#chanvember 2019!

[yeoldontknow]

The Morning After | (M)

Author’s Note: welcome back to chanvember! i hope you enjoy this piece <3 its been a while since ive written smut for him and given how the last time went over, ive been very nervous about this. so i hope everyone has a great time! | this work features graphic sexual content and themes not suitable for an audience under the age of 18. please do not read if any of the warnings make you uncomfortable or if you under 18. Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: smut; romance; friends to lovers!au; fluff; angst; au Summary: For the last several months, every time you and Chanyeol get drunk you wind up in bed together. At this point, you’ve come to expect it - it happens like clockwork. But now, your feelings for him have developed into something much stronger than friendship. Now, you’re not sure you can carry one pretending to be fine with this arrangement. Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit sex; explicit language; unprotected sex; creampie; sex on a kitchen counter for all to see (but the stove isnt on; safety first!); dirty talk; drinking games; jongdae possibly passed out in the snow Word Count: 11K

The heat of his body pressed against yours is what wakes you, the full length of his limbs nestled against your skin, seeking security. 

Chanyeol is needy in sleep, always curled against you in the hopes of sharing warmth, contact, and affection. Waking up beside him, held so tightly in his arms, his breath cascading over your neck, is your favourite part of this non-arrangement - the glory of waking up and feeling wanted. He’s good at it, too, tall enough and warm enough to make you feel special, protected; and enough to make you want him him down to your soul, as though you could ever want him less. 

But this, you know, is also your least favourite part of waking up with him - apart from waking up at all. The gift of waking up feeling held, protected, needed, down to your very bones, is a blessing most people savor, something they would hold onto with both hands, reluctant to release even after morning breaks. But you, you know what it means, and it’s the meaning that stings, even if it’s shallow. Being held like this makes it <i>hard.</i> It makes it hard to leave, makes it hard to remember who you are and what you are, feeling special only to remember these fleeting moments don’t last. 

With other people, you’ve grown accustomed to waking up and walking away - in fact, you relish the act of leaving, body sated and mind empty, your craving reduced, in these morning hours, to coffee and solitude, with no room for anything else. With other people, you disappear as though it is your magical blessing, body already awake before dawn, footsteps quiet, and smile reserved for yourself, for the satisfaction that comes from liberating yourself from men you don’t really want.

For you, walking away is easy, a sacred talent of empowerment, but, with Chanyeol waking up hurts.

The sun seeps through the linen of the curtains, and you sigh, blinking resolutely at the yellow hue fully aware you’ve missed the dawn, and thus missed your escape. Mouth dry, the alcohol from the night before lingers on your tongue, much the same way his hand lingers on your stomach, palm flat as if to hold the totality of you. His other arm rests beneath your neck, cradling you close, protective, while still ensuring you are comfortable enough to sleep. 

Biting your lip, you press back against him, feeling the hardness of his erection rub against the curve of your ass, as much a reminder of his anatomy as it is a phantom memory of the previous night, the purposeless celebration, and the way you fell to bed together, acting as though you were surprised and unprepared.

Chanyeol was already drunk when he found you, stumbling into the living room with a smile on his face that spoke of yearning, Your own motor skills had been delayed by the alcohol in your system, a frown set on your face as you attempted to figure out the HDMI settings needed to use the Nintendo Switch the Air BnB had so generously provided. It was for Mario Kart, you complained, eyes wide and pleading with Chanyeol’s savant capabilities with wires and technology. He had to help you. 

But he didn’t want to. He said this with a pout, reaching for your neck and shoulder with messy inelegance, looking bereft, the beanie on his head too large for his cheeks, giving him the appearance of someone too innocent for his age. The drinking games had gone poorly, bad enough to hurt his pride, and he was seeking consolation for his losses. He needed you, he said, adamant and desperate, pleading even though he’d never admit it, looking so young and so small and so terribly needy. 

Hands on your hips, you grimaced, told him he’d only get comfort if he helped you, annoyed because he certainly did not need any comfort. He was terrible at drinking games, the only games he could never master because he could never master his drink, and he should know this, you said. He’s smart enough to know. 

You don’t remember how his lips found yours. If you’re being honest, you rarely ever remember. Every time, you never truly remember much beyond the blinding haze of desire that floods your limbs whenever you look at him, but you remember the feeling. It was so unlike the kisses he usually gives you when he’s this far gone, hands seeming to remember where you like them best and lips moving with an assured confidence, as though he no longer needed permission - as though kissing you was something that came naturally, and without hesitation.

Chanyeol walked you up the stairs, one at a time before pulling away from your lips with a frown, and lifted you, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you the rest of the way.

‘Fuck off.’ A weak protest, one that you mumbled against his lips. ‘I’m too heavy.’

‘No, you’re not. Shut up.’

He resumed kissing you, kissed you even as he pushed through your assigned room, the room you staked claim in by dropping your bags not seven hours previous. You were glad you’ve moved them to the floor. 

It was messy, from there, his hands at your jeans and pulling them down while your fingers worked at his belt - too complicated, you’d said, and he’d laughed. His mouth found your core, licking a full line up your slit before diving inside. He moaned on contact and so did you, not bothering to be quiet. Downstairs, Jongdae yelled victoriously - another win. In bed, you gripped Chanyeol’s hair with one hand and the bed sheets with another, feeling victorious yourself as you rolling up against his face until he kissed your clit and told you not to come. 

The thickness of his girth still resonates between your legs, stretching you to a fullness your body always remembers, but can never replicate with your own hand and fingers, not even your vibrator. He fucked into you while he called you love, and baby, and perfect, kissing at your breasts as he fucked you hard enough for your hips to hurt. He came inside you, too, a new development that makes you grateful you’ve been taking birth control, a new development that makes your thighs clench in memory. Overwhelmed by his orgasm, he moaned into your neck, biting down on the flesh until he shuddered to a halt, cock still twitching inside you.

He kissed and kissed at the mark, apologizing for the redness and any pain, kissing at your lips only when you told him it didn’t hurt too much, and that you liked it. 

Your hand finds the mark now, careful not to disturb him. Running your fingers over the mark, the bumps and indents of his teeth still remain and you still feel him, the pain gone and leaving with it a memory of heat and wanting, a tattoo of recollection that makes your chest feel tight. It’s strange, you think, to feel marked and claimed without anyone truly wanting the possession of you, a feeling that makes you feel lonely rather than alone. 

Turning over to look at him, making sure your do so lightly, you eyes catch sight of his tattoos, the dark lines and art casting shadows on the veins and always so tantalizing to touch. Cuddling closer, you run your hands through his hair, aware that an action like this is both too affectionate and too risky, but you find it can’t be helped.

A few months ago, you discovered that he enjoys having his hair stroked, though you never do so when he's sober and certainly not when he's awake. But when he's sleeping, and you've been lucky enough to have him, he cuddles into your touch, whining with a puff of air through his lips. He's needy, your favourite thing to learn about him - a man so notoriously detached from connection and romance craves it with all of himself when his guard is down, and when he doesn't know he wants it at all. 

The sun hits his skin in ways it seems to avoid your other partners. Lately, you've woken up with other people and watched the way the sun carves edges into their skin that makes you feel hollow. It does not make them ugly, just harsh, illuminating all the reasons they aren't what you want, only just what you needed - briefly and for a limited amount of time. On Chanyeol, the sun finds a home, turns the tips of his ears pink and adds dimension to the dark strands of his hair, the curls turning from a deep brown, almost black, to a rich chocolate, turning him amber and amber, and turning your heart to amber, frozen in the single moment of your admiration. 

His eyelashes splay over his cheeks as he sleeps, a slight flush of rose smeared against the bone, and you smile, knowing that even under blankets with another person the heat is sweltering, You're warm too, always a little too warm with him, but for some reason you don't mind. Always, you push yourself away in bed, careful not to touch or be touched after you've had your fill, looking forward to leaving but not really sleeping, chest filled with great disdain for accidental contact. 

With Chanyeol, sleep comes easily, easier than it does even when you're on your own, and so you've learned to hate leaving - often already left, body finally relaxed into a state of comfort with him, rousing only when he has departed entirely and craving the lack.

Having spent too long thinking around and through him, beyond comparison and into craving, Chanyeol's eyes begin to flutter with the first traces of wakefulness. Feeling adrenaline seep into your veins, you pull your hand away, dropping it carefully on the pillow beside your head and closing your eyes, hoping he does not notice or feel your movement.

For a moment, there is only silence. Silence and the deep, low growl that always accompanies Chanyeol's yawns. Biting the inside of your cheek, you force yourself not to smile, always amused by the sound and the way it resonates around the room, long and aching as though he pulled it from deep within his soul. When he's quiet again, the sudden lack of noise, only his even, smooth breaths remaining, feels painful, hair on your arms standing on edge, defying the weight of expectation.

'Really?' Chanyeol's voice comes as a soft mumble, a whisper of reverence that makes your chest flush. You're glad to be covered by the blankets, the pink heat of it hidden from view. 'Again?' 

Not a trace of displeasure tints his voice, the smile he wears offering a gentle caress to the cadence of his tone. If you could, you'd sigh in the breadth and the wake of it, luxuriating in the way his smile can never be hidden, not even by the darkness of your closed eyes and the icy cruelty of the morning sun. Chanyeol drips everywhere, all over you and into your soul, smiling to himself in his own amusement and smiling into your spirit, giving you wings enough to feel carried through the day. 

It's enough to make you want to stay. It's enough to make you think it could be easy. 

But he moves under the sheets and the spell is broken, reality scratching at your shoulders, reminding you this kind of softness is never reserved solely for you, especially not when you’re sober. 

You focus on keeping your eyes calm and still beneath your eyelids, waiting for him to depart and counting down the seconds to the loss of his warmth, his touch, and his attention. Idly, you wonder if you’ve ever waited long enough to wake up with him, realizing that there is no record time to make it to, no goal to achieve before the norm feels broken. By missing the dawn and having your fill, you’ve already broken the mold, and now you must start over, from nothing and from everything all at once.

The pillows and the sheets wrinkle, bed shaking with the motion of his long limbs, but the warmth doesn’t leave you. Instead, it comes closer, one of his legs sliding between yours, the bone of his hip meeting the curve of your stomach as he curls into you. Chanyeol brings himself closer, humming with a rumble of contented bliss, and your heart lurches into your throat.

A lump forms. Panic rises. You feel yourself drawn into him by your own accord, lured, like always, just as a magnet to its pole, to the cascade of affection radiating from his soul. And it would be so easy to give in, to let yourself fall back asleep and pretend you didn’t feel him, you never felt him, that this whole time it was him who was preparing to leave, but you can’t. 

To let it continue would only be a detriment to your soul and to your heart. And so, however unwillingly in the effort of self-preservation, you furrow your brow, assume the imagined expression of a person learning to greet the day, and open your eyes, met, instantly, with the kind tenderness of his stare.

Blinking at him twice, you let your eyes adjust - to his brightness, to the feeling of seeing him see you first, before anything else, and to the notion that he has not moved. Chanyeol does not pull away, not even a little.

'Morning,’ he whispers, settling deeper into the pillow, getting comfortable.

Strands of hair fall into his eyes, your fingers twitching, straining with the effort of keeping still and refraining from wiping it away. Chanyeol narrows his eyes and blows them off his forehead instead, shaping his lips into a perfect circle. The air leaves your lungs, leaves you breathless, transfixed by their pink softness.

'Hi,’ you manage, the word barely more than a murmured breath of acknowledgement. 

He chuckles, wiggling his toes against the bed. The muscles in the leg caught between yours flex, and you wait for him to comment on the intimacy of this position, but he does not. 'Day one and we're already at it.'

It’s your turn to laugh, looking away from him, sheepish. 'We've been making a habit out of this.'

'We?' he exclaims in mock offense. 'I think you mean you?'

'Me?' you laugh. 'You were the one all sad and looking for a kiss after you lost, what? Kings? Beer pong? Whatever the fuck you were playing.’ Letting your smile fall into a pout, you regard him with wide eyes, teasing. ‘Jae and I just wanted to play Mario Kart.'

'I didn't need a kiss,' he whines childishly. 'I wanted a hug or something. If you didn't give me one I would have been fine.'

Rolling your eyes, you click your tongue. 'You are literally the least self aware person on this planet.' Gasping, Chanyeol wiggles in the bed in protest, and you press your hands against his chest, laughing. 'Calm down, you know you are! How do you do that?'

With a deep pout and a huff, Chanyeol stops his fussing and lets silence fall over the room once more. He doesn’t make any motions to leave, and you keep your eyes on his muscles, waiting for any sign of abrupt departure, keeping yourself on edge. Your hand leaves his chest, skin still tingling with the contact, bringing it under the sheets to press your nails into you leg, hoping to erase the sensation. 

In all his fussing, Chanyeol has brought his chest as close to yours as he can, close enough one deep inhale on your part would press your breasts against his sternum, and so the motion of your hand beneath sheets, accidentally and inadvertently, grazes against his side. Eyes going wide, Chanyeol pushes away, albeit not far, a playful smile of protest tugging at his lips.

'Stop!' he yelps, though it falls away with little protest, revealing an undercurrent in his tone than sends a shiver down your spine. 'That tickles!'

Drunk on the power of this moment, you smirk. 'You big baby, I didn't do anything!'

Even as it happens, you can feel this moment and the weight it carries, the change it means to deliver. Biting your lip, you watch as Chanyeol remains still, expectant, eyes alive with a hunger that keeps you nervous and, conversely, invigorated, driven to know what a look like this could mean. Something about this look speaks of desire, longing, and encouragement, and so you act quickly, with little thought at all, hooking your leg over his hip to flip him on his back. 

Straddling his hips, you bring both your hands to his sides, and tickle him, keeping your thighs locked on either side of him as he fights. 

Loud in general, Chanyeol’s laugh is thunder against your skin, an earthquake that battles at your sternum, demanding entry to your heart. His laughter his loud and so is his yell, the yell of defeat he releases as he grips your hips, head thrown back and eyes closed, smile on his face bordering in ecstasy. 

But he yells, and in the aftermath, you both pause, halting your motions, watching one another in abject shock.

People have seen you - everyone sharing this Air BnB with you has seen you with him. Waking up with Chanyeol is not new, hardly a new development that could surprise anyone.

The first time you kissed, you were both wasted - exceptionally, beautifully caught in the throws of a haze that made you both ravenous for attention. It had been Baekhyun's drunken suggestion, tossed nonchalantly into the wind as a way to break the tension and ensure you both received what you were looking for, thus leaving everyone else alone. In a way, your lips on Chanyeol was a drunk form of entertainment, a way to prove to everyone, and to yourself, that friends - best friends - could kiss and make out and still come away unchanged, perhaps closer, delighted that boundaries had been blurred without any real consequences.

And so you kissed him with vigor, kissed him hard and long, mostly to make everyone laugh or gasp, waiting for a reaction, but partly, and in many ways most of all, to prove to yourself that you could. You kissed him as a means to prove to your aching heart that the torch it had been carrying and feeling ultimately meant nothing and that, with one taste of Chanyeol's lips, you would be sated and disinterested, glad to have someone to keep you comfortable when your skin flares with desire for a pair of hands.

The problem, in the end, was that you kissed Chanyeol and then seemed to never stop. 

The second time, it escalated to his fingers against your waistband, teasing the skin while he sucked your bottom lip, hesitation in his touch but not his tongue.

The third time, he'd left marks on your shoulder and your teeth had marred his neck purple, and everyone had noticed, your foundation not a match for his complexion; your breasts ached with the feel of his palms for days, desperate to feel the force of his touch once more.

The fourth time, he'd asked you if you wanted him to stop, lips wet with your kisses and the traces of his beer, eyes wide and affectionate, and aware enough to be concerned. His hands lingered at the waistband of your sweats, gripping the fabric tightly, while your legs lingered at his hips, your shirt discarded somewhere across the room. You told him no, don’t stop. You never wanted him to stop. 

The fifth time he did not ask if you wanted him to stop. It was clear you didn't want him to, not with your mouth around his cock. He paid you back in kind with three fingers in your cunt and his lips kissing against yours, smirking possessively until your came around his knuckles. You watch, cheeks red and soul blanched, as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes on yours the whole time.

The sixth time, there was no room for words - not with the way he gasped as he fucked into you, and not between the moans he pulled from your throat with each snap of his hips. There were no words after the orgasm, your body still shuddering against his while he held you, his own lips pressing soothing kisses to your neck and chest, right above your heart.

There hasn't been room for words since, not for at least nine months, perhaps even longer - you've really only started counting the times where you woke up with him, not the times your mouths found one another accidentally on purpose. 

And so, everyone is aware of this silent agreement - all agreeing silently not to talk about it because the tension always seems to disappear in the morning. But with Chanyeol looking up at you now, eyes wide and cheeks blanched, you know he's not ready for someone to see you in bed. Something about being found feels to real, to raw, and you’re not sure either of you are ready to bear that cross. 

Your heart sinks. Your mind races. You realize this is why it’s best to leave, even if it hurts.

Chanyeol rolls his hips up into yours, his erection pressing against your core as a reminder you both are naked and wrapped against one another in the sheets. His hands grip tightly at your hips, your own hands pressed against his sides, careful not to move, as he rolls up against you once more. Eyes falling closed, you remind yourself this is his favourite position. He’s said as much, declaring it so because he gets to kiss you, keep his hands on your breasts, and wear you like armor - his drunken words six months ago when you came so hard around him you thought the prison of your bones had been shattered.

Grinding down onto him, responding in kind to his movement, you wait to see if he will meet your pressure, but he doesn’t. Chanyeol keeps still, trapped in a state of wait but for what you can’t be sure. Mind fogged and heart starting to feel like glass, you can never seem to truly sense the needs of his body when you’re sober - your own mind and body wrought with the pleasure it feels and the awareness that it still feels good, perhaps even feels best, without the burning edge of alcohol laced through the satisfaction. 

For what feels like too long, Chanyeol doesn’t move, his hands on yours an anchor that only serves to remind you of all the ways your feelings and his touches are a problem.

'Sorry,' you say, keeping your voice even and clear. 'I didn't mean for that to get loud.'

Sliding off his hips, you don’t bother remaining in bed, too awake to let yourself pretend anymore. Throwing your legs over the side, you look down, seeing the clothes you’d thrown in your haste. The memory of how Chanyeol hadn’t bothered to fully remove his jeans, sliding them down his thighs enough to push inside you turning your mouth dry. With no trace of your underwear and the nearest thing being your shirt, you sigh and rise to a stand, putting it on with a stretch. The hem of the shirt just falls to the curve of your ass, rising up slightly each move of your arms overhead. 

Outside the window, endless white seems to filter through the gaps, a too bright sheen battling against the sun. The hardwood floors sting their chill against your toes, and you hug yourself in a shiver, glad for the snap of winter to keep you grounded and level headed. 

'You're not gonna put underwear on?' Chanyeol asks, breaking the silence with a tight voice. 

'Calm down,’ you laugh, keeping your chastisement soft. Walking away from the bed, your nod in a vague direction. 'My bag's over there, I'm not going far.'

Crossing in front of the footboard, you turn to look at him over your shoulder. He’s pushed himself up against the pillows, erection tenting the sheets gathered at his waist as he watches you, pupils dilated and jaw tense. His hands remain nowhere insight, body still and chest flushed. It’s the sort of vision that will stay with you long after the morning has passed, taking possession of this moment with greedy hands and fingers, and you smile, unsure how the expression truly looks, not bothering to mask any of your emotions, if only for this moment. 

Chanyeol’s head tips back, nostrils flaring as he exposes more of his neck in the effort of appearing long, powerful, imposing. Wetness gathers at your core once more, threatening to glide onto your thighs from the force of your desire, and you turn away from him, looking back out the window, hoping for a distraction. 

'It snowed last night,’ you muse, hoping the white blanket beyond the curtains can help ease the racing of your heart, the empty expanse soothing.

'Must be why I slept so well.’ Chanyeol’s words are heavy, thick, and you try not to focus on the sound, aware of the effect it will have on the clenching of your thighs. 'Finally cold enough for your body heat.'

Rolling your eyes, you shift your gaze from the window and crouch in front of your suitcase, careful not to bed over or to tease. 'You say that like you're not a personal heater,’ you counter, rifling through to find your favourite hoodie. ‘Or like you don't actually sleep well after you've fucked me.'

Chanyeol huffs, sounding petulant. 'It's the orgasm.' 

'Well,' you laugh, sliding on your underwear with a sway of your hips, 'at least I still get to say I'm responsible.'

Pulling your hoodie over your head, you immediately regret your choice. Chanyeol was the last person to borrow this, the fabric having taken on his sent - or, maybe, it was his to begin with, and you had stolen it. It’s been passed between you both so many times neither of you really remember who has rightful possession, sharing it with mutual custody. The problem, now, is that it smells like him and is too warm, too thick, for the bedroom, the heaviness of both these things making you feel light headed.

'I'm gonna go make brunch,’ you announce, giving yourself an escape as you turn to face him once more. 'Can I expect your help with the pancakes?'

Head tipped back against the headboard, he nods minutely. 'Yeah, just need a minute.' 

Humming in a noise of acknowledgement, you duck out of the room, considering all the lines you’ve crossed from the moment you opened your eyes. Too much touching, too much laughing, too close - far closer than you’ve ever been while sober, blurring the limits and boundaries you’ve defined for yourself. The taste of alcohol lingers on your tongue, but it does not linger in your blood, aware that the choices you made this morning were done with clear, selfish rationality. 

Walking down the stairs, you’re glad for the distance you put between one another, giving himself time to think and yourself time to rebuild your armor. 

The kitchen is far cleaner than you remember it being, glancing over to the open expanse of the living room to see this, too, has been cleaned. Smiling, you make note to thank Minseok and Jae, both early risers who likely sorted most of the mess before taking their morning run together. In a distant room, Baekhyun snores, though there remains no sign of Jongdae, the door to his room fully open and bed empty when you passed. Briefly, you wonder if this will be like the time you found him on the lawn in college, passed out with a bottle of beer in one hand and a smile on his face.

The thought makes you smile, but you imagine since there’s snow, if this did happen, he would have woken up and moved himself somewhere warm - you trust him at least enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

You’re grateful for the silence of the house as you begin to cook, the one thing that truly relaxes you, an automatic response of your hands married to your eyes,   having long surpassed the need to measure, plan, or time your actions. Chopping garlic, your hands do the work for you while your mind walks, travels far back beyond the first time you kissed Chanyeol, looking for clear moment to define when your feelings changed.

Still, you come up empty, aware that it likely wasn’t any one thing that turned your feelings of love from platonic endearment to deep rooted longing. Rather, it was a lot of little things that accumulated over time. Intimacy is a thing that is gained, gathering not unlike the snow during a storm, piling until you notice it and until it sticks - until, in the end, you find yourself buried, unwilling and unable to moved back to your prior state, not unless the season of your heart changes. 

Intimacy between you and Chanyeol had gathered almost violently, aggressive in the way you suddenly anticipate his movements, skin hungry for his and heart ready to give and give all of yourself over to all of him, without question or hesitation. With Chanyeol, you do not hide, you know that you do not have you. With Chanyeol, you know that you are accepted unconditionally, already aware of your greatest flaws and still supporting you in spite. 

With Chanyeol, you know there needn’t be a reason for you to have fallen in love with him, accepting, in the end, only the knowledge that you did. Most of all, the knowledge that a love like this, was ultimately inevitable.

Whisking the eggs and garlic together in a bowl, you feel Chanyeol enter the room rather than hear him. With your back to the entryway, the atmosphere seems to change simply because he is there, the electric shock of awareness running down your nerves. Food was the first thing you shared with him, long ago and long before you knew his name, dipping your fry into his milkshake with his permission the night Baekhyun introduced you.

Over time, you’ve continued to share food: drunk breakfasts, sober dinners, holiday meals cooked together, prepared in quiet understanding of one another’s movements. Every time you cook together, the chaos that usually follows you is seemingly absent, falling into a comfortable, wordless flow. 

A smile pulls at your lip, glad for the familiarity of the silence that will come from his help. Cooking with Chanyeol, there will be no need for conversation, hopefully eradicating the sensation that anything has changed at all.

'Can you start making the pancake batter?' You don’t bother to take your attention away from the eggs, already imagining his small nod and proud smile. 'You're so much better at pancakes than I am.'

Chanyeol comes behind you, pressing his chest firmly against your back, curling over your short frame as he drops his chin onto the crown of your head. You pause, lifting your eyes and keep them trained straight ahead at the wall and the cabinets, waiting for his petulant whine of disinterest. Or, perhaps, his claim that he doesn’t want pancakes and would rather have toast, something far easier to make when hungover but equally as hearty. 

He’s done this before, after long bouts of teasing and usually in conversation, wrapping around your body to make your movements difficult, to slow you, to tease you. Chanyeol has done this before but he has never done it the morning after, certainly never done it with drink still in his system and without expectation. Closeness like this always demands more, and you feel too sober to let yourself get carried away.

Forcing yourself to smile, you run through these thoughts and prepare for his complaints, building up your walls on instinct. Instead and without warning, he brings his hands beneath your hoodie and shirt, pressing his fingers firmly against your skin as he hugs you close, tight enough you imagine he is seeking to bind you to him. 

'It's cold,' he whispers, as though this explanation is sufficient enough. 

'Yeah,' is all you can manage.

You wonder if he is lying, if he actually is cold at all, his hands and fingers perfectly warm to the touch. If he were cold, you’d already have swatted him away, startled by the chill of his skin. But he remains, and you let him stay, his heat flowing and spreading over your skin like a fever. The warmth of this is familiar enough to water you, tongue feeling heavy as your walls clench around nothing. 

'You're warm,’ he continues, tipping his head down to kiss against your hair as he speaks.

You blink. 'Are you still drunk?'

He laughs, shaking his head against yours and messing up your hair. 'No.'

'Hungover?' you try, needing an explanation, an answer - any clue to assist in your next response.

'Not really?' he muses. 'You left water by the bed before we fell asleep, so I feel a little better. You're always taking care of me.'

With a small, happy sigh, he hugs you tight, leaving no room for air between your bodies. He brings his chin to your shoulder, turning inward and letting his nose graze along the tendon of your neck as you tilt for him, giving him room and access against your best judgement. 

'Chanyeol.'

'What?' he mumbles, eyes closing, eyelashes ticking your skin in the process

'What are you doing?'

The words come heavy and thick, so unlike the soft, kind words of affection you like to give him when he’s like this. So too unlike the words of playful abjection that comes from feigned irritation, reminding him and your friends and yourself that you are, in fact, just friends. 

Just friends and nothing more.

He furrows his brow, and you can feel the tension in his cheeks as he does so. 'What do you mean?'

Turning your body in his hold, his hands maintain their position as they slip to the small of your back. Gingerly, he lifts his head just enough for you to regard him, cool and bewildered. Remaining careful, your own hands grip the curve of the counter, knuckles tight with the effort of not reaching for him, wrapping around him with the same, easy affection. Your eyes search his face, his small frown of concern and his deep, chocolate eyes filled with such warmth and vibrancy, the very closeness of him making your chest burn with ardor.

Taking in a deep breath, you gather the strength to speak. 'We do this when we're drunk,’ you say simply.

It hurts to say the words, to bring the very grandeur of him down and to name yourself as the reason for his withering expression. But it hurts more to let your hands and lips and heart kiss at the glimmers of hope. It hurts just as much as the way it renders him so small, so impossibly small and young and lost, his eyes reading your expression as anxiety begins to seep into his irises.

'What if I want to do it when I'm sober, too?' he tries, the quietest he’s ever been, especially around you.

Casting him a quizzical, hesitant stare, you bite your lip, attempting not to feel wounded or boxed into a label that hurts. 'You mean officially be friends with benefits?'

Chanyeol pull back from you a little more, blinking as the color drains from his cheeks. 'Is...is that what you want?'

Something in his eyes tells you that he’d give this to you if you said yes. His admission for wanting this sort of intimate closeness when he’s sober says he’d give you this if you said yes, feeling as though he’s won the universe with sex and a best friend, and a world of other options ready and waiting for his touch. He’d give himself to you, too, you see it in the way he bites his lip, making sure you felt pleasure every moment, your world colored into ecstasy, the limits put on pleasure suddenly rendered obsolete. 

It would be so easy, to have him and simultaneously have nothing at all. 

And so you swallow thickly, aware that moments like these are tests of love - self love, and little else. Chanyeol has granted you a rare opportunity to be honest with yourself, even if you are not directly being honest with him, fully aware that you are too selfish to want only a fraction of his whole. With Chanyeol, you want all of him - you want absolutely everything, having tasted both sides of his soul, even if you have not tasted them altogether.

'No.' You shake your head, lungs empty of oxygen, speaking within a hollow exhale of emptiness.  'I don't think I could stomach that.'

'Oh.' 

He regards you with a crestfallen expression, shoulders and posture falling as your resolute answers weighs him down. 

Bewildered by this unexpected response, you decide to be completely honest, fully aware that unless you say something, he will absolutely never figure it out for himself. 

'You have to know it's been hard for me, right?' you try, cocking your head to the side in a silent plea. 'The last few months of this?'

'We can stop -'

You cut him off, closing your eyes and shaking your head. 'That's exactly my point, Chanyeol.' Your grip tightens on the counter, bracing yourself for this fall - this time, likely, away from him. 'I don't want to stop. I keep having to stop when we wake up and walk away. I'm -’ your voice breaks, throat tight and mind racing. Taking in a deep breath, you let yourself say it, all of it, without reservation. ‘I want more, constantly. I want all of you to myself. You know I'm inherently selfish, and also inherently direct. So I'm just letting you know I can't be your sober friend with benefits. I think that would kill me. I want you too much.'

When you finish, Chanyeol swallows, your gaze drawn to the movement within his neck. In your chest and hands, your pulse is racing, blood moving at a pace that keeps you lingering on the precipice of falling or flying, feeling, all at once, not unlike Icarus.

'I don't want to be friends with benefits either,’ he says, shaking his head, almost imperceptibly.

Your grip loosens. Your stomach drops. Still, your nerves remember the sensation of his touch, bringing forth the memory in urgency, aware that, not an hour ago, you already had your last fill.

'Then…’ your voice drifts, words arriving on your tongue in the wrong order. ‘Do we stop? I know you Chanyeol, you can barely handle alcohol and I can't handle myself around you.'

Even if he wants to stop, you aren’t sure you can. Your desire for him has reached deep into the nodes of your lungs, spreading like spores into the crevices of your heart, your mind, your blood. Chanyeol fills you, everyday and all the time, especially when you are drunk. With a drink in your system, your lust and love for him hits you tenfold, and one look at him will never be enough, not with the memory of the taste lingering behind the vision.

'I don't even really want to be friends, either.'

His abrupt announcement makes you grateful your hands are on the counter, knees buckling with the weight and help upright by structural stability of the house alone. 

'Oh.'

The word doesn’t sound like it comes from you, but you don’t bother clearing your throat. Really, you think you’d welcome the hold of the floor. At least it would never let you down.

'I want so much more of you than that,’ he clarifies, breath leaving his chest in a desperate, needy sigh. 

Your skin starts to tingle as he presses you tightly against him, hands walking up your spine as he grinds his hips against yours. Letting himself get close, he nudges the side of your face with his nose before speaking, opening you to him.

'I want to be able to do this -’ Chanyeol leans down and places a kiss at your neck, tongue stroking the marks his teeth made the night before. 'Whenever I want.' The coolness of his breath against the wet spot he created makes your tremble, and he chuckles at feeling of you quaking in his arms. 'I want to touch you here -’ Abruptly, he slides his hands down your back, both palms cupping your ass with a firm squeeze ' - without you thinking I'm joking.' 

Leaning back to make room for his closeness, you finally release your hold on the counter, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your fingers card through the soft hair at the nape, scratching in a mindless pattern that makes him growl within his throat.

'And most of all, I want to taste you when ever I want.' 

He captures your lips in a kiss that feels so unlike all the rest he’s given you. Sober and fully in control of your awareness, you cup his cheek, fingers toying with the tip of his ears as he parts your lips easily, running his tongue against yours with skilled prowess. The hot flash of his tongue is brief, removing a hand from your ass to guide your face up and back, moving to suck your bottom lip between his teeth. 

Against your stomach, your feel the hardness of his erection begin to form, the solid feel of it sending a wave of desire to your core. Wetness pools between your thighs, and this time you are grateful for the underwear that separates you, letting your desire win over. The heat of your craving gathers in your veins, making your skin feel tight as his hand roams from your ass to the small of your back and down again, possessing what it can and claiming you for his own. 

Breaking away to catch your breath, he rests his forehead against yours, feeling yourself recline into him. 

'Chanyeol,’ you sigh, feeling slightly dazed and a little light headed. 

In your chest, your heart battles against your sternum, sending waves of heat down and down into your core, feeling yourself become soaked, wanting to be full of him.

'You left me so hard this morning.’ He kisses along your cheek, letting his words cascade over your skin. 'I had to feel your wet cunt over my dick without getting to have my fill of you.'

Moving his hand from your cheek once more, he grabs your ass firmly, squeezes the flesh with vigor, rutting against you with a fervor that speaks of his need to be inside you. Over time, you’ve come to learn that Chanyeol is an inherently giving lover, so willing to offer pleasure first, the sense of pride in making you come likely its own form of eroticism, a stroke against his ego as pleasurable as a hand stroking at his cock. But, while he is terribly giving, he can often be impatient, his desire to be buried inside your walls sometimes rushing him past foreplay. 

Most days, you do not mind, just as desperate to feel full of him and to sate the empty feeling that always comes with his departure. Today, it is your turn to be greedy, your own ego riding a high at the thought of leaving him wanting.

'All you ever have to do is ask,’ you smile, coquettishly cocking your head to the side.  'You know that.' 

Moving your hand from his neck, you glide your thumb along his bottom lip, feeling the plump softness. Keeping his eyes trained on yours, he sucks your fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the tip before releasing it. On instinct, your legs part wider, making room for him and making room for the feel of him.

Dipping to capture lips in another kiss, his hands massage the flesh he holds with deft fingers, squeezing hard enough to lift you up onto the counter. Pulling back, he swallows hard and grips both your thighs, pulling you to the edge and wrapping your legs around his waist.

'Can I fuck you?’ he asks, kissing against your lips as he speaks.

Chuckling, you nip at his bottom lip, a small whine escaping your chest as he thrusts against the thin fabric of your underwear. Beneath his sweats, it’s clear he wears nothing else, the heat of his erection seeping through to your core, creating a wet patch in the shape of the head of his cock.

‘You’ve been fucking me,’ you sigh, voice caught between a laugh and a moan.

‘I want to fuck you,’ he clarifies, leaning down to place his teeth against your bite mark, grazing gently. ‘I want to fuck you and I want it to mean something.’

Pressing your heels against the back of his thighs, you roll your hips against him as best you can as you pull him close, clicking your tongue. ‘Have the last nine months meant nothing to you?’

Abruptly, Chanyeol raises his head and regards you in abject shock, looking stricken. 

Blanching, you search his face for a problem. ‘What?’

‘It’s been a year,’ he explains, assertive in his tone. 

‘A year?’

He nods. ‘It was a year last month.’

Time swirls around you, catching up to you only to depart once more, the timeline of your love and lust for him blurring together to one long, extended always. 

Clutching his neck and pulling him close, you kiss him, hard and demanding. ‘I’ve only been counting the times since we started waking up together.’

He smiles, moving a hand from your leg to rest between your bodies. Slipping his hand beneath the hem of your hoodie and moving it out of the way, he finds the space between your parted thighs and brings his fingers to the clothed barrier of your slit. ‘I’ve been counting it from the first kiss,’ he clarifies, pressing lightly smirking at the wetness he finds.

‘We’ve wasted a whole year,’ you manage, ending on a gasp as he moves your underwear to the side and drags his finger over your cunt. 

‘I’m too impatient to waste anymore time.’

Taking your lips once more, he moans into the kiss as he teases your slit with his fingers, moving his tongue against yours in the same rhythm, gliding over your wetness. Curling around him, your hands roam over his chest, his arms, his shoulders, gripping his muscles through his shirt. One hand moves down his sides, making him gasp in oversensitive shock against your mouth, before your grip settles on the waistband of his sweats, tugging at them.

The tips of his fingers against your cunt become insistent, offering teasing, gentle breaches into your wetness, wanting more and all of you.

‘How many fingers do you want?’ he questions, walking his free hand down your back and over to your hip, thumb rubbing circles against the skin. 

‘Three,’ you breathe against his lips. ‘It feels best with three.’ 

‘That’s my girl,’ he smirks, hand moving from your hip and over the soft fold of your stomach, palm settling with a rough grip against your breast. ‘Always so greedy.’

Pushing at his thighs with your heels once more, the movement of your legs makes you aware of the cold marble of the counter, aware that this is the most public you’ve ever been - breaching more boundaries in one day than you ever had before. 

‘Shouldn’t we move?’ you ask, gasping as he presses his index and middle finger inside. You clench around him, wishing for more, for something larger, thicker, and deeper.

Feeling the tightness, he smiles, offering shallow thrusts with his hand that slowly increase in speed. His other hand massages your breast idly, thumb pressing against your nipple as he smiles.

‘Don’t want to,’ he mumbles, setting a deep, languid pace with his hand. ‘I’ve needed you since I woke up.’

Moving your hand under the band of his sweats, you scratch along his hip bone, pleased with the way a shiver ripples through his muscles. The memory of his hard length pressing against your ass when you woke up gives you a sense of power, digging your nails deeper into his skin. 

‘Poor baby.’ 

Chanyeol whimpers, pressing deeper into your core and dragging a moan from your chest as he pulls his fingers out, only slightly.

‘Don’t tease,’ he chastises, hands moving from your breast to your back, pulling you closer as your other nipple rises, waiting for attention that will not come. ‘I’m hard enough for you it hurts.’

Sliding your hand forward, you walk your fingers down, tracing the fine hair of his happy trail down to the thick wires of his pubic hair and smirk, proven correct. Beneath his sweats, Chanyeol wears nothing at all. 

‘What did you do without me?’

It’s an ambiguous question, vague and almost meandering, but he catches on immediately. 

‘I used my hand and thought about your pussy on my tongue.’ The pace of his thrusts increases, curling upwards as your head rolls back, resting on the cabinet with a gentle thud. ‘Didn’t feel nearly as good as the real thing.’

Emboldened by his admission, you reach down and grip his cock firmly at the base, his fingers halting in their ministrations against your walls as he gasps, releasing a keening whine at the strength of your hand. Pumping him, you keep your gaze on his changing expression, watching as his features morph in the wake of pleasure.

‘Like this?’ you whisper, pumping his cock with long, languid strokes. ‘You touched yourself like this?’

Chanyeol leans forward, nodding, pupils dilated and lips parted. Spreading his fingers into a wide V, he stretches you in preparation, matching the pace of your hand against his cock. Like this, you share pleasure together, wetness gathering against his fingers and the blood of his cock racing beneath your palm. 

‘Yeah,’ he breathes, sounding strained.

Finally, he grants your requests and he slips his ring finger into your core, pressed against his middle in an effort to maintain the stretch. Satisfaction courses through your veins, the bump and ridge of his knuckles against your walls putting tension in your thighs. Always enamoured with the size of his hands, three of his fingers inside you is a stretch that you relish, a whisper of the fullness you anticipate.

Using your other hand to tug his sweats down, you free his cock, increasing the speed of your pumps. ‘You’ve been a needy boy this morning.’

‘You make me that way,’ he moans, moving his hand up your neck to fist in your hair. He leans down, kissing at your jaw, down to your neck, sucking on the tendon he finds, mouth and tongue needy. The overwhelming sensation of being handled by him has your free hand gripping the small curve of his ass in pleasure. 

‘I can’t take it,’ he announces, releasing your neck and tugging your hair back, demanding your attention. ‘Are you ready for me?’

Focusing on the intense expression he gives you, it hits you that your orgasm lingers not far off in the distance. With three of his fingers working at your walls, the slickness of you gathering at his hand evidenced by the wet noises that fill the air, you suddenly realize your are gasping for breath, flushed and hot and tense, thighs and back aching for a release.

Nodding, you close your eyes, releasing your focus on power and letting yourself be consumed by the sensation of being owned by him. Your wetness drips over his fingers, smeared onto your thighs and onto the counter, drenched for him the same way your body tightens for him, brought to the edge of desire by his touch alone.

Chanyeol pulls out his fingers, pulling from you a keening whine of emptiness, your muscles protesting the loss. His hand joins yours on his cock, twining your fingers together as he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. It’s such a romantic expression of ardor, one that softens you more than you would have expected to feel, realizing now that Chanyeol is far more romantic than you might have ever given him credit for. 

But he breaks this expression of soft, gentle romance easily, placing your hand on his hip while he pushes you forward, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

‘Need to be inside you,’ he mumbles, impatient. 

Even when drunk, Chanyeol had adopted a habit of pausing at your core, letting your wetness smear over the tip as he grazes your slit. It could, you imagined, be a method of teasing you into submission, but always his eyes bore into yours, waiting for your approval. Now, totally sober and in control of himself, aware that you, too, are fully in control of your choices, he pauses, this time with far more hesitation than you’ve ever seen.

In this moment, flush creeping up his neck and into his ears, cock straining to be buried inside you, he pauses, waiting for your answer and giving you the opportunity to retreat. In this moment, for the first time, Chanyeol looks as though your answer weighs his happiness, appearing vulnerable behind the bravado of being so cocksure. 

Reaching up, you brush the hair out of his face, glad that these touches get to belong to you, and nod, angling your hips to spread your legs wider, urging him inside. 

With a low moan, Chanyeol thrusts into you, pushing through your walls and burying himself to the hilt. Your hands grip at his shoulder blades, a hiss of pleasure escaping through your teeth as you feel yourself stretch to accommodate his large girth. Chanyeol stills inside you, giving both of you a moment to adjust to the sensation of feeling one another, sober and without distractions. 

The difference in sensation is difficult to rationalize, nerves and synapses entirely overwhelmed by how intense the feel of him inside you actually is. Without the alcohol to dull your awareness, Chanyeol feels so much more tactile and heavy, your walls stretched around him in a way that feels complete. You clench around him and he shivers, moving both hands to your hips, keeping you still as his head falls to your shoulder. 

‘Don’t do that,’ he moans into your skin, words garbled from pleasure. Unable to help yourself, you do it again. Chanyeol squeezes your hips, offering a shallow thrust into your core. ‘Please,’ he begs. ‘If you keep doing that I’ll come faster than I want to. You’re so fucking tight, I can’t really take it.’

You let one of your hands find the hair at his neck once more, stroking idly in comfort while he moves in small, messy thrusts, getting used to the feel of you both without a condom and while sober. Stretched full of him now, your orgasm looms, a promise you can almost kiss without really feeling, but you don’t rush him to move, aware that he feels completely different - harder, longer, and deeper than you have ever experienced before. 

Eventually, he pulls out to the tip and sets a hard rhythm, pressing the full length of his cock into you with each thrust. The pace he sets is not unusual, but the tenderness with which he ends his thrusts, almost slowing to ensure you feel every inch of his length and that he feels every aspect of your walls is tender, sweeter than he usually is. Last night, he was unforgiving in the way he snapped his hips against yours, both of your relishing the pain that came with your hips meeting and the stretch of your lips to accommodate him. 

Now, he is almost careful with you, his hands pushing your hips to meet his every thrust while he kisses at your ear, tender and gentle, whispering praises of how good you feel. 

‘You’re pretty,’ he whispers. ‘You’re so pretty like this, wrapped around me and completely mine.’

It's the first time he's allowed himself to be so possessive, using words that stake claim and allowing himself to be needy. You're not sure how long you've felt like his, perhaps always, but now you are glad to relish the title, aware that it is your rightful home, and your rest a hand on his cheek, titling his face towards your to kiss him. 

The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, but you smile against one another, Chanyeol fucking into you with an urgency that makes the muscles in your back and stomach coil, tense to your core as your body learns to take him deeper.

'Chanyeol.' You sigh his name against his lips, a whine following quickly after as he hits the spot inside you no one has ever reached, not even him. You hold onto him tightly, feeling the tightness of pleasure overtake your limbs, nails starching into his skin, tense. 

'That's my girl,' he says, speeding up his thrusts.

Chanyeol moves a hand from your hip, working it between your bodies to swirl his fingers against your clit. On contact you moan, hand coming away from his shoulder to grip the handle of the cabinet as you roll up against him, needing more. You're not ashamed of how loud you are, forgetting there are others in this house - that you're even on holiday with someone other than Chanyeol, your high pitched whines unleashed with every hard press against your clit. 

With his finger on your clit, your walls clench involuntarily, your orgasm approaching with a swiftness that startles you. 

'Fuck, baby,' Chanyeol whines, his thrusts losing their sharp, even edge and becoming messy. 'Baby, you're doing it again - fuck, oh fuck.' 

Chanyeol's attention your clit stutters, hand on your hip tightening as his head rests once more on your shoulder. You smile through your pleasure, eyes trained up at the ceiling in awe of how raw and full and warm he is. His boyish moans only lure your orgasm closer.

Still, you continue to clench around him, the swirl of his fingers driving you closer. 

'Fuck,' he announces, fucking into you harder. ‘I’m gonna come.’

‘Yeah?’ you breathe, surprised by how quickly his own end approaches. 

When drunk, it is not that he lasts for an explicitly long period of time, merely that he takes his time - foreplay takes time, his thrusts take time even if they are hard and fast and long. Now, he trembles against you, skin hot and neck damp as he lets himself get overwhelmed, straining to keep his pace. His arms shake, hand at your hip clutching to you as though your flesh and bone root him to the earth, but you are glad for this hold, pressed into the counter and held in place.

You, too, feel yourself become dizzy, dazed and overwhelmed by the stimulation of him. His natural scent mixing with the cologne already lingering on his shirt, the heat of the hoodie, the sound of his breath as he moans through his thrusts - louder than you ever remember him being - is enough to set the burn in your heart and chest to your core, your own legs shaking, a hard press to your clit rolling you up into him once more.

‘Come inside me,' you mutter, breathless and urgent.

Chanyeol's head rolls against you, his hips slowing in an attempt to slow his thrusts, but you clench around him, shuddering as a swirl over clit makes you quake, and he chokes, thrusting hard and deep, right against your spot. 

‘Are you sure?’ he whines, kissing at your neck in desperation.

Taking your hand from the cabinet, you clutch at his shoulders, nodding. Realizing he cannot see you, you suck an inhale through your teeth, the muscles at the base of your spine building a pressure that sends your hips into his, messy and uncoordinated, pushing yourself to an end, even if it is not unified. 

‘Just come,’ you affirm, scratching your nails down his back. He whispers a small, almost missed fuck into your neck, and you smirk, clenching around him in encouragement. ‘Come in me, I’m so close.’ 

He whines, hand at your clit stilling while still lingering, a teasing pressure that keeps you needy and on edge. Something about this barely there touch sends fractured and splintered waves of your oncoming orgasm down through your back and stomach, a ripple of an oncoming storm that has you quaking in his arms, feeling violent and wild. 

'Come with me?' he tries, the words choked and garbled.

It’s the romance of it that does you in, you think. So many times over the last year, it seems, you’ve had Chanyeol and the hard edge of his eroticism, the teasing and possessive way he licks a full line of your slit before he presses his tongue inside; the way he leaves bite marks on your breasts, hand prints on your ass, marking you in all the places that say someone has been there before and will be again. Now, he asks for your heart, seeking a climax that is shared, kissing your hands and kissing your soul, entwining you together and staking a claim that says someone is here and always will be. 

So it's the romance, seeing him so devoted to you and your needs, to your heart and your body, that makes you hold onto him a little tighter, legs widening to take him even deeper, all the way into your soul. It's the romance that has you nodding against him, gasping for breath beneath the heat of the hoodie, his touch, and in the wake of his thrusts, your orgasm burning beneath your skin, ready to shatter your bones.

Against your neck, he smiles. 'There it is,' he whispers, but you're too far gone to ask. 'I can feel you. This is my favourite, every time.'

Chanyeol presses his fingers against your clit once more, the shift from the teasing, cloying grazes you'd been feeling to the rough swirl of a circle sending your orgasm through your nerves. The world around you breaks, black and white and full of colours, the shapes of the world blurring behind your tears and into nothing as you squeeze your eyes shut. Your hands fist in his shirt, clutching to him as though afraid of disappearing altogether, the bliss and ecstasy of feeling all of him at once breaking over you in a wave that leaves your lips parted, his name spilling from your lips in a whispered, almost silent, scream. 

His name spills from your lips at the same time he spills inside you, the sound of his orgasm reverberating into your skin. On him, your name is a shout of euphoria, almost victorious in the way he declares it, a tattoo of ownership against your neck. His warmth fills you, the heat of his come warm and almost unfamiliar, a sober experience that feels strange yet paradoxically so right. 

Chanyeol slides his hands from your hips to your back, tips of his fingers rubbing circles at the base of your spine, something about this touch so overstimulating that you shake in his arms, drawing him closer and breathing him deep. 

‘Mine,’ he mumbles, sounding so small and so shy. ‘Please be mine.’

It's hard to imagine how he would believe you belonged to anyone else, could ever want to after feeling all of him, right down to his soul. But Chanyeol has always been shy and insecure, the tremors of his bravado simply a mask that hides his nervous smile. 

Your arm feels heavy as you lift it to his hair, carding your fingers through the strands and stroking him, soothing him. ‘Yours,' you agree, turning your head to kiss at his ear. Chanyeol rumbles happily against you, the heaviness of his limbs comforting. 'Only yours.’ 

‘Literally, what the fuck?’ 

Minseok's yell startles you both, Chanyeol flailing as he pulls back and thus pulls out of you, your eyes squeezing shut from the stimulation of it. He pulls you to the floor, hidden from view behind the kitchen island, covering your mouths to keep from laughing. 

'This is...,' comes Jae's voice, drifting away in shock. ‘You’re both disgusting!’

Chanyeol's come begins to drip between your legs and you grimace, aware that the mess has spread elsewhere. Still, you don't really find it in you to be guilty.

‘You’re cleaning all of - whatever the fuck - on your own. I’m not coming in there,' Minseok declares resolutely, the sound of their footsteps drifting as they run, rather angrily, up the stairs and to their room where they close the door with a slam. 

Moving his hands from your mouths you both erupt into laughter, Chanyeol collapsed on top of you as he howls. Putting your hands on his shoulders, you nudge him, rolling him off you as you reach up for a dish towel. 

‘The good thing about sex on the floor,’ Chanyeol begins, watching you wipe his come off your thighs and the floor, ‘is that if it’s with the right person you don’t realize it’s the floor.’

Cleaned, your fist the towel into a ball and put it beside you, making a mental note to add that to the laundry. Turning to face him, you smile. ‘Want to find out if that’s true?’ 

[pikayeollie]

he knows how to steal everyone’s heart

[yeoldontknow]

Colour Show (M)

Author’s Note: happy birthday to my heaven and heart, the music in the dark, the light of the universe, the glow of the stars - park chanyeol. this fic has gone through 4 title changes, 6 iterations in word count length, two plot changes, and about two years of insecurity and uncertainty from me. this is just a word for the wise: dont ever give up on your WIPs. they will always have a home, even if you think theyre a lost cause <3 | this work is entirely an act of fiction. it features subjects which may be uncomfortable to read, including but not limited to: non-traditional and indecent sexual acts, sex in public spaces, and themes of voyeurism. please do not read this story if any of these themes make you uncomfortable or you are under the age of 18. Creative Content Contributor: @chillingkoo​ who made this utterly stunning banner for my birthday because she is an angel ;~; Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female)  Genre: smut; public sex; DJ!au; romance; au Summary: While out at a night club, the DJ catches your eye. He’s confident, enraptured by the music he creates, and glows beneath the lights. With your eyes on him, the world begins to fade. But little do you know, he has his eye on you, too. Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit sex; public sex acts; mentions of drug use; masturbation; fingering (female receiving); themes of voyeurism; dirty talk; unprotected sex; creampie; explicit language Word Count: 10.5K

Hours in, the only thing you can truly feel is the heat. 

Against your skin, it presses - all consuming and overwhelming and aggressive in its effort of making a home of you. Inside and out, even against the malleable tissue of your lungs, it lingers, the sweat of your body stinging as it rolls down your arms and your neck. Bodies are pressed together, your body against other bodies, foreign and comfortingly unfamiliar, their closeness helping you reach transcendence. 

For one night, these men and women are your lovers - you see them as such, even if the technicality of semantics means it is not true. Symmetrically and asymmetrically, it does not matter, so long as you can touch them, feel them press against your core, teasing. All that matters in this moment, skin to skin contact with endless, nameless faces, their own flesh making you feel wet with life. Hand to the wall, a gentle chill spreads across your fingers, refreshing and rejuvenating the movements of your limbs. This kind of breeze is vital between the joints of your knuckles, just as is the vodka that slowly dries on your lips. 

Hugging your body against the concrete, you stand with your eyes closed and lips parted, tongue dragging along the flesh to fight back your thirst. Your hips grind in time with the beat, smearing your shape and essence into the paint - you imagine the wall is breathing, imagine your sweat leaves stains and it swallows them whole, hungry for the taste of you to linger on its tongue. Beneath your clothes, your skin is slick, glistening beneath the lights, the glitter from your cheeks dotting the paint to birth constellations of ecstasy. 

With anxious fingers, you tug at the fabric of your dress, the sheerness of the skirt sticking to you like a second skin. It’s been dampened, either by sweat or stray drops of vodka, clinging to your flesh ceaselessly. Wrinkling your nose for a moment at the feel of it beneath your fingers, you continue to roll it up, exposing the length of your thigh, rustling it back and forth to cool you.

Coursing through your veins is an energy, a live wire that seems to have been torn from your nerves and moved to live inside your blood, plugging into your sternum to dictate the rhythm of your heart. It’s the music that does this, the music and its hypnotic beat. From your position against the wall, you eye the platform upon which the DJ works, a lonely god and the maker of it all.

Even from this distance you can see the tips of his ears peeking out from under the headphones, the flush at his cheeks swallowing every light whole and turning him into something radiant and gold. It’s foolish to want him, foolish to eye him as though you are possessive, have been granted permission to be so, as though he might want you, and as though he is somehow yours.

From the moment you entered the building, you felt the music within your pulse, hauntingly familiar and hauntingly mimetic. Something about the way he looked, something about the way he spun records, something about the way he seemed to exhale the sound, made you needy. When you saw him, you realized it was not the music but he himself who lived inside you.

He was the one who built this version of your spirit, with practiced hands and a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He was the one who rearranged all your soft pieces until you decided you wanted him, you needed him, and little other than your sensual destruction would suffice. 

He was the one that made you crave a great undoing, and for this you were delighted.

Snaking a hand beneath the hem of your dress, you ground your feet into the floor and press harder against the wall, keening against it with reckless abandon. In this kind of all consuming dark, the music drips down and deep into your soul, sugary sweet and not unlike syrup, and you release a small whimper of pleasure as your fingers scratch against your thighs. Heavy bass rolls around you, decides to make a home of your ribs, and the vibration against all these fragile corners makes wetness pool between your legs. 

Biting your lip, you turn and open your eyes to watch the DJ, watch the way his hands fervently make the world, powerful and paradoxically delicate. Everything about the noise of him is synthetic, records spinning with knobs and computers, and yet he remains the most authentic thing about the space.

Around you, people have made themselves into the shapes of people they wish they could be, that they would like to be. Tonight, they have made armor of tight clothes and painted lips, but he exists beyond their orbit. Black shirt and jeans, he’s simple, hiding in plain sight and making sure that he is noticed. 

He makes sure he is wanted.

And you want him. Oh, do you want him. 

Watching him feels like kissing candy, sweetness without the purity, and you drag your tongue across your lips once more as your hands tease the line of your underwear. Briefly, your lip curls to reveal your teeth, a threat of wanting to all who dare approach you, before they clamp down, cheeks twisting your expression into a pleasurable sneer. 

You’re wet, soaked just from the sight of him, but you can  see his hands from this angle and that makes it easy to pretend it’s his fingers that slip under and drag along your slit. It’s his fingers that seek your heat and learn you, know you, become a master of you.

Again, you whimper at the touch, smile impishly and keep watching him, glad your sighs are being swallowed by the music. No one can hear you, no one is even paying attention to you, and it makes you feel like this space belongs to you. 

Like this, this space and this man are yours.

Across the room, atop the stage platform, Chanyeol watches your display in his peripheral as he works. Pursing his lips, his tongue laps eagerly on the lollipop sucked between his teeth, imagining the sweet wetness on his tongue is yours. It takes concentration not to let his gaze wander up your legs and thighs, to where he can see the dark outline of your hand. He’s drawn to it, to your center, starts to think of it as a golden ring of purpose, and lets the blood rush to his groin as he imagines his fingers joining yours. 

Thoughts race through his mind at a speed he’s not used to experiencing outside of a high, the adrenaline rush of wet lips and wet fingers enough to make anyone feel drunk. 

He wonders how wet you are, wonders if your fingers are slick already or if you’re merely teasing. He wonders if you’re high, if you’re only this brave because the molly or the angel dust have made you feel limitless or if this is just another Saturday for you. Are you used to being hungry for skin and flesh, or is this all his? Are you hungry, just like him, for something a little more? Something a little more alive?

He’s got a lot of questions, and he grits his teeth on the lollipop stick to keep himself focused. 

At this distance, he can see the way the light plays on your hair and skin, the smooth expanse of your chest glistening and glowing. Part of him feels envious of how liberated you are, remembers how he too used to come to clubs to get fucked and get high until he decided to make a home of it. Now, the thrill has started to fade, wet women and coke covered teeth too common to really seem dangerous. Now, he works through it, totally sober and drunk only on the bass he makes himself, gets hard beneath the narcissism of it all and doesn’t feel ashamed. 

And, if he’s honest, you’re the first exciting thing he’s seen in months. 

It’s when you bite your lip that he finally lets himself smile, doesn’t care if the expression is a give away because you’re too lost with yourself to really notice. He’s sure your fingers are in deep, to the knuckle judging by the way your hand seems to disappear and your eyes fall closed. This is when he calls you a chameleon, thinks the way you subtly take on the shades of the lights is something unnatural, something bewitching, a power you keep locked within your core. Turning up the treble, twisting the knob with the same affection as he’d curl his finger inside of you, he decides you were made for this: for the dark, for the sweat, for the music, and, thus, you were made for him. 

Lots of women have fit this role, but tonight the bill is yours.

You look good like this, wanting and waiting and fucking your hand. Still, he thinks you’d look better on top of him.  

A hand claps him on the back, sending his body arching forward slightly, though it does not interrupt his rhythm. Mostly, he finds he is upset he has been interrupted in his astute observation of your display, irritated that he has to look away. 

‘It’s two, mate,’ a gruff voice shouts, pulling one of his headphones off. ‘My turn.’

Chanyeol simply nods, let’s the beat run and closes his laptop so Joel can take over. He doesn’t bother to pack up his things, knows his manager will take care of it, knows that his manager is probably used to this behavior - the detachment that follows him from one club to the next, and the way he seems to find himself a warm, pliant body the moment he steps off stage. He does not dwell on how his manager feels about this, about the bodies and the bumps of blow that seemingly line his bedroom, and he does not particularly care. Tonight, all he cares about is the warm flush on your chest and the way your body arches in time with the music.

Tonight, all he thinks about is how it will feel to have the whole length of his cock buried inside you, and little else. 

Chanyeol takes his time approaching you, slows his steps and orbits around you like a lonely, hungry moon. Tucking the lollipop into the side of his cheek, he shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the opposite wall, having his fill while filling himself with thoughts. You appear to be his age, wearing the number like a badge of honour in the corner of your eye; old enough to be in command of your body, in command and beautifully aware, but still young enough to get off on the risk. 

Greedily, his tongue swirls around the lollipop, lapping at the flavor with vigor, and he imagines his tongue pressed between your folds, sucking at you with the same intensity. With your head thrown back, your fingers probe at your center, doing what his tongue does not, ass pressing back against the wall in an almost violent swivel before you run a hand through your hair. Your fingertips hit someplace deep inside, some unfathomable depth buried in the center of your core, and your lips pull into an ecstatic smile, laugh swallowed whole by the roll of bass and the timbre of an electronic drum.

At the sight of you in pleasure, he feels lonely, a heady need taking over, creeping down his spine and pushing his shoulders back. He’s used to this, used to the way desire puts tension in his neck and makes the base of his spine start to ache. To prying eyes, hollow eyes that move over him slowly through the haze of cocaine, he’s animalistic in his advances towards you, but to him, he’s simply under your spell. There’s a strength and purpose to his steps he usually forgoes for a casual grin and an impish glint in his eyes, but then, he assumes, you’re different if only because you’re bold - if only you ignite in front of him like a match. 

The lollipop falls slightly from his lips as he watches you pull your hand away from your core to smell your fingers. Lips parted with wanting he watches you, tongue wet and mind filled with visions of sucking at your clit with the fullness of his lips. Coloured lights move over the slick shimmer of your fingers, and he imagines you to be sugar sweet and bitter at the root.

Chanyeol doesn’t hasten his steps, rather he takes his time moving towards you, waiting to see if you’ll taste yourself for him. He expects that you will, is delighted when you do, and knows that he will likely taste just as good to you.

He bites down on the lollipop, chewing the candy as he tosses the stick to the floor. The lollipop dissolves, but it’s sweetness remains.  

Acutely aware that you are being watched, the delicate hairs on your arm stand on end at the feeling of a body approaching, thick lidded eyes opening only slightly to see the tall shadow of a man come into view. You don’t pause for him - if you’re being removed from the premises, you at least want to come before you leave. But the stranger doesn’t speak, just looms over you with a lopsided grin, one that is neither accusatory nor satisfied, simply luxuriating in your show. 

Recognizing his ears in the dim glimmer of the lights, you smirk, silently pleased that you have become a magnet, that you have somehow lured him from the pedestal your desire, and your pussy, placed him on. Drawn to one another, you angle yourself towards him, an open display of interest. Cocking your head to the side, you smile, but do not stop the motion of your fingers. You want to make sure he sees. 

Somewhere in the distant haze of your kind, you wonder if he’s drugged, high on something other than music or blow, something hard enough to make his posture so sure and confident. It doesn’t take long before you realize he’s simply drunk on lust, much like you. There’s no bloodshot tint to his eyes, no lazy gaze that wanders from one warm body to the next. Even with his dilated pupils, you know he’s been blown wide open by longing, by a hardness at his center his jeans that begs to be touched. 

‘I could see you all the way up there,’ he comments, gesturing vaguely towards the stage, though his gaze on you does not waver.

You smile, impish and glorified. ‘Good.’ He smiles back, welcomed by this response. ‘I wanted you to.’

He steps closer, aware now that your focus on him is a mirror of his focus on you, consensual, open, and welcoming. The lights from the club highlight his features, cutting mercurial shapes as they nestle beneath his cheekbones, but even in the dim lighting you can see him clearly. The glaze in his focus is neither empty nor wired, simply hungry, trapped in a state of perpetual craving, and you like the way the slick feel of it makes your skin feel like gold. You like this feeling, the way his eyes mean to unmake you, as though he is peeling back your skin to live inside your ribs. 

You like this feeling, find that it turns you into a kind of phoenix, and so when he stands fully in front of you, illuminated and combating the shadows, tall and just as hot to the touch as you, you let your hands settle at his hips, cocking your head to the side coquettishly. In kind, his hands move to yours, swaying idly, assuming you mean to dance with him. He’s being polite, and you wish he would tighten his grip, let his fingers press bruises into the flesh with intent, but you remind yourself not to rush. 

So often, you spoil the moment with your natural prosperity for impatience.

Still, the motion and movement of his hips is invigorating, encouraging in its closeness. Strengthening your grip, you press against him, grinding into him, slow and unblinking. On contact, he lowers his head, and you take this as an invitation, letting your lips fall to his ear, breathing hot and wet against the shell.

‘I liked your show,’ you murmur, hoping your voice carries above the heavy drum and bass, reaching right down to pull at the intimate pieces of him. ‘You made the beat sound alive.’ 

Tilting his head to the side, his lips and nose graze along your temple as he speaks, a heady combination of amusement and surprise lacing through his words. ‘I could say the same to you,’ he teases. ‘I’m surprised you were listening.’

The low rumble of his voice catches you slightly off guard, deeper and richer than you would have imagined it to be, powerful in a way that commands your attention. It drips, not unlike chocolate and honey, down your tongue, making a home in the center of your ribs, the warmth of it settling in your belly and making your thighs clench around nothing. You feel your breath hitch, lungs constricting at the gravel in the underbelly of his tone, the thickness and the vibration resonating suddenly making you feel parched. 

‘I felt it,’ you say, curling your lips into a pout that gently touches the lobe of his ear. ‘Isn’t that more important?’

It’s an honest statement, one that makes him start without pulling away completely. Instead, his grip on your hips tightens, drawing flush against his groin, keeping you in place. Something about your words had an effect on him, enough for him to mumble a small growl of possessive vulnerability. This close, you can smell him, the music of his cologne delicately kissing the crevices of your tongue. Over time and through the night, it’s mixed with the natural scent of his sweat, enough to briefly make you lightheaded by the force of it, moaning at the intensity. 

Pieces of you ache as you pull back slightly, regarding him with heavy lidded eyes; pieces that long to be touched and long to be near him, his mere presence making the air feel thick. Beneath his skin, you imagine the blood moving in his veins like wildfire, exhilarated by your words. It fascinates the way you don’t just merely see the corner of his mouth turn upward, devilish and playful in its slow reveal of his desires, but you feel it. All over you, you feel it.

The heat of his smile walks down your spine, building a wetness between your folds that makes you bit your lip. His own gaze wanders over your skin, over your cheeks, down your neck and shoulders, to where his hands linger at your hips. Matching his smile, coy and coquettish, the knowledge his gaze as lowered, as best it can, to the curve of your ass beneath the hem of your dress makes you feel emboldened. And so you grind against him, slowly, handling your hips to rub over the hardened bulge beneath his jeans. 

Licking his lips in approval, a tight moan rumbling through his sternum like thunder, he lets his eyes wander back up to yours, lingering momentarily to admire the plump fullness of your lips. 

Moving one hand from your hip, he comes to cup your cheek, easing your head to the side with a gentle and careful touch. It’s his turn to offer delicate attention to your ear, the touch of his lips barely there, whispers on the wind of primal desire. When his lips move, the softness of the skin sends shivers down your nerves, the strong, confident diction in his voice an erotic experience of its own. 

‘There’s a lot I can make you feel,’ he breathes, hot and heavy and smirking at the way you seem to bend beneath his touch, malleable.

Proving that he means it, that he means everything he says, he pulls back just enough to keep his gaze trained on yours, serious and heated. As though waiting for your denial, he inches closer still, pressing a knee between your legs to part them. The tease of feeling him between your thighs forces a sigh from your lips, and he smiles, knowing. Leaning to drag his nose along the slope of your neck, the even exhale of his breath cascades down your spine and into your core, making your walls clench in arousal.

You don’t hide the way this makes you laugh, the sound loud enough to be heard over the drum and bass. ‘You’re terrible at pick up lines.’

It’s a half-hearted comment, a truth nestled between a lie. Yes, he is terrible at pick up lines, but he is exquisite in execution.

Unfazed by your teasing comment, he joins you in laughter, the deep richness making you terribly aware of the wetness between your thighs. ‘Most of the time, people can’t hear them. They just want to be handled.’

He hangs onto handled as if the word itself is a tactile experience, a physical contact that makes the world around you bend. It seems unfair he should hold so much of you, so much and so tightly, and so you glide your hands along the waistband of his jeans, toying with the hem of his shirt. 

tilting your head just enough to let your lips graze his ear, you scratch your nails into the soft skin that lingers beyond his belt. It's soft, warm, supple, the sweetness of a man so unlike the way his hands clutch at your body. He whimpers slightly at the contact, lips parting to release a small, barely there sigh. Smiling to yourself, you continue your ministrations, hoping this will entice him enough to handle you.

Forming your lips into a pout, kissing at his ear as you speak, you whisper, ‘Then why are you taking your time?’

A dark chuckle rolls through his chest, his grip tightening possessively.

‘Because you’ve been greedy,’ he states, leaning back to regard you with a dark, hungry stare. 

Stepping forward until you are pressed flush between him and the wall, he considers you, gaze dominant and commanding. With slow, teasing rolls of his hips, he guides the hardness of his erection into your mound. Eyes on your skin, he watches the flush of desire that blooms across your chest as he does this, mesmerized by the way it smears itself across your neck, contagious enough to make your skin burn hot. Something about his gaze pierces you, makes the nerves along your skin feel sensitive, stimulated to the edge of a precipice and lingering on anticipation.   

‘And I’m selfish,' he finishes. 'I want to feel you first.’

He guides his hand between your bodies, the base of his palm massaging deftly at your core. With the sudden direct pressure, your hips roll up into his hand, a current of electricity wandering down into the base of your spine. Naturally, your legs part wide, feet sliding across the floor just enough to make room for him where you want him most. 

‘Can I touch you?’ he mumbles, cocking his head to the side as he watches pleasure morph your expression. The force of his palm increases, echoing his sentiment of how badly he wishes to feel you first. 'Can I feel all of you, on the inside?' 

Anyone else, anyone less magnetic or compelling as him, and you imagine you would have laughed at the turn of phrase. On a boy, such questions of permission would have made you laugh, aware that you were dealing with someone who did not know how to read a woman. On him, his politeness and quest for permission feels liberating, placing you in a position of control - leading your pleasure with the power you deserve. 

Nodding, unable to form words, you simply hum, whining at the loss of his hand, lonely and needy for his touch. He keeps his eyes on yours as he lifts his hand to his mouth, sliding two fingers inside, all the way to the knuckle. Not once does he blink, hollowing his cheeks, gaze heated, as he sucks and sucks, gaze piercing. The sight of his lips, pulled down to a soft, full pout, mixed with the anticipation of the strong bone of his fingers, puts a wetness at your core that makes you feel as though you are dripping with eagerness for his touch. Hot to the touch and feeling volatile, you arch your back against, lifting slightly from the wall to let your breasts press against his chest. 

Smirking at your impatience, he pulls his fingers from his mouth and eases his hand beneath your dress. With his thumb, he guides the waistband of your underwear to the side, teeth coming to bite his lip on contact and feeling how wet you are - how wet you made yourself for him during the course of his set, and how wet he will soon make you, teasing your folds apart to make room for his hand. Leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours, he guides his middle finger into your core, one long stroke against your walls that has you gasping.

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him and ensuring you are caught beneath the umbrella of his warmth, stimulated and aware, now, by and of nothing but him. His finger continues its slow, deep caress, and you roll your hips into him, the solidness of his finger a bliss you had craved from the moment you saw him perform. Reaching your own arm between your bodies, you cup your hand and rub the base of your palm over the erection trapped beneath his jeans. Growling, he tilts his hand just enough to let his thumb press a slow circle against your clit, appreciative and teasing.

‘Tell me your name,' he whispers, the roll of his voice a live current that cascades down your neck. 

Consumed and swallowed by him, you smile. ‘Y/N.’ 

Your name is a gasp on your lips of pleasure, his thumb pressing at your clit in time with the thrust of his finger. Clutching him a little tighter, you roll against him once more, desperate for the fullness of his touch. 

Almost sweetly, he returns your smile, though the seduction of his intent nestles aptly between his words. ‘Isn’t it nice hearing the sound of your own name like that?’

‘Tell me yours,' you mumble, tongue rolling across your lip to moisten the flesh. 

Distracted, his eyes trace the motion of your tongue and offering you the brief delight of witnessing the thickness of his eyelashes as red and blue lights swirl overhead. ‘Didn’t you see the show?’

Chuckling at the almost innocent egoism of the sentence, you make to speak before he curls his finger in your core, hitting a new angle that steals your breath. Furrowing your brow, you lick your lips once more, gathering the strength and focus to speak. ‘People don’t come to clubs for the DJ.’

He smirks at your coy teasing, presses his thumb against your clit in a firm circle while his index finger comes to settle between your folds, his fingers making a light v shape. 

'Funny,' he mumbles, alluding to the obvious pun but does not say it. Instead, his focus settles on your features as he thrusts both fingers inside you, your moans coming in light bursts. 'My name is Chanyeol,' he clarifies. 'Do you want me to take you home?'

Biting your lip, cup his erection beneath your palm, pressing in time with his thrusts into your folds. ‘Are you a shy boy?’ you question, teasing though not altogether sincere. A pink flush rushes to the tip of his ear, and you pull your hand from his groin to let the tips of your finger gently caress the tip.

On contact, his eyes flutter shut, lips parting on a sigh. ‘Not really,’ he manages, eyes opening once more fixing you with an impassioned stare. ‘Do you want me to fuck you here?’

His free hand moves from your waist, knees bending to pin you against the wall, as he rests his hand against your throat. Like this, he tests your boundaries, watches you with an erotic, eager fascination as you bend and give over entirely to him, your walls starting to clench around his fingers, willing him to remain inside. 

Feeling your skin flare and your gaze darken, possessive and possessed, you swallow thickly. ‘I want you to fuck me.’

Leaning down, Chanyeol captures your lips with a wet, light kiss, his tongue escaping behind the kiss to lap sweetly at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to let his breath tickle your cheeks. ‘Do you want everyone to see?’

The sugar from his kisses settle between the thin crevices of your lips, your tongue flicking out to gather them.

‘You’re used to being seen,' you counter breathlessly.

You grind into his fingers hands coming to grip at his shoulder blades as you feel your orgasm start to settle at the base of your spine, the coil in your belly threatening to tighten behind the fire he has put into your blood. 

Humming in agreement, he adds a third finger, slipping inside you with ease, your wetness coating his palm. ‘Are you?’

Shivering and stimulated by the size and thickness of his strong fingers, you simply nod, clutching to him as your grind into him, desperate. Taking this as a sign of your oncoming orgasm, Chanyeol increases the pace of his thrusts, his thumb tapping at your clit in time with his fingers, forgiving and almost apologetic for keeping you on edge for so long. With the new, invigorated force of his thrusts, your moans come louder, his hand lingering softly at your throat as he bends down to swallow your sounds, kissing your lips deftly and with a deep intensity that provides encouragement. 

Around his fingers, your walls clench, thighs tightening as your heart begins to battle against your chest, the burn of your orgasm making your thighs and legs sting with the effort of keeping upright. Sensing this, Chanyeol removes his hand and replaces it at your waist, his hold strong and comforting. Held tightly against him, his breath all over your skin, his fingers curling at your core, knuckles gliding roughly at your walls, the thickness of this penetration, you find yourself consumed by him. 

Your head rolls onto his shoulder, wet gasps of breath panting into the skin, stimulated and driven to an edge of pleasure that makes your muscles ache. 

'I'm -' you gasp. 'I'm going to come.'

The clenching of your walls comes without your control, the intensity of the pleasure unmaking your semblance of reality as he thrusts and thrusts his hand into you, a promise of something larger, thicker, and heavier. 

Gently, he eases your head back, and you whimper, eyes squeezed closed as you rest against the wall, readying to let your orgasm take you.

'Eyes on me,' he commands, voice rough. The thunder clap of his words as your eyes opening, vision blurred by pleasure. He smiles. 'Eyes on me when you come.' 

The heavy arousal on his voice is what sends you over the edge, your brow furrowing as you choke on a gasp from the force of it. The lights of the club paint his features into kaleidoscope of pleasure, his smile the focal point as sound drowns and the rush of your blood fills your ears. Shuddering, the waves of pleasure course through your muscles, walls clenching tightly around his fingers, the shudder of pleasure rattling your bones until your feel weightless, burned into nothingness by the force and prowess of his touch. Your back arches forward, sending your chest into his, still as you keep your gaze on his, seeing without seeing, the world little more than smears of ecstasy.

Chanyeol holds you tightly, clings to you - the only tangible form your nerves can discern. His grip on you is reassuring and unwavering, keeping you secure against him and the wall as your limbs struggle to regain their strength. Your walls continue to clench around his hand, the aftershocks of your orgasm still igniting along your skin.

'Beautiful,' he whispers, tucking your head against his shoulder and mumbling into your hair. 'I knew it would be beautiful.' 

You cling to him, the air in your lungs little more than a burning ache as you struggle to catch your breath. Against his strong frame, your mind swirls with the tactile feel of him, the smell of his cologne clouding your senses until your world is comprised of nothing but him. Anchoring you against him, you feel safe, comforted, his fingers stilled inside you, ensuring you remain tethered to him.

He's careful as he pulls them out, delicate and fast enough that he does not cause you pain. The affection of this action catches you off guard, makes you nuzzle into his neck, your feet feeling the earth return once more as your bones reform beneath your skin. Not once does he relinquish his grip on you, almost greedy with his touch and holding you close until the strength in your hands returns, pressing into the muscles of his back and shoulders. 

Slowly, the world recreates itself around you both. The heavy bass from the speakers, Chanyeol's breaths against your skin, the throng of people as they talk, yell, dance, clink glasses, the world a cacophonous resonance beyond his arms. 

'Better?' he asks, kissing against your hair as he speaks. 'Can you stand?'

Nodding, you pull back from him, breathing heavily and feeling dazed. The smile on your lips makes your cheeks hurt, painful in the way it seems locked in place, and you’re unsure how long it has been pulling at the skin. 

For a moment, you simply regard one another, Chanyeol flushed and warm, looking pink and heated even under the purple and blue lighting that hits him. He, too, breathes heavily, lifting the hand that had been inside you to his mouth, sucking the fingers once more. Eyes falling closed, he moans at the tastes, hollowing his cheeks to suck them clean. The sight of him pools new wetness between your thighs, whimpering at how sensitive yet needy you are. 

When he pulls his fingers from his lips, he keeps his gaze on yours, heavy lidded and pupils dilated to a blackness that makes your breath hitch. Slowly, he drops to his knees, delicately grazing his fingers up the outside of your legs. Falling back against the wall, his barely there touches make you bite your lip, gazing down your body to him as he watches you with intent. His hands find the band of your underwear, thumbs dragging along the skin of your hips and making you tremble. Gripping the band, he guides them down your legs, nudging at your ankles to ease you out of them.

Licking your lips, you watch as he rises to a stand once more, his own mouth parted. For a brief moment, you see him not unlike a kitten, someone who has been so close to the strong scent of desire, they've opened their mouth just enough to swallow it whole. Bunching the cotton into a ball, he places it in his pocket, and cocks his head to the side, waiting, perhaps, for your words of protest.

It's a possessive thing to do, an action no one has ever done with you before, and while you aren't entirely certain what to make of it, you admit you are relieved the soaked fabric has been removed from your core. The light breezes that makes its way up your skit is refreshing, liberating, and, for this, you are grateful. 

‘Come home with me.’

This, you realize, is not a question. Chanyeol keeps his eyes on you as he speaks, asking to be polite, just like always, but, this time, knowing that you will follow. Wordlessly, you regard him, eyes glassy and feeling yourself still drifting into the world that he has built, just for you. Reality clashes with the universe he has made, a universe of light and bliss and pleasure; a world that smells of wanting and delivers ecstasy, while the world as you know it lingers outside - beyond your reach.

Cold, is how you have come to see it, now. Empty of wonder without his hands to pull it from your bones.

‘I told you I’m selfish,' he continues when you offer him no reply. ‘I want all of you, and I want to be the only one who sees.’

It does not go unnoticed by you that, for two people so enraptured and aroused by sound, music, and sight, the drive to his house is altogether eerily quiet. But this, of course, does not mean the longing has dissipated. 

Confined in the limited space of his car, the world seems to narrows, arousal and longing seeming to seep from the pores of your skin. The leather of the seat, initially, was cool to the touch, but the heat of your body has warmed it, made the flesh of your thighs feel moist with wanting. Your legs remain spread on the seat, aware that your wetness will drip onto the fabric, wanting him to miss you and smell you long after you have departed. 

Chanyeol grips the wheel with a white knuckled determination, eyes trained on the road as you keep your eyes trained on him. Even over distance and time, the fullness of his erection has not reduced. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the road while your eyes study the tent in his jeans, wanting to feel the thick, veined heat of his cock pressed against your tongue, mouth and soul full of him. You wonder how he would feel, just as forceful and commanding as his hands; how he would sound, your shy and sweet boy, vocal and loud and yours, begging for release.

‘I can feel your eyes on me,' he announces, words clipped and voice thick, full of a gravel that makes him rasp.

At the sound, your walls clench around nothing, the ghost of the memory of his hand returning once more, aching for his cock, his tongue, his essence, to fill you. He, too, has parted his legs wide, making room for the heaviness of his cock and balls, uncomfortable while remaining steadfast in his urgency to get home. 

‘Do you like it?’ you ask, enunciating the syllables of your words, ensuring he hears the wetness you hold in your mouth, reminding him the wetness you carry between your legs. 

Almost imperceptibly, he nods, swallowing thickly as your eyes trace the motion of his Adam's Apple. ‘You’re making me so fucking hard.’

Impish and almost cruel, you spread your legs wider, knowing he will see the motion from the corner of his eyes. Legs spread, you lift the hem of your dress to reveal the fullness of your core, leaning back into the seat with a prideful grin. 

‘God, I can fucking smell your cunt,' he mumbles, eraser ting his grip on the wheel to keep himself composed.

Cocking your head to the side, you let your hand fall between your legs, running your left index finger over your folds, gathering the wetness. Chanyeol's shoulders tense, aware of this motion, a grin of gleeful pride tugging at your cheeks as you lightly gather more. Carefully, you reach over, letting your finger glide along his bottom lip, smearing your juices over the skin. 

A hungry growl rumbles through his chest, his tongue coming to lick at your fingers he sucks it into his mouth. The wet muscle laps circles over your finger, pulling a light, breathy moan from you as he licks it clean. When he releases it, your hand falls to your side, muscles feeling limp.

‘Fuck,’ he whispers, words drenched with lust, the full force of your wetness on his lips making him breathless. ‘The smell and taste of you is going to drive me crazy.’ 

A fire blossoms in the pit of your stomach, grounding you in the iron core of his words. It’s rare for you to want someone this way - enough to go home with them, enough to let the pleasure extend beyond a single moment of your own pleasure, enough to want to feel more of him. But it seems fair, you think, the resolute notion that he made you this way, used sound and vision to move you in a perpetual state of cosmic need.

He did this, and it’s only right that he finish it. 

The stairs to his flat are crooked, framed by a dimly lit hallway where the shadows on the walls are impossibly tall, lingering seductively on the paint. You’re sure you’re making noise as you climb, awkward and fumbling against his body as you hold him or he holds you, or perhaps you hold each other, soaked and stained now with the essence of one another, and blended into one cosmic whole. You’re sure you are loud but you do not hear your footsteps, ears ringing from the sound of the music and the sound of his hot breath. 

Chanyeol trips on the last step, both of you laughing at a level neither of you can discern but you watch the way his chest heaves as he laughs, watch the way his cheeks turn pink and feel yourself begin to float. Outside, dawn is kissing the sky, painting it gold and blue, but inside, against his door, Chanyeol paints the world in a kaleidoscopic myriad of beauty. It reverberates along your skin, vibrating down to your core and making your thighs clench with wanting. Like this, he is a bright spot, a sun trapped against the frail magic of bones, and the risk of being burned by his hot hands does not outweigh the burn of his tongue against yours. 

The peephole for 6B is rusted, the wood tarnishing from age and neglect, but his door has been painted black, and even in your stupor you fight to suppress a laugh, recognizing his Rolling Stones reference. 

This is usually where people apologize or make excuses - for the state of their flat, for the unexpected arrival of you in their lives; the implication that they always assumed they’d be lonely and longing, all of these things a lie but somehow reassuring in their simplicity. Excited, and therefore encouraging. But Chanyeol doesn’t apologize. You’re aware that he does not need to, that he wears your juices on his lips and fingers, yet you imagine that he doesn’t ever. 

Chanyeol operates outside of expectation, and therefore likely never apologizes for the state he is in when he receives pleasure. 

Upon entry, you are acutely aware that the flat is small, a studio, and it strikes you that this space could barely contain him. It's small, small enough that you cannot fathom the breadth and reach of him would have room here, the full length of his wingspan likely larger than the square footage of the space, but he turns you, pulls you to his chest and steals your lips in a hungry kiss, silencing any further thought in your mind. Languidly, he moves his mouth over yours, cupping your cheeks with hot hands, a fervor that makes his skin hot. In kind, you wrap your arms around his neck, fisting your hand in his hair, rough and hard and needy.

He’s gentle in the way he walks you backwards, does not move his lips from yours, simply moans over your tongue as he wastes no time in guiding you to the mattress and box spring in the back corner. Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, his hands move to your hips, pulling you firmly against him, the hardness of his erection pressing into your belly. Even through the fabric of your dress, the heat from his fingers radiates onto and into you, spreading like a fever through your blood. Chest flushed and tight, mind fogged and consumed by the flavor of his tongue as it glides over yours.

The backs of your calves bump against the mattress, staggering you into him just enough for the kiss to break, both of your sighing in discontent. Your vision blurs at the edges while Chanyeol regards you with half lidded eyes, lips pink and swollen. Arousal pools between your folds, dripping over to smear your thighs at the sight of him, trapped in a blissful state of arousal, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. His tongue comes to run across his lips, breathless in the effort of learning to breathe without your mouth on his, and you lean forward, capturing the pink muscle with your lips to offer a brief, gentle suck before pulling away.

Chanyeol raises himself to his full height, and for a moment you find yourself overcome, awed by the length and the power that is carried in the steel of his spine. He’s strong, rigid, and so impossibly soft - warm to the touch yet immalleable beneath your hands, the muscles in his arms and back solid enough for you to consider him your anchor in a storm. Emboldened, he lifts his hands from your hips and grips the hem of his shirt, pulling it over head. Eyes on yours, gaze unwavering, he drops the shirt to the floor, the red smears of desire burning beneath his skin. And, just as slowly, he moves his hands to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with a hungry, euphoric stare.

You follow suit,fingers guiding the hem of your dress lightly over your thighs, revealing more and more of yourself to him, a thrill of provocative seduction racing over your synapses as you watch him swallow thickly, captivated by the slow reveal of your skin. 

‘This is unfair,’ you murmur, whispering your dress just over your core, delaying the pull of the fabric overhead. ‘I’m wearing so much less than you.’ 

Chanyeol laughs, a deep rumble that would go unnoticed if your attention had not been entirely tuned to him. Rolling back his shoulders, he cocks his head to the side, considering your words and the state of you - already missing underwear, wet enough to want and need him again - guiding your shoes off with a smile.

‘The shoes count, right?’

You keep your voice innocent, soft and sweet and so unlike. you, a game that you have learned to play and know that he will continue willingly, if only because he has already felt you come around his fingers, unafraid of being witnessed and found.

‘Of course they do,’ he replies with a slight nod, his own voice a gentle caress that raises gooseflesh along your skin. ‘But you didn’t give me a chance to catch up.’

With that, he thumbs his zipper down and flays the jeans open, your gaze dropping to the muscles that lightly carve his hips and the soft patch of hair that leads down below his briefs. Mouth running dry, the muscles in your thighs tighten, body parched and starved for the graze of your teeth over his skin. Your grip around your dress tightens as he eases his jeans down his legs, your focus torn between the erection that springs to full attention and the length of his legs, strong and powerful, hands already imagining the feel his ass beneath your palm. 

Chanyeol steps out of his jeans, kicking off his own shoes in the process, thumbing the band of his briefs as he regards you, lips falling into an expectant pout. 

‘I believe it’s your turn.’ 

Running your tongue over your teeth, you smile, eyes locked on the fire that lingers in his gaze, pulling the dress over head. He hisses at the sight of you, no underwear and the lace of your bra sheer enough for the delicate circles of your nipples to be seen. Slipping his hand beneath his briefs, he nods in encouragement, gripping his cock and easing it over his length, pumping himself as he watches. Emboldened and unshy, you let your dress fall to your feet, reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra. 

You’ve done this before - countless times with men and boys and people who never really understood how to handle you. But something about Chanyeol’s possessive, unwavering stare makes you feel comforted, secure, empowered. He pumps his cock slowly, admiring you with a focus that speaks of learning, of witnessing the person before you, rather than rendering the curve and shape of their body to a mere tool of pleasure. With his eyes on you, the colours of the world seem to come into full focus, brightened by being the center of his attention. 

Your spine straightens, desire laces itself around places you did not think to associate with wanting - your hips; your breasts, aching for the firmness of his touch; your neck, desperate to be held; the backs of your knees, imagining the gentleness of his caress as he wraps you around the sharp angles of his body. These new aspects of your warning and of your body restructure your perception of yourself, your womanhood. With Chanyeol’s eyes on you, you feel important, sacred, and you chuckle to yourself, a muted, almost reticent, sound he does not seem to notice, bemused that it is in the quiet, morning grey of his apartment that you should feel so alive.

As your bra joins your dress on the floor, he nods to the bed, hand still stroking his cock without urgency.

‘Get on the bed,’ he commands, gently. ‘Show me how you touch yourself.’

Again, something about this feels unfair, his words slithering through your ribs and into your core, still wet and tingling with the memory of his hand. ‘What about you?’

Almost too sweetly for an encounter such as this, he speaks, the weight of his words a contrast that pulls at your nerves. ‘I’ll get mine when I’m inside you.’

You’re aware the smile you offer him is lewd, wet lipped and tongue heavy as your body instinctively puts the sensation of his cock between your walls. Clenching around nothing, you moan at the thought, emboldened and enticed, finding yourself altogether too impatient to take your time. 

Easing yourself back on the bad, you keep your eyes on him as you move, settling on the center of the mattress and spreading your legs wide. Resting on your elbows and cocking your head to the side, you let your left hand fall your core, the pads of your middle and index finger almost leisurely in the tender way they spread your wetness over your slip. Biting his lip at the sight, Chanyeol uses his free hand to guide his briefs down over his hips, pulling his cock free as he pumps himself, enticed by your display. 

The sight of his hardened length makes you feel empty, hollow and hungry and restless, a keening whine escaping from the back of your throat as you slip your fingers between your folds, wanting something as solid as his cock to keep your satisfied. You take your time easing your fingers in and out, pressing your knuckles against your walls and spreading your folds apart for him to watch, and he matches your pace, running his thumb over the purpled head of his cock as he watches your core spread. 

No one has ever asked this of you, asked to see the way you make yourself in pleasure and cared enough to remain poised in the act of witnessing. Neck red and ears burning, Chanyeol works at keeping his composure, and so to do your nails drag along the black cotton of his sheets, keeping yourself calm and keeping yourself from calling his name. No one has ever asked to learn you this way, not with such intensity, the glistening of precum on his tip enough to reassure you that he yearns for you, just as badly as you yearn for him. 

Picking up your pace, you press the base of your palm against your clit, applying pressure without offering too much stimulation, wanting his hand, his fingers, his mouth to be the thing that bring you over the edge. Head rolling back, you feel your fingers get coated with more juices, imagining the way his mouth would feel at your neck, the way his breath would feel on your breasts. Biting your lip, your skin begins to feel taught, nerve endings starting to flare in anticipation of his biting kisses. 

With the ringing of your ears beginning to dim, you hear the way he gasps between the slick sounds of your juices, his breath coming in uneven exhales and your own exhales pulling soft whimpers from the center of your core. Like this, his apartment becomes alive with both of you, the quiet loudness of these sounds enough for you to drown, your hips rolling into your hand, desperate to be full of something far longer than the delicate smallness of your fingers. 

Without warning, the speed of his strokes increases in pace, his grip tightening as he watches the way your pleasure builds and builds at your core and along your neck, nipples hard and pink and painfully ignored. The threads of your orgasm pull at you, tightening within your thighs, your toes clenching and unclenching against his sheets as your own pace begins to increase. It remains distant and far off, a promise demanding to be kept, and you close your eyes, focusing on the erratic, electric shiver it offers you. 

‘Stop,’ comes Chanyeol’s voice, tight enough to break. 

When you look at him, he stands at the foot of his bed, hand off his cock though it remains beautifully hard, eyes full of lust. He crawls onto the bed, a prowl that has you staring him onward and into you, your legs instinctively widening to welcome him home. Wrapping each arm under your thighs, he pulls you to him, keeps his eyes on yours as he uses his nose to guide your hand away, lowering his face until he is close enough to press a kiss to the center of your slit. 

It’s the only warning you have before his tongue glides into your core, the hot wetness of it tearing a moan from the marrow of your bones. His fingers tease slow circles at the sensitive skin of your groin, his tongue curling inside you and making sweat build at the base of your neck. Falling back on the bed, you feel your back arch as he hums against you, letting the low baritone of his voice vibrate into you, rattling loose a pained, needy cry that echoes off the walls. Pulling his tongue from your core, he removes one of his arms and eases two fingers inside you, stretching you wider than he had at the club, his lips wrapping around your clit at offering a powerful suck.

Crying out, your hand falls to his head, your hips rolling up to ride against his mouth messily, carding your fingers through his hair. The same way the dawn between to peek, gold and purple through the window beside the bed, so too does your orgasm, your hips feeling tight and your toes curling into the sheets once more. Your hand falls to your breast, massaging what you can, aching to be consumed and pressed and full, clenching around his fingers.

Feeling the force of your walls around his knuckles, he swiftly removes his fingers and lowers his mouth back, letting his tongue return to your core, drinking you down with an eagerness that makes you feel soaked. You’re dripping - with him and into him, thighs smeared and sheets stained - dissolving beneath the intensity he delivers to every choice he makes, this time your pleasure being his sole focus. His fingers press at your clit and you tremble, shaking and feeling yourself begin to be unmade. Somehow, he has learned your cosmology, learned its genetic make up and learned how to shatter it, his tongue and hand at your core enough to burn you to ash.

Feeling your orgasm build, no longer threads of a promise but the scorched tattoo of desire within your veins, you swallow thickly and gather your voice. ‘Cock,’ you announce, a whimper mixed with a moan. 

Pulling back, Chanyeol stills his fingers and regards you, black eyed and wet lipped, licking you from his lips as he awaits further command. The sight of him, so consumed by you, painted by you, makes you gasp, a thirsty sound that makes you feel impossibly small. 

‘Cock,’ you repeat. ‘I want you inside me. I want to come around you.’

Nodding, he swallows you down and moves up your body, nestling between your legs until his chest is pressed against yours. Breathing deep, he lets his hand caress your cheek before he tilts your head back against the pillow and captures your lips in a heated kiss, his tongue tracing the curved inside of your mouth, ensuring your taste yourself on his tongue. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you grind up into him, his cock trapped between you as you suck at his tongue, drinking what you can while your fingers etch their prints into the soft silk of his skin.

Reaching between you, he grips his cock and positions it at your entrance, tiling his head back enough to watch you with concern. Furrowing his brow, he runs the tip over your slit, a whimper of frustration splintering between your ribs, a pathetic sound that you don’t bother to hide. Chanyeol eases himself inside you, slowly, taking his time to make sure you feel the full length of him, allowing himself to fill you completely as he watches the way the pleasure of this stretch morphs and contorts your features. 

Buried to the hilt, he remains there, keeping still and letting you adjust while he angles himself down, cupping your breast in his hand and sucking your nipple between his teeth. The sudden stimulation as you clenching around him, your eyes widening at the sudden eroticism of the action, and he releases the nub, his eyes squeezing shut.

‘Fuck,’ he chokes out. ‘You’re so tight, if you keep doing that I won’t be able to last.’

Smirking, you roll your hips upward, encouraging him to move, kept on edge for along you fear you may come apart on impact, clenching as you do so. Both of Chanyeol’s hands come to your hips, stilling your actions with a fierce stare that moves directly into your core, hot and severe and so desperately sensual. 

‘Is that how you like it?’ he whispers, regarding you with an impish smile.

He does not wait for your reply, simply guides his hips back, pulling himself out before thrusting back into you in one swift motion. Choking out a moan, your fingers press into his skin, nails scratching hard enough to leave marks as he sets a brutal, unforgiving pace. Burying his face in your shoulder, he pours his moans into your skin, your own moans the shattered, broken gasps of intense pleasure, his piercing thrusts deep enough to send the mattress roughly back into the wall. 

The smell and feel of him makes you feel dazed, your focus narrowing to only him - the wetness of his breath, the force of his thrusts, the press of his thumbs into your hips, enough to leave bruises that will leave you aching for him for days. Legs shaking, your eyes begin to water, your concept of reality starting to dissolve into nothing but the feel of him inside you, the almost painful way he drives himself into you, pleasure burning beneath your skin, mind numb with nothing but the desire to come. 

Widening your legs to take him in deeper, you angle your head back and feel him press against your spot, mouth opening on a silent gasp. In this single moment of ecstasy, you watch the dawn fully break through his window, the first golden beams of morning light spilling over his skin, and for a moment, you feel as though you are fucking the sun, holding fire and gold and magic in your hands, eyes watering as tears of lust and love and pleasure build in your eyes.

‘Can I come in you?’ he asks, biting at your skin after he speaks, his thrusts unrelating in the pace they keep. ‘Can I come - I want to come inside you.’ 

His words smear into nothingness, reaching through the haze of your fogged mind, high and drunk and alive on the pleasure each snap of his hips delivers. The way he asks, the way he blooms, the way he knows how to keep you wired on nothing but him, for a moment you feel not unlike the moon learning how to collide with the stars, seeking their light.

Tightening your legs around his waist you nod furiously against his skin. ‘Come in me,’ you affirm, breathless and lost in space and time and pleasure. ‘Come in me.’ 

Once more, he moves his hands between your bodies, finding your clit with ease as he swirls his fingers in messy circles, tapping in patternless coordination. Gasping for breath, the universe blooms behind your eyes, your orgasm a colour show that brightens the sun, the dawn, the sky. Chanyeol comes alive beneath you, your thighs trembling as you feel wetness spill from you, smearing him and yourself, drenched by the force of your pleasure. Against his chest, you tremble, shattering by the force of his touch and his thrusts.

Inside you, Chanyeol spills, his thrusts shuddering with a violence that feels sinful, the heat of his come spilling into you, warming you, much like the beams of the sun in the morning haze. He moans as he comes, long and thunderous, a storm that breaks against your skin, cosmic and unyielding in its force. Your name echoes off your bones, off the clouds, into the distance as he thrusts and thrusts, slowing with each move of his hips until he stills inside you, panting for breath as you cling to him, feeling vulnerable and so impossibly alive. 

You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, breathing with one another, stroking his hair as he kisses at your neck. Over time, your breaths align, breathing together in a unison that feels harmonious, musical in its cadences. Chanyeol softens inside you, mumbles a soft curse as he pulls out, rolling onto his back not before he pulls you to his chest, keeping the same even rhythm of your breath as you watch the day bleed and break, dawn turning into early morning much too soon for your liking.

Eyes feeling heavy, you feel yourself begin to doze when he inhales sharply, taking the opportunity to speak.

‘I’m gonna think about your face when you come for a week,’ he announces, still gazing up at the ceiling as his fingers stroke idly down his spine.

Smiling, you glance up at him, lifting your hand to trace along the hard edge of his jaw. ‘If you take my number, you won’t have to only think about it.’ 

Taking his turn to glance down at you, you smile at one another, letting the morning and the light carry you. And, in your hands, you hold the sun, the morning, and the music, the waves of the universe vibrating, lovingly, beneath your fingers. 

[yeoldontknow]

Time Runner: 6

Author’s Note: welcome back to chanvember! thank you all for being so patient with me. i really do love this story so much and i hope you all enjoy it too <3 | this work features graphic content that may be triggering and themes not suitable for an audience under the age of 18. these themes include but are not limited to: discussions of PTSD, mentions of character death; graphic representations/discussion of blood, themes of war/violence, and explicit nudity. please do not read this story if any of these topics make you uncomfortable or if you are under 18. Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: time travel!au; suspense; thriller; drama; romance; angst; sci-fi/fantasy Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: discussions and references to PTSD/trauma; mentions of character death; themes of abandonment; graphic representations and discussions of blood; graphic themes of war/violence; explicit nudity; explicit language; heavy angst || do not read this story of these warnings make you uncomfortable Word Count: 5,832

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You snuck into Macy’s on 34th Street just as the last customers were beginning to leave, the closing chime a mechanical noise that briefly gave you pause, eyes wide and knuckles taught. The shrillness of the clicks made the hairs on your arms stand on end, awakening the gooseflesh of shock and awe for man made things and inviting you, once more, to your reintroduction to society.

Your footsteps were not cautious, the harshness of your pressure luxuriating in solid tile and the way it did not bend or give beneath your weight. In the distant recesses of your memory, you wondered when you had started to take the solidness of architecture for granted, but then, you supposed there were millions of nuances you had learned to ignore simply because they were rather than could be.

Chanyeol followed behind in silence, hot on your heels and nursing a fire within his core. Even as he kept his slight distance, you could hear the racing thoughts and the words that splintered, unspoken and unuttered, at the back of his tongue. If you had learned anything in your year apart, you had learned patience, the gift that comes with learning to accept time and the chronology of desire - the way it continues, unspoiled, even when you wish it would rush towards you. Behind you, Chanyeol had wanted to speak, but you kept your jaw clenched tight, forcing him to silence and ensuring he, too, learn what it means to wait. 

Thousands of questions burned in your throat like bile, but you’d lived a full year without pandering to his acquiescence and your priorities had changed. You needed clothing, food, things vital to your survival as a person. Over time and long without him, you’d built yourself into a beast, and only with rows and rows of finely pressed shirts and soft denim, neat and clean and organized all around you, did you remember that you were a woman born into polite society.  

Rather unceremoniously, you stripped out of your clothes in the center of the woman's clothing aisle. You'd climbed the metal stairs of the escalators with a hurried excitement, enjoying the rattle of mechanical objects as they warped against your touch. Finding clothes reminded you of bounty, of the way you had gone hungry and gone empty, alarmed, now, by all the things you had taken for granted when you were selfish and not wise enough to truly know the difference. 

You did not bother to shield your naked body from Chanyeol. Over time, you’d grown used to undressing in open spaces, unshy and unmoved by watchful eyes - if they wanted your skin, they would do their best to claim it, and you were always ready for the fight. In turn, Chanyeol did not bother to turn around, his gaze on you hard and unyielding, repossessing what he could and eyeing you as a phantom, certain you would disappear if he looked away. Jaw clenched and arms crossed over his chest, he watched you peel your garments, your armor and the ripped flesh of dead things, away from your skin, with grim, thin lips. 

He watched your motions with a morbid curiosity, concerned yet devoted to the marks on your skin. The dried dirt and blood peppered your exposed breasts, caked into thick layers, the smears having been there for days, weeks, months. Hygiene had been a luxury, a difficult luxury to find in the cold months of winter. The water had just started to raise its temperature when Chanyeol decided to show his face, your weary feet walking along the river bank looking for a clear expanse of water, free from the undercurrent of frost. A younger version of yourself would be concerned you hadn't the time to get clean for him, to make yourself into, something soft and warm and pretty, but you did not bother to mourn that version of yourself. You were different now.

And, apparently, so was Chanyeol. 

With each new reveal of your bruises and marks, he simply watched, impassive, yet, paradoxically, enlightened, unwavering in the way his gaze traversed your bones. Something about the fierceness in his eyes put a fury in your knuckles, a new side of him being revealed alongside your bruises, the side that does not weep for the ravaging of beautiful things. He watched you with understanding, the appalled displeasure of affection mixed with knowledge, guilt, and expectation - as though he had imagined worse, relieved you were alive while acknowledging, with the bitterness of remorse, that you were not whole.

As a challenge, you kept your eyes on him just the same, standing fully naked before him and demanding that he see you. Tongue pressed against the back of your teeth, you were glad for the battle that had ripped your goodness away, glad that you were now his equal - full of lies, and secrets, and deception. He would never know all the things you had learned to break in his absence, even if he was forced to live with the knowledge of breaking you. 

When he did not look away, simply regarded you with a hesitant awe that made your head raise high, you turned away, studying the fashion you had learned to forget. With careful hands, you tugged shirts off of hangers, lips downturned in a serious frown as you walked down the aisles, dropping the items that displeased you. Your hands gave pause over the clothes, lingering too long on each fabric as you rubbed it between your fingers. The sheerness of modern materials suddenly seemed so impermanent, beauty without function and designed without art.

But even these fabrics were rough in their harshness, the cotton worn away without a pre-wash and mixed with materials never meant to be pressed against the supple softness of skin. Alone, you grimaced and you laughed, skin tight and aching with the complexity of memory - the nostalgia of the distant comfort of poly-blend, merging with the ache for the supple protection of leather. 

It was only when the silence of his watchful eyes became oppressive, your tongue adopting a burn that whispered of the sourness of betrayal and  with the sour taste of betrayal and contempt, that you started to speak. 

‘You didn’t come back for me.’ 

A simple sentence, accusatory in its weight. As you spoke, your voice felt bitter, a dry expanse of disappointment tarnished with the embers of love and longing. Even then, you weren't sure when questions had become statements, prideful in the slow realization that you were the one leading illuminating the direction of the conversation. Now, you were the one in a position of authority, wise and dominant and mighty enough to demand action, but you would not apologize. 

After everything, this small, accusatory sentence was all you could manage. 

Leaning against a large square pillar, home to a long, clean mirror, Chanyeol pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and began to speak in shaking tones.

‘I did!’ he protested, words little more than a hiss of passion

‘No.' How odd, you thought, to speak with your full voice and tongue, unafraid of being heard by anyone, including yourself. You smiled, pulling a pair of jeans from a shelf on the wall with an apathetic tug. Sizes had become arbitrary things. All that mattered was that you were clothed and clean. ‘If it were me, I’d have come back for you in the space of a breath.' With this, you turned to face him, looking him in the eye and demanding he wither by the force of you. 'I would have run right back to you, and you left me.’

'You have no idea what I did to get to you,' he shot back, the tightness in his voice warping his words into a plea that spoke of anguished hostility. 'You have no idea how badly I wanted to find you. I thought you would trust me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt.'

Each of his words dripped with a pain that spoke of knives - knives against skin and knives against the malleable, fragile muscle of the heart. Chanyeol kissed his words with a desperation that made you pity him, the simplicity of his hurt almost infantile compared to the torment of abandonment. Love lingered in the spaces between his words, the words that spoke of trust and desire and wanting. 

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you felt your expression harden, glancing over your shoulder to cast him a harsh stare. Trust was a thing he had consistently bent beneath his greedy hands, taking it from you surreptitiously, even though you so willingly had given it to him, eager to be wanted. Even when you were together, he still walked over the truth as though it were eggshells, delicate in its presence as though he feared it. 

Long ago, you would have waited and bit your tongue, urging him to continue. Now, he had no choice but to listen.

‘They don’t care about me,' you explained, turning away to find a shirt rather than a bra. Your hands clutched the jeans with a tightness you had adopted over years of watching things get ripped away, holding them close and hoping they remain. 'They aren’t after me.’

Chanyeol scoffed. 'Whether or not they were didn't affect my effort to get to you. All I cared about - all I continue to care about - is keeping you safe.’

He was tired, you could hear it in the way he clipped his words, pushing back against your combative nature with a bite of his own. Tired as he was, the words dripped from his lips with a passion that made your spine tingle, invigorated by the violent compassion.

‘I wasn’t.'

‘I know,' he agreed, vehemently. 'I’m -’

‘Don’t say you’re sorry,’ you said, cutting him off as you pulled a button down shirt from a hanger. Turning to face him, you angled your chest towards him. ‘I meant, and continue to mean, nothing to the men after you. You had to cover your own ass.’

‘What am I supposed to say?’ he snapped, taking several stops forward with vigor. ‘Can you really blame me for -’

‘Yes.' It was a bark of a statement, one that made you glide your tongue over your teeth as you flashed him a glare. ‘I can.’ 

‘And what would you have had me do?’ The lilt of exasperation in his voice was exhilarating. You needed this confrontation, needed to hear him break. Pushing him to the edge was the only way you could get a deluge of honesty out of him. ‘Risk both of us getting captured and sent back to 3148 just to die? I can’t do that again!

There he was again, spewing more secrets and mysteries your way as though they made any reasonable form of sense or logic. Dropping the clothes, you whirled around and walked towards him until your feet were inches from his. At once and by habit, you found the small circle of his nose freckle, so prettily on display at close proximity, and you willed yourself to hate it. 

He was the ice of a winter storm that fed the fire in your veins. In that moment, you wanted to kill him or kiss him, bleed him beneath your tongue, fill the ache in your heart with him, and run from him all at once. There had never been a moment when you could truly trust him, but still and after everything, you loved him. Through all your fragile and tarnished expectations in a lost year, the breath from his parted lips said more about his loss than yours.

‘You have lied to me so many times.’ Your voice was low, trembling with a rage that turned your fisted knuckles white. ‘How many people have you done this with? How many people have you dragged backwards and forwards through time just to leave them to die?’

‘None. I promise. It's only ever been you,' he said, shaking his head. At once his expression changed, brow furrowed in offense, appalled at the very idea. 'Do you really think I could? You have to let me -’

‘What?' you barked. 'Finish that sentence. I have to what? Believe you? Let you explain? I don't have to do anything you want me to.' 

Going to war with him like this felt liberating, a flood of woe and resentment and violence unfurling from your tongue. The words hurt to say, but hurt more to keep them in side - it hurt to have felt them for so long, aware that your breaking was a long, slow event that only bled once he pulled you back. 

'You left me in a Medieval Holocaust, Chanyeol!’ you shouted, voice raw and blunt as the edge of a knife. ‘I’m not me anymore!’ 

The sound of your voice resonating off the high ceiling briefly made you panic, the loudest you’d been in over a year, and you almost withered beneath the strength of the echo. But this, the glory of your cadence and the wrath of its tenor - the way it terrified you to witness the birth of your rage - made you smile. 

Finally, the only thing you had to fear was yourself. 

You were confident there was nothing left of you for him to love. Standing before him, you were a shattered, frayed ghost of a girl who had been soaked in bloodshed and brutality. Digging your feet into the tile, you felt not unlike a crow, the talons of your toes latched to a position you not be moved from. He would confront you, see you, and know you. Now, you were no longer fresh faced or warm, able to love him back to safety or even love him to a state of comfort. 

You would not, most grievously, be able to tell him that it would be ok. You were not fine. We would never be fine.

Instead, you had returned to him a general. A survivor. A woman. By slipping through time, he had escaped the delicate nuances that came with aging, while you had greeted them, though not altogether gracefully. Even as this thought crossed your mind, you fathomed it a bit unfair, but the cruelty of it felt like yours. 

‘You are exactly who I expected you to be!’ he yelled back, matching your tone with his own venom. This, too, was the loudest he had ever been. With you, he had always offered kind, gentle words, but something in the tick, richness in his voice told you he longed for this. Alive with passion, his eyes bored into yours, desperate. ‘You, in this moment, are exactly the person I thought I’d found in the library!’

‘For once,’ you demanded, vocal cords scratching together in a metallic, brutal sound, ‘can you give me the entire fucking truth without sparing me the details, like I’m a goddamn child?’

‘I met you when I was twenty, Y/N!’ 

He placed his hands on either side of your face, fingers carrying the same tightness and ferocity as the day you met. Part of you wanted to reel back from his touch, but he held you with a confidence and an aggression that mirrored your own, as though he had lived the year with you, by your side as a phantom limb. The guttural instinct to pull away faded almost immediately, replaced by awe as you marveled at his strength. This was not the touch of a man surprised into a state of fear. 

This was the touch of a man who knew how to handle flame, unafraid of being burned.

‘You were always older than me,' he explained, emphatically. 'Always smarter, and distant like you’d seen war, every inch of a history I just didn’t have access to. Y/N, I was twenty. I’m forty-six now and you, this you, is the woman I met as a boy and fell in love with. I’ve seen all of you now, only in the wrong order.’ 

When he finished speaking he released your face and backed away, chest heaving with the roughness lost breath, hands on his hips, bereft. Your brow furrowed deeply as you regarded him, processing his words with a loss of your own breath. Eyes wide and chest flushed, you leaned forward, urging him to continue. He ran his hand beneath his nose, gathering sweat, or tears, or both, lips wet and red. Words rose and died on your tongue, partly swallowed by your desire to hear him explain himself and party burned to ash by your own shock and bewilderment. There simply could be no way. 

‘Half my life has been wrapped up in you,' he finished, looking past you with a defeated, almost longing expression, looking through time to an age when things were hopeful. 'Two whole timelines have been filled with you, and I still want more.'

Perhaps what infuriated you most was that nothing about his tone said he meant to placate you. This was not his way of smoothing your edges, not even an implication that he would want to, simply his form of honesty that demanded you believe him. 

It only stoked the fire that had ignited in your veins, the mere idea of his narrative revisionist at best. Breathing long and slow and deep, you tried to fathom it - time and chronology and the distance in between, as if you were ever able to break away from it without his hand to show you how. 

‘Is that supposed to be comforting?’ you managed, mirroring his pose and placing your hands on your hips.

Chanyeol simply shrugged, no longer feeling the need to kiss the art of convincing. ‘If it comforts you, then yes. But it’s the truth.’

You laughed, cocking your head back to regard the ceiling, cold and hollowed. Looking back at him once more, you narrowed your eyes and shook your head. ‘No, it fucking isn’t,' you spat. ‘How would I have met you twenty years ago? Tell me.’

‘I found you, or maybe you found me,' he tried, walking towards you once more, emboldened by his own honesty. 'I don’t know because you never told me. And believe me - I asked, hundreds of times. Every time, you just shook your head and told me you had your own secrets.'

‘Well,’ you sneered, feeling vindicated. ‘Isn’t it funny how the tables turned.’

‘'Don't you dare act like it's the same,' he hissed, his own eyes narrowing on the impact of your implication. 'I asked out of love, and I stopped asking out of trust. From the moment we met, I trusted you.'

The pain of synchronicity struck against your heart, pulling at your ribs to put an ache in your soul. Biting your lip, you felt the blood rush from your cheeks, down and into your heart, your mind awash with memories of a time that belonged to another life, another you. You were not so different from him, once, young and foolish and vain, finding a man in a library who looked at you as though you were the center of the universe, wanting to always remain in that light. 

You ran, just as he did, with a stranger who promised the stars.

'Every secret,' he continued, 'I’ve kept from you has been for your own good.’ At this, he laughed, glancing down at his feet with a sheepish suppression. ‘And, fine, maybe I was selfish. I needed to know why - why it's always you, and why it's always us. All this time, I’ve been learning as we go. You've been learning time, and I’ve just been learning you.’

Your heart sank deep into your chest, pressing against your sternum in its trajectory. A younger version of you would have run to him, seeking the comfort of his arms or seeking to comfort the flush that had spread into his neck, but you had learned to only allow yourself the experience of comfort after the ugliness of humanity had been revealed. Luxuries only came when deserved, and you still had too many questions to let the night become easy.

‘Where am I in your timeline?' you asked, slowly. 'The woman you met, not the girl you found.’

‘You ran with me after I stole the key. I-' Chanyeol cut himself off, swallowing thickly before he lifted his gaze to yours, eyes wet and expressive, anguished and lost and so terribly hollow. 'I watched them kill you in front of our city center. You went to them willingly and they made an example out of you. They hoped it would encourage everyone else to find me.' 

Looking at Chanyeol, his wide eyes regarding you, still, as a treasure he had twice lost, the blood in your veins stilled. Only then, naked and vulnerable and reconciling the reality of your own death, did you begin to feel cold. Death, within and without time, was inevitable, a doom clock that left little room for escape, even if it was by your own hand. Suddenly, you understood the weight of his careful treading - having pushed him to the limits of his emotional strength; you understood the Ministry and their casual disinterest, your existence little more than an interesting afterthought, dealt with and succinctly witnessed in reverse. 

In one fell swoop, you realized you were as good as a stolen key, a treasure in his eyes and heart. 

‘So that’s why they don’t want me.’ Your words came as a hollow whisper, words that did not need to be spoken, but felt real, and tangible, as you spoke them. ‘They already know my fate.’ The weight of it rendered you back into a child, petulant and tempestuous at the understanding you had survived an inquisition just to choose another. And even as you spoke, your mind raced, began formulating plans and strategies, ways to fight and ways to live. ‘I’m already dead.’

Saying it out loud made your vision clear and brought Chanyeol close to you once more. At such close proximity, you were finally able to see him - to see him and witness him. The grey hair behind his ears spoke, now, of a life long lived and long experienced, so full and wrought with emotion that it swept through the strands like wind. Wrinkles tucked themselves into the corner of his eyes and lips, the nodes of his pores speaking more of worry and anxiety than the good natured laughter that many wore through time. Before you, he stood as a pillar of age and wisdom, and suddenly you realized you had learned nothing - always too selfish to see him for who he truly was.

Yours, always, and aged by the brutality of your existence.

He sighed heavily, tired and lost, giving over to your poison and to the old, fractured man he had so suddenly become. ‘You went willingly to them,' he repeated, soft and gentle and careful. 'I realize now you already knew how we would end.’ Fixing you with an affectionate stare, he attempted a smile, the thin line of his lips unable to believe the warmth of it. 'You made the choice already knowing that, eventually, you would.'

‘Why...didn’t you ever tell me?’ you asked, stepping forward. Your hands ached to reach for him, but you pressed them against your sides, fists curled into a ball to stifle the effort. 

‘What,’ he sighed, cocking his head to the side, exasperated, ‘that I knew everything about you before you’d actually become the person I knew?’

‘No! That you’d known about me and this since we met!’ This was the moment, you thought. The first time you could feel the fabric of the universe pulled in every direction, the void in between pressing against your shoulders. ‘What is the point, then, Chanyeol? I had a right to know!’

‘Because there's still so much of it I don’t understand,’ he pressed. ‘You ran with me, willingly. I asked because I needed to know, and you came because you wanted to.’

Pressing your hand to your chest, you clung to the one thing you could truly believe in. ‘I deserved to know!’

Closing his eyes, he chuckled to himself, cocking an eyebrow in interest when he looked at you cones more. ‘Would you have come?’ he asked. ‘If I told you, would you still have come? Don’t you think there’s something sacred to letting people live their life without knowing when they die?’

You didn’t have an answer for that, felt your fire and will begin to crumble beneath the weight of his stare. Falling silent, you felt your chest rise and fall, shallow breaths rattling through your lungs as you considered all the ways you had underestimated him. As though he wasn’t prepared for you, as though he wasn’t battle born himself. Now, confronted by his perception of the truth, so experienced in the handling of moral philosophy, you felt terribly small.

‘So you just wanted me there?’ A weak and selfish argument, one that spoke to your emotional turmoil, pulling back the armor of your heart to reveal the lost, and fragile soul kept within. 

‘I always want you with me.’ He said the words with a smile that was neither warm nor inviting, tragic in its honesty and acceptance of this truth, but still remained reassuring. Something about the way he looked at you said he was just as small and lost and desperate as you. ‘I don’t understand how to be without you. I did that - for a long time - and it was awful. I can’t -’

‘So this is my fate?’ you whispered, cutting him off. ‘To run with you forever?’

 A cold phrase, when you really meant to say needed. Was your fate to always need him, and be needed by him.

‘It seems fair, doesn’t it?’ he countered, the hope in his voice leveling your will to ash. ‘I’ve been in love with you forever, because this relationship stretches for an eternity. We are laced through history, you and I.’ His words came in a rush, passionate, emboldened, painting a universe in which time was moved by your hearts alone. ‘Tell me what the difference is!’

‘The difference is that forever is absolutely meaningless with you!’ It was your turn to step forward, letting yourself be close and captured in his warmth. It felt natural, comfortable, easy to be in his blanket again, close enough to remember why you’d run with him, always. ‘Don’t you see? It’s inconsequential and childish, because you render it tangible.’ 

Your voice was quiet and resolute, silencing him and all his echoing protests. Along your nerves, an itch to touch and feel him started to rise, wanting, all at once, to be handled by him, and to handle him with the new strength that had burrowed between your knuckles. He kept his gaze on yours, searching your face with a mystified expression, awed by the way you were both his and yours, his memories of you overlayed with the reality standing before him. A chill walked along your skin, and you welcomed it, glad that you had never learned an immunity against the glory of his eyes.

He was emboldened by the conviction of his love, the force of it nestling beneath your pores, rooting itself in your marrow. This time powerful, this time adult, this time raw. You shivered again, willing yourself to speak with a wisdom that echoed his own.

‘Forever bores me,’ you explained, voice calm and quiet, demanding to be heard. ‘Forever is scattered and non-linear, plot points. It’s charted data to be stumbled upon, found like a fucking surprise. Forever doesn’t fucking exist, Chanyeol.’

‘That’s funny,’ he murmured, ‘considering I’ve devoted my entire life to giving you every tomorrow.’

You wanted to laugh, amazed he could still cling to the words that would have soothed a younger, more fragile version of you; torn, in the end, by the contrast of your spirit. 

‘There hasn’t been a tomorrow for a long, long time,’ you said, softly. ‘Tomorrow and the future never comes, it just is. All there is, is now. Give me the present and make that stretch onwards. That’s how you tell someone you love them. You give them the present and you fight for it.’ Now, you let yourself take his hand, twining his fingers together with a roughness that spoke of cosmology and chemistry, the bonds of the cosmos and the bonds of atoms, stitched together by science and magic of choice. ‘Like this - this is a war you refuse to let die.’ 

In the silence that lingered between you both, he leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, sharing your breath. For a while, you remained this way, tactile, alive, and united, fighting for one another and fighting for a life that was meant to be shared. Eventually, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you to him with a tightness that felt desperate. You followed suit, looping your arms over his shoulders and letting your fingers stroke idly at the hair at the back of his neck. 

Sharing breath with him grounded you back in the physicality of your body, blood warm and rushing to places long ignored. Your thighs ached, your chest heaved, your tongue wet - not with fear, not with rage, but with wanting - with Chanyeol. It hurt, in a sense, to be so aware of your skin, your limbs, your heart, the folds at the center of your core - awakened back into a person rather than a soldier. Chanyeol did not touch you with an urgency that spoke of wanting, just with a confidence and a power that said he knew what it meant to remember your soul, the person behind the skin and the human in the mind. 

It felt natural to be held this way - as if it was always how you wanted to be held: tightly, securely, violently. You clung to him, eyes starting to feel wet with tears you did not know had started to spill, cheeks scorched on contact with the fire of your emotions. Pulling back slightly, he regarded you with reverence, brought his hand to his mouth, pulling off his glove with his teeth before using his thumb to wipe the tears on your cheek away. He never took his eyes off yours, never apologized - aware you would not let him, aware that he could not - simply let you be held.

Resting his forehead against yours once more, he cupped your cheek with his hand, eyes closed and heart thundering against yours in his sternum.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he whispered, so unlike the way he used to ask.

Now, it was a warning, rather than a request, an announcement to be prepared for the totality of him, his longing, and his desire to protect you. The raw honesty of his statement rendered you silent, eyes half-lidded as you nodded, brought yourself closer to him, to the roughness of his clothes and the warmth of his skin that radiated from beneath. He whined at your acceptance of this, his own resolve collapsing beneath the relief of having you again - safe, and whole, and his.

He came to your mouth with a calculated vengeance, careful in the way he his hands handled you while his lips dripped loss and anguish into your blood, the force of his lips against yours a wild fire. You clawed at him, kissing him messily, unpretty in the way you handled his mouth, all teeth and tongue, the violence of war and hunger and grief pulling at his shirt by the strength in your fingers. For a year, you’d been charged, forced into a new shape that was both reductive and carnal, fierce yet so very fragile. He moaned into the kiss, and so did you, unsure if the wetness on your cheeks were your tears or his, though, in the end, you supposed it did not matter. 

This grief, you realized, was shared - scattered, out of order, and impossible, but shared just the same. 

Chanyeol tore through you with the full velocity of love, while you tore through him, full of lust and longing. Needing to catch his breath, he pulled back, smiling sweetly at your whimper of loss, your own lips wet and swollen. Tugging at his neck, you urged him back, wanting more, needing to feel him in places that were just was warm and moist as your mouth. He shook his head, ran his hand up your neck to tilt your head, leaning down to the tender skin with a gentleness that made you tremble.

Softly, he kisses your scars, gentle and warm and adoring, the quiet serenity and devotion of this pulled a sob from your chest, your hands clinging to him as though the kindness of this action was a trick. He kissed and kissed at all the things that had tried to unmake you, giving you the opportunity to get used to love, and loyalty, and veneration once more. With each touch of his lips, you felt yourself choke on a sob, realizing you’d missed him beyond imagination - his voice, his touch, the way he held onto words as though they were sacred, the way he held onto you, always reluctant to let you go. 

You’d punished him, spent an entire year and hours into the night punishing him, a projection of the way you had punished yourself, demanding he hurt with you. And even after all that, after the change and bloodshed and the violence, he still kissed you as though you deserved to be adored.

Eventually, he pulled away, laced his fingers through yours and led you to a bathroom. You kept your eyes on his while he cleaned you, wetting paper towels with hot water, letting you get used to the sting with gentle caresses. With each passing swipe, you decided, resolutely and confidently, that time had accounted for so many things, but it had never accounted for you. With each swipe, Chanyeol removed the dirt and the blood and the clay, revealing the essence of you that lingered beneath. 

You had played a hand in the manipulation of history, had survived an Inquisition and would live to see another, and decided, that if you were born to see the shift and movement of time, then so would you shift and move your fate.

Time had accounted for everything except your choice. 

Time would never erase you so swiftly, not after everything you had made with Chanyeol. You would not hand yourself over to a Ministry that had no power or governance over your path - they had proven you existed outside it, beyond it, and you did not matter to its rules or structure.

You would fight and you would create the change.

Your fate was not theirs to control.

Your fate was not theirs.

[yeoldontknow]

⤖ hi friends! 

welcome back to my absolute favourite time of year - CHANVEMBER! when i say i spend the entire year looking forward to this month, i mean it. i know it seems silly, but spending the entire month celebrating the man who inspires me, keeps me laughing, challenges me, makes me sweat (a lot), and makes me want to be a better, kinder person feels incredibly insignificant for all the joy he’s brought me over the years. as someone who prides themselves on their gift giving talents, one month will never feel like enough.

this is the official welcome to this year’s celebration and ive been working so hard to make this year the best one yet. i will not be revealing the goodies i have planned, and with work being what it is for me now i cant guarantee there will be an update every day or every other day. however, i am doing nanowrimo this year in conjunction with chanvember to keep the party going. please look forward to all the content, the gifs, the reblogs, the ask games ive created (if you choose to play with me), and the endless amount of wine that will be on this blog throughout november. 

during the month, ill be turning this post into a mini masterlist of sorts that will live in my updates schedule so you can revisit and see if youve missed anything.

LINKS:

The Lyricism Of You Light Sakura The Morning After (M) All Quiet Time Runner - Chapter 6 - please take the chapter warnings seriously

WITH THAT ALL SAID!! LETS CELEBRATE THE MAN, THE GENUIS, THE ARTIST, THE GOOFBALL, THE ACTOR, THE HUMAN - PARK CHANYEOL <3 

[yeoldontknow]

YAAAASSSSS CHANVEMBER IS HEREEEEE I CANT WAIT I CANT WAIT I CANT WAIT. MY FAV TIME OF THE YEAR YAAASSS 🥰🥰🥰

AHHHHH ME TOO ANON!!!!! we need a lot of joy in the community right now so let’s just party!!!! it’s my favorite season 🥺🥺💗💗💗

[yeoldontknow]

The inhuman screech I made when I finished the new Chanyeol fic was loud enough to wake the dead. It was amazing, Kat. Now I just really want someone to make me a playlist like that 🥺🥺

aaaaah lmaoooo i can just imagine the yell as it bends into a yodel. thank you for. reading it angel!! i'm so happy you liked it <3 hes such an angel isn't he :( wow :( i just want to make playlists all day too and fall in love through song :(

[yeoldontknow]

Now i will gush about lyricism of you until next year thank you for coming to my TED talk

ahhhh omg anon this is such a great ted talk pls let me know if there’s a re run 💗 thank you for reading it i am SO happy you liked it 💗

[yeoldontknow]

kat! i saw your response to my excessive rambling over your amazing writing and all i can really say is that i just can't help myself. you're an inspiration to the writing community and many others and i'm always looking forward to your fics💖💖💖

moaaaaaaaaa ;~~~~~; i will cry. if you keep this up i will continue to cryyyyy. i feel so lucky to have you here and to be on the receiving end of your continued, amazing support. honestly your reblogs really do make my day and give me life and help encourage me to push myself more <3 jsalkdjal you always make me so soft ;~~~~; heck i love you <3

[yeoldontknow]

I am PUMPED for Chanvember!!! I’ve got a very stressful month ahead for me at work so this will be what help gets me through 😭😍❤️

ahhhhhhhh!! nat thank you omg me too! i love love love doing this every year. remember to take time to rest and make space for the things you enjoy. if you feel yourself getting burned out this month give yourself permission to take a break and listen to your body! it will always tell you what it needs 💗 and i truly hope chanvember will bring you joy!!

[yeoldontknow]

hey there, i'd just like to express my gratitude for your incredible writing. everything you write is just so captivating, so engaging. just wanna let you know i'm a big fan and i'm looking forward to all your updates ( especially since it's chanvember eheh ) also the way you describe chanyeol makes it so impossible not to fall in love with him, fictional or not. ahhhhhhhh

omg?? hello! this is truly so so lovely and kind of you to say. 💗💗💗 this message is really encouraging and honestly made me so happy. i’m delighted that my writing has touched you in some way AND. MOST OF ALL! that it makes you fall in love with chanyeol 🎉 half the time i feel like my purpose on this earth is spreading the gospel of chanyeol lmao but i love him so much it’s really hard not writing novel after novel about him 🥺 i hope you continue to enjoy what i have coming for chanvember!!

[yeoldontknow]

The. Lyricism. Of. You. Was amazing!! 😍😍😍😍 ooooh i want to be a bird sitting on a tree in the parking lot watching it all happen! I loved it, thank you! 😍😍😍💗💗👏👏👏👏👏

ahhhhh thank you anon!!! thank you so much for reading it. i’m so so happy you liked it 🥺💗 me too! i’d love to be a sparrow in the ivy watching them realize they’re idiots and could have been super in love so much longer. waahhh thank you for this cute message!

[yeoldontknow]

Your first Chanvember post was so perfect and beautiful and soft. I'm a puddle. Thank you!

ahhhh anon! thank you so much for reading it! i made myself into a puddle too while i wrote it. tbh it came from nowhere as i had originally planned to write something else but i love these little surprises. it just 🥺🥺🥺💗💗💗💗 yeah. thank you for being here for chanvember! i hope you continue to enjoy the updates!

[yeoldontknow]

Hi Kat! I just wanted to send you a message after reading Light Sakura. There were so many parts of this story that reminded me about my experiences with my ex, specifically the part about learning to be quiet. That happened to me and I only realized it after I reconnected with some friends from uni who knew me before I met them. When I was with them, I realized the difference. I just wanted to thank you for this story. I needed it more than you could know 💚

hi anon <3 thank you so much for reading light sakura and sending this message! this is so sweet. i'm so glad that it resonated with you and felt relatable. i know how it feels to make yourself small and change parts of yourself you shouldn't have to change just to make someone else feel comfortable - even if they dont ask. i realized the difference in me on my own, looking at pictures taken over the course of two years. it was like watching old movies or some kind of broken reflection. i'm glad you reconnected with those friends tho! i hope those relationships are still going strong. real friends will always tell you when something isn't right and make sure you get back to health.

thank you for this message love <3

[yeoldontknow]

I can’t believe you started Chanvember off like that. I’m sure I won’t make it to the end given you and the comeback 😩 I cried so hard because it reminded me of my situation with my crush, and I wish he owned an iPod not just a phone so this could happen 😔 But you really are the best writer on here. I think about if you and Chanyeollie wrote a song together and you did the lyrics. Wow. AOTY RIGHT THERE 🥰

aahhhh <3 hi anon <3 thank you so much for reading lyricism of you! i'm so happy you enjoyed it! i thought starting nice and soft would ease everyone into chanvember but this ask is so sweet. there's always something so extraordinarily intimate about sharing music with someone, even if youre not entirely attracted to them or attracted to them yet. its so personal and truly lets you get inside their mind and heart. i'm wishing the best for you and your crush <3 these compliments genuinely are so lovely too omg ?? thank you for enjoying my work. being anyone's favourite anything is so powerful and i'm touched that you like my work that much <3

lmaoo if chanyeol and i could write a song together i'd actually disappear into the ether that would be too much for me. i think about creating literally anything with him about 8 times a minute lmao

but thank you!!!!

[pikayeollie]

Say it what you like? Well, I like both!