His head is tilted, dark hair hanging low on his brow, thick-rimmed glasses falling down the bridge of his round nose. He's tantalizingly coy, the top buttons of his shirt undone, exposing just enough of his chest to draw your eyes there.

With peachy pink cheeks and a flutter of his lashes, he effortlessly commands your attention. And still, as if it wasn't exactly what he'd been waiting for, his pulse jumps when you step fully into the room, coming to meet him at the bed.

Changbin leans back, palms resting behind him flat on the mattress, legs spreading, beckoning you between them. His exhale carries his anticipation, his breath warm against your thumb that rubs along his bottom lip while his gaze is fixed up at you.

"Impatient today, huh, bun?"

An involuntary shiver spreads down his spine. He reaches a hand up, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose to see you as clearly as he can.

"Not impatient," he says, pressing a kiss to your thumb where it lingers on the corner of his mouth, "just missed you."

"I wasn't gone that long," you laugh softly, the growing heat of his cheek spreading through your fingers.

"It was long enough!" Changbin's voice rises an octave, whiny as the pout settles back on his face. You can't help but agree— any time spent away from him is too long.

He tips his head back further as your hand travels down to his neck, goosebumps rising where your fingers brush over sensitive skin. Your touch grows firm at the nape of his neck, holding him there as you lean down to meet him.

Changbin is certain you're going to kiss him, his chest expanding with the breath he sucks in and holds as he waits for your soft lips to touch his own.

But the feeling never comes— all he's granted is your breath against him, your lips close enough to leave him with just the phantom of sensation. A whine crawls its way up his throat, brows furrowing as he resists the temptation to lean up and capture your lips on his own.

You lick your lips, and he can almost feel your tongue. His eyes are pleading, hands trembling as he shifts his position to rest them in his lap, sitting up straighter.

Another whine escapes when you kiss the corner of his mouth instead of his lips. His cock jumps when you laugh, the sound amused and feather-light, a tease that knots his stomach.

"Please," Changbin's plea practically a squeak as it leaves him.

"Please what?" You ask, and he has to bite his lip to contain the pathetic sort of whimper that threatens to leave him. He swallows, ears flushing with the same pink on his heated cheeks as he readies himself to beg for you.

"Kiss me, please, I— I need it, need you."

There's a sigh of relief that leaves Changbin when you finally kiss him, eyes fluttering blissfully closed as he presses his lips fully into yours. As if he's afraid you're going to tease him again, leave him only with a chaste brush before you pull away, his hands find your body, gripping at your hips.

Not a demanding hold, but desperately hopeful— because he'd let you step away, wouldn't fight it if you decided he's had enough, but he has the hope you'll stay just like this. His fingers squeeze, desires exposed, his need laid explicitly bare.

You're slow to undress him, hands careful as they pop open more of his buttons, pushing his collared shirt off his shoulders, letting it hang askew on his arms.

Changbin moans when he feels your tongue against his bottom lip, opening his mouth to invite you inside. The lick of your tongue is languid while his is eager, paces mismatched but still somehow perfect.

You reach for his pants, pull the zipper down in a smooth, unhurried motion. He's sticky wet beneath his underwear, and he gasps when you pull his cock free, the cool air hitting the hot, newly bare skin causing him to shiver.

He swallows a whine as you trace a finger over his leaking tip, his hands clumsy as they fall away from your hips to grip the edge of the bed. You fall to your knees to touch him with more ease, so you no longer have to hunch your back, and his glasses fall back down his nose as he follows your motion.

"Is this what you needed?" you ask as you carefully wrap your fingers around his thick length. Your lips trace over his neck, along the line of his collarbones, until you settle at chest, tongue darting over one of his dusky, peaked nipples.

His breath hitches, cock twitching in your fist as your tongue swirls around his nipple, the ministration deliberately slow. He moans when you suck it into your mouth, one of his hands reaching to your head— not to guide, but just to hold.

"Feels good?" you hum as you swap your focus to his untouched nipple, granting it the same affections. Changbin's hips roll, another moan tumbling from lips as your hand squeezes around his slick cock.

He feels your teeth, just enough pressure to test, to tease; his teeth sink into his lip, your thumb stroking over his tip before you glide your fist back down to the base. Thighs trembling, you give his nipple one more lick, one more soft little bite before you pull away.

"Binnie, baby, talk to me."

"Ahh— mmm— h-huh?" His hips jerk forward as your fist on his cock slows— not to a stop, but it's slow enough that the stroke of your hand feels almost incomplete.

It's not that he didn't hear your question, not that he ignored you— not on purpose, he'd never. But it's so hard to think, to speak, when you're touching him so attentively.

"Is this what you needed?" You repeat, your grip on his cock loosened, your touch agonizingly light. "Does it feel good?"

"Yes!" Changbin answers quickly this time, no hesitation as he fervently nods, glasses threatening to fall completely off his face. "Feels good, so good— please keep going, don't stop, please."

His pleas cease, moan strangled as the pace of your hand returns to it's previous pace. Not fast, but even, steady— enough to have his head falling back, fingers tangling in your hair to anchor himself as your tongue flicks against his nipple.

You twist your wrist, kiss over the tensing muscles in his chest, hips rutting to meet your fist. He lolls his head to the side, opens his eyes to see you watching him, drinking the sight of him in.

He can't hold the gaze for long, his eyes rolling behind his crooked glasses as your touch drives him closer and closer to release. You hear the tell-tale whimper, can feel his cock pulsing— close, so close—and again you slow your pace.

Changbin sobs, pitiful and broken, his hips stuttering as he tries in vain to stop his orgasm from receding. And still, it's what he asked for; you slowed, but you didn't stop.

"Mommy, mama—" his voice comes out in a debauched plea, the slow drag of your hand up and down his short length utterly maddening, "please, please."

When you pick up your pace of your hand this time, it's quicker than the last. He keens, his hand dropping from your head as he lets himself fall back into the bed, no longer concerned with keeping himself upright.

He's quicker to build up to release this time, each breath a heavy pant, his entire body wound tight. "Tell me what you need," you urge him, and he stifles another whine, body writhing as your hand once again slows.

"Cum, need to cum, please, can I? Please mama, I— I'll do anything, anything, just please—"

You coo before you rise from the floor, meeting him on the bed and hushing his babbling with a kiss sweet enough to have him melting. Taking his cock back in hand, you whisper your permission against his lips.

Changbin mewls, a desperate, fractured sound that you capture the end of with your mouth. Eyes rolling, fingers twisting the sheets, hot cum spilling over your knuckles. His hips are bucking, still chasing and chasing even as the pricks over overstimulation begin to spread over his skin.

You keep your hand still, let him chase the pleasure you offer as he needs to. Sensitive, overwhelmed, he throws an arm over his head, his glasses smushed against his unbearably hot face.

Whines high in his throat, his hips keep stuttering up into your fist like he just can't stop— and you encourage him, coax him along with praises and sweet words until he's cumming again.

He shivers as you carefully release your hold on his cock, your hand is a sticky mess; his thighs and stomach too.

Changbin uncovers his face just as you finish gently cleaning up the mess he left, and the adoring smile you shoot him as you correct the position of his glasses for him makes his heart positively soar.

"Love you," he whispers airily, and you giggle as you lie beside him. "I love you too, Binnie."

He rolls onto his side, pulls you into a sweet kiss, slow and lingering. His thumb skates over your cheek, hand trailing down your body— still perfectly clothed, in contrast to him.

you can also view changes between drafts and merge them in a way that i think is really helpful ! (using an un-uploaded, incomplete work to show an example):

The scent of burning wood is strong in your nostrils; almost too strong— the smell of myrrh and damp soil falling just shy of being overbearing.

It's dark, wherever you are; not so dark that it's impossible to see, but enough that the shadows surrounding you make it hard to get your bearings.

Your body lies on cold stone, but your head is supported by something soft and warm. A person. You squint your eyes, trying to make out the complexity of their shape in the dim lantern light, but it makes your head throb.

You wince, and the person keeping your head off the unforgiving stone notices.

"Good morning. Are you.. all right?"

A man, you realize, with a gentle, soft tone. One of his hands soothes the ache pounding against your skull, rubbing in slow, measured strokes, while the other moves to light the lantern sitting beside you.

His lantern glows a bright, pale blue, strongly contrasting the warm yellows and oranges of the other surrounding lanterns. You didn't hear him strike a match, and you don't know of any candles that burn with blue light, but there's more pressing issues racing through your mind.

For instance, why does your head hurt so badly? Did you hit it and pass out? You can't remember; and the more you try to recall where you are, what you were doing, who this person in, the more aggressively the pain pulses.

You close your eyes as you will the pain to recede, hoping that once it dissipates you can finally think clearly again.

"Rest, my love. You mustn't push yourself."

My love? You're confused— so impossibly confused, and the constant throbbing in your head isn't helping you in your attempt to make sense of things.

You open your eyes again to look up at him, able to see more clearly with the aid of the blue lantern, but you are only meet with more confusion.

The man wears a half mask, his nose, eyes, and forehead concealed. There are large ears at the top, reminiscent of a fox, and his eyes seem to glow in a shade of yellow so pale that they are almost white.

Even behind the slits of the fox mask, you can tell his eyes are sharp and calculating underneath the kindness offered. As he observes you, you can feel them pierce you, as if he's looking past your physical body and into the depth of your soul.

You lift your head from his lap with effort, hands firmly planted on the stone to push your body up, and he doesn't hesitate to help you, his hands finding your shoulders.

Despite the fact that he is an entirely unknown man, you don't shrink away from his touch; you let him help you, keep you steady as you slowly rise to your feet with his aid.

You gaze past him, and realize you had been laying at the foot of a large, ornate shrine. It's much, much taller than you, with sacred rope securely tied above the lanterns, bare candles, and offerings.

There are offerings of alcohol, of pressed flowers, and dried meats and fruits. There's the burning incense sticks you smell, surrounded by monetary offerings of coins and small bills. And there are fox statues— more than you even want to count, all carved with different expressions on their faces.

Some look contemplative, some serene, some merry— most just look sly, with devious grins and hints of sharp teeth beneath watchful eyes. It feels like all of the fox statues are watching you; staring into the depths of who you are, just as the man in the mask is.

"You're.." you hesitate, slowly turning your eyes away from the shrine's altar and back to the man.

"Jeongin," he answers, but you shake your head.

"A kumiho," your voice trembles as you whisper it.

The lanterns flare as he smiles, and you swear that for just a split second a large shadow grows behind him— the shadow of seven distinct tails, long and full.

Not only is he a kumiho, but he's an old one, powerful. A kumiho gains a new tail for each century they've lived accumulating power, and if he has seven, then..

You involuntarily shudder.

A memory comes to you then; it's vague, and in pieces, but you can put together enough to remember where you were before waking up in this foreign place.

You were out with your friends when a sunshower began. The clouds in the sky were sparse, and cotton white— there was no sign at all it was going to rain. But rain it did; in small drops at first, with long pauses between each.

You were jolted by the sudden feeling of a rain drop landing on your cheek, looking up to the sky as you wiped the moisture away with your fingers. The sun was warm on your skin, bright and high in the sky, the clouds moving languidly across the vast blue.

The rain picked up ever so slightly, the drops coming incrementally, your friends voices becoming distant and muffled as you were transfixed by the weather phenomenon.

You'd never seen a sunshower yourself before— the last time one occurred in your village was when your mother was still just a small girl. She was too young to remember the sight well; what she did recall with clarity was the worry, the whisperings— that it was time for the Fox's Wedding.

You'd constantly hear the stories while growing up; how it was in those sunshowers that another woman would disappear, spirited away to be the kumiho's next bride. They scared you when you were a girl, but as an adult you considered the tales as little more than superstition.

After all, terrible things happen every day, and most go forgotten. It's natural to remember something awful when it happens the same day as something wondrous. It's natural to want to find something or someone to blame when tragedy strikes. It's natural to want an answer to a mystery.

It never occurred to you that there was any truth to the myth of the kumiho and his sunshowers.

More of your memory comes to you. A dense fog crept over you as you turned your attention away from the sky, your friends suddenly gone, your surroundings greyed and dimmed.

His voice called to you, the silhouette of an impossibly large fox at the end of the encroaching mist. The dark shadow became clearer as it came towards you, silver fur and pale yellow eyes gleaming, with seven full tails swishing through the fog.

You felt suffocated before him, the very presence of him carrying a weight that you could almost feel tangibly. The fog was heavy, each breath you took laborious, like thick smoke had been filling your lungs instead of air.

What happened next? You can't remember that just yet— and the only explanation that comes to mind is that you were spirited away, just as the myth says. And if that's all true then.. you are the fox's new bride.

"Shall we get going?" The kumiho's— Jeongin's— voice pulls you instantly away from your racing thoughts, attention fixing wholly onto him.

It's still gentle, soft, but it's.. odd too. There's layers to the fox's voice and the way it rings in your ears— simultaneously melodic and discordant, as youthful as it is ancient, as sweet as it is sinister.

There is an allure it carries that seeps into your pores, bleeds into the crevices of your muscles, sinks into the narrow spaces between your marrow and bones. Like it fills in the hollows of something you'd been missing. Like it completes you.

And while his voice is as clear as chiming bells, yours comes out thick and clumsy, your mouth too dry and tongue too heavy. "Go.. where?"

"Home. Our home." He holds out his hand to you, the long, loose sleeve of his white marital hanbok casting a soft shadow over you. As you look down at his hand, you finally notice yourself, and realize you too are dressed for marriage.

The Fox's Wedding.. Did it already pass? What happened during the ceremony? Did you participate willingly? Try as you might, you still can't remember what happened after he took you in the fog.

"Did I.. say yes? Did I choose to stay here with you?"

"Did you choose?" Jeongin seems almost amused as he repeats you, head tilting as his glowing eyes crinkle beneath his mask. "There was no choice. You are mine."

You still haven't accepted his hand, so he seeks yours out, grasping it with a squeeze. The warmth of his touch spreads over your body, blooming into something dangerous and intoxicating, heating the blood coursing in your veins.

"All of you. Body and mind, blood and soul— they are mine. I promise you everything you could ever want. I can show you what true happiness is. And as you give yourself to me, give me all that you are, you will know bliss."

The lanterns flicker as you hold his gaze, seeming to respond to the stuttering of your heart as it races in your chest.

"Why me?" you ask carefully, uncertain. His eyes, so magnificent and luminous, spread goosebumps across your skin as they drink you in.

"There was no choice," he repeats, his other hand coming to your face, knuckles brushing against your heated cheek. "There has never been anyone for me but you. It has always been you."

"I don't understand.." you mutter with a swallow, your voice thick in your throat.

Jeongin is centuries old, isn't he? Has spirited away countless women to be his bride? Is there a misconception somewhere in the stories? Or is this a case of the trickster telling a pretty lie?

"You don't have to understand. You just have to love me."

You cannot even begin to fathom what it means to love him, what it means to give him all that you are. But the way he looks at you..

He has the abilities and power of a god, but he looks at you as if you are the one who is holy, deserving of utter devotion and reverence. Like if the roles were reversed, he'd be falling to his knees in deference, prepared to spend eternity worshiping you.

So you let Jeongin guide you away from the shrine, past the watchful eyes of the fox statues. He guides you into the heart of his temple, past painted screen doors and murals of foxes, jovial as they celebrate with dance and music.

The layout of the temple is winding, confounding, but as this has seemingly been his home for centuries, he knows exactly where he's going. His bedchambers— your bedchambers?— have candles strewn about, filling the room with warm, deep orange.

There's lacquered wood furniture, fixtures of illuminating gold, offerings accepted and taken back from the shrine. Coins and trinkets, wilted and dying flowers, alcohol and burning incense, all sitting neatly on a grand desk with carved foxes on the legs, glossy under the lacquer.

Even the bed is grand— much more beautiful to behold than the simple yo mattress you're accustomed to sleeping on back home. Elevated from the floor with a wooden frame, with blankets and pillows so plush in appearance you feel you would melt into them.

Such luxury is foreign to you. It occurs to you that with the kumiho as your husband, this will be your new normal; will you truly want for nothing from this day forward?

Jeongin, the kumiho, your husband.. You take a shuddering breath before you turn your head towards where he stands beside you, his hand having slipped away from yours to settle on your waist.

You don't know what to do with this feeling blossoming in your gut, how to make sense of the way it makes your stomach flutter. The pain in your head has long sense dulled, replaced with only this new sensation you struggle to comprehend.

Like roots have curled and twisted into your heart, burrowing deeper with each beat. Like flowers will bloom over your skin in the wake of his touch. Like he will pluck away your shell of petals, layer after layer, until you are bare before him.

And you won't shiver away from being exposed— you'll let him see all of you, have all of you. Every inch of flesh, every drop of blood; they are his to consume, to drink, to claim.

The concept should be frightening, but you feel no fear. This is sacrament; perhaps the ritual that binds you was complete centuries before you could even hope to fight against fate. Perhaps you wouldn't even want to.

His mask is cold against your skin, the carved nose pressing into the meat of your cheek. He squeezes you tight, like he's fighting a war within himself to not lose control, to not rush to have you here and now— a war he is losing.

Jeongin knows nothing but want, nothing but need. He has waited for this; waited so unbearably long that he can hardly continue to resist his urges. You're all he can ever think about, and he's always been willing to do anything to have you, to keep you; his, forever and ever.

He wants you to look at no one but him. He wants you to call his name, and to forget that there was ever anyone else. He wants to hold you so tight that his fingers leave an impression on your very soul. So precious, so lovely, his, his, his.

He licks into your mouth with urgency, tugging desperately at the ties that hold your marital robes together. He shrugs out of his gracefully despite his haste, then pulls at yours until you finally come free from the thick fabric.

It bunches on the floor, and he falls to his knees, mask tossed aside and gleaming faintly under the warm candle light. Even without the mask his eyes are like that of a fox, narrow and sharp. It's striking, mesmerizing.

His hands reach up, squeezing at your thighs, pleading. You are the altar he needs to lay his hunger upon, the grail he needs to drink from. You are everything.

"My love, my world. Give yourself to me."

Your breath catches as you stare down at him, desire pouring from his eyes, his hands on your bare legs trailing heat.

You wonder if you were born for this. If you yourself are one of many offerings, a gift to be received and cherished by him until the end of time.

Your fingers, your lips, your love, your blood. If only you ask it of him, he'll say it until his throat is raw— that you are wholly his, and he is yours.

Your lips part, but you cannot find the words to say; so you nod. Jeongin growls, something soft but warm, possessive. Your thighs part, and he kisses the wet petals between them.

Your legs quiver, your knees buckle, but he holds you steady, keeping you effortlessly upright with the strength of his arms. His mouth redefines hunger, his tongue as messy as it is diligent.

He needs to consume— but he can't miss a drop of you, can't let any of your dew escape his lips. Your body curls, fingers threading in silver-blonde hair. Jeongin growls and hums as he licks and sucks, content as he drinks from you, but not sated— he'll never be sated, will never have enough.

You hear him speak, but he doesn't pull away from your pussy for his words to be perceivable— you think you know what he's uttering regardless. Whispered promises, of love and devotion so deep that it's etched into his very bones.

He will show you happiness, he will show you bliss, he will give you all that you desire and more. And all you have to do in return is let him have you, let yourself belong to him, let him worship you.

He alternates between slow drags and quick flicks, like he's spelling his veneration out for you; his tongue the calligraphy brush and your body the paper, ready to soak in his ink.

You can see the fixation Jeongin has for you in his eyes, feel the weight of his desire. His gift, his treasure— he's been starving for you. Relentless with his tongue, precise with his sucks to your clit; he makes sure you'll never forget what it is to receive his love.

You're trembling, fingers tugging fitfully at his hair, legs too wobbly and weak to stand. But still he holds you, keeps you up and steady no matter how hard you twist and writhe above him.

The pleasure is molten, your body burns, and his eyes hold the fire as he looks up at you from between your thighs. You're pleading, sobbing— and he answers you with a rumble from deep in his throat, his tongue fervently building you up to the release you both need.

Your orgasm is blinding, shattering— Jeongin treats it like salvation. His nose nudges your clit as he licks the cum dripping from your hole, moaning against you as he drags out your high, drinks your essence like it's the elixir he needs to survive.

You wobble as he loosens his hold on your legs, but he doesn't let you stand weakly for long. As soon as he's up from his knees he's lifting you up and carrying you to the bed, and you melt into the blankets as he sets you down, just as you thought you would.

Jeongin spreads your legs, slots himself between them— this is his home, where he's meant to be. "My love," he whispers before he kisses you with lips slick with your release. "So beautiful, perfect, my treasure."

You're so hot, so worked up, that the warmth his breath carries feels cool against your skin. More, not enough— you can feel it in his touch, in the desperate press of his lips to yours. He's insatiable; and now you are too.

You bring your hands to your legs, hook them under your knees, hold yourself open for him. An invitation, another wordless plea— and he's transfixed by the way you offer yourself to him; it's exactly what he's missed, what he's needed.

He's frantic when he kisses you again, his hips rolling down, the length of his cock sliding easily in the sloppy wetness of your pussy. You squeal when his tip rubs against your clit, too sensitive, overwhelming; he groans into your mouth, greedily drinks in the pitched noises you release just for him.

There's a temptation to stay just like this— to make you whine and cry and cum again with just his cock nudging your clit. But his need is too raw, too demanding. Glowing fox eyes lock with yours, mystical and captivating; you feel as if you could drown in the heat of his gaze.

Jeongin reaches between your bodies, taking his cock swiftly in hand and lining it up with you hole. He's thicker than you anticipate, stretching you out as he carves a home for himself in your pussy, but you're wet enough to take it easily.

His hips are stuttering, his grip on your body tight as he buries himself within you. He takes the place of your hands, holds your legs firmly under your knees. You're whimpering, eyes already rolling, hands falling away to clutch at the blankets beneath you.

You're so open, so pliant— and all he wants is for you to lay there, let him do all the work and just take it. Make pretty sounds just for him, cry his name until your voice cracks and breaks, forget that there was ever a life you had before knowing him.

He doesn't want to muffle the moans you let out for him, refuses to hinder your voice from reaching his ears. So instead of kissing your lips, he kisses anywhere else— the meat of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your temple.

Jeongin licks the salt of your sweat from his lips, loves any taste of you he can get. His cock reaches so deep like this, with your knees held against your chest, the weight of his body pressing down on you as he kisses over your heated face.

So good that you can't think, can hardly even breathe— you just feel. And that's all he ever needs you to do; feel, and take, and tell him you love him in your pitched, broken voice.

The slapping of your skin is loud, wet, your arousal coating every bit of skin it comes in contact with. Jeongin's own voice is strangled, hips stuttering, pace faltering.

He releases his hold on your legs, wraps his arms around your middle, pressing his chest to yours. He's as close as he can possibly get, but it still doesn't feel like enough— not until he's kissing you again, his need to hear your voice unmuffled be damned.

His tongue swirling around yours as his cock throbs and your pussy clenches around him, nails digging crescents into the skin as you clutch at his biceps.

He rambles against dewy skin when he pulls away, cock throbbing, the pleasure you share consuming. Mine, mine, mine. You just barely hear the words he expels as his muscles tighten, your own body growing taut as another release builds and coils in the pit of your stomach.

You let go first, waves of euphoria crashing through your body as you cling to Jeongin. It's messy when he follows, ropes of cum hot and thick as they spill deep inside, filling you up until it leaks around his cock and drips between your parted thighs.

Neither of you move. You stay wrapped in one another's embrace, right where you both belong. Home.

You hear whispers of love between labored breaths, and you return them with shaky mumbles. When you close your eyes, something shifts. You feel Jeongin's body bend, hear his bones crack as they elongate, soft fur tickling your bare skin as it grows from his pores.

When you open your eyes again, you see the room has changed— the orange light from the candles changed to pale blue, illuminated by foxfire. And you see your husband, a fox before you instead of a man, several feet tall and eclipsing your frame.

He has his seven tails coiled around your body; snaked around your legs, wrapped around your arms, a tail around your neck, another around your waist, and the last stroking your back. Claiming.

@changbunnies - if you want to yearn and yearn some more megan is your girl! everything i have ever read from megan has warmed my heart and filled it to the brim. her words are beautiful and tender and so immersive, and even her darker works leave me with butterflies. megan writes all the members well, but i might just be biased when i say her changbin works are my favorite 🩷

@skzms - to me, may feels like the mom friend you go to for advice and when you need someone trustworthy to lean on. on top of being so wise and unbelievably kind, she has the most incredible way with words. the world building in her fics is phenomenal and you can tell how much she cares about this fandom and fandom space in general. i can confidently say stayblr would not be the same without our minsunger supreme may! 🧡

@streetlvght - stayblr is not even ready for rain, i promise you. she might only have one work posted to her blog right now (which is so warm and lovely!), but the plans she has for future works are something we all need to be looking forward to! rain is a joy to see on my dash, whether it be on this account or her main. she is the most uplifting person… every tag and ask she has ever left me manages to stay with me. if your writing has ever meant something special to rain, she will let you know it. i can’t wait to see people return the favor for her! 🌦️

@ipegchangbin - i miss seeing z here so much and always look forward to anything they post! z was (and still is) such a pivotal writer to me when i was just a reader on tumblr in between my last writing blog and this one. the way they write changbin in particular tickles my brain juuust right (shocker lol), but every fic i’ve ever read from z’s beautiful mind has been phenomenal. z come home the kids miss you 💓

@astraystayyh - it’s been a minute since sahar has been around, and i miss her so dearly. sahar’s blog is like a utopia for hwangers lol. the way she writes for hyunjin is so specific and it fits him so well in my mind. she has such a beautiful way with words that always leave me hanging on and feeling wistful when it’s over. all of her pieces are so unique and special, and i think you’d be able to tell a sahar piece even without her name on it. 🤍

@hanjibug - despite just being the sweetest person on this website, maesie always has the best ideas! whether she is writing them herself or sending them to other writers, you can always expect a maesie thought to be delicious. she is also the type of encouragement i think we all really need sometimes, at least she feels that way to me. i always look forward to seeing maesie’s tags or comments on my posts, and i love seeing her in my notifications, messages, and asks! 🌸

@hyungszn - clover was my first mutual on this blog and that will always be special to me! i remember the first fic i read from her (hot to trot my forever beloved <3) and it still gives me heart palpitations whenever i think of it lol. every fic she’s ever written really does that tbh. clover’s takes are always so unique and her ideas are the same, everything you read from her will leave you wanting to read more and more! 🍀

"Where's your boyfriend?" The question almost seems harmless, the lilt in his voice framing it like genuine curiosity. If you weren't so worn down, his sly, subtle jab at your infidelity would make you bristle— not that you have any right to be upset about it.

There's no attempt from you to detach yourself from how wrong this is, to offer a witty, yet notably pathetic, retort to shift the guilt and blame somewhere else— you don't have it in you tonight.

Chris' expression softens. He'd have every right to judge you, but he never does— he's too good for that. He steps out of the doorway, silently motioning for you to come inside. It's late, well past midnight, and even without words, he knows why you're here.

You step quietly past him, through his living room, stopping just short of the hallway leading to his bedroom. His front door closes with a loud click as you turn, capturing his gaze expectantly.

He holds your gaze for a prolonged moment, studying you. There's no point in asking what happened this time; you only come here this late in the night when you can't get what you need— and Chris will always give it to you.

The room feels too silent, too warm, suffocating— all too quickly, anticipation builds in your gut as he takes a careful step closer to you. He always has this effect on you; giving breath to a part of you that lives deep inside, smothered and hidden away as you try to keep it contained within yourself.

A desire for him that you shouldn't have, a carnal need that should remain ignored, if only you were strong enough to do so. Instead of doing the right thing, and staying as far away from Chris as possible while you grapple with the reality of your feelings, you cling to what he offers you.

His stare is as scrutinizing as it is voracious. You've come to him flushed, pajamas askew, hair tousled. Were you with your lover just moments before, or did you come to Chris after failed attempts to satisfy yourself on your own?

The answer doesn't matter to him. He cups your face in his hand, feels the heat of your cheek beneath his thumb. There's a reverence in his eyes, devotion and desire that he's long since stopped trying to hide beneath cool neutrality.

Chris needs this— maybe even worse than you do. You aren't the only one with a craving that can't be satisfied; and you see his need for what it really is, the same way he sees the real you hiding beneath the built up layers of who you think you should be.

"Did he get to see you like this too?" Chris' voice is low as his eyes shift down to examine your lips, swollen and bitten red. From your own teeth, or…?

Chris provides his own answer, the one he wants to hear, before you can so much as utter a word. "No. This look is for me. Just me, yeah?"

"Yes," you answer in a soft breath. It doesn't matter if it's true or not— even if you're lying to him, it's what he needs to hear.

That you're his. That no matter who else you entertain, no matter where you place your promises, you'll always belong with him in the end. In some way, maybe you lie to yourself more than you do to Chris— regardless, you give him what he needs.

Your saccharine voice offering false promises of forever, your fervent need to take your pleasure from him, your much too tender touch that continues to caress him even after you've gone.

He'll take it— again and again, even as it threatens to destroy him. Every stolen second, every secret glance, every subtle touch. It's his, all of you— every inch, every breath, every gaze.

Because no matter how far you go, no matter the distance you attempt to force between you both, you always come back to him.

Maybe it's his fault for always beckoning you back, always eager to receive whatever small ounce of affection you'll grant him. Maybe it's your fault for seeing the desperation to have you written in his gaze, for accepting it when every rational cell within you screams that you shouldn't.

Maybe you're equally culpable; too addicted to one another to stop, too wordlessly obsessed with the feelings that no one else can grant. Does it really matter who is to blame?

Chris spent his entire life pretending. He could pretend that your bond is unbreakable because you've known each other for a lifetime, because you've always been his closest friend.

He could pretend that his lingering touches were normal between friends, that it was natural for his eyes to follow you endlessly in a crowded room.

He could pretend it wasn't wrong for him to dream about fucking you— the person he can't have, but the only one he's ever wanted.

The more he tried to force it away, the harder he tried to pretend that you showing up on his doorstep late at night didn't mean anything deeper for him…

Each and every time, it became harder and harder to disguise his need to be with you. And now, he's open about it— perhaps too open.

He doesn't mask his desire the way he once had, doesn't hesitate to touch you the way he did years before, doesn't resist the urge to remind you who it is that really knows you inside and out.

He may not put a name to it, but you both know what it is. In all ways but physical, he's shackled to you. Your dog on a chain, loyal only to you— even unleashed, he'll always find his way back to your side.

When the night is over, and you leave once more to return to the arms of another, he'll cauterize the wound you leave behind, just to repeat it all. He'll suffer the pain again and again, let the scab on his heart rip back open and bleed, all so he can have you just a few moments longer.

Chris leans closer, foreheads touching as he shifts his gaze back to your eyes, searching. It's what he always does— waiting with baited breath to see if this is the day you change your mind. If you'll push him away, end your tryst here and now, for good this time.

You don't. Something tells you that you never will.

There's a foreign look in his eye that you catch, a question seeming to linger on the tip of his tongue that inevitably goes unspoken as he crashes his lips into yours. Insatiable, hungry— he's been a man starved without you.

He pulls your body flush to his, your chest pressing firmly against his own. He's still hot from his shower, the bare skin of his chest radiating warmth. His hold is possessive, his kisses claiming, his breath coming out in quick, harsh pants.

It feels like something unspoken has shifted— like he stands on the precipice, raw and vulnerable, waiting, praying, for you to catch him when he falls.

Chris urgently steals the air from your lungs, his hands gripping you tighter. You stumble backwards, back and back some more, until you're pressing against his bedroom door. After a long moment, he finally pulls away from your lips like it's torturous to do so.

He loosens his grip on you, fumbles with his doorknob, recapturing your lips as he guides you into his room. You wrap your arms around his neck as he trails kisses down your jaw, a hand holding you steady on the small of your back until the back of your knees collide with his bed frame.

You fall less than gracefully to his bed, missing his pillows entirely as you land diagonally. He pushes your legs apart with one of his own before he settles between them, his forearms caging your head as he holds himself above you.

Your eyes trace over his features, the swell of his lips, the curve of his nose, the depth of his dark eyes. Your heart thumps wildly against your ribcage as you lock eyes with him once more. A complex spectrum of emotions pass through him in mere seconds; a puzzle that only you could piece together, if you only tried.

"I'm crazy about you. You know that, right?" Chris' breath is warm against your skin, goosebumps threatening to erupt on the expanse of your body at the feel of it.

He doesn't give you a chance to reply, claiming your lips with his own in one impatient motion. His kisses are as tender as they are feverishly passionate, the undercurrent of need pouring forth from him enough to make your head swim.

His tongue shoves past your lips, and you tilt your head to the side as his tongue slides against yours. More than an ache, more than a compulsion; kissing you feels like his lifeline.

You feel his hands on your hips, his thumbs slipping into the waistband of your baggy pajama pants, tugging them down. You lift your hips, letting him pull them from around the swell of your ass. He shifts back as you lift your legs up, pants bunching at your knees before he fully tugs them off, tossing them to the floor.

Your panties are simple, comfortable cotton, with a growing wet patch darkening the fabric. He drinks the sight of you in— because no matter how ardent his need is, he can't resist taking the time to stare.

"Missed you, y'know," Chris breathes as he tears his gaze from between your legs to look at your face again, leaning back over you. The admission is too earnest, too covetous— it makes your heart ache and your pussy throb.

He brushes his lips against yours, more tease than kiss before he fully delves into it. His fingers toy with the hem of your panties before he slips his hand inside.

"'s wet, baby. This for me?" Chris rubs his fingers between your folds, slow and deliberate. He gathers your arousal, spreads it over your throbbing clit with the tips of his fingers.

You nod your head, biting back a pathetic mewl as your thighs begin to tremble, still sensitive from whatever you'd done just before coming to him.

"Say it."

You whine, heat flushing your face as embarrassment licks up your spine. Your hips buck up pathetically, chasing the friction granted by his dexterous fingers.

"Say it," he repeats, not so much commanding, but pleading.

"For— it's for you, all for you, just for you," you warble, and even with your lidded gaze, you don't miss the way it makes his eyes gleam, dimples popping on his cheeks as he grins.

"Yeah?" He touches you just how you like it— tight circles that have your hips swiveling and legs trembling. "Gonna give you what you want, what you need, anything— everything, it's yours, 'm yours."

Chris shifts to the side, lies beside you to give you the pleasure you need all the easier. Gripping your thigh with the hand not buried in your panties, he spreads you open, hooking your leg around his own to keep you in place.

He presses his fingers harder as he swipes over your clit, again and again, coaxing you toward the release you so desperately need. Far gone are the days where he slowly committed you to his memory, took his time mapping out your body beneath his fingers and tongue— now he knows you.

He gives you the perfect pressure, persistent but not overwhelming— he knows just how you need it, learned what makes you tick, memorized what turns you into a puddle beneath his diligent touch.

Your eyes flutter, struggling to keep open. The glimpse you catch of him, with the look of utter devotion and insatiable longing on his face, steals your breath away.

"Chris," your voice comes out too whiny, too pitched, desperate and broken. Your body jolts, toes curling, clit pulsing beneath the slick pads of his fingers.

"I know, baby, I know," his voice comes out strangled even in his own ears. You reach out to him, pull him into a sensual, messy kiss. He drinks in your need eagerly, takes it as his own.

Because if there's nothing else in this world he can have, he's at least happy with this— knowing that in this moment, you need him, only him, just as bad as he needs you.

Your watery eyes, the high pitch of your voice as you succumb to the desire for him that you try so hard to suppress— it soothes the sting of not having you otherwise.

Your back arches, your eyes roll, body stilling as you cry out a devastating, shuddering moan. You can hear Chris in your ear, whispering praise as your orgasm wracks your body. "That's it, that's a good girl, perfect, so perfect, baby."

"Chris, Chris," you whimper, curling into his body with your hands gripping his shoulders, nails threatening to break the skin. He kisses your face, soft and tender— from the top of your head to the meat of your ruddy, sweaty cheek, all while still diligently playing with your messy clit.

"Mhm? Feels good?" The soft laugh that leaves him when you fervently nod your head makes your heart, and your pussy, clench. "Need more?" His voice comes our against the shell of your ear, more statement than question.

You look at him, bleary-eyed and breathless. He's mesmerizing, infatuation burning in his stare, with that charming, boyishly handsome grin that makes you so weak for him.

He's right; you do need more— and no one can give it to you the way he can.

You're pushing him back, hands trembling and legs shakey, uncoordinated. Chris' hands are quick to grab your hips, helping you keep steady as you settle into straddling his lap.

He looks up at you starry-eyed, like you're the most resplendent thing he's ever had the pleasure to gaze upon.

Perhaps you are— maybe that's why you're so addicted to him. Because he sees the ugliest parts of you and still wants you regardless. Because the yearning, the longing, the utter desperation to have you never fades from him.

You bring a hand carefully to his face, and he turns his head ever so slightly, kisses your palm before he looks back to you, letting your hand rest on his rosy cheek.

"I need you," he whispers, leaning into the weight of your touch. It's an admission that's left him countless times, but it still makes his ears burn red, the flush crawling all the way down to his chest.

You dip down to kiss him, your lips as sweet to him as they are ruinous. You tug him free of his sweats and boxers in a rush, while he helps you tug your sticky, wet panties off your body. It's awkward pulling them off whilst atop him, the way you have to lift your legs putting you off balance, but he catches you when you tilt too far backwards.

Chris almost giggles when you let out a frustrated huff, your panties catching around one of your ankles instead of coming off smoothly. All traces of amusement fade when you settle your weight back into his lap, fingers threading in his freshly dried curls.

You swivel your hips, the tip of his leaking cock nudging your slick folds. His whimper is muffled against your lips, fingers twitching where they rest atop your thighs. He moves to your hips, grips you tight as you slide down his length.

He's thick, but the push is easy, wet for him as you are. "Feels so good, you—" he breathes against your lips, moves his hand up to the nape of your neck, urging you to look at him. "You can be selfish with me, yeah? Take what you need, give it to me how you like it."

Your whine is loud, filthy. His cock stuffs you full, the tip kissing just where you need it to as you grind your hips down on him. "Use me baby, yeah, like that, there ya' go," Chris encourages you, his rough grip on your hips helping you keep the urgent pace you start.

Even with his help, you inevitably falter— but it's okay, because Chris is good to you. He's always happy to pick up the slack.

"Baby, fuck, you hear that?" he asks as he rolls his hips up, meeting the grind of your hips with thrusts of his own. He's talking about your pussy, you realize— sloppy wet, making sounds so salacious when his cock fully presses inside that it makes your ears burn.

"Hear how much you need this? How much you need me?"

Your moan is loud, unabashed, as you desperately nod your head. "Yes, yes! Need you, always— a-always need you, want you."

His jaw tightens as his groan rumbles into a growl— he doesn't know who you're trying to convince more; him, or yourself. Should he be jealous that he's not the man you come home to every night? Or simply grateful he's the only one who gets to see you this way?

Delirious with bliss, tongue heavy in your mouth, drool building in the corners of your mouth— only Chris can bring this side of you to the surface.

You cling to him, head buried in his shoulder and bottom lip tucked painfully between your teeth as he fucks up into your dripping heat. His cock is twitching, throbbing, stretching out your cunt like it's his— his to shape, his to carve a home in.

"O-Oh, Chris, please, 'm gonna— gonna cum, pleasepleaseplease," your begging quickly loses its coherence, cries becoming strangled as he brings his fingers back to your sticky, swollen clit.

He's groaning, panting, orgasm coiling in his gut and threatening to snap as he fucks you through yours. He grits his teeth, sweat beading down his temple as you writhe in his lap, determined to let you finish riding your high before he lets go.

"Fuck, fuck, shit—" Chris grits out a strangled groan as he lifts you up, just in time for the ropes of his cum to paint the inside of your thighs and his stomach instead of inside your pussy.

It gets on the top you're still wearing too, but you're too fucked out to care— you'll worry about it later. You collapse onto him, and he holds you, content as he strokes your back and kisses your temple. You're both winded, sweaty and exhausted, but satisfied.

You close your eyes, limbs heavy, Chris' voice sounding distant in your ears.

You're not sure how much time has passed when you wake up, but it's still dark when you open your eyes— maybe you've been out an hour or two at most?

You're cleaned up, changed into one of Chris' black baggy tees, with his arm thrown around your waist. He's awake, never slept at all— and he watches you carefully as you sit up in his bed.

"You're gonna leave again? Go back to him?" The question is quiet, cautious— you think that despite asking, he doesn't want to hear the answer. "Because I.. you—"

He stops, swallows as he shifts his gaze away. What can he say that hasn't already been said? You know what he feels— he's said it a million times over. Is there any point in repeating it?

His devotion to you is always laid impossibly bare; there's nothing more he can do to make you stay.

You swallow; guilt, remorse, and fear build up like bile in your throat.

Why do you fight so hard against your feelings for Chris? Because he's your childhood friend? Because you're afraid to lose the one person you've always had? Your one constant, the person who has always been there, through thick and thin.

But, whatever this is.. it's not like it's any better. Yet somehow, losing him to this feels less horrifying than if you were to lose him in the midst of a normal relationship. A relationship where every problem you had would be entirely your fault.

There's a long moment of silence— one that tells him all he needs to know.

"Okay. Just.. you know everything I do, it's for you. This, us— this is ours." He reaches for you, squeezes your hand in his, so tight you can feel it tremble. "He doesn't get this part of you. Yeah?"

"Yeah," you agree softly. Tears well in the corners of your eyes, and you try to blink them away before Chris can see, but he's too attentive, notices the change in you much too quickly.

It feels awful, the way he comforts you, holds you close as you shake against him and threaten to sob. You don't deserve this, but Chris is too good to you— he'll never be anything but heart shatteringly sincere and caring.

"I'll leave him," you mutter with an agonizing crack in your voice.

Chris doesn't reply right away. Just hugs you until you tilt your head to look up at him. When he wipes the tears from your eyes, it's too gentle, so much more than you deserve— but it feels like salvation from your sins.

"Where's your boyfriend?" The question almost seems harmless, the lilt in his voice framing it like genuine curiosity. If you weren't so worn down, his sly, subtle jab at your infidelity would make you bristle— not that you have any right to be upset about it.

There's no attempt from you to detach yourself from how wrong this is, to offer a witty, yet notably pathetic, retort to shift the guilt and blame somewhere else— you don't have it in you tonight.

Chris' expression softens. He'd have every right to judge you, but he never does— he's too good for that. He steps out of the doorway, silently motioning for you to come inside. It's late, well past midnight, and even without words, he knows why you're here.

You step quietly past him, through his living room, stopping just short of the hallway leading to his bedroom. His front door closes with a loud click as you turn, capturing his gaze expectantly.

He holds your gaze for a prolonged moment, studying you. There's no point in asking what happened this time; you only come here this late in the night when you can't get what you need— and Chris will always give it to you.

The room feels too silent, too warm, suffocating— all too quickly, anticipation builds in your gut as he takes a careful step closer to you. He always has this effect on you; giving breath to a part of you that lives deep inside, smothered and hidden away as you try to keep it contained within yourself.

A desire for him that you shouldn't have, a carnal need that should remain ignored, if only you were strong enough to do so. Instead of doing the right thing, and staying as far away from Chris as possible while you grapple with the reality of your feelings, you cling to what he offers you.

His stare is as scrutinizing as it is voracious. You've come to him flushed, pajamas askew, hair tousled. Were you with your lover just moments before, or did you come to Chris after failed attempts to satisfy yourself on your own?

The answer doesn't matter to him. He cups your face in his hand, feels the heat of your cheek beneath his thumb. There's a reverence in his eyes, devotion and desire that he's long since stopped trying to hide beneath cool neutrality.

Chris needs this— maybe even worse than you do. You aren't the only one with a craving that can't be satisfied; and you see his need for what it really is, the same way he sees the real you hiding beneath the built up layers of who you think you should be.

"Did he get to see you like this too?" Chris' voice is low as his eyes shift down to examine your lips, swollen and bitten red. From your own teeth, or…?

Chris provides his own answer, the one he wants to hear, before you can so much as utter a word. "No. This look is for me. Just me, yeah?"

"Yes," you answer in a soft breath. It doesn't matter if it's true or not— even if you're lying to him, it's what he needs to hear.

That you're his. That no matter who else you entertain, no matter where you place your promises, you'll always belong with him in the end. In some way, maybe you lie to yourself more than you do to Chris— regardless, you give him what he needs.

Your saccharine voice offering false promises of forever, your fervent need to take your pleasure from him, your much too tender touch that continues to caress him even after you've gone.

He'll take it— again and again, even as it threatens to destroy him. Every stolen second, every secret glance, every subtle touch. It's his, all of you— every inch, every breath, every gaze.

Because no matter how far you go, no matter the distance you attempt to force between you both, you always come back to him.

Maybe it's his fault for always beckoning you back, always eager to receive whatever small ounce of affection you'll grant him. Maybe it's your fault for seeing the desperation to have you written in his gaze, for accepting it when every rational cell within you screams that you shouldn't.

Maybe you're equally culpable; too addicted to one another to stop, too wordlessly obsessed with the feelings that no one else can grant. Does it really matter who is to blame?

Chris spent his entire life pretending. He could pretend that your bond is unbreakable because you've known each other for a lifetime, because you've always been his closest friend.

He could pretend that his lingering touches were normal between friends, that it was natural for his eyes to follow you endlessly in a crowded room.

He could pretend it wasn't wrong for him to dream about fucking you— the person he can't have, but the only one he's ever wanted.

The more he tried to force it away, the harder he tried to pretend that you showing up on his doorstep late at night didn't mean anything deeper for him…

Each and every time, it became harder and harder to disguise his need to be with you. And now, he's open about it— perhaps too open.

He doesn't mask his desire the way he once had, doesn't hesitate to touch you the way he did years before, doesn't resist the urge to remind you who it is that really knows you inside and out.

He may not put a name to it, but you both know what it is. In all ways but physical, he's shackled to you. Your dog on a chain, loyal only to you— even unleashed, he'll always find his way back to your side.

When the night is over, and you leave once more to return to the arms of another, he'll cauterize the wound you leave behind, just to repeat it all. He'll suffer the pain again and again, let the scab on his heart rip back open and bleed, all so he can have you just a few moments longer.

Chris leans closer, foreheads touching as he shifts his gaze back to your eyes, searching. It's what he always does— waiting with baited breath to see if this is the day you change your mind. If you'll push him away, end your tryst here and now, for good this time.

You don't. Something tells you that you never will.

There's a foreign look in his eye that you catch, a question seeming to linger on the tip of his tongue that inevitably goes unspoken as he crashes his lips into yours. Insatiable, hungry— he's been a man starved without you.

He pulls your body flush to his, your chest pressing firmly against his own. He's still hot from his shower, the bare skin of his chest radiating warmth. His hold is possessive, his kisses claiming, his breath coming out in quick, harsh pants.

It feels like something unspoken has shifted— like he stands on the precipice, raw and vulnerable, waiting, praying, for you to catch him when he falls.

Chris urgently steals the air from your lungs, his hands gripping you tighter. You stumble backwards, back and back some more, until you're pressing against his bedroom door. After a long moment, he finally pulls away from your lips like it's torturous to do so.

He loosens his grip on you, fumbles with his doorknob, recapturing your lips as he guides you into his room. You wrap your arms around his neck as he trails kisses down your jaw, a hand holding you steady on the small of your back until the back of your knees collide with his bed frame.

You fall less than gracefully to his bed, missing his pillows entirely as you land diagonally. He pushes your legs apart with one of his own before he settles between them, his forearms caging your head as he holds himself above you.

Your eyes trace over his features, the swell of his lips, the curve of his nose, the depth of his dark eyes. Your heart thumps wildly against your ribcage as you lock eyes with him once more. A complex spectrum of emotions pass through him in mere seconds; a puzzle that only you could piece together, if you only tried.

"I'm crazy about you. You know that, right?" Chris' breath is warm against your skin, goosebumps threatening to erupt on the expanse of your body at the feel of it.

He doesn't give you a chance to reply, claiming your lips with his own in one impatient motion. His kisses are as tender as they are feverishly passionate, the undercurrent of need pouring forth from him enough to make your head swim.

His tongue shoves past your lips, and you tilt your head to the side as his tongue slides against yours. More than an ache, more than a compulsion; kissing you feels like his lifeline.

You feel his hands on your hips, his thumbs slipping into the waistband of your baggy pajama pants, tugging them down. You lift your hips, letting him pull them from around the swell of your ass. He shifts back as you lift your legs up, pants bunching at your knees before he fully tugs them off, tossing them to the floor.

Your panties are simple, comfortable cotton, with a growing wet patch darkening the fabric. He drinks the sight of you in— because no matter how ardent his need is, he can't resist taking the time to stare.

"Missed you, y'know," Chris breathes as he tears his gaze from between your legs to look at your face again, leaning back over you. The admission is too earnest, too covetous— it makes your heart ache and your pussy throb.

He brushes his lips against yours, more tease than kiss before he fully delves into it. His fingers toy with the hem of your panties before he slips his hand inside.

"'s wet, baby. This for me?" Chris rubs his fingers between your folds, slow and deliberate. He gathers your arousal, spreads it over your throbbing clit with the tips of his fingers.

You nod your head, biting back a pathetic mewl as your thighs begin to tremble, still sensitive from whatever you'd done just before coming to him.

"Say it."

You whine, heat flushing your face as embarrassment licks up your spine. Your hips buck up pathetically, chasing the friction granted by his dexterous fingers.

"Say it," he repeats, not so much commanding, but pleading.

"For— it's for you, all for you, just for you," you warble, and even with your lidded gaze, you don't miss the way it makes his eyes gleam, dimples popping on his cheeks as he grins.

"Yeah?" He touches you just how you like it— tight circles that have your hips swiveling and legs trembling. "Gonna give you what you want, what you need, anything— everything, it's yours, 'm yours."

Chris shifts to the side, lies beside you to give you the pleasure you need all the easier. Gripping your thigh with the hand not buried in your panties, he spreads you open, hooking your leg around his own to keep you in place.

He presses his fingers harder as he swipes over your clit, again and again, coaxing you toward the release you so desperately need. Far gone are the days where he slowly committed you to his memory, took his time mapping out your body beneath his fingers and tongue— now he knows you.

He gives you the perfect pressure, persistent but not overwhelming— he knows just how you need it, learned what makes you tick, memorized what turns you into a puddle beneath his diligent touch.

Your eyes flutter, struggling to keep open. The glimpse you catch of him, with the look of utter devotion and insatiable longing on his face, steals your breath away.

"Chris," your voice comes out too whiny, too pitched, desperate and broken. Your body jolts, toes curling, clit pulsing beneath the slick pads of his fingers.

"I know, baby, I know," his voice comes out strangled even in his own ears. You reach out to him, pull him into a sensual, messy kiss. He drinks in your need eagerly, takes it as his own.

Because if there's nothing else in this world he can have, he's at least happy with this— knowing that in this moment, you need him, only him, just as bad as he needs you.

Your watery eyes, the high pitch of your voice as you succumb to the desire for him that you try so hard to suppress— it soothes the sting of not having you otherwise.

Your back arches, your eyes roll, body stilling as you cry out a devastating, shuddering moan. You can hear Chris in your ear, whispering praise as your orgasm wracks your body. "That's it, that's a good girl, perfect, so perfect, baby."

"Chris, Chris," you whimper, curling into his body with your hands gripping his shoulders, nails threatening to break the skin. He kisses your face, soft and tender— from the top of your head to the meat of your ruddy, sweaty cheek, all while still diligently playing with your messy clit.

"Mhm? Feels good?" The soft laugh that leaves him when you fervently nod your head makes your heart, and your pussy, clench. "Need more?" His voice comes our against the shell of your ear, more statement than question.

You look at him, bleary-eyed and breathless. He's mesmerizing, infatuation burning in his stare, with that charming, boyishly handsome grin that makes you so weak for him.

He's right; you do need more— and no one can give it to you the way he can.

You're pushing him back, hands trembling and legs shakey, uncoordinated. Chris' hands are quick to grab your hips, helping you keep steady as you settle into straddling his lap.

He looks up at you starry-eyed, like you're the most resplendent thing he's ever had the pleasure to gaze upon.

Perhaps you are— maybe that's why you're so addicted to him. Because he sees the ugliest parts of you and still wants you regardless. Because the yearning, the longing, the utter desperation to have you never fades from him.

You bring a hand carefully to his face, and he turns his head ever so slightly, kisses your palm before he looks back to you, letting your hand rest on his rosy cheek.

"I need you," he whispers, leaning into the weight of your touch. It's an admission that's left him countless times, but it still makes his ears burn red, the flush crawling all the way down to his chest.

You dip down to kiss him, your lips as sweet to him as they are ruinous. You tug him free of his sweats and boxers in a rush, while he helps you tug your sticky, wet panties off your body. It's awkward pulling them off whilst atop him, the way you have to lift your legs putting you off balance, but he catches you when you tilt too far backwards.

Chris almost giggles when you let out a frustrated huff, your panties catching around one of your ankles instead of coming off smoothly. All traces of amusement fade when you settle your weight back into his lap, fingers threading in his freshly dried curls.

You swivel your hips, the tip of his leaking cock nudging your slick folds. His whimper is muffled against your lips, fingers twitching where they rest atop your thighs. He moves to your hips, grips you tight as you slide down his length.

He's thick, but the push is easy, wet for him as you are. "Feels so good, you—" he breathes against your lips, moves his hand up to the nape of your neck, urging you to look at him. "You can be selfish with me, yeah? Take what you need, give it to me how you like it."

Your whine is loud, filthy. His cock stuffs you full, the tip kissing just where you need it to as you grind your hips down on him. "Use me baby, yeah, like that, there ya' go," Chris encourages you, his rough grip on your hips helping you keep the urgent pace you start.

Even with his help, you inevitably falter— but it's okay, because Chris is good to you. He's always happy to pick up the slack.

"Baby, fuck, you hear that?" he asks as he rolls his hips up, meeting the grind of your hips with thrusts of his own. He's talking about your pussy, you realize— sloppy wet, making sounds so salacious when his cock fully presses inside that it makes your ears burn.

"Hear how much you need this? How much you need me?"

Your moan is loud, unabashed, as you desperately nod your head. "Yes, yes! Need you, always— a-always need you, want you."

His jaw tightens as his groan rumbles into a growl— he doesn't know who you're trying to convince more; him, or yourself. Should he be jealous that he's not the man you come home to every night? Or simply grateful he's the only one who gets to see you this way?

Delirious with bliss, tongue heavy in your mouth, drool building in the corners of your mouth— only Chris can bring this side of you to the surface.

You cling to him, head buried in his shoulder and bottom lip tucked painfully between your teeth as he fucks up into your dripping heat. His cock is twitching, throbbing, stretching out your cunt like it's his— his to shape, his to carve a home in.

"O-Oh, Chris, please, 'm gonna— gonna cum, pleasepleaseplease," your begging quickly loses its coherence, cries becoming strangled as he brings his fingers back to your sticky, swollen clit.

He's groaning, panting, orgasm coiling in his gut and threatening to snap as he fucks you through yours. He grits his teeth, sweat beading down his temple as you writhe in his lap, determined to let you finish riding your high before he lets go.

"Fuck, fuck, shit—" Chris grits out a strangled groan as he lifts you up, just in time for the ropes of his cum to paint the inside of your thighs and his stomach instead of inside your pussy.

It gets on the top you're still wearing too, but you're too fucked out to care— you'll worry about it later. You collapse onto him, and he holds you, content as he strokes your back and kisses your temple. You're both winded, sweaty and exhausted, but satisfied.

You close your eyes, limbs heavy, Chris' voice sounding distant in your ears.

You're not sure how much time has passed when you wake up, but it's still dark when you open your eyes— maybe you've been out an hour or two at most?

You're cleaned up, changed into one of Chris' black baggy tees, with his arm thrown around your waist. He's awake, never slept at all— and he watches you carefully as you sit up in his bed.

"You're gonna leave again? Go back to him?" The question is quiet, cautious— you think that despite asking, he doesn't want to hear the answer. "Because I.. you—"

He stops, swallows as he shifts his gaze away. What can he say that hasn't already been said? You know what he feels— he's said it a million times over. Is there any point in repeating it?

His devotion to you is always laid impossibly bare; there's nothing more he can do to make you stay.

You swallow; guilt, remorse, and fear build up like bile in your throat.

Why do you fight so hard against your feelings for Chris? Because he's your childhood friend? Because you're afraid to lose the one person you've always had? Your one constant, the person who has always been there, through thick and thin.

But, whatever this is.. it's not like it's any better. Yet somehow, losing him to this feels less horrifying than if you were to lose him in the midst of a normal relationship. A relationship where every problem you had would be entirely your fault.

There's a long moment of silence— one that tells him all he needs to know.

"Okay. Just.. you know everything I do, it's for you. This, us— this is ours." He reaches for you, squeezes your hand in his, so tight you can feel it tremble. "He doesn't get this part of you. Yeah?"

"Yeah," you agree softly. Tears well in the corners of your eyes, and you try to blink them away before Chris can see, but he's too attentive, notices the change in you much too quickly.

It feels awful, the way he comforts you, holds you close as you shake against him and threaten to sob. You don't deserve this, but Chris is too good to you— he'll never be anything but heart shatteringly sincere and caring.

"I'll leave him," you mutter with an agonizing crack in your voice.

Chris doesn't reply right away. Just hugs you until you tilt your head to look up at him. When he wipes the tears from your eyes, it's too gentle, so much more than you deserve— but it feels like salvation from your sins.

Try as he might, all he can do is watch— watch as your lips curl into the softest of smiles, your fingers tracing the dips and ridges of his body, gentle and sweet. He's leaning back on his beach towel, arms keeping him propped up, while you sit atop his lap.

The sun paints the beach in rivulets of gold, orange, and pink as it sets, adapts the color of the sand and ocean to something more intimate. You glow in its light, every inch of you shining as it pours over you. Breathless, speechless, but finally one of the words he was trying so hard to say comes out— beautiful.

You giggle, and his heart leaps. Your fingers, buried beneath his muscle tee, drag down the expanse of his muscle-defined chest to his soft stomach. Changbin swallows, mouth dry and eyes hazy, the feeling of your hands running up and down his heated skin already enough to have lust burning deep in his gut.

His skin tingles beneath your touch, his face hot; he's tongue-tied. He lifts his hand, cups your cheek and drags his thumb across your lips, as if it'll help the ability to speak coherently return to him.

Instead, your lashes flutter as you close your eyes, leaning into his palm. His chest rises and falls in a stuttering heave, breathe leaving him in a hitch. You kiss his thumb, opening your eyes to gaze back at him as you do.

Changbin is dizzy— so impossibly dizzy. He pulls you in, continues to caress your cheek as presses his full lips to yours. He drinks you in, a shiver running down his spine as you tilt your head, deepen the kiss. Your lips are tacky, sugary sweet from the caramel ice cream that melted against them.

Your tongue swipes against his plump bottom lip, and he lets you in with a soft moan. He shifts his hand to your back, feels every tremble and shiver that shoots through you as he strokes your tongue with his own. He's hungry; kisses you harder, wetter, every motion drenched in desire.

Changbin's gaze when you separate is devastating— as vulnerable as it is hot, the need pouring from him enough to make your body ache. You lean down, press a scorching trail of kisses over his honeyed skin. His chin, his jaw, under his ear, until you reach his neck.

He trembles beneath you, breath coming out in a shaky gasp when he feels your tongue against his skin, mouth hot against his throat. The way your name falls from his parted lips feels like electricity sparking in your veins.

You pull away from his neck with a pop, sit up straight and tilt his head back towards yours with a hand under the chin, muffle the whimper he releases with your lips. His hand falls, misses the towel laid beneath you both and melts into the warm sand.

You settle your full weight into his lap, the warmth of your thighs encasing his hips. His erection throbs and pulses, strained beneath his dark denim shorts, pre-cum dripping pitifully form the tip and darkening the fabric.

Your hips roll against him, a slow grind at first. The pressure and friction against his cock pulls a choked whine from his throat, one that you eagerly drink in. He grasps for your hip, the tiny grains of sand stuck to his hand sprinkling onto your dress like confetti.

Changbin's feverish, his hips bucking up into yours, following your rhythm. You cling to him, arms wrapping around his neck as you press your chest to his. His breath comes out in hot puffs against the shell of your ear, each of his strained moans and desperate whines adding to the mess between your legs.

He needs to feel you— to slip his hand into your soaked panties, to have his fingers drenched in your slick arousal. He needs to strip you bare— kiss you everywhere, feel every inch of your skin beneath his lips.

But he can't— not here, at least.

The best he can do is lift you up and flip you over, lay you out on the towel and pull your panties to the side, fuck you with the full weight of his devotion. Until it's engraved in your skin, until his name is all that can be carried through the wind and waves around you, until your cum is dripping down the length of his cock.

So that's what he does; and you can't help the squeal that leaves you when you're suddenly lifted, scenery spinning as Changbin changes your positions. He leans down, kisses you again and again and again, while his hand travels the length of your body.

Over your chest, down your waist, across your thighs, his tongue slipping into your mouth when he finally reaches your center. He tugs your panties to the side, hurries with the button and zipper of his shorts, flickers his eyes to yours as he takes his cock in his hand.

"Yes, yes," you encourage him, bunching the skirt of your dress in your hands to give him an enticing view. He pumps himself first, spreads his pre-cum up and down his length before he presses the tip to your hole.

Changbin leans down, braces his weight on his arm above your head, sucking in a breath as he starts to push inside. His brows knit together, pants against your mouth as inch after inch of his thick cock carves a home for itself in your pussy.

Your fingers tangle in the fluff of his hair that touches the nape of his neck, whimper spilling forth when he bottoms out inside you. He stills as you adjust to the size of him, crashes his lips into yours, whispers his love into the corner of your mouth when he pulls away.

He knows you're ready for him to move when you roll your hips, the pretty gasp that tumbles out of you ringing loud in his ears. He wants it again— again, again, he chases the sound of your pleasure. Every moan, every whine, every gasp— beautiful and devastating and entirely his.

Changbin's hand falls to your hip, travels until its under your thigh and then your knee, lifting your leg so he can crook it over his arm. Another moan, your back arches— you're so open for him, his cock hitting so deep that every roll of his hips knocks the air from your lungs.

He loves you. His love is written in every thrust, every kiss to your lips, every stroke to your heated skin. His love crashes into you the same way the waves crash into the shore.

His head buries into the crook of your neck, every desperate whine and moan muffled by your skin. You tighten your other leg around him, and he keens, a loud, hitching whimper.

Changbin lets your leg fall from his arm, and it joins the other wrapped around his waist, your hips grinding into his as they chase his rhythm. Your hands cling to shoulders, nails digging into the skin.

Sweat trickles down his brow, his pace growing sloppier and sloppier until it descends into a desperate, impassioned rut. So wet, so hot— he's almost suffocated by the pleasure your body gives him.

And you're close too— he can tell by the way your voice quivers, how tightly you clench around him, the way your eyes flutter before they roll back in your skull. He lifts his head from your neck, casts his gaze down where your clit is swollen and neglected between your glistening folds.

Changbin presses his thumb to your clit, and your body jerks, writhing as a sobbing cry rings out. His rubs to the sensitive bud are fast, messy, and your breath shudders and hitches as your high crescendos. You cry his name in a string of broken syllables, wet warmth gushing around his cock.

His hips stutter, cock twitching and throbbing as he fucks you through your orgasm. He kisses you hard, swallows down every trembling moan that spills from your lips.

He follows swiftly behind, his cum spilling inside you in thick ropes. Changbin pours his love into you like it's all he was made to do; and in a way, it is. To be with you, to love you— there's no where else in the world he'd rather be. Every inch of him, every atom, every molecule— all of him belongs to you.

Try as he might, all he can do is watch— watch as your lips curl into the softest of smiles, your fingers tracing the dips and ridges of his body, gentle and sweet. He's leaning back on his beach towel, arms keeping him propped up, while you sit atop his lap.

The sun paints the beach in rivulets of gold, orange, and pink as it sets, adapts the color of the sand and ocean to something more intimate. You glow in its light, every inch of you shining as it pours over you. Breathless, speechless, but finally one of the words he was trying so hard to say comes out— beautiful.

You giggle, and his heart leaps. Your fingers, buried beneath his muscle tee, drag down the expanse of his muscle-defined chest to his soft stomach. Changbin swallows, mouth dry and eyes hazy, the feeling of your hands running up and down his heated skin already enough to have lust burning deep in his gut.

His skin tingles beneath your touch, his face hot; he's tongue-tied. He lifts his hand, cups your cheek and drags his thumb across your lips, as if it'll help the ability to speak coherently return to him.

Instead, your lashes flutter as you close your eyes, leaning into his palm. His chest rises and falls in a stuttering heave, breathe leaving him in a hitch. You kiss his thumb, opening your eyes to gaze back at him as you do.

Changbin is dizzy— so impossibly dizzy. He pulls you in, continues to caress your cheek as presses his full lips to yours. He drinks you in, a shiver running down his spine as you tilt your head, deepen the kiss. Your lips are tacky, sugary sweet from the caramel ice cream that melted against them.

Your tongue swipes against his plump bottom lip, and he lets you in with a soft moan. He shifts his hand to your back, feels every tremble and shiver that shoots through you as he strokes your tongue with his own. He's hungry; kisses you harder, wetter, every motion drenched in desire.

Changbin's gaze when you separate is devastating— as vulnerable as it is hot, the need pouring from him enough to make your body ache. You lean down, press a scorching trail of kisses over his honeyed skin. His chin, his jaw, under his ear, until you reach his neck.

He trembles beneath you, breath coming out in a shaky gasp when he feels your tongue against his skin, mouth hot against his throat. The way your name falls from his parted lips feels like electricity sparking in your veins.

You pull away from his neck with a pop, sit up straight and tilt his head back towards yours with a hand under the chin, muffle the whimper he releases with your lips. His hand falls, misses the towel laid beneath you both and melts into the warm sand.

You settle your full weight into his lap, the warmth of your thighs encasing his hips. His erection throbs and pulses, strained beneath his dark denim shorts, pre-cum dripping pitifully form the tip and darkening the fabric.

Your hips roll against him, a slow grind at first. The pressure and friction against his cock pulls a choked whine from his throat, one that you eagerly drink in. He grasps for your hip, the tiny grains of sand stuck to his hand sprinkling onto your dress like confetti.

Changbin's feverish, his hips bucking up into yours, following your rhythm. You cling to him, arms wrapping around his neck as you press your chest to his. His breath comes out in hot puffs against the shell of your ear, each of his strained moans and desperate whines adding to the mess between your legs.

He needs to feel you— to slip his hand into your soaked panties, to have his fingers drenched in your slick arousal. He needs to strip you bare— kiss you everywhere, feel every inch of your skin beneath his lips.

But he can't— not here, at least.

The best he can do is lift you up and flip you over, lay you out on the towel and pull your panties to the side, fuck you with the full weight of his devotion. Until it's engraved in your skin, until his name is all that can be carried through the wind and waves around you, until your cum is dripping down the length of his cock.

So that's what he does; and you can't help the squeal that leaves you when you're suddenly lifted, scenery spinning as Changbin changes your positions. He leans down, kisses you again and again and again, while his hand travels the length of your body.

Over your chest, down your waist, across your thighs, his tongue slipping into your mouth when he finally reaches your center. He tugs your panties to the side, hurries with the button and zipper of his shorts, flickers his eyes to yours as he takes his cock in his hand.

"Yes, yes," you encourage him, bunching the skirt of your dress in your hands to give him an enticing view. He pumps himself first, spreads his pre-cum up and down his length before he presses the tip to your hole.

Changbin leans down, braces his weight on his arm above your head, sucking in a breath as he starts to push inside. His brows knit together, pants against your mouth as inch after inch of his thick cock carves a home for itself in your pussy.

Your fingers tangle in the fluff of his hair that touches the nape of his neck, whimper spilling forth when he bottoms out inside you. He stills as you adjust to the size of him, crashes his lips into yours, whispers his love into the corner of your mouth when he pulls away.

He knows you're ready for him to move when you roll your hips, the pretty gasp that tumbles out of you ringing loud in his ears. He wants it again— again, again, he chases the sound of your pleasure. Every moan, every whine, every gasp— beautiful and devastating and entirely his.

Changbin's hand falls to your hip, travels until its under your thigh and then your knee, lifting your leg so he can crook it over his arm. Another moan, your back arches— you're so open for him, his cock hitting so deep that every roll of his hips knocks the air from your lungs.

He loves you. His love is written in every thrust, every kiss to your lips, every stroke to your heated skin. His love crashes into you the same way the waves crash into the shore.

His head buries into the crook of your neck, every desperate whine and moan muffled by your skin. You tighten your other leg around him, and he keens, a loud, hitching whimper.

Changbin lets your leg fall from his arm, and it joins the other wrapped around his waist, your hips grinding into his as they chase his rhythm. Your hands cling to shoulders, nails digging into the skin.

Sweat trickles down his brow, his pace growing sloppier and sloppier until it descends into a desperate, impassioned rut. So wet, so hot— he's almost suffocated by the pleasure your body gives him.

And you're close too— he can tell by the way your voice quivers, how tightly you clench around him, the way your eyes flutter before they roll back in your skull. He lifts his head from your neck, casts his gaze down where your clit is swollen and neglected between your glistening folds.

Changbin presses his thumb to your clit, and your body jerks, writhing as a sobbing cry rings out. His rubs to the sensitive bud are fast, messy, and your breath shudders and hitches as your high crescendos. You cry his name in a string of broken syllables, wet warmth gushing around his cock.

His hips stutter, cock twitching and throbbing as he fucks you through your orgasm. He kisses you hard, swallows down every trembling moan that spills from your lips.

He follows swiftly behind, his cum spilling inside you in thick ropes. Changbin pours his love into you like it's all he was made to do; and in a way, it is. To be with you, to love you— there's no where else in the world he'd rather be. Every inch of him, every atom, every molecule— all of him belongs to you.