,” he huffs gently, “and you keep reading it, because…?”
You’ve no answer for that. None that would be appropriate, anyway.
“You know what I want to know?” you throw back at him, spinning your own web to tangle him in. “Why does a guy who famously doesn’t date even have Tinder in the first place?”
Chris blinks, his jaw ticks subtly.
“Was it fun for you? To lead me on like that? To get my hopes up and leave me hanging at Frankie’s by myself?”
Something in Chris’s eyes darkens; you’re too deep in it to care.
“How many others did you fuck about like that, hm?”
“Stop it—”
“You wish things had been different that night, do you? Why? So you wouldn’t have to feel so guilty about standing me up every time you look at me? I mean, let’s not kid ourselves; the only reason we’re even playing friends now is because you can’t get away from me, because you feel obligated, because you’re such an incredibly nice guy. Am I wrong?”
“Seriously—”
“Something came up?” you snap, bitter. “Something you couldn’t ignore? Something difficult? Please, if that’s not the biggest damn excuse I’ve ever heard—”
“It was my daughter.”
Your chest caves like a deflated balloon, the proverbial wind in your sails ceases to a screeching, startling halt. Chris lets go of your wrist, steps back, shoulders heavy.
“The reason I couldn’t come was because my little girl got sick. Pneumonia. I was at the hospital all night, and for a few days after,” he mumbles.
Your head spins, the prickle of panic curls around your skin like an itchy blanket.
“You… have a child?”
Chris nods.
Rife with disbelief, you’re not even sure where to start.
“B— But, I didn’t know. You didn’t say anything—”
“How was I supposed to tell you?” he near laughs, exasperated. “We’d barely started talking, and I liked you. Dropping the potential stepmother bomb on people doesn’t strike me as a good way to start up a relationship. I didn’t know you well enough, I thought you’d… I don’t know. Get scared off.”
“Scared off?” you repeat incredulously. “By you being a dad?”
In truth, it only makes him all the more attractive, though you’re committed to keeping that thought under wraps. For now.
“I understand not wanting to tell me back then, but what about now? We’re supposed to be friends, you hid this from me.”
“I didn’t hide it. I just… I meant to tell you, I wanted to so many times, but the moment never came, and then it felt like I’d left it too long, like it was some kind of dirty secret…”
He trails to silence, and you suppose you can understand how the prospect of revealing an unknown side of yourself to someone you’ve not known all too long might be daunting.
Perhaps if you show more interest, he’ll come around. Indeed, it wouldn’t be a forced task. You are interested, if a little bewildered. But it does explain so much about him.
“She… Your daughter—”
“Gracie,” Chris sighs.
“R— Right. Gracie,” you say her name cautiously, “she doesn’t live here? With you, I mean? I’ve just never seen—”
“I take her on weekends. She lives with her mother. Honestly, I try to keep her out of this building as much as I can. We take trips, go places. She loves the outdoors, so…”
And just like that, it all makes sense. His weekend disappearances, his maturity, his ability to adapt. His gentle nature, his chosen neglect of romantic pursuits, the camping at your place as opposed to his, assuredly crammed full of toys and the like. Most everything about him is reflective of someone with responsibilities weightier than you could ever know. Responsibilities like this.
As the sentiment of the conversation settles in, the reality of his circumstances seems to pale your upset and petty countenance to an opaque insignificance.
He has a daughter. He’s a father.
“Do you remember that parcel that went missing?” he asks.
You do.
“It was for Gracie. She collects old CD’s, makes collages out of the album artwork. I’d found a bunch online that she didn’t have. Wanted to surprise her with it.”
Nausea rolls over you in a warm wave, sets your stomach to a gentle churn of regret.
“I’m so sorry,” you pinch the bridge of your temples. “I’m such an idiot. I thought…”
“That I lead you on for fun? That I stood you up deliberately? That leaving my parcel out to get stolen was karma?”
You cringe in place, feeling worse than you ever have. Yet even throughout all this, his fleeting, minuscule admittance isn’t lost on you:
I liked you.
You’re suddenly very, very tired.
“I, uh… I’m going to go.”
You don’t want him to. You want him to stay, to apologise some more, to pick up where your heated exchange left off before you ruined things with your petty grudge.
You’re reaching out for his hand before you can even register it.
“Stay.”
Chris freezes, hangs his head low.
“Please,” you mutter.
As he turns back to you, sweeps the chestnut curls from his heavy eyes, you’re faced with the reality that you might not be able to salvage things with him.
“Why?” he croaks.
Why?
“I read our old chat because I miss you.”
Chris tenses, his lips drawing to a thin line.
“I know you’re right here,” you continue quietly, “and I know I should be grateful for that, but I…”
Anxious, fearful, you’re poised once more at the cliff edge you’ll never return from if you dive off it.
“I want more. I wanted more then; I want more now.”
Chris’s silence is intimidating, the vacant expression on his face unreadable. If he understands what you’re getting at, he shows no signs of it.
“I know it’s selfish of me, but every day, I think about what we could have been to each other. What we… could still be,” you whisper, too deep in to back off. “My feelings haven’t changed, and I can’t keep pretending I don’t care about you, because I do.”
 You search his face, stalwartly unmoving.
“I care more than I’ve ever cared, still, right now. And knowing you’re not where I am, that you don’t date, that you’re not interested, that you just want to be friends and get along… it hurts.”
Chris draws in a slow breath, shifts his weight towards you.
His wrist still in your grip, he twists his hand to hold your own, locking your fingers together. The electricity of his touch flits up your arm, across your shoulder, the slinking intertwine of your fingers feels so right.
You’re gathered in close, a strong arm around your waist, the linked hand held tightly. Chest to firm chest, you’re dizzy with his warmth, his closeness, coherence slipping from you. The space of the apartment shrinks down to only your immediate breathing vicinity, and when the curve of Chris’s parted lips moulds tentatively to your own, the room capsizes.
His kiss is explorative; nudging lips brush gently to part yours, the warm slick of a tongue dips briefly into your mouth, returning when you meet it halfway, call it back. Held close by the small of your spine, linked hand released so that he might seek more purchase on your body, your groan of explicit want is a weight of relief bleeding from your very centre.
Trail your fingers over the swell of his right bicep, the other clutched to his black tank, the source of so much teasing infuriation. You’re inclined to rip it right off him, would if you had the freedom of movement, restricted by Chris’s eager hold when he deepens the kiss. He groans a muted sigh into your mouth, a flush blooming high on his cheekbones, noticeable only when the kiss breaks and your foreheads meet amongst each other’s drags for breath.
Then, the moment is pierced.
A shrill ring from the pocket of Chris’s—suddenly far tighter—gym shorts shocks the room back to colour, reality invading the space. You’re released with a huff of apology, but you know the moment Chris checks the caller ID, this is where things end.
“Shit,” he grimaces, “I have to take this.”
“Gracie?”
Chris startles, then nods, as if he’d forgotten apprising you of his situation, “Y— Yeah. Sorry.”
You shake your head, finding an apology unnecessarily weird.
“I’ll be back in a minute?”
Suddenly awkward in your own space as Chris breezes from your apartment, you hope everything’s okay.
You hope he didn’t mean to ask you if he’d be back in a minute.
You hope the dread in your gut is a fleeting thing.
You hope he’ll just come back.
 ***
He didn’t come back.
Indeed, several days passed with no word from Chris.
The first day, you understood. He might have needed time to deal with whatever that call was about, and of course, Gracie takes total priority.
The second day, you debated calling him, if only to soothe yourself of the anxious unease that something terrible had happened.
By the third day, you’re more or less ready to march over to his apartment, because you’re about done with wallowing in the misery of life post-Chris, when a string of messages puts an end to all that.
>> Hi.
>> I’m really sorry for bailing. Again.
>> I’ll explain everything when I’m back.
>> Gracie’s coming to stay with me for a while.
>> Do you want to meet her?
 ***
You wonder if kids can just detect awkward.
Like bloodhounds or something; they’re able to sniff out when an adult is desperately ill-equipped to deal with or look after them. You seriously hope not.
Gracie is the mirror image of her dad.
Soft brown ringlet curls, a smile that dimples when she really means it, inquisitive, dark eyes that absorb everything.
She’s tucked behind her dad’s leg, peering around it at the giant fish tank positively brimming with all forms of aquatic life, swimming happily oblivious amongst the towering corals and winding sea shrubs that make up the habitat.
The aquarium was your suggestion. A relatively harmless, fun activity to break the ice with a child you’re meeting for the first time, maybe establish a cautious rapport by way of shark plushies and ice cream bribes.
You’ve not had a chance to really talk to Chris yet. From Copper Court to the aquarium, he’s had his hands pretty full with explaining to Gracie that you’re ‘daddy’s friend’ several times over, explaining that the aquarium is where fish live, explaining that she’ll see all different kinds of things and have so much fun with ‘daddy and his friend’.
You know it’s beyond petulant to entertain the way your heart sinks every time he refers to you as the ‘friend’, but you’re far too resigned to the clutch of your emotions by now.
Bathed in off-blue light, Chris looks the very picture of domesticity. The trademark black tank has been traded in for a thin black sweater, the gym shorts for jeans. The leather jacket is still slung over one shoulder, a plain staple that apparently not even fatherhood can rob him of.
“Hey, honey,” he guides her out from behind his leg, “why don’t you go take a look at the penguins? Right over there, see?”
Gracie blinks, nods, smiles as she toddles through the wide-open circular aquarium to the penguins, still well within sight. Keeping a watchful eye on her, Chris scratches the nape of his neck, clears his throat and asks, “So, how are you holding up?”
You can’t help giggling.
“Really? That’s the first thing you ask me?”
“W— I mean, yeah? Why, can’t I ask?”
The sheepish grin he affords you makes your chest swell with warmth; you’ve really fucking missed him, actually.
“You can ask,” you acquiesce gently.
“So?”
“So,” you hum, watching a tiger shark glide past you, “since admitting that I care about you and want you in unhealthy ways, I’ve been great.”
“You want me in unhealthy ways?” he scoffs, ears reddening. “Damn.”
You shrug, conceding the moment to him. It’s not like he doesn’t already know, especially after your last encounter.
Chris sidles up to you, quietly confident as he slips his hand in yours, locks your fingers, “I’m sorry for leaving you high and dry. Forgive me?”
“Eh, wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Ouch,” he grimaces, laughs.
You squeeze his hand, reassurance that you’re really actually fine, and you’re really only half down for giving him a hard time. Gracie cranes to her tiptoes the other side of the aquarium, tries to get closer to the waddling penguins, small hands against the glass.
“She’s great, you know.”
Chris glows, eyes scrunch with fondness as he watches her and says, “You think?”
“Of course. She’s a dead ringer for her dad, honestly.”
“Poor thing,” Chris cringes, to which you nudge his shoulder.
“She’s okay, right?” you ask.
Chris nods, breathes a deep sigh, “Yeah. Her mum’s digging her feet in about childcare arrangements. I’ve offered to take Gracie more often, but she’d rather I pay through the nose to send her to nursery instead. I just can’t afford that right now. Not with the contracts I’m getting.”
You hum in realisation, sympathising with the stress that kind of thing must bring on parents plural, let alone one that appears to be dead set against the other.
“But it’ll all work out,” he eventually shrugs. “It has to.”
“Daddy!”
Gracie’s voice rings out from across the aquarium floor, the pitter-patter of her small feet eager as she runs back over, “Daddy, come look at the penguins! There’s a baby penguin, and a mummy penguin, and a—”
You’re about to draw your hand away from Chris’s on reflex, utterly surprised when he instead holds it strong, refuses to let you go. Gracie stops, her little brows furrow as she looks at your joined hands, then her dad, then at you.
There’s a second of silence where you dread the next words from her mouth, where you’d rather the ground swallow you up than be present for the conversation this precedes.
But the bright, baby-toothed grin that Gracie breaks into is entirely unexpected.
She runs to your free side, reaches up to grab your other hand, doing nothing more complicated than copying her dad, the way children are wont to do. Yet as you enclose her small hand in your palm, you feel entrusted with so much more than simply playing the part of aquarium guide.
Chris smiles slowly, swallows down the lump of formed emotion in his throat.
You wonder if this feels as right to him as it does to you.
“Where, honey?” he rasps. “Show us the family.”
 ***
The next day, you’re alone in your apartment with Chris, and it’s not like all other times you’ve been alone together.
Because things are different now.
Cards have been laid to the table, confessions and admittances made. There’s nothing more to hide behind, no excuses to be made or—even better—misunderstandings to walk into.
You went with Chris to drop Gracie off at her mum’s, waving from the passenger side of his car as he took her to the door. The whole way back, you were regaled with happy tales of Gracie as a baby, promised to be shown pictures when you got back to Copper Court.
Those intentions were somewhat waylaid when the realisation of privacy sunk in.
The movie Chris chose is playing quietly in the background, nothing more than an accoutrement to the way he rests above you on the sofa, warm lips exploring mouths, gentle hands touching skin.
There’s a patience to how he touches you, an enjoyment he finds in the act of winding you up, dragging you down, feeling the ebb and flow of your arousal as he pushes and pulls at parts of you, if only to see what’ll happen.
He discovered your penchant for neck kisses with zero fucking issue. Wet warmth against the thin skin of your throat sends inexplicable tingles of delight fluttering in all directions, centring in your core to add to the tight gathering of want.
“Chris,” you sigh, shivering when he focuses on your pulse point. He hums, occupied.
“I…”
Your hesitation is misplaced, you know. There’s nothing you could say now that would be a surprise to him, nothing you could admit that would bring any embarrassment. All that’s left is to enjoy each other.
“I want you to stay.”
Chris gathers himself, hovers above you with eyes a little on the blown-out side of present.
“Here? Tonight?” he croaks.
You nod, pull your lip between your teeth. His brows draw together, he skims his knuckles over your cheek, down your jawline, pained disbelief on his expression.
“If I stay, I might not want to leave.”
His quiet admittance is met by your kiss, soft and careful, “Then don’t.”
Chris grins—for the first time since you’ve known him—a wolfish expression that sparks a flurry of butterflies to activity in your gut.
Shoves himself up from the sofa, takes your hand to do the same, escorts you from the living space to the bedroom with an air of confidence that would seem misplaced to you, had you not just kissed his face off.
When in the safety of your private space, the atmosphere shifts with the closing of the door, boxing you into the moment. It’s weighted, rife with thick anticipation that makes you more nervous than keen, for it suddenly dawns on you that this is the first time you’ve been with anyone that way in a desperately long time. And apparently, you’re not alone in that, telling from Chris’s raised shoulders, the way he releases your hand and looks around your room, scratches the nape of his neck.
He meanders over to the neatly made bed, drags his fingers along the pastel pink linen, rocks the headboard like he’s inspecting a car for purchase. You feel like you should say something; maybe reassure him that he can leave, if he wants to.
“You can go,” your mind-mouth filter fails spectacularly, “if you want to, I mean.”
Dumbfounded, Chris turns back to you, drops his gaze to where you’re currently wringing your hands together nervously, shifting from one foot to the other, daunted by so many things at once you’re unsure where to even look.
“You just told me you wanted me to stay.”
“I— I know. I do. But if you don’t… I just don’t want to, you know, put pressure on this or…”
Chris huffs a sigh, draws his bottom lip between his teeth. Before you’re even able to offer yet more reassurance that bailing would be totally okay, he grips the hem of his black tank, drawing it lusciously up his body, over his head, tossing it to your carpet.
“O— Oh…”
It’s more a groan of realisation than a formed word in itself, but it’s the only thing you’re able to muster as you shamelessly lave over his frame; he’s positively shredded. Lean, strong abs form a six pack that tightens with his stance, defined pectorals curve under broadly sloping shoulders, veined arms.
Chris scrapes his curls from his forehead, outstretches his hand, beckons once.
You suppose that’s all the reassurance you need.
The ensuing moments are a heated mess of stripping and breathy instruction; eager hands driven by need that actively slow themselves for the appreciation, but still, want more. And you do.
You’re naked under him, legs spread and held so with him settled between them, lips bitten pink and slick. Arms around his neck, the soft tickle of his curls over your cheeks, you’re on fucking fire with the need for him; more so because he’s insisted on keeping his shorts on.
“P— Please,” you drag your nails over his muscled back, “need you.”
Chris tenses, relaxes into a shiver, grins against your throat, “Noticed.”
Propping up on his hands, he assesses your state of desperation, drags a heated gaze over you.
“You’re so gorgeous.”
“W— What?”
“I mean, fuck, look at you,” he drops a hand to cup and massage your breast, bicep swelling with the shift in weight, “you’re just unreal.”
Notoriously terrible with compliments in any form—not to mention ones revolving around your nakedness—you sink back into the mattress, pouting in adequate disapproval. Chris drags his thumb over the swell of your lip, eyes heated with darkness.
“What?” he hums. “Baby doesn’t like being told she’s a ten?”
Oh, God. Thick heat swells arousal between your thighs, your heart thumping desperately quick. He searches your face for any sign of unpleasantness to the impromptu pet name, and on finding none, falls into it.
“Does baby need to be shown how beautiful she is?”
The hand at your breast drags lazily down your stomach, navel, dips to the place where your need is most prevalent.
Chris watches you intently, jaw slack, “Maybe baby needs it right here,” an isolated middle finger parts your labia folds gently, makes itself a snug home amongst your essence. Your hips gyrate with a mind of their own, a welcoming blanket of white noise descending on your conscious mind as he—with a few explorative circles—finds your gently throbbing clit. Lids flutter and a weak whimper slips from your lips as he plays with you, touches you, shows you just how genuine his compliment was, is, always will be. Under the intensity of his watch, the shadow of his frame, it’s all you can do to babble your appreciation.
“F— Feels good—”
Chris draws his bottom lip between his teeth, hums low from his throat. He shifts a little—barely a movement at all—yet the subsequent rigidity that prods at your thigh is clear enough.
Drop a hand to claw at his gym shorts, pulling at the waistband like it might miraculously break. Chris bites back a smirk, makes no move to assist or obstruct, appearing to revel in your eager need.
You finally admit defeat, unable to focus with the ministrations on your sopping core and the urge to touch him in return.
“Take them off—”
Chris raises a brow, sneers, “Say please.”
Who made him?
“P— Please?” you croak, dazed.
“Good girl.”
Balances back on his knees for the ease of removal, slinking his shorts down his chiselled hips and svelte physique. The tenting of his crotch is immediately concerning, in the way that one might worry about fitting their new sofa through the door on its delivery.
And as he drags the thin material down to his thighs, allowing his cock full freedom to breathe, the concerns manifest to outright worry.
He is huge.
You’ve not the head or mindset to draw any comparison to length or girth once experienced, and indeed, it would be a wasted effort. Chris’s cock—now hanging heavily to his mid-thigh—is easily the most intimidating thing you’ve ever faced. Veins and swollen vessels protrude against the thin skin of his impressive shaft, the broad head a shade of pink matching his lips. The not-so-subtle curvature is all the more pronounced when he drops a hand around his base, works a single, slow stroke to the tip.
You wonder how stressed you should be that not even his hand is capable of containing the whole girth.
“I know,” he assures quietly, and you’re definitely relieved that he’s at least addressing it. Perhaps the mortification is written all over your face.
“Y— You’re… That’s… I mean, come on—”
Chris takes your wrist, guides you to sit upright, closes your hand around the base of his cock to take over his ministrations. He inhales a shaky breath on the sight of your struggling grip, wholly inadequate in wrapping around him entirely.
“Fuck… so tiny.”
“Not tiny,” you protest, albeit weakly.
Chris scoffs, from being perched on his knees he sinks back to his heels, thighs swelling against calves.
“Use both hands,” he instructs softly, chest heaving.
And you do, utilising both hands in surely the most unforeseen hand job you’ve ever given. With both, however, you’re able to work him from base to tip properly, squeeze around his length, elicit gentle groans of content from him.
“That’s good,” he reaches out, tucks a stray strand of your hair aside, “you like touching my big dick, baby?”
Of course, he gets off on this. Why wouldn’t he?
You nod, offering your best pleading gaze.
“Mhm, you’re so big,” he twitches in your hands, “don’t know how I’m going to take you.”
Chris’s lids flutter, the flush on his chest deepens, blooms out to his neck.
“You want to?” he heaves. “Want to try and sit on my huge cock?”
“So bad. Want you inside my tight little pussy.”
“Oh my God—”
“Want to feel you throbbing thick inside me,” you hiss.
“Fuck—”
He keens, eyes rolling back when you rotate a tight grip around his leaking head, the pearls of pre-cum dripping off to soil your sheets.
“Want to feel so fucking full, want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t even remember my name—”
The tether of Chris’s self-control snaps like a string pulled too tight, the lunge he makes for you effortless as he manoeuvres around to the headboard, hitches you to his lap. Feverish, he cranes up to consume your mouth, strong hands settled either side of your hips. Your thighs spread over his, his cock slick against your centre, you brace yourself on his shoulders as the initial breach seizes you in place.
“Relax,” he holds his cock still, “breathe through it, baby.”
The inches come slowly, each one salaciously adding to the easing fullness that only just threatens to burn when his excitement gets the better of him, when he thrusts through a gentle groan of strained delight.
“S— Slow,” you remind him amidst lips pressed together in stillness, “don’t hurt me.”
“Never.”
Glowing warm with the promise, it’s with no small amount of struggle that you manage to—carefully—settle a few inches above the base of his cock, feeling like he might well do real damage.
Drawn tight against one another, chest to chest, vibrating with the heated need to claw and writhe together, you can only murmur a gentle, “Fuck me, Chris.”
“Shit—”
Feet planted on the mattress, head buried in the clammy expanse of your cleavage, the slope of his shoulders hardens under your trembling palms as he indulges in a gentle thrust, abrupt and too stunted to offer any real depth, and indeed, that’s entirely deliberate.
“God, tight,” he whimpers—high-pitched and desperate—each upwards shuck of his hips nudging his cock a little deeper, slackening you a little better.
Thoroughly impaled on him, befuddled by equal parts adrenal fear and lustful thrill, you allow a spate of weakness in your thighs, sink yourself a measure lower to meet him halfway, and Chris revels in the extra room to move. Relaxing into the motions, ever aware that his excitement still has the potential to spell disaster for both your sanity and your cervix, his languid thrusts make the most of his perfect curvature, dragging himself through your velvet warmth with increasing determination.
“C— Chris,” his name leaks through a moan of delight, the thick stimulation wonderfully consistent against your g-spot, like intermittent splashes of pool water you’re awash with the smatterings of bliss.
Throws his head back, reaches up to clutch your throat and drag you in for a kiss that’s more saliva and breath than anything else.
“Mhm, yes,” he nips your jaw, “feel so good around me, baby.”
Abs flex and roll under the sheen of sweat that’s coating him, he presses your chest back a little, enough that he can watch the place your bodies connect. Rakes his hand through his curls, clutches the roots and groans through locked teeth with desperation in his eyes, “Greedy little cunt just wants all of me, doesn’t it?”
Drops his hand to your centre, smooths the coarse pad of his thumb over your throbbing clit to send a ripple of heat through your gut, up your spine.
“How does a tiny thing like you ride my big cock so good, huh?” his voice is rasping filth, low and hot. “Look at you, taking so much of me on your first try, fuck—”
You hold your hand over his at your pussy, fighting the urge to bounce and grind while he’s fucking you like this, for he really is simply too big.
“R— Rub my clit more, don’t stop—”
Chris’s eyes flash with wicked delight, applies pressure to your pubic bone and strokes over your clit tenderly, rapidly, cursing out a hot breath when you tighten around him, eager for the delicious friction that makes you feel like you’ll release all over him.
“Going to come for me, baby?”
“Y— Yeah, fuck—”
“Good girl, God, you’re so nice and wet. Tell me how big I am,” his free hand squeezes the swell of your hip appreciatively, drops around to your ass cheek, “tell me my dick’s the best you’ve ever had—”
“You’re so fucking big, Chris,” you whimper, so far from a lie you might pass out just trying to comprehend that it’s even inside you. “Your c— cock is so thick and massive; feels like you’re going to split me in two.”
Chris melts against the headboard, eyes glazing over as he fucks himself inside you, inches slick with your essence. Unable to contain your own encroaching bliss, you’re rendered near breathless by the trickling heat that creeps over your limbs, gathers hot inside you, around his cock.
“I— I’ve never been fucked like this, never taken anything so… so fucking huge—”
Chris preens, whining a pitch more associated with high notes and tantrums as he tenses and trembles, smacks the fleshy plump of your ass, “B— Baby, shit, you’re going to make me come just talking.”
The way you contract around his length is involuntary, a response to the orgasm breaching your pleasure threshold like a delightful fucking invasion.
“Oh my God, fuck, Chris, I’m coming—”
You collapse into him, arms around his neck. Arching up and forward, you slick yourself over the head of his cock, able to move at much faster a pace, eager for the brief spate of fullness, the relief, rinse and repeat.
“C— Can’t hold it—”
Chris ceases his movement, allows you to ride out the numbing waves of your orgasm as he himself finds brutal release, the swell of his girth stretching you out in ways you’ve never found reason to tempt before. One pump, then another, sticky skin and the musk of sex, sweat, him, has you dumbed by the knowledge that’s filling you up, milking himself to completion.
The moments that follow are shrouded in a silence of only heavy breaths fallen shallow, groans of content and affectionate afterglow. Yet as Chris gently manoeuvres to rest you on the mattress proper, it’s only when your legs are spread wide and he’s allowed a front and centre seat to the view of your abused pussy, that he retracts his softening cock from you. The tickle of his cum leaking from you inspires a shiver, Chris’s lids are heavy, bitten lips twist into a prideful—near impressed—smirk.
“A total ten,” he mumbles inaudibly.
As the midnight hour draws in and the exhaustion caused by your exertions demands succour, you suppose you’ve learned a few things over the last few weeks.
Firstly: Tinder isn’t all that bad after all.
Secondly: parenthood is inevitably complicated.
And third: he likes you.
He really fucking likes you.
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𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙧. 𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙚.
𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙠 ♡
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straykeedz · 25 days
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riding soft dom!chan while he praises you is all i can think about
and now it’s all i can think about 🤧
EDIT: i’m sorry anon i just re-read ur request and u wanted the praise!! :( he doesn’t really praise her that much, maybe 1/2 time?? i’m sorry, i let my imagination run a little too wild with this one :(((((((((
smut below the cut, minors dni.
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tw [female anatomy ; daddy kink ; unprotected piv sex (don’t!!) ; dirty talk ; degradation?? (he calls reader ‘slut’ a few times and ‘bitch’ once but she loves it - she is me, i am her) ; creampie]
you are on top of him, and has his hands on your waist and his lip between his teeth, eyes focused on where your bodies meet.
“pretty pussy swallowing me whole,” he grunts, gripping your hips a bit tighter. “you like daddy’s cock don’t you?”
you nod, easing yourself onto his length, hips rising and falling again as he fills you up perfectly. “yes, hmmmm” you moan, “da-daddy’s cock ‘s so big. ‘s perfect for me”
chris nods, biting his lips. from underneath you, he jerks his hips upwards, enoch causes you to let out a tiny yelp. “such a pretty little pussy, such a dirty mouth.” he slaps your asscheek, then gropes it. “‘s okay, though. love it when my baby gets dirty for me.”
you move up and down his cock, coating it entirely with your arousal. you place your hands on chris’ chest. you continue to ride him for a while, but your knees start to feel weak, and your movements on top of his body become a little more frantic and irregular, and chris notices.
“aww, my baby’s gettin’ tired?” he mocks you, smirking at you, still guiding your movements on his cock with the help of his hands on your hips. “thought you liked fuckin’ yourself on daddy’s cock. you’re a spoiled little slut, aren’t you? well i’m sorry baby, but today you’re gonna work for it.”
you love it when he calls you a slut. he feels incredibly bad afterwards, though, so he doesn’t really do it that often.
you nod. “‘m daddy’s slut. call me that, call me that again,” your moans get more and more high-pitched, a clear signal you’re getting close to your finish.
in a matter of seconds chris sits up on the mattress, resting his back against the headboard and latching his lips on your neck. “my little slut,” he moans against your skin, landing another slap on your asscheek. “always hungry for cock,” he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, humming.
you ride him faster, clit repeatedly brushing the lower part of his abdomen and in his pubic hair. “‘m always needy f-for you. always need your cock.”
usually, chris would help you cum by rubbing your clit. not tonight. not when he’s in charge tonight. he’ll do it tomorrow, though, when you’ll be in charge and he’ll be calling you mommy, begging for you to let him cum. not tonight. tonight, you gotta work for it. and work for it you do, because after a couple of minutes later you’re clenching around him and whimpering as you release around his cock until your juices coat his cock, dribbling on his balls and ass.
“ye-yeah, that’s right. like this, baby,” chris praises you as you move on top of his cock. “fuckin’ came all over me like the good girl you are. can’t wait to cum inside this slutty pussy, can’t wait to fuckin’ fill you up.”
“d-do it. do it, daddy. fill me up.“
and chris loses it, starting to thrust into you at a quick pace, holding you by the waist. “needy bitch,” he moans loudly, hips snapping against yours. “yeah, yeah. ‘m gonna fill you up now. you want it? you want my cum?” you nod, brain all fuzzy, your legs are starting to give in.
he pulls back to look you in the eyes - “then beg for it.”
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bamnamuu · 5 months
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things bangchan would do as your boyfriend
w.count 250 | warnings mentions kissing | em’s note it’s been a weird couple days, and the only way to get through them is with boyfriend channie : D oh also not proof read !!!
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boyf!Chan who teases you about stealing his hoodies, even though he leaves them out on purpose because he likes seeing you wearing his clothes.
boyf!Chan who always sends you messages and selfies every hour or so just so you don’t forget how much he loves you. (not that you could forget, he's on your mind 24/7 365)
boyf!Chan who learns to cook your favourite food, so that when you get home you do not have to worry about cooking.
boyf!Chan who has a polaroid of you two in the back of his phone so everywhere he goes he has you with him.
boyf!Chan who lets you listen to skz's new songs before the rest of the members because he wants your approval, he admires your thoughts.
boyf!chan who would set up ‘sleepovers’ at your shared apartment every weekend just because he wants to do something special for you. (he would also let you help build a pillow fort)
boyf!Chan who always gives your forehead a little kiss whenever he leaves the room you're in, even if he leaves for a second he’s gonna smooch your head.
boyf!Chan who when sleeping next to each other, drags you closer to him if you roll away because he's missing your warmth, he just likes having you close knowing you're with him makes him sleep better.
boyf!Chan who doesn't know what he's doing, but tries his hardest to be the best boyfriend for you.
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daaawnnn · 4 months
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not my boyfriend!
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synopsis: after attending a christmas party hosted by jisung, you were waiting for your boyfriend to come pick you up. but what if you got approached by a stranger instead? or so you thought. genre: fluff, established relationship pairing: bang chan x gn!reader word count: 928 warnings: mentions of alcohol, reader is intoxicated
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“Ugh, my head.” You groaned as you clutched onto your pounding head. Your vision had started to become fuzzy as the time went on. That was the last time you’ll ever be drinking that much, you thought to yourself.
Jisung had invited you to play a little drinking game. A shot would be taken every time you spot someone wearing red or green. 2 shots would be taken if they wore both colours. A mistake was made on your part for indulging in his silly game since it was a Christmas themed party. People would surely turn up in one of those colours, if not both. By the time you got to your seventh shot, you called it quits, jokingly calling Jisung crazy for suggesting a game like that.
The rest of the party, you were socialising with a variety of people and dancing crazily with Jisung due to the boost of confidence that surged through your body from the alcohol. In your inebriated state, you could finally let yourself go and act as if you were someone else. Even if it was just for one night.
Once it was coming to an end, Minho had offered to call your boyfriend to come over whilst complaining how irresponsible you were for drinking so much. You just looked at him meekly while he chided you, not understanding half of the words that were spewing out of his mouth.
It was now past midnight. You were sitting on a bench outside of Jisung’s house, patiently waiting with Minho for your boyfriend to come pick you up. His house was booming with boisterous Christmas music which only worsened your headache. Even though the majority of guests had already left, the celebration didn't have to end according to Jisung.
“Make sure to drink plenty of water before you go to bed.” Minho absentmindedly mentioned as he scrolled through his phone. You looked over at him as he spoke, you couldn’t see him that well but you knew that it was him speaking, before glancing around for any sign of Chan. You were beginning to feel colder the longer you waited.
The sound of a car pulling up immediately caught your attention. You spotted a figure in the distance, increasingly inching towards you. You couldn’t make out their face without having to blink every second. The figure eventually stopped in front of you.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He tenderly planted a kiss to the top of your head. Shocked, you pushed him away from you shrieking but to no avail. You gazed back to where you think Minho is, wondering why he was allowing this to happen.
“Woah, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” The ‘stranger’ worriedly questioned.
“Um, yeah, you happened. Why are you touching me? I have a boyfriend.” You turned towards Minho, “Minho why aren’t you helping me out?”
Minho shrugged his shoulders, looking amused. “You don’t need help, you’ll be fine.” You let out a dramatic gasp at that.
The ‘stranger’ was puzzled as to what was happening. He was asked to come, so why were you suddenly pushing him away? “Baby, it’s me. You know, your boyfriend, Chan. I’m here to pick you up.”
Without giving him a second glance, you instantly shook your head. “No, you’re not my boyfriend. Don’t lie to me. You don’t look like him.”
You pulled out your phone and showed the lockscreen to the ‘stranger’. It was a picture of Chan and you with your cheeks squished together with big smiles on your faces.
“See? That’s him. He’s got the cutest dimples to ever exist and his smile is out of this world. You’re not him. I don’t see any dimples and I definitely don’t see a smile that could compare to his. So, could you please go away?” The ‘stranger’ gently took the phone out of your hand, earning a series of protests from you, and lifted it up next to his face.
“Do I still not look like your boyfriend?” The ‘stranger’ said with mock sadness, showing off his dimples with a cheeky grin. You focused on the stranger in front of you and the phone next to his face. As soon as you realised who it was, you threw your arms around him, tightly embracing him.
“Oh, Channie, I missed you.” Your speech was slightly slurred as you smothered him with kisses but he managed to understand what you were trying to say.
He chuckled at your display of affection. “I missed you, too. How much did you have to drink, huh?” He asked, wrapping his arms around you in return.
“Not that much.” You said innocently. He knew you were lying but he wasn’t going to call you out. Not yet.
“Alright, I believe you.” He playfully rolled his eyes. “Let’s get going home, yeah? Don’t want you catching a cold in this weather, love.” He pressed his lips to your forehead then kissed your cheek. You eagerly nodded, agreeing with him.
He waved goodbye to Minho before picking you up and carrying you towards his car. You tried your best to stay awake but it was tough. Being in Chan’s arms could easily lull you into sleep at any moment. The warmth radiating from his body, desperately wanting to fuse with yours, felt comforting. With every step he took, you found it harder to combat sleep until you finally gave in.
“I love you.” You quietly uttered as your eyes fell shut. Chan softly smiled at those words. He caressed your head as you peacefully slept.
“I love you, too.”
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©daaawnnn
reblogs are appreciated!
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mykoreanlove · 18 days
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Ever wondered what it would be like to be pregnant by Chan?
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„I need to get out of the house. Come get me, please.“
„What’s wrong? Something with the baby?“, your best friend asked concerned.
„It’s Chan. I can’t be around him anymore.“
„What? Why?“
You took a deep breath before explaining this ridiculous situation.
„He just wants to fuck me all the time and I can’t handle it anymore. Please, save me from this pussydrunk.“
Your best friend broke out in laughter, unable to answer for minutes.
„Are you for real right now? He’s always been like this. Why does this bother you now?“
It was true - you had a very active sex life which you adored. You adored being with him intimately, no matter the time nor place but ever since you got pregnant his sex craze became too much to bear.
„It’s different now that I’m pregnant. It’s like he‘s addicted to my pussy now.“
„Because of the pregnancy?“
You nodded quietly.
„Yeah, something about me carrying his child is driving him nuts.“
„Girl, are you for real?“
You sighed annoyed as she wasn’t taking you seriously.
„I fucking mean it. I don’t even have to do anything, just passing by him is enough for him to get hard. He literally grabs me and fucks me brainless, as if he wanted to add a sibling.“
Your friend snorted amused.
„So you’re telling me your very hot boyfriend who worships the ground you walk on is addicted to fucking you? And you want me to get you out of that? Babes, is the baby messing with your brain?“
„Shut the fuck up, my pussy can’t take it anymore, I-“
You heard the door open and shut up, already fearing what was about to come.
„Baby, are you home? Where is my beautiful, sexy goddess that is carrying my little Channie?“
„I gotta hang up“, you whispered hastily.
„Why? Is your cock appointment due?“
„Oh shut it“, you wanted to answer but got interrupted by Chan.
„There you are“, he was smiling happily while holding a giant bouquet of flowers in his hands. You hung up and smiled proudly as he was getting on his knees and started talking to your baby.
„Hey little one, I missed you“, he whispered sweetly.
Seeing him like that melted your heart, you just knew that he was going to be an amazing dad.
Chan started pampering your big belly in kisses while stroking your thighs.
„Actually, there’s something else I missed“, he breathed out hastily as he looked into your eyes with a deep longing.
You gulped as his big hands glided over the insides of your thighs, squeezing them lightly.
„Wanna know what else I missed?“
You nodded silently.
Chan let go of your thighs and started kissing your leg, starting with your ankle and going up to your knee. His eyes were piercing through you, they were full of desire and passion.
He continued kissing your leg before spreading them, making room for his head between them. The view of your pregnant belly and juicy pussy made him hold his breath, he felt like entering heaven again.
Seeing him like that made you throb, even though you were sore and fucked out for the week you couldn’t hide your desire for this man.
You were always his, always at his mercy.
Chan’s plush lips landed on your core, kissing through the fabric while mumbling: „I missed mommy the most. Want me to show you how much?“
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bangchanisinmymind · 9 months
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his pillow
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pairing; bangchan x reader; smut
Chris was on tour the past month, you missed him like crazy even though he did everything he could to be with you, he would be home in a few days after all but he left you the keys of the dorm so you can stay there if you missed him and felt alone, he left a few of his sweaters and one bottle of his perfume along with his earrings. Other than the different daily life you had to fit in without him or the boys you started feeling needy a lot easier, even if you saw him on TV you couldn't put your filthy thoughts away.
After struggling nearly a week and edging yourself with those edits you decided to please yourself for the first time in a while. You knew it was against his rules, he only let you touch yourself when he wanted and when he was with you. When you returned home you got quickly in his room, undressed and searched for the toys he hides for the kinky times. He had a lot, he used most of them on you but the only suitable for now was that huge fat dildo which you took out with excitement and arousal already dripping down your thighs.
You downloaded a vibration app this morning so you reached for your phone to turn it on and put it straight to your core. The vibrations travelled through your body that suddenly left and replaced with the sound of your phone ringing. It was Chris, you forgot it was the time for your videocall. You were nearly crying because of the stimulation and fear rushed through your veins but you managed to hide your naked body when you put his pillow under your chest and laying on your belly putting your phone in front of you.
"baby? Is everything okay? You usually pick up immediately and-" he stopped talking the second he saw your exposed collarbones and the dildo behind you. "hi Channie everything is okay how are you?" you said with sweetness in your voice as you tried to make everything seem normal. "does my girl need me?" he groaned feeling his erection grow when he saw your naked ass when you lowered your head to hide in embarassment.
"yes daddy I need you so bad I want to cum a lot today, can I? Please?" you whimpred and when you saw him nodding you slowly got up reaching for the dildo. "babygirl you're not ready for that yet, we need preparation first. Take my pillow" he said, voice an octave down. You did as he said and put his pillow between your legs, not sitting on it yet.
"wanna show daddy?" he said causing you to move the phone closer showing him your wetness. "that's my baby, now put the phone back and sit on the pillow" you did exactly as he said, you were now on your knees, his pillow between and touching your core, you reaching back grabbing your ankles to the feeling.
"now move" he growled and you started to move your hips, whimpers leaving your lips feeling the friction that turned to moans when you picked up the pace making the bed shake. You felt your high approaching when you heard him say "put three fingers right now in that tiny hole of yours all together until it reaches your knuckles", taken aback by his dominance you put three of your fingers on your mouth sucking at them and then in you.
"in an' out as fast as you can" he whispered and you started moving up and down to your fingers. Your movements started to be more messy feeling the knot in your stomach tightening. "pull your fingers out and cum on my fucking pillow" he commented as you did so and now you were face down to the mattress, hands on your phone to let him see you bopping your ass up on his pillow once again when your orgasm hit you.
"good job babe" he said when you came down your high now looking at him through the screen panting. "take the dildo now" he said making you horny again with only his voice. You stand up, your tummy full of cum since you laid directly on his pillow, him groaning at the sight when you took the dildo in your hands once again.
"you know what to do, I won't tell you anything, I'm just gonna jerk off watching my girl okay?" "mhm" you said sliding the dildo in you screaming at the size. "ah-ah Chris ah it's too big too big" you cried out eyes shut "sit on it like a chair,like it's my cock, relax on it baby you're already wet" he whimpred when you put your whole weight down leaving a high-pitched moan.
"i'll move fast now I need it- *moan* I deserve it right? *moan* i'm your good girl" you started moving in and out faster the fact you could hear Chris moaning too made you feel like cumming already. "would love to cum in you hon" he said full of lust as he finished on his fingers. "mmm cu-cumming" you tried to speak as you felt your liquid running down the mattress, because of your continues movement it reached between your ass making those lewd sounds both of you absolutely loved and you didn't stop moving until you felt it reach your knee.
"ah it was- was so good" you said laying on his pillow again which was full of your cum. "mm babygirl you're the best and you're mine, my baby is gonna be rewarded isn't she?" he said feeling proud of how good he had teached you "yes daddy I was so good today" you said feeling the heat rising up to your face.
"are you gonna clean up now?" he said " I have to, it's a mess" you showed him the bed and he replied "don't wash my pillowcase I wanna feel you, I'm gonna be home in two days or so, can you do it babygirl?" he said with a low voice
"yes daddy anything for you" you said as you continued talking about your day and then finally hung up and sleep on his sweater which you took out from the closet
masterlist
© @/bangchanisinmymind on tumblr | do not translate or copy my work without permission {feedback is highly appreciated! comment/DM for requests!}
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lxverss · 8 months
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♡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ | ʙ.ᴄʜᴀɴ
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→ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: softdom!bangchan x afab reader
→ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: suggestive, fluff, established relationship
→ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: marking, heavy making out (I think that's it but lmk if I missed anything)
→ ᴡᴄ: 589
this blog is strictly 18+ and has sexual themes which are not suited for a minor. Minors/ageless blogs DNI.
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You groan as you feel the sunlight burning through your eyes, shifting away from the sun to your lovely boyfriend instead. He had his big arms draped over your waist while you both slept. You nuzzled into him further, feeling the warmth of his bare body. He let out a hum in response, stirring awake at your sudden movement.
"g'morning babe", he raspily whispered in your hair, wrapping his arms around you tighter. You hummed in response, moving away from your boyfriend to stretch your arms. You yawned, then plopped back down. Before you knew it, you fell back asleep.
-
"baby..." You softly awake from your slumber, hearing your boyfriend's raspy morning voice. You felt something warm and hard poking at your ass. Your cheeks warmed up, and you started feeling fuzzy inside. Chan buried his face into your neck, leaving a few wet kisses. "Need you" was all he muttered before starting to suckle on your neck. You gasped and tugged on his arms which were currently holding you as close to him as possible.
"so pretty, hm?" He mumbled, kissing over the light purple marks he left all over you last night. The memories of the night before came rushing into your mind and you squeezed your thighs together at the thought. "Channie... It's so early" you mumbled into the pillow, trying to escape from his grasp but to no avail. "I don't care baby, c'mere" he pulled you back against him, your bare back pressed against his warm chest.
He got up on his elbow to bring his face to yours, kissing you all over. You were giggling and squirming against his feathery lips. "Channie! It tickles" you said, grabbing his face to look at him. He was looking at you with the most loving eyes, and you were getting lost in them. "Did I ever tell you how much I love you?" He asked, his gaze not faltering from yours.
"yes you have, silly. Too many times even" you rolled your eyes playfully, then brought your hands up to his fluffy hair. "Well.. let me show you again, love" he said before closing the gap between the two of you. It was a soft and passionate kiss, and it felt like heaven. He was your heaven.
He pulled away with a smile, stroking your cheek with his big hand. You pulled him in for another kiss, but this time it was more sensual. He licked your bottom lip, asking for permission to enter his tongue in your mouth. You let him of course, pulling him even closer by the neck. Before you knew it, the kiss got real steamy real quick. Teeth clashing against one another, tongues fighting for dominance.
You were almost out of breath so you tried to pull away, but he pulled you back in, not letting you break the kiss. You gasped into the kiss squeezing the back of his neck harder. He finally let you go, leaving you both a panting mess. He leaned into your neck, leaving lovebites all over. "Chan.. I'm sore" you mumbled, then he stopped. "Yeah? Was I too rough last night?" He chuckled, kissing over the light purple hickeys from last night.
"a little" you giggled, wrapping your arms around his torso. "Well, how about I go make breakfast for us to make it up, hmm?" He chuckled as he was about to get up. You pulled him back, looking at him with a lustful gaze, "wait.. how about we take care of that first?"
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© 2023 all rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize or translate my works on other sites.
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yxngbxkkie · 2 months
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miss you (b.c)
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i found this picture of channie, and i instantly had to write a short blurb on it. he's so handsome 🥹 i hope you guys like it 🩷
feedback is greatly appreciated 🥰
~
You step off of the elevator, dragging your suitcase behind you. You're feeling really giddy, ecstatic to be seeing your boyfriend for the first time in seven months.
Chan and the rest of the members have been on their second Maniac tour. It was nearing the end when you decided to surprise Chan with a visit.
All the members knew about your arrival, feeling thankful that they're helping you out. You read the number on the key card, making sure not to end up at some random person's door.
Felix sent you a text telling you that Chan is expecting him so he won't bat an eye when the door opens up. You giggle to yourself, biting on your lip as you get closer to his hotel room.
You stop in front of the room, staring at the keypad for a few seconds. You place the plastic card against the sensor, hearing the locking mechanism. You turn the handle on the door, opening it up slowly.
Your boyfriend of four years sits at the desk, headphones snugly fitted to his ears while holding a microphone. His singing voice echoes off of the walls as you quietly shut the door behind you.
After setting your luggage to the side, you step further into the room. Chan's singing stops, and his gaze moves from his phone to the laptop in front of him.
“Finally, Felix,” he laughs, setting the microphone to the side. “I thought you'd be here half an hour ago.”
You chuckle silently, not wanting to give yourself away just yet. You hum in a deep voice, pressing your lips together while standing behind him.
You rest your hands on his shoulders, gently massaging them. “Hey, has Y/N messaged you at all?” He suddenly asks, keeping his eyes on his work.
“Why? Did you miss me?” You ask him, whispering into his ear.
Chan jumps in his chair, causing you to fling back quickly. Giggles come from your lips as he stands up from the chair, whipping his head around to look at you.
“You're here?!” He asks, reaching his hands out to you.
“I'm here,” you whisper as tears begin to pool in your eyes. “I've missed you.”
He lets out a cute giggle and brings you into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck as his snake around your waist. “I missed you too, baby,” Chan whispers in your ear, hugging you tightly.
The room is silent as the two of you stay in each other's arms. Your fingers gently comb through his hair, feeling his gliding up and down your back.
“It's been too long,” he huffs into your shoulder, pressing your chest further into his.
You giggle and nod your head, leaning it back so you can look at him. “It's also been too long since I've tasted your lips,” you flirt with him, combing his hair back.
“Hehe, yeah?” Chan giggles, grinning like a fool in love. “Well, I guess you should taste them then.”
You can't help but giggle again. “I guess I should,” you smirk before kissing him.
His hand grips your waist while tilting his head to the side, deepening your first kiss in seven months. You hum into the kiss, your fingers trailing along his jawline.
Chan breaks away from you, letting out a couple of heavy pants before reconnecting your lips. He takes a step towards you, making you take a step back.
A gasp comes from you when the back of your knees hits the mattress, losing your balance. He hovers over you, gently pushing you to lay on your back.
“I suppose Felix coming here was a cover up for you to come in,” he whispers before planting kisses on your face.
“It was,” you laugh, slipping your hands beneath the robe he's wearing.
He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, kissing, biting, and sucking on your skin. “Which means they know you're here,” Chan mentions, marking up your neck. “Which means I can reminisce with you all night long.”
~
tagging: @strawboorybunny @reddesert-healourblues @spacegirlstuff @moon0fthenight @foxinnie8 @like-a-diamondinthesky @prettymiye0n
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Text
All Nighter | Bang Chan
•Synopsis: You can't help but to tease your boyfriend when he's working, regardless if he's alone or not. "What's life without a little risk?" Who cares if the other two members of 3RACHA get a glance, a peak of what you're craving to give your boyfriend?
Bang Chan x Female Reader
•Content Warning: Heavy smut, Oral(m receiving), Strong language. If I left something out let me know and I'll add it.
Want more smut? Follow the banana 🍌
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“Good job boy's. Why don't you two head back and get some sleep. I'm gonna work a little longer.” You hear Chan say to Han and Binnie.
The seat where Han sat next to you dozing in and out of sleep shifted when he stood up. Looking up you see him stretch his arms over his head and give a loud dramatic yawn that makes you giggle.
“Alright hyung. Don't work too hard. Night Y/N.”
“Yeah, what he said. See you tomorrow Y/N.” Changbin added before he and Han left Chan's studio.
It was just the two of you now and the tension between the two of you that was growing all night shifted and became palpable. He swivels in his chair, turning to face you. When your eyes meet he raises an eyebrow at you with a smirk playing on his beautiful full lips. Feigning Innocence you smile brightly at him. Yet the way he was sitting, legs opened wide, slightly slouched down in his chair with his elbows resting on the arm rests, made you feel borderline feral.
“Y/n baby, don't give me that look. You've been anything but innocent all night. Teasing me. Practically teasing Bin and Han as well.” He tells you. His voice is calm and much deeper than his usual tone. You know you've successfully turned him on when he sounds like that.
“Baby I don't know what you mean.” You drawl out sweetly, crossing your legs and flashing him in the process, just like you've been doing all night.
The pale blue skirt you had on wasn't particularly too short but it hitched up around your thighs just right while you sat on the sofa. Any time you repositioned how you were sitting, each 3RACHA member got a view of your wet cunt. Chan scoffs playfully and sits up.
“Baby girl, I could see the tint Jisung was sporting in his jeans all the way from here. Bet those two will be thinking of that pretty pussy of yours all night.”
You lick your lips smiling, eyes focused on your boyfriend's. You'd be lying to yourself if you said that very thought didn't turn you on. Many times you stayed at their dorm, you'd sometimes see the shadow of someone standing on the other of Chan's door through the bottom crack as he fucked you into his mattress. You'd only be able to tell who it was by the telltale blush over their face when you would later emerge for a drink and it was usually always Han.
“Guess I just made their night then huh baby?” You say seductively with a wink.
“Get over here and make my night. My hands have been itching to touch you.”
Smirking, you slide off the couch, getting onto your knees and crawling the short distance over to where he's sitting. Placing your hands on his knees and slowly sliding them up his thighs until your fingers find their target. You keep eye contact with him when your fingers curl under the band of his loose black basketball shorts before forcing them down and freeing his thick and hard erection.
“So big and so hard for me Channie.” Leaning forward, whispering and letting your breath fan over the tip.
The sensation makes him shiver and his cock twitches once, twice, and you give him a satisfied smile. Your mouth salivates with anticipation of having him on your tongue. Reaching your hand over and gripping the base of his thick shaft in loose fingers, you slowly apply pressure, tightening your fingers around him. He lets his head fall back with a groan. A strong hand threads its way into your hair pulling you forward slightly. Your fingers begin their slow dance of stroking him as your tongue flicks over his leaking tip before wrapping your soft lips around him.
He keeps a firm grip on your hair encouraging you to take him deeper into your mouth.
“More, beautiful.” His words are breathy and strained and you know he's holding back his impulse to fuck your throat.
Keeping your hand fisted around him you take him inch by inch until your lips meet your fingers. He's too big for you to deep throat but you take as much as you can feeling him hit the back of your throat.
“Fuck.” He growls and you feel your muscles clench around nothing. It makes you so incredibly wet.
You need him inside you but you also want to taste and tease him. Push him as close to the edge as possible. The sounds he makes when you start moving faster, bobbing your head up and down are raw and primal. Sliding your mouth over Chan's cock, slurping and sucking he bucks his hips up once into your mouth completely losing control over his body.
His grip in your hair is almost painful but you ignore it, heavily focused on his moans and breathing. Thighs tense up underneath your left hand that you're using to keep yourself steady and he stops you from moving using the hold he has on your head. You know he was close, you could taste the sweet and salty precum on the back of your tongue. He needs your pussy though, he'll go insane if he doesn't get to bury himself balls deep inside you.
“Get up here and ride me like Goku's flying nimbus.” He orders.
Giggling, you comply, easing up off your knees and straddling his thighs. “Mm I love it when you talk nerdy to me Channie.”
He gives you a deep chuckle that you feel down to your core making you bite down on your lip to suppress a moan despite him not even being inside of you just yet. Wrapping your hand around his hard shaft, Chan shivers at your touch, watching how pretty your fingers look curled around him. You guide him to your opening, the folds slick with your arousal, it takes little effort to push him inside of you inch by inch. He inhales deeply through gritted teeth and his hands grab onto your sides, gripping you for dear life. Once he's fully sheathed inside, your warm walls enclosing him you start to move your hips in a circle.
“I'll never get tired of the way you stretch me Chris.” You moan and he growls loving the way his English name sounds on your lips. It's his favorite, granted he loves the way you call him by any of the names you've become accustomed to but hearing you call him Chris just does things to him.
Slowly at first you tease yourself with his cock and then gradually pick up speed. Chan's soft panting mingles with yours, his hands slide up underneath your shirt massaging your breasts underneath the black lacy material. He moans appreciatively, flicking a thumb over the hardened peak of your nipple before giving it a squeeze, causing your walls to clamp down around him. His hips buck up underneath you and you gasp in pleasure feeling him push deeper inside your heat.
“Fuck,” he drags the word breathlessly. “Bounce on it for me beautiful.”
Placing your hands on his shoulders for support you do as he says bouncing up and down, feeling his cock slip in and out of you in such a sweet intoxicating way.
“Yeah, just like that. Keep it up baby. Don't stop until you're covering my dick with your cum princess.”
Your head falls back, hair tickling Chan's bare thighs, forcing a shiver to run through him and a groan to escape from his mouth. The sounds he makes between each word that he mutters incoherently is delicious. Each praise, each breathy sigh and each time his hands caresses you gets you closer and closer to sweet release. Chan can tell, he knows your body inside and out. He's got everything about you memorized. So when your legs begin to shake he stands up carrying you in his arms and sets you down on the desk. His strong hands push the keyboard and his laptop safety out of the way, still deep inside you before he starts to move. He fucks you rough just the way you like on his desk like he's done so many times in the past.
“Ah… ah, Chris! Fuck baby i'm so close don't stop.” Your legs wrap around him tighter, pulling him closer. He's balls deep, hitting that sweet spot over and over in a tantalizing rhythm.
“That's my girl, cum for me. Cum so I can fill you. Oh fuck baby, you feel so damn good.” He picks up his pace and you cling onto him, nails digging into his back and clawing him.
Even when he pulls his black T-shirt over his head he doesn't skip a beat in every thrust. The shirt lands on the leather couch behind him with a soft thud that's drowned out from the intense slapping sounds created by you and Chan’s body's coming together. The pounding he's inflicting on your walls is excruciatingly… delicious and your orgasm is crashing through you like a freight train.
Your moans ring out around the small pale green colored room. You're so grateful for the s class level soundproofing in the JYPE studios, surely your cries of passion would reach the 14the floor otherwise. Your muscles clamp down around Chan's pulsating cock, squeezing and milking him while his own moans harmonize with yours as he finds his own release.
“Ah, s-shit baby. Thank fuck. Ah!”
He spills himself inside of you with a long groan still thrusting his oversensitive muscle into you and shudders when your body trembles. You feel him fill you with his warm seed. It's this sensation that's hard to explain but you love it. Chan cumming inside of you is your favorite part, you secretly crave it. You don't even mind when his cum dribbles out of you whenever he pulls out. You love it when it's messy. He's breathless and chuckles, resting his forehead on your shoulder.
“I fucking love you baby.” He says finally, his voice husky and kisses your collarbone.
“I love you too baby.” You reply with a happy sigh and your hand finds its way into his soft curls massaging his head as you and him let your bodies relax after such an intense O.
✧ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄ ̄✧
It's after 5am when Chan and you walk into the parking garage and a mischievous smile spreads on your face.
“Think you can go harder for round two Channie?”
You ask him and giggle at his shocked wide eyed expression but he doesn't let you down. He goes harder in the second, third and fourth round until you're thoroughly fucked and unable to keep your eyes open, succumbing to sleep.
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jl-micasea-fics · 8 months
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Saviour | bc
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❝𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.❞
↳ In a post-apocalyptic world where only the toughest survive, you have a singular purpose: find the leader of the mysterious gang that took everything from you, and end him.
↳ 15.5k
↳ Bang Chan x female reader
↳ Zombie apocalypse au, mafia au, mafia leader Chan, starring skz ensemble, strangers to lovers, romance, eventual smut
! Explicit content, violence, adult themes throughout, suitable for 18+ readers only !
「© May 2021, rewritten August 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」
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Through the crumbling remains of the once vibrant metropolis of New York, you walk alone.
Feet sore and legs aching, the pain is a reminder of how long you’ve been wandering. Your clothes cling unforgivingly to your sweat-drenched skin, every breath you rake in is a scrape of acrid air down your throat. The backpack strapped tightly around you weighs considerably less than it used to, and that’s not half the relief it should be.
Passing a destroyed shop front, the sign of which reads a faded red ‘DELI’, you spy a stack of plastic crates. With the weight of exhaustion slowing you, you pause to sit down, unlatching the clasp of the backpack. It falls from your body with a thump; your shoulders thank you for the break.
It feels like summer now. The days are longer, nights warmer. You squint and look up; the encroaching sunset stretches hues of pink and orange over the derelict landscape, what little glass remains in the skyscrapers catches sharp rays of waning sunlight. Shrubs and wild foliage sprout amongst the broken concrete, the streets and buildings long since abandoned by civilisation for nature to reclaim, perfect habitats for the small animals that dart about the city scavenging for food. In that you are not so different. Structures that still stand do so with a dark and deathly quiet, their depths inhabited by undead nightmares that human reason was forced to comprehend when the world fell. Avoiding them isn’t too cumbersome a task; keep to the open streets, travel in daylight, sleep lightly and only when the insomnia will allow (for you’ve come to learn that the brain protects the body, and if it’s denying you sleep, it’s for your own good).
With some time left before sundown proper, you take a moment. Fishing inside your backpack, you retrieve your trusted water bottle, holding it to your ear and giving it a shake; your heart sinks. Water and food now a scarce luxury, you’ve seen one too many times how strong a force it can be in driving men to madness. Friends against friends, brothers against sisters; sometimes it’s hard to tell the creatures from the humans. You’re glad to be able to say you’ve abstained from such barbaric means. Indeed, you’d sooner give up what little you possessed than resort to hurting another in the name of survival. Something of an odd take in this world, you suppose, but integrity ought to mean something still, to someone. Identity ought to be worth more, when there is so little to be owned by so few— even if it’s likely to cost you something in this world karma has long since abandoned. You’ll pay the price.
But there are those who are not so prepared to; those like him and his gang of brutes that run from camp to haven, city to town, destroying and killing as they go. You know all too well the ease with which they rob the vulnerable of whatever they may and murder the weak. You still recall the smell of the blood; the sickly tang of iron in the air that welcomed your return to camp from a scouting venture. The bodies and the destruction, unable to identify the corpses of your friends from those of the dead ones, for there was no end to the gore. Caches of weapons upturned and emptied, food and medicine stocks raided, tents trampled to ruin. Yet amongst the despair that threatened to end you—for how could you possibly go on alone now? —there lingered a shred of hope: a tag of crimson graffiti, rivulets of the wet paint running from the great infinity symbol someone had left behind. It was a distinctive mark, one that inspired recollections of whispers about a gang that left such a bold sign in their wake: as much a deterrent to those that might challenge them as an indication of their victory. Rumour had it that the members of said gang sported the symbol on their skin, inked in permanence in what surely constituted some barbaric initiation rite. The leader, you’d heard, was the worst of them all: ruthless, bloodthirsty, a charismatic predator.
In the graveyard that was once your home, you vowed revenge by every oath you knew how to make. You would end him, his gang, his spree of violence and terror if it was the last thing you ever did; and part of you was counting on that.
A capable tracker and efficient scouter, following the infinity symbols had thus far led you to the husk of New York. That, paired with the signs of their presence that ranged from bullet casings to corpses of dead ones made for an easy trail. You just needed to pick it back up.
Scanning the wide street, you wonder how to do that. On your side, to the left and right-hand, there are more wrecked shop fronts, looted and abandoned. On the opposite side is an open area that branches out to a three-way junction, the gently swaying traffic lights creaking in the breeze. Rusted, mossy cars clog the roads, bus stop shelters advertise their years-old movies. As far as anything interesting goes, there’s nothing. Just like every other city you’ve passed through.
Taking the smallest of sips from your water bottle—enough only to wet your swollen tongue—you suppose you should keep moving. Something will turn up; it always does. Screwing the cap on your bottle and tucking it away, you gather yourself. Heading down the broken street and crossing into the road, you keep your eyes peeled for a sign; for anything.
Minutes later and as the stretching shadows of the towering buildings begin to inspire concern, an oddity catches your eye. A reflection in the water-stained glass of a bus stop shelter; you stop abruptly and double back, jogging to the structure.
Sure enough, though light is failing, you see it; great infinity symbols sprayed to a row of old, chained cinema doors, four in bold succession. Above them are neatly painted words, embellished by white outline: ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’
Something always turns up, you grin.
***
“Shit.”
Boot tangled in another clutch of wild bramble, you stoop to free yourself.
A billowing breeze picks up and carries through the gaping underpass tunnel, redolent of dust and stale oil. Not the safest of routes to be taking this close to nightfall, but it’s the same reason that posed your decision for doing so; being under cover in the dark is objectively smarter than lingering on the open streets. Through the centre of the underpass runs a slowly trickling stream, the stillness of the surface eerie in presentation. No life thrives down here, in the dark, dank silence.
Untangled from the bramble with only two cuts to show for it, you start off once more, torch in hand. Sweeping it from left to right reveals the tunnel still empty; a relief. The crunch of silt and pebbles underfoot is louder than you’d like, echoed in the wide and empty space. To attract attention down here would be fatal, and so you keep your steps as light as possible, your pace steady, but not so slow. Exhaustion perches on your shoulders, weighing you down, ever the unwanted companion. You’ve gone too far to turn back; onwards you press.
And then you hear it: a singular solid thud. You freeze, breath catching, limbs seizing.
Thud. Thud.
You sink to a squat, hand smacking over the bright bulb of the torch, stunting its light as the cool sweat of terror sweeps you.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It’s coming from above; from the road. On high alert you listen as the pace of thudding quickens to rapid sprinting, like frantic drums in the deep. A shrill, blood-curdling scream pierces the silence, shattering your composure for tears to run free. You hold still amidst the dreaded panic; the underpass shakes, loose debris falls to disturb the stream. Paralysed by terror, a course of action escapes you, every contingency plan you’ve ever committed to memory slipping through your trembling fingers. To fight or flight would see you in direct danger. If you can but remain unnoticed, they will soon pass.
The banal groans of the undead bleed down from the road, the stench of rot and decay rolling with it. Interspersed with wailing screeches of the creatures that have mutated beyond any form of humanoid, you find those to be the source of your true fear; there’s no outrunning them, no fighting them off.
Gut churning an unpleasant sickness of anxiety and in such a desperate state as praying normally calls for, you end up doing just that. Closing in on yourself, cowering from the monsters, circling a prayer to any deity observing that they will simply pass you by; that all will be okay.
It’s the sickening crunch of bones breaking that forces you to see what befalls you; peering down the underpass through the dim, a heaped figure rises from the ground, silhouetted by the last touches of natural light. You watch in unadulterated horror as it shambles unnaturally into the tunnel; the right leg is broken, the wrist contorted around, the neck snapped a clean ninety degrees for the head to hang uselessly. Hiding no longer an option, you rise slowly, careful steps backing away. It has yet to see you, and with a little luck, won’t at all.
Crunch.
A sharp snapping of twigs and brambles gives you away; your heart both sinks and rears with fear. The dead one stiffens with attention, its sickly yellow eyes trained on you like round bulbs through the darkness. A second of suspended stillness—
And you run for your life.
A hair-raising wail floods the tunnel, and you dare not look behind you to check on the creature’s shambling pursuit. Adrenaline takes hold, the atavistic terror propelling your sprint through the underpass, your screams of despair and pleas for aid barely contained by willpower, for they’ll do you no good. The dead one’s banshee cry draws attention from the horde above; bodies tumble from the road over both sides of the underpass, their figures plummeting to the concrete with nauseating snaps and—in the cases where the rot is severe—soft skulls and limbs explode to gore on impact. Panic stricken and beside yourself with fear, your desperation sees a route through the creatures ahead still recovering from their falls.
Run. You pant through the burning of your lungs. Run, and don’t stop.
Approaching the border of the underpass tunnel, you make quick (miraculous) work of dodging the creatures that claw and lunge for you, their bodies broken beyond sense, teeth like gravestones gnashing furiously. Crossing under the lip of the tunnel to the street beyond where you might find somewhere to hide, hope is in sight.
Until it isn’t. A brutal impact of sudden weight crushes you from above, winding you of breath. Pebbles scrape your skin, though the creature that’s landed on you is of far more concern; it squirms and writhes monstrously, mostly intact for your cushioning of its fall. No longer able to contain your screams, you struggle against its thin and putrid flesh, hands slipping throughthe thing as you try to keep it at bay. An opaque eye hangs from the left socket, black teeth and rotten gums exposed, for the lips have been chewed away. The stench is unthinkable; of death and bile, of things too horrible to imagine.
“Help me!” you cry frantically; it never works, but what else can you do? The creature gnashes and drools, teeth clicking inches from your face.
“Please, someone! Help!”
Your arms buckle under the weight of it, your strength dissipating. Dead ones crawl out from the underpass, guts trailing across the stone in dark streaks as they make their slow and menacing way towards you.
A thunderclap of sound through the area seems to you to be a product of the imagination; sudden bright beams of light slice the darkness to blind you momentarily. An eruption of gunfire shatters the air, the creature above you explodes into a fine mist of blood and chunks of brain. Smothered in gore and retching, you’re pulled from under the thing by a figure unseen.
“You okay?”
Too dazed to respond, you smear the blood from your eyes, vision tainted. The depth of voice suggests it’s a man that’s just come to your rescue; the white lights silhouette the sharp edge of his jawline, thick hair a mass of curls. You blink to further focus, clarity returning enough that you can make out a dirty red bandanna around his head, a strong, scarred nose and plump lips. He stares at you, brows drawn together. “Did you hit your head?”
His voice is attractive; warm, yet gravelly.
“I... Maybe?” you reply hoarsely.
“Can you walk?”
You look down at your legs. “I think so.”
“That’ll have to do.”
He raises the assault rifle slung around his shoulders, directing it at the approaching dead ones shambling from the underpass, their numbers doubled. It strikes you that this exchange occurred in all of thirty seconds; it felt so much longer.
“Changbin, left!” he shouts, directed at a man several feet away.
“Got it!” Is the response, said man cocking a fierce double-barrelled shotgun, firing blasts of pellets into the horde to tear limbs and skin. You squint and cover your ears, the boom of the weapon almost unbearable.
“Out of the way, lady!”
A second voice from behind you; you watch dumbfounded as another man strides confidently between you and your anonymous saviour, a pistol in each hand. His violet hair flutters with an uprising of breeze, his smile near maniacal when he lifts the weapons and fires consecutive, steady rounds into the dead ones; they drop like dominos, one by one.
“Minho, watch the ammo!” the bandanaed man warns.
The raging gunfire continues, the man beside you picking off those that get beyond the other two. It’s a picture book rescue, can’t be real. After a while—minutes, hours? —he calls to them, “That’s good enough, we’re out!”
At his order, they swiftly fall back.
“You’re coming with us,” he says, rifle swung to his back as he wraps an arm securely around your waist.
“Wait, what—”
Too weak to put up any form of fight, too discombobulated to protest with sincerity, you’re dragged along by his side, forced to keep up with the pace of jog he sets across the concrete, towards the source of the dazzling lights. The other men—Changbin and Minho—run yards ahead.
You wonder if you’ve been somehow desensitised to the imminent danger; all you really feel is his warmth of presence. How long has it been since you felt that?
“Pick it up, Hyunjin’s waiting!” Changbin calls. Minho stops, sending shots in your direction, putting down the dead ones that have enough left of their legs to keep up.
The bandanaed man braces you firmly against him. “Almost there.”
Parked on the roadside and with headlights the strength of industrial spotlights, a military truck waits. The driver revs the engine; Changbin hops into the open back, pulls Minho up by the arm.
“Quickly!” Another man wearing a backwards snapback cap shouts from the truck, his hands cupped around his mouth. “They’re right on your fucking ass!”
You’re hauled into the vehicle by the waist when you’re close enough; you grab the steel bars and pull yourself the rest of the way in, arms protesting the strength required.
“Hyunjin, go!” the bandanaed man commands as he dives inside, narrowly avoiding the lunge of a swift dead one. The snapback-clad man shoves his boot into its face, sending it sprawling to the ground.
“Han Jisung!” Minho swats him. “How many times have I told you not to—”
“Not to go near the dead things, yes, I know. Yo, I was helping! I helped!”
The truck shudders and roars amidst the cry of the blonde driver: “Let’s bounce, baby!”
Tyres screech against concrete, thick smoke of burning rubber pluming from the heavy wheels. Vehicle in motion, it tears off down the dark street, the horde gradually diminishing from sight. It’s only when their ghoulish groans die out and the stench of death gives way to fresh night air that you realise your state; trembling, aching, struggling to breathe.
The click of a pistol’s chamber sounds off beside your head; if you weren’t so thoroughly drained, you’d probably react.
“Minho, Jesus.” The bandanaed man rises quickly from his crouch. “Put that damn thing down.”
“Who the fuck is she?” Minho says calmly.
“How could I possibly know that? Put the gun down.”
“You’re the one that picked her up.”
“She needed our help, I made a call.” He steps forward, eyes darting to the gun. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Minho’s jaw ticks, but he concedes, lowering the gun and clicking on the safety, an elaborate twirl back to the holster strapped at his thigh. The other two present watch, but say nothing.
The bandanaed man crouches before you. “Are you alright?”
You nod.
“No bites?”
You think about it, then shake your head. You don’t feel like you’ve been bitten. The man rakes a slow, assessing gaze over you, as though uncertain on the matter of trust. Valid, you suppose.
A moment passes, and he sighs. He holds his hand out for you to take, a warm smile offered. Something in your gut clenches; nobody’s smiled at you in years.
“Bang Chan.”
***
“Hey...”
A careful touch cascades over your arm.
“Wake up.”
Never truly capable of falling asleep, the instruction is no task. You crack your eyes open to hazel flecks and a smile of dimples.
“We’re here,” Chan says softly.
With his help, you rise from the bed of the truck, a litany of aches and pains immediately apparent. The brief rest you’d taken—on Chan’s advice and for your own sanity—seems to have made things distinctly worse; now you’re stiff and overtired.
“Where are we?” you ask, looking up at what appears to be some sort of vast hangar, long abandoned. From behind the filth encrusted windows is a dim glow of firelight, the impression of warmth from within.
“Headquarters,” Chan answers. “You’re safe here. Don’t stress.”
He climbs off the truck with ease and turns back, hands outstretched to help you down. You take them, glad of the aid in your fragile condition, yet when he opts instead to hold you by curve of hips and lower you slowly, closely, there’s an altogether different state of mind that’s inspired. Chan’s hands are steady, his physique strong; it’s entirely foreign to be touched so brazenly, but you can’t deny how nice it is. He settles you, and the seconds for which your bodies remain close is painfully brief.
He steps back, heads off towards the hangar. “You must be starving.”
You hadn’t noticed it with everything else going on, but now that you think about it, your stomach growls.
“I could eat.” You shrug.
Inside the building, you’re positively floored. While you’re unsure what a military operation or any such professional camp would even look like nowadays, this is about as close as you imagine it might get. Caches of guns are stacked in organised rows; weapons racks sport a range of perfectly maintained firearms from pistols and bolt-action rifles to semi-automatics. Ammunition cases are labelled appropriately, heavy padlocks and chains strapped to everything. Plasterboard has been erected to create sectional rooms, long, heavy curtains of mismatched patterns hung up and over the gaps in the name of privacy. Movie posters—both legible and not—are pasted to the steel walls amongst licence plates from various states and a collection of polished, painted hubcaps are arranged in a circular rainbow swirl; very art deco. Oil lamps perch on rudimentary shelving, open drums with quietly crackling fires lit inside them warm the hangar through. Aged dust holds in the air, the tang of petrol and old gunpowder lingers. In the centre of the space is a square metal table, foldable telling from the joints in the centre. Spread out on the surface and held down by sealed tins is a map of New York, its surface marked with blue and red ink—some circles, some scribbles—and pins of various sizes.
Chan observes you quietly as you take it all in, lips upturned in a smirk. When you remember how to blink, he gently nudges your elbow.
“Let’s get you something to eat.”
You follow him into the depths of the hangar until the smell of industrialism is diminished. He pulls aside one length of a paisley double curtain and gestures for you to enter; stepping inside what looks like a rudimentary mess hall, you’re once again surprised by the level of domesticity. A rectangular makeshift table constructed from timber is draped in a paisley cloth, smooth benches cushioned with foam at its either side. Plastic knives and forks are stuffed into metal mugs and presented centrally, alongside mismatched salt and pepper shakers and a blue porcelain vase of plastic peonies.
“Sit down,” Chan says. “I’ll just be a second.”
You comply, taking up residence at the table, the foam soft to sit on. Nice. Chan disappears to the back of the room, behind another curtain, and you indulge in a rolling of your shoulders. They ache dully, as does every part of you, and in raising your arm to stretch above your head, you’re subsequently hit with the wicked stench of body odour and grime; you gag unceremoniously, quickly lowering your limb. Your shirt is stained beyond salvaging, your hair matted beyond repair. A fine state to be in when meeting the first man worth looking at in years.
Chan returns moments later, a tray of bread, warm beans and tinned hotdogs in hand.
“Sorry it’s not much,” he says as he puts it down in front of you, yet the way your stomach growls in anticipation betrays your delight.
Chan grins. “Go ahead.”
Requiring no more than that, you invade the tray, an involuntary groan of relief slipping from you when the first mouthfuls of real, edible food warm you through. You can’t bring yourself to much care that Chan takes the opposite seat, that your voracious feasting is done so under his quiet, curious observance.
With hunger lessened and the last few crumbs marking the tray, sense returns to you. Dirty sleeve swiped over your mouth, you clear your throat to speak.
“Thank you.”
Chan blinks slowly.
“For this,” you clarify. “For saving me, too. I’m grateful.”
He shrugs gently. “Just tried to do the right thing. You needed help.”
“I know, but... there’s not many people that do that anymore. Help.”
“There’s not many people full stop.”
You nod heavily. “Right.”
“I know what you mean, though,” he sighs. “People are either out for themselves or their loved ones.”
You fiddle with side of the tray. “Which are you?”
Chan puffs a gentle breath. “Life’s not worth living alone,” he says. “My team comes before anything. I’d die for them.”
“And for a stranger, apparently.”
He smiles softly, irreverent hazel eyes finding yours. “You seemed worth it.”
And just like that; there’s a singular thump where your heart exists, an ache wildly unlike the others you’re so plagued with. You swallow dryly, tongue feeling too big for your mouth. Palms suddenly clammy, you drop his gaze.
“Can I ask what you were doing out there?” he eventually asks.
“Trying to find somewhere to hunker down for the night,” you reply, a morsel of the truth. Saviour though he may be, he’s still a stranger.
“In that part of the city? It’s overrun with dead ones.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“This is your first time in New York?”
You nod. “Passing through.”
“There are safer routes to take.”
You eye him dubiously. “Is there any such thing anymore?”
“Sure,” he drums his fingers on the table. “We made them.”
“You and your... team?”
He nods. “Establishing safe routes into the city was one of the first things we did when we settled here. We cleared the dead ones from main roads and the surrounding area, keep it that way with regular patrols. We aim to expand, of course. The more we can reclaim of our city, the better. That’s actually what we were doing when we came across you; we heard the commotion. Haven’t seen a horde that size in a long time.”
“So I’m incredibly lucky then, is what you’re saying.”
“I mean; someone had to be watching over you,” he laughs gently.
A moment of silence passes; Chan fidgets in place, on the cusp of asking something you’re not sure you’ll like.
“What is it?”
He grimaces. “You were really just passing through?”
You cross your arms; you didn’t think you were so easy to read. Perhaps he just has a knack for it.
“Don’t trust me?” you challenge.
“Just covering all my bases. I have people to protect.”
“Because I’m such a threat?”
He rubs his forehead over the dirty bandanna. “People are a threat.”
You take a deep breath, uncrossing your arms. If assuaging him will deter his pestering, perhaps it’s better to be somewhat transparent.
“I’m looking for someone.”
He quirks a brow, intrigued.
“A gang, more specifically, though it’s their leader I want,” you explain.
“What for?”
You swallow thickly, an anxious churning rising in your gut. “They took something from me. Something that can’t be replaced.”
Chan’s face falls. “Raiders?”
You nod. “My camp, my friends. The only home I had since the world went to shit. They destroyed it all.”
Amid your voice breaking, you pause, blinking away the sting onset by vivid recollections of who you once were, what you once had. You breathe in through your nose, collecting yourself.
“So, I’m going to destroy them,” you say sternly. “Make it right.”
Chan shakes his head. “That’s a suicide mission.”
Your silence speaks to your acceptance of that fact. Alarm sparks in the man’s kind eyes; he leans towards you in earnest. “I’m so fucking sorry that happened to you, but I guarantee it’s not worth throwing your life away over. Revenge isn’t what you need.”
“You don’t know me even nearly well enough to say that and mean it.”
He reaches across the table, hand hovering near yours. “I don’t need to know you to convince you that what you’re doing is foolish. Won’t you let me change your mind?”
And in the subsequent seconds where your gazes hold—sincerity meeting uncertainty—part of you wishes he would. In cementing the point, his hand lowers on yours, warm and strong. Another thump in your chest aches pleasantly; if he were to ask you to stay, to join them and find a new purpose, you might consider giving up your mission and seeking peace. You might, if only it didn’t mean that everything you’d done thus far would be for naught. If only it didn’t mean that the blood of your friends would go unavenged.
You withdraw your hand from under his slowly. “I have to do this.”
Chan huffs softly. “Alright. Then, we’ll help.”
“Wh—”
“Help with what?”
The question comes from a deep, gravelly voice; a man with silver hair cropped short enters the mess hall, his stature lean and slim.
Chan glances over his shoulder. “Felix, your damn hearing is out of control.”
“Yo!” Another voice shouts, this one you recognise from the rescue as belonging to Changbin. Now that you see him in proper light, he’s bulkier in physique than the others. He follows Felix, throwing a muscled arm around his shoulders. Strapped to his back is the same shotgun from earlier; a security blanket, you quickly consider.
“What’s up boss?” Changbin beams, the two men taking up casual seats at the table.
“My blood pressure,” Chan sighs. “I thought you were on watch.”
Changbin shakes his head. “Jeongin took over.”
“By himself?”
“No, man. Minho’s with him. Relax.”
And Chan does, visibly. Changbin unhooks his shotgun and slings it to the table, the carelessness of the motion setting you on cool edge. Felix drags his fingers down the polished barrel, eyes trained to you.
“Did you actually need something?” Chan asks.
“Just scoping things out,” Felix muses. “This the stray you brought back?”
“I have a name,” you quip.
Felix smirks. “A stray with claws. Nice.”
Changbin cranes awkwardly over the table, his sleeve rolling up as he outstretches his hand. “Welcome to the gang, dude. We wear pink on Wednesdays.”
You stifle a laugh, reaching out to take and shake it, eyes naturally dropping to the skin of his wrist exposed.
How funny that a second changes everything.
Inked on Changbin’s wrist in clear, onyx black is an infinity symbol.
In the moment of realisation, everything stops; your breathing, your heart, your ability to think rationally, despite what rolls around in your screaming mind. Changbin’s brow furrows; he follows your gaze to his tattoo, confused. Snatching your hand from his leaves him dumbfounded; even more so when you rise from the bench in a panic, stumbling back from the table.
Chan rises immediately. “What is it? Are you alright?”
“Don’t!” you cry when he steps towards you. “Do not come any closer!”
He lifts his hands in defence. “Okay. I’ll stay right here. What’s going on?”
“Show me your fucking wrist.”
“What?”
“Your wrist!” you yell.
Chan glances at Felix and Changbin; the former is still seated, the latter standing and primed for action.
“Okay,” he says softly, lowering his arm and peeling back his sleeve.
And it’s the same as Changbin’s; inked with infinity. Despair curls around you, so concentrated it’s enough to outweigh the rage you had hitherto nursed so well in preparation for this very moment. They killed your friends. They destroyed your home. They left you with nothing.
The moments that follow are an adrenal blur; you lunge for the shotgun on the table, mere milliseconds quicker than Changbin in retrieving it. A brief fumble with the weight of it—you’ve never handled a gun like this before—and you point the barrel at them, braced firmly.
Chan strategically (unconsciously) positions himself in front of the others, arms once more raised. His eyes are trained to the shotgun, then to you in all your distress.
He calls your name carefully. “I don’t know what’s happening right now. Would you tell me? Talk to me?”
“Talk to a liar?” you seethe. “To a murderer?!”
Chan balks. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about!”
“I really don’t. You’re the one with the gun, nobody’s pretending here.”
Changbin strides forward, past Chan. “Put my fucking baby down!”
You thrust it towards him. “Back off! Stay away!”
And Chan drags Changbin back by the shoulder, behind the shield that is his own form, the bigger man stewing in rage. Felix brings him close, arm linked tightly through his.
“You destroyed everything I had,” you exclaim. “Took it all from me! It was you.”
Chan pales, his stance faltering. “Why would you think that?”
You gesture with the barrel of the shotgun towards him; Chan tenses, eyes locked to it.
“Your wrist; the mark. The infamous fucking infinity tag of the gang that raids and kills as they please! There was a camp out west, just outside of Washington. My camp. You left that mark there like a... like a fucking victory sign for everyone to see, but the only one that saw it was me. I bet you didn’t count on there being any survivors, right?”
Weeks of wandering, weeks of nursing your hatred appear to amalgamate in a release of exhaustion so strong, your legs threaten to give out. You tremble violently, the shotgun rattling in your grip. Chan steps forward, his hands still raised. He clears his throat, his voice thick when he speaks.
“I don’t know how to explain this in a way that’ll make you believe me, so I’m just going to tell you straight up; I know which camp you’re talking about it, and we didn’t raid it. I swear to God, we didn’t.”
“You’ll say anything right now! I’m the one with the gun, and I’m not about to let you hurt anyone else—”
“We don’t hurt people,” he presses desperately. “I can’t bear hearing you say that.”
He steps forward again, dark eyes wracked with sincerity and despair. Something tight wrenches your chest; why did it have to end up being him?
“Your camp was attacked by the dead ones.”
“Bullshit!”
“I’m telling the truth. You didn’t see their corpses?”
You shake your head, unable to truly recall. There had been so much death...
“We were out scavenging when we heard the screams.”
“Why would you be scavenging that far out?” you snap.
He lowers his hands gradually. “We’ve picked everything nearby clean. New York is a wasteland. The more we need, the further out we have to go. That’s just the way things are.”
And it makes sense, something within you reasons.
“We tried to get to your camp, but we were too late,” he says, jaw ticking with the memory. “All we could do was put down the dead ones and make sure your friends wouldn’t rise again.”
The sob that escapes you is entirely involuntary; everything aches. Your grip on the shotgun slacks.
“As for the supplies; yes, we took them, but only because we thought there was nobody else left that could use them.”
“I could have used them!”
Chan’s arms fall to his sides. “I’m sorry. You’re not entirely wrong in blaming me for their deaths. If I’d just been faster—”
You can’t hear his apology amidst your own turmoil. Bracing the shotgun as best you can, you ask, “Why the graffiti? It’s not a warning?”
“No.” He swallows. “God, no. It’s stupid, actually.”
You wait for the elaboration. He scratches his nape, searching for the words, when Felix approaches his side, putting a hand on Chan’s shoulder.
“It’s a sign of respect,” the elfin man says softly. “Infinity is forever, right? In leaving our mark behind, we promise the people we’ve lost that they won’t be forgotten. That they’ll live on with us, through us, forever.”
Chan’s head hangs low. Changbin turns away, hands in his pockets. Felix drags his sleeve up, revealing the tattoo that set you to such hysteria.
“The ink reminds us of our obligation; to survive and keep fighting for the ones that didn’t make it.”
And in your heart of hearts, you know that what he says is the truth. None of these men are killers, none of their stories fabricated. Such a momentous misunderstanding cleared up should bring relief, yet you rather find that as the image of the murderous gang you’ve held central to your need for revenge melts away, you’re left with a weight of emptiness. Hunting them down was your sole purpose; without it, what have you left? A cruel, hellish world that takes the things you love and besets you with monsters.
You’re wracked with tears of the most excruciating making, the shotgun slipping from your grasp once more. Chan closes the distance, and with one hand deftly takes the weapon while the other draws you near, into chest so firm and embrace so secure. You hear rushed footsteps—Changbin and Felix? —then the swish of a thick curtain, and the tears come willingly, a surge of emotion finally unbottled for you to freefall through in the arms of a stranger that you cling to in your childlike fear.
“I’m so sorry.”
Strong hands soothe your matted mess of hair; you cry harder.
“What am I going to do?” You manage to speak in broken huffs for breath.
Chan says nothing, and holds you still, unwavering. After a suspended moment of silence, where your sobs have eased to stuffy sniffs, he allows you a little room. Searching your face, he says softly, “You should come with us on a run.”
You drag your sleeve over your sore eyes. “Like, a scavenge?”
His lips curve into a slight smile. “Something like that. It’ll take your mind off things for a little while. We can show you how we operate.”
“Would that be... okay?”
“Of course,” he draws you back into his chest. “You’ll be safe with us. With me.”
And your heart pounds despite yourself.
What does it say about the power of the man that, for the first time since the world fell, you feel able to trust in such a promise of safety?
***
“Okay, so—”
There are eight of them.
Eight men that appear to rally under the banner that Chan flies for them. Gathered around the map table in the main area of the hangar, he takes centre stage in addressing them.
“— Seungmin’s intel suggests that, aside from us, there are two other groups of major significance hunkered down somewhere in the city.” He points to a pin stuck in the west side of the map. “You think one of them is around here?”
A striking man with cherry-coloured hair nods. “That’s right.”
“So we would need to take this route to get to them.” Chan traces the map with his index.
“In theory, if the bridge hadn’t been destroyed,” Seungmin says coolly.
“Destroyed?”
“Oh, yeah. They’ve blown that shit right up, made themselves a legit safe zone. The only other way through is via the backstreets, but I guarantee they’ve booby trapped those to kingdom come.”
Chan’s jaw ticks.
“It wouldn’t be easy,” Seungmin adds.
“Is it ever?” Chan sighs.
“He’s right, boss,” Jisung pipes up. “You know we’re down for a challenge but if these people have gone to such extremes to cut themselves off, you’ve got to wonder if they even want help at all. We’d just be putting ourselves at risk.”
“We put ourselves at risk every time we go out there,” Minho exclaims nonchalantly from his side. “Makes no difference to me either way.”
That earns him a pout of disapproval from Jisung, and in watching the exchange; the way they all talk to one another, it strikes you that there’s connection behind all the organisation. Strong connection. As for Chan’s apparent objective—reaching out to another group to offer them aid? —you wonder on the intelligence of it. The dangers are apparent, the rewards shockingly slight. Still, Chan appears resolute. Such is the nature of the man; to help, to heal.
“I know it’ll be dangerous,” Chan says, “and yes, from the outside it looks like they don’t want any visitors, but they could just as easily be trapped in there with nothing. What starts as a haven can quickly become a prison.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
All eyes turn to the youngest looking among them.
Chan nods. “Go ahead, Jeongin.”
He approaches the map, leaning over it to touch the marked east side. “Doesn’t it make more sense to run to this other camp? It’s easier to get to in the first instance, at least for us. I kind of think they must be more vulnerable too.” He taps a spot with his index. “They’re right next to sewers access here.”
“They’ll have secured that area, surely,” Chan muses.
Jeongin shrugs. “Maybe. I hope so. Not that they could ever totally secure the sewers though; they’re so infested it’s almost better to leave them alone altogether.”
You want to voice your agreement—the dead ones slink to the darkest and dingiest of refuges when the sun rises, the sewer system running under New York favourite among their haunts for its maze-like protection—but refrain from doing so. You’re an observer, you remind yourself. There’s still room for disdain among the group yet; you did pull a shotgun on two of them earlier.
After a moment scanning the map, then assessing the others, Chan collects himself.
“Alright. We run to this camp.”
The other men begin to shift to attention.
“Hyunjin,” Chan calls.
“Yes?” the leggy blonde responds, reclining across a bench.
“Get the truck ready.”
And he rises gracefully, offering a respectful, “Yes, boss.”
“Seungmin, Jeongin, start loading up the supplies. Medicine, food; whatever we can spare.”
The two men nod their understanding and head off across the hangar. Chan looks to his right at Changbin, the man’s shotgun cradled in his arms.
“Weapons inventory, please,” Chan says. “Load us up.”
Changbin grins wide. “You got it.”
Something about the efficiency of the operation awes you; all with their roles and responsibilities yet tethered to Chan at the heart of it all, ever calm and collected. Watching him instruct his team—people he’s spoken of as affectionately as one might family—tells of so much more than the most obvious leadership qualities. Chan is a spectacle; a rarity. A saviour in its purest essence.
With Minho, Felix and Jisung left around the table, Chan speaks to them sternly.
“You know I’ll never ask you to follow me out there. If you want in on this, it has to be your call. I’m as content as always to go alone.”
“Shut up,” Minho scoffs, “you’d crash and burn without me, and you know it. Count me in.”
Chan smiles weakly, the truth of it plain.
“Me too,” Jisung exclaims proudly.
“You’re staying here,” Minho deadpans.
“Wh— But I can help!”
“It’s not happening.”
“Minho—”
The elder then turns to him, hands gentle yet firm on his shoulders. “I won’t be able to focus if you’re there, babe. I know you want to help, but if anything ever happened to you...” He falters. “... If I couldn’t protect you?”
And Jisung weakly acquiesces, nods gently, and curls his arms around the man’s middle to hug him. Your chest tightens inexplicably; how unthinkable that love should still bloom in the wasteland.
“You’re not going without me!” Changbin croaks from across the hangar, weapon-stuffed duffel bags tucked under each arm.
“Alright,” Chan states. “Changbin, Minho and I will take point. Hyunjin designated driver. The rest stay here and hold down the fort.”
In apparent agreement, the group breaks off to make their preparations and conduct whatever rituals bring them the most peace. When alone, Chan turns to you and stands close.
“Ready for this?” he asks you quietly.
“I think so.”
“I don’t need to tell you how dangerous it’ll be.”
You shake your head, hyper-aware of and warm with his proximity. “You don’t.”
He hums, then reaches around to his back, pulling something from the belt of his jeans. When he brings it around, you’re admittedly surprised, and that must be written on your expression.
“Take it,” he urges, handing you the compact revolver.
“Are you sure?”
He reaches for your hand and upturns your palm, setting the weapon on it tentatively. The sleek metal is cool on your skin, but it’s pleasantly light. Definitely something you can handle with ease, you think.
“Better than a shotgun, huh?” He smiles.
You turn it over in your hands, checking the barrel. It’s loaded.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Looking up at him so closely, you’re struck with a giddy swoop, tingles pricking on your skin. Chan shrugs softly; he returns your gaze, holds it.
 “Hopefully you won’t have to use it,” he mutters.
You swallow dry.
“Stay close to me when we’re out there.”
“Only when we’re out there?”
Chan searches your face intently, a brief yet subtle bite of his bottom lip betraying what tension you at first thought was one-sided. Whatever lives here, he feels it too. He puffs a gentle breath, then backs away a step, his jaw locked tight.
“If things get bad, you run, and you don’t look back,” he says.
And as he walks away across the hangar, you hope he doesn’t expect compliance with the final instruction.
You refuse to run from him.
***
Hyunjin navigates the ruins of New York like it’s his personal playground, and in that, there’s something to be respected.
You’re not sure you could commandeer a truck this size slowly through empty roads, let alone at top speed through ones strewn with debris and destruction, but Hyunjin somehow manages it with envious efficiency.
The rising sun crawls over and above the jagged skyline, its early light all too welcome. The darkness peels from the streets, the shadows retreat to their derelict homes to await cover of night once more, and it feels all that much easier to breathe. Still, Hyunjin keeps the full beam headlights primed, slicing rays of blinding white through the dim that sends nervous wildlife skittering back to the safety of their concrete refuges.
Chan and Minho ride with you in the bed of the truck, Changbin takes the passenger seat. They exchange few words—the few are quiet and abrupt—and it strikes you as odd given what you’ve gleaned of their natures until you realise the silence is for Hyunjin’s benefit; he drives with unwavering focus, and they’re loath to create any such distraction.
The steady thrum of the engine is married to occasional pops of the aged exhaust; it’s worse going over uneven terrain, but for as long as Hyunjin perseveres, so does the vehicle. The morning air is still pleasant, yet to adopt the acridity of summer. It feels nice through your hair, on your skin.
“We’re close, boss,” Hyunjin calls from the cab.
Chan straightens in his seat, readjusting the rifle strap taut across his broad chest.
“Ready?” He addresses everyone.
Changbin nods and cocks his shotgun, Minho secures his thigh holsters, the safety on his dual pistols disengaged. The truck turns into a long stretch of mostly clear road; abandoned vehicles appear to have been manoeuvred to the pavements, all obstacles and debris removed. Standing from your seat and craning over the cab, a few hundred yards ahead is a sturdy wire fence. Ramshackle signs are welded to the wire, warning off intruders and looters on pain of death, which only serves to further confuse when you’re near enough to tell the double gate that should be securing it is instead swung wide open. Beyond the fence is an overgrown lawn; a playing field, you think, telling from the rusted football posts that stand tall. The building that overlooks it all is vast in length and several stories tall, its rows of windows mostly intact as they catch the first morning’s rays. While structurally sound, the exterior still leaves something to be desired; ivy crawls with abandon and the once white pebbledash browns unpleasantly, stained by weather and neglect.
Hyunjin rolls the truck to a gradual stop. “What do you think?”
“Take it slow,” Chan calls, scanning the grounds.
Driving through the wrecked gates, it belatedly dawns on you what this place is.
“A high school?” You look to Chan.
“Once upon a time,” he mutters sadly.
Your stomach twists uncomfortably as you look upon the eerie stillness of the building that now seems so melancholy. A plastic bag tumbles lazily across the deserted playing field. Minho stands close to Chan.
“Something’s not right,” he says quietly, and in voicing the obvious, Chan’s face simply darkens.
Hyunjin pulls up gently before the apparent main entrance of the school, and a tickling of anxiety spikes as Chan and the others hop down from the bed. You follow suit as best you can, glad of Chan’s hand to help you. He rounds the truck, reaches through the front window to pat Hyunjin’s shoulder.
“Leave the engine running.”
“Got it.”
As a group, the three men traverse the few concrete steps to the main double doors, Changbin with his shotgun primed, Minho with his weapons still holstered, yet on clear high alert.
“It’s too fuckin’ quiet,” Changbin grumbles. “Why is there nobody on watch? We should have been shot at by now.”
Chan turns to you, pushing his curls back over his bandanna. “Stay close.”
Taking point, Minho pushes the nearest set of double doors open, the glass frame streaked with filth. A piercing creak whines from the hinges; he grimaces (as do you) and stops, breath bated. With no responding sound, he shoves it the rest of the way, making room for all to enter.
Inside, the light reaches nothing. Darkness reigns supreme, the entrance corridor stretching out endlessly to your left and right-hand. There’s a distinct odour of damp and rot that permeates the heavy air, puddles having formed on the pale blue linoleum, the distant trickle of a leak from somewhere. Tall lockers line the walls, some with their doors open, some with no doors at all.
Minho’s hands hover over his thigh holsters as he and Changbin start ahead, their pace slow and controlled. With silence so oppressive you pick up on one another’s very breaths, you can hardly hope to control the way your heart races with nerves. Several paces behind, you stay close to Chan, his presence a welcome comfort.
“Shit,” Minho curses, having peered inside an open classroom. He gestures to Chan. “Boss.”
To you, Chan hisses, “Stay here,” and rushes to Minho’s position before you’re given chance to complain. You can only watch as the man discovers whatever Minho just did, his shoulders sagging with apparent defeat, his hands raking down his face. Changbin joins them.
“Goddamn it.”
“Looks like it goes this way,” Minho says, pointing at the floor, then down the corridor to the adjacent room. In inching closer and focusing through the dim, you realise the pale blue is stained a distinct aged crimson. Fear seizes you, heart pumping.
A brief check on your state, and Chan follows Minho along the blood trail, the former bringing his rifle around while the latter unclasps his left thigh holster, drawing one pistol. Changbin takes up the rear, and as the three disappear into the quiet classroom, your mind races. This place was supposed to be okay.
Seconds of silence feel to drag out long minutes, yet what breaks it inspires clean terror.
“Boss, no!”
A deafening thunderclap destroys the quiet as a gun fires off, a bloodcurdling scream roots you in place. Up ahead, Minho throws himself out of the classroom, landing on his spine with a hefty thud, dual pistols drawn to tear holes through the dead one that follows him in a crazed lunge. It lands atop him in useless shreds; Chan and Changbin burst from the room, the former coated in blood. Changbin yanks the corpse from Minho to toss aside, offering him a hand.
“Fuck me,” Minho curses. “That was way too close.”
You rush over to them, your focus on Chan. “What the hell happened? Are you—”
But the man simply holds a hand up, his breath coming in rapid spikes. “Quiet.”
All comply, and everything stops.
You hear it before he does; the distant droning groans and gargles stirred by the chaos, initially faint yet growing at a volume so rapid it’s difficult to comprehend. The stench of death and decay rolls through, the resounding tumble of shambling sprinting. Panic curls around you, a cool sweat of terror pricking over your skin.
“Chan?”
The corridor shakes, the linoleum under your feet tremors, and from around the corridor’s end tumble the dead ones; a dozen or more. The creatures at the front smack and collide to the wall with their uncontrolled momentum for the ones behind to bounce off, an uncoordinated frenzy that funnels them in your direction.
“Run!”
Chan’s frantic instruction requires no thought; Changbin and Minho bound off immediately down the corridor. On his way past you, anchored in your fear, Chan grabs your hand to match his pace of sprinting. Instinct takes the lead, your mind driven as singularly as the horde’s behind you; theirs to feed, yours to survive.
At the end of the corridor the flight of stairs is taken two at a time to the second floor, the frontmost dead ones tripping over themselves at the obstacle. Your thighs burn with the exertion; you’d feel it were it not for the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Down the second-floor corridor you sprint as best you can, Chan’s hand still tight around yours.
Changbin points ahead to a set of heavy double fire doors. “In there, quick!”
Slamming shoulder to the bar for them to swing them open, once inside, Minho shoves them closed, propping himself against them. Changbin joins him, bracing for the horde’s impact which follows mere moments after.
A quick assessment of the area reveals it to be a gymnasium turned living space; the polished wooden floor is still marked with the faded white paint of an old basketball court; interior bleachers are stacked along the left and right sides. A walk-in storage cupboard sits at the back, its sliding doors drawn closed. Chan rushes to a stack of broken chairs, snapping one of the wooden legs under his boot with a sharp crunch. He tosses it to Changbin who wedges it under the door bars, locking them in place against the force of the intruding horde. They bend precariously when he and Minho carefully let them go, but ultimately withstand.
“Where the fuck did they come from?” Minho exclaims, dropping to a nearby bench.
“Guess it explains where everyone went,” Changbin huffs. “Jeongin was right; those things are from the sewers.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Minho sighs breathlessly.
“You didn’t smell them?”
“They always smell that bad.”
“Man, come on,” Changbin tuts. “They were so much worse than usual. Like, real shit.”
Wrapping your arms around yourself, you perch on one of the dusty futons. There are several more like it strewn around, old armchairs and splintered desks no doubt repurposed from the classrooms. Moth-eaten blankets are piled near the broken chairs that Chan so resourcefully made use of. In here, the morning sunlight is free to roam as it will, the multiple skylights allowing for such a thing. Dust motes swirl in the rays, disturbed by the first breaths that have been taken here in a depressingly long while.
The empty moans from behind the doors intensify.
“What are we going to do?” you ask quietly.
Chan, who had hitherto been pacing the room for an alternative route of escape, approaches and pulls you up from the futon.
“Might not seem like it now, but we’ll be just fine. We’ve been in worse spats than this, trust me.”
“I do.”
He blinks slowly. “Good.”
“I just don’t think I’ll ever get used to living in a nightmare.”
He takes your hand gently, squeezes it. “Wouldn’t want you to. We have to hope for more, right?”
“Yo, boss,” Changbin calls. Chan releases your hand; your heart sinks just a little.
“What is it?”
At the rear of the gymnasium, Changbin points to an outcropping of ledge just below the strutted ceiling, where a slim window rests open on the latch.
“There’s our exit,” he beams.
Minho strolls over. “That?” he scoffs. “And how do you expect to wriggle your beefy ass through that tiny gap, exactly?”
“No,” Chan exclaims, “it could work. We just need to reach it and we can loosen the latch.”
He looks around the gymnasium, then strides to the walk-in storage cupboard. Yanking on the door with some force, he disappears inside, and returns a moment later wheeling out a tall, wooden gym horse.
“Minho, help me—”
Together, they manage to drag it across the dusty gymnasium, the wheels squeaking unforgivingly when they angle it beneath the outcropping.
“I don’t think that’s going to be enough,” Minho pants.
“Hold up.”
Chan jogs to the broken chairs, rummaging through them until he finds one mostly intact (as far as the legs are concerned). Back at the gym horse, he balances the chair atop it, brow furrowing at the way it wobbles.
“That is precarious as shit,” Minho comments.
“It’ll have to do,” Chan says, glancing nervously at the doors that throb inwards with the growing force behind it. “We have to move. Minho, you first.”
With a deft hop, Minho springs to the top of the gym horse, the picture of elegance. Chan holds the chair legs steady as the man balances on it, reaching to the outcropping and pulling himself up with feline ease.
“Loosen the latch!” Chan calls.
“Get up here first.” Minho turns back, reaching down. “Come on.”
And with a final painful creak of bending metal and crack of splintering wood, the gymnasium doors crash open. Dead ones tumble over themselves in a bid to move as one wave of destruction, their numbers twice what they were.
“Go!” Chan shouts, grabbing Changbin and giving him a leg up to the gym horse, the man grunting with exertion when he’s then forced to balance on the chair. Minho cranes down to him, pulling him up the ledge.
Gunfire suddenly erupts; Chan rains a storm of bullets into the shambling crowd, his rifle held securely and propped against his shoulder. He picks off those closest, empty casings trickle to the ground in a steady stream, as does the blood from the dead ones torn to bits. You cower behind him in the face of it all, tucked into his broad back.
“Boss, come on!” Changbin yells.
“Her first!” He fires again; your ears ring painfully. Downing another dead one, he briefly turns to you, a gentle shove to your shoulder backing you to the gym horse. “I told you to run when things got bad.”
Run from the man that saved you? That’s trying to save you again?
A surge of defiance spurs you to action; determination to earn your place and prove that you’re so much more than a damsel in distress. You walked leagues to find this man and his crew, crossed cities and faced unthinkable danger in doing so. What happened to that girl? Where was she now?
Lost, perhaps, in the face of her turmoil. But no longer.
Gathering your courage, you draw the compact revolver from the band of your jeans, emerging from behind the man. Knocking off the safety and aiming as straight as trembling hands will allow, a single squeeze of the trigger sends a shot whizzing alongside a dead one’s rotten head.
Chan balks momentarily. “What the hell are you doing!?”
The dead one drags its feet, shambling still towards you.
“Will one of you just fucking move!?” Minho yells, drawing his pistols to fire systematically into the horde.
A second attempt to land your shot; a deep inhale and slow exhale, and a bullet straight between the approaching dead one’s eyes sends it sprawling to the ground in an explosion of gore.
“Chan, go!” You fire again, titillated in downing another. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re safe!”
Potentially very foolish, to stand your ground so vehemently in the face of such imminent threat, but desire to demonstrate your worth instils confidence as to your ability. You can do this. You can save him this time.
“Shit!” Chan curses with little room to argue much more, swinging the rifle to his back as he clambers up the gym horse. An impressive display of agility sees him skipping the chair entirely as he grabs for the ledge and pulls himself swiftly up.
“Alright,” he calls back, “I’m safe, now move it!”
Making a break for the gym horse, you haul yourself up, ears ringing tinny with the consecutive pumps of Changbin’s shotgun and the rhythmic shots of Minho’s pistols covering you. Dead ones drop to join the horrific mess on the gymnasium floor, one after another yet never seeming to make a dent in the horde.
Clambering to the rickety chair, it rocks under your weight. Chan reaches down from the ledge, strong arm outstretched.
“My hand, grab it!”
And you try; his hand is close, so reachable. Yet as the chair gives out beneath you and balance is lost, Chan’s outcry of panic is heard even over the wail of the dead ones.
With a sharp crack of skull and heavy thud of spine, you hit the gymnasium floor. The world spins, your head hot and vision white with the force of impact; you know you’re in danger, that you should get up and move from it, yet function eludes you.
What you think you see is Chan jumping down from the ledge; you think you hear Changbin yelling, “Yo, what the fuck!?”. Blasts of a shotgun take fleshy chunks out of the ones closest; they’re much closer now. Chan rushes to your side, gently helps you from the floor, your senses too dulled to really understand why he’s doing it.
“Get out of here, we’ll find another way!” Chan cries, arm around your waist to hike you up. You’re half-dragged across the gymnasium and into the walk-in storage cupboard; Chan settles you on a stack of gym mats and rushes back to the door to brace it.
“We...” you mumble, still dazed, “... we’re trapped?”
“We’re fine,” Chan grunts. “We’ll be fine.”
And of course, he’d say such a thing. The man who hopes for more, for better. The man who stands against the relentless gnashing of the dead ones at the door, and still maintains that everything will work out.
You might feel better if he simply blamed you.
***
Counting the seconds helps keep you awake.
Potential concussion aside, the numbers remind you that every second ticking by is a second longer that you survive; a good and bad thing in equal parts, you suppose.
The other benefit is, of course, tracking it. You’ve been trapped in the pokey confines of the cupboard with Chan for approaching two hours. The shuffling of the dead ones outside has quieted, their groans not quite so concentrated in frenzy. They’re probably wandering now, amidst the corpses and death. While the break from their onslaught is welcome, you’re by no means free from danger. The slightest sound will once again alert them.
Propped against the same stack of blue gym mats, you sit on the floor side by side. Silence has held for so long, you’re now loath to break it, but in stretching his legs out slowly, Chan does just that.
“How are you feeling?” he whispers gently.
“Better.”
“Your head alright?”
You nod, the ache now mild. You’re sure you’re sporting a wonderful bruise or two. Chan smiles, though it doesn’t reach his tired eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I fucked things up so badly.”
Chan frowns, brows pulled together under his bandanna. “This isn’t your fault. I should have made you go first or made that dumb structure sturdier, or something.”
“You’re blaming yourself?”
He sighs. “Who else is there to blame?”
And in a thoughtless moment with intentions of giving comfort, you place your hand over his rested on his thigh. He looks down at it, then at you, turning over his palm to link your fingers carefully. Your pulse inexplicably picks up; you swallow dry.
“I know this wasn’t the ideal first run,” he says, voice a thin rasp.
“Understatement,” you laugh gently.
Chan grimaces. “Right. If things had gone better; like, to plan, I was going to ask you to stay.”
Your chest throbs again, warm and full.
“You were?”
He holds your gaze, his dirt-streaked cheeks pinkening subtly. “I’ve, uh... never met anyone like you. Which I appreciate is probably a lame thing to say given the state of the world, but still...”
Silences becomes him, the sentiment lingers. If you could find the words, you’d tell him that it’s mutual—the gladness for your meeting, despite wanting to kill him and everything you thought he stood for less than a day ago. Chan is heart and soul amongst the cold and dark; he’s everything the evil should have extinguished. Too big a task for you to put into words the tangible gratitude you feel not just for his existence, but for his unwavering virtues that foster a sliver of hope.
Fingers still linked and Chan moves carefully; his free hand lifts to caress your cheek, the tremble therein speaking of his trepidation until the warmth of his calloused palm stills over your skin. Your face burns—you wonder if he feels it—and you hold expectantly as he tilts towards you.
When he kisses you, your heart feels like it might burst. His touch is delicate, indicative of his worry concerning your still fragile physical state, but with the way you melt into him his fervour deepens. Lips brush softly and a sigh of content emits from him; the hand on your cheek slips to your neck, his gentle hold a guide by which he angles from left to right, noses bumping in the dim. Your palm firm on his thigh expresses your wanting, the growing swell of giddy desire he so easily inspires rendering you somewhat breathless. And amongst the delight, there is pain. The surrender of adrenal tension is a knife withdrawn recklessly from your chest, for so much fear and stress suffered for so long is now integral to your soul; you have learned to love the sting of it, the weight of it. How can it be fair that it is all soothed by so simple a thing—a connection?
When he breaks from you, it’s to tears streaking your cheeks. He swipes them away by gentle thumbs and kisses you again, forehead held to yours.
“I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he breathes.
You turn into his palm, kiss it softly, the tears dampening his skin.
“Ditto.”
***
“Boss?”
A raspy voice pierces the fragile haze of your dozing; you shoot upright, the dread of alertness returning to you.  
“Boss? You in there?”
A slumbering Chan at your side, you shake him gently. He rouses and groans a complaint, seeming to remember where he is with some disdain when he takes in the surroundings of the dusty storage cupboard.
He’s about to say something when the voice speaks again: “Yo, maybe they got out?”
Chan bounds to his feet, looking up and around until he spies a small rectangular vent in the upper reaches of the ceiling. He climbs over the gym mats and up to the mid-shelf of a rack, getting as close as he can.
“Changbin?” he hisses.
“Boss? Thank fuck, man. I was starting to stress out.”
Chan laughs low—not so much a laugh as a wheeze of relief—and promptly asks, “What’s the plan?”
There’s a second of silence, then Changbin says, “Uh, well, we kind of hoped you might have one.”
“What?”
“I suggested an all-guns-blazing approach, but Minho said we don’t have the ammunition for that. Or that was the polite version, anyway.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Another voice complains. “We have a plan!”
“Keep your voice down, dude,” Changbin warns. “We’ve been over this, your plan is dumb as fuck.”
“Jisung?” Chan chimes in. “Tell me.”
“Oh, it’s real simple; we blow a hole in the wall using that C4 we pilfered from the military base a few months ago. Get you out of there nice and quick.”
“And in multiple pieces,” Changbin deadpans.
Chan rakes a hand through his hair. “So, Felix is with you guys?”
“Right here, boss,” the low voice responds quietly.
“Alright,” Chan sighs, looking back to you from halfway up the shelf. “Give us a few minutes, then set the explosive.”
“You’re not actually considering this—”
“We don’t have much choice, Bin. There’s enough shit in here that we can barricade ourselves with. Just wait for my mark, okay?”
Hopping down from the shelf, he sets about manoeuvring equipment against the door, propping them firmly: springboards, a sturdy gymnastics vault, leather pommel horses. The speed of his working draws attention from the lingering dead ones that keep you prisoner, their bumping and shambling against the door flares up slowly. Aiding him as best you can, you drag the thick mats from their stack, supporting them between and in front of the struts of a climbing frame so it stands solidly. With eventual space made between you and the wall to be blown out, there’s a clear structure of protection: thick gym mats padded around the frame will take the brunt of the explosion, any scraps of debris should be caught by the foam.
Chan sinks between the mats, pulling you in the small space with him. Your back to his chest, his arms secure around you, he now shouts to be heard through the vent: “We’re covered. Ready, Felix?”
The door throbs with those who crave entry, thumping and groaning from the other side.
“Ready!” Felix calls back.
“Are you sure that’s secure? Man, this is such a bad fucking idea—”
“How about you leave the logistics to the demolitions expert and go take cover?” You hear Felix retort. “Jesus. I’m surrounded by divas.”
Chan casts a nervous glance at the door. “Getting hot in here, guys!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Ten seconds!”
Yours ears are covered by warm hands; Chan hunches over you, his head tucked into your neck, his frame a solid shield surrounding your person.
“This is going to be loud,” he warns.
The seconds tick by painfully, breath held and drawn tight in anticipation, yet the thunderous boom you expect isn’t what you initially detect. It’s the shallow tearing of concrete that warps to a profound drilling crack, splitting the surface of the wall and sending shards of the structure inwards amongst billows of dust. The blasting impact pops your ears, a calamitous tremor of destruction that brings a rainfall of stone and metal, wire and mortar. A searing flash of heat scalds your skin despite the protection, and Chan tightens around you, sparing you from the singe of debris that makes it beyond the mats and padding. Dragging in a breath brings you to an instant coughing fit; the air too thick and acrid to take into lung, ears ringing and bones vibrating still.
Chan tries to stand, shaking himself free of the layer of powdered concrete that now blankets him grey. Helping you to your feet, the climb over the destruction is done in a daze.
“Come on, let’s go!” Felix cries from the other side.
Chan lifts you over a chunk of rock when your knees threaten to give out; the moment he does so, the cupboard door splinters and caves, giving way to the dead ones that so relentlessly pursue.
“Quick!” he urges.
Felix reaches through the fresh hole in the wall, your wrist grabbed when you’re close enough. Tugged through unceremoniously and out into unpolluted air, you’re left clamouring for breath on the moist grass; the rain on your skin is a relief, yet the darkness inspires dread. Nights shouldn’t be spent beyond safe walls.
Chan swiftly follows, and not a moment too soon as he narrowly avoids the lunge of a chomping dead one. Changbin—in all his bloodthirsty desire to help—pumps a single shotgun shell into the creature’s soft skull, the gore joining the mess of deconstruction.
“We should move,” he says.
Jisung helps you to your feet. “Come on.”
And what begins as a pace of walking hurries to a run as the shambling horde follows; their combined weight of impact is a wrecking ball against what parts of the wall still stand. Slabs of heavy concrete thud to the grass, the corpses that take them down falling with them.
“The trucks out front, just a bit further!” Jisung pants, arm around your waist. Changbin takes point, Chan and Felix right behind him, the former leaning on the latter in his still stupefied state. Down the length of the school the group runs, those of the emerging horde able to keep up doing just that in their wailing and gnashing. Your lungs burn with yet further exertion, the threat of death a constant incentive in willing your legs to keep pace with Jisung.
Rounding the building, the main entrance is in sight, whereby the truck sits parked with engine primed. Hyunjin, on sight of the group, bolts upright in the cab, headlights on full beam to slice through the night.
Changbin is the first to reach it, hauling himself into the truck bed to drag Chan and Felix up respectively. Jisung hands you off to the man who lifts you in with ease, darting off to dive into the passenger seat beside Hyunjin.
The truck roars to life with a veritable growl; the pursuing horde scatters amongst the blinding headlights, their screams as frantic as their contortions. With no time to turn around and in a smooth manoeuvre of reversal, Hyunjin backs the vehicle down the school driveway, past the playing field that sits in darkness. Once through the gates, he slams the handbrake for the truck to careen a clean one-hundred and eighty degrees (much to all passenger’s terror), and with a victory whoop, he tears off through the city.
“I cannot fucking believe that worked,” Changbin emotes, sagging beside a beaming Felix.
“I told you it would!” Jisung shouts from the cab.
Chan—despite his clear fatigue—pulls himself from the bed of the truck to sit beside you. A quick once over of your state, and he puts his hand on yours in comfort.
“You okay?”
You’re not even sure where to start.
“I’m in one piece,” you acquiesce.
He smiles weakly. “Good.”
“Hold up,” Felix interjects, a dubious look cast from you to Chan, then back again. “What is this?”
Chan frowns. “What is what?”
Felix gestures between you. “This.”
A wave of mortification accompanies the heat that crawls over you; Chan’s hand on yours suddenly feels ten times heavier. You move to slide it out, but he holds it firm, unrelenting. Felix grins from ear to ear.
“Love’s young dream, huh?” he smarms.
“Maybe.”
Changbin whistles through his teeth. “Damn. You better know how blessed you are,” he directs the statement at you, his tone sincere. “This man is the best of them all.”
***
When was the last time you felt even marginally like a normal girl?
A little, perhaps, during what essentially amounted to your first kiss in the dirty storage cupboard of an overrun high school. You can imagine well enough that that feeling of floating was probably what the old love ballads sang of, what the ruined romance novels wrote of. A shame that you can only relate to them after the fact.
This moment, you think, does something rather different towards making you feel normal. A shower. Yes, it consists of intermittent sprays of lukewarm water being dumped over your head from a salvaged and repurposed copper pipe, but still; a shower.
Changing into the loose cotton shorts and baggy shirt Jeongin kindly donated to your cause, the fresh clothes feel unthinkably good on your clean skin. The shirt looks somewhat ridiculous on you—it’s so long it conceals the shorts altogether—but it’s a welcome alternative to the grimy clothes you’ve been wearing for weeks. Inspecting yourself in the makeshift mirror fashioned from car rear and side-view mirrors artfully taped together, you suppose it stands to reason that you hardly recognise the girl looking back. She’s aged. Her skin is dry and mottled from sun exposure, her tired eyes have seen things that have left marks both mental and physical. She looks somewhat lost, you think, and that would also make sense given that her purpose until now was one of bloodthirsty pursuit. Without that, who is she? What does she do?
Shaking off the existential crisis and repacking it for another day, you leave the designated bathroom and pad through the vast hangar. Passing curtained rooms as you go, you catch signs of life: Jisung and Hyunjin’s muffled laughter, the quiet crackling melody of a gramophone to which Felix hums a low, smooth accompaniment. One of the curtains is left drawn open; on passing it, your name is called.
Changbin leans against the plasterboard that makes up his ‘doorframe’, arms crossed over his bulky chest. Takes you a moment to actually register that he’s shirtless beyond the initial shock, and once you notice it, you can’t pretend you don’t. He is built.
“Can I have a second?” he asks.
“S— Sure.”
He steps out of his room, for which you’re grateful; you’d rather not have to experience being in confined spaces with him looking like that. Regardless, his expression is stern as he approaches.
“What you did today,” he says sullenly, “it was real fuckin’ dumb.”
You say nothing, swallowing hard.
“I can’t imagine you don’t already know that.”
If he’s trying to spare you the embarrassment of having to admit to foolishness, it’s not working.
He takes a deep breath. “Look; this all only works when we know where we stand. When Chan gives an order, we damn well follow it. The others had to learn that, but for him and I it was like that even before dead people started getting up.”
He uncrosses his arms and gestures for you to follow, heading back into his room. You linger at the curtain, watching as he picks something up from the bespoke bedside table. When he turns back, he hands it to you.
“The ranks might not mean shit anymore, but a soldier’s mindset won’t ever change.”
The framed photograph is grainy and faded; weatherworn and creased down the middle. Still, you can make out men and women in military uniforms, grouped together in front of a stationary helicopter, their poses relaxed and faces bright. Front and centre of the gathering—the only one not smiling but rather more reserved in his stance—is Chan, his chest decorated with medals, his rifle strapped to his side. To his right-hand stands Changbin, tucked into uniform, the man’s arm slung around the person next to him in clear comradery. Part of you wants to ask where they all are now. The realist in you knows better.
“He’s a born leader,” Changbin says quietly. “I’d follow him into hell itself.” He scoffs a laugh then. “Shit, I guess I kind of did.”
You hand the photograph back to him, chest aching anew. He takes it, puts it back on the table carefully.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that... Chan takes on a lot of responsibility; he did then, he does now. And he feels it, you know? Pulling the kind of hero shit you did today only adds to the load he carries. You forced him to go on ahead and that left you vulnerable—”
“I just wanted to prove that I could handle myself.”
“Right,” Changbin sighs, “and I respect you standing your ground, but there are other ways to do that. Safer ways. Ways that won’t make Chan feel like he has to risk his life for you.”
You hang your head. “I’m sorry.”
And Changbin scratches his nape amidst a grimace. “Shit. I’m really fuckin’ awful at this. I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I just... he means a lot to me, is all, and I figured you’d be sticking around now too, so you should know, like, why he does what he does. Felix says that’s called context. I think.”
A gentle hand finds your shoulder, a reassuring squeeze offered. “Just be safe, is all I’m asking. Then the rest of us will be.”
You nod, blinking away the sting that crops up in your eyes. While delivery might have lacked tact, the sentiment is clear; he wants to protect what little he still has.
“I’ll be more careful,” you vow. “No more hero shit.”
Changbin quirks a brow. “Occasional hero shit? In controlled conditions with backup?”
You stifle a chuckle of relief. “Sounds fair to me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Please do.”
He grins, arms opening tentatively. “We good?”
And you step into them, returning the hug he offers, the warmth of his bare skin against you an inherent comfort. “Of course,” you whisper. “Thank you.”
When the hug breaks, his cheeks are a warmer shade. For all his surface intimidation and despite the jagged edges of his persona, he appears to care more than anyone.
“Chan’s in the main room, by the way,” he points in said direction as he backs up to his room, drawing the curtain.
 Feeling significantly lighter with air cleared, you head there immediately, finding the man precisely where stated. What surprises you are the conditions in which you find him; the central space is darker with lack of daylight, the oil fires in the few metal drums cast haloed rings of flickering amber not strong enough to reach the shadows that stretch across the depths of the hangar. Chan sits beside one of the drums, watching the flames, one knee propped up with his trusted rifle laid out in front of him. Approaching him feels like an interruption, but you can’t bear to be alone now.
He glances up when you’re close, the length of his gaze following your exposed legs. He turns back to the fire when you sit.
“Penny for them?” you ask quietly.
Chan sighs, the angular planes of his face lit softly. “Just thinking about today.”
You wait for the elaboration, which eventually comes when he mumbles, “I’m so sick of everything always ending in blood. Those people had a good thing; the school should have been safe, solid. Why was it overrun?”
He drops his knee, reaches for his rifle. One hand glides over the barrel to the stock, where it lingers. “Where were their defences? What was their escape plan? Did anyone survive?”
“Chan,” you turn towards him, taking his hand from the gun, “thinking like that will drive you to the worst kind of crazy.”
“But maybe if we had tried to reach out sooner—”
“Then what? You’d be down resources and they’d still have been overrun; you heard what Jeongin said, the sewers were right nearby them. No preparation would have been enough.”
He sags in place, fingers slotting to yours, warm and strong.
“You’ve done so much,” you whisper. “What you have here is incredible; these people are incredible, and they adore you. Be proud of that.”
“I am,” he stresses. “I really am. I just...”
“You can’t save everyone.”
He looks up at you, eyes dark. “I saved you.”
“Yeah. You did. I know I owe you my life.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
You lean towards him, cupping his cheek gently. “I owe you everything, Chan,” you mutter, “and I want to spend whatever time I have showing you how grateful I am, not just for saving my life, but for giving me a new one.”
Chan swallows, the shell of his ears pinkening in the firelight. The kiss he leans into is meant with true intention; firm and wanting against your mouth, his inhibitions slipping with the descent into intimacy. He breaks off, his breath warm on your lips when he rasps, “Come with me.”
Pulled from the floor by his hand, rifle hooked to his shoulder, Chan leads you through the darkened hangar to the row of curtained rooms. At the end most cubby, he draws back the heavy velvet draping to reveal a cosy homestead: a neat single bed against the wall covered with blankets and soft pillows, a chest of drawers sporting ornamental knick-knacks. An acoustic guitar with the strings missing is propped in the corner, and beside that, a stack of vinyl records. A hanging oil lantern illuminates the weapon rack bolted to the wall; with one hand Chan unhooks his rifle and deposits the weapon on it, tucking the strap aside.
Having yet to release your hand, he turns back to you. His palms slide over your forearms, to your elbows as he closes in. Foreheads connecting, Chan takes a slow, deep breath.
“Spend the night with me.”
You nod amidst the thundering of your heart against your ribcage, allowing the man to once more capture your lips. Arms around his neck and manoeuvred gently to the bed, it strikes you how easily the intimacy comes; it feels so natural.
His form follows as you lay back to the soft cushioning of his single bed, your throat exposed to allow his lips the wandering they seek. Each slow brush is a spark under your skin, amalgamating arousal pooling deep and heavy.
“How do you smell so good?” he whispers, the question not truly requiring an answer; he’s lost in the moment, smothering the dips of your throat and collarbone with attention. Running hot with wanting, you urge him closer still by tugging his shirt. Hint received, a hand slips under your baggy clothing, the canvas of your side and navel explored by clammy palm. The contact is enough to elicit a strained gasp; Chan recoils, concerned.
“Sorry,” you quickly reassure him, “it’s just... it’s been a while. Like, forever.”
He chuckles amidst a breath. “Ditto.”
“I mean; this is my first time. Being touched.”
And Chan searches your face, his expression unreadable. He appears to falter, and in your brief disdain you cup his face to have him heed you.
“Please don’t read too deeply into it,” you whisper. “I’m here because I want to be.”
“I know. I just don’t want you to regret anything.”
At that, you must resist the urge to laugh. “Regret being with my saviour?”
Chan smiles, nose scrunching, head dropping to the crook of your neck. A show of embarrassment, perhaps, but either way the desire soon flares. The hand on your stomach travels up to breast; slower, this time, to allow you to acclimate.
“So soft,” he mumbles between kisses against your throat.
A sharp tug on his shirt and you breathe, “Off—”. Chan complies, sitting back on his haunches to drag the clothing up and over head, revealing a tight six pack of abs and pale, svelte form. A second tattoo is discovered: a crest on his right pectoral of knife and gun crossed over, the wings of an eagle backdropping them. He returns and hovers above you; you trace the shape gently.
“Was the crest of my squadron,” he explains quietly. Sadly. “We all had them.”
You place your palm over it, craning to kiss him. He need not explain further, and only when he’s ready. What details Changbin gave were sparse, and one day, you’d certainly love to hear how Chan remembers them all. But that day is not today.
Your kiss is returned and what clothing remains is swiftly—enthusiastically—removed. Being naked underneath him brings a wave of vulnerability such as you’ve never felt. He shields you with his physique, keeps what lives outside this small room at bay in more ways than he’ll ever comprehend. Legs spread and hooked around him, Chan makes no rush of exploring your body. Gentle fingers at your centre ease you open, the glide slick enough that the tender stretch is bearable; a minute or two of his focused ministrations and you find yourself burning with the build of pleasure.
“How is it?” he rasps, his own arousal apparent, hanging thick and heavy between you.
“Good,” you confess, “so good.”
A shiver trails down your spine when he withdraws carefully. Mistaking your tremble for a chill, Chan reaches back to drag a blanket from the foot of the small bed, draping it over his back and thereby cocooning you when he returns. He kisses you tenderly, weight supported by arms that flex deliciously.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
You nod, finding breaths to be shorter and less effective the longer he keeps you in suspense; the occasional prodding of his length against your wetness doesn’t help matters, of course.
He drops a hand between you, angling himself just so. When his velvety head catches on you, you tense. “Might hurt a little,” he warns, and you’re glad of it when the initial breach floods your lower half with licks of muted fire.
Chan eases on a slow, controlled thrust, his length and girth seeming endless in the way you’re shaped around him. Clutching his shoulders, you breathe through the moment, seconds seeming hours long. Chan groans inaudibly, his lips parting through broken breath; he draws tight in every muscle, the strain of wanting to sink into you overwhelming him. When finally connected, he assesses you with darkened eyes.
“Okay?”
“Yeah... fuck—”
The expletive comes as he sets a slow pace of thrusting, the rhythm of the drag so unthinkably good it renders you near delirious with pleasure from the onset. You groan helplessly; Chan puffs a low chuckle, lips against your ear as he says, “Into my shoulder, baby. Curtains aren’t soundproof.”
Mouth pressed against his firm, smooth skin, it does enough to muffle the litany of whines you fail utterly to control. Chan moves fluidly, his lips to your neck and jaw, occasional sharp, deep thrusts betraying the power you know lives behind the control he’s displaying. The baser part of you wishes he’d let go.
Clawing at his muscled back now slick with exertion, Chan reaches swiftly behind and grabs the blanket, drawing it up and over to cage the two of you in. The air shimmers with heat and lust; Chan pulls back.
“Want to hear you,” he urges, “moan for me.”
“Mhm, Chan—”
He groans listlessly, veins in his arms protruding as he fists the blanket down against the pillow, drives into you so firm and thick. Ramshackle headboard thumps the wall gently, the mattress creaks in complaint of Chan’s momentum; being on the receiving end is so fucking wonderful a sensation. Curls matted to his forehead, lips swollen and indented by markings of teeth, he’s a vision of the most lustrous making. Living proof that while things outside are dire, a world of your own can exist in his safety.
“Fuck— Close—” he breathes.
Brought to the peak of your threshold by the illicit fullness of his cock, so smooth and solid, you feel to be fraying at the edges of your consciousness when your vision whites and your core unravels, white hot sparks of euphoria sweeping you. Chan slows the pace, his arm slipping under and around your trembling form to keep you close. Clutching to him while inside you’re fit to liquefy, the pressure of orgasm tightens around his length; he curses and pants, “God, baby. That’s it—”
Only when the fit of your release subsides does Chan withdraw, the motion swifter than you’d have liked for losing the completeness of having him inside you, but the reason becomes clear when he props up and strips once, twice over his slick cock, throbbing in his palm. He comes with a sharp pant of your name, blushed from chest to ear as he coats your belly with milky, warm ropes of his release.
What follows amounts to blissful aftercare; you’re cleaned up with a towel retrieved from his drawers and offered something to drink. All you truly want is the man that so defiled you back at your side, to be held until the sun comes up.
With no room allowing for separation in his single bed, Chan enacts the bigger spoon, your nakedness tucked into his under the comfort of his blankets. His warm, steady breath on your neck encourages the exhaustion that you had hitherto kept at bay; now in post-coital heaven, you stand no chance of doing so.
“You think we’d have met if the world hadn’t ended?” he asks dreamily.
“I don’t see how,” you whisper.
“Washington’s not so far from New York. We might have bumped into each other.”
You smile warmly; what a thought.
“Maybe in a coffee shop or something. I’d have bought your latte for you and offered to take you to dinner.”
"Yeah?” you laugh gently.
“Mhm. I’d have embarrassed myself trying to impress you,” he sighs.
“You wouldn’t have needed to try.” You turn over slowly, pressed close to take in the softly flushed planes of his face. “I’d have been infatuated right away. I was.”
Chan blinks slowly, his lashes thick and dark. “I know you think it was me that saved you,” he whispers, cupping your cheek, the pad of his thumb sweeping your lower lip tentatively. “I can’t help thinking that’s all wrong. Like, twisted, somehow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just... have this feeling; I’ve had it since I pulled you out from under that dead one. Like I can hope that everything will be okay again, and it’ll be because of you.”
You swallow over the rising lump of emotion, turning into his palm to speak against it.
“We’ll make everything okay for each other. Promise.”
“Then you’ll stay?” he blinks through damp lashes. “You won’t leave?”
You shake your head; how impossible a notion.
“Not even if the world was ending again.”
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𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙠 ♡
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straykeedz · 28 days
Note
Can I request a chan smut where you’re dating and he’s a virgin and has never done anything sexual before so you guys take it slow. You start off with giving him a handjob from the back and kissing his neck as well sometimes even light choking to see if he likes it and he becomes a sub and he cums hard. -🦋
thank you so much for your request, hope you like this! 🦋, i added you to the anon list!
part 2, kinda 🤓
cw: chan’s kind of insecure ; talking about virginity ; virgin!bang chan ; kinda sub!bang chan ; soft-dom!reader ; corruption kink (reader) if you reeaaaally squint ; a soft handjob ; cum eating ; ♡
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“Are you sure you don’t mind me wearing your pajamas?” Chan stands there, in the middle of your bedroom, with your pink, fluffy pajama bottoms and an oversized white t-shirt in his hands. 
It’s two a.m. - the two of you fell asleep on your couch while watching a movie together, with your legs entangled under the blanket and Chan’s head on your shoulder. When you eventually woke up, you absolutely refused to let him drive back home this late - he was still pretty sleepy, and it wouldn’t be safe for him to drive in such conditions, so it only made sense he stayed the night at your place. 
The problem is - it’s the first time he sleeps over, and of course he doesn’t have any spare clothes he could possibly wear to sleep. The only option available therefore are - your pink, fluffy pajamas. 
“Of course I don’t mind,” you giggle, kissing the tip of his nose. “You can change here, I’ll just grab my pajamas and go change in the bathroom,” you tell him, and then disappear out of the room. 
You still haven’t slept together - in that way. 
Mainly because with college and work you really don’t have that much free time to spend together, sadly; but also because, well, Chan’s a virgin. You were beyond shocked when he confessed it to you because he’s hot - like, really hot. You couldn’t believe it honestly, how is it possible? You’ve wanted to jump his bones since he asked you out! Not that there’s something wrong with being a virgin, of course, you just found it surprising since he’s attractive and really fucking hot.  
So, to sum it up, you’ve been taking it real slow. The furthest you’ve gone so far is dry humping, and you’ve touched each other over the clothes, but that’s it. You still haven’t seen him naked and neither has he. Chan knows he shouldn’t, but he feels extremely self-conscious about his virginity because he really wants to have sex with you and touch you and experience all of his firsts with you, but what if he’s just… bad at it? What if his lack of experience won’t make it pleasurable or even enjoyable for you? What if his dick is not enough for you - what if it’s too short? Or not thick enough? What if he won’t find your g-spot or your clit? What if, what if, what if… 
Chan shakes his head, beginning to pull his jeans down his legs. Why is he even thinking about this? It’s not like you’re gonna have sex tonight, there’s no point for him to worry about all of this stuff right now. You’re just going to sleep together - like, innocently sleeping, lying next-to-each-other-with-your-eyes-closed sleeping. He chuckles to himself as he puts the pajamas on, feeling kind of silly. 
A knock on your door. Then, your sweet voice. 
“Are you dressed? Can I come in?”
He puts the t-shirt on in a literal second. “Yeah, yeah, I’m… I’m decent. You can come in,” he mumbles, cheeks turning pink as he looks at himself in the mirror, dressed in your clothes. 
When you come back inside the room, his breath hitches because how can someone be so beautiful? You’re not wearing any make-up, your hair is not styled and you’re wearing nothing but your oversized pajamas and fluffy socks, but Chan has never felt more in love with you than right now. The thought of you being so comfortable around him to show yourself like this makes his heart swell up in his chest. 
“Wow, they look good on you,” you giggle, looking at him, pointing at the pajama bottoms. “Actually, they look better on you. You should keep ‘em.”
“I, uh… they’re… they’re pretty comfy. And fluffy too.” 
“You’re so cute,” you peck his cheek, “come on, let’s go to bed.”
It’s an innocent thing to say, you intended for it to be innocent, so why is Chan’s heart beating so fast inside his chest as he slips under the covers next to you. It’s the furthest he’s ever been with a woman - with anyone, actually. It’s soft, it’s intimate, it’s… domestic. He kinda wants to do it again and again and again. It feels nice, you laying next to him with your head on his chest, fingers intertwined with his. 
“I’m happy you’re staying the night,” you murmur quietly, circling his waist with your arm. 
He chuckles. “’T’s not like you gave me any choice.”
You giggle as well. “Oops, my bad,” you lift your head to peck his lips. Chan kisses you back, pecking your lips two, three, four, five times until he eventually runs his tongue over your lower lip, deepening the kiss. He cups your cheek with his hand, brushing it using his thumb as you practically suck each other’s faces off until you pull away, leaving him kinda confused. “Let’s… let’s sleep now. Want to cuddle?”
Chan blinks, lips still puffy and swollen from the intense make-out session. “Oh, uhm… yeah, sure. Sure,” he stutters a bit, still kind of overwhelmed by the way your lips felt on his. 
Chan panics as soon as he realizes he’s the big spoon because, well, he has a problem, let’s call it that. 
As soon as you snuggle closer to his body and your ass brushes his cock, you feel it. Chan’s cock. Rock hard. His whole body freezes and his breath hitches - you can clearly hear his heartbeat, so loud in his chest. He’s so fucking embarrassed, he feels mortified. It’s the first time he sleeps at your place and his fucking dick isn’t cooperating. Why isn’t it cooperating? 
Think of something ugly, Chan thinks to himself, hoping to get his cock to soften. It doesn’t. 
It just sits there - perfectly hard, balls kind of tightening from time to time as he swallows the lump in his throat. Maybe you’re already asleep. It’s highly unlikely, he knows it, but hey, you never know. But you’re not, because he feels you fidgeting with the hem of your t-shirt. Peachy. You’re gonna think he’s a complete loser and won’t want to sleep with him, like, ever. At the speed of light, he tosses and turns on his other side, thinking it’d be less embarrassing this way, but clearly - he’s not the best at thinking under pressure, let’s face it. 
But then you turn on your side as well, and you’re now the big spoon. “Why’d you move? I was so comfy,” you whisper in the still of the night, and Chan shivers when you place a kiss on his nape, your nose brushes his hair softly. And then you hug him, circling his waist with your arm, and he tenses under your touch, breath hitching. 
“Was… was it because of… this?” With the tip of your fingers, you brush the outline of his clothed cock over the fabric of his pajamas. He’s… very hard. 
Chan nearly chokes. “Oh, God,” he mumbles, burying his face in the pillow out of embarrassment. “‘M sorry.”
“Oh, it’s okay, Channie,” you place a kiss on his shoulder, over his t-shirt. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. God, you’re so cute,” you bite your lip, feeling him twitch under your touch. 
“I, uh… it’s because we, uh, kissed. And also because you were… pressed against me,” he mumbles, “I’m sorry,” he repeats. 
“Don’t be,” you nuzzle his shirt, breathing in his the scent of his skin. “I mean, I could… help, if you want.” 
When you palm and squeeze his erection over his clothes, Chan feels like he could cum from that only. Your touch is delicate and foreign, and it makes him twitch in anticipation. “Yeah, I… I mean, uh, only… only if you want to.”
And of course you want to. 
Leaving soft pecks on Chan’s shoulders and arms, you slowly allow your hand to slip past the waistband of Chan’s pajamas, deciding to tease him over his boxers for a bit before touching him properly. His cock is hard under your touch, and even though you can’t see it, you’re sure it’s a nice cock - at least, it feels nice. It’s not super long - above average, you’d say, but it’s thick and heavy. You really can’t believe you’re having the privilege of being the first person who’s about to wrap their hand around it - besides Chan, naturally. 
“Does it feel nice?” you ask him, cupping his balls, and Chris whimpers, shutting his eyes. 
“Mh, yeah, it… it does,” he whines, breathing faster. “Feels really good.”
You’re touching him over his boxers and he’s squirming already, thinking it can’t possibly get better than this - until it does, until your hand finally slips inside his boxers too and you touch him, wrapping your fingers around his length. His cock is hot and heavy, and it’s twitching, yearning to be stimulated more. 
“Is this better?” You tease, already knowing the answer. 
Chan muffles an embarrassing sound in your pillow when you swipe your thumb over his sensitive tip. “S-So much better. Your hand feels so good. God, ‘m not… ‘m not gonna last long,” he mumbles, embarrassed. He feels as if his whole body was on fire, and he’s pretty sure he’s red in the face, blushing like crazy until it reaches the tips of his ears. 
“Don’t worry about that,” you kiss his bicep, “tonight’s about you. Just relax, baby.”
You entangle your legs together under the covers, starting to move your hand up and down his length slowly, listening carefully to every single sound that escapes his mouth. It’s heavy breaths at first, which then turn into soft, almost inaudible whimpers when you focus on the tip, gripping the pillow tighter as he clenches his teeth. 
You want to make this first experience even more pleasurable for him, though, since it’s his first time receiving a handjob. Chan whines when you remove your hand from his boxers, already missing the warm feeling of your hand on his cock, he’s addicted already. And then, he feels your fingers tap on his mouth. “Spit, baby. Make my fingers wet,” you whisper in his ear, and he shivers. He nods, not fully understanding what’s going on, but he still does what you asked him to do, and before you know it, his saliva is coating your fingers and palm. “Good boy,” you praise him, and Chan blushes even more. 
When you touch him again, it feels entirely different. It’s much wetter, and your hand slides up and down his length effortlessly, which causes Chan to turn into a whimpering mess under your touch. “Oh, God,” he whines with his eyes squeezed shut. With a trembling hand, he hooks his finger in the waistband of his underwear, and pulls it down the curve of his ass, freeing his cock and balls.
“Mhh, much better now, yeah?” You bite on his earlobe, then lick the sensitive spot behind his ear, the one that has his toe curling. “Shh, listen,” you say, allowing him to fully focus on the slick sound your hand is making each time it pumps his hard cock. It’s dirty, it’s obscene, and Chan absolutely loves it. 
“Ba-Baby,” Chan whimpers, his fingernails digging in your mattress as he feels suddenly much closer to finding his release. 
“Been wanting to touch you for so long, Channie,” you confess, kissing his neck from behind. He gets goosebumps. “Was always scared to overstep your boundaries, though. Scared to pressure you into something.”
Chan shakes his head as a no. “You’re not. I want this, I’ve wanted this, too. Was embarrassed, tho,” he admits.
“Why?” 
It’s pretty funny, how you’re having this heartfelt conversation while you’re jerking him off. 
“‘Cause I’m inexperienced. Thought it’d… dunno, turn you off?” 
A mixture of his own spit and pre-cum is dribbling onto his whole shaft, coating his pubic hair and balls as well. It’s incredibly hot, you wish you could lick him clean. Maybe later. 
“Oh, Channie. I’m with you because I like you. I don’t care if you’re inexperienced, my sweet baby.”
“Yeah?” Chan asks, sounding pained. He’s close, so close. 
You nod against his skin. “Yeah, I… I think I might love you, actually.”
“Oh, fuck. Baby, baby… I’m so- close, fuck,” he pants, abdomen clenching, whole body shaking, ready to orgasm. “I might love you, too, baby. Wanna- wanna experience everything with you, baby. Wan’… wan’ you to take my virginity, wan’ you to be my first.” 
“Channie-“ you clench your thighs together. 
“‘M about to fucking cum, baby. ‘M-“
He quickly flips to rest on his back, so that he wouldn’t stain your sheets with his release. Always so thoughtful, your Chan. He even lifts his t-shirt, exposing his abs and torso, and this time watches carefully the movements of your hand on his cock as you pump him faster. 
“Cum for me, Channie.”
With a high-pitched sound, he spills his seed all over himself, hiding his face in his hands as you milk him dry, making sure he gives you everything. He cums so intensely that his body just won’t stop shaking, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to catch his breath. You let go of his limp cock, not wanting to overstimulate him. 
“You were so good to me, Channie,” you murmur, kissing his temple tenderly. “Did you like it?”
Chan takes a deep breath, and then he finally removes his hands from his face and looks at you. “Like it? My soul just left my body, I think,” he chuckles, but he’s still embarrassed. “’t was so good, really.”
“‘M happy you enjoyed it. Now let’s get you cleaned up.”
With a towel or some tissues, Chan thinks, and he’s about to turn the light on to grab some from your nightstand when he feels you shift under the covers. Then, your hot tongue on his skin, starting to lick him clean. 
“Oh. Oh.”
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hwangskitten · 1 month
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Minors do not interact
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it was the most usual thing for you to have a lollipop with you at all times in case you had to be in a car. your boyfriend also had a few in the glove box. today however, in the middle of an empty road with no shops in sight, you've realized that you didn't have any of them left.
"channie..." you were tearing up. the nauseous feeling was so annoying.
"love, do you necessarily need a lollipop or would something else suffice?"
"it doesn't have to be a lollipop. I just need something in my mouth."
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ
chan looked down at you. he knew keeping his hand on the wheel was going to be too much of a struggle but he couldn't pull over. he had to keep driving so that you'd have a reason to have him in your mouth.
you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, kissing the tip and giving kitten licks before taking him in your mouth inch by inch.
a growl left his mouth at the warm feeling of your mouth. he stroked your hair, as you moved your head up and down slowly.
chan did his best to keep his focus on the road but the moment he parked in your building's parking, he pushed your head down. you felt him twitch when you gagged. you knew he was close but you got up before he could finish.
"why did you stop now princess?" chan asked, his voice deep, breathing heavily.
"well you're not driving anymore and I want you to cum inside me, daddy."
chan ran his finger through his hair, chuckling and getting out of the car. he opened your door, pulled you out and pushed you against the door of the car.
"you're gonna be the end of me."
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