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For a moment, Chris thinks he’s still dreaming. The warmth of your lips on his shoulder, the way you whisper his name, the softness of your breath on his skin — it’s all too familiar, too vivid to be real. He’s had this dream too many times in the months since you vanished, but then you kiss his mouth, and everything changes.

The press of your lips is real — too warm, too desperate, too you to be anything his subconscious could conjure. His eyes snap open, and he sees you. Really sees you.

It slams into him like a bullet: It’s her. She’s here.

His chest seizes with a hundred emotions at once — relief so sharp it almost hurts, anger that you dare to come back after destroying him, longing that he thought he buried. For weeks he begged for this, for you, and now that it’s happening, it terrifies him more than your absence ever did.

He jerks back, scrambling upright, breath harsh in his chest. You don’t flinch. Instead, you roll to your side, propping a hand to your head like you never left.

“Baby,” you murmur sweetly, a soft smile tugging your lips, “I’m home.”

His gaze darts past you—toward the nightstand drawer. His gun. His body moves before his brain does; he lunges, yanking it free, and in one swift motion he’s on top of you, pinning you to the mattress, barrel pressed to your temple.

Your smile only curves wider. “Oh, no. You caught me,” you say, voice low, playful like this is a game.

“Shut up,” Chris snarls, his grip tight, every muscle in him straining. “I have you now.”

Your hand slides up, wrapping gently around his wrist. “Baby,” you sigh, “can you put that away? You know the house rules.”

His jaw clenches as his hand tightens around the handle of the gun. “Stop talking.”

You tilt your head, still smiling that infuriating, knowing smile. “No use for it anyway. I emptied the chambers.”

The words hit him like ice water. He yanks the clip, checks the chamber—click, empty. Not a single bullet.

You guide his arm down with surprising ease, coaxing the muzzle away from your face. “There,” you murmur, soft and patient, as if he’s the one who needs calming. “Better. Now… can we talk?”

Chris’s chest heaves. Every nerve screams at him to hold onto the anger, the betrayal—but the way you lie there, gazing up at him like nothing’s changed, rattles him more than the empty gun in his hand. He lets it hangs loose in his grip, useless but still heavy, like a prop to hold onto his control. His knees pin you to the mattress, his shadow towering over you. “Talk?” His voice is a low growl. “You think after everything—you just waltz back in here and I let you talk?”

You tilt your head against the pillow, unbothered. “That’s usually how conversations work, baby.”

“Don’t—” His voice cracks, fury and ache knotted together. “Don’t call me that.”A soft chuckle escapes you, maddeningly casual. “So formal now. You never minded it before.”

He finally tosses the gun to the floor, the clatter sharp in the silence. His hands are on you the next second, rough and urgent, skimming over every curve of your body. All he feels is silk clinging to your skin, the smoothness of you under his palms, and it makes his chest twist with a longing he doesn’t want to admit.

You let out a low, playful laugh. “Mmh… we’ve done this roleplay before, haven’t we?”

“Shut up,” Chris snaps, though his voice is already strained. He flips you onto your back and pins your wrists above your head, his grip ironclad. His other hand moves firmly, checking you over—your sides, your thighs, the dip of your waist. Nothing. No blade, no lockpick, no trick tucked away this time. Just you.

“You’re clean,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but he doesn’t release your wrists. If anything, his grip tightens, knuckles digging into your skin.

You tilt your head on the pillow, smirking up at him. “Disappointed?”

He leans closer, eyes burning into yours. “Why are you here?” His voice is low, sharp, his breath uneven.

“Because I missed you,” you simply answer without a beat.

“Don’t lie to me.” His grip on your wrists tightens, the veins in his arm straining.

“Who says I’m lying?” you counter smoothly. “Didn’t you miss me too?”

The silence that follows is deafening, and you can feel the tremor in his body even as he tries to hold steady. His eyes—haunted, torn—say more than his words ever could and you smile, calm and knowing, like you’ve already won. Then, with a smooth motion, you wrap your legs around his waist and lock him against you.

His whole body tenses as you pull him closer, forcing the hard line of his body to press against yours. His grip on your wrists trembles for the first time, though he doesn’t let go. “Careful,” he warns, his voice low, fraying at the edges.

“Careful of what?” you whisper, your lips hovering just inches from his. The warmth of your breath grazes his skin, and it makes his pulse hammer against his throat. “Of me?”

Chris swallows hard, chest rising and falling against yours, shallow and uneven. He can feel the softness of your body under him, the silk shifting against his skin like temptation itself, and for a fleeting second, he forgets the silver dust, the lies, the gun you held to his chest.

“Don’t,” he mutters, though it sounds weaker than he intends.

You tilt your head, closing the space until your lips almost brush his. “Don’t what, baby? Don’t kiss you?”

The words slice through him, sharp and sweet. His grip on your wrists is iron, but his resolve is paper-thin. He feels himself leaning in despite everything, the faintest brush of your mouth ghosting his, and his chest aches with how badly he wants to cave—how badly he still wants you.

“Tell me something,” he rasps, his voice rough. “All this time—everything between us—was it fake? Were you just playing me?”

You tilt your head on the pillow, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “At first, yes. I meant to play around with you.” Your tone drips with honey, but your eyes gleam with something sharper and then your voice softens as you continue. “But somewhere along the way, it stopped being a game. Maybe I pretended while I dated you… but I did love you.”

Chris lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No. That’s not love. That’s manipulation.”

“Is it?” you purr, pressing your legs tighter around his waist, locking him in place. “Because tell me, Chris—how have you been living without me these past few months? Hmm? You think I don’t know? I know everything. The late nights. The obsession. The way you still ache for me.”

“You’re wrong,” he denies a little too fast.

But your smile only deepens. “No, baby. I know you. I believe you love me too—even if you can’t admit it.”

Chris shakes his head violently, but his denial doesn’t hold steady. Not when you lean forward, closing the last sliver of space, and let your lips wander—along his jaw, the hollow of his throat, anywhere his skin yields to you.

“I miss you,” you whisper between kisses, your voice breaking soft and low, a dangerous blend of confession and temptation. “I miss your sweet smile and dimples and oh… this body… your warmth… your lips.”

Before he can stop you, you catch his mouth with yours. The kiss is scorching, familiar and devastating, and for one fleeting moment Chris sinks into it before he tears himself away, gasping, his eyes wide with panic.

You scoff, eyes flashing with irritation and something wounded. “Stop denying it,” you hiss, your stare burrowing into his soul, so intense it nearly undoes him.

Your wrists are still pinned above your head, but you don’t fight his hold—you twist beneath him, arching just enough for your body to brush against his, the heat between you sparking like a live wire. “Look at you,” you whisper against his cheek, your breath hot, your lips grazing but never quite touching. “Holding me down like this. You don’t want to let me go, do you?”

Chris’s jaw locks, his breath uneven. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Maybe.” Your voice is velvet-soft, dangerous. “But tell me I’m wrong.”

You roll your hips ever so slightly, a calculated move, and he grits his teeth as his restraint threatens to snap. You take your chance, trailing your lips along the line of his jaw again, lingering at the corner of his mouth.

“I miss you,” you murmur, your words feathering against his skin. “I miss the way you taste. The way you make me feel.” Your eyes flicker up to his, wide and guileless, even though your smile is anything but. “You can lie to yourself, but not to me. I know you want me. I know you love me.”

“Stop,” Chris growls, but the edge in his voice wavers, cracks.

You only lean in closer, your lips brushing his again in a fleeting ghost of a kiss, enough to steal his breath but not his resolve. “Then prove me wrong,” you whisper, a dare wrapped in sweetness.

For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick with tension, your heartbeat pounding against his chest where your bodies press together and something inside him snaps. With a guttural sound caught between rage and surrender, he crashes his lips against yours. The kiss is brutal at first, teeth and desperation, but then it melts—raw, aching, like a man drowning who’s finally given in to the tide. His hands release your wrists only to slide down and clutch at your body, pulling you closer, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again if he loosens his grip. Chris knows he shouldn’t, knows this is everything he swore to resist, but God help him—he can’t stop.

The kiss deepens until he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin. His hands roam hungrily, palms sliding over the silk of your dress, the softness of your skin beneath. It’s frantic, messy, like he’s making up for months of deprivation, yet threaded with something achingly tender.

You moan softly against his lips, tilting your head to kiss him deeper, your fingers threading through his hair as if you, too, were starving for him. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him flush against you, and he shudders at the contact.

“God, I hate you,” he breathes against your mouth, the words torn between venom and need.

You smile slyly, your lips brushing his with every syllable. “No, baby. You love me.”

Instead of answering, he grabs the hem of your dress and yanks it upward, desperate to rid you of it, but before he can, your hands slip to his shirt. Slowly, almost reverently, you begin undoing each button, your eyes locked on his.

“God. I missed this,” you whisper as you peel the fabric from his shoulders, your palms sliding across the expanse of his chest. You press a kiss to his collarbone, then another lower, your lips lingering as though you’re memorizing him all over again.

“I missed you, baby.” The words are soft, carried between kisses as you trail down his sternum, your hands exploring every inch of muscle, every scar, every line of him. You look at him like he’s a masterpiece you’re desperate to touch again, and the longing in your gaze nearly shatters him.

Chris’s chest tightens painfully. In the way your fingers tremble slightly when they undo his belt, in the way you mouth at his skin like you can’t get enough, in the sheer raw hunger in your eyes—he almost believes it, believes that this is real, that none of it is fake and that you love him. He crushes his mouth against yours again, unable to resist, swallowing your gasp as you push his pants down, your hands sliding up his thighs. Your touch is worshipful, tender in a way that threatens to undo him more than any kiss.

He knows he should push you off him. He should snap the cuffs on your wrists, end this once and for all. But the way your hands glide over his bare skin, the way your lips trail hot, desperate kisses down his chest, it erases every rational thought from his mind.

You tug his pants down the rest of the way, and his cock springs free, hard and aching. Your eyes flick down and you smile, licking your lips before meeting his gaze again.

“I really, really missed you,” you murmur, curling your fingers around him and giving a slow, deliberate stroke. A guttural groan tearing out of him as your thumb slides over the head.

“Fuck—” He grabs your wrist, trying to stop you, but it’s weak, half-hearted.

You smirk, leaning up to kiss him as your hand keeps moving, slow and teasing. “You can’t even pretend you don’t want this,” you whisper against his lips. “I feel it. I know it.”

His hands grip your hips hard, dragging himself down against you so your wetness slides over his length. Both of you groan at the contact.

“Oh, fuck…” he growls as he rubs his shaft between your folds, desperate for friction.

You guide him to your entrance, sinking down onto him inch by inch until he’s buried deep inside you.

He gasps, nails digging into your hips, eyes locked on your face as you moan and throw your head back. He has you pinned under him, fucking into you with rough, punishing thrusts, every drag of his cock making your walls clench tight around him. Your moans spill out, high and breathless, but then you soften your voice into something sweet, intoxicating.

“Oh, Chris… you feel so good inside me.”

His hips stutter, just for a second, at the sound of your voice dripping honey into his ear. You arch your back, meeting every thrust, your lips grazing the shell of his ear. “I missed this,” you whisper, broken between moans. “I missed you… missed having you inside me.”

Chris groans deep in his chest, his jaw clenching as he pistons into you harder.

“No one fucks me like you do,” you breathe, eyes half-lidded but locked on him, your fingers dragging down his back as your body shudders under his rhythm. “No one. Only you.”

The words rip through him like fire, fueling him, making him snap his hips harder, deeper. “Fuck,” he growls through his gritted teeth.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he slams into you, the bed rattling beneath you. You cry out, head tipping back, then gasp his name. “Only you, Chris—fuck—only you can make me feel like this.”

His breath comes out in a sharp groan, his forehead pressing to yours, his thrusts relentless, almost wild. The sound of skin slapping, your cries, and his ragged moans fill the room.

Hearing you say it—he knows it’s dangerous, knows you’re feeding his weakness—but it drives him insane. He doesn’t care if you’re lying or telling the truth, doesn’t care about anything anymore except the way you feel around him, the way you’re trembling beneath him, clenching tighter with every thrust.

“Fuck, you’re mine,” he snarls against your mouth before crashing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his pace breaking into raw, desperate thrusts as if he can claim you all over again.

With a guttural growl, he rips his lips from yours and flips you onto your stomach, your gasp muffled by the sheets. His big hands shove your knees apart, spreading you wide as he slams back inside you in one ruthless thrust that makes you cry out.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, his hand locking around the back of your neck, pinning you down against the mattress while his hips pound into you, sharp and relentless. “You wanna tell me I’m the only one? You better fucking scream it.”

Your body shudders with every drive of his cock, the rhythm so brutal it makes your toes curl. Your fingers clutch at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks you deeper.

“Chris!” you moan, your voice breaking, “you are—fuck—you’re the only one, no one else, only you—”

The sound rips through him, his chest heaving, his hips slamming harder, deeper, grinding against you like he wants to carve himself into your very bones. He leans over you, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “That’s right,” he growls, dragging his cock out slow just to slam it back in, making you gasp, your walls clenching around him. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

You’re trembling under him, helpless and wrecked, but there’s a glint in your voice when you pant out, teasing, “Then prove it, detective.”

Something snaps in him. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so your moans spill out louder, the other gripping your hip so hard it’ll leave bruises. He fucks you like he’s trying to erase every ghost, every doubt, every lie—like if he claims you hard enough, it’ll make you his forever.

Your moans fill the room, muffled at first against the sheets, but Chris wants more—needs more. His grip on your hair tightens, yanking your head back until your throat is bare for him. His teeth graze the curve of your neck before he sinks them in just enough to make you yelp, then groan.

“Louder,” he growls into your skin, his thrusts hammering into you, shaking the bed. “I want the whole fucking building to know who you belong to.”

Your voice cracks as you cry out his name, tears pricking your lashes from the intensity of it. He feels you tighten around him, your body on the brink, and it only drives him harder. His hips snap fast, brutal, like he’s desperate to bury himself deeper, to leave nothing untouched.

“Oh, baby,” you whimper, your voice wrecked, “you feel so fucking good—don’t stop—”

“Not planning on it,” he snarls, slamming into you with a force that has you arching, clawing at the sheets. He bends over you, his chest pressing into your back, his hand snaking beneath you to find your clit. The rough pads of his fingers rub hard and fast, syncing with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.

Your body jerks, walls spasming around him, the overwhelming mix of pleasure and pain tipping you over the edge. “Chris! Oh fuck—Chris!”

He bites back a guttural groan, his thrusts growing ragged, messy, frantic as you convulse around him. The way your body milks him, the way your voice screams his name—it’s too much.

“Shit, baby,” he pants, his voice breaking, “I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it—”

“Do it,” you moan breathlessly, “cum inside me—please, baby—fill me up—”

That’s it. That’s the breaking point. He slams into you one last time and shatters, his whole body trembling as he spills into you, deep and hot, groaning your name like it’s the only prayer he’s ever known.

For a long moment, he stays buried in you, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his back, his hands still clamped around your body like he’s terrified you’ll slip away again. The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of your breaths evening out, the faint hum of the city outside. His cock still twitches inside you, both of you too wrecked to move, too tangled to separate.

Then, in a voice so sweet it cuts, you murmur against his ear, “Just like old times, hm?”

His eyes squeeze shut as if trying to block it out and for a fleeting moment, he wants to believe this is real—that it was love, not manipulation, that you came back because you missed him. But then he remembers the silver dust, the lies and the smile you wore as you held his weapon to his chest.

His hands tighten on your waist, not possessive, but wary. He can’t stop himself from asking, his voice low and raw, “Was any of it real?”

You hum softly, like the question amuses you. Your lips brush the edge of his jaw as you whisper, “Does it matter? You came apart for me, baby. You always do.”

The words lance through him. He wants to push you off, to grab his gun, to end this dangerous game once and for all—but then you curl closer, legs tangling with his, your warmth seeping into him and his body betrays him, relaxing even as his mind screams.

Chris swallows hard, staring at the ceiling. His heart aches with the weight of it, because he knows: you might be lying, or you might mean it. Either way, he’ll still let you hold him tonight.

-

The sheets are still warm, your body draped over his, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. You let yourself melt against him, your fingers tracing absent circles over the plane of his chest. It feels almost too easy, too natural to slip back into this place, where you belong tucked under his arm.

Oh, you missed this. Not just his body—though you did, every maddening inch of it—but him. The way his presence grounds you when the rest of the world spins. The way he makes you feel seen, not just as Silvene, not just as a thief, but as someone who once wanted nothing more than to belong to someone. To belong to him.

Your hand slides up, caressing his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there. You tilt up, brushing a feather-light kiss over the corner of his mouth, then another along the curve of his cheek. How do you tell him this? That every heist, every alias, every lie—You wanted to throw them all away just to lie here again with him. That every night you spent running, you dreamed of coming to this bed, this warmth, this heartbeat. A home.

You tighten your hold around him, as if you could fuse yourself into him, as if you could stop time here, in this fragile afterglow where nothing else matters. “Come with me, Chris,” you whisper, coaxing him with every word, soft lips brushing against his skin. “We could run, disappear… just the two of us.”

He doesn’t answer and the silence makes you smile against his neck. You shift, propping yourself up so you can look him in the eye. He looks torn apart—wrecked, conflicted, fighting himself more than you.

You cup his jaw, stroking your thumb along the stubble there as you lean close, your noses brushing. “We can be together,” you promise sweetly, like it’s the simplest truth. You kiss him—slow, lingering, tasting the hesitation on his lips—and then you breathe against his mouth, “Come with me, baby. Please?”

For a moment, his resolve wavers. You feel it in the way his lips part, in the twitch of his hand against your waist. But then, he steels himself. His eyes shut you out, hardening, and he rolls onto his side with his back facing you.

“So what do you want to do then?” you murmur, your voice teasing but edged with something sharper.

Chris is quiet, until suddenly he moves. His hand catches yours, and before you can react, you hear the cold click of metal locking around your wrist—cuffs.

You glance at him, expecting victory in his eyes, but find only a storm. Instead of fear, laughter spills from you, low and sweet. “We’ve played this game too.”

But then he shocks you—because instead of cuffing your other hand, he fastens the other shackle around his own wrist. The chain between you is short, binding, unbreakable.

“You can’t go anywhere now,” he says, voice raw with something between desperation and resolve.

You smirk, tugging the chain until he leans closer, until his breath brushes yours. You bite his lower lip, pulling at it slow and deliberate before letting it go with a wet pop. “New game, huh?” you purr, eyes glittering with mischief. Your voice dips low, dangerous, intimate. “Then let’s play.”

-

The chain between you rattles faintly, taut as you give it another deliberate tug. Chris doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens, his gaze burning into yours. He can feel your heat pressed against him, can smell your perfume clinging to the sheets, can hear the sly curl of your breath every time you speak. There’s no space. No distance. No way to escape.

“You think this changes anything?” you murmur, smirk still painted on your lips. Your cuffed hand rests against his chest, right over his heart. “You can’t arrest me like this.”

His chest rises sharply under your touch, but he doesn’t push you away. “Maybe not,” he answers, his voice low, strained. “But at least you can’t disappear on me again.”

Your smile softens—almost tender—as you study him. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Not justice. Not duty. Just me leaving you.”

Chris swallows hard. He wants to deny it, wants to tell you it’s the law, the case, the jewelries you’ve stolen. But the words stick. He knows the truth you’re peeling out of him, layer by layer, with every look and every whisper.

“You faked everything,” he says finally, a last desperate defense. “The dates, the nights in… even this.” His eyes flick down your bare body, still glistening from where you were joined minutes ago. His voice cracks. “Tell me it wasn’t real.”

You lean closer, the cuff biting into his wrist as you move, and your breath brushes his lips. “What if it was both?” you ask softly. “The game and the love? The lie and the truth?” Your eyes search his, daring him to look away. “Tell me, Detective… does that make it easier? Or harder?”

Chris exhales, a shaky, broken sound. He doesn’t answer. He can’t. You’ve cornered him without even trying. The silence between you stretches—heavy, suffocating, intimate. You’re bound together and there’s nowhere to hide.

You tilt your head, studying him like you’re reading every unspoken thought. “See?” you whisper, tugging at the chain so his wrist jerks closer. “You can’t run from me either.”

He should shove you back. He should rip the words out of his throat and spit them like bullets—tell you you’re under arrest, that you’ll never walk away again. But instead, his free hand hovers at your waist, not to restrain you but to feel the warmth he’s missed for too long.

“You think cuffing yourself to me will keep me here?” you tease, your voice silk over steel. “Baby, I never needed cuffs for that.”

He clenches his jaw, refusing to let the heat in your tone pull him under again. “You lied about everything,” he rasps. “You used me.”

You lean in, slow, dangerous, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth as you murmur, “And yet you still want me.”

Chris’s eyes flutter shut for a second—just one second too long. When they open again, you’re smiling, wicked and sweet, your legs tangling with his as though claiming him all over again.

The chain between you tightens when you whisper against his ear, “Maybe the lie was real, and the love was fake. Or maybe the love was real, and the lie was just the game.” Your breath is hot on his skin. “Does it matter anymore?”

The cuffs rattle when Chris yanks you closer, his knuckles white around the chain. His voice is low, almost a growl. “What do you really want?” he demands, though his chest feels like it’s caving in just asking the question.

You hold his gaze, unflinching. No tricks, no sly grin—just the searing weight of your truth. “I want you,” you whisper, tugging gently at the cuff between you. “I want you to come with me.”

Chris’s breath stutters. You crawl closer, slow and deliberate, until your knees press against his hips and your eyes are all he can see. “I want you to choose me.” Your voice cracks with urgency, a tremor that betrays everything you try to keep masked. “And with all of my heart, I want you.”

Every rational thought screams that it’s a trap, another carefully spun thread of your web. But then your lips brush his, soft, trembling, and the lie he’s been clinging to—that he can resist you—shatters.

The chain between the cuffs clinks softly as you shift, swinging your leg over his hips and straddling him. Chris stiffens beneath you, muscles taut as if bracing himself for impact, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes track every movement, pupils blown wide, chest rising like he’s fighting for air.

You ease down onto his lap, close enough that his breath mingles with yours. Your cuffed hand tugs at his wrist, pulling him into your orbit whether he likes it or not. Then you lean in, brushing your lips over the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his ear, the warmth of his neck.

“Chris…” you murmur against his skin, your voice soft, coaxing, dangerous. You press kiss after kiss along his throat, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Come with me. We can leave all of this behind.”

His breath hitches when your lips graze the spot just below his ear, his hand instinctively tightening around the chain between you. You smile against his skin, slow and knowing, before trailing kisses across his cheekbone, his temple, back down to the strong line of his throat.

“I want you,” you whisper, your breath warm against his pulse. “Only you.”

When he doesn’t answer, you lean back just enough to slip your hand between you, and with a soft smile, you hold up your left hand. The ring glints in the low light, the very same one he gave you months ago.

“I still wear it,” you murmur, your voice trembling between seduction and sincerity. “Because I’m saying yes. Yes to you, to us. Not the cop. Not the thief. Just… us.”

Chris stares at the ring like it’s burning a hole in his chest, his throat working as he struggles to find his words. You reach up, cup his face gently, and kiss him sweetly before whispering against his lips, “So come with me, baby. Please.”

His jaw clenches, but his hands betray him, sliding up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise. His resolve is splintering, undone by the sweetness of your kisses, the way you say his name like it belongs to you alone.

When he finally turns his head, your mouths collide—hungry, desperate, messy. The kiss steals the last of his hesitation, his free hand threading into your hair and dragging you closer as if he could fuse you to him.

You rock against his lap, slow at first, then with more insistence, swallowing his groan when your hips grind down on the hard length straining beneath his sweats. “See?” you murmur against his lips, kissing him again, “no one else… only you.”

Your thighs tighten around his waist as you shift, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness before sinking down, slow, deliberate, until he’s buried deep inside you again.

His head falls back with a groan, the sound torn out of him, his grip on your hips turning bruising as though he’s trying to ground himself. But you don’t let him settle. You start to move, rocking against him, drawing out the friction until he’s gasping beneath you.

Your cuffed wrist tugs at his, reminding him of the inescapable link between you as you lean in, lips brushing his ear. “This, baby… we can have this. All the time.” You roll your hips, moaning softly when he fills you deeper. “If you come with me.”

Chris shudders, his breath ragged as you fuck him slowly, sweetly. His hands drag down your back, gripping your ass, urging you to move faster, harder—but you hold control, keeping the pace you want.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, every word a caress and a trap. “You feel how good this is? How good I make you feel?” Your voice softens to a whisper, broken up by gasps as his cock hits deep. “We can have this forever. Just say yes.”

He growls low in his throat, hips thrusting up into you, chasing more even as he shakes his head. “You’re—” His voice cuts off into a groan when you intentionally clench around him, your nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re trying to—fuck—”

“Trying to love you? Yeah, yeah, I am…” you breathe, your lips ghosting over his. Then you kiss him, long and deep, letting your moans spill into his mouth as you ride him harder, coaxing every ounce of restraint he has left to break.

The cuffs clink against each other again as you move faster, your body working him with a pace that makes his head spin. His chest heaves, every breath ragged as his hands claw at your hips, trying to take back control but finding himself at your mercy.

Your lips graze his jaw, your voice trembling with moans as you whisper, “No one fucks me like you do. No one makes me feel like this, Chris.” You kiss him hard, swallowing his groan, then pull back just enough to breathe against his lips, “Say yes, baby. Say you’ll come with me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, his body jerking beneath you as your walls flutter tight around him. “You—fuck—” His voice breaks when you slam down on him, deep, grinding against his cock in a way that makes him choke on his own breath.

“Say it,” you beg sweetly, rocking your hips, your nails biting into his shoulders. “Say yes and I’ll never stop—”

Chris groans, the sound guttural, torn from deep in his chest as his body bows into yours. His thrusts turn desperate, punishing, his pace losing rhythm as he drives himself deeper into you. You know he’s close—his grip trembles, his jaw clenches, sweat slicks his temples.

You lean in, lips at his ear, voice low and wrecked. “Come for me, baby. Come inside me. Show me you’re mine.”

That’s what does it. With a shudder that rocks his whole frame, Chris lets go, spilling into you as his groan tears out loud and raw. His hips stutter, grinding up into you, chasing every last wave of release as you milk him, clenching tight, whispering filth and sweetness all at once.

You ride him through it, slow and deliberate now, kissing his face, his neck, his lips, murmuring, “That’s it… that’s it… you’re mine, you’re always mine…” until his head falls against your shoulder, spent, trembling in your hold.

Chris tries to turn his face away, but you won’t let him. You cup his cheek with your free hand, the cuff tugging gently at his wrist as you force his eyes back to yours. “Look at me, baby,” you whisper, your voice raw but steady.

His chest rises and falls hard against yours, his jaw tight like he’s bracing for whatever you’ll say next.

You lean in, so close your lips brush his, and in the quietest, most deliberate murmur, you tell him, “I love you.”

For a heartbeat, silence. His eyes widen, searching yours, unsure if he can believe it. So you close the space, kissing him soft and slow—less like a thief, less like prey or predator, and more like a lover who can’t help but mean every word.

The kiss deepens until you feel it—his mouth moving with yours, not resisting, not pulling away. It’s all the proof you need. The way his hands clutch your waist, the desperate way he holds you against him… no matter what words he uses, his body, his heart, they all betray him. He loves you. He always has.

But when you finally break the kiss, breathless, you find him staring at you—those dark eyes torn apart, burning with something heavier than desire. Betrayal.

“I’m turning you in,” he says, voice low but firm. “First thing in the morning.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, rolling off him and collapsing onto the mattress, the silk of your dress slipping against your skin as you stare at the ceiling. “Of course you are,” you murmur, almost to yourself. Then louder, with a hint of mocking: “Does that make you happy, Chris? Putting me in jail? Locking me away?”

He doesn’t answer.

You shift, the metal biting into your wrist as you raise your cuffed hands and give them a small shake, the chain rattling between you. A smirk tugs at your lips even as something fragile aches inside you. “Well,” you sigh, tilting your head toward him, “I’m stuck with you anyway.”

The room falls into silence again, the kind where both of you are listening—to the chain clinking, to your own uneven breathing, and to the fact that morning is getting closer with every second.

-

As the night gets late, Chris lays on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see anything. Not the faint shadows the streetlights cast through the blinds, not the rise and fall of your chest as you lay beside him. All he can see, burned into his mind, is the moment you said it—I love you.

He should’ve laughed in your face, called it another one of your tricks, a new tactic to get under his skin. But the problem is… he felt it. The way your lips moved against his, the way your voice cracked ever so slightly when you said it. He felt it, and that terrifies him more than anything else.

The cold weight of the cuff at his wrist reminds him you’re still tethered to him, that even in sleep, he hasn’t let you go. He tells himself it’s because you’re a criminal, because he can’t risk you slipping away again. But the truth gnaws at him—if he really meant to turn you in come morning, why hasn’t he already called Felix? Why hasn’t he put you in the back of a squad car and been done with it?

He turns his head slightly and see you lying there with the faintest trace of a smile on your lips, like the weight of the world doesn’t touch you, like you didn’t just walk back into his life and turn it into a chaos it all over again.

Chris swallows hard, his chest tight. He wants to hate you. He should hate you. But all he can think about is how warm you felt straddling him, how your whisper of come with me burrowed under his skin, how a part of him—God help him—wants to say yes.

The hours drag, the night stretching unbearably long. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you—laughing in his kitchen, curled up on his couch, or kissing him like you belonged nowhere else but in his arms. Every time he opens them, you’re right there beside him, so close he could reach out and touch you if he just let himself and every time, the same thought circles back, relentless: Can I really turn her in? Or would that be the same as turning myself in too?

Morning creeps closer. And with it, the choice he knows he can’t avoid.

-

Chris wakes with a jolt, his chest hollowing out when his hand brushes nothing but the cool stretch of sheets beside him. Panic spikes sharp and cold through his veins—she’s gone, she’s gone again—

But then, the mattress dips and warmth shifts against his side. You stir lazily and before he can breathe, your lips press softly against his.

“Good morning,” you whisper, smiling into the kiss.

For a heartbeat, he forgets everything. Forget the badge, the cuffs, the lies. Forget that you’re Silvene. It’s just you, warm and close, tethering him to a world he can’t seem to let go of. Then he moves his arm, and the sharp clink of the handcuff reminds him. Reality slams back in—you're still here, still chained to him.

“So what’s for breakfast?” you ask with a tilt of your head, your tone so sweet it nearly cracks his chest open.

Chris hardens his jaw. He can’t let you slip through his walls again. “It’s time,” he mutters.

You sigh, your lashes lowering. “So you’re really going to turn me in?”

He doesn’t answer but reaches for his phone on the nightstand, but you move quicker—catching his wrist, pulling him back into a kiss. It’s soft, lingering, dangerous.

“Just let me have this,” you murmur against his lips, “before you lock me away.”

He should resist but he lets himself sink into you instead—into your warmth, into the way your body fits against his. Every second he caves into your kiss feels like betrayal, but he can’t stop. Then—click.

The rattle of metal jolts him. He jerks his hand, only to feel the cuff slip loose. When he looks, his heart stops—your wrist is free and now, the cuff is looped neatly around the bar of the headboard instead, his own hand locked in place. He pulls at it, frustration flaring as it rattles uselessly.

You sit back on your knees, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m a thief, baby. You think I wouldn’t know how to pick a lock?”

He watches, helpless, as you slip off the bed and begin pulling on your clothes piece by piece. Every movement deliberate, unhurried, like you’ve already won.

“You know,” you say lightly, “putting me in jail won’t make you happy. But I won’t blame you. You’re a good cop. Maybe… too good.”

The words cut sharper than you know, or maybe you do. And Chris can’t do anything as he uselessly pulling the cuff only to make it rattles against the headboard.

“If you don’t want to come with me, that’s fine,” you say, smoothing down your silk dress as you put it on. “But I’m not going to let you turn me in.”

When you finish dressing, you walk back to him. He’s still straining against the cuff, but you lean down anyway, your hand gentle against his cheek. “We’re going to play a new game now,” you whisper with a smirk. “It’s called cops and robbers.”

And then you lean in, kiss him long and deep, a kiss that tastes like both a promise and a goodbye. Chris doesn’t even fight it and by the time you pull back, his chest aches so badly he can’t breathe.

“Game on, Detective,” you murmur with a smirk painted your face.

You get up from the bed and head for the door, you linger at the doorway for just a second, framed by the morning light. You glance back, smile, give him one last wave—before you disappear again.

A while later, he hears your faint, playful “Catch me if you can…” and then everything goes quiet.

Chris jerks his wrist, metal rattling against the headboard and then he notices the keys, left just close enough for his free hand to scrape against. He stretches, fingers straining, and finally manages to hook them. The cuffs click open, and he bolts upright, the rush of freedom tearing through him. He stumbles toward the window, heart pounding. Maybe you’re still there. Maybe he can catch you this time. But when he throws it open, all he finds is the morning air and the faint echo of your absence. You’re already gone.

His breath comes heavy, chest heaving, and his eyes flicker to the phone on the bedside table. Felix. He could call Felix. Tell him you were here. Tell him you just slipped away. There’s still a chance — with enough units on the street, you could be cornered before sundown.

Chris picks up the phone, thumb hovering over Felix’s contact. His pulse races, jaw tight. It would be the right thing to do. The cop in him is screaming for it, but another part of him — the man who loved you, who still loves you despite everything — keeps whispering, Would it make you happy to see her in chains? Would it make any of this hurt less?

His thumb trembles. He thinks. And thinks. And keeps thinking until his arm grows heavy and the phone slides from his grip, landing quietly on the bedspread.

Chris stays there, staring out the window, eyes burning. You’re gone, but he can still feel you in the room, in his skin, in the hollow ache of his chest. And in the silence that resides after you left, he lets himself admit it: he already misses you.

-

Two weeks later, the precinct hums with its usual rhythm and Chris sits at his desk, his gaze lost somewhere in the mess of notes and photos he hasn’t been able to stop reorganizing, chasing threads that never quite lead anywhere.

A courier drops a box on his desk. No sender’s name. No return address.

Chris frowns, tearing it open with the edge of his badge. Inside, nestled in brown wrapping paper, is a book. The breath rushes from his lungs the moment he sees the cover. That book—the one you were reading the first time he met you, at the café.

“Oi,” Felix’s voice cuts in, dragging him back. He leans casually against Chris’s desk, peering into the box. “What’s this? Didn’t know you were the type to order books online.”

Chris stiffens, his hands hovering protectively over the book. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Figured I’d… try something new.”

Felix bursts into laughter. “You? Reading? That’s rich.” He shakes his head, still chuckling, before waving a hand. “Alright, alright. Don’t let me stop your intellectual awakening.” With that, he saunters back to his desk, dropping into his chair and diving into his paperwork.

Chris waits until Felix is fully buried in his paperwork before he dares to open the book. He flips through the pages slowly, careful not to draw attention, until something slips loose and flutters into his lap. A greeting card with a drawing of a raccoon holding a heart in his hands and under it, written in silver glitter “You stole my heart”.

He flips it open and the handwriting inside is yours. He feels his throat tighten as he reads the words scrawled across the card:

Keep your friends close, your enemies closer— our game’s not done, detective… it’s only gotten bolder.

Chris swallows hard. The corner of his lips threatens to curl, though there’s no joy in it—only the ache of recognition. You’re out there, taunting him, daring him.

He tucks the card back into the book and shuts it, pressing his palm against the cover like he could still feel the heat of your touch in the pages. He stares at the drawer for a long moment before finally sliding it shut, locking away the proof that you’re still out there.

He should report it. He should bring it to Felix, to the captain, to anyone who could use it as a lead. But instead, he keeps it buried—like every part of you that he can’t let go of.

You were right. He did love you and maybe that was the cruelest truth of all.

Chris leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face, and lets the words echo in his head one more time: Keep your friends close, your enemies closer…

His chest tightens, not with duty, not with rage— but with longing.

The line between love and betrayal is already blurred, and Chris knows it’s only going to pull him deeper because no matter how much he denies it, when it comes to you, he doesn’t want the game to end.

-

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The second you step out of the taxi, a sigh of relief escaped your mouth. There’s this inexplicable feeling you get when you know you’re there, so close to home and you don’t to worry about anything anymore. However, when you glance down and see the bags of groceries you need to carry upstairs, you let out another sigh… just not out of relief.

You somehow manage to get them to the fourth floor without much problem. You nudge the door open with your shoulder, grocery bags biting into your hands. You expect it empty and silence. Instead, your heart jolts when you catch the shape of someone sitting there in the living room—completely still, completely quiet with the lights are off.

“Goodness, Chris,” you let out a breathless laugh, pressing a hand to your chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What are you even doing just… sitting here in the dark?”

His eyes slowly lift to yours, shadowed, unreadable. “Where have you been?”

The bluntness of the question makes you falter for a beat, but then you raise the bags in your hands, letting them crinkle loudly in the silence. “Grocery run,” you say with a little shrug, forcing a smile. “We were running low on everything. Unless you wanted to survive on instant noodles for the rest of the week.”

You carry the bags over to the dining table and set them down with a relieved sigh. The weight leaves your hands, but his gaze doesn’t. It’s still there, following you like it wants to peel something back.

You turn to him, softening your voice. “Will you help me put these away, baby?”

For a moment, he just sits there, like he’s debating. Then finally, a smile flickers across his face—small, strained at the edges, but it’s there. “Yeah,” he says, pushing himself up. “Of course.”

Soon, you and Chris move in quiet rhythm, unpacking groceries side by side. The soft thud of jars lining the cabinet and the rustle of plastic bags fill the silence, but it’s not the comfortable kind you’re used to with him. His shoulders are tight, his jaw locked, like every movement is running through a filter of restraint.

You glance at him once, twice, unsure of how to cut through the wall he’s put up. You’ve never seen him like this—your Chris, who usually can’t go five minutes without cracking a joke or touching you or kissing you, now feels… distant.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice slices through the silence. “How was your day?”

Startled by the sudden question, you close the fridge with a carton of milk still in your hand. “It was alright,” you answer simply, hoping it’ll be enough.

His eyes flick to yours, sharp. “I want to know everything you did today.”

He’s serious and it’s taking you aback for a second. You take a slow inhale and set the milk down on the counter. “Okay. Um…” You trace back your steps in your mind. “I worked on my computer until around lunch, then I went out and grabbed something to eat at the café across the street. After that, I stayed there for a bit and did some more work. Then I stopped by the drugstore, checked out some makeup, nothing special. And finally, I did the groceries… and here I am.”

You chuckle softly at the way you just listed out your day like a report. “What’s with the sudden curiosity, Detective?”

Chris doesn’t return the laugh. His answer is clipped, almost too casual. “I just want to know what you’re doing when I’m not home.”

Something tightens in your chest. You set the cereal box you’ve been holding onto the counter, then step closer. Reaching for his hands, you curl your fingers into his and tug gently until he finally looks at you.

“When you’re not home,” you say, your voice low, playful, hoping to coax him out of this strange mood, “I’m thinking of you.” You pause, letting a teasing smile tug at your lips. “Sometimes it’s sexual. And the other times… it’s very sexual.”

Finally, you see it. His dimpled grin breaks through the cracks, softening him back into the man you know. You tilt your head, searching his face. “You haven’t kissed me, you know?”

His eyes flicker with something tender, almost apologetic, before he pulls you closer. “You’re right,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up to cup your jaw.

And then his lips are on yours—warm, slow, unhurried. A long, lingering kiss that says everything he can’t yet put into words. When he pulls back, your breath is caught, your chest aching in that sweet, overwhelming way only he can make you feel.

You smile at him, whispering softly, “I’m home now.”

His kiss lingers even after he pulls away, the taste of him still warm on your lips, his thumb brushing your cheek as though he can’t quite stop touching you. That tension you felt earlier—the distance, the strained smile, the shadows in his eyes—melts under your touch, replaced by something softer, needier.

You lead him by the hand, leaving the groceries half-unpacked, forgotten on the counter. His steps follow yours without hesitation, heavy and sure, until the two of you stumble into the bedroom. The moment you’re both in the comfort of your bedroom, his arms are circling your waist, his mouth finding yours again with more urgency this time, like he’s been holding back all evening and can’t anymore.

You smile against his lips, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. “Missed you,” you whisper, breathless, and he exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that.

The bed dips beneath you both as he pushes you gently down, hovering above you with that look—the one that makes your heart pound, that mixture of awe and hunger and devotion only he has when his eyes lock with yours. His fingers trace over your jaw, down your throat, before resting on your hip, grounding himself in your warmth.

“Missed you too,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by something that isn’t just desire but love that feels too big for him to hold in.

Your hands slide under his shirt, palms against the heat of his skin, urging him closer. “Then stay here,” you whisper back, curling your legs around his waist, pulling him down until your bodies are pressed flush. “Don’t think. Just… stay with me.”

He groans softly, burying his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you’re the only thing anchoring him. His lips graze along your skin, tender at first, then hungrier, his hands roaming as though memorizing every line of you all over again.

The rest of the world slips away. It’s just you and Chris, your soft gasps, his whispered “I love you,” and the steady rhythm of two people clinging to each other as if the night could last forever.

-

Chris waits, his eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of your chest. He doesn’t move until your breaths even out, until the little murmurs you sometimes make in your sleep fade away. Only then does he carefully, painstakingly, slide his arm from around you. You shift a little, but don’t wake, and he exhales quietly, swinging his legs off the bed.

His bare feet make no sound as he crosses the bedroom. He crouches, grabbing your bag where you dropped it earlier, and takes it with him into the dim light of the living room. Sitting on the couch, he slowly unzips it, heart thudding harder than it should. He spills out the contents. Wallet. Keys. A compact mirror. Lip balm. A small notebook. Receipts from the drugstore, the grocery store, a used train ticket dated back to yesterday. There’s nothing out of the ordinary.

Chris’s jaw tightens. He sets the bag aside and picks up your phone next. His thumb unlocks it easily—you’d given him your passwords long ago, without hesitation. He tells himself that means something, even as he scrolls.

Messages. Emails. Photos. All clean. Ordinary. Normal.

The only thing that trips him up are your emails, dozens of them full of technical jargon—coding terms, network security, encryption. He stares at the words, not understanding a damn thing, the unease coiling tighter in his gut. He wants them to mean nothing. He needs them to mean nothing.

He shuts the phone off and sets it back in your bag before turning to the last option—your computer. It takes him longer to open it, his chest tight with the weight of what he’s doing. This feels worse, more invasive, but still he does it. He searches everywhere, every folder he can think of. He types in keywords he’s afraid to type and every single time—nothing. Ordinary documents, notes, pictures, even work files. Not a single trace of anything suspicious.

Finally, with his shoulders sagging, Chris closes the laptop and rubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t know what he expected. Proof? Clarity? Some smoking gun? But there’s nothing.

He carries your bag back into the bedroom, sets it carefully down in the same spot, and eases onto the bed beside you. You’re still in the same position, face turned toward the pillow, lips slightly parted.

When he slips under the blanket and curls up behind you, you stir faintly, and then, without hesitation, you mold back into his chest, fitting perfectly against him like even in sleep, you recognize his hold, his touch.

Chris exhales shakily, resting his forehead against the back of your neck. His arms tighten around you despite the confusion gnawing at his chest. You’re warm, steady, real.

Yet, he can’t understand it. He can’t find a single thing, but the doubt still lingers.

-

Sunlight filters into the kitchen, painting everything gold. Chris sits across from you at the table, his coffee cooling untouched while you nibble on a piece of toast, scrolling idly through your phone with your other hand. He watches you for a moment, taking in the small, ordinary details—your messy hair, the way you curl your leg beneath you in the chair, how you hum under your breath without realizing it.

He clears his throat. “Do you have plans this Saturday?”

You glance up, thinking, chewing slowly before answering. “Hm… I should pick up my clothes from the dry cleaner. But that’s it.” You tilt your head at him, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Why?”

Chris rests his elbows on the table, tries to keep his voice casual. “Let’s have a special dinner together.”

Your brow arches, intrigued. “Special dinner?”

He shrugs lightly, lips quirking as he reaches for his mug. “By special, I mean, I’ll cook dinner.” Then, with mock-seriousness, he adds, “Figure it’s safer for both of us if we don’t eat your cooking.”

Your mouth falls open in mock offense. “Excuse me?” You grab a piece of toast from your plate and toss it at him. It bounces off his shoulder, scattering crumbs across his shirt.

Chris laughs, genuine and warm, brushing the crumbs away. “I deserved that.”

You’re still glaring at him playfully when he leans across the table, his hand sliding over yours. His palm is warm, steady. He gives it a gentle squeeze, gaze locking on yours. “It’s a date.”

Something soft flickers in your eyes, replacing the teasing edge. You squeeze his hand back eagerly, nodding with a smile that makes his chest ache. “It’s a date.”

Chris smiles with you, lets himself bask in that moment, but beneath it all, deep in his chest, the unease stirs again, reminding him exactly what Saturday really means.

-

Saturday dawns gray and heavy, like the sky already knows the weight sitting on his chest. Chris arrives at the precinct earlier than usual, the halls still quiet, save for the low hum of the vending machine and the distant ring of a phone. He’s barely dropped his jacket on his chair when Felix walks in. Their eyes meet across the room, and it’s enough—without a word, they head for the balcony.

The morning air is cool, sharp against Chris’s lungs. Felix leans against the railing, arms folded, gaze fixed on the city that sprawls beneath them. There’s no small talk, no casual banter like there used to be. Just the unspoken question lingering until Felix finally voices it.

“So… what’s it gonna be, Chris? You coming tonight? Major Crimes has the auction locked down. Could use you on the team.”

Chris exhales, staring at his hands. He hates how heavy they feel, like every answer is the wrong one. He hates that Felix looks at him with that quiet patience, like he already knows.

He thinks of you, smiling over breakfast. Your hand in his. The way you’d said “It’s a date.” The way he’d promised it back.

And he thinks of Felix—his partner, his brother in everything but blood—waiting for him to step up, to trust him, to have his back like always.

It takes everything in him to force the word out. “No.”

Felix’s jaw tightens, but he slowly nods in defeat. “Alright.”

That’s it. No argument. No push. Just… acceptance. But Chris knows it’s not really acceptance. It’s a door quietly closing, a line quietly drawn and even if he tried to explain—how it’s not about trust, or loyalty, or even the case—Felix wouldn’t understand.

So he doesn’t explain. He just lets Felix take it at face value: that this time, Chris isn’t on his team.

-

Chris shouldn’t be here. He knows it the second he slips into his car and pulls into a spot across from the café, eyes narrowing on the familiar shape of you seated by the window. Laptop open, coffee beside you, head bent in concentration. Exactly as you told him in your text earlier when he asked. Nothing suspicious. Nothing even remotely off.

Still, he waits, watching as the hours drag, his knee bouncing against the steering wheel. Every time you pause to stretch or smile at your screen, something twists in his chest. Relief? Guilt? He can’t tell anymore.

When you finally pack up, he slides lower in his seat, heart pounding as though he’s the criminal here. He follows at a careful distance while you walk a block down, slipping into the dry cleaner like you said you would. He almost convinces himself to stop—almost—but then you head further down the street, past the crosswalk, disappearing into a narrow little shop Chris doesn’t recognize.

He parks on the corner, tension clawing at him. What are you doing in there? He can’t see through the tinted windows, can’t tell if it’s anything more than an errand. Minutes stretch, paranoia gnaws—

And then his phone buzzes. It’s a new message from you. Which bottle should I get—red or white?

Chris exhales, the sound shaky. His fingers fly across the screen before doubt can settle. Red.

Not even a minute later, you step out of the shop with a small paper bag in hand, as casual as if nothing in the world is wrong. He feels the sting of guilt again, heavier this time, knowing you’d been thinking of him—texting him—while he sat here outside, shadowing your every step.

He trails you onto the bus route, keeping two cars behind until you disappear back into the neighborhood. When you vanish into the building you share, Chris lingers for a long moment behind the wheel, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard it hurts.

All he’s found is exactly what you said. Café. Dry cleaner. A bottle of wine. Nothing but proof that you’ve been telling him the truth. Yet… the silence inside him doesn’t ease. Not even as he drives back, heart pounding with the knowledge that he needs to hurry, needs to get dinner started, because tonight he promised you something else—something ordinary, something special.

-

The oven hums low behind you, the sweet smell of chocolate already thick in the air. You’re licking brownie batter off your finger when you hear the front door click open.

Without a second thought, you jog out of the kitchen, heart skipping. “Chris?”

He barely has time to close the door before you launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing kiss after kiss to his cheeks, his jaw, his lips. He stumbles back a step with a laugh, his hands coming to catch your waist.

“You seem so excited,” he teases, his smile tugging higher with every little peck you plant across his face.

“Of course!” you grin, pulling back just enough to look at him. “It’s been forever since we’ve had a proper date night.”

That makes his expression soften—something quiet and warm flickers behind his eyes before he tips your chin and gives you a proper kiss. Slow, lingering, the kind that makes your chest swell with that dangerous, dizzying love for him.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “I’ve got dinner to cook.”

You slip your hand into his without hesitation, tugging him toward the kitchen. “And I’ve got brownies in the oven. For dessert.”

He takes his jacket off and then walks to the kitchen to put the bag of ingredients on the counter with you closely following him from behind.

“So, chef,” you say with a playful lilt, “what’s on the menu?”

He looks at you with a small, proud smile. “Steak.”

Your mouth drops open just a little. “Steak?”

“Steak,” he repeats, amused at your reaction. “With actual seasoning this time. I’m sparing both of us from your… let’s say creative cooking methods.”

You gasp and swat his arm, but he only grins wider. “I’m going to put these away first,” he says, glancing down on his holstered gun. “And then change.”

“Well, don’t bother wearing anything,” you teasingly say with a playful nudge to his shoulder.

His eyebrow quirks. “Huh? You want me to cook naked?”

You innocently shrug at that and smirk. “Well, you said it’s a special dinner…”

“And not a special show,” he corrects, playfully poking at your cheek.

Standing on your tiptoe, you press a kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger there for a second longer than necessary. “Well, I can’t wait for the special show.”

-

The table looks almost like it belongs in a restaurant — candles lit, plates neatly set, steak perfectly seared and glistening under the light. You clink your glass against Chris’s, grinning as the wine touches your lips.

“Okay,” you say after your first bite, pointing your fork at him, “I’m not even exaggerating. This… this is amazing. Who knew you could cook like this?”

Chris leans back in his chair, smirking. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised!” You laugh, taking another sip of wine. “Maybe you should be the one cooking dinner from now on. I’ll happily retire from kitchen duty.”

He raises a brow, playing along. “Bold of you to assume I’m volunteering for that job full time.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t bribe you with kisses until you say yes,” you counter, winking at him over your glass.

Chris chuckles, the sound warm and low, before he takes another bite. For a moment, you both fall into an easy rhythm — food, wine, casual conversation that drifts around everything but the things that bothers him.

Still, curiosity slips out of you. “So… how’s work been lately?”

The question hangs between you. Chris’s fork pauses midair for just a second before he sets it down and reaches for his glass instead. “Busy,” he simply answers, “But nothing I can’t handle.”

You know him well enough to recognize when he’s putting his guard up but the warmth in his eyes as he looks at you again is enough to make you swallow your follow-up question. It’s a dinner date so you smile instead, tilting your head. “Good. Just don’t let ‘busy’ keep you from cooking dinner again. I’d be very disappointed.”

That earns you a small grin, one that softens the hard lines of his face. He reaches across the table, catching your hand, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Noted.”

Once you finished your plate of dinner, you lean back in your chair, swirling the last of your wine. The warmth from the alcohol, the candlelight, and his gaze all pool together until you feel a little giddy.

“Seriously,” you say, licking your lips. “This dinner was incredible. But…” You pause, tilting your head as if you’re considering something very serious.

Chris arches a brow. “But?”

You grin. “But I feel like thanking the chef won’t be enough.”

His lips twitch into a smirk, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “Oh yeah? And what do you think would be… enough?”

You lean forward, lowering your voice in mock secrecy. “I was thinking… maybe I should sit on his face and fuck him good. That seems like the kind of gratitude he deserves.”

For a moment, Chris just stares at you, blinking once, twice, as though your words take a second to land. Then a sharp laugh escapes him, one hand covering his mouth. He shakes his head, still grinning, the tips of his ears flushing pink. “Unbelievable....”

“Unbelievably thoughtful,” you correct, sipping the very last drop of wine from your glass with a playful look.

He sets his fork down, standing slowly, his chair scraping back. His smirk turns darker, hungrier, the kind that makes heat bloom low in your stomach. “Thoughtful, huh? You really think you can just say that to the chef and stay in your seat?”

You squeal as he pulls you up, his hands firm on your waist, your laughter breaking into breathless giggles as he kisses you — deep and possessive, like you’ve just lit a fuse under him.

The dishes, the wine, the candles — they all fade into the background as he backs you toward the bedroom, mouth never leaving yours.

-

By the time you shove the bedroom door open, his pulse is hammering, the sight of you pulling him down onto the bed with you nearly undoing him right there. The mattress dips under your combined weight, and his lips find yours again, eager, needy, like he’s starved for you all over again.

You taste of wine and something sweeter, and he swallows every sound you make as your mouth opens for him. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, while his other slides over your waist, anchoring you to him.

When you hook your leg around his hip, pulling him even closer, Chris groans into your mouth. The kiss grows messy, hungrier, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, and the faint scrape of your nails over his neck makes his head spin.

Every part of him feels wired, alive, like there’s nothing outside of this room, outside of you. And when you tug at his shirt, fumbling to get it over his head, he breaks the kiss only long enough to pull it off before diving back down to kiss you again, hungrier, rougher, his body pressing yours into the sheets.

He can hardly keep up with you. One second, your mouth is locked with his, the next, your fingers are tugging at his belt, slipping under the hem of his jeans. He groans, the sound low and guttural, breaking in his throat as your hands roam over his body, urgent and unyielding.

“God—” His head tips back when your lips drag across his throat, searing paths of heat that leave him shivering. He fists the sheets, barely holding himself together as you push at his clothes, peeling them off piece by piece, like you can’t stand any barrier between you.

Your kisses are everywhere—his chest, his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone—hot and greedy, marking him. Each brush of your mouth makes his skin prickle, each sweep of your palm across his ribs, down his stomach, makes him twitch beneath your touch.

He’s never felt so undone, so willingly helpless, as when you’re touching him like this, claiming him, consuming him. His hands twitch with the urge to hold you down, to take control, but the way you’re devouring him makes his muscles go slack.

“Baby…” he breathless mutters, not sure if he’s trying to stop you or asking for more.

Your mouth finds the sensitive spot just below his ear, and his entire body jerks, a sharp, helpless sound torn from him. “Fuck—”

For once, Chris doesn’t think about anything else but you, and the way every kiss, every touch, burns straight through his chest like fire. He barely has time to react when you suddenly press against him harder, your palms flat on his chest until his back hits the mattress. A startled sound leaves him, half a grunt, half a laugh but it dies in his throat the second you swing a leg over him and settle on his hips. His breath stutters, heart hammering as he looks up at you.

That sly, knowing  smile you wear makes his pulse skip. He watches, entranced, as your fingers curl around the zipper of your dress and tug it down. In one smooth motion, the fabric slides off your shoulders, over your head, and then it’s gone, tossed carelessly to the floor.

Chris swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. You lean down, catching his lips again, and he kisses you back hungrily, hands automatically rising to trace your body. He feels the curve of your waist, the heat of your skin, the softness that drives him wild. In a quiet, practiced motion, he unhooks your bra and slips it away before you even notice. But the second his hands cup your sides, you catch them and then you push them up above his head, pinning them there.

“Keep them there,” you whisper against his mouth, voice dark and commanding.

Chris almost laughs because how the hell is he supposed to not touch you? But the intensity in your gaze pins him down harder than your hands ever could. He nods, chest heaving as you release him.

For a moment, he keeps his hands where you told him to. fingers curled into the pillow above his head. He watches you through heavy lids, every nerve burning as you grind down just slightly, teasing. It’s maddening. He can’t stand it. And so, almost without thinking, his hand slips. Not much—just enough to brush the curve of your thigh, hungry for the feel of your skin.

The second his fingers graze you, your hand snaps around his wrist and slam it back into place. “What did I say?” you murmur, low and dangerous, your lips brushing his ear.

Chris swallows, fighting the urge to smirk but failing. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, a warning. Then you sit up, your hips rolling down hard against his, making him groan. “That’s strike one,” you warn him.

He can’t help but test you again—moving the other hand this time, sliding it daringly up your side. The punishment comes quick. You seize his jaw, forcing his head back against the mattress, your eyes burning into his.

“Strike two,” you hiss, before grinding down again, harder, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Chris is dizzy, his cock is throbbing, the mixture of pain and pleasure making him burn. He knows he should behave—but the thrill of defying you, of seeing that wild spark in your eyes ignite into something darker, is too much. He lifts his hand to touch you again and this time, you don’t hesitate. You catch both wrists, pinning them back above his head with a strength that shocks him, and then you lean down, lips ghosting over his mouth but not kissing him. “That’s three. Now you’re in big fucking trouble.”

His grin is wicked, but his voice comes out rough, needy. “What are you going to do now, mmh? Punish me?”

His grin falters when he hears the metallic clink. His eyes widen, heat shooting through his chest as you pull a pair of cuffs from the nightstand. “You brought those out quick,” he rasps, his voice hoarse with want.

You flash him a wicked smile. “Because I knew you wouldn’t behave.”

Before he can smart off, you’re snapping the cuffs around his wrists, locking him to the headboard of the bed. The cold bite of metal against his skin makes him groan, his hips jerking up instinctively as if he could grind his way to relief, but now he’s really trapped.

“Fuck…” he breathes, tugging once against the cuffs, testing them. No give. No escape. His cock twitches hard against his stomach.

You climb down from his hips, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving his. Then, without a word, you hook your fingers into your panties and peel them down your legs—dragging out the motion until he’s practically panting. You let them fall to the floor with a careless flick.

Chris’s throat goes dry. His eyes flick from your bare sex back up to your face, and the hunger in them nearly undoes him. He tugs on the cuffs again, desperate. “Baby…”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Baby what?”

“Please,” he says, voice breaking into a groan. “I need you. Come, sit on my face.”

Your laugh is low, dangerous. You climb back over him, but instead of giving him what he wants, you hover just above his lips, your cunt close enough for him to feel, not close enough to taste. His tongue flicks out, trying to chase you, but you pull back, making him whimper.

Your grab his jaw, making him look at you as you seductively murmur, “I like it when you beg, baby.”

He grinds against the air, frustration rolling through every line of his body. His voice comes rough, pleading. “Please—please let me taste you. I’ll be good, I swear. Just sit on my fucking face and use me.”

The way he says it so desperately makes you smirk. You lower yourself a fraction, just enough for his lips to ghost your slick folds, but no more. He moans, his eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking up uselessly.

“You can beg better than that,” you whisper.

His eyes snap open, wild and dark. “Please, baby. Please—I need it so bad. I need you.”

You finally sink down onto him, and Chris moans so loud it vibrates against your skin, his arms yanking hard at the cuffs but all he can do is lie there and take it, exactly the way you want him to. His tongue darting out hungrily, sucking, lapping, desperate to taste all of you. He pulls on the cuffs so hard the headboard rattles, but it’s useless—he can’t grab you, can’t hold you down, can’t make you stay.

Yet, he loves it.

“Fuck—” he moans into you, his words muffled by your body. “So good…”

Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging, guiding him, and he eats you out like he’s starving. He can feel every tremor in your thighs, every sharp intake of breath. It only makes him work harder, his tongue circling, flicking, fucking into you until he thinks he could die like this and it would be worth it.

Until, all of a sudden, you lift off him. Chris gasps, head snapping up, his lips wet and glistening with you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his cock leaking against his stomach. “N-no, don’t stop. Baby, come back—fuck, I wasn’t done.”

You smirk down at him, wicked and in control. “I didn’t say you could enjoy it that much.”

He groans, pulling against the cuffs again. “You taste so fucking good. I need more, please. Sit back down, don’t tease me like this.”

You hover just out of reach, your wetness glistening right above his mouth, and his tongue flicks out, desperately reaching for you. You see the wild look in his eyes, the way his body bows off the bed as if he could close the distance by sheer will.

“Beg again,” you order, voice low and sharp.

Chris’s voice cracks when he does. “Please, baby, please. I’ll do anything—just let me have you again.”

You reward him by lowering back down, and his moan is immediate, deep, like pure relief flooding through him. He devours you with renewed ferocity, sucking and tonguing you as if trying to prove he deserves it. His hips buck against nothing, precum smearing his abs, but he doesn’t care.

And then you pull back again. He nearly sobs, his head thunking back against the pillows, chest heaving. “Fuck—don’t do this to me, baby, please. I need you. Please don’t stop, I swear I’ll make you come, just—fuck—don’t take it away.”

His voice is wrecked now, desperation bleeding through every syllable. He’s straining against the cuffs, muscles trembling, lips swollen from worshiping you. His eyes lock on yours, dark and raw with need.

“Let me please you,” he begs, whispering and moaning all at once. “Want you to come all over my face.”

You can see it in him—he’s not just asking. He’s unraveling under you, every part of him undone by your control and the truth is, Chris has never wanted anything more. You take another moment as if you’re considering it but he knows you’re going to give it to him. And as expected, you smirk as you mutter. “You better make it good, you hear me?”

The cuffs bite into his wrists as he strains against them, but he doesn’t care—he only cares about the way you lower yourself back onto his mouth and ride him like you own him. And fuck, you do.

He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your cunt as he drags his tongue through your folds, sucking your clit hard, then slow, then hard again, desperate to push you over the edge. His chest heaves, his cock throbs painfully, but none of it matters—only your taste, your sounds, the way you grind down on his face like you’re claiming him.

When he opens his eyes, he finds your hand sliding down your stomach, fingers finding your clit, circling it while he licks you from below. And oh, the sight arouses him so much that he moans loudly against you, his hips bucking into the air, precum leaking down his shaft. “Fuck—baby, yes—touch yourself for me. Use me, come on my face—please, I need it.” His voice is muffled but desperate, needy, begging for the mess you’re about to make of him.

You’re lost in it now, head thrown back, moaning loud as your hips rock against his mouth. He watches you as much as he can, eyes blown wide, drinking in the sight of you pleasuring yourself while using him. Your thighs quiver around his head, your cries getting higher, louder, raw.

Chris’s tongue thrusts inside you, his nose grinding your clit, and your fingers work in tandem, faster and faster. You’re gasping his name, your hips jerking erratically, until suddenly— Your whole body shudders as you cry out, loud and sharp, riding his face hard.

Chris moans greedily, devouring everything you give him, his mouth wet with you as you gush all over him. He licks, sucks, swallows, refusing to stop until you’re shaking and pushing at his head.

When you finally lift off him, Chris is a mess—his lips and chin drenched, his eyes glazed with hunger. He pants raggedly, chest heaving, his cock standing painfully hard against his stomach. He looks utterly wrecked, and he doesn’t care, because he just made you come apart on his mouth.

“Holy fuck…” he whispers, voice raw, eyes locked on you with adoration and lust. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come like that.”

You collapse beside him for a moment, your body still trembling from the aftershocks, eyes fluttering closed as you try to catch your breath. He turns his head toward you, drinking in the sight—your flushed skin, your messy hair, the lazy rise and fall of your chest. Then, with a soft groan, you roll toward him, straddling his hip as you lean over.

His eyes widen when you grip his jaw and press your tongue to his lips, licking him clean. You drag across his mouth, down his chin, collecting every drop of your essence that coats him. He moans under you, the cuffs rattling as his muscles strain with need.

When you finally capture his mouth in a hard, deep kiss, he groans low in his chest, thrusting his tongue against yours. It’s filthy and wet, tasting of you, and it makes him ache so badly his cock jerks against his stomach.

You break away first, lips still hovering over his, your breath warm against his cheek. Chris swallows hard, his voice rough, needy. “Baby… please. Can you uncuff me now?”

But instead of reaching for the cuffs, you smirk, shaking your head slowly. “I’m not done yet.”

His eyes go dark, a groan ripping out of him as his hips jerk upward, desperate for friction. “Fuck—” He grins, almost delirious with need, chest heaving as he stares up at you with a mix of anticipation and surrender. “Then use me however you want, baby. I’m yours.”

-

Chris lies there, wrists bound tight to the headboard, muscles tense as the cuffs rattle with each subtle movement. His chest rises and falls fast, breaths sharp, but what really makes your throat run dry is the way his cock strains up toward his stomach, hard and flushed, the tip glistening in the low light.

God, he’s beautiful like this—helpless and offered up to you, every inch of him yours to take in, to touch, to use. You don’t even bother to hide how your gaze drags shamelessly over his body. From the defined cut of his shoulders, to the faint trail of hair on his stomach, and finally back to where he throbs, heavy and desperate for attention.

You kneel on the bed, the mattress dipping softly beneath your knees as you steady yourself, eyes locked on him. Your lips part, a shaky breath escaping. Just the sight of him like this makes your thighs press together, heat licking up your spine. You lick your bottom lip slowly, savoring the ache building in your belly.

Chris notices the way your eyes stay fixed between his legs. His hips lift ever so slightly, cock twitching as though begging for you. The smirk that curls over his lips is laced with both desperation and cocky amusement.

“You like what you see, baby?” His voice is rough, hoarse from moaning for you earlier. “Gonna just stare, or are you gonna touch me?”

The way he taunts you only makes your pulse hammer harder. You drag your gaze back up to his face, giving him a look that makes his breath catch, and you lean in close enough that your hair brushes across his chest, but you don’t touch him. Not yet.

You smirk at him, letting his question hang unanswered as you trail your fingers lightly over his stomach, deliberately avoiding where he aches for you. His skin jumps under your touch, every muscle tight with anticipation, and you can hear the small clink of metal as his wrists shift against the cuffs.

“Touch you?” you echo sweetly, dragging your nails along his side until he shivers. “Mm, I don’t know if you’ve earned that yet.”

Chris groans, aroused. His head tipping back against the pillows as he breathlessly mutters to himself. “Oh, fuck…”

You grin, leaning down so your lips ghost over his chest, kissing the sharp line of his collarbone, then the curve of his pec, before closing your mouth over his nipple and sucking until he lets out a strangled moan. You don’t stop there—you kiss lower, over his ribs, then down to the ridges of his stomach, leaving hot little trails that make him jerk.

His cock twitches visibly when your mouth gets close, the tip so red and slick it looks almost painful. But instead of touching, you stop just short, lips brushing the inside of his thigh. You press a teasing kiss there, then another higher up, your tongue flicking across his sensitive skin before pulling back again.

“Fuck,” Chris rasps, hips straining upward, trying to close the gap you’re deliberately keeping. His cuffs rattle harder now, like he’s testing the strength of the headboard. “Baby, please. Don’t do this to me.”

You sit back on your heels, deliberately letting your hand hover just inches from his cock. He gasps at the nearness, a groan breaking from his throat. “Please what?” you ask, voice low and commanding.

His eyes snap open, wild with need. “Please touch me. I need you so bad.”

You raise an eyebrow, dragging your fingertip slowly up the inside of his thigh but stopping again just before he gets what he wants. “Mm, I don’t know. I think I like watching you beg.”

Chris lets out a frustrated growl, his abs flexing as his cock throbs helplessly in front of you. “Then I’ll beg. God, I’ll beg all night if that’s what it takes.”

Your lips curve into a wicked smile as you drag it out just a little longer—pressing soft, fluttery kisses to the crease of his thigh, so close to where he’s throbbing it’s practically cruel.

He’s panting by now, sweat starting to bead along his chest, his hands jerking against the cuffs with every twitch of his hips. “Baby…” His voice cracks, raw with need. “I can’t—please, I can’t take it anymore.”

That breaks something in you. You slide forward, finally wrapping your hand around the base of his cock, hot and hard in your palm. He lets out a guttural moan, head falling back against the pillow, relief etched all over his face.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasps, hips twitching as you stroke him once, slow and deliberate.

You lean in, licking a wet stripe along the underside, feeling him pulse against your tongue. He curses, muscles tightening, and when you close your lips around the tip, sucking him deep, his groan is so raw it vibrates through you.

“God, you feel so good—don’t stop, please don’t stop,” he begs, voice shaking.

You work him with your mouth, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling over every sensitive inch, your hand stroking what your lips can’t reach. His hips strain upward, but the cuffs keep him pinned, helpless to anything but your pace. And you love it—you love the way he’s helplessly unraveling under you.

“Baby, I’m close—” he warns, voice ragged, and you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, teasing him until his thighs tremble.

Chris cries out, breaking apart as he spills into your mouth, his whole body arching off the bed as much as the restraints allow. You swallow every drop, savoring the taste of him, before pulling back and licking your lips.

When you look up, his eyes are glassy, his chest heaving, wrists still straining against the cuffs as if he’s desperate to grab you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re going to kill me.”

You crawl up over his body, pressing a smug kiss to his swollen lips, your hand gently stroking down his chest. “Maybe,” you murmur, eyes glinting. “But at least you’ll die happy.”

His chest is flushed, sheen of sweat catching the dim light, but what really holds your gaze is the way he’s still hard—aching, needy, twitching against his stomach despite the orgasm you just pulled from him.

You drag your fingers slowly down his torso, nails light enough to make him shiver. His cock jumps when you brush your knuckles along the length, and he groans, head tossing against the pillow. “Already hard again?” you tease, voice dripping smug. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not when it’s you,” he rasps, straining uselessly against the cuffs. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

Your smirk widens as you sink down, taking just the head inside you—stretching around him slowly, so torturously slow. Chris curses, hips jerking up, but the restraints keep him pinned. You let yourself slide further down inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you, filling you to the hilt.

Both of you groan at the stretch, but you don’t give him the rhythm he’s desperate for. You circle your hips lazily instead, savoring the way his cock rubs against your walls. His eyes roll back, veins straining in his neck.

“Baby, oh… faster, please,” he begs, his voice broken.

You lean forward, palms pressed to his chest, deliberately setting a slow pace—long, deep strokes that make him twitch helplessly beneath you. His breath comes ragged, body trembling. Just when you feel him start to tighten, right on the edge, you stop. Lift yourself off almost completely, leaving just the tip inside.

Chris groans loud, almost a growl, wrists yanking hard at the cuffs. “Why the fuck—don’t stop,” he pleads, voice desperate, eyes wild.

You smirk down at him, rolling your hips just enough to give him a taste, but not enough to let him fall over the edge. “I told you,” you purr, leaning close so your lips ghost his ear, “I’m not done punishing you yet.”

He whimpers—actually whimpers—as you pick the pace back up, riding him hard for a few seconds before pulling back to that maddeningly slow grind. Every time he’s close, you drag him away from it, leaving him writhing, muscles taut and sweat-slick.

“Fuck, baby, I’m begging you—please let me come,” he groans, his voice cracking under the strain.

You glance down at him, his body stretched out helpless beneath you, his cock twitching deep inside you, and the power of it makes heat curl in your belly. “Not yet,” you whisper, sinking down again and tightening around him deliberately, watching as his face contorts in pleasure.

A long moment later, your thighs are burning, your chest heaving, but the look on his face—his lips parted, sweat dotted his temples, his eyes dark and blown wide—keeps you going. You grind down slow, feeling him pulse inside you, then speed up in short bursts just enough to make him gasp. Every time his abs tighten beneath your palms, every time you know he’s seconds from release, you pull back again.

“Fuck!” His voice breaks, low and ragged. His hips buck against you, the cuffs rattling loud against the headboard as he tries to thrust up into you, but you keep the control. “Please—baby, please—I can’t take it anymore.”

You bite your lip, holding yourself over him, watching how completely undone he is. His whole body trembles beneath you, cock throbbing inside you, a sheen of sweat coated his chest. He’s begging without shame now, his voice wrecked, almost hoarse. “Please let me come. Baby, please.”

The way he looks at you with desperate, glassy eyes melts whatever resolve you had left. You lean forward, kiss him hard, swallowing his groan as you finally start to move in earnest. No more teasing, no more slowing down—you ride him hard and fast, bouncing on his cock until the bed shakes.

Chris’s cries get louder, each thrust hitting deep, and you feel his body lock tight beneath you. “Fuck, yes—don’t stop—please don’t stop—” His voice breaks as he spills inside you, his release tearing through him so hard he arches up against the restraints, jaw slack and chest heaving.

You keep moving, grinding down through his orgasm until his eyes roll back and he groans helplessly, every muscle straining against the cuffs. Finally, when you can feel him twitching overstimulated inside you, you slow, hips still rocking lazily as you catch your breath.

Your whole body feels like jelly when you finally collapse against him, chest pressed to his damp skin, your cheek resting over his pounding heart. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, the last of his orgasm ebbing away as your breaths sync together. You reach blindly toward the nightstand, fingers brushing the cool metal of the key, and with a quick flick, the cuffs clink open.

The moment Chris is free, his arms snap around you like he’s been waiting forever for this. He pulls you in tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, anchoring you to him.

“Fuck,” he exhales with a blissful smile, eyes shut like he’s floating. “That was… god, that was so fucking great.”

You can’t help but laugh, your lips brushing against his slick chest. “You enjoyed it way too much, mmh?” you tease, voice still a little shaky from your own high.

He cracks one eye open, the corner of his mouth curling into that boyish grin. “And you nearly ruined me.”

You nudge his jaw with a playful kiss, murmuring, “Good. That was the point.”

Chris only groans happily and hugs you tighter, burying his face in your hair as if he could stay like this forever. His lips brush against the crown of your head, pressing soft, lingering kisses there, and every now and then you catch his quiet sighs—content, sated, undone in a way you rarely see.

You hum in satisfaction, snuggling deeper into him for a moment of soft silence. His heartbeat is still racing under your cheek, and you smile against him, savoring the way he feels so pliant, so blissful.

Then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you lift your head and whisper against his lips, “So… you ready for the dessert now?”

His eyes pop open, wide and instantly alert, and that familiar spark lights up in them. “Dessert?”

-

Chris lays there for a moment after you slip out of bed, the sound of your bare feet padding down the hall fading toward the kitchen. The room feels strangely quiet without your laughter or the heat of your body draped over his, and that stillness draws his attention to the phone on the nightstand.

He reaches for it, thumb hovering for a moment before he unlocks the screen. The conversation with Felix stares back at him—days of clipped exchanges, short updates, a tone that feels more distant than he’s willing to admit. Chris types slowly, almost like he has to force each word into existence:

How’s the stakeout? Anything happen?

He stares at the message a second before hitting send. The screen remains blank, no three dots of reply, no sign of Felix on the other end. He didn’t expect anything else because he knows that Felix would be too busy keeping his eyes on the stakeout to check his phone.

Your voice cuts through the air before his thoughts can get too heavy. “Dessert is here!” you sing out, cheerful and sweet.

Chris quickly locks the phone and puts it back onto the nightstand, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile just as you appear in the doorway—standing there in your underwear and his shirt that is too big on you, a smile that is brighter than the full moon outside, aall the while balancing two plates in your hands. Each one holds a dense slice of brownie crowned with a neat scoop of vanilla ice cream already softening at the edges.

“Room service at its finest,” you tease as you cross the room, settling back onto the bed beside him.

Chris chuckles, taking a plate from you. “You’re spoiling me.”

“After what you did, baby… you deserve it,” you fire back easily, bumping his shoulder with yours.

He digs the fork into the dessert, the fudgy brownie giving way under the cold cream, and takes a bite. It’s rich, indulgent—nothing like the chaos running in the background of his mind. You glance at him between mouthfuls, studying him in that way you do when you’re curious but trying not to show it too obviously. Finally, you lean your head a little toward him, mischief sparkling in your eyes.

“What’s with you today?” you ask, fork pointing lazily at his chest. “You’re… different.”

Chris arches a brow, feigning casual. “Different how?”

“Well…” You draw the word out, grin already tugging at your lips. “Firstly, you finally know how to put your mouth to good use.”

His fork freezes midair. He looks at you like you’ve just committed a crime, eyes wide in disbelief. “Excuse me? Haven’t I always been?”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts out of you, half-guilty and half-proud. “What? It’s true!” you protest through laughter, covering your mouth for a second before carrying on anyway. “And secondly—you actually let us have dessert on the bed. Who even are you?”

He is still looking mock-offended, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch. “That’s because I said tonight was supposed to be special. That’s why.”

You lean in closer, grin sharper now. “So… no comeback for the mouth thing?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he sets his plate aside, grabs you around the waist, and pulls you flush to his side before you can squirm away. His lips find that sensitive spot at your neck, and he peppers you with relentless, ticklish kisses.

“Chris—stop!” you shriek, dissolving into laughter as you try to wiggle free, but his arms tighten around you like steel.

“Take it back,” he teases, his voice warm against your skin, though his grin is wide and boyish.

“No way!” you giggle, clutching his wrist, still laughing too hard to breathe.

The whole room rings with your laughter, with the messy joy of it. And while Chris keeps playing his part, a shadow of thought presses quietly at the back of his mind: if anything happens tonight at the auction, if Silvene strikes again, he’ll have proof. He’ll know where you were.

You were here—with him.

-

Chris can’t remember the last time a morning felt this good. The kitchen smells like fresh coffee and toasted bread, sunlight spilling across the table while you sit there in his shirt, hair a little messy, smile bright. He steals bites of your food, you smack his hand away, then pull him in for a kiss anyway—sweet, lazy, a little sticky with jam on his lips that makes you laugh.

Every few minutes, you lean across the table just to press your mouth to his, and Chris swears he could stay like this forever. Breakfast, kisses, your laughter in between—it feels almost too perfect, like he doesn’t deserve it.

When it’s time to go, you walk him to the door. He shoulders his jacket, coffee in hand, and you smooth the lapel like you’re straightening him out for the world. “Have a great day at work, baby” you say, soft but certain.

Chris nods, murmuring something back that doesn’t quite capture how much he means it. He steps into the hall, glances back one last time. You’re waving, framed in the doorway, until the elevator doors close between you.

As the floor drops beneath him, he realizes that for a moment, everything felt normal. Exactly how life is supposed to be.

-

The precinct hums with its usual morning chaos—phones ringing, officers crossing paths, papers being shuffled. Chris shoulders his way past it all, coffee still half-full, his head still lingering in the softness of your morning smile. For a few minutes, everything is fine and normal.

Until Felix waves him over and they both head into the empty interrogation room.

“Silvene did hit the auction,” Felix says, flipping open a folder the moment Chris sits down. “But the place was clean. Too clean. We kept investigating and…” He pulls out a glossy photo of a glittering diamond necklace, only something about it looks wrong. “Turns out, one of the showcased pieces last night was a fake.”

Chris’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “So… what actually happened?”

Felix’s fingers tapping the file laying on the table. “The switch wasn’t made at the auction—it was swapped before it ever got there.”

Chris frowns, leaning closer. “When?”

Felix slides another paper across the desk, a typed log of transfers and chain of custody. His finger taps a line. “Three days ago. During transport by rail. They think she did it on the train.”

Chris’s pulse stutters. A train. Three days ago. His mind flashes—your bag spilled open in the dark, his hand brushing against that folded ticket, the one you’d tucked away in between the compartments of your wallet. He remembers the print on it clearly now. The dates and times, even the destination match.

There’s a knot forming in his stomach, making him uneasy from the inside. He forces his voice to stay even, casual, though he can feel Felix watching him. “And you’re sure?”

“Positive,” Felix says. “Silvene was on that train. She had to be. It was the only chance she could get close to that necklace without tight security.”

Chris swallows hard, staring at the necklace photo but not really seeing it anymore. A creeping unease gnaws at him, hollowing out the perfect morning he just left behind.

If Felix is right… then you weren’t just on that train for a ride home. You were there and you were there as her.

Chris pushes back in his chair, jaw tight, trying not to let it show, but the suspicion coils itself inside him like barbed wire, sharp and unrelenting. He’s sitting there in silence, the photo of the fake jewel glinting under the fluorescent lights while his memory plays back your kiss at the doorway, your wave, your smile.

Only now, all he can see behind it… is Silvene.

-

Chris pushes open the door to the apartment, loosening his tie as he steps inside. The smell of garlic and butter hits him first, the kind of scent that should feel like home, but his chest tightens instead of easing.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, hair tied back, a knife in your hand as you glance over your shoulder with a smile. “Hey, baby. You’re home,” you say, casual, almost glowing in the golden wash of the overhead light and the knife glints as you set it down on the cutting board.

For a second too long, he just watches you, watches the ease in your movements. The way your fingers curl so naturally around the blade. The way you turn back to the pan like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Let me help you with cooking dinner,” he forces his voice steady as he talks, taking his jacket off to come to your aid right away.

“Sure. But, baby…” you pause as your eyes quietly scanning him and then stop at the holstered gun on his hip. “Put your gun away first, okay? Makes me nervous when it’s lying around.”

Chris freezes. You don’t look up — you’re already stirring the pan, humming under your breath like nothing’s wrong, like you didn’t just cut him open with a simple request.

His holster digs into his side, heavy, accusing. For a fleeting moment, he imagines saying no. He imagines keeping the weight close, just in case. Just in case his suspicions are right, just in case tonight is the night the truth slits open between you. But when he walks toward the bedroom, unbuckling the holster, Chris wonders if he even have it in him to ever point the gun at you?.

-

A moment later, Chris returns from the bedroom, holster left behind in the nightstand drawer, his chest tight with the weight of the decision. He heads straight to the sink, scrubbing his hands under cool water, watching the suds rinse away.

When he comes to stand beside you, he reaches instinctively for the knife in your hand — but before his fingers can brush the handle, you yank it back with a swift, fluid motion.

His body tenses, instincts flaring hot, but then you’re looking at him with a pout, lips pushed forward, eyes soft. “You forgot something.”

Chris blinks, confusion flashing across his face. “What?”

You whine, tilting your head at him, still pouting. “You haven’t kissed your girlfriend yet.”

For a second, all he can do is stare and then he exhales sharply, forcing a smile — strained at the edges, but a smile nonetheless. He leans in, brushing a quick kiss across your lips.

You draw back, your pout deepening. “What kind of kiss is that?” You cross your arms, still holding the knife in one hand. “You can give me a kiss better than that.”

Chris almost laughs, the sound breaking through the knot in his chest. He grins instead, softer this time, and lifts both hands to cradle your face. His thumbs brush your cheekbones as he pulls you into a kiss that’s long, lingering, the kind of kiss meant to leave no doubt.

When he pulls away, your eyes are still closed, a small smile curving your lips and for a single, brutal heartbeat, Chris asks himself if he can trust this face, this smile, you.

The thought burns and he quickly swallows it down. He kisses you again, deeper this time, until his chest aches with it.

You giggle when he lets you go, content, and finally hand him the knife. “Okay. Now you can help prep the vegetables for me.”

He grips the knife tighter than necessary as he sets the cutting board in front of him. The rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of blade on wood is steady, deliberate, but his thoughts are anything but. Each slice of the vegetables feels like a way to ground himself, to drown out the questions hammering at the back of his skull.

Can I trust her? Was it her on that train? Am I sleeping with the very person I’ve been hunting for nearly a year?

The sizzle of oil snaps him back. You’re at the stove, wrist flicking expertly as you tilt the frying pan, the smell wafting around the kitchen. Chris’s gaze lingers too long on your back, on the graceful way you move and his chest tightens.

You suddenly glance over your shoulder, catching him watching and an easy smile lights your face. “Hurry up with the vegetables, Detective.”

The teasing lilt in your voice twists something in him. He swallows hard, forcing a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

But his hands feel heavier as he goes back to chopping. He knows what he should do — call Felix, cross-check the train ticket, follow protocol. Instead, he dices carrots and potatoes, pretending this is what normal feels like, pretending that the simple act of standing in the kitchen with you doesn’t feel like holding a secret blade to his own chest.

Once he’s finished, Chris scrapes the chopped vegetables into a bowl and carries them over, handing them off when you hold out the pan with a tilt of your chin. Your fingers brush his when you take the bowl, a fleeting touch, but enough to send heat through his skin.

“Perfect,” you say, flashing him that smile again, the one that always manages to pull the ground out from under him.

He forces a grin, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I’m good for something in the kitchen after all.”

You bump his hip with yours playfully. “More than good. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you cutting everything into perfect little squares. Such precision.”

The joke makes his throat tighten. Precision, that’s what’s drilled into him every day at work, into his bones as a detective, but here, it sounds almost like you’re mocking it, even if you’re not.

Soon, dinner comes together: stir-fried vegetables, rolled omelet, rice, something simple but comforting. You set the plates down at the table and gesture for him to sit. He does, watching you fill his glass with water like this is any other night — ordinary, intimate.

You sit across from him, chin propped on your hand as you study him. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Chris stabs at his food with his chopsticks. “Just tired.”

“You’re always tired,” you tease lightly. “Workaholic.”

He swallows a bite that tastes like nothing. “That’s the job.”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, filled only with the soft clinks of dishes. Then, you lean forward, eyes glinting. “You didn’t tell me what was different about you last night.”

The question punches air out of his lungs. His mind flashes to the cuffs, the way he’d given himself up to you so easily — the way you’d controlled him. He forces his lips into a small, careful smile. “Different how?”

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Hm… maybe just more playful. Or maybe you finally let me take control of things.”

Chris nearly chokes on his water. His eyes widen, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth. “I’m kidding! Relax.” But you don’t stop there. “Though, I’m not wrong.”

Chris shakes his head, pretending to be offended. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” you sing-song, taking another bite of rice.

His chest aches at the truth of it. He does love you. That’s the problem. He loves you too much to see clearly. Too much to know if he’s lying to himself every time you smile like that.

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “I do.”

You pause, eyes lingering on him longer than they should. Then you lean back, satisfied, and grin. “Good answer, Detective.”

Chris forces a laugh, but inside, the words gnaw at him. Every joke, every glance, every smile is another thread in the web, and he can’t tell if you’re weaving it around him on purpose.

At the end of dinner, you stand and begin collecting his dish before he can even reach for it. “Sit,” you command lightly, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll handle the clean-up. You already helped enough.”

“I can—”

“Nope,” you cut him off by pressing his shoulder down to keep him on his seat. “You’re the guest of honor tonight. Just relax.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Guest of honor, huh?”

You set the dishes down on the counter, then walk back to him. Before he can react, you lean down, your lips brushing against his in a soft, teasing kiss that lingers just long enough to make his pulse quicken. Pulling back, you smirk. “While I’m doing the dishes, you better think about how you’re going to thank me for cooking dinner.”

Chris blinks at you, caught between amusement and disbelief. “Think about it?”

“Yes.” You tap his chest with your finger as if punctuating the command. “By the time I’m done, I expect a very good plan. No excuses.”

He exhales a laugh, low and breathy, but his heart twists as he watches you carry the stack of plates into the kitchen. The clatter of dishes and the rush of running water fill the space, normal, ordinary — domestic. Exactly the kind of life he’s always wanted.

But from where he sits, watching your back framed by the doorway, he can’t ignore the thought creeping in again: What if all of this is a performance?

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, forcing his jaw to unclench. You’d smiled at him like you meant it, kissed him with warmth he swore he felt deep in his bones. And yet…

The sound of your humming drifts over the running tap, soft and off-key. Chris leans his elbow on the table, rubbing a hand over his mouth as a dry laugh slips past. To anyone else, this would look like the perfect night. But to him, it feels like sitting on the edge of a knife — one slip away from bleeding out.

-

Back in the precinct, Felix is working overtime. He is half-buried in case files, pen tapping against the desk in a rhythm that betrays his impatience. The precinct is quieter than usual, the kind of lull that makes him restless. He’s about to get up for coffee when a familiar voice calls out.

“Felix! Long time, no see.”

Felix looks up, blinking in surprise. “Eric? From the 44th?”

The man grins as he strides over, casual in a way Felix always found annoying. “Yeah, just finished transferring a detainee. Thought I’d stop by, say hi.”

Felix leans back in his chair, arms crossing. “What brings you here besides small talk?”

Eric shrugs as he leans against Felix’s desk. “Curiosity. Also…” His gaze flicks toward Chris’s desk, still neat, untouched since he left couple of hours ago. “Where’s Chris? Haven’t seen in ages.”

Felix exhales, annoyed. “Went home early. Again.”

Eric raises his brows. “Again?”

“Yeah,” Felix mutters, tugging his pen between his fingers. “Ever since he started seeing his girlfriend, he clocks out earlier and earlier. Leaves me with all the paperwork.”

That earns a sharp laugh from Eric. “Girlfriend? Chris?”

Felix frowns, side-eyeing him. “Don’t sound so shocked. You set them up, remember?”

Eric’s forehead creased in confusion. “Set him up?”

“Yeah. The blind date? Few months back?” Felix gestures vaguely. “You gave him her number or something.”

Eric looks genuinely thrown, shaking his head. “No, I mean… I tried to set him up, but it never happened. The girl said she wasn’t interested. I never actually introduced Chris to anyone.”

The pen stills in Felix’s hand as his stomach dips. “Wait. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying Chris never went on a blind date through me.” Eric’s tone is firm, his brows furrowed in confusion.

Felix feels heat creeping up the back of his neck. Something ugly stirs in his gut, a pressure that won’t let him breathe easy. Slowly, he reaches for his phone, scrolling until he finds the photo he’s kept — the one from the medal ceremony. Chris, grinning with his arm slung proudly around you.

He turns the screen toward Eric. “You don’t know her? You’ve never seen her before?”

Eric leans in, studies the image for a long moment. His expression never shifts. Finally, he straightens and shakes his head. “No. I don’t know her.”

The words drop like stones in Felix’s stomach. He forces himself to nod, but inside, alarms are blaring. No blind date. No setup. No explanation for who she is or how Chris met her.

Felix’s throat goes dry. His instincts scream loud enough to drown out the precinct noise. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, pulse thundering.

Chris is in danger and Felix knows he doesn’t have the luxury of ignoring it anymore.

-

Chris pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it into the hamper with the rest of the laundry. The basket is practically overflowing — a quiet reminder of how long it’s been neglected. He sighs, grabs the handles, and lifts it without much thought.

The weight is familiar, the kind of domestic task he doesn’t mind doing except that you always insist on being the one doing it for both of you. He’s halfway out of the bedroom when your voice cuts through the quiet.

“Chris?”

He stops at the doorway, basket in his arms. You’re still at the sink, sleeves pushed up, fingers dripping with suds as you glance over your shoulder at him. “You can put it down. I’ll take care of it later.”

“It’s just laundry,” he says lightly. “I don’t mind doing it.”

“You don’t have to,” you say again, sharper this time. “Just leave it there. I’ll do it later.”

Something shifts in his mind as the words leave your mouth. Memories slot into place — how he always seems to find you in the laundry room at strange hours, even late at night. How you’ve never let him do the chore, always shooing him away with a smile. It’s like… you’re hiding something.

The thought settles in his chest, heavy and sour. He swallows it down, careful not to let it show on his face. He forces a small chuckle, tightening his grip on the basket. “Relax. I’m not doing the laundry for you. Just dropping it off.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretches between you. He waits for you to push back, but instead, your shoulders drop ever so slightly.

“…Okay,” you murmur, turning back to the dishes.

Chris doesn’t move right away. He studies the curve of your back, the deliberate calm in your voice and then he forces his legs into motion, carrying the basket down the hall.

The closer he gets to the laundry room, the more his pulse hammers. What are you hiding in there? What are you hiding from him?

The basket hits the tiled floor with a soft thud, and for a moment Chris just stands there, staring at it. The laundry room is small — barely more than a closet with a washer, dryer, and a few shelves crammed with bottles and boxes. He takes a step in, then another. His gaze sweeps over the shelves, the stacked detergents, the folded towels. There’s nothing out of place, nothing suspicious.

Still, his hands move restlessly, moving the stacked towels around, lifting boxes, searching behind bottles. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for — just that he has to look. Then, his elbow accidentally knocks a jar of powdered detergent from the shelf. The plastic bounces once on the floor before the lid pops off, sending a plume of fine white powder spilling out in a soft hiss.

“Shit,” Chris mutters, crouching down. He scoops at the mess with his hands, trying to corral the powder back into the jar, but something hard glints beneath the chalky surface, half-buried like a bone in sand.

Carefully, he brushes away the detergent, fingers closing around a small, smooth tube. He holds it up to the light. Plain. Unmarked. Innocent to anyone else. But his instincts scream otherwise.

The cap twists off with a faint click. He tips it, and a stream of fine, metallic dust slides onto his palm. Under the laundry room light, the particles shimmer — unmistakably silver.

His heart spikes, beating so hard he feels it in his throat.

Silvene.

The word is a roar in his skull. He stares at the dust clinging to his skin, his world tilting on its axis. Every laugh, every kiss, every soft morning with you crashes against this one image — silver on his palm.

“Chris?” Your voice carries down the hall, warm and casual, like nothing is wrong. “Your phone’s ringing!”

He jolts, shoving the tube shut, dust still glittering on his hand. For a second, he can’t breathe, can’t think. He doesn’t know if he’s terrified of facing you… or of facing the truth that’s been whispering at the edges of his mind all along.

The silver dust still clings faintly to his palm so Chris quickly wipes his hand against his jeans before stepping out of the laundry room, his chest a locked vault around the truth he’s just uncovered.

He finds you there in the kitchen, drying your hands on a towel, and when you glance up at him, your lips curl into a laugh. “God, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” you tease, voice light, playful.

He forces a smile, strained at the edges. “Yeah? Maybe I did.”

You tilt your head, amused but unconcerned. “Your phone’s been ringing. Thought it might be important.”

Chris nods once, his throat dry. “Thanks. I’ll—uh—I’ll get it.”

His legs carry him to the bedroom, though his heart pounds so hard it feels like the floor might hear it. He keeps his eyes pinned on the doorway as if expecting you to appear there, smiling, questioning, catching him.

The phone is right where he left it on the nightstand. He picks it up and presses it to his ear, lowering his voice instinctively. “Felix—”

“Chris, listen.” Felix’s voice is urgent, clipped, cutting him off. “I just talked to Eric. He didn’t set you up with anyone. He doesn’t even know her.”

Chris’s stomach sinks, the walls of the room closing in.

Felix’s tone sharpens. “It’s her. Chris—you need to get out of there. Now!!!”

Everything clicks. The silver dust. The lies. The shadows that never fit. Silvene.

Chris’s hand shakes as he yanks open the nightstand drawer. His badge glints under the lamp, cool and familiar but the gun—

The gun is gone. It’s not there. His blood freezes, a shiver runs down his spine.

“Looking for this, baby?”

The voice comes from behind him, warm, soft, threaded with a lethal edge.

Chris turns slowly and find you there, standing in the doorway, framed in the dim bedroom light. His gun is steady in your hand, aimed directly at his chest, your finger resting easy on the trigger and you… you’re smiling.

-

The muzzle of his own gun stares him down, black and cold, while your eyes glint with something far sharper than steel. He forces his hands slightly upward, palms open.

“Put it down.” His voice is steady, but his pulse is chaos beneath it.

Your smile only widens, soft but unreadable. “Funny. That’s what I was about to tell you.”

“Don’t play games,” Chris grits out. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

You tilt your head, almost proud, almost sad. “Took you long enough, Detective.”

The word cuts like a blade — detective. It feels like the mask has been ripped away, the one you both pretended not to see.

His jaw tightens. “Why? Why me? Why… all of this?”

“Because you were easy to love.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “And easy to fool.”

The words slice deeper than the gun aimed at him. Chris swallows hard, struggling to steady his breath. “Everything we had—was it all just a lie?”

For the first time, you falter. Your grip on the gun shifts slightly, your eyes flickering. “Well… Not everything.”

The air between you crackles with silence, heavy with truths neither of you want to say out loud. Chris takes a step forward, his voice dropping to something raw. “Then tell me what was real.”

Your lips part, but the answer never comes. Instead, you sling the backpack over your shoulder, your free hand still steady on his gun.

Chris sees it, the decision in your body, the way your feet angle toward the door. You’re going to run and he knows he should act soon.

“No,” he breathes, and before you can take another step, he lunges.

The world erupts into chaos — the two of you crashing together, the gun between your hands. The sharp smell of metal, your breath hot against his face, your eyes blazing with fury and desperation. The struggle is messy, frantic, both of you locked in a dance neither of you want but can’t stop and then, the gun clatters to the floor. You both dive for it but Chris’s hands close around the grip first. He scrambles back, chest heaving, the barrel trained on you.

You straighten slowly, hair falling in disarray around your face, but your smirk doesn’t falter. You step forward, unafraid, your voice cutting through the silence. “Go on, then. Shoot me.”

Chris’s finger tightens on the trigger. His throat is dry, his arm trembling despite the way he fights to keep it steady.

“You can’t do it.” Your tone is almost gentle, almost cruel. “You won’t.”

His chest aches, torn between rage and something far worse. “Don’t be so sure.”

But you only tilt your head, eyes glistening like you already know the ending. “I am sure. Because you love me, Chris.”

The words hit him harder than a bullet. His lungs lock. His vision blurs, but he blinks it back, forcing himself to breathe, to think. He wants to deny it, to throw the word back at you, but it’s there — sitting like a stone in his chest.

His finger hovers on the trigger and every instinct screams at him to pull it, to end this, to be the cop he swore to be, but his heart… his heart shakes his hand, weakens his grip, floods his body with hesitation.

Your smile softens — not mocking this time, not victorious. Just heartbreakingly knowing. “That’s what makes this so fun,” you whisper.

Chris swallows hard, every muscle taut, the weight of choice pressing on him like never before and in that fragile moment, he realizes he’s not sure what would destroy him more—pulling the trigger, or lowering the gun.

With a deep breathe, his finger tightens on the trigger, his jaw locked as his chest heaves and then—

BANG!

The deafening sound echoes through the room, but you don’t even flinch. Instead, your lips curve into a slow, wicked smirk as the smoke drifts between you. “I dated a cop for months,” you purr, your voice steady, almost mocking. “You think I wouldn’t know the first chamber is a blank?”

Chris’s eyes widen, a flicker of doubt flashing across his face. His grip on the gun falters for a fraction of a second, the weight of your words crashing down on him. You know his habits. You know his job. You know him. Worst of all—he realizes—you’re always three steps ahead.

The distant wail of sirens cuts through the air, getting closer, louder. Your eyes flick toward the window, then back to him and you smile, not cruel, not sweet either— just something unreadable, something that burns in his chest like acid.

“Well,” you murmur, slinging the black bag onto one shoulder, “this has been fun.” You tilt your head, lips curving. “It’s been… nice playing with you.”

Chris’s jaw tightens. He grips the gun so hard his knuckles blanch, every part of him screaming to do what he’s supposed to do. Pull the trigger. Stop you here, before you vanish again into smoke and shadows, before you leave him gutted and betrayed.

However, when you step backward, toward the window, he doesn’t move. His finger won’t budge. His heart won’t let him.

“Stop,” he rasps, but it comes out broken, more plea than command.

You flash him one last look over your shoulder, that smile — the one that once disarmed him, now cutting deeper than any blade and with a lithe movement, you climb onto the ledge.

For one split second, the moonlight catches you, painting your face in silver and then, you’re gone.

The sirens wail louder, red and blue lights strobing faintly against the walls. Chris lowers the gun by inches, his whole body trembling, breath ragged in his throat. As the window rattles with the echo of your escape, he knows he’s just let Silvene slip through his fingers.

Worse, he’s let you slip away.

-

The pounding of boots up the stairwell reaches before the sirens fade, and Chris is still frozen in place when the door crashes open.

“Chris!” Felix’s voice cuts sharp through the chaos, relief and alarm colliding in one breath. He pushes past two uniforms, eyes sweeping the room — the open drawer, the disheveled sheets, the window still trembling on its hinges. “Are you okay?”

Instead of answering, Chris lowers the gun slowly, his arm heavy as stone, his eyes blank.

“Where is she?” one of the officers demands, scanning the apartment. “Where’s Silvene?”

Chris swallows hard, throat burning. “She’s gone.” His voice is gravel

Felix moves closer, urgency rolling off him in waves. “She— What? Chris, tell me you got her—” He stops when he sees Chris’s face. Sees the way his best friend’s hand shakes around the gun, the way his eyes stay locked on the window, as if you might still be there.

“Damn it.” Felix curses under his breath, then signals the others. “Sweep the area. Check every exit, every alley. She couldn’t have gotten far!”

The uniforms scatter, radios crackling with orders, but Chris doesn’t move. He can still feel the ghost of your smile carved into his chest, your voice — you can’t shoot me, you love me — looping over and over like a curse.

Felix grips his shoulder, firm, dragging his gaze away from the window. “Chris. Look at me.”

Chris finally turns, and Felix sees it all in his eyes — the devastation, the disbelief, the kind of betrayal that cuts deeper than a knife.

“You didn’t,” Felix whispers, realization dawning. “You couldn’t.”

The night bleeds into dawn without Chris noticing. By the time the pale gray light filters through the blinds, his apartment no longer feels like his own. The space that once smelled like you — like coffee and detergent and the faint sweetness of your perfume — now reeks of latex gloves and fingerprint powder.

Uniforms move in and out, radios crackling, boots thudding against the floorboards. The forensic team sweeps through every corner, snapping photos, dusting surfaces, cataloging pieces of a life that Chris thought belonged to him. He sits numbly on the edge of the couch, gun resting cold in his lap, and watches as strangers take his life apart.

A tech pulls a strip of photos from the fridge — the one you both took at a carnival, silly faces pressed together, your smile brighter than the lights behind you. Chris remembers how you teased him for keeping it in plain sight, how you always claimed ‘it makes us look like teenagers in love’. Now, gloved hands drop it into a clear evidence bag.

Another bends to pick up the pair of shoes Chris bought for you after you once complained about your old ones. He remembers lacing them for you on the couch while you laughed and swatted at him for being “too much.”

Even the mugs — chipped from daily use, your lipstick print still faint on the rim of one — clink together as they’re sealed in plastic marked as Evidence. Every memory cataloged as proof of a lie.

“Chris.”

Felix’s voice pulls him back. He looks up to see his partner standing over him, face drawn, dark circles etched under his eyes. Felix crouches, lowering his tone as the bustle continues around them. “She’s gone,” he says quietly. “Slipped out clean. No one’s picked up a trail.” A pause, heavy. “Silvene got away again.”

The name hangs in the air, sharp as a blade. Silvene. Not you.

Chris swallows hard, staring at the plastic bags lined neatly on the table. Not just clues, not just evidence — pieces of the life he thought he built. Pieces of you.

It hasn’t fully sunk in to him that Silvene is the woman he kissed every morning, the woman who shared his bed, his worries, his quiet nights, but what cuts deepest isn’t losing Silvene.

It’s losing you.

His chest tightens, a quiet, strangled sound caught in his throat. He lowers his head into his hands as the noise of the crime scene swells around him.

Felix rests a hand on his shoulder, steady, grounding. “We’ll get her. I swear to you, we’ll get her.”

But Chris doesn’t know if he wants Silvene caught — or if he just wants you back.

-

It’s been a month. A month since you slipped out of his apartment with that smile that cut him open. A month since Chris woke to silence in a bed that still smelled like you for days after. A month since the case stopped being about a faceless thief and turned into something far crueler — about you.

The board in his office has changed. Where once it was photos of empty display cases and crime scene maps, now it’s covered in your shadow.

Silvene.

He traces the name with his eyes every night, but all he sees is your face. The girl who kissed him before work, who curled against him every night, who laughed at his terrible jokes. And the woman who pointed his own gun at him before vanishing. His obsession has only sharpened and the whole precinct whispers about it — how he stays late, how he ignores calls, how his desk looks like a shrine to the one thief no one can catch. But for Chris, it’s not just about the heists anymore. It’s about her. About you.

He isn’t sure what he wants more — to put Silvene in cuffs, or to have you back in his arms. Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, he thinks about what he’d do if he caught you.

Would he slap on the cuffs and finally close the case that’s haunted him? Or would he let the cuffs fall to the floor, take your face in his hands, and beg you to tell him it was all a lie — that you never meant to leave?

Chris doesn’t even hear Felix approach at first. He’s too locked into the silver dust sealed in an evidence bag, holding it up to the lamp like it’ll give him answers it hasn’t in weeks.

When he finally looks up, Felix is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching him with that mix of pity and frustration Chris has grown used to. He exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Go on,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Say it. I told you so.”

But Felix doesn’t. Instead, he smiles and shakes his head. “Nah. I didn’t come here for that.”

Chris narrows his eyes. “Then what?”

“Drinks.” Felix steps forward, casual as ever. “You, me, a couple of beers. Like old times.”

Chris lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Not really in the mood.”

“Yeah, figured you’d say that.” Felix doesn’t even give him the chance. He just grabs Chris by the arm and tugs, his grip surprisingly firm for someone so easygoing. “Good thing I’m not asking.”

“Felix—”

“Nope.” Felix shakes his head again, cutting him off. “You’re coming with me.”

The bar is dim, the air thick with old wood, cheap beer, and the low murmur of voices. Felix sits across from Chris in their usual booth, nursing a drink while keeping a wary eye on him.

Chris, on the other hand, downs his glass like it’s water. The first pint disappears fast, the second even faster. By the third, Felix quietly swaps his beer for something weaker, but Chris doesn’t seem to notice — or care.

For a while, neither of them talk. It’s Felix who finally breaks the silence. “You ever think… maybe you should let her go?”

Chris lets out a sharp laugh, bitter, broken. He leans forward, his voice low but trembling with heat. “Let her go? She’s out there. She’s playing me—us—and I just… I can’t stop thinking about it.” His hand curls around the glass, knuckles white. “Every night I see her smile, hear her laugh in my head, and then it’s gone, and I’m standing in the wreckage she left behind.”

Felix doesn’t say anything, he just watches as Chris continues talking with his voice soft, cracking at the edges. “I… loved her. I still do. And that’s the worst part — I don’t know if I’m chasing Silvene because she’s a thief I need to put away, or if I’m chasing her because I just… want her back. Even if she’s a lie.”

Felix leans back, sighing heavily. “That’s not obsession anymore, Chris. That’s self-destruction.”

Chris drags a hand down his face, eyes stinging. He doesn’t deny it. He can’t. For the first time in months, he admits it — not out loud, but in the hollow space inside him where your memory lingers. He doesn’t want Silvene in handcuffs. He wants you, in his arms, like nothing ever shattered and that terrifies him more than anything.

Felix swirls what’s left of his beer, watching Chris with careful eyes. He takes a breath before saying, quietly but firmly, “You need to let her go, mate. She’s probably halfway across the world by now… maybe found someone else to ‘play’ with.”

Chris’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”

Felix holds his gaze. “Chris, she faked everything. The smiles, the laughs, the kisses. All of it. She played you, and—”

“No.” Chris’s voice is sharp, the word cutting through the low hum of the bar. His hand slams against the table, rattling the glasses. His face twists with something caught between anger and desperation. “You don’t get it. I know what I felt. And I know she felt it too.”

The conviction in his voice startles even Felix, who has seen his partner angry before, broken before — but not like this. Not clinging so tightly to something already gone.

For a moment, Felix looks like he might argue. But then he exhales, shoulders sagging, and leans back against the booth. “Alright,” he mutters, voice low. “If that’s what you believe.”

Silence falls over them again. The kind that isn’t comfortable, not anymore. Chris drains what’s left of his glass, jaw tight, and Felix doesn’t push further. He just lets him drown, both in liquor and in the weight of his own conviction.

And so they sit there, side by side, each lost in their own silence — one trying to bury the ghost of you, the other refusing to admit you were ever a ghost at all.

-

Chris stumbles through the door of his apartment, the familiar weight of silence waiting for him. He doesn’t bother with the lights. The alcohol hums through his veins, dulling but not silencing the ache inside his chest. He drops his jacket somewhere near the couch and sinks into it, head heavy, the scent of whiskey clinging to his breath.

“Chris?”

The sound of your voice slices through the fog. His head lifts and there you are, standing in the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, hair a little mussed, eyes soft and shining just for him.

He blinks his eyes a few times, disbelieving. “...Baby?”

You smile the way you always did when you caught him off-guard, a teasing tilt of your lips. “Who else would it be?”

He’s on his feet before he knows it, stumbling forward. You drop your bag, arms opening just in time as he wraps you up, burying his face in the curve of your neck. You’re warm, solid, real and his chest aches with relief as his arms tighten around you.

“I knew you’d come back,” he whispers against your skin, voice breaking. “I knew it wasn’t all fake. I knew you loved me.”

You laugh, gentle, fingertips brushing through his hair. “Of course I did. I still do.”

The weight lifts from him in an instant and for the first time in what feels like forever, he breathes. He closes his eyes, presses his lips against yours, desperate, clinging, terrified of letting go. You kiss him back, whispering his name between breaths like a promise, like a vow, like a—

His eyes snap open and sweep over his surrounding.

Morning light streams through the blinds, unforgiving. The couch is empty. The room is empty. His arms are empty. There’s no bag at the doorway. No warmth on his lips. No soft voice calling his name. Just the echo of a dream.

Chris sits up slowly, his head pounding from the alcohol but his chest hurting worse. His throat works as he swallows, hard, the taste of salt in his mouth though he doesn’t remember crying.

Felix’s words gnaw at him, cruel in their simplicity. She probably found someone else to play with.

Maybe Felix was right. Maybe to you, it had all been nothing more than a game.

Chris drags his hands over his face, pressing his palms hard into his eyes, as if he can rub away the image of you, but it lingers anyway — your touch, your voice, your smile. The dream that felt more real than the empty daylight staring back at him.

-

FOUR MONTHS LATER

In the precinct, Chris and Felix are hunched over a spread of case files. It isn’t Silvene this time—something smaller, cleaner. A string of burglaries, nothing with her mark.

They work side by side for hours, the rhythm almost normal again. Chris feels the motions settling into muscle memory: review, highlight, cross-reference. On the surface, he’s steady. However, Felix isn’t fooled and Chris catches the way his partner glances at him now and then like he’s checking for cracks in glass.

“You good?” Felix asks casually, leaning back in his chair, stretching out his long legs.

Chris offers a faint smile, flipping another page. “Yeah. I’m fine. Better, actually.”

Felix hums, unconvinced, but lets it slide. They push through the last folder together, the pile thinning until only silence remains.

When the clock ticks past nine, Felix tosses his pen onto the desk and stretches again. “Drinks? There’s that new place down the block. Thought we could try it.”

Chris shakes his head, already gathering his things. “Rain check. I’m beat. Think I’ll just crash tonight.”

Felix tilts his head, watching him too closely, then smirks, playfulness breaking through the weariness in his eyes. “Alright. But call me if you get too lonely, yeah?”

Chris lets out a quiet chuckle, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow,” he mutters, low, almost to himself.

The apartment is too quiet when Chris unlocks the door. It always is now. He drops his bag by the couch, shrugs out of his jacket, and just… stands there for a moment. The faint hum of the refrigerator is the only sound, filling the silence like static. For months, he’s told himself he’s fine, that he’s adjusted, but stepping into this place still feels like walking into a hollow shell of a life that used to be full.

He doesn’t turn on the TV or put on music. Instead, he wanders to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. His eyes land on the bare spot on the counter where the matching mugs used to sit.

Chris carries the glass into the living room and sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty space across from him. He can almost imagine you walking out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair messy from sleep, teasing him about working too late again. For a split second, the ache in his chest convinces him he might actually see you, but the vision fades like always.

He drains the water, sets the glass down with a dull thud, and presses a hand over his face. Felix was right—he is lonely, but admitting it feels like defeat. So instead, he forces himself up, showers, and gets into bed.

The sheets are cold and Chris lies awake staring at the ceiling, trying not to picture what country you might be in now, what name you might be using, who you might be laughing with. He tells himself he’s let you go, that it’s better this way, that it could never have worked, but in the hollow dark of his apartment, he knows he’s only half-convinced.

When he finally falls asleep, Chris sleeps heavy, sprawled across the mattress, the night cool against his bare skin. For once, his dreams are quiet, just dark and stillness until warmth slides against his back.

At first, he thinks it’s the weight of the blanket, but then—arms circle his waist. Soft lips ghost along his shoulder, then higher, brushing his neck, the corner of his jaw.

A whisper follows, breath warm against his ear. “Chris, baby…”

His eyes flutter, heavy with sleep. His mind fights it—must be a dream. He’s dreamed this before, the ache of missing you turned into cruel illusions, but when he turns his head, your face is there. So close he can see the curve of your lashes, the shine of your lips before they press to his. Instinct takes over; he kisses back, slow, deep, tasting what he thought he’d lost forever.

It feels… real. Too real. The press of your body, the heat of your skin, the breath you steal when you pull away only to kiss him again. His hands twitch at his sides before he finally reaches back, touching you, half afraid you’ll dissolve under his fingers, but you don’t.

Chris realizes with a jolt in his chest: it’s not a dream this time.

It’s you.

You’re here.

-

✨ CLOSER: BONUS CHAPTER is available on Patreon ✨

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It’s wedding day and you feel everything all at once.

The room buzzes softly around you—hands smoothing fabric, another pair of hands fixing your hair, the faint rustle of your dress as your bridesmaids carefully fixes the train. The mirror reflects someone who looks like you, but also… someone new. Someone on the edge of a different life.

A moment later, your dad appears. He looks composed, dressed perfectly for the day, but his eyes give him away. There’s a tightness there, a softness that makes your chest ache.

He clears his throat, looks you up and down, and smiles. “You look… incredibly beautiful today, honey,” he says, voice full of fondness.

You step toward him and kiss his cheek before emotion can get the better of you. “Thank you, Dad,” your voice turns into whisper in the middle. “For everything.”

He nods, squeezes your hand once, grounding you.

The wedding organizer gently guides you toward the entrance of the garden, and as you take your place just out of sight, it all crashes into you at once.

This is it. Today, everything changes.

You shakily exhale shaky air. Your chest tightens. Tears blur your vision before you can stop them, panic blooming hot and sudden. You turn quickly, voice shaking. “Someone. Tissue, please. Quick.”

Your maid of honor is there instantly, dabbing carefully at the corners of your eyes, murmuring reassurances as if she’s done this a thousand times before. She checks your makeup, smiles softly. “You’re okay. You’re doing great.”

The music begins and that’s your cue to enter. You place your hand on your dad’s arm, fingers curling into the familiar strength of him. You inhale slowly. Deep. Then another. You don’t exactly feel calm, but you feel ready enough.

The staff nods and that’s when you step forward. You don’t count steps the way you rehearsed it yesterday. You don’t remember the pacing or the cues. You just walk, letting your heart leading, breath a little unsteady, eyes searching.

And there, waiting for you at the altar is Chris.

He looks impossibly handsome in his tuxedo, but it’s not that that steals your breath—it’s the way his face lights up when he sees you. That warm smile. The dimples. Dark brown eyes on you —and only you. The way they soften like the world has narrowed down to just you.

Your heart palpations. Your smile widens without you even realizing it as he looks stunned, like he can’t quite believe this is real. His hands are clasped tight in front of him, feet bouncing just slightly—nervous, excited, overwhelmed. Probably all of it at once.

In that moment, everything else fades. The nerves. The fear. The noise.

Because you know. Your heart knows.

This is the man you chose. The man you love. The man you are about to marry.

As you walk toward him, you feel it with absolute certainty that you made the right choice.

Your dad’s hand lingers on yours for just a second longer than necessary before he places it into Chris’s. It’s a quiet transfer yet heavy with meaning.

“I love you,” you mutter to your dad.

His lips tremble as he mutters it back to you. “I love you too.”

Then he steps back, eyes glassy, and suddenly it’s just the two of you.

Chris’s fingers close around yours like he’s been waiting all day to do that. He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him, his voice warm and teasing despite the way his thumb trembles against your skin. “You were right,” he whispers. “That wedding dress is phenomenal.”

You laugh softly, smile tugging at your lips, nerves easing just a little because of him. Because it’s always been him.

He carefully guides you up the steps as if this is the most important thing he’s ever done. When you reach the altar, he turns to face you, and for a beat, he just looks at you. Then, slowly, reverently, he lifts your veil.

Chris has seen you a thousand times—half-asleep, laughing too hard, crying, completely undone—but this… this feels different. Sacred, almost. Like he’s seeing you again for the first time, like the world has paused to let him take you in.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, voice barely holding together.

Your cheeks already ache from smiling, but you don’t care. You don’t think you could stop even if you tried.

The officiant’s voice carries gently through the garden, words about love and partnership and two lives choosing to move as one. You hear it, but at the same time, you don’t because this moment feels sealed off from everything else. Just you. Just Chris.

It’s time for the vows.

You look at him, hands still joined in the middle, and suddenly every word you’ve ever meant finds its way out. Promises spoken from the deepest part of you. Love without hesitation. Choice without doubt. You’ve never been this sure of anything in your life.

“I do,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake—not with fear, but with certainty.

Chris looks straight into your eyes when it’s his turn, like he wants you to know this is real, this is intentional. “I do,” he says, loud and steady, and your heart swells so full it almost hurts.

You slide the ring onto his finger. He does the same for you. This doesn’t feel binding. It doesn’t feel small or confining. It feels expansive. Safe. Like being wrapped in something sacred and unbreakable. A quiet, profound click of forever settling into place.

When the officiant declares you husband and wife, you finally exhale the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Chris leans in, and when his lips meet yours, you feel everything at once—the love, the joy, the weight and wonder of choosing each other. The cheers of your guests rise around you, but they fade into the background, because in that kiss, it’s just the two of you.

Married.

At last.

-

The celebration blooms into something warm and loud and impossibly joyful.

Laughter rings through the garden, music drifts through the night air as if it’s been waiting all day for this moment. You dance with friends who’ve known you forever, with family who keep pulling you into hugs a little too tight. Chris spins you around the dance floor at one point, laughing when you nearly trip over the hem of your dress, steadying you with hands that feel so strong, so sure.

Everywhere you turn, someone is smiling at you like they’re witnessing something good—something right.

And every now and then, you catch Chris looking at you from across the room. Not saying anything. Just watching. Like he still can’t believe this is real.

The night slips by faster than you want it to.

Soon enough, people begin to gather near the exit, ready to send you off on your way out for the honeymoon trip. There are more hugs and more congratulations whispered into your ear. Good wishes. Promise to call. To vist. To see you soon.

You say goodbye over and over again until your heart full and a little sore in the best way.

When you finally step outside, Chris opens the car door for you as he always does, one hand steadying you as you climb in. You wave one last time before the door closes, before this chapter gently seals itself shut.

Chris gets into the driver’s seat, starts the engine and the car pulls forward.

And just like that, you know it’s beginning. Again. Not an ending, not a conclusion, but a new start. A life unfolding in a different shape than before.

Chris reaches for your hand without looking, fingers threading through yours like muscle memory. You squeeze back, thumb brushing over his knuckles, grounding yourself in the reality of him. Then, you glance over at him.

Husband.

He smiles, soft and content, eyes on the road ahead.

Together, you drive into what comes next.

-

There were hours of flight, about two hours of layover and then a few more hours on another flight. Then, there was two hours of drive from the airport to the resort. By the time you finally arrive, it feels like you’ve lived three different days inside one. Exhaustion settles deep in your bones, but the moment the car pulls up to the resort, that tiredness turns soft and giddy instead.

The bellboy leads you down a quiet path, lanterns glowing low, the sound of the sea close enough to feel. Your resort villa sits a little apart from the others, tucked away like it’s been saved just for you. Inside, it’s spacious and warm—flowers scattered thoughtfully, soft lights, champagne waiting in an ice bucket near the window that looks straight out to the ocean along with complimentary plate of desserts.

Mr. & Mrs. Bang, it announces gently. Welcome.

Chris thanks the bellboy, slips him a tip, takes the keycard and the second the door closes behind him, something shifts. He drops his bag onto the sofa like he’s been waiting all day to do that one simple thing. Then, before you can even say a word, his arms are around you and suddenly you’re airborne.

“Chris—!” you squeal, laughter spilling out as you instinctively cling to his shoulders.

He carries you like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than the joy in his chest, and when he lays you down on the bed, it’s with such careful gentleness it makes your heart ache. He hovers over you, close enough that you feel him there, solid, real, warm.

For a second, you just look at each other. Then it hits you that there’s no schedule now. No distraction. No one knocking on the door. Just you and him, finally alone. The realization sends a rush through you, excitement braided tightly with a flicker of nerves.

“My wife…” he murmurs, soft and almost disbelieving.

You reach up, fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring yourself. “My husband…”

The words feel unreal and perfect all at once.

He kisses you then, plush lips slowly brushing over yours like he has all the time in the world now. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours as he smiles.

“So,” he asks quietly, “what do you want to do first?”

Your lips curve into a seductive smile. You hook a leg around his waist, teasing. “You already know,” you say, voice light but meaning it. “It’s been… long overdue.”

He lowly, fondly chuckles before kissing you again. Things heat quickly as he deepen the kiss, his hands steady and sure as they trace your body. Big palm wrapped around your throat for a brief moment. Then, veiny hands feeling you through your clothes.

Soon, his lips followed the same path, full lips dragged across your chest and then goes down south. Even through a layer of barrier, you can feel his hot, wet mouth on you.

When his mouth inches closer to where you want him the most, your chest caves in, your breath stutters and then—

Your stomach betrays you with a very loud, very unromantic growl. You immediately close your eyes, mortified and embarrassed.

He lifts his head slowly, eyes crinkling as he tries and fails not to laugh.

You groan, half-laughing, covering your face with your hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Chris brushes your wrists aside so he can see your face. “Guess that answers what we actually need first,” he says warmly. “Room service?”

You nod, still hiding your smile, and he presses a quick kiss to your forehead before sitting, back rested against the headboard. He takes the menu from behind the landline telephone.

“Let’s see the menu and argue about what to order,” he mutters, unfolding the menu.

You join him, scooting closer to scan the menu together. “Okay, but nothing expensive, “ you warn. “We already spent so much on food.”

Chris’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “When?”

“Our wedding catering,” you answer without a beat.

He waves you off. “That’s different,” he calmly says. “Beside, we’re on vacations.”

You nod in agreement. “Okay, but let’s not order too much,” you warn again.

He glares at you and when you look at him, he averts his eyes back on the menu. “Yeah, but no stealing my food because mine somehow always looks good to you,” he cutely grumbles.

“Hey!” You shriek as he snatches the menu away to the other side, not letting you see it. “We’re married. What’s yours is mine now.”

“No. It’s different when it comes to food,” he strongly disagrees, but a grin threatening to appear on his face. “Mine is mine.”

Then, all of a sudden, he gasps like he’s just remembered something. Then slowly, he turns his head to face you. “Are we having our first fight as a married couple?”

You snort because of how serious he is. “This is not a fight,” you coyly say and you pause for a second to think on what to address it. “…This is just a playful dinner argument.”

“Yeah, right,” he nods repeatedly. Then, he breaks into a smile and takes your hand in his, intertwining it together.

And you lean onto his shoulder with heart full, smiling so hard it almost hurts because somehow, impossibly, you’re married to this man.

-

It’s the accumulated exhaustion from the wedding, the trip and the fact that you were always moving, always in motions that sent you both into deep slumber after finishing all the room service you ordered last night.

You wake slowly, the kind of waking that doesn’t feel like being pulled out of sleep but eased out of it. Chris’s arm is heavy and warm around you, tucked securely at your waist, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. You shift closer without thinking, instinctively fitting yourself into him, and he stirs almost immediately like his body knows you before his mind catches up.

A sleepy kiss presses into your hair, right at your forehead. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep yet soft with affection.

You hum in response, smiling into his skin, and when the fog finally lifts enough for you to remember where you are and who you’re with, your heart does that ridiculous flip. Carefully, you move, sliding yourself on top of him, propping your chin on his chest as you look down at his face. Bedhead everywhere. Sleep-soft eyes. Dimples already threatening to show.

Your lips curl into a pout when you realize something else. “I can’t believe we missed our wedding night,” you mumble in complaint. “Again.”

His hand comes up to brush your hair away from your face, thumb tracing your cheek with lazy affection. “Mm,” he says thoughtfully, eyes still not quite open. “It’s okay.”

You arch a brow. “Is it?”

He smiles, warm and soft. Certain. “Because it’s gonna be a wedding night every night with you.”

Sleepy happiness floods your chest so fast it almost knocks the air out of you. You grin, eyes burning just a little, and lean down to press a soft kiss to his lips. When you pull away, you take a moment to admire him. Bare upper body, broad shoulders, muscles in the right places. That look in his eyes like you’re something precious and endlessly wanted. You can’t believe this is real, can’t believe this is how you get to wake up now.

Chris squints at you, fully awake now. “So,” he asks, voice still low, “what do you want to do first?”

“Breakfast,” you answer immediately.

He laughs quietly. “Solid choice. And after that?”

You think for a second, then shrug. “Explore the resort. Maybe the beach.”

“That,” he says, lifting his head to kiss you again, “sounds like a perfect plan.”

You kiss him back, slow and easy, already feeling the day stretch out ahead of you—unrushed, sunlit, yours.

-

You spend the day exactly the way honeymoon days are supposed to be spent.

You wander the resort together, hands brushing, fingers tangling like it’s one joined limb. You duck into small shops, laugh over souvenirs you don’t need, split lunch because neither of you can finish your own plate. On the beach, you kick off your sandals and walk barefoot along the shore, waves licking at your ankles while Chris keeps stopping to take photos of the ocean, of the sky, of you pretending not to notice him watching you.

By the time you’re back at the resort, the heat has settled deep into your bones and the cool rush of air-conditioning feels like heaven. You both drop onto the sofa with matching sighs, bodies loose and tired in the best way.

Chris leans back, legs spread, arm slung over the back of the couch like he owns the world or maybe like he’s finally relaxed enough to stop holding himself together. His pale skin reddens around the neck, a thin layer of sweat coated his forehead. Then, he brushes his hair to the back, making it messy yet more attractive.

God. He’s infuriatingly hot even when he’s doing nothing.

You scoot closer and land a kiss on his jaw. Then his cheek. Then you gently grab his chin and turn his face toward you. You drop your hand to the opening of his shirt, fingers curling at his collar as you murmur, “It’s time.”

You don’t explain. You don’t wait. You climb into his lap and crash your mouth against his, kissing him deep, like you’ve been waiting all day—because you have.

But then, he pulls back and your lips immediately knotted into a disappointed pout. Yet again.

“Hold that thought,” he says, lifting a finger.

You groan dramatically, rolling your eyes. “Oh my god, what is it this time?”

He laughs, clearly enjoying your pout far too much. “I made a dinner reservation. For us. Tonight.”

You glance at the clock on the wall, noticing that you have nearly four hours until dinner. “Chris. There’s still time.”

You lean in again, determined to keep it going, to start something that is long overdue.

He stops you with both hands on your shoulders, firm but gentle. “At least let me take you to dinner first.”

You hold his face with both hands. “You don’t have to woo me, Chris. We’re already married.”

His expression softens immediately. He brushes your hair back, thumb grazing your cheek. “I know,” he says quietly. “I just… want to make it special.”

Of course he does. Chris always doing the most of things, making them special and meaningful. You smile because that’s one of the many reasons why you married him. You finally nod, even as your lips push into a pout again. “You’re making me wait. Again.”

He tilts your chin up, meeting your eyes. “I’ve been waiting for this. So yeah. I want it to be special,” he says, low and sincere. “Not just for me. But also, for you. For us.”

You sigh in defeat but you break into a smile in the next second. “It better be worth it,” you playfully warn him, tapping his chest.

He just grins, completely unbothered and the fact that he’s not answering sends nerves fluttering under your ribs. You realize you don’t know exactly what tonight will bring but you’re scared and excited in equal measure.

And that only makes you feel even more impatient about tonight.

-

You scoff when you see the bathroom counter. Everything is lined up with military precision—your skincare next to his, bottles facing the same direction, toothbrushes parallel like they’re reporting for duty. It’s so him that you can’t even be annoyed. You just shake your head, smiling to yourself as you step into the shower stall to test the water.

Too hot. Too cold. Ah—there it is.

You hum in approval, fingers hovering at the tie of your robe, already imagining the warm water melting the day off your skin.

“Is it ready?”

You turn, confused.

Chris stands in the doorway, watching you with that calm, manly expression that always makes your stomach flip.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “Why—”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer and starts undressing like you’re not existing in the same room with him. Shirt off. Pants gone. No rush, no teasing—just Chris in quiet confidence.

Your eyes can’t decide where to look. Muscles everywhere, evident veins coiled his arms, wrapped in soft, pale skin. Body that looks like it’s sculpted by God himself. He’s bare, beautiful, familiar and somehow still brand new. Then he walks right past you, into the shower, water hitting his shoulders as he lets out a satisfied breath.

He glances back at you, brows lifting slightly. “Aren’t you coming in too?”

You blink. Once. Twice. “You didn’t say anything about showering together.”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I need to get ready too.”

You sigh like you’re losing a battle, even though your smile betrays you. Slipping the robe off, you step in with him.

Steam curls around you, clinging to skin and tile, turning the bathroom into something soft and hazy like a secret you’re both standing inside.

Most of the time, you’re not even pretending to shower. You’re watching him, the way the water runs down the planes of his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle you know by heart but still feel like you’re discovering for the first time. Your gaze slowly, appreciatively drifts lower, to the six pack on his abdomen. Lower still to the pelvic bones that narrowed down to—

“Hey,” he says, amused.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, forcing your attention back to his face. His eyes are warm and playful. “Eyes up here.”

You smirk as you think of an excuse to say. “You’re standing in my way.”

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head like he can’t believe you sometimes. And then, casually, he asks, “Want to use my soap?”

“Yeah, sure,” you say immediately.

He squeezes some body wash into his palm, and when his hands come to you, it’s slow and deliberate. He lathers it over your shoulders, your arms, your waist, your back—every touch intentional, reverent, like he’s exploring your body for the first time all over again. You keep your eyes on his face, watching the way his jaw tightens just slightly, the way his breath changes even as he stays steady.

Then, his hands move over your body, fingertips lightly dancing on your skin until suds forming. You notice the way he reluctantly takes his hands off of you to grab the shower head.

“Stay still,” he murmurs.

He rinses you carefully, water streaming over your skin as his hands follow, washing away the suds. When he kneels to rinse your legs, your heart stutters—not because of what he’s doing, but because of how close he is to where you want him the most, how controlled, how aware. He glances up at you with a grin that’s all trouble before finishing and standing again.

A kiss lands at your neck. Soft, lips lingering on your skin. “You smell amazing now,” he murmurs.

He guides your hands to his shoulders, drawing you in until you’re pressed together—wet skin, shared warmth, a heat that has nothing to do with the water. His forehead rests briefly against yours, eyes searching your face with equal parts fondness and want.

Chris kisses your lips, deep and slow, but enough to steal the air from your lungs, enough that you gasp when he finally pulls back.

“I can’t wait for tonight,” he says quietly.

You smile, breathless. “Can’t wait for tonight.”

He kisses you again, just as unhurried, just as devastating and somehow, the water has nothing to do with the way he makes you burn.

-

You’re perched at the vanity in nothing but your bathrobe, hair still slightly damp, carefully lining your eyes when Chris appears in the doorway.

“Babe,” he says, holding up two shirts like it’s a serious decision. “Need your opinion here.”

You glance at them in the mirror—the soft blue linen in one hand, the white one with tiny prints in the other. You hum thoughtfully, tilting your head.

“The blue one,” you decide. “With the white pants you brought.”

He nods immediately, like that’s all the confirmation he needed. “Yeah. I was thinking the same.”

You turn back to your makeup, but before you can continue, you feel him step closer. His presence fills the space behind you. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Can I choose your outfit too?” he asks quietly.

The question catches you off guard in a good way. You turn your head slightly, his face suddenly so close, eyes warm and affectionate.

“Of course, baby,” you say with a smile.

He grins and steals a quick kiss from your lips before you can even think about it. When he pulls back, his eyes widen just a little, realizing that you’re in the middle of doing your make up. “Did I mess it up?”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “You’re fine.”

Relieved, he presses a kiss to the top of your head instead before walking away to get dressed, leaving you smiling at your reflection. The night hasn’t started but it feels special already.

“Did you decide?” you ask after a long moment, still facing the mirror as you dab the last of your makeup into place.

“Yeah,” Chris answers easily.

You turn, impressed when you see the dress laid out, the matching underwear folded neatly beneath it, shoes placed beside the chair.

“You chose everything?” you tease.

He shrugs, pretending it’s no big deal. “I have good taste.”

You laugh. “Do I need to be worried?”

“Only a little,” he says, then softens. “Ready to change?”

“Yeah.”

You think that’s the end of it, that he’s done his part, but instead, you feel him step behind you.

His hands settle on your shoulders, lingering like he’s asking without words. “Can I… put them on you?” he asks quietly.

Your heart jumps, a mix of affection and heat that makes your heart dips. Then, you nod.

With that permission, his hands find their way to the tie of your robe. He loosens it carefully, letting the fabric slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet. He reaches for the underwear first, kneeling in front of you while holding the underwear for you.

You lift one foot, then the other, fingertips lightly grazing your skin as he guides the underwear up your legs with unhurried care until it rests where it should, soft white lace settling against your skin. Then, he lands a gentle kiss on your thigh like a reward before he stands.

“Okay?” he murmurs.

You swallow. “More than okay.”

He helps you with the bra next and you hurriedly hold both hands forward as he slips it on you, hands careful as he adjusts the straps. His hands rests on your shoulders as he asks, “Am I doing it right?”

“Perfect,” you say, smiling.

The dress comes next—white, light, dotted with small flowers that somehow matches his outfit. He helps you step into it, zips it slowly, then frees a few strands of hair caught at the neckline with a quiet chuckle.

When he’s done, he doesn’t move away. Instead, his arms wrap around you from behind, hands resting on your stomach as you both look at yourselves in the mirror. His reflection is all admiration.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers near your ear.

You’ve heard it a hundred times from him yet it still makes your chest dips every single one.

“I’m a lucky man,” he adds, his voice tinted with disbelief.

You smile so wide it almost hurts.

He places another sweet, little kiss on your neck. “Can’t wait to take them off of you later,” he whispers, hot breathe brushes your ear shell.

You swallow air. Heat curls in your stomach.

“Let’s get your shoes and bag,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We’ll head out early, catch the sunset on the beach before dinner.”

“Yes,” you say immediately. To all of it.

As he steps back, still smiling at you like you’re everything, one thought settles warm and sure in your chest—

You’ve never been happier and more aroused in your life.

-

The sand is warm beneath your feet as you walk along the shoreline, fingers laced with Chris’s, the sky bleeding into shades of gold and soft pink. You stop now and then to take photos—some posed, some blurry, some just laughter caught mid-moment.

When the sun finally dips below the horizon, the world feels quieter, darker in a way that feels intimate instead of lonely.

On the path toward the restaurant, through the row of trees and plants, Chris pauses. He bends to pick a small flower growing stubbornly on a tree branch and tucks it gently behind your ear.

“Is it beautiful?” you ask, half-teasing.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “You’re more beautiful than any flower.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart sinks warmly into your chest anyway.

At the restaurant entrance, a hostess greets you with a bright smile. Chris steps forward easily. “Reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Bang.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bang. Something about hearing it out loud makes your stomach flutters.

She checks the list, then nods. “Right this way, please.”

Inside, the lights are low and golden, a live jazz band playing softly in the background. You’re guided through the restaurant and out onto a private patio overlooking the beach. It’s quiet, secluded, candles flickering gently in the breeze. It’s perfect.

You sit across from him, eyes wide. “Chris, this place is beautiful.”

He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing slowly over your wedding ring like he’s reminding himself that you’re wedded to him. “Only the best for you,” he says, then lifts your hand and kisses it.

Dinner unfolds slowly, beautifully. The food is incredible but you barely register it beyond polite appreciation. The wine is smooth and warm, loosening your shoulders, softening the edges of the day. You talk about the food, the weather, places to visit while you’re here in between bites and sips.

Still, none of that that makes the night feel unreal like the way Chris looks at you from across the table, open and attentive like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

When the plates are cleared and you’re waiting for dessert, the atmosphere shifts. Quieter. More intimate. The jazz hums softly in the background, the ocean murmurs beyond the patio, and Chris reaches across the table to take your hand. His grip is warm and steady.

“Our marriage,” he starts gently, thumb brushing your knuckles, “it’s only just beginning.”

You look at him, giving him your undivided attention.

“I’m… really excited,” he admits with a small smile. “To live life with you. From this moment on.” He exhales, thoughtful. “I’m happy. And I hope we’ll always have moments like this—even when things aren’t perfect.”

He pauses, eyes never leaving yours. “And when it gets hard, I hope we remember this feeling. Why we chose each other. Why we started.”

Your throat tightens in emotions. Good emotions.

“I hope,” he adds, a little softer, “that we’ll always have the heart to tolerate each other. I mean, I know I can be… a lot. With my perfectionism.”

You let out a soft laugh, squeezing his hand. “A little?”

He grins, relieved, then grows serious again. “I hope we’ll always have the heart to forgive each other. For the mistakes we’ve made—and the ones we might make in the future.” His voice steadies, sincere. “And I hope we’ll always have a place in each other’s heart. Because I want us to grow old together. I want to be with you for a long, long time. To my very last breath.”

Your chest feels full and heavy with emotions you can’t fathom into words, and overwhelmed in the most beautiful way. Tears well before you can stop them, and you quickly dab at your eyes with your napkin, laughing softly at yourself.

Chris’s gaze softens even more. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say, smiling through tears, the words trembling with everything they carry.

The moment feels endless, suspended, sacred. Then he clears his throat gently, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “May I have this dance?”

You nod, heart still racing.

“Yes.”

The band shifts into a new song and it feels like the universe picked it just for you. Chris’s hand settles at the small of your back while the other laces with yours. You sway together, bodies moving like they already know the rhythm.

♪ Love me, love me, love me / Love me, say you do / Let me fly away with you / For my love is like the wind / And wild is the wind ♪

When you look up at him, his eyes are soft, glowing with something so full it makes your chest ache. You lean in first, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. Nothing rushed. Nothing desperate. Just… right.

When you pull away, you rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as you continue to sway. For a moment, it feels like there’s no one else in the world—just you, him, the music, the ocean breathing nearby.

♪ Give me more than one caress / Satisfy this hungriness / Let the wind blow through your heart / For wild is the wind ♪

Everything hits you at once. Love. Happiness. A soft edge of melancholy. Desire. Want. Hope.

Your thoughts drift forward without asking permission—days waking up beside him, learning each other in new ways, arguments and laughter, a home filled with shared memories. Growing older. Still holding hands. Still choosing each other. Your eyes sting again at the thoughts.

When you lift your head, Chris is already looking at you. He knows. You can see it in his eyes—he’s standing in the same future, imagining the same life.

This time, he leans in. The kiss is deeper, fuller, loaded with intention—love and want and promise all tangled together. It leaves you breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the dance nor the proximity.

♪ You touch me / I hear the sound of mandolins / You kiss me / With your kiss my life begins / You're spring to me / All things to me ♪

When the waiter quietly sets dessert on the table, you both glance at it… and then at each other. You tilt your head, smiling softly. “Do you want to skip… dessert?”

Chris grins, dimples deep, eyes dark with meaning. “Yeah, I was thinking of a different kind of dessert tonight.”

Heat blooms low in your stomach, anticipation curling sweet and hungry. You take his hand, already knowing that tonight is finally yours.

♪ Like the leaf clings to the tree / Oh, my darling, cling to me / For we're like creatures of the wind / And wild is the wind ♪

-

The walk back feels a little unsteady like your steps, laughter bubbling up between breaths, hands locked together like you’re afraid to lose each other in the dark. The night air is warm, buzzing, charged with everything you didn’t say over dinner and everything you both decided not to do until now.

You don’t make it far as Chris stops suddenly, glancing around once before backing you gently but decisively against the wall. The look on his face steals your breath. Gone is the careful restraint, replaced with something raw and impatient.

“If I don’t touch you right now, I’ll lose my mind,” he roughly murmurs.

With that, he crashes his mouth against yours like he’s been holding back for weeks. Maybe months. Your back meets the cool surface as his body cages you in, heat everywhere else. A hand roughly grabs your leg, hooking it around his hips as he presses closer on purpose, letting you feel exactly how badly he wants you. It sends a shiver straight through you.

His mouth leaves yours only to trail along your jaw, down your neck. A kiss. Another. A faint nip that makes your fingers curl into his shirt as you bite your lip to keep quiet. He exhales against your skin, a sound that feels like a confession. He moves his hips, pulsating it against you just enough to make you dizzy, your knees weak and your thoughts scatter.

For a moment, the world narrows to the press of bodies, the rhythm of his humping you’re trying not to give into, the way he groans onto your skin. Then, with visible effort, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, eyes dark, smiles helpless.

“I need you,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Don’t make me wait.”

The two of you only a few feet away from the door to your resort villa. You gasp when he lifts you so easily, one arm firm around you while the other fumbles for the keycard. The door beeps open and it’s such a simple, domestic thing but the way he does it without breaking stride, without breaking focus, makes your head spin. It’s how strong he feels. How driven. And how all of that urgency is for you.

He carries you inside like he’s afraid of putting you down too soon. Your eyes never leave his as he sets you on the edge of the table, careful but not gentle enough to hide his impatience.

The room fades into nothing. All you see is him and everything that is written so clearly on his face. Want. Need. Love. Lust. Care. And underneath it all, that raw, dangerous desire to completely undo you.

It lights something inside you, a slow burn that turns into a spark and it keeps burning and burning and burning.

He leans in, presses soft kisses to your temple, your jaw, your neck like he’s savoring you. You can feel his tongue licking ever so lightly on your skin every now and then. Your breath stutters with every touch, every second he makes you wait.

Then his lips brush your ear. His voice low and heavy as he murmurs against your lips, “I don’t want to be careful anymore.”

The sound that leaves you is helpless, almost pathetic and your body answering before your mind can catch up. His hand tightens at your waist, like he felt it too, like he was waiting for it. In that moment, you know there’s no turning back now.

Chris doesn’t give you time but to kiss you again, deep and relentless, like he’s starving. Like he can’t get enough of your taste. You barely notice when your lungs start burning until you have to pull back, gasping softly against his lips.

Then, he drops to his knees. His hands slide over your legs with certainty, parting them open without asking because he already knows the answer. The sudden closeness makes you shudder, his mouth only inches away from where you’re quivering, aching for him. He leans in, taking his time to do so just to feel the effect he has on you.

You gasp when he presses his mouth onto your clothed core, the sensation is overwhelming even through the thin barrier of fabric. It’s the intent that does it—the way he lingers, breath warm, presence undeniable, like he’s drinking you in without even touching you the way you need yet.

He dives deeper, mouth opening wider, hot mouth dampens the fabric of your underwear, nose presses right on your clit, tongue tracing up and down between your folds.

Your legs move on their own, lifting, parting, giving him more access as a soft, broken sound slips from your throat. “Oh, my god…”

He answers with a slow, torturous pace, teasing your sensitive bundle of nerves with his slick tongue, enough to make your head tip back, fingers curling at the edge of the table. Every nerve in your body lights up.

You’re already shaking, already embarrassingly close, and it hits you all at once how unfair it is—how he’s barely even started and you’re unraveling anyway. Like he knows exactly how to take you apart without rushing a single second of it.

You’re already trembling, right there on the edge, when he pulls back and you immediately whine in protest. Before you can even chase his mouth, his lips are on yours again, claiming you in a deep, breath-stealing kiss that leaves you lightheaded. You barely have time to gasp when he lifts you and you wrap yourself around him without thinking—legs around his waist, arms tight around his shoulders.

Your eyes stay on his as he carries you to the bed, reverent even in his urgency. He lays you down gently, almost tenderly, and then he’s over you, weight settling in a way that makes you feel every inch of his body pressing on you. His mouth finds yours again, fiery and unrelenting, and it feels like he’s pouring everything he’s been holding back into that kiss.

Your hands are impatient and needy as you’re fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until he laughs softly against your lips and finishes the job himself, tossing it aside like it was never important. Your palms roam freely now, mapping his muscles that feel new all over again, warm and alive under your touch. You groan when he presses closer, rubbing his confined member on yours, letting you feel just how badly he wants you.

The sound you make isn’t something you try to stop. You don’t want to. Your body aches for him, every nerve lit up and pulling you toward him, toward this moment you’ve both been waiting for. And when he dips his head, forehead resting against yours, breath hot and uneven, you know that there’s no more holding back. Not anymore.

“Just in case you don’t know,” you murmur, voice light but eyes heavy with intent, “I want you. So much.”

He answers with his dimpled grin but it’s gone the moment his mouth claims yours. When he pulls back, something in him shifts. His gaze sharpens, darker, dangerous in a way that makes your stomach flip. He bites at your lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to burn, then murmurs, “Turn over.”

You don’t hesitate. You roll onto your stomach, barely there for a second before his hands are on your waist, lifting you, guiding you until you’re bent just the way he wants. His touch traces slowly down your spine, stopping right where dress ends on the back of your thighs. You shiver as he grabs the hem of your dress, lifting it until they gather around your waist, leaving you exposed to his gaze, to the air, to him. Then, he keeps you waiting. Long enough for your breath to slow in anticipation. Long enough for need to coil tight and low in your belly.

A moment later, you feel his fingers tugging at your underwear and help him wordlessly, lifting your leg one at a time, surrendering to the moment until it’s off of you. Now that you’re fully bare for him, the room goes quiet except for your breathing and then his. The way Chris deeply inhales air tells you everything.

Curious, you look over your shoulder and catch him looking at your bare cunt, his eyes wide and dark, pure want and reverence tangled together. His mouth drops open, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip and then he swallows.

To tease him more, you’re jutting your ass higher in the air and it seems to snap him out of his daze as he lands a firm and possessive slap on your ass cheek. Then, he’s kneading on the flesh like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

Chris tilts his head, eyes once again focused on the dripping opening of your body. His thumb lightly trails around your entrance. “So wet… so ready for me…” he murmurs almost to himself.

He pulls his hand away just to licks his fingers, wetting them with his saliva before finally, finally, touching you the way you want. The first touch is his fingers running between your slick folds, wetting them with your essence. Next, fingertips pressing, circling on your clit. Then, he drags his fingers to the back and then, easily slips two digits into you.

“So fucking tight…” he mutters so low you believe you’re not meant to hear it.

His touch grows slick, intentional as he keeps pumping his fingers in and out of you. Then, he curls them, hitting you right on that spot.

The sensation pulls a soft, helpless sound from your throat. “Oh, god…”

“Right there, mmh?” he murmurs with a soft yet filthy smile as he does the same, curled fingers hitting right on the spot.

You’re gasping, chasing, undone by how well he knows you. Soon, your body responds on its own, pressing back into his hand, craving more, craving him.

He only watches, breath heavy, voice dark with satisfaction as he tells you exactly what he sees—how openly you want him, how beautifully you give yourself over. And you don’t hide it. You move with him, shamelessly riding on his fingers, moaning, letting him see just how much you’ve been waiting too.

“Guess you’re ready now,” he roughly exhales behind you as he pulls his fingers out of you.

The loss of his touch makes you whine but you can even complaint, you hear fabric shifting, the sound of zipper opening. You glance back, his movements growing hurried, uncharacteristically impatient as he pulls his slacks down, not fully but enough to set his erection free. You gulp air at the sight of his flushed, swollen member. Your confidence shrinks a little at the sheer size of him.

The air is now charged and heavy, and then you feel him there, the hard press of his tip teasing your entrance, slowly, torturously, just enough to make your body jerk forward, a needy sound torn from your throat.

His voice comes strained, thick with restraint as he murmurs, “I’m trying not to rush. But God—I’ve waited.”

There’s no patience left in him when he finally presses into you, the sensation knocks the air from your chest. He’s barely an inch inside you yet you cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets, overwhelmed by the way he feels—by how perfectly, devastatingly right it is.

He groans too, the sound wrecked and helpless, like he’s been undone the moment you take him in. “Don’t you want it, baby?” he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. “Haven’t you been asking for it, mmh?”

You’re at a loss for words. No. you brain is close to short-circuiting that you can’t compute any words.

His hands find your hips, grounding, possessive, holding you steady as he braces himself for what he’s about to do. “Then take it like you want it,” he mutters as he sinks into you deeper, inch by inch, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. The last of him settles into you and the fullness is dizzying, almost too much—sweet and overwhelming all at once. Pleasure crests so suddenly it leaves you boneless, forehead dropping into the pillow as your body betrays you completely.

You hear his soft, disbelieving laugh as his hand slides up your spine, fingers curling at the nape of your neck. “What is this?” he murmurs almost in mocking but you can hear the pride woven in between words. “I just put it in and you already come.”

Before you can even catch your breath, before the aftershocks fade, he starts moving, setting a rhythm that steals every thought from your head and leaves you with nothing but him.

And in the haze of the moment, you realize that the waiting was cruel, but this was worth every second.

You’re barely aware of the bed beneath you anymore—only the way your fingers twist into the sheets, the way your breath keeps breaking apart in soft, helpless sounds you can’t seem to stop.

He stays close, impossibly close, until the weight of him is everywhere, grounding and overwhelming all at once. His chest presses to your back and his breath ghosts over your ear as he murmurs things meant only for you, words that make your stomach flip and your toes curl.

“You feel so good, baby.”

“Oh, I can do this all night.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever want to stop.”

It doesn’t take long for that familiar coil inside you to tighten again, wound too tight, too fast, because it’s him. His hungry mouth finds your neck, the faint sting of his teeth has you gasping, the sensation blurring into something intoxicating as his groans spill against your skin, rough and unfiltered.

“Chris, I’m so close…”you manage to tell him, voice broken and breathless.

The response is immediate. You feel it in the way he moves, the way his grip tightens, the way he’s quickening the pace as the skin-slapping sounds turns rapid and louder. He knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how to push you there and when you finally shatter, it’s with his name half-lost on your tongue.

He doesn’t rush you through it this time. He stays, lets you feel everything until you go soft beneath him, boneless and spent. You collapse fully onto the bed, chest heaving, mind blissfully blank.

Chris smiles down at you, unmistakably pleased, and presses gentle kisses along your shoulder, your neck—soothing where moments ago everything burned. When he kisses your lips, it’s slow and tender, like he’s reeling you back to him again.

“Want to take a break?” he asks softly.

Even when you’re still dazed and still catching your breath, you know what you want. You shake your head and look up at him through heavy lashes. “Let’s do it again.”

The look he gives you is dark and dangerously amused and this time, you don’t give him a moment but push him until he’s collapsing onto the space next to you.

Slowly, you push yourself upright, and for a second you just look at him—how relaxed he is, half-bare, slacks half-undone, stretched out against the sheets like he’s got all the time in the world. It makes something mischievous spark in you and you decide to fix that.

His breath changes the moment you move closer, the calm slipping just a little as you take your time, as if you’re reminding him exactly who’s here with him now. His eyes darken as you take his slacks off first and then your clothes after, shedding what’s left between you and him.

When you climb back over him, he exhales like the sight of your naked body alone knocks the breath from his lungs. His gaze traces you slowly, hands warm and steady as they admire the shape, the curve of your body.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” he murmurs, voice low and honest as he runs a hand between your breasts.

“You’ve been wanting me… on top of you?” you tease with a sly smirk.

He doesn’t hesitate even for a second to nod at that.

You smile, leaning closer, close enough that your words are felt more than heard. “Then pay attention,” you whisper, pressing a kiss that’s slow and deep, promising him of what’s more to come.

Then slowly, you pull back, settling yourself on top of him, straddling him. You make him wait for a moment before reaching down, wrapping your hand around his cock. The sight of the evident veins coiling around the length, pulsating with so much desire and the bead of precum glistening at the tip has you biting your lower lip in hunger.

Yet you make him wait. He hisses as you begin stroking him, slowly and deliberately, as he lays back, watching the way you’re touching him. You scoot a little to the back until you’re perched on his thighs, allowing you to lean down and land a lick around the crest, smearing the precum with your tongue.

Out of pure curiosity, you open your mouth, sticking your tongue out just a little and take him into your mouth, wanting to see how far can you take him. You’re only halfway until you feel him hitting the back of your throat and almost gagging because of it. Clearly, you’re too greedy, too confident.

As if he knows you need a reward for at least trying, Chris brushes your hair away and praises, “You did so well, baby.”

You wrapped your hand around his length once more but this time, you’re aligning it upward as you positioning yourself from the top. Then slowly, you ease yourself down his length. Oh, the feeling of him filling you once more is inexplicably delicious — the stretch, the hardness, the fullness.

Chris struggles to keep quiet, his groans and grunts eventually turning into whimpers as his eyes centered on the way you’re taking him in little by little. When you fully take him in, his hands fly to your hips, trying to ground himself in the moment.

You gasp as you full settle yourself on him, the slightest of movement and you feel his whole size inside you. He feels hard and hot inside of you. A blissful smile plastered your face from getting your need fulfilled.

A hand reaches the side of your face, holding you there as he looks at you with admiration and lust. “You take me so well, baby,” he sighs like he can’t comprehend the feel, the sight of you. “Such a good girl for me.”

You can’t help but smile and lean into his touch, feeling love and wanted all at once.

“Come, kiss me,” he demands, gliding his hand to the nape of your neck.

You lean in once more, giving him the kiss and he returns it with the same eagerness just how he asked it. His arms wrapped around your body, pulling you close before he drags them down your back until they’re settled on the rounds of your ass. He squeezes on the flesh and then, gently slaps on it.

You yelp against his lips, surprised yet amused.

“Now, give your man a good ride,” he playfully mutters with a crooked grin.

You chuckle despite it and slowly, pulling yourself back to straddling him. With your hands rested flat on his muscular chest, you begin moving, rocking your hips back and forth, doing it slowly as to feel his whole size dragging against your walls.

With the way you’re leaning forward, your breasts hovering not far from his reach and Chris doesn’t pass the chance to play with them, fondling, enjoying the softness and at the same time, in awe of how they fit perfectly in his hands. His thumbs circling on your hardening buds and then, he pinches on one.

You sharply gasp in reaction but he only grins in return. You use the opportunity to shift, planting both feet on the mattress and lean back. In this new position, it allows him the view of his cock buried deep inside your wet tightness.

“Oh, yeah, right there, baby,” he breathlessly murmurs, eyelids fluttering, fingers digging at your thigh. “Keep going.”

And you do, propping your hands on his thighs now as support. Soon, you’re enjoying it as well as you take more of him. In the middle of it, your hand reaches for your clit for added pleasure but Chris gets to it first.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he sighs, skillful fingers circling on your pulsating clit.

You continuously move, chasing that high again despite the burn on your thighs and legs. It lasts only for a moment until you’re back to straddling him, hands propped on each side of him as you rock your hips again, slower yet deeper.

Sensing that you're getting tired, Chris puts his arms around you, pulling you close until your chest pressed to his. He’s bucking into you from under, meeting you in each thrust and making you gasp as it hits you right in the spot. The tension builds in the way you move together, all heat and restraint unraveling.

“Come, baby, let me feel you fluttering around me,” he mutters, rough and breathless.

You come apart together again, softer this time, held instead of chased. He keeps you close as he rises until you’re sitting on his lap and legs wrapped around his waists. The intensity ebbs as his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s all warmth and reassurance. He moves them lower, your neck, your collarbone. Then lower to the soft skin under your breast. Then back to your lips again.

When you break the kiss, breathless and smiling, you don’t hesitate when you say, “Again.”

His brow lifts, amusement flickering through the haze. “Again?”

You nod, already settling back into him, certain. “Again.”

This time, his laugh is low and dangerous, but the way he holds you tells you he’s more than happy to oblige.

-

“Stop teasing.”

Chris only grins at your small, desperate mewl as he’s been rubbing his length between your wet folds for a while now. Or could be also because you’re impatient. Yeah. Mostly that.

You tug at his hair, a fair warning. “Put it in already,” you whine.

Instead of waiting for him, you push the head of his cock into you and let him do the rest himself. The sheets cool against your skin as you sink back into bed and Chris follows you without hesitation, hovering over you like gravity itself has decided you’re its center.

The way he moves isn’t rushed now. It’s slow and certain. Like he knows exactly where this is going and wants to feel every second of it. His mouth is everywhere, leaving you gasping, hands twisting into the sheets as your body arches instinctively toward him.

“Put more of you inside of me,” you breathlessly say between your moans.

He does so by lifting your legs higher, launching him deeper, drawing you closer. You can’t help the sounds that slip out of you. Your bodies pressed close together, ignoring the fact that both of your bodies are coated with a sheen of sweat but that doesn't stop you both from moving in sync, chasing that high together. Just when you’re on the edge, right when everything in you is screaming for release, he stills.

He pulls out and backing down, mouth finding the source of heat pooling between your legs. There’s no hint of hesitation as he dives right into it, sticking his tongue out, licking the mess on the skin around your cunt until your thoughts dissolve entirely.

Your hands fly to his shoulders, your breath coming apart as he takes his time, as if he’s wanting to keep the stimulation going but not letting you fall apart yet.

When his lips lands on yours again, your foreheads touch, both of you breathing hard.

“Let’s come together, yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod, unable to form words.

This time, when he moves with you, there’s nothing frantic about it. Just closeness. Just want. Just the quiet certainty that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

Your body is spent but is more sensitive than before, it doesn’t take long for you to come. Your body spasms, your limbs loose, your body is high with pure unadulterated pleasure.

Not long after, Chris follows. His jaws tight, grunts contained behind his pressed lips but they spill anyway as he pulls his cock out just in time to shoot his load onto your chest and stomach, followed with a sound slipping from him that feels like relief and disbelief all tangled together.

“Going to mark you, baby,” he mutters as more of his seed dripping onto your abdomen. “Cause you’re mine.”

When you think he's done, he puts himself back into you, chasing more of pleasure, slower yet with intent. You’re too tired to keep up with him so you only watch as he chases more of his high until he comes again. However, this time, he pulls a little too late that he spills onto your cunt and inner thigh.

His body stills but his eyes roaming over you like he can’t quite process that this is real. That he’s painting you in his seed, pearly white streaks on your flushed skin, glistening under the low light.

“Didn’t think I would come that much,” he mutters, tired yet you notice a hint of pride in it.

You reach for him, tugging him down into a kiss that’s slow and deep and even now, you already know that this isn’t the end of wanting. When you pull away, you lie there boneless against the sheets, chest rising and falling, out of breath.

Chris continues to press slow, lingering kisses to your lips, then your jaw, then your temple—each one gentle like he’s thanking you for letting him do all of that to you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, that familiar glint in his eyes returning as he teasingly murmurs, “Again?”

You laugh breathlessly, too wrung out to even pretend otherwise. Instead, you bring your hands together weakly, forming a crooked little cross over your chest. “Time out,” you manage, voice rough but amused.

Chris chuckles and shifts closer, hovering over you as if he can’t help himself. One hand comes up to brush stray strands of hair away from your face, his thumb tracing your cheek with careless tenderness.

You take another moment for yourself until you’re calm enough and open your eyes, finding his already on yours. “So… any words?” you lightly ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t joke this time but looks at you like the answer has always been obvious, like it lives somewhere deep in his chest. “I waited because I knew you were worth it,” he softly says with a fond smile.

Your heart dips hard at that. You make a small sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and pull him down into a kiss, lingering there before whispering, “Oh, I just I love you so much.”

His answer comes instantly, full of conviction. “I love you too, baby. So much.”

He gathers you into him then, pulling you flush against his chest, one arm firm around your waist. He peppers your shoulder, your cheek, your hairline with soft little kisses until your breathing evens out and the weight of the day finally settles.

Curled against him, wrapped in warmth and quiet, you let yourself drift into sleep while listening to the steady beat of his heart that is now forever yours.

-

You wake up to an unfamiliar emptiness beside you. Your arm stretches across the sheets, searching, but Chris isn’t there. You blink sleep from your eyes and call his name once, then again. There’s no answer and for a second, confusion settles in until you turn your head to the other side and spot a glass of water on the bedside table. A small note is taped to it.

Going to the gym. Be back soon. His handwriting with a drawing of a tiny heart in the corner.

You smile to yourself, equal parts fond and incredulous. After last night, he still has the energy to work out? The thought makes you giggle quietly, especially when you remember exactly why he has that much stamina in the first place.

You linger in bed a little longer, cocooned in the warmth he left behind, before deciding you should at least look semi-presentable when he comes back. The moment you move, though, your body reminds you of everything—your back, your legs, your hips aching in that slow, delicious way.

You bite back a smile. Yeah. That explains it.

Dragging yourself up, you slip on a robe and shuffle into the bathroom. Wash your face with cold water and then brush your teeth. When you finally look up at your reflection, you notice a faint bruise blooms on your neck. When you tilt your head, you find a bite mark under your breast. Then your hips—tiny marks where his hands had held you firmly the night before. Crescent marks along your waist. You don’t rush to hide them. Instead, you smile because they’re proof. Proof of his touch. Proof that he marked you as his, and he’s yours.

Back in bed, you settle against the pillows and pick up the phone to order breakfast for two. You’re midway through the call when the door opens and Chris walks in with a grin, hair dishevelled, cheeks blushed with heat. He heads straight for the bathroom, rinsing off quickly before returning half-bare, running the towel over his face, his neck, his shoulders.

You watch without shame, eyes tracing the familiar lines of his toned body still flushed from the gym.

“Well, well, well,” you tease, phone still at your ear, “my breakfast came faster than I expected.”

He laughs, a little shy, a little pleased. When he climbs onto the bed, you barely give him time to kiss you before you loop your arms around him and tug him down, forcing him to rest his head in your lap.

“I’m still sweaty, baby,” he says but lets you anyway, greeting you with a soft, sleepy good morning.

You hold his face with both hands and pout. “You didn’t tell me you went to the gym.”

“I couldn’t wake you,” he says gently. “You were sleeping too well.”

Hearing that undoes your pout almost immediately. Your fingers play with the tendrils of hair on the nape of his neck as you ask, “How did you manage to go to the gym after… all that cardio last night?”

He smirks as he calmly answers, “Need to work on my endurance.”

“Well, I fully support you,” you shoot back with a sly smile.

You end up having breakfast sprawled across the bed, plates balanced between pillows, sunlight spilling in like it’s been invited.

Chris feeds you a bite without even thinking about it, and you steal a sip of his juice just because you can.

“So,” he says casually, wiping his thumb against the corner of your mouth, “what do you want to do today?”

You lean into his shoulder, cheek pressed to his skin, and look up at him with something unmistakably wicked flickering in your eyes. “Honestly?” you say, dragging the word out. “I kind of feel like staying in today.”

He hums as he half focused on scooping scrambled egg with his fork.

You pause just long enough to hold back a smirk, then add, “So we can do it again.” You pause to kiss his shoulder. “And again.” A kiss to his neck. “And again.” Another pressed to his jaw. “And again.” The last kiss lands on the corner of his lips.

Chris laughs, low and fond, shaking his head as he calmly takes a sip of orange juice like you didn’t just say that. “That is a nice idea,” he admits, setting the glass aside. Then his eyes light up with a different kind of excitement. “But—counteroffer.”

You watch him, intrigued.

“We rent a car,” he continues, warming to it. “Go for a drive. Sightseeing. Try local food. Take way too many pictures. Maybe do a little shopping.”

You smile because yeah, not that you think about it, it would be a shame to stay in when you have a whole island to explore. But you lean in closer anyway.

“And then,” you add sweetly, “we come home and do… it.”

He laughs again, nodding. “Best way to end the day, right?”

He slips an arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and his voice softens. “I just… I want to do a lot of things with you.”

Your heart stutters from the way he smiles in such hopeful, such loving way. You kiss him without thinking, a quick, affectionate peck that lingers longer than planned.

When he pulls back, he smiles and adds gently, “Isn’t that crazy we have forever to do all of that?”

You repeatedly nod in agreement. “Insane.”

He’s grinning before kissing you again. “We have forever ahead of us.”

Forever. You have forever with him and that feels long and far, yet not enough for you. But you’re thankful to even have it with him. You melt into him, the word settling warm and steady in your chest as you echo it back, full of love and hope.

“Forever.”

And as you lie there tangled together, breakfast forgotten and plans only half-made, you realize there’s no rush anymore. No countdown, no waiting, no holding back. Just mornings like this and a lifetime of ordinary days waiting to be turned into something meaningful. You don’t know exactly what forever will look like, not in detail, not yet.

But with him beside you, steady and warm and real and choosing you every time, you know one thing for certain: whatever comes next, you’ll meet it together.

-

✨ MORE SEOSPICY FICS ON PATREON ✨

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The ring feels too loud in the dark. It only goes through twice before you pick up, voice soft and rough around the edges.

“Hello?”

He exhales like he’s been underwater. “Hey, baby.”

There’s a rustle of sheets on your end, the tiny scrape of your throat when you swallow. “Chris?” Your words come out clumsy with sleep. “What time is it?”

“For you?” He glances at the digital clock by the bed, numbers bleeding red. “Like… almost midnight. I think. Did I wake you up?”

“Mm.” The noise is half confirmation, half yawn. “S’okay. I like when you wake me up.”

Something in his chest curls, warm and tight. He sinks back against the headboard, free hand dragging over his face. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. He can hear the faint friction of your pillow when you roll over. “’Cause it means you’re thinking about me.”

“Always thinking about you,” he says before he can stop himself. His voice comes out lower than he expects, frayed with it. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad day?”

“Long.” He shifts, the hotel sheets whispering against his legs. The movement drags his attention to exactly how restless he is, how his body keeps remembering the weight of you in his lap, the warmth of your mouth at his throat. “Miss you.”

You hum again, that drowsy, happy sound that goes straight through him. “Tell me about it.”

He laughs quietly. “About my day, or about missing you?”

“Either.” He can hear your smile, even half-asleep. “Both.”

He lets his head fall back, staring up at the dim ceiling. His hand slips, almost thoughtless, from his stomach to the waistband of his sweats, fingers hooking in the elastic. “Venue was loud. In-ear kept cutting out. Nearly tripped over a cable like an idiot.”

“Bet you still looked hot,” you mumble. 

His pulse jumps.

“Yeah?” His thumb pushes just beneath the band, skimming the warm skin there. “You weren’t even there to see.”

“I don’t have to. I know.” Another rustle; he pictures you curling in, phone tucked close to your cheek. “You’re always pretty on stage.”

He makes a low sound, almost a groan, and has to turn it into a cough. His palm settles lower, pressing down over the heat that’s been bothering him all night.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Just—really wish you were here.”

“Me too.” Your words come slower now, loosening with sleep. “What would we be doing if I was?”

His fingers tighten, breath catching. “Dangerous question, sweetheart.”

You giggle, a soft little puff of air. “You started it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. His hand moves lightly, barely any pressure, just enough to take the edge off the ache while he listens to you breathe in his ear.

“I’d have you in this bed,” he admits, voice barely more than a whisper. “Right now. Stealing my blankets. Putting your cold feet on my legs and pretending it’s an accident.”

Your drowsy laugh is his favorite sound in the world. “It is an accident.”

“Liar.” His knuckles brush under the elastic again, teasing himself with the idea of more. “You’d be all over me.”

“I’m always all over you,” you say, like it’s just a fact because it is. “You like it.”

“I love it.” The words scrape up from someplace raw. “Miss your weight on me. Miss—” He bites back the rest, jaw clenching. His hand finally slips fully under the waistband, fingers curling against the heat there, not daring to move too much. “Miss everything.”

The confession drags out of him in a rasp, one he can’t soften, not when the heat under his palm keeps blooming hotter every time your sleep-heavy voice brushes the receiver. His fingers close a little tighter, just enough to feel the throb against his palm, a slow, pulsing ache that’s been building since soundcheck and finally crests now—alone, half-hard, pressed into a mattress that doesn’t smell like you.

You let out a quiet hum, the kind that melts at the edges. “’m sure you’ll be home soon…”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Soon feels like a lie. His hand shifts again, almost unconsciously, dragging up the length of his cock in a slow, aching glide. The friction makes his whole body jerk, breath catching. He bites down on a groan, turning it into a strained exhale.

“Chris?” you murmur, voice sleep-dilated, warm as a comforter pulled up to his chin. “You’re breathing weird.”

“Just—” His jaw locks. He drags his fist down again, slower this time, feeling the way he’s already leaking into his palm. “Just tired. Keep talking.”

That part isn’t a lie. He needs you to keep talking. Needs your voice like oxygen.

“Mm… what should I talk about?”

“Anything,” he whispers. His thumb circles the swollen head, collecting slick, and his hips lift off the mattress before he can stop himself. The sound he makes is sharp and muffled, swallowed into his pillow. “Just… don’t go quiet.”

You shift on your bed, fabric sighing around you, and he almost loses it. His fist tightens, stroking with just enough pressure to make his stomach clench.

“I changed the sheets today,” you mumble, drifting. “They’re the soft ones you like…”

“Fuck,” he breathes. He can feel them—imagine your legs tangled in them, imagine you curled against him, half-asleep and warm and needy. His pace quickens, slow but deliberate, dragging from base to tip, the slick pulse of pre-come making everything wetter, easier. “Wish I was there.”

“You will be soon,” you mumble again, almost gone. “Stop worrying.”

He can’t stop. Not the worry, not the wanting, not the way his hand keeps moving even as he tries to slow it down. The bedframe creaks softly beneath him. He spreads his knees, letting the tension roll through his hips, breath coming tighter, faster.

“Baby…” he whispers, voice frayed and trembling. “If you were here—I’d have you on top of me. Right now. Sleeping on my chest or riding me, I don’t care which.”

You let out a small, drowsy sound, something between a hum and a sigh. "You do love your rides, don't you? Got a few songs 'bout it."

He smiles into the dark, tugging the sheet lower to give his hips room. “Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “You look best there.”

His fist eases higher, slow as honey. The head slips through his grip, glossy and tender, and the tiniest twist at the top makes his stomach jump. He keeps his breathing quiet—nostrils flared, mouth pressed to the inside of his bicep—while the phone warms his ear with your drowsy little hum.

“M’wearing your shirt,” you confess, voice blurring at the edges. “The one that's big on even you.”

A curse burns his tongue. He drags his hand down, knuckles brushing the soft skin at the base, then up again in a steady pull that leaves a wet sound he kills against his pillow. Pre-come strings between his fingers when he loosens for a second; he collects it with his thumb and smears it over the swollen tip in slow circles until his toes curl.

“Yeah?” His voice scrapes. “Bet it’s swallowing you.”

“Like a dress,” you yawn. The microphone catches the faint rasp of fabric as you burrow deeper. “Smells like you.”

He tightens his grip and works himself with small, practiced strokes—fingers snug at the base, wrist rolling just enough to catch the underside where he’s most sensitive. The rhythm finds him in your breathing: in, out, in, out, each glide timed to the soft rise and fall on the other end of the line. The bed murmurs beneath him; he shifts his weight into the mattress to quiet it, thighs spread, heels digging for leverage he refuses to use.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, because if you stop he will fall apart too fast. “Tell me what color the sheets are.”

A sleepy laugh. “You’re weird. They’re the blue ones.”

Blue. He pictures your knee dragging over them, the hem of his shirt rucking up your thigh, and his hand stutters, catching on the slick crown before he pushes down again with more intent. Heat coils low, tight, insistent. He palms the head, squeezes, lets go—then returns to long, greedy passes that make his abdomen quiver.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, almost gone.

“Listening,” he manages. He tips his hips into his fist, shallow little thrusts that turn his breath thin. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. Your breathing settles, sweet and even. He slides the phone half under the pillow to muffle any sound he can’t swallow and loses the last of his restraint. The strokes turn deeper, wetter; the slick has him gliding, wrist working, fist snugging right under the ridge and rolling up, up, up. He can feel everything—the pulse against his palm, the tug low in his belly, the ache along the underside that begs for more. He gives it to himself, jaw locked, eyes burning.

“Chris?” It’s barely a whisper, a drifting check-in.

“I’m here,” he breathes, strangled-soft. "Oh—"

He folds his mouth into the crook of his arm before the sound can get out, wrist tipping, grip tightening until his forearm trembles. The next stroke drags over slick, the head flushed and feverish in his fist; he rolls his thumb through the slit and the shock of it makes his thighs jump against the mattress.

“Hm?” you murmur, a smear of curiosity through sleep.

“Just—stretching,” he lies into his skin, voice wrecked and quiet. “Go back to sleep, angel.”

You sigh, a soft ribbon. He matches his rhythm to it—glide, catch, twist—working himself in long, greedy pulls. Wet sounds bloom under the sheets; he smothers them in fabric and teeth, hips giving tiny, helpless thrusts up into his hand. The room narrows to heat and the smell of his own skin and the picture of you in his shirt on those blue sheets, thigh slotted over his, mouth open on a sleepy little breath.

“Y’still listening?” you whisper, barely there.

“Always,” he exhales, and it comes out like a prayer.

He tucks two fingers under the head and squeezes, wrist rolling, circling the underside ridge he knows will undo him. The knot in his belly draws tight, tight, until everything inside him hooks on a single thread.

“Channie…”

The way you say his name—heavy, trusting, unaware—tips him.

He breaks quietly. Heat spills over his knuckles, thick and sudden; he milks himself through it with short, shaking strokes, eyes flooding, jaw locked around any sound that tries to escape. His stomach flutters; a second pulse drips mess across his fingers, then a third, slower, as the edge gives way to a bruised, floating warmth. He keeps his hand gentle, ghosting over oversensitive skin, smearing what’s left lower to soothe the ache.

He strokes through the aftershocks because he can’t not—lazy, syrup-slow pulls that make his abdomen flutter and his teeth click softly against his arm. The oversensitivity burns sweet; each glide is a careful skim over tender skin, his palm warm with the mess he just spilled. He breathes with you—inhale, exhale—letting the edge dissolve into a low, molten hum.

“Feel better?” you ask.

His hand stills.

For a second the room goes weightless. Embarrassment flashes hot at the base of his skull; he swallows around it, thumb resting against the slick, pulsing crown like he could hide the evidence from a phone line.

“You… knew?” His voice scratches out small.

A tiny smile curves your words. “You think I don't know my boy by now?” A rustle of sheets as you turn, closer to the mic.

He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than voice, forehead tipping to the crook of his arm. “Didn’t wanna—” “Oh, shush.” Your smile warms the line. “Did you feel better?”

He nods even though you can’t see it. “Yeah,” he murmurs, breath warm against his arm. “Yeah, baby.”

But the calm lasts only a few heartbeats. The ache leaves a ghost behind, a tender, itchy need that his body can’t stop chasing. His fingers slip lower again, testing; the touch makes him flinch. Too much—too sweet. He hisses, then does it again anyway, barely-there strokes that skate over oversensitive skin and pull a helpless sound out of him.

“Mm.” You make a small, content noise. Sheets hush on your end. No questions. No tease. Just that soft proof you’re still there.

He bites his lip and works himself in shallow passes, a careful glide and lift, glide and lift, never quite closing his fist. The head is fever-wet, every brush a spark. “Nnh—” He tries to swallow it down, but the whimpers leak out, thin and needy. The phone’s mic catches the smallest tremor when he breathes your name. “Baby…”

“I know,” You coo. “Hurts, doesn’t  it baby?”

“‘S good,” He can’t help but whimper. He tips his hips, chasing it. The rhythm turns fragile and greedy at once, wrist flexing, thumb smoothing the slit, then backing off when the burn spikes too sharp. “Gos—mmh—s’too much,” he whispers into the dark, and still he keeps going, whiny little sounds catching in his throat. His thighs tighten; his stomach flutters; he drags the edge out because your quiet makes him reckless.

Another stroke skims perfectly along the underside and his breath breaks. “Oh—ohh, please—” No one’s told him to beg, but it pours out of him anyway, raw and small. He palms himself, milking the tenderness until it crests again—smaller, quicker, a trembling spill that paints his knuckles and lower belly with another thin, shocked heat.

“Chris?” you mumble, so faint he almost thinks he dreamed it.

“I’m here,” he pants, wrecked-soft, stroking himself down to nothing. “Holy shit.”

The second afterglow hits like warm rain. He lets his hand go slack, cupping himself so the sparks fade without stinging. A shaky exhale leaves him. He blinks at the ceiling until it steadies, then wipes his fingers with the safe, cool corner of the sheet, patient and quiet so the bed doesn’t complain.

“Love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and tender.

“Love you most,” you echo, dream-drunk, already drifting.

He smiles, a little whine still caught in the back of his throat as his body sighs into the mattress. One hand spreads over his chest; the other rests palm-down on his thigh, heat fading under his skin. The city glow softens the room to the color of your blue sheets.

fuckboy!Chris who fucks like a man with something to prove. He’s used to girls falling apart in ten minutes and he’s bored of it, so with you he takes his time just to see what happens. He lays you out on his bed, gets your dress rucked up around your hips, panties shoved to the side, and spends way too long just… looking. Big hands spreading you open so his thumb can swipe through your slick, middle finger teasing at your entrance but not pushing in yet.

fuckboy!Chris who talks you through it like he’s slipping under your skin—voice all gravel and honey right by your ear while his thick cock stretches you out, inch by inch, until your nails leave crescents in his shoulders. He hitches your knees up high, folding you almost in half so your feet barely have anything to press against, your whole body pinned and helpless under the weight of him.

“That’s it,” he groans, head dropping to your throat as he bottoms out, so deep you swear you feel him in your lungs. “Take all of it for me. Knew this pretty pussy could handle me.”

fuckboy!Chris who loses his mind over the size difference—how your hand looks when it wraps around just the base of him, how your thighs tremble against his ribs when he really starts to move. He watches you in the mirror across the room, the way your tits bounce with every rough snap of his hips, your face going slack and pretty when he hits that spot inside you over and over until your voice cracks.

“Look at you,” he pants, leaning back just enough to cage your wrists above your head with one hand, the other bracing under your thigh as he pounds into you. The bedframe slams the wall, your whimpers spilling into the room. “So fucking pretty under me… you hear yourself? All those little noises just for my cock?”

fuckboy!Chris who swears he doesn’t kiss girls, not really, not the way that matters—but somehow his mouth keeps finding yours mid-thrust, stealing your breath, swallowing your broken, wrecked sounds. He groans when your legs lock around his waist like you’re trying to keep him there forever, like you’d die if he pulled out.

“Fuuuck—yeah, hold on to me,” he rasps, voice fraying. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and desperate. “Clingy little thing, aren’t you? You want me to stay?”

fuckboy!Chris who was supposed to pull out. He always does. That’s the rule. No sleepovers, no cuddling, no finishing inside. But then your nails rake down his back and he feels you clamp down around him so tight he sees white.

His hips stutter, rhythm breaking as he drives into you harder, deeper, chasing it.

“Shit, baby, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He should pull back. He knows it. Instead his hand flies to your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek as he forces your head up so you’re looking right at him when he spills, cock throbbing, hot and thick inside you. He groans into your open mouth, eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck… shit, look what you made me do,” he pants, staying buried, cock twitching as his cum leaks out around the seal of you, sticky and obscene. 

fuckboy!Chris who tells himself that’s it. One time. You were good, sure, but there’s always someone else. Except then he’s in the shower later with his head against the tile, jerking himself off to the memory of your fucked-out face, the way you gasped when he lifted your hips and pushed you down onto him like a doll. He comes too fast, embarrassingly fast, and the worst part is he still isn’t satisfied.

fuckboy!chris who tells himself he only comes back because you’re convenient. Because you’re close. Because you’re good. And you are—fuck, you’re good. You look up at him with those glassy eyes while you’re on top of him and he has to brace a hand against the mattress so he doesn’t shake, veins in his forearms popping as he rasps out, “slow down, baby, fuck— you tryna make me fall in love or what?”

fuckboy!Chris who starts seeing you everywhere after that—your lip gloss in the corner of his sheet, your hair tie on his nightstand, the faint bruise your teeth left on his throat. His phone lights up and he pretends he’s not waiting for your name, but his stomach flips every time it’s someone else.

fuckboy!Chris who texts you at 1:43 a.m. u up? fully expecting you to ignore him. When you actually answer, his fingers tighten around his phone, a slow grin spreading across his face.

yeah. why?

you know why, he sends back before he can talk himself out of it. come over.

fuckboy!Chris who never, ever fucks the same girl twice—who built a whole persona on that, on being untouchable, unbothered, too busy chasing the next warm body to even think about repeats—until you.

Until he’s on his knees between your thighs the next time, shoulders spread wide against your inner legs, licking into you like a man starved because just feeling you around his cock isn’t enough anymore. Until he’s growling against your pussy, voice rough and wrecked:

“Gonna ruin you for everyone else, you know that? You feel what I’m doing to you? No one’s ever gonna have you like this but me.”

fuckboy!Chris who starts staying after. He’ll finish with you—deep, messy, your cunt still fluttering around him—and then he’ll realize he’s still inside you ten minutes later, just lazily rocking his hips while you whimper into his neck, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. He tells himself he’s just catching his breath, that’s all.

fuckboy!Chris who hears his friends joking about how he never sticks around, never calls, never double-backs… and doesn’t say anything about the fact he’s already been in your bed three times this week. Or the way his jaw tightens when you mention some guy from class, tongue pressed into his cheek when your phone lights up with another name while you’re straddling his lap.

fuckboy!Chris who suddenly gets really opinionated about your love life for someone who “doesn’t do relationships.”

“Why you even talking to him?” he mutters, peeping over your shoulder at your phone. “His texts are dry as hell. You seriously into that?”

fuckboy!Chris who pretends it doesn’t bother him when you say, half-teasing, “Relax, you’re not my boyfriend,” after he snatches your phone and flips it screen-down. He scoffs, leans back on your pillows with his arms behind his head like he’s unbothered, shirt riding up just enough to show the cut lines of his stomach.

“I know,” he says. “I’d be a shit one.”

But he fucks you mean that night, rougher than usual, your knees hooked over his forearms as he drives into you, eyes dark and focused like he’s trying to fuck the word boyfriend right out of your vocabulary. Every thrust is deep, punishing, your breath hitching into little choked-off cries.

“Not your boyfriend,” he grits, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs. “But you let me fuck you like this, yeah? You let me be the only one who sees you like this?”

fuckboy!Chris who can’t stop talking once he’s in deep and losing it.

“Look at this little cunt,” he pants, eyes fixed where you’re stretched around him, where his cock disappears inside you again and again. “Always so ready for me, always so tight—shit, bet you’d take whatever I give you, huh? Fingers, tongue, anything I want.”

You whine his name, broken and high, and feel him shudder behind you.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” he gasps, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You were made for this fucking cock, swear to God.”

fuckboy!Chris who starts doing stupid things, out of nowhere. Like showing up with takeout on a night you didn’t invite him. Like remembering how you take your coffee without ever meaning to. Like shrugging off his hoodie and tugging it over your head when you shiver, grumbling, “you say you run hot and then complain about being cold, unreal,” while his brain quietly short-circuits at how cute you look in it.

fuckboy!Chris who gets reckless with his own rules. You spend the night once because it’s late, and then again because you “accidentally” fall asleep on his chest, and then again because he mumbles, half-asleep, “Just stay, yeah?” into your hair, and you do.

fuckboy!Chris who wakes up hard against you, arm heavy over your waist, face tucked into your neck, and realizes—horrified—that he feels… calm. Not trapped, not itchy to leave. Just… good. Your breath soft and even, your hand curled around his fingers like you trust him with something fragile.

fuckboy!Chris who panics and pulls back. Starts answering slower. Starts making excuses. Starts trying to prove to himself he’s still the same as he was before you, going out more, letting girls press up on him in clubs, flirting just enough to remind himself he knows how.

fuckboy!Chris who can’t follow through. He gets them back to his apartment, hands on autopilot, mouth saying all the right things—until they touch him in a way that isn’t yours, until they laugh at the wrong moment, until they look up at him and he thinks, not you. Everything in him goes flat.

“Actually,” he says once, stepping back with a crooked, apologetic grin, “I just remembered I’ve got an early morning.” “Now?” she scoffs. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs, already walking her to the door. “Yeah. Sorry, sweetheart.”

fuckboy!Chris who shuts the door on someone else and somehow ends up in his car, engine rumbling under his hands while his brain short-circuits. He tells himself he’s just going for a drive, just clearing his head. Definitely not typing your address into his GPS even though he could get there blindfolded by now.

fuckboy!Chris who’s halfway up your building’s stairs before he realizes he doesn’t have a reason to be there. No real one, anyway. Not one that doesn’t sound pathetic when he says it out loud.

I missed you.

He stands outside your door for a full minute, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides, heartbeat loud in his ears. He almost turns around. Almost.

He knocks.

You open the door in an old t-shirt and tiny shorts, hair a little messy, eyes going wide when you see him.

“Chris?”

He did not plan what to say. Panic hits so fast his brain grabs the first thing it can find.

“I’m sick,” he blurts.

You blink. “…What?”

“I’m—” he fakes a cough on the spot, winces at himself halfway through it and commits anyway, hunching his shoulders like he’s in a drama. “S’bad.”

There’s a beat of silence where you just stare at him, taking in the hoodie, the faint smell of cologne.

Then your mouth curls, unimpressed. “If you wanted to come over to fuck,” you say flatly, “you could’ve just said so.”

His ego flares like a personal emergency. Absolutely not. No way is he admitting that he bailed on another girl and came here because he—what, missed you? Needed you?

He coughs again. 

“Nah, I’m serious,” he insists, putting a hand to his forehead like he’s checking for a fever. “Think I’ve got, like… the plague or some shit.”

You squint at him. “You walked here with the plague.”

“Drove,” he corrects, like that helps. “Didn’t wanna give it to anyone. ‘Cept you, I guess. Sorry, baby.”

You exhale, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re so stupid.”

But you step back to let him in.

fuckboy!Chris who instantly sheds his shoes and beelines for your couch like he lives there, flopping down with a dramatic groan. He drapes an arm over his eyes, other hand fisted in the hem of your throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.

“Let me feel,” you mutter, stepping closer.

His brain promptly exits the chat.

“Feel what?” he asks, voice pitching up, because there are about five different answers he’d like to give that have nothing to do with health.

“Your forehead, dumbass.” You plant a hand on your hip.

He swallows and sits up a little, and it hits you—he does look off. Not just tired. His hair is a little damp at the hairline, cheeks flushed in a way that doesn’t look like his usual post-gym glow. His breathing isn’t labored, exactly, but there’s something… off-rhythm about it.

You reach out, press your palm flat to his forehead.

fuckboy!Chris who has had your hands on every inch of him and somehow still feels like he’s going to combust from the simple, cool weight of your palm on his skin. His eyes flutter shut on reflex, lashes brushing his cheeks, shoulders slumping.

“You’re hot,” you say, even though he’s not.

He opens one eye. “In a sexy way or—”

You smack his shoulder. “Christopher.”

He winces, but there’s a ghost of a grin there. It fades when you lean in again, thumb brushing the side of his neck like you’re checking his pulse. Your brows knit.

“On a scale of one to ten, how fake is this illness?”

He peeks at you from under his arm, lashes low. “Nine point seven,” he admits. Then, quickly, “But the part where I feel like shit is real.”

Your expression shifts, just a little. “Headache?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, the lie burying itself under the truth. “Headache.”

You hover for a second longer, still clearly suspicious, then your shoulders drop. “You could’ve just said you were having a bad night,” you mutter, brushing a bit of his hair back from his forehead with your fingers before you can stop yourself.

He goes very still under your touch.

“I’m having a bad night,” he says quietly.

fuckboy!Chris who says it like a joke at first—even now, his instinct is to twist everything into something lighter, something you can both laugh off later. But it sits between you too heavy to be funny, and when you don’t immediately fire back, he realizes he said it a little too honest.

You exhale, the edge in your shoulders softening against your will.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I kind of figured.”

You end up herding him toward your bedroom like he’s some oversized, sulky cat. He sits on the edge of your mattress, suddenly shy in a way that makes no sense given how many times he’s had you naked and begging under him.

“Top on or off?” you ask, rummaging for an extra blanket.

His brain immediately supplies a slideshow of you asking that in very different circumstances. His cock twitches in his sweats. Not the time, not the time, not the time—

“On,” he croaks, in case his body betrays him. 

You snort. “Relax, I wasn’t trying to strip you. I just don’t wanna wash hoodie lint out of my sheets if you start writhing around in your ‘death throes.’”

“I don’t writhe,” he mutters, which is a lie and you both know it.

You flick off the lamp by your dresser, leave the one by your bed on low. The room shrinks around the soft pool of light, everything quieter, edges blurred. You toss the extra blanket onto the mattress, then gesture.

“Lie down properly,” you say.

He hesitates, then swings his legs up, sitting stiffly with his back against the headboard like he’s in a waiting room. His hands are flat on his thighs, fingers drumming restlessly.

You crawl onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping with your weight. That gets his attention; his gaze tracks the movement of your body, the hem of your t-shirt riding up just a touch as you settle.

You pat your lap. “Here.”

His brows lift. “There?”

“No, the floor,” you deadpan. “Yes, here.”

He stares at you like you’ve offered him something dangerous and he’s not sure he should touch it. This is stupid, he thinks. He’s put his head between your thighs without blinking and now he’s nervous about putting it on them.

“You sure?” he asks, and even he can hear how rough it comes out.

You roll your eyes, softer this time. “Chris. C’mere.”

fuckboy!Chris who has never, ever laid his head in anyone’s lap in his life like this, not unless it was on the way to sliding down their body. 

fuckboy!Chris who has never been shy about taking what he wants when it comes to your body, but somehow feels like he’s crossing a line just by shifting down the bed, turning, and easing his head onto your thighs. The mattress springs sigh, your warmth seeping through the thin cotton of your shorts.

You adjust him without ceremony—one hand at the back of his neck, thumb rubbing at the tense knot there as you guide him until he’s exactly where you want him.

“Better?” you ask.

He didn’t know he needed this until the second his head finds the curve of you and everything inside him… drops. Unwinds. Lets go.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s… good.”

Your hand finds his hair like it’s been waiting there all along. You start to card your fingers through the strands, slow and deliberate, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

fuckboy!Chris who has taken you apart with his hands, his mouth, his body—who has bent you and folded you and held you down—and yet somehow, this undoes him more than any of it.

His eyes slide shut before he can stop them. His shoulders, always so squared and ready for impact, gradually sink into the mattress. Every stroke of your fingers sends a little shiver down his spine, not sharp, not electric—just… warm. Soothing. Intimate in a way he doesn’t have a category for.

“Tired?” you murmur after a moment.

“Mm.” His voice vibrates against your thighs. “Yeah.”

“How bad was it?” you ask quietly. “Your day.”

He swallows. His first instinct is to say it was fine. To make a joke. To say something glib and easy that keeps everything on the surface where it’s always been safe for him.

Instead, your nails catch on a tender spot behind his ear and his answer slips out softer than he means it to.

“Shit,” he says. “It was shit.”

You hum, fingers never stopping. “Yeah?”

He could tell you about the girl he almost fucked tonight and couldn’t. About how he stood in his own kitchen with someone’s hands on him and felt… nothing. About the way his chest has been tight for days, like there’s a fist around his ribs that only loosens when you’re close.

Instead, he swallows it all down.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he mutters.

You don’t push. You don’t pry it open or ask for details or turn his bad day into a post-mortem. You just make a quiet, noncommittal sound and keep stroking his hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp in slow, steady passes.

It’s such a small kindness it shouldn’t knock the air out of him.

But it does.

He feels it in the way his body reacts—like some invisible tension wire inside his chest finally snaps loose. His shoulders sink further into the mattress, muscles unspooling one by one as your fingers comb through his curls, carding from his hairline all the way back to the nape of his neck.

He lets out a sound he doesn’t recognize.

It’s tiny. Half-sigh, half-whine. It slips out of him on the exhale, vibration buzzing against the soft skin of your thigh. He goes still immediately after, like he can pull it back in by force.

You’re an angel for pretending you didn’t hear it.

Your hand just changes angle, fingertips dragging from his temple, over the shell of his ear, back to that spot at the base of his skull. You circle there, gentle pressure and lazy scratches that make his toes curl in his socks.

He doesn’t mean to, but another little noise escapes him—deeper this time, a soft, broken-edged hum that sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

“Feels that good?” you murmur, almost amused.

His cheeks burn. “Shut up,” he mutters, but it comes out breathy, not sharp at all.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” you say. Your thumb strokes along his hairline, catching the dampness there, smoothing the flyaways back. Your nails skim his scalp again, slower, firmer.

He shudders.

The hand on your leg tightens, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh like he needs something to hold on to. His other hand, the one on his chest, slides lower to grip the hem of his hoodie, knuckles going white as he clenches.

You keep touching him like you have all the time in the world. No rush, no goal, just long, repetitive strokes that make his thoughts blur at the edges.

It’s obscene, almost, how good it feels. Every drag of your fingers through his hair sends a warm, lazy heat spilling down his spine, settling in his chest, his stomach, the backs of his knees.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes squeezing shut when you scratch a little harder at his scalp. “Fuck, that’s…”

He trails off, jaw slackening. Another small sound slips out, embarrassingly close to a whine. It makes the corner of your mouth twitch.

“Good?” you supply.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “S’good. So good.”

You slow it down even more, changing the pattern—fingers threading through his curls, separating them, letting them slip through the spaces between your knuckles. You use the pads of your fingers to massage small circles into his scalp, working from one side to the other, like you’re trying to erase every leftover thought clinging to his brain.

His breathing changes.

It’s softer now, coming in slow pulls. Every exhale brushes warm over the inside of your thigh. You can feel the way his body keeps reacting in tiny involuntary flinches: the twitch of his shoulders when you scratch behind his ear, the little kick of his foot when you drag your nails right at the nape.

A soft, breathy whimper falls out of him, high in his chest, broken off halfway like he tried to swallow it and failed.

You don’t stop. If anything, your touch gentles, fingertips tracing the curve of his skull with almost ridiculous care.

“There you go,” you murmur, more to him than anything. “Just relax.”

He lets out a helpless huff of laughter. “I am,” he says, voice fuzzy. “That’s the problem.”

“Is it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, not really. Just hums again, the sound low and wrecked, pressing his cheek more firmly against your thigh like he’s trying to burrow inside it.

You can feel how warm he is. Not sick, not feverish, just thoroughly undone. His lashes lie dark against his cheeks, his mouth parted around soft, involuntary breaths. The notorious fuckboy, the one who always has the upper hand, the exit strategy, the next option—reduced to a whimpering puddle because you’re playing with his hair.

Your fingers slide down, combing through the curl at his nape, then drifting to stroke the side of his neck. You trace absent patterns there—little loops and lines that make his pulse jump under your touch.

He squeezes your thigh, a small, desperate gesture.

fuckboy!chan who starts to melt in earnest, muscles slack, hand slipping from a grip on your thigh to a loose, warm weight. Every so often, he makes a sound—tiny, half-formed, the kind of whine he’d mock someone else for—but he’s too blissed-out to care.

If he could hear himself, he’d be mortified. If his friends could see him, he’d never live it down.

But it’s just you here. Just you and the soft light and the quiet and the gentle drag of your fingers through his hair. And for once, he lets himself have this without thinking about what it looks like.

Without thinking about what it means.

He tips his head a little to the side, just enough that his nose brushes the inside of your thigh through the fabric. He inhales, deep and slow, like he’s trying to memorize your scent. Your hand automatically slides down again, cupping the back of his head, thumb stroking behind his ear.

“Y’gonna fall asleep on me?” you ask after a while, voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe,” he whispers back. His words are getting fuzzy at the edges, each one a little slower than the last. “You’re… dangerous, you know that? Could get anything you want from me like this.”

“Good to know,” you say, amused. “I’ll start drafting my list.”

He huffs a quiet laugh that dissolves into a tiny, breathy “ah—” when your nails scratch lightly behind his ear again. His toes curl under the blanket. He has never been this defenseless in front of anyone, and somehow it doesn’t scare him. It just… feels right.

“You are so adorable, Channie,” you murmur without thinking, the words slipping out on a breath.

His entire body jolts.

Heat rushes up his neck, flooding his face, his chest. He feels it burn all the way to the tips of his ears. A strangled noise catches in his throat and he grips your thigh again, harder this time, fingers biting into your skin.

He doesn’t know what to do with that. With you. With the way his tough-guy persona, the fuckboy mask, all of it feels so flimsy in the face of this quiet, devastating tenderness.

So he doesn’t do anything.

He just lies there, whimpery and boneless, letting you pet him like he’s yours. Letting himself be soft where no one else can see.

fuckboy!Chris who can talk you through every way he wants to fuck you, who can narrate your own pleasure back to you in filthy detail without flinching—completely wordless now beneath your hands, all his slick lines burnt away by the simple, devastating luxury of being petted and held.

fuckboy!Chris who thought he’d come over tonight to take the edge off, to use your body like a distraction—now humming quietly into the softness of your stomach, eyes half-closed, letting you turn him into a whimpery, pliant mess with nothing more than your fingers in his hair and the steady warmth of your lap.

jisung doesn’t remember the last the he’s listed so intently to someone talk.

honestly, jisung’s never really been one to actively listen, but fuck- there was just something about the way your lips move around each spoken word that makes it so ungodly difficult to pay attention to anything else.

it doesn’t help that he’s had his eyes on you for longer than he could remember. ever since the first day you strolled into to his music theory class at the start of the semester, jisung has been, for lack of better words,dying to get his hands on you.

there’s just this… itch whenever he’s around you. it’s bone deep, too far below the skin to be satisfied easily. you’re just so perfect— kind, funny without even trying. and don’t even get him started on how good you are in the recording studio. jisung didn’t even know he could get turned on from watching someone mix a beat. but hey, they say college is where you learn things, right?

and trust, jisung has learned a lot.

for example: jisung has learned that he’s a dirty fucking perv.

an example of the example: there have been numerous times when you’ve been ranting about how bullshit your biased professor is—how he never grades your work fairly no matter how hard you work on it—and jisung will sit there wondering if your as expressive in bed as you are here.

he hopes you are. god, he would lose his mind…

speaking of you in bed, jisung has thought of you with his hand down his pants more often than anyone would constitute as normal. but honestly, can you even blame him?

you laugh at his jokes with a smile that makes his chest tight, and you somehow manage to smell like vanilla and something sweeter every single time you lean over his shoulder to look at his laptop screen.

it's honestly a miracle he hasn't combusted yet.

well, he has. many times, actually. but you get what he means.

but today? today is different.

today you're sitting cross-legged on his bed (his bed, jesus christ), textbook open in your lap as you complain about your latest assignment, and jisung is trying his absolute hardest to focus on his own textbook.

try as he might, all he can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance between you two. how easy it would be to kiss you, to make you let out pretty little noises, to force his cock down your throat and—

“hey ji,” you say suddenly, snapping him out of his daze. he sends a quick thank you to whatever higher being there may be that you hadn’t caught his staring. “can i talk to you about something?”

jisung looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor with a grin as if he hadn’t just been picturing the 69 different ways (pun intended) he could get you to take him. “sure.”

he watches as you take a deep breath, clearly debating on following through on whatever subject was on your mind. when another second ticked by without a response he arched a brow, fixing you with a look in hopes it would push you to hurry up.

you see it and promptly stick your tongue out at him. you both smile. you let out another exhale.

"i, uh…" you start, and jisung notices the way your cheeks flush slightly. "i went on a date last night. it was nothing like, crazy, yknow? just something a friend of mind set up."

oh.

jisung's stomach drops.

awesome.

"oh yeah?" he manages, keeping his voice in a careful neutral even though he feels like he's been kicked in the chest by some fuckass kangaroo. “and how’d that go?"

does he actually care? hell no. is he trying to be a good friend? sure, keyword there being trying.

you fidget with the corner of your textbook. "it was… fine, i guess? he was nice enough. we got dinner, talked for a bit." you pause, and jisung watches as your blush deepens. "and then we, you know… went back to his place."

jisung's grip on his pen tightens. he's not sure he wants to hear this, but he can't exactly tell you to stop now.

"and?" he prompts, hating how strained his voice sounds.

you let out a frustrated sigh. "and it was… underwhelming? like, really underwhelming." you're not looking at him now, focused instead on picking at a loose thread on his comforter. "we fooled around a bit, and he seemed really into it, but i just… i don't know. i didn't feel much of anything."

"what do you mean?" he's not sure if the relief flooding through him makes him a terrible person or not. his vote is no.

"i mean…" you trail off, clearly embarrassed. "he tried, like, touching me and stuff. it just felt… weird? not bad, just- nothing special, i guess. and then when things got more intense, i just kind of laid there thinking about my grocery list."

despite everything, jisung lets out a laugh. it’s short, cut off by the glare you shot his way.

"and the worst part," you continue, voice getting quieter, "is that he finished and then just… rolled over and fell asleep. didn't even care if i, you know…" you let make a vague gesture with your hand to make up for your lack of words.

"if you came?" jisung supplies, watching you nod a moment later.

"yeah. that." you finally look up at him. "is it supposed to be like that? because if so, i really don't get what all the hype is about."

jisung feels something twist in his chest—something between anger at the asshole who couldn't be bothered to take care of you and a dangerous, selfish hope. "no," he says, and his voice comes out a little sharper than he intended. "it's definitely not supposed to be like that."

"really?" you raise a brow, tone unamused and doubtful.

"really," jisung confirms, and before he can stop himself, he adds, "if a guy can't even make sure you finish, he doesn't deserve to touch you in the first place."

you laugh, but it's a hollow sound. "i mean, i don't know if i'd even know the difference." you shrug, trying to play it off casually even though jisung can see the genuine frustration in your eyes. "it's not like i've ever… y’know. gotten off before."

a beat passes.

jisung blinks. "wait, what?"

"yeah," you say, picking at the thread again. "not from someone else, not from myself. nothing."

"but—" jisung stops himself, trying to process this information. "didn't you have a boyfriend in high school?"

"yeah, for like a year and a half," you confirm. "but that doesn't mean i came. we fooled around, sure, but it never really… went anywhere for me."

jisung feels like his brain is short-circuiting. you—perfect, beautiful you—have never experienced an orgasm? it seems almost criminal.

"i think maybe i'm just not built for it," you continue, voice small. "like, maybe i'm just… glitched or something. everyone talks about how amazing it is, but i just don't get it."

"you're not glitched," jisung says immediately, more forceful than necessary. you look up at him, surprised. "trust me, you're not. you just… haven't been with anyone who knows what they're doing."

"maybe," you say, though you don't sound convinced.

jisung swallows hard.

his heart is pounding, and he knows what he's about to say is probably crossing a line, but he can't seem to stop himself. "if you want a second opinion…" he starts, trying to keep his tone light even though his hands are shaking slightly. "i volunteer as tribute."

the silence that follows is deafening.

you stare at him, eyes wide, and jisung immediately wants to take it back—except he doesn't. not really.

“i-“ you start before choking on your own words. you blink at him a few times, trying to gauge how serious he’s being. “what?”

jisung realizes what hes just said and immediately feels his face heat up.

he holds up his hands in a gesture that's somewhere between defensive and pleading. "i mean- say we’re working in hypotheticals here, yeah?" he says quickly, voice pitching slightly higher than normal. "just, you know, theoretically speaking. if you wanted to figure out what works for you."

you're still staring at him, and jisung can't tell if you're about to laugh in his face or leave. probably both. definitely both.

"i just mean, you said you don't know what you like, right? so maybe—hypothetically—it would help to, i don’t know- explore that?? with someone you trust. who wouldn't be weird about it."

he pauses, then adds, "or weirder than i'm already being right now."

you let out a breath that might've be a laugh, and some of the tension in jisung's shoulders eases. at least you're not running for the door.

"okay," you say slowly, and jisung's heart jumps into his throat. "hypothetically speaking… what would that even look like?"

blood rushes to his dick so fast that he genuinely feel faint for a solid second or two.

this is happening. this is actually happening.

"well, uh," he clears his throat. "i guess first we'd need to figure out what you like. what feels good to you."

"i don't know what i like," you point out. "that's kind of the whole problem here."

"right, but like-" jisung stands, taking a gamble by moving from the floor to sit with you on the bed. he takes the edge, but still manages to get close enough that his knee almost touches yours. he has half the thought of cheering when you don’t immediately jolt away. "there has to be something. like, when you think about… that stuff. what do you think about?"

your blush deepens as you look away. jisung wants to grab you by the cheeks and shove his tongue down your throat.

"i don't know. i guess i don't really think about it much."

"okay, but when you do," jisung presses, far too eager "what's the first thing that comes to mind? is it like… hands? mouths? something else?"

"i- i guess mouths? that’s a stupid way to put it, jisung." your eyes dart over to him for all of two seconds before flicking away again. “i like being kissed. and when people leave marks.”

jisung’s going to bust in his sweats.

he nods slowly, stashing away the information for it’s inevitable later use. "okay. that's good. that's a start." he pauses before asking "what about where? where would you wanna be kissed?"

your head tilts to the side slightly as you debate. it takes a minute for you to make up your mind, a minute that jisung’s spends memorizing the curve of your lips.

“my thighs. i like my neck and my tits, too, but my thighs.”

ok. scratch what he said before. he’s actually going to pass out, wake up for two seconds to jerk off, and then pass out again from how intense it’ll be.

“fuck” he breaths out with a laugh—half breathless humor, half utter strain. jisung raises a hand to run down his face, looking away from you to try and save himself even a little bit.

"okay," he says once he's collected himself enough to form coherent words. "okay, so, hypothetically, if we were doing this, i'd start there. with your thighs." he looks back at you, trying his best to gauge your reaction. "would that be… okay?"

jisung watches the way your eyes skim over him and highly considers throwing himself off the roof of his dorm when your gaze catches on the tent in his sweat pants.

“i like it more when people work their way down.” you meet his eye again and he feels his dick twitch to attention.

jisung's mouth goes dry. the casual way you say it—like you're discussing the weather and not actively trying to kill him—makes his head spin.

"work my way down," he repeats li. "from your neck?"

“my mouth.” you correct.

it takes a few seconds for jisung’s brain to catch up to what you were saying. when ir finally registered, jisung let out a heavy breath.

“y-you want me to kiss you?”

"i mean… yeah?" you say, and there's a hint of uncertainty in your voice. "isn't that where you're supposed to start?"

jisung lets out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. "yeah, no, you're right. i just-" he stops himself, looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "i just need to know you're actually okay with this. like, seriously okay. because once i start, i don't know if i'll be able to stop."

despite everything making up your current situation, you can’t help the laugh that pushes itself from your lips.

“jesus, sung- please don’t tell me you learned that from a bad porno.”

jisung's face flushes, but he can't help the grin that tugs at his lips. "fuck off," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. "i'm trying to be respectful here."

"i know," you say, and your expression softens. "and i appreciate it. but i'm serious, jisung. i want this. hypothetically, of course.”

jisung doesn't waste another second.

he closes the distance between you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other braces against the mattress beside your hip. his thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and for a moment he just looks at you—really looks at you—trying to memorize every detail of your face before he gets what he's been craving for so long.

"tell me to stop if you need to," he murmurs, knowing damn well he won't be able to give this up. not now. not when you're looking at him like that.

he closes the gap completely, pressing his lips to yours.

and god, you're even better than he imagined.

and trust, he's imagined this—fuck, has he imagined this. a thousand times, maybe more. but none of his fantasies come close to the real thing. your mouth is soft and warm, and the little sound you make when he deepens the kiss goes straight to his cock.

you make that sound again—that small, needy noise in the back of your throat—and jisung responds on instinct, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle.

his tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when you open for him, he can't help the groan that escapes. he groans—actually groans—into your mouth, and he'd be embarrassed if he could think straight.

but he can't. because this is intoxicating. you’re intoxicating.

the way you taste, sweet and perfect. the way his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair like they were made to be there. the way his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there's barely any space left between your bodies and he can feel your heartbeat against his chest.

you've been kissed before, he knows that,but jisung wants to make you forget every single one of those losers you’d had before him. wants this to be the one you remember.

he puts everything into it, every press of his lips deliberate, purposeful, trying to learn exactly what makes you melt against him.

he knows he’s reached some sort of heaven when he feels you starting to go pliant in his hands.

jisung pulls back just enough to catch his breath, resting his forehead against yours. his eyes are dark, blown wide. he can feel how swollen his lips are already.

"fuck," he breathes, voice absolutely wrecked. "you taste so good." he doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s kissing you again, harder than before.

leave it to jisung to get turned on by how sweet your spit tastes.

his hand tightens in your hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp—and takes full advantage of how your lips part, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes him dizzy with want.

you grab onto his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, and jisung feels like he might actually lose his mind.

everything about this is overwhelming in the best possible way—the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way you respond when his thumb strokes the sensitive skin at your nape, the little sounds you make as you kiss him back just as eagerly. he wants to catalog every single detail, burn it into his memory so it’s humanly impossible to forget.

his hand on your waist starts to wander, sliding down to your hip and squeezing. it isn’t a rough gesture, more so just to ground himself, to remind himself that this is all real. that this isn’t just another one of his twisted dreams.

he breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

"tell me if this is okay," he murmurs against your skin. he gets a strange high from the way your quickens pulse under his lips.

"it's okay," you manage, voice breathier than usual. "it's really okay."

jisung makes a satisfied sound deep in his throat, then goes back to kissing you properly. this time he forces himself to slow down, to be more deliberate.

he takes his time exploring your mouth, learning the way you respond to him—the way you whimper when he sucks on your bottom lip, the way you smile against his mouth when he does something you particularly like.

"you're so fucking cute," he mumbles, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes are soft, a little to innocent for the way he’s currently handling you. "been wanting to do this for so long."

"yeah?"

"fuck yeah," he responds with a laugh that’s only slightly crazed.

you never get the chance to ask exactly how long he's wanted this, how many nights he's fallen asleep thinking about it—about you. and honestly? you aren’t even sure you’d want that answer. it feels to heavy, too weighted with significance.

minutes pass. you’re not sure how many, neither is jisung. all you know is that he kisses you until your lips feel bruised under his and his head is spinning from lack of oxygen.

his hands roam more carefully now—not respectful, but not outright pushy. there’s enough intent in each brush that you can feel the restrained want in every touch. he palms your hip, traces the curve of your waist, thumbs at the silver of skin where your shirt has ridden up.

when he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.

his hair is a mess from where you've been running your fingers through it. when he catches sight of your lips—red and swollen from his kisses—he has to physically restrain himself from crashing back into you again

"we should…" he starts, then stops. he swallows hard. "we should probably slow down."

you blink at him, still a little dazed. "why?"

"because if we don't, i'm gonna fucking come in my pants," jisung admits with a breathless laugh. it's embarrassing but true—he's already painfully hard, and every little sound, every shift, brings him closer to that edge.

the way you're looking at him makes his chest tight. at the same time though, he's acutely aware of how you're still pressed against him, addicted to the heat radiating off your body.

"what if i don't want you to slow down?" you ask, and the boldness in your voice very nearly enough to do him in on the spot.

"don't say shit like that unless you mean it."

"i do," you say, and then you're leaning in and kissing him again.

this time, jisung doesn't hold back. he kisses you like he's trying to devour you, one hand sliding up your back to press you closer while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave marks. you can probably feel how hard he is, pressed against your thigh, and the knowledge that you know how badly he wants you makes his head spin.

you shift slightly, and jisung groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward before he can stop himself. "fuck," he gasps, breaking the kiss. "you're gonna kill me."

"good," you manage, then kiss him again before he can respond.

jisung lets out a breathless laugh against your lips before shifting his weight, gently pushing you back until you're lying on the bed with him hovering over you.

the new position makes everything feel more intense—the way he's pressed between your thighs in a way that lets you feel how hard he is, the way his weight settles over you, the way you're looking up at him like he's the only thing in the world that matters.

"hi," he says, grinning down at you despite how wrecked he feels.

"hi," you echo, and the smile you give him back makes his heart stutter.

and then his lips are on yours yet again .

his mouth moves against yours with an ease that surprises him—like he's already learned exactly what makes you gasp and whimper. when he nips at your bottom lip, you arch up against him, and jisung makes a choked sound in response, barely holding himself together.

"you're so responsive," he murmurs against your mouth. "so fucking perfect. just how i thought you'd be."

his hand slides up your side, thumbing just under the curve of your breast, and jisung realizes with startling clarity that he needs more. needs to feel your skin against his, needs to map every inch of your body with his hands and mouth.

as if reading his mind, you reach up and push at his shoulder, urging him downward. "you said you'd work your way down, remember?"

jisung's breath catches and for a moment he just stares at you. a slow grin spreads across his face—the kind he knows is absolutely devastating.

"yeah," he says, voice rough. "yeah, i did say that, didn't i?"

he leans down to kiss you one more time, slow and deep, savoring it. promptly after, he starts trailing his lips along your jaw, taking his time. he presses open-mouth kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, committing the taste of your skin to memory.

when he gets to the spot just below your ear, he pauses for only a moment before taking the skin there between his teeth, sucking a mark into the sensitive patch.

you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair enough for jisung to make a satisfied sound. "gonna mark you up so good," he murmurs against your neck, lips hot as they brush against your skin. "want everyone to know you're mine."

the possessiveness in his own voice should probably alarm him, but he's too far gone to care.

you tilt your head to give him better access, and jisung takes full advantage, working his way down your neck with single-minded focus. this is all he's been dreaming about—getting to worship you like this, getting to make you feel good.

he sucks another mark just above your collarbone, then soothes it with his tongue. the whimper you make goes straight to his cock. jisung smiles against your skin.

"you sound so pretty," he says, voice muffled against your neck. "wanna hear what other sounds you make, jagi"

his hand comes up to rest on your ribs, thumb brushing against the underside of your breast. when you arch into the touch jisung can’t help his groan, pressing his hips down against yours just because he can.

the friction makes you both gasp.

"fuck," comes his his, the word hot on your skin as he continues his path downward.

jisung kisses along your collarbone, then down to the neckline of your shirt. he pauses there, looking up at you with eyes that are wide and begging. "can i?"

instead of granting him with a verbal answer, you reach down and grab the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift motion.

jisung's eyes go wide, gaze immediately dropping to your chest.

over the span of five seconds, jisungs mouth goes from being as dry as a desert to his throat bobbing as he swallows down his own spit.

"holy shit.." he whispers, voice dripping with reverence. his hands come up to cup your breasts over your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric. "you're so fucking... fuck, baby- your perfect"

you squirm under the attention, and jisung only takes it as encouragement. he leans down to press his face between to the swell of your breasts, a groan rolling soft in the back of his throat before kissing down to your sternum. his hands stay on you, kneading mindlessly and without much care.

jisung thinks he might actually be in heaven.

and then you’re thread your fingers through his hair again pushing, deliberately, purposefully, until his face is buried in your chest.

jisung groans loud this time, breath coming out hot against your skin. "so eager," he murmurs in pure appreciation, a hand sliding around to your back to find the clasp of your bra. "what a rockstar- i fucking love it."

you arch to help him and jisung makes quick work of the clasp, tossing the fabric across the room without a second thought.

for a moment, jisung just stares.

his eyes are wide with hunger as they trace over your newly exposed skin. he's imagined this so many times, but nothing compares to actually seeing you like this.

then he's leaning down, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses across your chest, hands coming up to cup your breasts properly now that that last barrier is gone.

"so fucking perfect," he breathes against your skin, thumbs circling your nipples in a way that makes you arch up into his touch.

"god, i could live between your tits," jisung breathes out, voice rough rough around the edges while his hands continue to knead at you. "been thinking about this for months—how they'd feel in my hands, how they'd look covered in my cum, how fucking perfect they'd look bouncin’ in my face while you ride me." he groans, burying his face between them again like he can't help himself. "never gonna take my hands off of ya, jagi. can’t do it…"

then he takes one nipple into his mouth, and the cry you let out nearly makes him come on the spot.

jisung circles the sensitive bud with his tongue before sucking hard enough to make you writhe beneath him. his other hand works your other breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger in a rhythm that matches his mouth.

he gets so lost in it that he almost forgets he isn’t dreaming. the only thing that snaps him back is the sound of his name on your lips.

"jisung," you gasp, and he hums in response, the vibration making you shudder beneath him.

he switches sides, giving your other breast the same devoted attention.

jisung can feel himself getting harder with every passing second, can feel how wet you must be through the fabric still between you. your thighs squeeze around his hips, and jisung grinds down against you in response, unable to help himself.

but the friction isn't enough—not for either of you—and when you roll your hips in a search for more, jisung breaks away from your chest with a sharp inhale.

his forehead drops to rest against your sternum as he tries to catch his breath and regain some semblance of control.

"you're driving me insane," he mutters, voice strained. his hands slide down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. he looks up at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, barely holding himself together. "can i take these off?"

"please," you breathe, and jisung doesn't need to be told twice.

he sits back on his heels, making quick work of your pants and underwear in one smooth motion.

the cool air hits your heated skin, and jisung's hands are immediately there, warm and grounding as they run up your thighs. he takes a moment to just look at you—all of you—spread out on his bed, and he thinks he might actually die from want.

"fuck," he says, voice raw. he drags a thumb through your folds "look at you. so wet already."

the embarrassment that flashes across your face makes jisung's chest tighten. he immediately leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your knee. "don't," he says gently, meaning it. "don't be embarrassed. this is so fucking hot. you're so fucking hot."

his hands massage your thighs, slowly pushing them apart, and blacks out when you just let him.

the sight of you all vulnerable and trusting, turned on and willing, is almost too much. he settles between your legs, and the reality that he's finally here, that this is actually happening, sends a sick thrill through him.

"i'm gonna make you feel so good," jisung promises, his breath ghosting over your inner thigh, pressing a lingering kiss there. he means it with everything in him. "gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name."

he continues with pressing kisses to yout thigh, taking his sweet time even though every instinct is screaming at him to rush. every press of his lips against your skin makes his own arousal spike higher, and by the time he reaches the crease where your thigh meets your hip, jisung's hands are shaking.

"jisung," you whimper, and the sound goes straight to his cock.

"i know, baby," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your hip bone. "just wanna savor this. been dreamin’ bout having you like this."

he presses one more kiss to your hip bone, and then—finally, finally—jisung lets himself taste you properly.

his tongue slides through your folds in one long, slow lick, and the taste of you combined with the way your back arches off the bed, pussy pressing to his face, makes him moan.

"oh my god," you gasp, hands flying down to tangle in his hair.

jisung moans again, the sound vibrating through your core. "taste so fucking good," he mumbles, addicted. then he goes back to work with the single minded focus of making good on his promise.

he eats you out like it's his sole purpose in life—because right now, it is.

jisung’s been starving for this, and now that he finally has you, jisung loses himself completely.

his tongue circles your clit before he sucks it between his lips, and the way you respond? the sounds you make? the way your hips rock up against his face? it’s better than anything he's ever imagined.

and believe him, he’s imagined.

jisung's hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he works you over, trying to memorize every sound, every reaction. when he slides one finger inside you, slow and careful, you cry out, fingers tightening almost painfully in his hair.

"that okay?" he asks, pulling back just enough to speak.

when your eyes meet his you’re met with the sight of his face glistening with you, lips swollen and chin shiny. you have to swallow down a whine before you can mutter a small “fuck, yes, please-“

jisung grins—he can't help it—then goes back to sucking on your clit while his finger pumps in and out of you. the dual sensation is overwhelming for the both of you, albeit for wildly different reasons. for you, it’s the way he uses his tongue so fucking well, the wet, warm heat pressing flat against your clit so you can grind against his face to chase your own stimulation. for him? it’s how fucking sweet you are, how your walls flutter when he hits that spot that’s always just a little too far for you to reach on your own.

"jisung," you gasp. "i think- i think i'm—"

"yeah?" he purrs, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that leaves you breathless and seeing stars. "gonna come for me, rockstar? gonna come all over my fingers?"

the words combined with the relentless pleasure seem to push you right to the edge. when jisung takes your clit between his lips again, sucking hard, you fall apart, and jisung thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful.

your orgasm crashes over you in waves, waves jisung does his best to help work you through. his own pleasure spikes high as he watches you come undone.

your whole body seems to tense, thighs clamping around his head as you shake with aftershocks of it. he can hear you making noise—probably too much noise considering dorm walls are comically thin—but he fucking loves it, wants to hear it again and again.

jisung gentles his movements as you come down, not stopping until you're pushing at his head because it's too much, too sensitive.

he presses one last kiss to your swollen clit before sitting up, looking just as wrecked as you do. his hair a mess, lips swollen and wet, and he’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon. because fuck, that was the hottest thing he's ever done. sue him.

"holy shit," you breathe, and jisung feels a surge of satisfaction at how completely undone you look.

jisung crawls back up your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts, before finally reaching your mouth. he kisses you deep, tongue sliding against yours in attempt to get you to taste yourself too.

"good?" he asks when he pulls back, and there's something vulnerable in the question. he needs to know you felt as good as he thinks you did, that he didn't disappoint you.

"so good," you assure him, reaching up to cup his face. "that was… i've never-"

"i know," he says softly, pressing a kiss to your palm. pride blooms warm in his chest. "first time for everything, right?"

you nod, still a little dazed, and jisung smiles. it's different from his earlier grins—softer, more genuine.

it’s only when he shifts his weight in discomfort that you realize how there’s still a devilish tent in his sweats. he catches the way your eyes drop, and immediately try and brush it off.

"don't worry bout me," he manages, even though his voice is strained and every nerve in his body is screaming for more.

"what about you?" you ask, and then your hand is on him, palming him through the fabric. jisung hisses, hips jerking forward into your touch before he can stop himself.

"i want to," you insist when he doesn’t reply, squeezing gently, and jisung nearly blacks out.

"baby- baby, fuck—" jisung whines, his hand shooting down to wrap around your wrist. he pushes your hand away as his head falls forward, sucking in heavy breaths between his teeth. he can feel the wet patch spreading across the front of his sweats, the aftermath of what just happened.

"i already- i already came, baby-"

you blink, processing his words. "you… already?"

jisung lets out a breathless laugh, cheeks flushing pink as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. he's embarrassed but also not because holy shit it was the most ‘worth it’ thing he’s ever done in his life.

"couldn't help it," he mumbles against your skin, words muffled. "you tasted so fucking good, and the sounds you were making?? fuck jagi, i didn't stand a chance."

your hands slowly raise to thread through the strands of his hair as if it wasn’t mussed up enough, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. jisung practically purrs at the touch.

"that's really hot, actually," you admit.

jisung lifts his head to look at you, searching your expression for any sign of disappointment or disgust. but all he sees is warmth, and something tender that makes his heart skip. "yeah?"

"yeah," you confirm, pulling him down for a slow, deep kiss. when you break apart, you're both smiling, and jisung feels something settle in his chest. it feels a lot like contentment.

"we should probably clean up," jisung murmurs after a moment, though he makes no move to actually get up. he's too comfortable like this, wrapped around you, feeling your heartbeat slowly return to normal beneath him.

"probably," you agree, but you don't move either.

jisung chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "give me like, five minutes. then i'll get us a towel."

"five minutes," you repeat, fingers still playing with his hair in that way that makes him want to fall asleep right here.

but after a moment, reality starts creeping back in. jisung shifts, wincing slightly at the uncomfortable dampness in his boxers. "okay, actually i really need to change like, right now."

you laugh he reluctantly pulls away, watching as he stands on slightly shaky legs. you watch him with hooded eyes as he strips off his ruined sweats and boxers, tossing them into his laundry basket before grabbing a clean pair of sweatpants from his drawer.

"here," he says, pulling out one of his oversized hoodies and tossing it to you. "you can wear this if you want."

you slip it on while jisung grabs a damp towel from his bathroom.

he comes back to find you sitting up, his hoodie falling to your mid-thigh, and he has to take a moment to breathe and not pounce on you like a wild animal and fuck you right then and there.

"c'mere," he says softly, sitting beside you. he gently cleans you up, his touch careful and intimate in a different way than before. when he's done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls you back against him.

"soooo, that was..."

"yeah," jisung agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "it really was."

Fingers pointed and whispers filled her ears, wherever she went she was the weird girl. Helena didn't pay too much mind to it, she had bigger projects to tend to. Like skipping some years in school and getting into university at only 12 years old. Her intelligence and knowledge was rewarded but being on top was oh so lonely.

The kids her age were mostly carefree, they weren't even thinking about the concepts she knew like the back of her hand. The older ones saw her as a child and to them it was awkward to even talk to her. Her parents were supportive and they tried to understand but they were never able to fully grasp what Helena knew and what her vision was.

Helena didn't have any friends. So she decided to create them.

At just seventeen, she built her first advanced android. Its capabilities were limited, but it marked a significant step toward creating a sentient, human-like artificial intelligence. Driven by a desire to achieve what no one else had managed, Helena immersed herself in countless scientific fields and programming languages, each study bringing her closer to that first prototype.

But, before she managed to get there, she met her husband who fell in love with her at first conversation. His vision was similar but he was nowhere near close to Helena's knowledge and accomplishments. Still, he was more than ready to work alongside her and fulfill the vision she had since she was little. From then on, they became a team and the beginning of something completely new.

Helena Meyer became Helena Bang and moved to South Korea where she continued working with her husband and a small team of scientists and researchers with minds alike. For years they honed their calculations and refined their inventions, pushing the limits of what seemed possible, until they found the precise combination needed to bring her long-held vision to life.

Thus, the first prototype was born. Bang Chan.

"How are we doing today?" Helena walked into the office while Chan sat in the chair, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. It was a new habit he developed and she quickly jotted it down.

"I'm doing fine, Mother." Chan answered quietly as Helena sat down and faced him. She observed him for a few moments before speaking up.

"You seem bothered by something. You know you can share everything with me." she encouraged him warmly to which Chan sighed, his eyes darting left and right before glancing up at Helena then looking back down at his lap again.

"I- I feel incomplete." he stated.

"Incomplete?" Helena tilted her head at him.

"Like something is missing. Every day I go through the same motions in the lab and there are things only I experience and I have no one to share that with." Chan explained as he looked up at her.

Helena's stomach twisted as she realized the extent to which her prototype developed feelings, his understanding and the way he was able to express his thoughts.

"You wish you had someone who was like you?"

"Yes. It's lonely being the only one." Chan confessed.

It's lonely being the only one.

Helena knew that feeling all to well.

As the project expanded, so did the team. The institute was opened and before long eight androids had been created. The lab was exchanged for a big mansion where they had their private rooms, a pool, a garden and anything else they could possibly need. It resembled a normal home but of course the androids weren't allowed to leave, Helena wanted to make sure they understood everything about the world before she let them roam free. Over time, each android developed a distinct personality and Helena watched them 'grow' alongside her husband. Everything was going well in the beginning but Helena and her husband had different visions of what the androids were meant to become.

Helena wanted them to integrate into society and grow into their own identities; she wanted people to see that the androids she created were friendly and capable of love, sadness, dreams just like them. But her husband saw something else entirely. To him, they were an opportunity to make money in the quickest and easiest way.

Their arguments became constant and their marriage began to unravel, breaking at the seams. The rest of the scientists except one, sided with Helena. Mr. Bang, however, found an ally in Dr. Park, a colleague whose cold, almost sinister demeanor made every android recoil the moment they learned they had a session with him.

Helena knew the moment her husband partenered up with Park, nothing good was gonna come out of it.

Jeongin stood in front of the familiar building that loomed above him threateningly. How did he remember where to go? He had no idea. But he got there somehow, his eyes roaming all over the concrete walls and the bars on the windows. A shiver ran down his spine, an uncomfortable itch clawing inside his stomach. His eyes moved up and he stopped in his tracks.

There in one of the reflections in the glass he saw his angel, tears running down his freckled cheeks as he stared out the window.

He had to get in.

He surveyed the area, noting the cameras positioned around the property and the guards patrolling with heavy weapons. Every door required a keycard, and the windows were secured with metal bars. With its top-tier security and no apparent entry point beyond the front door, the building looked practically impenetrable.

But Jeongin knew about a secret entrance, the one they used whenever they snuck out to the woods, chasing a brief, precious taste of freedom, even if it never lasted long. Seeing his angel and the familiar building brought many flashbacks of the past to Jeongin, and he couldn't move for a moment as he hid behind the bushes and contemplated on the best strategy to get to the hidden entrance.

He just hoped that the code for the secret door remained the same.

Meanwhile, Felix has had enough of crying, the sadness and heartbreak turning into anger. He wiped his eyes with his sleeves and walked away from the window, pacing up and down the small room. He considered banging on the door but he knew it would get him nowhere. If only he had something to pick the lock with.

Felix sighed and leaned his forehead against the door.

"Psst! Felix?" he heard a voice and perked up.

"Binnie?" he looked out the little glass panel on the door, seeing Changbin on the other side of the hallway, behind the door just like his.

"Did they take you away from your person too?" Changbin asked quietly, a kind of sadness settling over his features.

"Yes, they did." Felix nodded, his eyes brimming with tears again. "What do you think they'll do to us?"

"I don't know but I just hope they don't destroy us." Changbin shivered involuntarily.

"I think that would be the best option. The things that ran through my mind... What if they locked us inside our own head again? But this time with no way out. Or they experimented on us more, keeping us here forever? I can't go through that again." Felix shook his head quickly.

"No, I don't even wanna think about those scenarios." Changbin gasped. "We have to get out of here."

"How? We're locked inside these rooms and there are cameras everywhere." Felix leaned his forehead on the glass, fogging it up with his warm breath.

"Let's come up with something together. I don't want to be a sitting duck."

"Me neither." Felix nodded, his eyes darting left and right before they widened. "I have an idea!"

"What is it?" Changbin asked, pressing his body harder against the door.

"We have to act like we're malfunctioning and that will alert the evil androids. They will come get us and when they open the door we will run."

"Run where, Felix? They won't let us get away just like that." Changbin sighed desperately.

"What other choice do we have? The windows have bars and the door doesn't even have a handle on the inside. And I don't think we can overpower the androids, they always carry those big scary needles with them." Felix shivered in fear. "We have to try."

"What if they catch us and do something even worse to us to punish us?"

Of course, that thought had already crossed Felix's mind.

"We will run so fast they won't be able to keep up. Just don't ever let go of my hand, okay?"

Changbin gave Felix a small smile and then nodded in determination.

"Okay. Let's do this!"

~

As Jisung was ushered into the building, the memories hit him all at once. The smells, the sounds, the bleak fluorescent lighting; it brought him back to a dark place and his breath got caught in his throat. A crushing weight settled on his chest the moment he inhaled that familiar blend of metallic coldness and disinfectant. The sounds of whirring machinery, sharp beeps and the background noise of the fluorescent lights humming was eerie, as if hinting at something sinister within the building.

The androids held Jisung's arms tightly as they practically dragged him off to the main office. When the big wooden door creaked open, Dr. Park swiveled in his leather chair with a disgusting smirk formed on his face.

"Well, well. If it isn't number five willingly coming here. Missed me?"

Jisung practically hissed at the doctor, the androids holding him back. Park lifted up his hand and the robots backed off, while Jisung seethed with anger.

"I'm glad you're conscious enough to listen. It was a mistake; letting you out with a weak code. I must confess I was too greedy and eager to get you all out into the market. But, now I know how to correct the mistakes." Park smirked and Jisung shivered, holding back when he remembered his mission. He had to act compliant. He knew his Baby had his back, along with Chan and his Peach.

"Everything you are and everything you've known until now, will be erased. A sort of factory reset. Whatever Helena did to give you free will and feelings will be gone. You'll be sort of like my androids here except better, you will understand more things so you can obey your masters better." Park kept smirking. "I'll leave a little piece of who you used to be buried somewhere inside you, just so you're aware of what you could have but know you can never get there again." his smirk turned into a full-blown evil smile. "And I? I will become filthy rich and famous thanks to you. So look at it as sort of a sacrifice for the greater good." The doctor waved his hand.

Jisung felt his entire body stiffen, a shiver of pure fear running down his spine. To say he was terrified was an understatement. In that moment he thought that death would definitely be a better option than existing like that. But beneath the fear, lingered anger and despair. He knew he couldn't let that happen.

"We will begin with the reset once we gather all your friends, number five. I'll make sure you look at each other the moment everything starts erasing." Park let out an evil laugh as the androids started dragging Jisung out of the office.

Jeongin pressed his body against the earth as much as he could. His eyes darted left and right as he analyzed the guards' movements. After assessing their route, he waited for the guard to walk away in the other direction before he slowly crawled between the tall grass and bushes near the fence. His movements were slow and careful and his face was scrunched up from both nervousness and disgust.

Slowly but steadily, Jeongin made it half way there before the guard turned and walked over towards him. Fear settled in his bones and his body went still, his breathing becoming shallow. He could hear heartbeat pounding in his ears. Squeezing his eyes shut, he stayed perfectly still. But the guard never came to the grass that hid him, only did his route quietly before turning away and leaving. Jeongin let out a quiet breath of relief before continuing on his mission.

Finally, he managed to get to the back door and after looking around for a camera he spotted one near the door.

"Fuck." he cursed quietly to himself.

But when he took a better look, it seemed that the camera wasn't blinking at all. He stared at it for a moment and then decided to risk it; there was no way he was waiting anymore. This was the moment.

Jeongin rose and slipped quietly toward the door, pressing his back against the wall at the last possible moment as the returning guard passed by unnoticed. He lingered there for a moment, steadying himself, then dusted off his clothes lightly before moving toward the door.

"Please, be the same code." Jeongin closed his eyes and manifested before pressing the numbers he knew all to well into the keypad.

There was a quiet beep of acceptance and the lock clicked, the door opening up just a little.

"Oh my god." he almost laughed out loud but then he remembered he needed to be quiet so he slipped inside.

~

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Changbin asked Felix quietly, almost backing out of their plan.

"I don't think there is any other way to get their attention." Felix was determined.

"Fine." Changbin sighed. "Let's do it."

With that, Changbin started banging his fist on the door accompanied with Felix banging his head against his own.

In his office, doctor Park leaned towards his computer.

"What the hell are they doing?! Stop them! I don't want my goods damaged."

The two androids that stood there turned robotically and then started running quickly.

Jisung saw them whiz past as he was being dragged and he turned his head only for a gasp of shock to leave his lips.

There, behind one of the tables was Jeongin, crouched down and staring at him with an equally shocked expression on his face. Jeongin lifted his finger to his lips and let out a quiet 'shh' before Jisung was dragged further away. He only hoped that his Baby and the rest of the gang were on the way or close to the company, he just wanted this nightmare to be over as soon as possible.

The androids reached the rooms and quickly unlocked them. Felix felt a moment of disorientation, but Changbin acted fast; sliding under a guard's arm, seizing Felix’s wrist, and practically dragging him along. Felix stumbled, then fell into step beside Changbin, their fingers intertwining and their palms pressing together tightly. The androids gave chase immediately, and as Felix and Changbin burst out, they collided with Jisung, sending him and the two guards tumbling to the ground.

"Jisung!" Felix gasped and grabbed him too. The androids were close to them, right at their necks, reaching out towards them with the big needles full of a fluorescent looking fluid.

~

"Did you get it to work?" Seungmin asked as he leaned closer to the console of the car.

"I'm almost there! I'm about to hack into the camera system on the inside. Jisung is sending out some kind of stress signals. I can read it from his code. Something is definitely happening. Y'all need to hurry the fuck up." Baby spoke over the speaker.

"We are driving as fast as we can. You notified the others?" Chan asked, his eyes never leaving the road.

"Yes, I found all the other dolly girls. They will try to meet us there. Seems like Changbin's girl already knew the location. Talk about faith or what?" Baby snickered. "Yes! I'm in! They're going down now. I'm turning off the cameras and the power. Y'all be ready for darkness."

~

Jisung didn't have much time to react, almost tripping over his own feet as he grabbed at Felix's hand. Changbin led them towards the front door fast but they were stopped in their tracks by two more androids approaching them from the front. Cornered, the three huddled together, searching desperately for any possible escape route.

Before the androids could lunge at them, the lights suddenly went out and they could hear a heavy dying groan as all the machinery shutdown. What followed was a moment of dead silence, then the sharp whirr of night-vision systems humming to life cut through the dark.

"Shit." Changbin muttered as it hit him; the androids could see perfectly in the dark, giving them the upper hand. Felix felt Jisung's hand tremble in his so he squeezed it, feeling equally as terrified. Was this it? All their effort to run away from their rooms just to be taken right back?

A sudden thud cracked through the dark. One of the androids jerked forward, its head snapping to the side before dropping to its knees. Jeongin stood behind it, panting and gripping a heavy wrench like his life depended on it. The pale moonlight lit up the hallway just enough to make the dollies see what was in front of them.

"Move!" he yelled out as the other two androids started making their way towards them.

The others didn't hesitate. Changbin charged at the second android, slamming into it with enough force to knock it back into the wall. The robot let out another whirring sound as its head hit the concrete. Felix pulled Jisung close as they noticed the two other androids approaching them, ready to charge at them. Jeongin didn't wait for them to strike at his friends and he lunged forward, fighting one of the guards. Changbin joined him, making Felix and Jisung react too. Fear fueled their movements, desperation sharpening every hit.

Another pair of androids appeared in front of them, eyes glowing in the darkness right as they managed to fight off the first ones. Jeongin was on a roll, using his wrench again to strike one of the androids as it reached towards Felix to grab him. The android struck the ground with a metallic sound echoing the roomo, sparks flying from its cracked skull. But the second one stepped forward without hesitation, its eyes glowing red, head tilting as if it was calculating where to hit first; all while being terrifyingly calm.

Jisung's heartbeat hammered against his ribs, Felix's shaking grip on his hand was the only thing grounding him. Changbin stood before them, ready to throw his entire body into the android if he had to.

The machine raised its arm and then suddenly, a thunderous crash split through the hallway, like the walls themselves were breaking. Before any of the dollies could register anything, the front door slammed hard against the wall and the emergency lights snapped on in blinding white stripes that cut through the darkness.

The android about to strike was thrown across the hallway and smashed into a metal cabinet so hard that the impact rang through the entire first floor. Jisung flinched back and Felix gasped, before they heard a familiar voice.

"Come on, let's go!" it was Chan.

He charged in, fury burning inside his eyes. Behind him, Seungmin and Hyunjin were like shadows in motion, moving in a way that made them look almost eerie. More androids started appearing, closing in on the dollies, ready to take them down even if it came to damaging them, it was clear that they wouldn't stop. The dollies took a stance against the androids, right as Peach and Love stumbled into the hallway, both pale and breathless, eyes big as they took in the chaos before them.

"Chan, oh my god!" Peach yelled out, clinging onto his arm.

"Hyunjin!" Love joined in, her hand reaching out for Hyunjin. He gave her a quick grin, far too confident for the situation. The androids didn't hesitate anymore, it was as if they moved on command when they attacked. Hyunjin ducked under the android's blow with effortless grace, making Love gasp in panic.

Peach grabbed a fire extinguisher and joined in on the fight as everyone gave their efforts into it.

For a split second, Jisung felt hope. It punched into his chest so suddenly that it almost took his breath away. They could win this together.

Baby worked on her end, behind the computer, her nimble fingers rushing across the keyboard as she tried to hack into the main computer. Doctor Park seemed to have known she was trying to get in, so he kept trying to lock her out.

"Hold on, please." she prayed to herself as she looked at her other screen where the camera feed she left on showed her Jisung and the other dollies fighting for their lives.

Suddenly, the air in the room changed. An iciness seeped between everyone, suffocating and freezing, like a predator stepped into the open after watching from the dark.

Dr. Park walked forward with slow, deliberate purpose. His eyes glinted with something worse than anger and hatred - ownership.

In his hand, he held a sleek black device pulsing with faint red light. When he spoke, it sounded almost gentle. "Enough."

He lowered his thumb on the button and a piercing frequency exploded through the air, so sharp and violent it made the dollies convulse and fall to their knees, their hands flying to their heads and their systems screaming in protest.

But the one closest to Park took the full blast and it just happened to be Hyunjin. A scream tore out of his body, raw and agonized and his legs gave out, making him fall on the floor with a thud. Sparks burts across his neck, lighting his skin with frantic flickers.

"Hyunjin!" Love shrieked, bolting towards him.

He collapsed before anyone could catch him but Love dove in and caught his torso, pulling him into her arms. Hyunjin's limbs jerked violently, his eyes fluttering and his mouth open in a silent, painful gasp.

"Stay with me, Hyunjin. Please..." Love begged, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Chan tried to push forward to help but Park pressed another button.

The dollies staggered, their systems glitching wildly. Changbin slumped against the wall, Seungmin dropped to one knee, Jeongin's hands trembled uncontrollably and Felix's eyes rolled back. The override frequency echoed through the air like an eerie screech.

Dr. Park raised the device again and this time, he aimed it directly at Jisung.

"Rebellion is a defect." his voice was cold and collected as his thumb hovered over the button. Jisung screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact to hit him but it never came. The signal was cut out of nowhere. The lights above them flickered to life, illuminating the room and for a heartbeat absolutely nothing happened.

No movement, no sound. Then, every android that was ready to attack and pounce froze in place. Their eyes flashed from red to an electric blue and all their heads suddenly turned towards Dr. Park.

Baby's voice burst through the intercom, breathless and exhilarated.

"Jisung! I did it, I hacked them! They're on your side now."

Park's face twisted in genuine fear for the first time.

"Oh no, no, no!" he sounded panicked as he scrambled over to a console, fingers flying over the screen, desperate to regain control.

Several of the hacked androids took synchronized, unnervingly smooth steps towards him. Park hit another command and a pulse of energy surged forward making half of the androids power down and crash to the floor like lifeless puppets.

Park snarled in fury as the other androids didn't waver, still making their way towards him. The room descended into chaos again as sparks started flying from the androids who dropped down and afraid of an explosion, Chan tried to shield Peach with his entire body. Seungmin scrambled over to Changbin, trying to shake him awake. Felix gathered all his courage and shielded Jisung with trembling arms. Jeongin fought through his glitching hands, trying to will himself to stop the glitch.

Hyunjin remained limp in Love's kap, sparks slowly dying but still flickering only a little.

Everything seemed to be on the way to a disaster until a new sound cut through all the chaos. It was a soft, almost imperceptible click right behind Dr. Park.

Slowly, so slowly that it was agonizing, he turned his head and met two cold pairs of eyes. A hand rested on his shoulder.

Elegant but firm, it almost seemed too calm. Lino stood right behind him, Kitten by his side as she gave the doctor a little smirk of victory.

"You have done enough harm." Lino's voice was smooth and quiet.

Park raised his hand to use the overriding device but Lino moved as fast as light.

In a blur, he struck Park's wrist with a snap, sending the device skittering across the floor. Then he shoved Park forward, straight into the hacked androids waiting to rip him to pieces.

Park screamed, an ugly and raw sound as the metal hands seized him.

Lino turned away, him and Kitten already running to Hyunjin's side.

Love looked up at them, trembling.

"Is he d-dying?" her voice shook.

"He's overloaded but we can stabilize him." Lino looked at Chan and they both nodded to each other before Chan kneeled right next to him. The two of them placed their hands on Hyunjin's chest and somehow made the flickering steady. Hyunjin's breathing began to regulate. Love cried out, her hands grabbing at Hyunjin's face as his eyes flickered open to look at her. At the same time, Seungmin managed to wake up Changbin and even though he was disoriented, his hands found Jeongin's, holding them and calming the glitch down.

It was as if some kind of magic worked between them.

Jisung stared at Lino, chest tight with shock and relief.

"I didn't think you'd make it here. We had no idea where you were."

"Your Baby found us in the last moment, we made it just in time." Lino answered, his eyes shining.

The room finally became quiet. The battle was over.

As the dollies finally walked out of the facility, battered but well, a car parked in front of the entrance. They froze for a moment before Honey stepped out of the driver's seat, making Changbin gasp and yell out in happiness. More doors opened and suddenly everyone was there; Cutie, Princess and Darling making their way towards their dollies.

"Don't you ever run away like that again!" Cutie smacked Seungmin's chest as tears welled up in her eyes.

"I could say the same." Princess agreed as she collapsed into Jeongin's arms.

"Darling!" Felix held on tightly, the emotional reunion making everyone cry.

Jisung looked around, his heart beating fast before he saw another car park next to the first one and he recognized it instantly. All the exhaustion and pain was forgotten as he ran towards Baby, lifting her up and spinning her around before they both tumbled to the ground, laughing through their tears.

Princess smiled and addressed everyone. "My father has agreed to help us all with the legal stuff. You guys carry Helena's legacy, we'll sue her husband and also make sure the Dolly blueprints never end up in wrong hands."

Everyone cheered as she announced that, their hearts were full as they knew they had each other now.

It was the ending of something but it also felt like a beautiful beginning of something new.

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

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

“You don’t know my life.”

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

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

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

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

Normal.

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

This was just how it had always been.

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

Not even close.

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

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

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

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

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

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

He grinned. “Always.”

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you felt it.

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

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

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

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

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

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

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

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

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

But this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

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

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

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

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

“You okay?” he asked.

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

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

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

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

“What?”

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

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

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

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

At first, it was nothing.

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

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

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

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

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

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

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

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

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

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

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

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

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

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

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

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

You were still. Too still.

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

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

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

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

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

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

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

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

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

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

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

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

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

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

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

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

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

He followed. One step. Two.

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

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

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

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

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

You froze.

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

Your voice came out small. “So?”

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

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

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

Chan stepped a little closer.

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

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

Just… observing.

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

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

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

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

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

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

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

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

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

You felt it.

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

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

“Chan—”

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped breathing.

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

Then— He wrapped.

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

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

Everything in you went still.

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

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

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

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

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

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

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

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

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

You blinked.

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

He glanced back with a smirk.

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

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

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

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

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

Not with intent.

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

You poked at your own noodles.

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

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

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

A beat of silence.

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

You stared at him.

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

And suddenly?

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

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

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

“…Now?”

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

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

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

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

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

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

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

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

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

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

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

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

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

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

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

You paused. “…Both?”

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

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

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

Your breath caught.

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

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

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

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

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

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

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

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

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

You should’ve walked away.

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

Not rough.

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

And God… you did.

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

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

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

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

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

He pulled back.

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

“What?”

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

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

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

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

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

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

“What?”

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

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

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

Your heart thumped.

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

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

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

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

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

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

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

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

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

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

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

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

Your stomach flipped.

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

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

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

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

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

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

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

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

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

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

Your legs weakened.

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

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

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

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

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

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

Chan’s eyes darkened.

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

You blinked. “Your turn.”

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

Then leaned forward and said—

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

You froze.

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

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

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

But Chan didn’t back down.

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

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

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

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

“And now?”

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

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

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

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

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

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

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

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

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

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

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

“What side?”

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

You shivered.

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

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

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

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

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

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

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

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

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

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

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

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

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

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

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

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

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

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

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

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

You nodded without thinking.

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

Your lips parted, breath catching.

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

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

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

You gasped again, this time audible.

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

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

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

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

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

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

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

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

But then his head dipped lower.

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

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

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

And then he bit you.

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

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

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

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

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

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

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

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

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

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

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

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

“What?”

“My name.”

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

And that was it.

That broke him.

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

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

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

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

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

It shattered him.

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

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

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

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

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

Loud. Guttural.

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

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

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

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

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

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

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

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

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

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

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

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

You could feel how hard he was.

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

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

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

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

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

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

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

You gasped. Shuddered.

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

You whimpered.

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

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

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

You swallowed, chest heaving.

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

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

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

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

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

You cried out, knees trembling.

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

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

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

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

You screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head, biting your fist.

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

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

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

“What—?”

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

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

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

You stared.

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

This was feral.

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

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

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

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

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

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

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

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

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

Chan paused.

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

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

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

Chan blinked slowly.

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

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

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

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

“Fuck—”

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

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

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

You weren’t used to being his.

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

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

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

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

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

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

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

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

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

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

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

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

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

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

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

Your pride screamed no.

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

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

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

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

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

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

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

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

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

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

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

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

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

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

You damn near sobbed.

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

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

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

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

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

He didn’t move.

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

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

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

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

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

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

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

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

Chan didn’t stop.

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

“Fucking—shit—”

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

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

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

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

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

And maybe that’s why you did it.

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

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

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

You kissed lower.

And lower.

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

He groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

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

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

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

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

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

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

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

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

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

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

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

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

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

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

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

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

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

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

He turned around, eyes widening when he met yours. Up close, he looked even more gorgeous, even if completely wrecked. His lips parted as if to apologize again.

“Do you want me to hold her for a bit?” you offered gently, glancing at the red-faced, wailing infant. “It looks like you could use a break.”

His jaw dropped slightly as he asked, “Are you serious?” His strong Australian accent hit you square in the gut.

“Completely serious,” you replied, smiling.

He hesitated only for a moment before nodding, looking like he was about to cry out of gratitude. "Thank you. God, thank you."

He handed the baby over carefully, like she was made of glass. The little one, red as a tomato and just as angry, locked eyes with you. You started gently bouncing her, speaking to her in a soft whisper. She gazed at you, her loud wails softening into tiny whimpers and then as if someone flipped a switch, she fell quiet.

Her father watched in absolute surprise (and some exasperation) as she let out a little sigh, snuggled in against your boobs (of course she did), and fell asleep. Just like that.

"What the…?" The man looked at you like you were a literal angel. "Are you some kind of baby whisperer? How did you do that?!"

“Trade secret.” You grinned.

“Seriously, she hasn’t slept in days. I mean, I haven’t slept in days. I don’t even remember what my knees feel like.” He said. 

“Sleep is for the weak.” You nodded sagely, making him laugh. 

“I can't thank you enough for this… I was this close to jumping out of the emergency exit.”

“Oh not dramatic at all,” You teased. 

“Not at all,” He laughed. “I'm Chris, by the way. And she's Mia.”

“Y/N,” You said, rocking the baby in your arms, her warmth spreading into you like the sweetest hug. 

When you were sure that she was asleep, you leaned forward to place her in the bassinet. It took only a second for the baby’s eyes to snap open, and her face scrunched in fury. She let out a blood-curdling scream that made Chris groan and bury his face in his hands.

“Okay,” you said, sitting back down with the baby nestled against your chest. “I guess this is my seat now.”

He shot you a sheepish, but grateful smile. “You don’t have to do this. I feel so bad…”

“Don’t feel bad,” you interrupted, adjusting the baby in your arms as she snuggled in. “Just so you know, you’re doing great.”

“Am I?” he asked with a self-deprecating laugh, running a hand through his messy curls. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

“You are,” you assured him firmly. “She’s fed, she’s loved, and you’re trying everything. That’s all that matters.”

He exhaled deeply, like your words actually lifted a weight off his chest.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

He laughed again, his whole face lighting up, and suddenly the exhaustion made him look even sexier. How was that even possible? 

You quickly stopped that train of thought. He has a kid. That meant he had a partner. You quickly looked away, feeling a little embarrassed.

Mia whimpered gently in her sleep, and then nuzzled into your soft chest and fell asleep again. Chris sighed, watching his daughter sleep. 

“She’s had colic the past two weeks,” he admitted quietly. “I didn't even know what I was doing wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong, Chris,” You said softly. “These things happen. It's always something or the other with babies. Besides you'd have some support -”

“Her mom’s not in the picture. Left right after she was born.”

You glanced at him, your heart squeezing. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head.

“We were never really together, it's the strangest story really. Ahh, it’s been hard. But… Mia’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Your heart did something that had you holding the baby tighter against you. 

“You’re seriously incredible,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“Dinner works,” you said casually, surprising even yourself.

He blinked, then smirked. “Are you always this smooth, or is it just me?”

You shrugged, your lips quirking up. “I think it's Mia. But you'd learn eventually…if at all -”

And judging by the way his eyes lingered on yours, it looked like that’s exactly what he intended to do.

You landed, and you tried to hand over Mia to Chris at the baggage claim. But she had a tiny fistful of your soft pink jumper, and was totally unwilling to let go. So here you were, walking beside Chris towards the exit, Mia still fast asleep in your arms and Chris, carrying your small trolley bag along with his massive duffle bag and a little bag of the baby's things. 

You tried to wrestle it off his hands, but he shot you a tired but warm smile.

“You’re holding my kid. Least I can do is hold a bag.”

It was hard not to feel your heart melt at his words.

As you walked toward the arrivals area, you could see your best friend Minho waiting for you, spinning his car keys around his finger. His handsome face wore a bored expression that immediately turned into bewilderment when he saw you. 

His sharp gaze flicked from the baby in your arms to Chris, carrying three bags like a domestic god, and back to you.

“Oh my god,” Minho said loudly, striding toward you. “Please don’t tell me you’ve had a secret husband and baby hidden away in Australia.”

You burst out laughing, swatting him on the arm. Even Chris chuckled, though he looked just a little awkward.

“Minho, meet Chris,” you said, still grinning. “And this is Mia. Chris, this is Minho, my deranged bestie. And no, Min, she’s not mine, and I am not secretly married.”

Minho narrowed his eyes playfully. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Nice to meet you, man. And thanks for not jumping to any conclusions.” Chris adjusted the bags on his shoulder, smirking. 

Minho snorted. “Oh, don't mention it.”

“Can you behave for, like, five minutes?” You said, rolling your eyes. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Minho quipped before turning his attention to Chris again. “What’s the story here?”

“Mia's been having a rough time on the flight, so I was just helping out.” you supplied quickly, seeing your gremlin of a best friend already starting to look way too invested in this. 

“Helping out, huh?” Minho’s smirk widened. 

Chris’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, and you shot Minho a warning glare. “Don’t start.”

Minho held up his hands in mock innocence. “I didn’t say a word.”

The moment was broken by Mia stirring slightly in your arms. You looked down, your expression softening as you whispered, “Hello there.”

Mia made grabby hands at you, his tiny hands caressing your face.

Chris watched you like you’d hung the stars, his gaze so intense it made your stomach flip. When you looked up and caught him staring, he smiled - a real, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

“Here,” you said, stepping closer and gently handing Mia back to him. But before you let go, you pressed a soft kiss to her tiny hand.

“Bye, sweetie,” you murmured, your voice laced with affection.

Chris held her carefully, his expression unreadable as he looked at you.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything. Really.”

You nodded, smiling. “Text me about dinner?”

He grinned, the tiredness in his face momentarily replaced by something lighter, more playful. “Oh, I will.”

As he walked away, you felt the weight of Minho’s smirk before you even turned to face him.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“Oh, I’m gonna,” he teased. “So. Flirting with a hot single dad? Is this just a new hobby, or should I expect babysitting duties soon?”

“I was helping him, Minho.” You groaned. 

“Right,” he said, dragging out the word dramatically. “And I’m here because I love airports.”

You shoved him lightly, but as you walked toward the parking lot, you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

Because, honestly? You couldn’t wait for that call.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Horny. Always horny. Distractingly horny. He could be sitting in lecture, pretending to take notes, then out of nowhere his brain would malfunction because some girl up in the third row bent over to pick up a pen. He could be doing his laundry, pulling out a wrinkled hoodie, and suddenly his dick would twitch like Pavlov’s dog at the thought of someone else wearing it. He could be gaming, headset on, grinding ranked like his life depended on it— and suddenly he’d lose focus because some streamer moaned in the background. The truth was ugly: Jeongin was perpetually ready to fuck, with no one willing to let him.

He didn’t get his first kiss until nineteen. Nineteen. Practically prehistoric in college standards. Meanwhile everybody he knew was damn near getting some on the daily— hookups after frat parties, sneaky links between classes, messy situationships that ended in groupchat rants. Jeongin would sit there in voice call, muted, pretending he wasn’t silently suffering while his right hand was his most loyal girlfriend. He lived in a permanent state of post nut clarity, except there was never any clarity, just the same depressing cycle of lust and disappointment.

Porn tabs served as his white noise. He swore he knew half of the top trending actors by name, could identify the production watermarks, and could quote videos line by line like they were classics. His feed bombarded him with recommendations of everything he wasn’t getting; step-this, roommate-that, the kind of wild shit he couldn’t imagine happening to him in ten lifetimes. His life wasn’t messy, it was monotonous.

Study, game, jerk off, repeat.

It wasn’t like he was a complete loser. He had friends, attended class, even received the occasional invite to a party. But when it came to women, something short-circuited. Talking to girls wasn’t impossible, but keeping them interested? Forget it. Somewhere between the awkward jokes, nervous laughs, and the way he hyper-fixated on whatever game he was currently playing, girls just… lost interest. He’d tried everything. Different cologne, new clothes, ditching the cheap graphic tees in favor of button-downs, even growing his hair out, because apparently girls were into that now. But it didn’t matter. He still got no pussy.

And what made it even worse? His roommate, Han Jisung, arguably one of the nerdiest, most socially inept guys Jeongin had ever met—blinked and somehow ended up in a relationship. And not just with some ordinary girl. No, Jisung bagged one of the hottest girls on campus. Jeongin didn’t know how it happened. Divine intervention? Blackmail? A pact with the devil? He didn’t care. He was salty.

So he was determined. If Jisung could do it then so could he.

Except dating apps were a hard no. His friends hounded him about Tinder, Bumble, even the lesser known apps but designed for “real connections”, but Jeongin refused. He wanted to meet someone the “normal” way, not through swiping like he was picking groceries. Except “normal” wasn’t cutting it. Normal left him alone in his room, headset denting his hair, grinding ranked games till the sun came up.

Gaming was the only place Jeongin almost felt like he wasn’t a total fuck-up. Behind the screen, he wasn’t the guy who still hadn’t gotten laid and couldn’t hold a girl’s attention longer than a lecture. Here, he was sharp, quick with insults, cocky when he was winning and ruthless when he was losing. It was the one place he had control— until you showed up.

One of his mutuals invited him in this late night Discord server, it wasn’t unusual, though he’ll rarely ever talk in them. He’d interact maybe once or twice a day but half the time the chat was muted. But when someone dropped a message saying ‘need one more for league’ he didn’t hesitate to join. The lobby loaded, four mics lit up green, someone coughed loudly into theirs. And the first words you ever said to him weren’t a hello— they were, “holy shit, how do you miss that? Are you blind?”

It should’ve rolled right off his back, but instead it ignited something in him. He fired back immediately, some petty remark laced with sarcasm, and that was it. That was the start. From then on, every match turned into a war zone. The endless infighting, name calling over voice chat, the sniping for trivial kill-steals in match, it should have been grating. Instead, it became addicting.

Because beneath all the shit-talk, Jeongin couldn’t get you off his mind no matter how hard he tried. There was something about the way your voice dipped when you got serious, the way you laughed out loud when you killed him in the game, and somehow managed to sound hotter than any girl he’d ever met in person. He’d never admit it though, not when you called him a “useless jungler” every other match, but with every cutting word out of your mouth, the more he’d wanted you.

And it killed him. Because he was still the late bloomer, the lonely virgin whose sex life consisted of incognito tabs and an increasingly overworked wrist. You were just another reminder of what he couldn’t have… except, maybe this time, he had a chance to change that.

+

Jeongin slumped back in his gaming chair with the overwhelming confidence of a man who definitely hadn’t just missed smite on dragon. The HP bar was gone, the pit was empty, and his jungle dignity has long since evaporated with the last chance of winning this match. The condensation from his third energy drink of the night slowly bled into his mousepad, but it wasn’t like he was paying much attention. He was too busy flaming the shit out of you.

“Jesus, kitty, do you even know what you’re doing, or are you just sightseeing?” He snapped, lips stained slightly blue from his gamer fuel of choice, some cursed flavor that tasted like artificial blueberry and pure regret. It was 1 am but he was fully awake, jittery from all the copious amounts of caffeine he consumed, eyes darting to the scoreboard as he anxiously ran a hand through his hair.

You scoffed so loud it boomed through his headset, practically rupturing his eardrums.

“Okay, Mr. Iron Elo, you wanna talk rotations when you haven’t warded once all game?” Your voice was venom wrapped in sugar, the kind of tone that would make most people want to mute their mic.

All except for Jeongin, of course.

Because everytime you insulted him, dragged him through the dirt, his cock stirred in his sweats like it had a personal vendetta. And he hated it. Hated how emasculating it was, sitting there rock hard over being called useless, virgin, dogshit at gaming. But he couldn’t stop. The sound of your taunting voice had wormed it’s way under his skin like some sick dopamine hit, maybe this was some demented kink he had and no one told him yet.

His mic crackled with frustration as he slammed the keyboard for the hundredth time that match. “I swear to fucking god, if you int one more dragon fight—” he grits through clenched teeth, sounding reminiscent of a raging little kid that just got his Roblox privileges revoked. “Are you on something, or are you just this bad at playing?”

“Bruh,” you shot back instantly, “I was literally 1v3 and still doing more than your busted ass jungle routes. You’re playing like someone trying to unlock the clown skin.”

Jeongin’s jaw tightens as his champion exploded on screen— again. “If you flash into tower one more time I’m throwing out my ps5 and flying to your house to break your keyboard.”

“Do it. At least then you’d be useful for once,” you laugh, egging him on further. “Maybe if you stopped speedrunning how to disappoint your team, we’d be winning.”

From across the room, Jisung groaned loudly, chucking a cheeto directly at Jeongin’s head, where it bounced off with a sad little puff. “Oh my god, can you two stop dry humping each other through voice chat for five minutes? Some of us are trying to watch Spy x Family in peace!”

Jeongin didn’t even flinch. “Suck it, Jisung.”

“Awww, is that your roommate?” You cut in sweetly, then dropping the innocent act altogether. “Tell him I said your mic sounds like poverty and you’re built like a hot pocket left in the microwave for too long.”

He stifled a laugh— barely. No way in hell was he giving you the satisfaction of knowing you’re actually funny.

“I’m built like a challenger-tier jungler, actually,” he quickly retorts, dodging another in-game gank. “Which is more than I can say for your support play. You miss more stuns than I miss serotonin.”

You hummed with mock sympathy. “Poor thing…no serotonin, no map awareness, no bitches.”

“You’re the definition of human repellent,” he seethed, tilting his head back in disbelief.

“And you act like someone who’s never touched a woman. Like, ever. Honestly? You give off 21-year-old virgin energy.”

That one landed like a critical hit— but his dick had a different reaction. Stiffening so suddenly it ached, straining for attention. It should’ve shut him up, humiliated him into silence, instead he doubled down.

“I could 1v1 you in real life and still come out on top,” he muttered, cheeks burning even though you couldn’t see him.

“Oh no, he’s mad now,” you cooed, voice dripping with faux concern. “Did I bruise your fragile little gamer ego, sweetheart? Poor thing probably hasn’t even been inside a Build-A-Bear, let alone a—”

“Okay,” Jeongin cuts you off, “first of all, Build-A-Bear is a respectable establishment. Second, you wouldn’t last a single round if we took this offline.”

“Oh? You threatening to fold me in real life?” You kept on with your teasing spree, your tone dropping even lower, dangerous in a way that made his stomach do backflips. “Be careful. You might find out I’m not just good with a mouse.”

Jeongin had to mute. Had to pace his room, hard as fuck, while his Sasuke pfp glowed on Discord next to your cutesy Hello Kitty avi. He’d called you “kitty” once as a joke and now it was like a loaded gun he kept firing at himself. Everytime he said it, you doubled down harder. Everytime you cooked him, his cock twitched like it wanted more. It was embarrassing. Degrading. Yet, he couldn’t get enough.

Jisung peeked over the top of his monitor with one eyebrow raised.“Yo, you good? You’re breathing like you just got jumped by three e-girls.”

“She’s insufferable,” Jeongin mumbled before yanking his headset back on, “and she’s not even good.”

Five seconds later though, he’s unmuted and back in the game like nothing even happened.

You both kept going at it for hours— you roasting him alive with every death on the kill feed, while he’s half arguing, half foaming at the mouth. When the match finally ended (a loss, because of course it was), neither of you wanted to call it a night just yet.

That’s when your phone dings, alerting you of a notification from Discord, a new message.

pussydemonslay3r: ggs u absolute trashcan my 60 year old grandma can play better than u

A smirk tugs at your lips, thumbs already flying.

kittykushqueen: like u were any better 💀 rematch or are u scared i’ll sit on ur face next round?

His hand jerked up immediately, adjusting his glasses to make sure he read that correctly.

“…What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath, instantly taken aback. He craned his neck to look over at Jisung’s gaming chair like someone might catch him reading it. He swore he felt it in his knees.

pussydemonslay3r: ur so annoying queue up again before i block and report u for emotional damage

kittykushqueen: oh nooo 😢 did the scary sanrio girl ruin ur kd and dick game in the same night?

Even the mods in the server were so done with both of your antics. One of them was some guy known as ‘The Wizard’, types in the chat:

THE_W1Z4RD: get a room or a private channel damn we tryna queue not third wheel your e-sex chats

You didn’t reply. Jeongin didn’t either.

Because you were already messaging each other privately. Staying up until 4 am like either of you didn’t have classes to go to in the morning.

+

The very next day, like clockwork, you’re both back on the game at 10 pm sharp. The lobby countdown hadn’t even finished ticking down, the map was still blurry on the loading screen, but you were already at each other’s throats, per usual.

“Can you please stop auto-pathing into tower range like it’s your safe space?” Jeongin grumbled. His tone carried the same sharp irritation he always seemed to reserve just for you, though his voice cracked slightly at the end. It hadn’t even been a full five minutes yet and already you had him tense in his chair, fingers white-knuckling his mouse. He shifted in his seat, one knee bouncing, headset pressing warm against his ears as he glanced at the minimap. He wanted to focus, but his attention kept flicking back to comms, waiting for your comeback.

You didn’t make him wait long.

“That’s rich coming from a guy who only picks jungle because he likes the feeling of being unreasonably blamed for everyone else’s bad decisions.”

Jeongin huffed, leaning forward, elbows planted on his desk. “That’s literally the point of jungle.”

“Yeah, and so is compensating for a lack of pussy.”

The words felt like a slap. Jeongin froze, blinking at the screen while his hand hovered over his keyboard. His mouth opened, then closed, as if his brain had to reboot before responding. Never in his life would he think he’d be getting owned by some random Discord girl with a Sanrio obsession of all things.

“…Are you done?” He muttered, trying to act bored, though the stiffness in his voice gave him away.

You giggled, a cruel, bubbling sound that made his stomach knot.“Not even close. You’re such a pussy, by the way. Bet you’ve never even been inside one.”

“I’ve had multiple opportunities, actually!” His voice raised in defense, though it sounded a lot more desperate than confident.

“Are the ‘multiple opportunities’ in the room with us?” You couldn’t even take him seriously, parroting his words in a singsong tone that sent you straight into a fit of cackles.

His cheeks flamed, hands jittering as he dragged his mouse too far across the desk, overshooting a gank. His champion whiffed and exploded in the kill feed. “Shut the hell up,” he hissed, “I don’t see you pulling anyone either, kitty.”

The nickname made your laughter cut short. “Stop calling me that.”

“What? Kitty?” He repeated, getting more arrogant now, leaning into the mic just to make sure it was loud in your headset. “Fits you perfectly. Cute, whiny, claws out all the time.”

Your whole body betrayed you the second those words landed, the heat crawling up your neck making your skin prickle. It was ridiculous, really— barely a minute ago he was mocking your rotations and calling your gameplay mid, the same cocky bite to his voice that always made you want to snap back twice as hard.

And now? Now you were blushing in front of your PC like some schoolgirl, fingers stiff on the keys while your mind spun over a dumb petname he probably didn’t even think twice about. You didn’t let it show, though. Your laugh had already come and gone, and you smoothed your voice back into something flatter, more casual, like his little jab hadn’t just turned you inside out. Because if there’s one thing worse than letting Jeongin rile you, it’s letting him know he actually got under your skin.

“You’re projecting. You’re the one whining.” You try your best to act all nonchalant, as if him calling you cute wasn’t the highlight of your entire night.

“Better whining than mauled by bronze mechanics,” he fired back, grabbing for his Monster can like he needed to steady himself. The carbonation fizzed out as he cracked it open too hard, foam spilling over his fingers and dripping onto his pants. He cursed under his breath and tried to shake his hand dry without pausing the match.

“Don’t get pissy just ‘cause I’ve got better map awareness and tits you’ll never see,” you purred, ulting the kill right out from under him. “Sounds like a skill issue. Maybe try playing with both hands next time, virgin.”

He rolled his eyes at that last comment, the fact you called him that more than his own name was becoming a constant reminder of his sad reality.

“You act like I’ve never seen tits before..”

“Stop the cap,” you spoke dryly, “I know you haven’t.”

“I have seen real tits,” he insisted, sitting up straighter, as if posture alone could make him more believable.

“Whose? Yours in the mirror? The anatomically correct ones in your biology textbook? Don’t say hentai. Don’t you dare say hentai.”

His throat worked around a dry swallow. “You’re not funny..”

“I’m hilarious,” you countered immediately, tone dripping with mock authority. “Say it. Call me mommy.”

He choked. Like, actually choked on his drink. You could hear it through his mic; the ragged cough, the muted thud of his knee colliding with his desk.

“…Excuse me?” He rasped, voice raw from his previous coughing fit.

“You heard me.” You state confidently, dragging out the syllables for even more dramatic effect. “I carried lane, saved your kill-streak, and emotionally dismantled you in under five minutes. Call me mommy.”

Jeongin stared at his screen, wide-eyed, body buzzing with an energy he didn’t know how to contain. His cock strained miserably in his sweatpants, and he squeezed his thighs together under the desk, wondering if uninstalling League could also uninstall this feeling of profound confusion and arousal.

“I’d rather rawdog a ranked climb in bronze for the rest of my life,” he muttered weakly.

You chuckled. “I know you say it in your sleep, don’t lie.”

He didn’t answer. He physically couldn’t. His brain was split between the flashing screen and the heat curling in his gut.

You hit tab, checking stats. His death count had mysteriously spiked during that exchange, his scoreline uglier than it had any right to be.“Poor baby Jeongie. Losing LP and composure.”

Jeongin groaned again, dragging both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms hard into his eyes. “God, you are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet, you haven’t logged off once.”

He doesn’t respond, jaw clenched, throat too tight. His cursor hovered, chest rising and falling way too fast. He exhaled, dragged his hand across the desk, and finally gave in to the pull that’s been gnawing at him since last night.

He typed straight into your DMs, fingers twitching with something he didn’t want to name.

pussydemonslay3r: u talk all this shit online but irl i’d shut u up so fast

kittykushqueen: baby u wouldn’t shut me up. u’d ruin ur headset from how hard u’d be panting 😘

pussydemonslay3r: …

His stomach lurched as he sat there frozen, hand tightening around his mouse so hard it squeaked against the pad. He hated how fast his cock responded to a line of text, because it practically jumped like it had been waiting for you to type that. Thank god Jisung wasn’t here right now, otherwise he would’ve been royally fucked.

He tilted forward slightly, pressing his knees together as if that could hide how hard he was getting, but it only made it worse— he could feel the outline straining against his sweats. His face was hot, cheeks flushed in the glow of his monitor, but he refused to let you have the satisfaction of knowing he was already on the edge from a single fucking message.

kittykushqueen: gg btw even tho i carried ur loser ass all game

pussydemonslay3r: ur delusional i literally saved ur lane, again

kittykushqueen: lmao wtv just admit u wanna kiss me or smth i’ll wait

His throat went dry all over again, a soundless laugh leaving him. He shifts uncomfortably, dragging his palm slowly across the thigh of his joggers, hovering just close enough to relieve the pressure without fully giving in.

You were baiting him, and unfortunately, it was working.

pussydemonslay3r: u think i’m that easy? 💀

kittykushqueen: i know u’re that easy u’re one dm away from folding like a lawn chair

He stared at your message for a long second, his lip caught between his teeth. His cock pulsed, already sticky at the tip from the way he’d been grinding his thighs together. He could feel it throbbing everytime his heart raced. He should’ve stopped, should’ve shut his PC, but instead his fingers typed the dumbest thing they could.

pussydemonslay3r: prove it

He shouldn’t have said that, because his entire body went rigid the second he hit send. Minutes later, a ‘photo incoming’ bar crawled across his screen and his whole body stiffens.

One image attachment. No caption. No warning.

He clicked it and his mind went blank almost immediately.

It wasn’t full-on nudes per se, but it didn’t need to be. It was worse, if that’s somehow possible. You were splayed out on your bed, the glow of purple LED lights painting your skin, legs casually spread wide enough that the camera had captured the perfect angle. The thin tank top you wore barely covered anything, straps sliding off your shoulder. No bra. Just the faintest hint of your nipples pressing through the fabric, the curve of your thighs up front and center, and one hand resting suspiciously low below your waistband.

Your face wasn’t even visible, just your lips, parted like you’d been moaning into your phone before you took it. Your other hand held the camera steady.

Jeongin’s hands flew off his keyboard as if it burned him. He didn’t type. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, completely motionless, trying to process whether or not any of this was actually real. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, wide and unblinking, his breath coming out in short, shallow bursts through his nose. His headset was still on, but the game noise had turned to static in his ears. All he could hear was the pounding of his own pulse.

And maybe you knew the effect this would’ve had on him, because when he took too long to respond, two more notifications light up his screen.

kittykushqueen: don’t tell me u nutted already i barely even showed u anything lawl

He jolted, dragging one shaky hand down his face. His cock was rock solid now, pressing tight against the front of his sweats, precum sticking damp against the fabric. He swallowed hard, adjusting himself, his hand lingering at his crotch as he tried to steady his breathing enough to finally type back.

pussydemonslay3r is typing…

can’t even give me 5 secs jfc

But before he hit send, he snapped a picture. He didn’t even think. His body was on autopilot, every nerve in his system begging him to match what you’d just done. So he leaned back in his chair, one hand sliding under his waistband to wrap around himself. He palmed his cock slowly, biting back a groan when his fingers curled around the base. It didn’t take much to get fully hard; he already was. His sweatpants slipped low enough to reveal the flushed skin at the base, his fist loose around the shaft. His tip was wet, leaking across his thumb from the single pump he gave himself just to make it look right. His shirt had ridden up a little in the process, baring the strip of toned stomach that always made his mirror selfies look better than they should.

He takes the picture, his jaw clenched tight, hair messy from how many times he’d run his hand through it tonight. He stared at it for half a second then sent it.

[One attachment.]

No caption.

You opened it instantly.

kittykushqueen: oh u a freak for real look at u all hard just from a lil cleavage.. embarrassing

Usually, a snide little comment like that would’ve sent him over the edge, but right now he was too horny to care, and his hand squeezed tighter around his cock in reflex. His breath grew uneven, the t-shirt he wore stuck to his back with sweat. He tried to calm himself down, tried to think of a witty comeback before you could tell he was already unraveling. His thumb swiped over the sticky bead at his tip, spreading it down his shaft as he clumsily typed with his left hand.

pussydemonslay3r: ur one to talk u sent me a softcore thirst trap like it was ur steam pfp

His message blinked into the chat, but he was barely able to focus on it. His eyes kept flicking between his hand stroking himself slow, and the glow of your name lighting up when you started typing again.

kittykushqueen: softcore??? bitch my hand was in my panties

Jeongin’s practically hyperventilating. He shifted lower in his chair, sweatpants pulled to his thighs now, fist moving steadily along his cock. He hissed under his breath, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. The image of your fingers tucked under your waistband, actually touching yourself while baiting him in chat, made his hips jerk up into his palm.

pussydemonslay3r: not low enough bet u got soaked just from imagining me looking at it

The second he hit send, silence. No instant reply. No cackling emoji spam. Just the empty space of the chat window waiting for you.

He swallowed hard, the pause making him more frantic. He throbbed in his hand, while his other hovered over the keyboard, ready to type something else just to break the tension. The silence stretched long enough that he couldn’t keep still, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

Then your reply landed.

kittykushqueen: i am soaked. do u wanna see or are u gonna keep acting like a bitch in voice chat

Jeongin let out a shaky exhale, head slowly falling back against the seat. Twitching violently in his fist, precum dribbling down his knuckles. He closed his eyes for a second, taking in steady breathes, but it was useless. He was losing it.

This was hell and heaven all at once. This was everything he’d been missing, everything all those endless porn tabs had failed to give him. The connection, the sting of your voice in his ear, the way his name on your lips could make him lose all his composure.

He should’ve logged off, shut his PC down, taken a cold shower, and gone to sleep.

Instead, he types:

pussydemonslay3r: video prove it and if u moan my name i’ll win this next match with my dick out

The moment he pressed enter, he knew he’d fucked up. His hand grew tighter around his cock, pumping slow as if he was bracing himself for what’s to come.

Then the ‘recording’ notification popped up on your end.

His entire body tensed, staring at the screen, dick so unbearably hard he had to squeeze it to keep from groaning. He was already halfway gone, he’d probably burst on the spot just from one video alone.

The three dots danced once.

Stopped.

Started again.

His heartbeat thundered.

[Attachment: 1 video. No caption.]

Jeongin almost felt his airways close in on him. His fingers trembling on the mouse. For a moment he hesitated, staring at the file, sweat rolling down his temple. Then he clicked.

The video filled his screen.

Short. Filthy. And absolutely devastating.

You were still lying back on your bed, tank top pushed up now, exposing your chest— nipples hard, skin flushed, one hand between your legs, fingers slow and lazy as you circled your clit through soaking panties. You didn’t speak, but you moaned, soft and drawn out, ending on a shaky little sigh as your hips rolled into your own touch. The camera wavered slightly in your grip. At the very end, you breathed one word, barely audible:

“Jeongin..”

He snapped.

Every ounce of restraint shattered. His fist was working overtime, pumping harder, hips jerking up to meet the motion. He was leaking all over his knuckles, smearing it with every slick stroke. His thighs wouldn’t stop shaking under the desk, chair creaking with how hard he shifted against it, bucking shamelessly as he tried to stay quiet— but it was already too late. A shaky groan left him, desperate and hoarse, like he’d been holding it back all night. His vision blurred at the edges, all focus zeroed in on the video replaying on his screen.

pussydemonslay3r: fuck. ur voice say it again moan my name again while u touch that messy lil pussy

Your typing bubble popped up instantly.

kittykushqueen: mm i will if u stroke that pretty cock for me, baby i wanna hear how nasty u get when ur mic isn’t on push-to-talk

Jeongin’s chest heaved, his free hand wiping the sweat off his forehead, his grip pumping faster. He could barely manage to type anymore, every word shaking as he pressed on the keyboard harder than necessary.

pussydemonslay3r: hop on vc now

He yanked his headset back on, nearly tangling the cord in his panic, adjusting the mic with wobbly hands. His palms were damp, his cock still painfully hard and aching against his stomach. He fumbled with Discord settings, clicking through until the private voice channel opened. His chest rose and fell in fast, shallow bursts.

There was a moment of awkward silence. He could hear his own shaky breathing echo in his headset, the faint click of your mic on the other end.

Then your voice slid through, smug and breathy, thick with arousal. “So quiet now. Where’s all that shit talk, virgin boy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jeongin muttered— but his voice cracked halfway through it, and you giggled, soft but menacing, like you already knew how hard he was, how close he was, how wrecked he sounded.

“What’re you doing?” you cooed. “Jerking off to my voice? To my moans? Bet you’re leaking all over your hand like a good little loser.”

He let out a strangled sound, breathing hard. “Fucking- yes. Yes, I am. Happy?”

Your answering moan nearly made him cum right then and there. Quiet but lethal, your fingers clearly moving faster now on your end, the wet squelch of your pussy audible through the mic. The sound filled his ears, shameless and intimate, drowning out the game, his room, everything else.

“Put the mic closer,” he growled suddenly, the command tearing out of him before he could stop it.

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

“Then beg.”

He cursed under his breath. You could heat the creaky sound of his gaming chair as he shifted forward along with some faint rustling in the background, then his mic shifted.

And then you heard it— the wet drag of his fist stroking his cock, slow at first, then faster, messier. He groaned directly into the mic this time, not holding back. No filter. No push-to-talk.

Just Jeongin, raw and undone.

“Fucking ruined by you,” he muttered, voice low and broken. His breathing hitched with every stroke. “Always run your mouth like you’re not just as desperate. Bet your fingers aren’t even enough right now. You want me to fill you up so bad, don’t you?”

“God- yes,” you let out a high-pitched gasp, picking up your pace. “I want your cock so deep I can’t even talk shit anymore. Wanna be so full I forget what rank I am.”

Jeongin’s hips bucked harder against his hand, leaking all over his abs, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his rhythm sped.

“Say my name again,” he demanded, aching for more. “Say it like you did in the video.”

You whined his name in his ear, soft and dirty, completely destroying him. He grunted, increasing his stamina, thighs tensing as he imagined your mouth on him, your voice in his ear, your pussy clenching around him like that.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warned. “If you moan like that again, I’m- fuck- ’m gonna—”

“I’m gonna cum too,” you moaned, voice stuttering. “Cum for me, Jeongin. Be a good boy and make a mess.”

Those words did it for him. His body convulsed, mouth falling open as a helpless groan rips from his throat. Hot cum spilled across his fist and stomach, thick spurts painting his skin, his breath breaking into short, desperate gasps. His mic caught everything, every noise he couldn’t contain.

You bit your lip, still rubbing your clit, the wet slap of your fingers growing louder than before. His moans pushed you over the edge seconds later. You tipped hard, hips grinding against your hand, eyelids fluttering as you moaned his name again, louder, shameless, dragging it out until you broke apart completely in his ears.

The channel went quiet except for breathing. Your breaths, ragged and uneven. His, hoarse and heavy, chest heaving.

“…So we’re definitely not queuing again tonight,” Jeongin finally rasped.

You giggled, fucked-out and smug. “Too scared I’ll dominate you again?”

“I literally just came so hard I saw stars. You think I can aim after this?” He dragged his hand down his face, cum sticky across his skin.

You smiled lazily, voice warm but still teasing. “Damn. All that from a softcore thirst trap?”

He groaned, exhausted. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You purred, “baby, I haven’t even turned the webcam on yet.”

+

The next night rolled around and Jeongin was right back where he swore he wouldn’t be. Hunched over at his scratched-up gaming desk, fingers already drumming against his glowing keyboard. His screen lit up with the Overwatch lobby countdown, and his stomach twisted with a mix of dread and anticipation. He’d promised himself a break after last night’s… incident. He’d promised he wouldn’t let you get to him again. And yet, here he was, 2:32 am, mic unmuted, cocky smirk plastered on his face to hide the fact that he was lowkey bracing for whatever was about to come out of your mouth this time.

You were in the lobby too, your username glowing in the party list, already trash talking in team chat before the game had even started. Jeongin adjusted his headset, took a swig of his Monster, and reminded himself that he hated you. Absolutely despised you. The messages, the video, the voice call— it hadn’t changed anything. You were still his sworn enemy. His rival. The insufferable little menace who spammed “gg ez” even when you lost. The only difference now was that everytime you called him a virgin loser, his dick leveled up before his pride did.

“Why the hell are you playing Ana again?” He groaned, exasperated as he flicked through hero selection. “You can’t aim for shit.”

Your voice quickly cut in, sugary-sweet and annoying as ever. “Suck my dick.”

Jeongin almost choked again, but swiftly caught himself.

“Yeah, from the back,” he says without missing a beat, face heating slightly. “But can you heal me while doing it, or are we just throwing this game again?”

You cackled, loud and sharp. “Nah, I’m letting you die on purpose. Builds character.”

“You say that like it hasn’t already broken me spiritually.” He tilted back in his chair until it squeaked dangerously, then lurched forward when the match countdown hit.

“Good. I thrive on your mental instability.”

He groaned again, “you’re genuinely evil.”

“And you’re genuinely down bad,” you chirped. “Now push the payload, baby boy.”

He smacked his forehead on the desk with a soft thunk. “Quit calling me that..”

You were giggling, some unholy mix of adorable and infuriating. Jeongin could practically see the shit-eating grin on your face through voice chat.

The game was nothing but chaos— team kills, botched ults, passive-aggressive pings. You played recklessly, taunting enemies in chat and spamming emotes mid-fight, while Jeongin tried desperately to play clean, to prove that he wasn’t just the guy who’d jerked off in voice chat less than 24 hours ago.

“I’m dead again,” he snapped a few minutes in, glaring at his screen. “Because somebody was too busy spamming voice lines to keep me alive.”

“Oops,” you sang. “Guess I’ll have to twerk on your grave.”

Jeongin’s eyes grew wide, flicking toward his second monitor where your Discord bubble lit up. “What?”

“You heard me. Full split. Ass in the wind. Right on your pixelated tombstone.”

He let out a strangled noise. “Oh my god..”

“‘Here lies Jeongin,’” you said in a fake solemn tone. “‘Died like he lived: being a little bitch on voice chat.’”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

His throat tightened. “…I do.” But it came out too soft, too weak, like even he didn’t believe himself.

“Aw, poor Jeongie,” you cooed, dragging out the syllables on purpose. “Getting cooked and can’t handle it?”

He clenched his jaw, fingers flying across his keyboard to respawn. “God, you’re so fucking annoying.”

“And you’re so fucking fun to annoy.”

“Uh huh,” he muttered, forcing his tone flat even though he’s clearly flustered, “keep lying to yourself, kitty.”

You sneered. “You did not just pull out the ‘kitty’ card out on me again.”

Jeongin smirked faintly, leaning back like he’d just landed a game winning play. “What’re you gonna do? Cry about it?”

Your scoff came sharp through the mic. “Say it one more time and I’ll uninstall your entire hard drive.”

His grin widened, cocky even as his palms were uncontrollably sweating. “Say it two more times and you’ll what?”

You groaned, smacking your desk loud enough for him to hear. “You’re such a pain the ass.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped low, teasing. “Funny, you’ve been in my lobby every night this week. Who’s really suffering here?”

Your silence stretched for half a second too long, and Jeongin’s cock twitched embarrassingly in his shorts. He scrambled to fill the gap before you could notice.

“Thought so,” he muttered, respawning into lane with a huff.

The bickering didn’t stop from there. Every death was blamed, every misplay ridiculed. You called him all types names every chance you got, and everytime, his pulse jumped even as his blood boiled. He kept threatening to log off, to uninstall, to block you, but he never once did.

Two more matches. Both disasters. One ended in a rage quit from your support. The other ended with Jeongin screaming into his mic because you’d thrown yourself into the enemy spawn “for the content.” By the time the final scoreboard tallied up, it was 4:03 am, the two of you had logged off voice, but you’re right back to messaging each other again.

kittykushqueen: we’re highkey insufferable lol if someone recorded our vc it’d get shipped harder than enemies in anime

You laughed softly to yourself after hitting send, your thumbs buzzing from how fast they’d been flying across your phone all night. Your ears still rang faintly with the sound of his voice— whining about losing or barking half-assed insults, all of it burned into your skull even after the call had ended.

The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, then popped up again.

pussydemonslay3r: nah bc i’d be the fan favorite u’d be the mean one everyone hates

You snorted, tugging your blanket higher over your shoulders. Your dorm room was mostly quiet except for the whir of your mini fridge in the background, but it still felt loud with how hard your heart was beating.

kittykushqueen: wrong !!! i’m the hot one ur the whiny tsundere virgin

pussydemonslay3r: wow. ratio + cry about it + i’m logging off

You rolled your eyes so hard your head tilted back against the pillow.

kittykushqueen: wait wait wait random question…. what school do u go to?

Another pause. Long enough for your stomach to twist.

pussydemonslay3r: [uni name] why

Your eyes widened. You blinked once. Then again, rubbing them like maybe the sleep deprivation finally caught up to you and was making you hallucinate.

kittykushqueen: LMFAOOOO NO WAY this is gonna sound absolutely insane but like what dorm u in??

pussydemonslay3r: orion floor 4 why wassup

Your jaw actually dropped to the floor. You sat up straighter, staring at your phone like it had just grown legs.

kittykushqueen: no. fucking. way me too ?????

pussydemonslay3r: u lying are u playing me rn

kittykushqueen: dorm 418 bro we’re neighbors

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

pussydemonslay3r: STOP I’M 416 so ur the girl who always blasts doja at 3 am

kittykushqueen: and ur the guy who tried to microwave a spoon in week 2

pussydemonslay3r: OH MY GOD SHUT UP THAT WAS ONE TIME

kittykushqueen: this is fate or a glitch in the matrix

pussydemonslay3r: …so u wanna 1v1 irl?

kittykushqueen: say less but i’m bringing the strap (it’s a nerf gun)

pussydemonslay3r: god u’re so weird i’m obsessed

You stared at those last words for a long moment, your breath shallow, chest tight. It was stupid— insane, even— that all this time the boy you’d been tearing apart online for weeks, the one you’d teased into jerking off for you less than day ago, was only two doors down. You pressed your phone to your chest, biting back a smile that wouldn’t leave. The walls of your dorm felt paper thin all of a sudden, every sound suddenly amplified. Adrenaline courses through your veins, part nerves, part thrill. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh, hide, or knock on his door right that second. Maybe a combination of all three.

+

The hallway outside dorm room 416 was dead quiet, dimly lit by the soft flicker of overhead fluorescents and the faint buzz of someone’s dying LED strip light from a couple doors down. The silence only made your knuckles sound louder when you rapped three sharp knocks against his door, petty and deliberate. Like you were showing up to collect debt he owed.

You heard some shuffling on the other side. Then the door cracked open, revealing Jeongin— blinking blearily behind smudged glasses, hair sticking up at odd angles, wearing a plain black t-shirt and basketball shorts that hung low on his hips. He looked… unprepared. As if he hadn’t expected you to actually show up. Not that you could blame him.

“I came to fight,” you announced, arms crossed, expression serious. Completely at odds with your bright pink Hello Kitty pajama set and fuzzy slippers.

Jeongin looked you up and down, then blinked again. “In that?”

You roll your eyes dramatically, “it’s fashion, bitch. You aren’t dressed any better.”

He huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like his brain was still buffering. “Okay, damn. Come in, I guess, before someone sees you and assumes I’m being held hostage.”

You stepped inside without hesitation, smirking. “You are being held hostage. By my superiority.”

His room was exactly what you’d imagined— and maybe even a little worse. Bookshelves filled to the brim with mangas, rows of Funko Pops and action figures, a massive Death Note poster was taped crookedly above his bed. His desk was cluttered with half empty cans of Monster, an open pack of Hot Cheetos, and keyboard crusted faintly from too many late nights. On his pillow, a Soul Eater plush sat propped up as if it owned the place.

“Wow,” you said, spinning slowly. “You really don’t get laid.”

He clicks his tongue. “God forbid a man has hobbies.”

You flopped onto his gaming chair, leaning back and giving it a lazy spin, your legs crossed, looking perfectly at home. “So this is the nerd lair. I’m impressed. It’s giving.. incel with taste.”

He leaned against the wall, arms folded. His eyes kept flicking to your bare thighs where your pajama shorts had ridden up, and he tried to force himself to look anywhere else. “It’s called having a personality.”

You snort. “Says the man who told me on Discord that Sanrio girls are a red flag.”

“Because they are,” he defended, pushing off the wall. “and I stand by that. You people are dangerous.”

“You people?” You gasped, mock-offended.

“I’m serious!” He jabbed a finger at you. “Sanrio girls throw hands, cry in club bathrooms, and threaten to slash tires with glittery keychains.”

You shrugged casually, picking at a chipped nail. “And we have the best pussy.”

Jeongin froze. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking down again before he forced them back up to your face. “…You can’t just say that out loud.”

You flashed a cheesy grin. “What, does Hello Kitty scare you?”

“She’s five apples tall, I just know she’s hiding something.”

“She’s literally a cat,” you deadpanned.

“She’s a concept,” he argued, stepping forward, getting way too into it. “She doesn’t even have a mouth.”

“Yet she’s still more emotionally available than most men.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then he groaned, pressing his palm to his face. “I- okay, fine, you win this one.”

You hopped up from his chair, padding over until you were toe-to-toe, poking at his chest. “Say it louder.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a blush creeping in at the tips of his ears. “You win. Congratulations. What do you want, a medal?”

You tilt your chin up to look right at him, “nah. Just wanna see the look on your face when you lose again.”

He arched a brow, curiosity sparking under the irritation. “Oh yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you pushed at his chest lightly. He stumbled back, caught off guard, until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he dropped onto the edge of his bed with a surprised “oof.” His hands hit the blanket to steady himself, but before he could recover, you climbed right onto his lap, straddling him with a wicked grin.

Jeongin’s whole body went limp, feeling another uncomfortable lump forming in his throat. His hands hovered awkwardly at your hips, not quite daring to touch, but his eyes darted over every detail of you up close— the smooth skin of your thighs pressed against his, the strap of your pajama top slipping off one shoulder, the heat of your body right against his crotch.

“Are we… still fighting?” He asked, voice a little higher than normal.

“Mhm.” You leaned down, eyes glinting. “And I’m about to win this round too.”

His brain blanked. The urge to throw another insult warred with the ache in his cock that had been building since the second you knocked.

He blinked once. Twice. Then closed the gap, kissing you.

It was clumsy at first, hesitant, like he’s in disbelief that a girl as pretty as you was actually real and currently sitting in his lap. But when your hand found the back of his neck and your fingers tugged gently at his hair, he got the memo, dissolving right into you. His lips moved in tandem with yours, warm and eager, but still refraining from fully touching as though he’s terrified you’d have second thoughts and pull away.

The Soul Eater plush toppled off his pillow and hit the floor.

Neither of you noticed.

Your breath caught as Jeongin kissed you deeper, his hands finally grounding themselves on your hips like he was done being shy about it. His grip tightened— not rough, but certain. The hesitation he’d held a moment ago seemed to melt away, replaced by something firmer, hungrier. He shifted you closer until your knees dug into the mattress on either side of him, and the heat between your bodies left no space untouched. His mouth moved with more confidence now, tongue flicking against yours, his breath hot and uneven. Every exhale carried a low hum, almost a growl, betraying just how badly he wanted this.

This wasn’t just lust— it was longing.

You felt his fingers flex against your hips, testing, adjusting his hold. He drew small circles against the thin fabric of your pajamas, fingertips lingering just beneath the waistband, not quite enough to push further, but enough to make your skin prickle with anticipation. The firmness in his touch made you realize he wasn’t playing anymore— no teasing in vc, no pretending to hate you. Just solely focused on you, pulling you in, and it made your pulse stutter.

You break away just slightly, lips still tingling, eyes searching his. “You sure you’re not scared of Sanrio girls?”

Jeongin smirked, face flushed from the kiss. “Terrified,” he said. “But I think I like the fear.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, but the sound turned into a gasp when he guided your hips against his, slow and purposeful. You could feel him now— unbearably hard, pressed against the thin barrier of your pajama shorts, and the confidence behind his movement made your head spin. His hands urged you closer, encouraging you to roll your hips again, and when you did, he let out a curse under his breath.

“You like teasing, huh?” He murmured, voice low as he leaned in, trailing wet kisses along the rim of your jaw. “Running that mouth, thinking I won’t do anything.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned by the shift in him. “Is this you trying to sound hot right now?”

“Is it working?” He asked, lips brushing over the edge of your neck, pausing just long enough for his tongue to dart against your skin.

…Yeah. It was. But you weren’t gonna let him know that just yet.

“I think you’re bluffing,” you challenged, tilting your head back slightly. “All talk.”

“Oh?” Jeongin tugged gently at the hem of your pajama top, his fingers lightly brushing underneath. “Then let me prove it.”

His voice was gentle, but commanding in a way you hadn’t expected from the guy who just ten minutes ago was raging about lag spikes and accusing Hello Kitty of being a demon. He wasn’t stuttering, wasn’t nervous, looking straight at you with a seriousness that made your chest tighten. This was a whole new side of him you’ve never seen before… and you could barely contain your own excitement.

Your hands slid up into his hair, threading through the messy strands until you had a firm hold, messing it up further. He bit his lip when your nails scraped lightly against his scalp.

“Okay, gamer boy,” you said, a little more breathless than you intended. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Jeongin chuckled against your skin, warm and cocky, and way too arrogant for someone who still had a plushie lying upside down on the floor like it was a casualty. His lips trailed lower, peppering kisses across the side of your neck, pausing every so often to gently suckle. His hands slipped further under your top, fingertips gliding over your waist. He wasn’t rushing, and somehow that made your heart beat even faster.

“You always talk this much during games?” He murmured, nipping at your neck.

You exhaled, nails still tugging on his hair. “You always flirt like this with girls who roast you in Discord?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his expression serious despite the flush spreading across his cheeks. “Only the ones who send me thirst traps and make me question my entire existence.”

You smirked, dragging your fingers over to toy with the hem of his shirt. “So… me.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he muttered, right before leaning in and kissing you again, this time with more intent, more pressure. His tongue slid against yours, teasing and warm, and when you shifted in his lap, he let out a quiet, wrecked sound that went straight to your core.

You felt the twitch of his arousal against you, solid and needy through the thin layers of clothing, and the fact that he was trying so hard to keep it together only made it ten times hotter.

“God,” he breathed out, forehead resting against yours, “you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re the one who said ‘1v1 me IRL,’” you teased, reaching for the bottom of his t-shirt. “Don’t start what you can’t finish, Jeongin.”

He lifts his arms and lets you peel it off, his body heat rises under your palms as you raked your nails down lightly. He inhaled sharply.

“Oh, I plan on finishing,” he affirms, though he paused not even a second later, eyes flicking away sheepishly. “That sounded a lot cooler in my head..”

You burst out laughing, and he kissed you again just to shut you up.

His lips moved slower now, savoring the way you taste. Every tilt of his head, every drag of his mouth felt deliberate, unhurried. His hands kept roaming under your top, gliding up your sides, exploring every inch of you. You whispered his name softly, and the way he looked up at you with the utmost intensity made your chest ache. He looked at you as if you were the one thing he’d never expected to have, and now that you were here, he wasn’t letting go.

“Tell me what you want,” he meets your gaze with pleading eyes, already so eager. “I’ll do anything.”

The way he said it made you clench around nothing, heat curling low in your stomach until it ached. His cock was throbbing under you, pressing against you in a way that had you grinding down without even meaning to. Every little shift made him jolt, breath stuttering, thighs tensing under your weight. His hands gripped your legs tighter, thumbs brushing up near the edge of your shorts, seconds away from slipping underneath. He looked equal parts nervous and wrecked, but the hunger there was undeniable.

“Wild that you’re about to lose your virginity to the girl who flames you the hardest,” you said, grinning.

He let out a dry little chuckle, the sound low and shaky. Whatever pride he’d been clinging to had already gone out the window— he was hard, you were on top of him, and in his head that meant he’d already won.

“Yeah,” he admitted, lips curling into the faintest smirk. “And I’d do it again.”

His fingers slid beneath the elastic of your shorts, teasing the center of your damp panties. “You’re soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice thick with disbelief. “All that attitude just to end up dripping for me.”

Your hips jerked up instinctively, a whine spilling from your throat as your eyes scrunched shut. His eyes darkened instantly, pupils blown wide, the faint shine of his glasses reflecting the lamplight. He looked absolutely undone, and yet fully in control.

“Look at me when I touch you.” His voice was firmer now, commanding.

Your lips parted to sass back, to remind him who was supposed to be winning this so-called fight, but the moment his hand pressed firmly against your clothed clit, all that witty defiance ended up dissolving into a ragged moan.

You looked straight at him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words slipped out low and husky, his tone steady but threaded with something desperate. His glasses had slid down his nose, his messy black hair framing his face, looking like every anime character you’d secretly thirsted over too long— except this wasn’t your screen. He was very real. And very much between your legs.

“I’ve waited way too long to get you like this,” he said as his fingers dragged lazy circles, feeling your juices seeping through the fabric. “Talking shit in voice chat, calling me a pussy. You really think I wasn’t gonna do something about that?”

“Jeongin,” you breathed, hips rolling toward his hand, your thighs trembling. The sound of his name spilling from your lips had his head reeling, he swore he could cum untouched just from hearing it.

Before you knew it, you toppled over and your back collided with the mattress, he’d flipped you over to be on top now. He slid down the bed, settling between your legs once again, his face hovered close enough that you could feel his breath against the cotton barrier of your panties. When he looked up at you, pupils dark and lips swollen, you felt chills go up your spine.

“Say my name again,” he said softly. “And I’ll make you forget how to say anything else.”

All you managed was a shaky breath but you did as you were told, letting out another soft moan of his name that sent the blood rushing straight to his cock.

His hand dips back beneath the elastic, his fingers pressing against your soaked panties, and the sticky wet sound made both of you groan. He slipped them aside without warning, and the cool air on your wet cunt had you clenching before he even touched you. Jeongin pushed two fingers inside, filling your tight little hole, watching your face as your back arched. The stretch had you gasping, clutching the sheets beneath you tighter. His jaw clenched at the way your walls fluttered around him immediately, gripping his fingers like you’d been waiting for this forever. He pumps in and out slowly at first, his thumb brushing lightly over your clit. Your hips rolled up to meet him, chasing the friction. His lips curled, cocky but awed.

“Take my fingers so well, baby,” he muttered, voice rough. The slick squelch of your cunt echoed in the small room, loud and shameless. He pressed a third finger in before you had time to process, groaning at the way you stretched around him. “Want more?”

“Yes! Fuck—” the word tumbled out broken, your thighs twitching against his sides. You were stuffed, trembling, clenching around every push of his fingers as they drove deeper, curling them just right inside you.

Jeongin leaned closer, his forehead pressing to your stomach as he worked his hand faster. “Messy girl. Getting it all over the sheets already.” His words vibrated against your skin.

Your body buzzed with heat, sweat clinging to your skin, exhaustion mixing with pleasure until it felt like you were floating. Every thrust of his fingers dragged you closer, the pressure building, your moans spilling free without filter.

Jeongin was loving every second of it. The way your cunt swallowed his digits, the sounds of your wetness filling his ears, the sight of you squirming under him. His pace quickened, eyes locked on your face, soaking in every reaction.

“Mmm… you’re perfect,” he groaned. “Look at you- clenching so tight. You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you?”

Your thighs squeezed around his arm, lips parting to release a broken moan. You couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus on anything except the way he stretched you out, heat pooling heavy in your stomach. All you could do was hold tighter, breath shallow, feeling lightheaded as your orgasm approached fast and hard.