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𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 12.0K, original!wifeblackfemreader, husband!onyankopon, (in this au; both reader and onyankopon are 31!) dad!onyankopon, southerncoded!onyankopon, southerncoded!femreader, shy!femreader, giggly!femreader, aggressive!onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, riding!, standing doggy style!, pet names, dirty talk, aggressive pet names, squirting, creaming, condomless sex, dick sucking, overstimulation, family drama, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི
メモ。— in the honor of me turning 24 soon, how about some more mature, southern coded family drama? hope y’all enjoy, teehee.
THE CAJUN SPICE OF ANDOUILLE SAUSAGE WAFTS THE ENTIRE HOUSE LIKE A WARM HUG, YOUR HOPES OF IT TASTING AS GOOD AS IT SMELLED FILLING YOU WITH EXCITEMENT. This was your domain—the kitchen, as feeding a growing boy and a constantly growing man became a second job for you. One you loved, of course.
The farmhouse kitchen hums with the sizzle of cayenne and thyme clinging to the air like a promise. Outside, the Louisiana sun presses heavy against the wrap around porch, where tangled bougainvillea bleeds pink against peeling white wood. Your bare feet—toes painted a deep plum—press into worn oak floors as you stir the pot, hips swaying slightly to the hum of Need U Bad by Jazmine Sullivan bumping from the Bluetooth speaker.
That Saints jersey of his—swallowed up by broad shoulders on game days drapes past your thighs now, the fabric still faintly carrying his cologne, something smoky and sweet. Beneath it, the lace of your black thong digs just slightly into the swell of your hips, a reminder of the softness you’ve grown into—womanly curves that he worships with his hands, his mouth, his everything.
Heat now rolls off the stove in waves, curling the baby hairs at your nape into tight spirals, your crinkled jet black lengths parted neatly down the middle, crimped and glossy where they spill over your shoulders. You catch your reflection in the oven door—freckles stark against flushed brown cheeks, lashes brushing them like feather tips, lips glossy from the Chapstick you’d swiped on absentmindedly.
And there it is—your wedding band glints under the pendant light, a simple gold oval he’d slid onto your finger at the courthouse when you were both too young to care what anyone thought. Back then, staying home hadn’t been the plan—but neither was the way he had gripped your waist in that ultrasound room, voice rough when he said, “…Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you stress ‘bout shit but this baby.”
And here you are now, sixteen years later. Your men won’t storm in for hours yet. No cleats thudding on the porch from that teenager of yours, and no deep chuckle rumbling through the screen door as your husband shakes off work. Just the quiet, the spice in the air, and the thrum of your own pulse—content, for now, in this life you’ve built.
The back of your thumb grazes over the smooth gold of your ring, twisting it absently as memories flash like fireflies behind your eyes—those early days when Onyankopon was still more boy than man, all rough edges and sharper tongue.
Back then, he wore his New Orleans like armor—cornrows fresh, diamond studs glinting against deep brown skin, tattoos still fresh enough to look angry. That fleur-de-lis inked high on his cheekbone was a declaration, a fuck you to anyone who thought they could box him in. You remember the way his Timberlands kicked up gravel outside your mama’s house, or how his voice dropped to honey thick "Shhh, girl", when he pulled you close behind the bleachers.
And now?
Lord. Thirty one looks sinful on him. The same fleur-de-lis, same tattoos sprawling over corded muscle—but now they tell stories. The pelican inked over his heart for Louisiana loyalty, the NOLA ‘til I’m cold scripted down his ribs. His cornrows are neater these days, edges crisp where they taper into the nape of his neck, that low beard trimmed just right. Age settled into him like whiskey in oak—richer, deeper. The kind of man who walks into a room and the air changes.
Your son—Asaud—carries his name like a blessing. Sixteen and already built like his daddy, all long limbs and broad shoulders threatening to outgrow his jersey. Same sharp cheekbones, same slow, cocky grin when he knows he’s charmed an entire city. But where Ony’s edges stayed hard, Asaud softened— mama’s almond eyes, even your freckles dusting his nose.
Those two? Tight as thieves. Asaud trailing Onyankopon like a shadow since he could walk—“Teach me that throw, Pops. Let me hold the drill, I got it.”
The way your husband’s stern “Aight, show me some shit’,” could make Asaud stand taller than any trophy.
But lately…
Your finger stills on the ring.
The creak of Asaud’s bedroom door—always shut now—grates against your nerves like a splinter you can’t dig out. Two weeks straight of it. No more sprawled across the couch with his cleats kicked up, no more leaning over your shoulder while you cooked just to steal a taste. Just that door locked tight as a vault, the muffled bass of his music throbbing through the wood like a pulse you weren’t invited to hear.
He used to be yours—your baby, even when he hit six feet tall. The boy who’d press his forehead to yours after bad games and whisper, “I’m sorry, Momma,” like your disappointment cut deeper than any coach’s scream.
Now? His “Cool,” lands like a slap when you ask about practice. His backpack stays slumped by the door, untouched since yesterday. Homework? Done. Dinner? Not hungry.
And sleep—Lord, the sleeping. You catch him slumped over his desk sometimes when you dare to knock, cheek smushed against his physics textbook, lashes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake even in dreams. Other days he doesn’t stir ‘til noon, blankets twisted around his waist, phone clutched in his palm like it holds answers.
Onyankopon misses it. Not because he doesn’t care—hell no. That man breathes for his son. But between welding shifts at the shipyard—arms streaked with soot, muscles aching from hauling steel—he comes home too exhausted to see past Asaud’s “I’m straight, Pops.”
And you? You’re softer. Always have been. The one who smooths his edges when Ony’s tough love ain’t the fix. But lately…
When your hand hovers over Asaud’s door? The wood feels colder than it should.
Your phone buzzes against the countertop, pulling you from your thoughts. The screen lights up with a text from Papa—your husband's contact name forever unchanged since the day he programmed it himself.
Shipyard lettin’ us slide early. Gon’ grab some crawfish, swing by Nana’s for y’all. You want extra butter?
A slow smile curls your lips. You’re halfway through typing your response—but that’s when the screen flashes again. Not another text.
An incoming call.
Principal Guidry—Bonnabel High.
“…Hello?”
“Hey, baby.”
Principal Guidry’s voice is honey thick Creole, the same one that used to holler at y’all for cutting class back in tenth grade. Now it’s laced with something heavy.
“I’m real sorry to call like this—”
Your grip tightens.
“Cherise, what’s wrong? Is Asaud—“
“He’s fine.”
She hesitates before correcting, “Physically, leastways. But…”
A pause. The shuffle of papers.
“My office chair ain’t never felt this heavy. Got yo’ boy sittin’ right here lookin’ like he wanna disappear into the floor. Suspended. Three days.”
Suspended? The word doesn’t even sound right in the air.
“Black eye and all,” she adds softly.
Your breath catches. Asaud? Your gentle giant? Fighting?
“What happened?”
Cherise exhales hard, “Let him tell it. ‘Need you to come get him.”
The kitchen suddenly feels too hot.
"I’m on my way."
The tires of your truck screech against cracked asphalt as you fishtail into the Bonnabel High parking lot, heart hammering against your ribs. You should text Onyankopon—should—but even thinking about it makes your stomach twist. The man would burn down the entire Eastbank if he heard his son was hurt, the welding torch still in hand, fury hotter than molten steel. No, better to handle this first.
The school looms ahead, its faded maroon bricks and rusted Saints banners looking harsher under the afternoon sun. Then—movement. The double doors swing open, and there’s Asaud, flanked by two security guards, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to fold into himself.
You don’t even cut the engine before you’re out the car, bare feet slapping against hot concrete.
“Mon bébé—oh my God, look at your face!”
Your hands flutter over his swollen eye, fingers trembling as you trace the bruise purpling his caramel skin. It’s deep, angry—someone hit him hard. The Creole spills out of you unfiltered, a storm of “Qui t'a fait ça?!” and “Let me see, cher—”
Asaud exhales sharply, catching your wrists with a gentleness that belies his size.
“Chill, Momma. I’m fine.”
One of the guards—a thick necked man with a walkie crackling at his hip—clears his throat.
“Ma’am, ‘you gotta clear the lot.”
The dismissal in his tone snaps something in you.
“Clear the—do you see my child’s face? Who did this? Who—”
“Momma.”
Asaud’s grip firms, steering you back toward the car with a nudge. The kids pressed against the cafeteria windows don’t make it any better. He just climbs into the passenger seat without another word, jaw set.
And so, you follow.
The air inside the truck is thick with unspoken words, the only sound is the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Asaud shifting in his seat. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light streaming through the window—jaw clenched, lashes lowered—a portrait of quiet defiance.
“…Are you alright?”
“Yeah.”
One word, clipped.
“Does Coach know what happened?”
“Not yet.”
That stings. Asaud loves football—loves his team, loves the way his daddy’s face lights up when he makes a play. If he’s keeping this from Coach? Something serious must’ve happened.
“Ti-Loup… are you really okay?”
Little wolf—the childhood nickname slips out before you can stop it, tender as a bruise.
His broad shoulders slump as he leans his temple against the glass.
“…Head hurts.”
“Baby, if you hit your head, you can’t sleep—”
Your hand lifts instinctively, reaching to brush his temple, check for fever—but he tilts away before you can make contact. Your fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat before dropping back to the wheel.
The moment the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway, Asaud is already moving—door swinging open before you even cut the engine, his long legs carrying him toward the house in quick strides. You barely have time to gather your purse before he’s halfway up the porch steps.
“Wait—"
Your scramble after him, bare feet slapping against warm wood.
“Ti-Loup—Asaud!”
He slows down by a millisecond.
“I still need to know what happened—“
“Ain’t nothin’.”
“Nothing?”
You frown, “Look at your damn face!"
You catch his wrist, forcing him to turn—only for him to yank free with a force that makes you stumble.
“Why are you being like this? You don’t—you never avoid me.”
This time when he turns, his eyes aren’t just tired. They’re cold.
“Damn, can’t I just breathe without y’all up my ass?”
The words hit like a slap.
For a second you just stand there, the sting of them settling deep beneath your skin. Your chest tightens—but you won’t cry. Not here.
“Fine.”
The word comes out quieter than you meant.
“You can wait ‘til your father gets home to talk about it.”
His whole posture shifts—shoulders stiffening, eyes widening—like the mere mention of that man flipped a switch.
“Momma—”
But you’re already walking away.
The tension in the house is thick enough to slice with a butter knife—the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, heavy and oppressive. Asaud's bedroom door hasn't budged since you got home, not even when you knocked softly with a plate of food an hour ago. The plate is still sitting untouched outside his door, grits congealing into sad little lumps.
This is how it always goes when Asaud knows Onyankopon is coming home to discipline him—radio silence, tense shoulders, the boy steeling himself like a soldier bracing for battle. Normally you'd bridge the gap, smooth things over with a joke or a hug. But today? The sting of his dismissal lingers like a bruise, and you can't bring yourself to force it.
Then—keys.
The front door swings open, and there he is.
Dressed in a navy blue shipyard uniform, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms corded with veins, tattoos a roadmap of ink against deep brown skin. A faded Saints cap sits low over his cornrows, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face—that strong jaw, all the way down to the facial hair coating his chin. The scent of saltwater and engine grease clings to him, mixing with the spicy aroma of the crawfish takeout in his hand.
“‘Where my baby at?"
His gaze locks onto you—your bare legs peeking out from under his jersey, your hair still crimped and wild from the kitchen heat—and his glare is all sin.
“Goddamn,” he grunts—“You been walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that while I’m gone? Gon’ make me come over there.”
You huff a weak laugh despite the weight in your chest, watching him flex his fingers like they’re stiff from gripping a welding torch all day.
“Hi, Papa.”
He grunts again—this one softer—as he stomps toward the kitchen, setting the takeout bag on the counter before peeling off his grease streaked work jacket. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his white tank as he tosses it over a chair, his voice rough but easy as he starts rambling.
“Shit was a goddamn warzone today—‘foreman got on my nerves ‘bout some pipe measurements, then ‘them Lafitte boys tried to cut in line at Nana’s.”
He pops the lid off the crawfish, steam billowing up as he scowls—“Like I ain’t gon’ notice they tryna’ snake my order.”
You lean against the counter, watching him. Normally you’d interject—tease him about being territorial over seasoned crustaceans—but your mind is still tangled up in the quiet rage of your son’s dismissal.
Onyankopon glances up, finally catching your silence. His dark brows furrow.
“What’s wrong wit’ you?”
You pick at the hem of the jersey.
“‘Had… a day.”
He murmurs, “I’m knowin’, Mama. A nigga glad to be home. ‘Been thinkin’ bout’ a shower, rubbin’ on yo’ feet—Where ‘Saud at? Lil’ nigga better be hungry ‘cause I got extra sausage just for hi—“
“He’s suspended.”
The moment the words leave your lips, Onyankopon goes still—unnaturally still. Like every muscle in his body locks down at once. The air in the kitchen shifts, thickens. You can practically see the switch flip behind his eyes—the shift from husband to father, from easy laughter to cold calculation.
“Fuck you mean suspended?”
You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of how small you feel beneath his gaze.
“…I don't know, Ony. He wouldn't tell me."
His nostrils flare—once, twice—before his dark eyes scan your face, picking up the tension in your brow, the way your fingers clutch the jersey fabric too tight.
“"Y'all got into it?"
“He didn't want to talk to me."
A muscle in his temple jumps.
“He ain't got no choice but to talk to you."
His voice is low, final—“Ain't no option."
For a moment, silence stretches between you—thick and loaded—before his calloused fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, gruff but tender.
“Gimme’ yo’ mouth first."
You exhale shakily, leaning in. His lips are warm, firm against yours—brief but grounding—before he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is hot against your skin, smelling faintly of peppermint and the crawfish he'd been handling.
And then—
"ASAUD!"
His roar shakes the damn house. No hesitation, no preamble.
“Get yo’ ass out here.”
You flinch, knowing how quickly Asaud heard him. Even through walls. Even through attitude.
Silence.
Then—footsteps. Slow. Reluctant.
Asaud appears in the doorway, broad shoulders slumped just slightly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. His eyes flicker up—just once—to meet his father's gaze before lowering again, careful not to show outright defiance but unable to hold the intensity of that stare for long.
Onyankopon doesn't speak at first. Just looks at him, eyes raking over the swollen skin, the purple black bruise blooming beneath his son’s eye. Then—movement.
His hand shoots out, calloused fingers gripping Asaud’s chin with a firmness that isn’t rough but leaves no room for resistance. He tilts his face toward the light, inspecting the damage with the clinical precision of a man who’s seen—and dealt—his share of blows.
“‘You alright?"
Asaud’s throat bobs.
“Yes, sir."
Onyankopon’s grip doesn’t loosen.
“Then why ain't you tell yo’ momma what happened?"
Asaud’s jaw flexes beneath his father’s hold, his voice barely above a murmur.
“...Didn’t wanna talk about it, sir.”
“What’d you say to her?"
“I ain’t say nothin’."
“Tch."
A sharp click of his tongue.
“Tête levée quand tu m'parles."
Head up when you talk to me.
The Creole rolls off his tongue sharply, and Asaud’s chin lifts almost immediately—eyes snapping to meet his father. The apology spills out before he can stop it—
“Désolé, Pops—"
“Whatchu’ apologizin’ for if you ain’t say nothin’?"
The silence in the kitchen turns electric, thick enough to choke on. Onyankopon’s grip loosens just enough to turn Asaud’s face toward you—not rough, but insistent.
“‘What he say to you?"
“He said—" Your voice wavers, but you force it steady. “'Damn, can I breathe without y’all being up my ass?'"
Onyankopon looks back to Asaud.
“So we ‘up yo’ ass’ now?"
He steps into his son's space, forcing his head up again with a rough tap of two fingers beneath his chin.
"’You think you grown enough to talk to yo’ momma like that?”
Asaud’s lips part—but no sound comes out.
“I asked you a question."
“No, sir," Asaud mutters, jaw tight.
“Nah, see—you acted like it."
Onyankopon’s voice sharpens, cutting like a blade—“You got one mother. One. The woman who carried yo’ big headed ass for nine months, who still make yo’ plate first even when yo’ dumbass bein’ ungrateful. And ‘this how you talkin’ to her?"
The words land like bricks.
"Look at her."
Asaud’s eyes flicker to you once, then darting away again.
“Soft as fuck wit’ you," Onyankopon continues—“Always been. ‘You sick? She up all night. ‘You hungry? She cookin’ before you even ask. You ain’t just disrespectin’ yo momma—you disrespecting’ my wife.”
Asaud swallows hard, his shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for impact. Onyankopon doesn’t let up though, drilling into him with a stare that could crack concrete.
“Apologize."
“I’m sorry, Momma."
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not upset, baby," you murmur, “It just hurt my feelings—I wanna know what’s going on, okay? That’s all.”
Finally, Asaud exhales, defeated.
"...I fought Jamal."
That catches both of you off guard. Jamal? His wide receiver—his best friend?
Onyankopon’s brows shoot up, "The hell for?”
“...Cheer team girl."
The silence that follows Asaud's confession is deafening.
“So you gon’ fuck up yo’ throwin’ hand—lose yo’ scholarship—over some girl?”
The words come out low, measured, but they hit like a sledgehammer. You step forward, hands lifting slightly—
“Hey, let’s just—"
”Who the girl?"
Asaud shifts uncomfortably, shoulders rolling back like he’s preparing for war.
"Sabine."
“She ‘bad like yo’ momma?"
“Onyankopon!”
He doesn’t even glance your way, his glare still locked onto Asaud.
“Why you callin’ my name?" ’His voice drops dangerously—“That gotta’ be the reason. Otherwise, I need yo’ son to explain why he fuckin’ up all his opportunities over some bullshit."
“It ain’t bullshit!" Asaud’s voice booms, raw and defensive—“She’s different.”
Onyankopon doesn’t laugh—doesn’t even smirk. His expression stays stone-cold as he steps forward, closing the gap between them with a single stride.
“That’s what you thinkin’ right now,” he growls, “But I promise—she ain’t. You thinkin’ bout some pussy, and that ain’t gon’ get you in the NFL or keep yo’ wide receiver."
He jabs a thick finger against Asaud’s chest—hard.
“Yo’ head loose, and I ain’t raisin’ no kids outside of you."
Asaud’s chest heaves, his nostrils flaring as his temper flares hotter. Then—
“You were younger than me when you knocked Momma up.”
The moment those words leave Asaud’s mouth—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut—your stomach drops. Your lips part in quiet disbelief, brows knitting together as hurt flashes hot behind your ribs.
“Asaud!"
But Onyankopon is already moving—fast, too fast—his massive hand snatching the front of Asaud’s hoodie, yanking him forward until their faces are inches apart. Asaud’s breath comes ragged, shoulders rising and falling under the strain of his father’s grip, but he doesn’t fight it.
"You right."
A pause—sharp, loaded.
“Here I am sixteen years later—still bustin’ my ass for you the moment I ‘knocked’ yo’ momma up."
His fingers tighten in the fabric, knuckles whitening—" I don’t ever regret havin’ you, and if I can prevent you from goin’ through the same shit me and yo’ momma handled? That’s what Imma’ do."
Asaud swallows hard, his throat bobbing.
"Ion’ give a fuck ‘bout no lil’ ass girl," Onyankopon rasps, “Or yo’ feelings just ‘cause you on some puppy love shit. Football. School. That’s yo’ priorities."
Your fingers curl into Onyankopon’s sleeve, tugging gently—“Baby… let him go."
Asaud’s voice cracks as he mutters, “Pops—"
"Pop’s nothin’."
Onyankopon shoves him back—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. He spits something in Creole—low, guttural—before jerking his chin toward the kitchen.
“Go eat the food yo’ momma cooked."
The moment Onyankopon issued that command, Asaud's shoulders slumped—defeated but still simmering with that same stubborn fire his father carried in his bones. His jaw clenched tight, eyes flashing with frustration before he turned on his heel, storming down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house like a gunshot, rattling the frames on the walls.
Onyankopon didn’t even flinch.
“Don’t be slammin’ no doors in this bitch you can’t pay to fix.”
And all you could do was sigh, pressing your fingertips to your forehead as the weight of the afternoon settled over you like a heavy blanket.
Hours later, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when two prideful men refuse to be the first to break. Nightfall crept in, painting the walls in long shadows as you moved through the dimly lit kitchen, plating a heaping serving of shrimp and grits—still warm, just the way he liked it.
But Onyankopon was nowhere to be found.
Not in the living room, not in the bedroom—so you already knew where he was.
Stepping onto the porch, the humid Louisiana air wrapped around you like a second skin. The cicadas sang their nightly chorus, the scent of magnolias thick in the breeze. And there he was—shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips as his massive frame crouched near the steps.
The metal bowl in his hands rattled impatiently as he shook it, muttering under his breath.
“‘What you doin’, Papa?”
He didn’t even glance up, his deep voice gruff with irritation.
“…Tryna’ feed this damn cat ‘Saud be so worried about.”
A soft mrrow sounded from the bushes, and a scruffy orange tabby slinked out, eyeing Onyankopon warily before darting forward to swipe at the bowl.
Of course he was out here—still pissed, still stubborn—but making sure his son’s stray was fed.
Some things never changed.
The stray cat—scruffy, wide-eyed, and perpetually suspicious—padded cautiously along the porch railing, its tail flicking with a mix of curiosity and defiance. It sniffed the air, nostrils twitching as it scented Onyankopon instead of Asaud’s familiar presence. With a deliberate hmph, it turned its head away from the bowl, pretending disinterest even as its stomach growled loud enough for you both to hear.
You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips.
"You’re mean to him too—that’s why he won’t eat."
Onyankopon scowled, shaking the bowl harder, the dry kibble rattling like a warning.
“Yeah? I take care of his ungrateful ass too."
You sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe as you murmured—“The Tin Man does have a heart, it seems."
Onyankopon shot you a look before gruffly calling out, "Aight, Tiger—come get this damn food."
“His name is Tango.”
“Same shit."
Finally the cat hopped down, sauntering over with an air of reluctant grace. It rubbed its entire body along Onyankopon’s bare calf, purring loud enough to vibrate the porch boards beneath him.
“Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, nudging the bowl closer with his foot—“Gon’ head."
You stepped forward then, bringing the plate of shrimp and grits closer, the rich aroma mixing with the warm night air.
“You need to eat too, baby.”
Onyankopon’s fingers then curl gently around your throat—not tight, but there, possessive and grounding. He dropped a series of rough, smacking kisses against your lips, each one firm and fleeting before he finally took the plate with his free hand.
“Aight," he muttered, settling onto the wooden stairs.
The cat ate. Your husband ate. Now, you could have the real conversation you’d been holding off on.
You settle onto the wooden steps behind him, the worn planks creaking softly under your weight as you wrap your legs around his waist, molding your body against the warm expanse of his back. He’s hot to the touch—always running like a furnace—and you bury your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the faint lingering scent of his cologne as he eats.
"Did you check on your son?"
The fork scrapes against the plate as he chews, his shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.
“Nah. But I know you did."
A gruff pause, “‘He still alive? Limbs all attached?"
You hum, fingers trailing lazily through the neat rows of his cornrows, tracing the patterns like you’ve done a thousand times before.
“Funny. He’s asleep.”
Silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid things. Then, softly—
“You do know you were wrong, right?"
“Which part? ‘Cause I ain’t wrong about a lot of shit."
You exhale through your nose, leaning into his shoulder as you murmur, “Ti tèt di."
Stubborn man.
He doesn’t respond, just keeps eating—his jaw working methodically, the muscles in his back flexing beneath your touch. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck before continuing—
”Remember when we found out I was pregnant? How scared you were?"
Silence.
You then whisper, “He’s got an amazing head on his shoulders, Papa. Just like you. Maybe...he’s serious about this girl."
“He’s sixteen.”
“And we were fifteen—sneakin’ into my momma’s house when she went to sleep, havin’ unprotected sex, and then what happened?”
He leans back into you with a rough huff, his head tilting just enough to bump against yours.
“You tryna be funny.”
“I’m not."
Your fingers trail down to his jaw, tracing the line of his beard as you say—“Our parents kicked us out, and we’ve been on our own since then."
The silence between you grows heavier, thick with the weight of memories neither of you ever really talk about—nights spent sleeping in his beat up Chevy, the way his voice had cracked when his own father slammed the door in his face, the quiet tears you'd wiped away when your mama called you a disgrace.
You press a kiss to his shoulder, soft as a prayer.
"But we knew our little wolf was special, didn’t we?”
A beat.
“Yeah."
You smile against his skin, “Asaud is yours, but he’s not you. He’s not gonna make the mistakes we did—and shuttin’ him down like our parents did to us? It’d be unfair.”
Onyankopon exhales—long, slow—his head tipping back against your shoulder.
Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft yet carrying the weight of years as you murmur, "Give him the grace we never got."
Your husband goes quiet. The cicadas hum in the thick night air, the stray cat now curled on the porch railing, licking its paws as if amused by the whole scene.
Then—
“‘Guess I ain't have to yank his ass up like that."
The admission comes out gruff, and you can't help the faint smile that tugs at your lips. With a playful flick to the side of his head, you tease, "Don’t be puttin’ hands on my baby no more."
Before you can blink, his massive arm hooks behind you, tugging you effortlessly onto his lap. You let out a surprised squeak of laughter, instantly melting into the familiar warmth of his hold—his thick thighs beneath you, the hard plane of his chest pressed flush against your back. His heat engulfs you, his scent wrapping around your senses like a second skin.
You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the shell of his ear as you murmur, "But hey… we didn’t do so bad, did we?"
His arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing your temple—"Nah. We did better.”
You giggle as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, hotter—your tongue stroking his with a suddenly filthy, practiced familiarity. You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “‘Wore your jersey just for you…"
His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated.
“You know I’ll never say no—but a nigga tired as hell."
You gasp in mock offense, pulling back to squint at him.
“Oh, so you can yoke up my child— but no dick for me?"
That deep, rich chuckle vibrates against your ribs as he leans back against the porch railing, pulling you tighter against him.
“Daddy ain’t Superman. One city at a time."
You blow out an exaggerated huff, lips pursed in playful frustration as you mutter, “You're annoying."
“And you horny."
You cross your arms over your chest but sink deeper into his embrace anyway, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back. After a beat, you nudge him with your elbow, voice softening.
“...You love me?"
For a moment he says nothing—just holds you there in the quiet, southern night humming around you both.
Then, sweet as molasses—“When don't I?"
And yeah. That was your answer.
The next morning, Asaud wakes up early—his body already braced for a day of grueling chores and another lecture still hanging heavy in the air. He tiptoes down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the hardwood, expecting silence. Instead? The rich, savory scent of butter, garlic, and smoked sausage hits him the moment he steps near the kitchen.
He pauses. Frowns.
Spread across the countertop is a full Louisiana-style breakfast—crispy-edged fried eggs, golden-brown grits swimming in cheese, spicy Cajun hash, and fluffy buttermilk biscuits still steaming from the oven. His favorite.
Confusion knits his brows as he steps further inside, only to freeze at the sight of you and Onyankopon standing near the stove.
Onyankopon's massive frame is leaned into yours, his head tilted slightly as your fingers glide through his cornrows, re-braiding the edges with careful precision. You're both talking—voices low, words unintelligible from where he stands—but the ease between you is undeniable.
Then you glance up, spotting him lingering in the doorway.
"Mornin’, baby," you greet, smiling—“How’d you sleep?"
Asaud shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking between the food and his father's impassive face.
“...Good," he mutters—“What's all this?"
“Yo’ momma insisted on makin’ yo’ favorite breakfast," Onyankopon grumbles, voice rough with morning fatigue.
You flick his ear.
He then huffs, “Aight, I told her to."
You’re then crossing the kitchen toward Asaud, your bare feet padding softly against the tile. His eyes flicker with wariness, still bruised from yesterday’s heated exchange—though the mark looks lighter now, less angry. You reach up, fingers ghosting over the spot as you murmur, “Want momma to ice it for you?"
Asaud ducks his head slightly, but shakes it—“No ma’am, I’m aight."
You smile, nudging him toward the table where his plate waits.
“Eat ‘fore it gets cold."
Hesitant, he sinks into his chair, poking at the food before glancing between you both suspiciously.
“…Y’all poisoned my food or sum’?"
"Ain’t I tell you he was finna’ think that?"
“Hush, Ony.”
Your voice softens then as you turn back to Asaud.
“We had a…revelation last night... and we just want you to know—we love you. All of you. Every stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful part."
The kitchen falls silent—save for the sizzle of grease in the skillet, the hum of the ceiling fan.
You take a deep breath, clasping your hands together excitedly. The morning sunlight spills across the kitchen table as you announce, “Me and Daddy have been feeling a little disconnected from you lately, so we came up with an idea—Family Date! Yes Edition.”
Asaud blinks, fork hovering mid air over his grits.
“…Yes Edition?”
You beam, “Whatever you want to do today—no matter what—we have to say yes to!"
Asaud's frown deepens, but there's a flicker of something mischievous in his gaze now.
“Whatever I want?"
You nod enthusiastically. On the other hand, Onyankopon rubs his temple as he mutters, “My damn wallet achin’ already."
“The sky is the limit, baby. What’d you wanna do?"
For a long moment, Asaud chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he considers his options. Then? It hits him all at once.
“Aight, bet.”
He sits up straighter as he lists off, “First—we hittin’ up Bayou Guns for some target practice. Then, monster truck rally tickets—front row. After that, ’whole rack of ribs from Big Mike’s Smokehouse, extra spicy. And,”—he pauses dramatically, eyes flicking to his father—“Pops, you gotta let me drive the truck today."
Onyankopon almost chokes on his coffee.
“Hell nah I’m not!"
You level the look at Onyankopon—the one that makes his jaw twitch because he knows he’s already lost. His dark eyes flick from you to Asaud’s hopeful expression before he exhales sharply through his nose, resigned.
“It’s yo’ day, Papa. Gon’ head."
Asaud’s grin is immediate, lighting up his entire face like a kid on Christmas morning.
This was gonna be an adventure.
The day starts with everyone scrambling to get ready—you weren’t exactly thrilled about spending hours immersed in testosterone fueled chaos, but the thought of just being with your boys? Had you smiling despite yourself.
Onyankopon emerges looking stupidly fine—his black long sleeve clinging to every defined ridge of muscle, the ink snaking down his arms and neck peeking out from beneath the fabric. Camo pants hang low on his hips, black Dunks laced tight on his feet, and those damn chains glinting against his chest like he stepped straight out of some high end streetwear ad. His face—God—those sharp tattoos along his cheekbones contrasting his deep brown skin, that signature don’t fuck with me glare permanently etched into his expression.
You keep poking at it as you all get ready, making him swat your hand away with a grunt.
Asaud mirrors his energy effortlessly—hoodie layered over his own fitted tee, shoes swapped for something sleeker, but the same vibe radiating off him. Like father, like son.
You press kisses to both their cheeks before stepping back, smoothing down the backless top and capris hugging your curves—classy enough to turn heads, erotic enough to have Onyankopon’s fingers twitching. His dark gaze drops to your chest where your nipples press visibly against the fabric.
“‘You cold?” he rumbles, dragging a single fingertip over one peaked bud.
You pout, swatting his hand away—“It’s just chilly!"
Now, here was the card ride. Pure chaos as you’d imagined—Onyankopon gripping the passenger side handle like he was seconds from yanking the wheel himself every time Asaud hit the gas too hard or took a turn a little too sharp.
“Nigga, I swear—if you don’t slow down, Imma’ have you pull over right here and make you ride in the back like the toddler you actin’ like."
Asaud just smirked, glancing at you in the rearview before purposefully tapping the accelerator again—just to watch his father’s eye twitch.
The gun range parking lot was packed, buzzing with the low hum of engines and the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance. Stepping out of the truck, you immediately felt that familiar dread creep in—not from the firearms, but from the eyes. The looks. The inevitable moment when someone would glance between you, Onyankopon, and Asaud, their brows furrowing as they tried to piece together your dynamic.
Were you his older siblings? Friends?
Then—the shock when they realized—Oh. You were his mother.
Being a parent had never forced you to dress older than you were, never dulled your vibrancy to fit some matronly mold. Even now, trailing behind Onyankopon and Asaud—both towering over you, broad shouldered and imposing—you looked every bit the effortlessly sensual, youthful woman you were. Your deep merlot Coach purse swung at your hip, charms jingling with each step, your jet black curls bouncing against your back. Meanwhile, Onyankopon moved like he owned the ground beneath him, all quiet power and simmering dominance—a kingpin with his diamond in tow.
The inside smelled like gunpowder, leather, and faintly of the fried catfish wafting from the snack bar in the corner. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as soon as you stepped inside—sharp cracks of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls, making your shoulders tense involuntarily. Each shot sounded like a miniature explosion—too loud, too sudden—and you instinctively pressed closer to Onyankopon's side, fingers tightening around his hand as if anchoring yourself to him.
The man behind the register gruffly asked, “What’chu wanna shoot with today?”
Asaud’s eyes flickered toward the glass case displaying an array of firearms—some sleek and modern, others heavy and intimidating. His gaze lingered on the biggest one—a monstrous, black tactical shotgun that looked like it could knock a grown man flat on his back.
Onyankopon didn’t even blink, “That one."
Asaud's eyes widened, “Forreal’?"
“Yo’ day, right?"
You retreated to the far back of the room, perched on a worn leather bench like a reluctant cheerleader. Your knees pressed together, hands folded in your lap as you watched them gear up—ear protection, gloves, safety glasses.
Onyankopon looked illegal—his black sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, tattooed forearms as he handled the firearm with the kind of casual expertise that made your stomach flip. The range owner walked him through the basics—not that he needed it—but Onyankopon nodded along anyway, his deep voice rumbling something low in response.
The sight before you had your lips parting slightly—Onyankopon lifting that heavy shotgun like it weighed nothing, his massive frame balanced with effortless precision. The first BOOM of his test shot rattled through the private room, the recoil absorbed effortlessly by his broad shoulders. Smoke curled from the barrel as he exhaled, lowering the gun and turning to Asaud with that same unreadable expression—except you knew him, knew the subtle pride in the tilt of his chin, the patience in his stance as he prepared to teach his son the way his own father had taught him.
“Regarde,” he murmured, shifting fluidly between English and Creole as he adjusted Asaud’s grip.
“Firme, yeah? Shoulder tight—non, like this.”
His large hands guided Asaud's calloused fingers, pressing the younger man’s palm flush against the stock.
And just like that—Asaud shifted. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring under his father’s approval. The next shot he took wasn’t perfect—but it was strong, the kickback barely rocking him as the target downrange splintered at the edge.
“Decent,” Onyankopon conceded, “For yo’ first try.”
Your hands shot up in excited applause, curls tumbling over your freckled cheeks as you cheered, “Yay!”—you then blew a stubborn strand out of your face with a playful huff, watching as Asaud wandered over to stand beside you, wiping his palms on his hoodie.
"Gon’ head, Pops," he called out, nodding toward the range.
Onyankopon stepped up, and suddenly, the gun in his hands wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of him. Each shot boomed like thunder, paper targets shredding into confetti under his relentless precision. He moved like liquid—fluid, deadly—twisting the gun with an assassin’s grace, reloading without breaking rhythm. The sheer power radiating off him had your pulse thrumming in your throat.
Asaud whistled low under his breath.
“Aight, Sergeant! ‘Where you learn that from?"
“He wanted to be one, actually.”
Asaud turned to you, brow arched.
"Pops wanted to be in the army?”
Your gaze lingered on your husband, watching the way his shoulders flexed as he fired off another perfect shot—the way his focus never wavered, even now.
"Higher up in the Navy, actually," you murmured. “‘Wanted to follow in his father’s path… before I got pregnant with you."
A beat of silence. Then—
“What happened?"
Your fingers toyed with the charms on your purse, but your eyes stayed on Onyankopon. You exhale, “He disowned him. Hasn’t spoken to his father since I was in my first trimester."
The words hung heavy between you.
“He would’ve found a way to go overseas," you continued softly—"But he didn’t want to leave me. Or you. ‘Wanted to watch you grow up."
Asaud’s voice was quieter now, “So…he never went for what he really wanted?”
You turned to him then, smiling—really smiling—despite the ache in your chest.
“You became our first priority the moment I held you in my arms, baby.”
Your voice dipped into honeyed warmth, "And you cried, cried, cried.”
A dreamy little smile tugged at your lips, the memory of tiny fists gripping your finger, Onyankopon's unreadable mask cracking just once as he pressed his lips to your sweaty forehead in that delivery room.
You blinked back to the present, tilting your head toward Asaud.
“Your father can be…difficult," you admitted, “But know this—he loves you more than anything in this world. Everything he does, every hard lesson...it's because he wants everything for you."
Asaud scuffed his shoe against the concrete floor, "I know that, Momma.”
Just then, Onyankopon's shadow fell over you both, smelling like gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne he only wore on special occasions.
“Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?" he rumbled, slinging an arm around your shoulders.
You batted your lashes up at him innocently—“Just tellin’ our son where he gets his handsome features from."
Onyankopon's nostrils flared, “Don’t be flirtin’ with me in front of our child, girl," he muttered, the heat in his low voice betraying him.
Your giggle spilled freely as you leaned even more into him, “Too late."
The monster truck show was deafening, and entirely too boyish for your liking. You spent most of it grimacing, and hiding behind Onyankopon’s shoulder each time you thought you were gonna witness a crime scene explosion. From the activities today? You were sure to be rewarded by this meal.
The scent of hickory smoke and sizzling meat hits you the moment you step into Big Mike’s Smokehouse—a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and bluesy guitar riffs pouring from the jukebox in the corner. The worn wooden booth creaks as you slide in beside Onyankopon, your thighs pressing together beneath the checkered tablecloth. Across from you, Asaud taps his fingers against the menu, though all three of you already know what you’re ordering—extra spicy ribs, collard greens swimming in pot liquor, and cornbread so buttery it melts on contact.
Your fingers trace idle circles over Onyankopon’s knuckles where his hand rests in your lap, his rough skin warm against your touch. You take a breath, leaning into his shoulder before murmuring, “Did you enjoy yourself today, baby?"
Asaud nods, a rare softness in his expression.
“I did. ‘Preciate y’all."
You smile, cheeks flushing—but then you straighten slightly, catching Onyankopon’s eye.
“Well—now that we’ve played—let’s have a serious conversation, yeah?"
Asaud’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but he nods.
“Yes, ma’am."
“Jamal," Onyankopon starts, “What really happened between y’all?"
Asaud exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his locs.
"I…always liked Sabine. Jamal knew that. ‘Still tried to get at her."
You hum, tilting your head.
“I don’t doubt she’d like you, baby. But—“ You choose your words carefully, "Did she seem…responsive to your feelings? Or does she actually like Jamal?"
Asaud’s jaw works before he mutters, “She do like me. ‘Told me my dreads was cool last week."
Onyankopon blinks. Slowly.
Then turns to you, one brow arched—“‘That’s how the lil’ girls get niggas’ attention?"
Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug, “I guess?”
Asaud frowns, “Why y’all actin’ like confused old people right now?”
You bite your lip, exhaling through your nose—“I’m sorry, baby. Y’all’s generation is just…different in courting each other. The only way you know how is to—”
Then—it hits you. Like a freight train.
Your spine stiffens. Eyes widening, you lean halfway across the table, gripping Asaud’s hands tight enough to make him blink.
“Asaud?”
He freezes.
“Lawd, Momma. You scarin’ me. What’s wrong?”
“This…Sabine girl…you haven’t…?”
“Haven’t what?”
Onyankopon leans back, raising a brow.
Asaud’s gaze darts between you both before he huffs, “Contrary to stereotypes with bein’ quarterback—yes, Momma—I’m still a virgin. Damn.”
The breath you’d been holding whooshes out of you. Your head drops forward, curls spilling over your shoulders as you clutch your chest.
“Thank God! Okay, I just…whew,” You fan yourself dramatically, “I almost fainted.”
Asaud shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before he drops the bombshell.
“Despite y’all thinkin’ my head is loose, I plan on waitin’ ‘til marriage."
“Mon chéri!” you squeal in Creole, launching yourself forward as you kiss his forehead no less than three times as he groans, trying to duck away.
“Mwen si fiè de ou! Oh, mon bébé!”
Oh, my baby!
Onyankopon watches, amusement lacing his voice as he mutters, “She finna’ start speakin’ in tongues—don’t say shit else, boy."
You're still catching your breath from the emotional high when you lean forward, smoothing Asaud’s shirt before saying with earnest warmth, “Okay—well, although that’s amazing to hear—don’t be afraid to ask questions, baby. I know sex education isn’t the best in schools, so…anything in that aspect, you know you can always come to us, right?"
Onyankopon clears his throat, "I think you gotta leave that conversation for me, shawty—"
You wave a hand dismissively, “We’re supposed to be bonding! Don’t leave me out of it.”
Onyankopon exhales through his nose. He then says, “‘You right. Yo’ pops an open book, ‘Saud.”
Asaud’s gaze darts between you both, hesitating.
Then?
“Does the pull out method really work?"
Your mouth drops. Of all the questions—
Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits. Before you can even think of a diplomatic answer, Onyankopon leans back, arms crossed, and says completely deadpan—
“Ion’ know. I nut in yo’ momma everytime—"
“OHMYGOD—“
You shriek in Creole, “Pouki ou fè sa nan piblik?!”
Really, in public?
“So how come ion’ got a sibling?”
You’re so disturbed by Onyankopon who nonchalantly begins eating his food, taking a moment to process Asaud’s other question. You take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your napkin.
"I got my tubes tied after I had you, baby. You’re my lifeline—but it was a horrible pregnancy."
Your hand drifts unconsciously to your lower stomach, remembering the months of bed rest, the way your ankles swelled like overripe fruit.
Then, shooting Onyankopon a look, you point a stern finger at Asaud—“Had your father answered educationally, you would’ve known why we can have unprotected sex—but you should not! Condoms. Every. Time."
Onyankopon interjects, "Unless y’all in love. Then? ‘Make yo’ wife a twinkie’.”
Your fingers clutch desperately at the diner table as you squeak, “Let’s move on!”—voice pitching high like a deflating balloon. You clear your throat, smoothing a hand over your top as you force yourself back into Mom Mode.
“What do you really like about this girl?”
Asaud pauses, staring down at his half-eaten ribs as if the bones might spell out the answer for him. For a moment, there’s nothing but the clatter of silverware and Big Mike’s raspy laugh booming from the kitchen.
“She got this…quiet way ’bout her," he starts, voice lower than usual.
“Like, she don’t gotta laugh loud to be heard. And when she do smile—" He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips—“Man, it’s like she savin’ it just for you. Makes you feel…special, I guess."
You reach across the table, squeezing his wrist.
“That’s sweet, baby. Real sweet. But…" You hesitate, exchanging a glance with Onyankopon before continuing gently, “Are you willing to pursue this girl and lose your best friend over it?"
Asaud’s jaw hardens, “Jamal clearly ain’t my friend."
Onyankopon shakes his head, “Nah. He’s a boy on some puppy love shit—just like you.”
You now rub at Asaud’s knuckles.
“Baby, think about it. Jamal stayed at our house more nights than you did sometimes. Went to your cousins cookouts, helped your daddy fix up the car—"
“Even came to yo’ grandma’s funeral," Onyankopon cuts in, dead serious—“That’s family shit."
Your voice softens, “A real friend would’ve stepped back the moment he knew how you felt. But love makes people act stupid—especially at y’all’s age. You sure this girl worth torching that bridge?"
Asaud’s throat bobs.
The diner’s chatter fades into a dull hum as Asaud sits back, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his thoughts. His fingers fiddle with the condensation on his sweet tea glass, tracing idle circles as he chews on his bottom lip—the same nervous habit he’s had since he was a toddler.
Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose.
“A girl ain’t finna’ have me lose my wide receiver," he mutters, shaking his head.
“But that ‘don’t mean I ain’t got feelin’s, Momma."
He thinks on his words for a moment.
Asaud’s voice then drops lower, “A lot of my friends’ parents don’t get along—divorced, fightin’, separated, only cordial ‘cause they made a mistake back in the day. I know I clown on y’all’s gushiness…” he continues, waving a hand at the way you’re still practically draped over Onyankopon’s arm, “But…I’m glad I got parents that love each other. And I just—" He hesitates, eyes flickering down before meeting yours again—“I want somethin’ like that. Somethin’ real."
A whimpery giggle escapes you as tears well in your eyes—hot, stinging—before spilling over.
“Shit, here ‘she go," Onyankopon mutters, already rubbing at your hip affectionately.
Your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst right out of your chest. You slide out of the booth in one fluid motion, your hands cupping your son's face—rough stubble scratching your palms, his locs soft against your forearms.
“Do you know how much we love you, sweet boy?"
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“I’m knowin’, Momma."
Then, quieter—“Look…I’m sorry for bein’ mean to you yesterday. And…"
He glances at Onyankopon who’s watching with his usual stoic expression, though his dark eyes hold a warmth only you and Asaud ever really see—“Sorry to you too, Pops."
That’s all it takes.
You squeak, pulling him into a crushing embrace, smothering his face in kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose—while rapid-fire Creole endearments spill from your lips like a prayer.
“Mon petit roi! Mon cœur! Bondye beni ou, mwen renmen ou tout bagay!"
My little king ! God bless you, I love you with all my heart !
Asaud groans, half-heartedly trying to squirm away—"Damn, Momma—I said I was sorry—"
“Non, non! Mwen pa fini ak ou!"
I’m not done with you!
Onyankopon watches, shaking his head—but when Asaud shoots him a pleading look, he just smirks and shrugs.
“Take yo’ medicine, boy."
Your bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as you turn pleading eyes toward Onyankopon, fingers still tangled in Asaud's locs.
"Be sweet, Papa!" you urge, batting your lashes dramatically—“Tell your son you love him—none of that manly grunting stuff!"
Onyankopon exhales through his nose, but after a beat, his deep voice rumbles—low, rough, but undeniably fond—
“I love you, ‘Saud. Even when you actin’ dumb."
Asaud snorts, but the corner of his mouth lifts as he mutters back, “Love you too, Pops."
You sigh happily, finally releasing Asaud—only to immediately eye his half-finished ribs.
“Baby, lemme get a bite of—"
“Nuh uh!" Asaud yanks his plate away, nodding toward Onyankopon.
“You better ask yo’ husband!"
Onyankopon slides his own plate toward you without a word, smirk smug as you stick your tongue out at Asaud.
“Haters," you mumble around a mouthful of smoky, tender meat.
Later, you’re curled into Onyankopon’s side on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm as some old cartoon flickers across the TV. The peace is shattered by Asaud’s bedroom door creaking open. He steps out fully dressed—hoodie, sneakers laced tight—and your head lifts from Onyankopon’s chest.
“You okay, baby?"
Asaud shifts on his feet, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m straight. Uh…Jamal finna’ be here in a couple minutes."
You and Onyankopon exchange frowns—just as a knock echoes through the house.
Jamal now stands on the threshold when Asaud opens the door, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed.
“Evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Osei.”
You blink, glancing between him and Asaud—who’s now lurking awkwardly by the foyer.
“Uh…are y’all…okay now?"
“We talked. It's straight," Asaud mutters, shifting his weight as he glances between you and Jamal.
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“So that's it? Y’all ain’t fighting over this girl no more?"
“This my ‘quarterback, Momma—“ Jamal chuckles, “Beta to his alpha—even though we both run shit, you know how it go."
“Language, ‘Mal."
Jamal dips his head immediately at Onyankopon’s voice—“My fault, Mr. Osei."
You exhale, shaking your head as you sink back against Onyankopon’s side.
“You men are so strange."
Then, glancing back at Jamal with a small smile, you add, “Well—are you staying to hang out, Jamal?"
Before Jamal can answer, Asaud slips in smoothly—too smoothly—“Nah, we headed to a party."
Onyankopon’s arm tenses beneath you, his jaw tightening.
“Did you ask if you could go to a party?"
You press your palm gently against Onyankopon’s chest, “Ony, c’mon.”
He exhales through his nose.
“Curfew at eleven. Not a minute later. And both of y’all better answer yo’ phones when I call.”
Asaud nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes—“Got it."
"We out, then. Love y’all!”
You wave them off with a smile, “Be safe!"
Your lashes flutter slightly as you watch Onyankopon’s sharp side profile an hour after they leave—the strong line of his jaw, the way braids shape out his face, his deep set eyes locked onto the TV screen like he’s studying every frame. You trace idle circles over his chest with your fingertips, admiring the way the dim lamplight catches the faint sheen of his skin.
"What you starin’ at, girl?"
You grin, pressing a kiss just above his heart.
“My amazing husband."
“Mmm”, he rumbles, “You just love flirtin’ with a nigga.”
You murmur, “Maybe," in a playful tone—then, with a gentle tug at his chin, you guide his face toward yours.
“You haven’t kissed your wife all day."
“Damn,” he grips at your waist, “A nigga finna’ get locked up, huh?"
You giggle close to his lips, “Life with no parole."
And then his mouth crashes into yours—full, warm, tasting like sweet tea and the lingering smokiness of barbecue. His kiss is slow at first, until you smoothly climb onto his lap, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck as you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing his bottom lip until a rough grunt vibrates against your mouth.
“Why you feenin’?”
You don’t answer—too busy loosening his belt with practiced ease, your lips trailing down his neck as you palm him through his pants, earning another gravelly curse through your husband's mouth.
“Saud’ could walk back in this house at any moment, girl—"
Your laughter spills against his collarbone in breathy giggles, warm and honeyed, as your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants—finally freeing him into your grip. The moment his tip springs free, your breath catches—a sharp, needy whine escaping your throat as your eyes drink in the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins straining against heated skin, the tip already glistening with his impatience.
“‘M hungry, Papa. Can I?”
You mewl these words so desperately, lips brushing the twitching head as you gaze up at him through fluttering lashes.
Onyankopon’s grip tightens in your curls—not pulling, just holding—as he rasps, “Goddamn. Aight.”
Your tongue then darts out, tracing the swollen ridge beneath his crown, relishing the salt-sweet taste of him before dipping into his slit. His hips jerk—hard—knocking a choke from your lungs, but you don’t relent. Instead, you press open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, nuzzling into the thatch of coarse hair at the base before swirling your tongue around the tip again.
“Hollon’, Mama—” he grits out, fingers flexing in your hair, but you’re already sinking down, taking him halfway with a blissful whimper. The stretch burns sweetly, your lips sealing around him as hollowed cheeks suck him deeper. His thighs tremble beneath you, a ragged, “Fuck—” tearing from his chest as your tongue swirls along his length on the upstroke.
You pull off with a lewd pop, running your tongue viciously against your puffy lips at the way his stomach muscles clench.
“Missed this,” you purr, licking a stripe from root to tip before swallowing him down again—deeper this time—until your nose brushes his skin. His groan is filthy, echoing through the living room as his head thuds back against the couch.
“Gon’ make me act up,” he warns, voice dark with promise—but you just whimper again around him, eyes fluttering shut as you bob faster, hungrier. The wet sounds of your mouth on him mix with his ragged breaths, the cartoon still playing forgotten in the background.
Your lips stretch obscenely, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as you take him all the way down—nose pressed into his pelvis, throat fluttering wildly around the intrusion. Your eyes roll back slightly at the stretch, tears pricking at the corners as you whimper around his girth again— needy, gagging sound that vibrates against his skin and makes his hips jerk instinctively.
“Fuck—look at you," Onyankopon growls, fingers tightening in your curls, yanking just enough to make you mmph—air rushing into your lungs before you dive back down, hollowing your cheeks shamelessly.
You pull off with another wet pop, spit slick lips swollen and glistening as you pant—only to spit directly onto his dick, the glob of saliva trailing thickly down his shaft before you smear it with your mouth. You then smack his length against your tongue, giggling breathlessly.
“Goddamn," he snarls heavier, voice dripping with lust—a vein popping in his neck as he glares down at you like he wants to eat you alive.
You swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping at the precum beading there before sinking back down—deeper, messier—your throat working in desperate swallows around him. Drool drips down your chin, your brows knitting together in a mix of pleasure and strain as you gag prettily around him—the sounds leaving your mouth absolutely disgusting.
“Ain’t no way you suckin’ dick this good and actin’ all innocent at the dinner table," he grunts, thrusting shallowly into your throat, his grip on your hair bordering on painful—“Fuckin’ glutton—can’t even breathe right and you still tryna’ swallow my shit whole.”
You give a desperate moan in response—half-protest, half-agreement—your fingers digging into his thighs as you bob faster, sloppier, spit and precum fully smearing across your lips. His hips buck up violently, forcing himself deeper as he curses under his breath—“Gon’ make this bitch nut all over yo’ pretty ass face.”
You're drunk off him—every suck, every gag, every slurp of your lips dragging up his shaft leaving you dizzy with greed. Your tongue lolls obscenely along the underside of his cock, spit-slick and desperate, drool dripping in thick strands onto his heavy balls, making them glisten under the dim light. The mess coats your chin, smears across your cheeks—ruins you beautifully—but you don’t care, too lost in the taste of him, the weight of him on your tongue.
You usually ask—Papa, can I?—but right now, you don’t want permission. You want everything.
So with an aroused impatience you climb fully into his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. One hand grips his shoulder for balance as you yank your capris with the other, exposing bare skin—no panties, never panties when you knew he’d be home. His tip slaps wetly against your folds, already soaked just from sucking him off, and you whimper—high and broken—as his thumb ruthlessly circles your clit, sending sparks up your spine.
His mouth crashes into yours, tongues tangling sloppily, spit mixing between you as he grunts against your lips—
“I ain’t movin’. Put that bitch in.”
Your fingers knot in the hair at the nape of his neck as you sink down—slowly, so slowly—stretching around him inch by torturous inch. And the burn? It’s delicious. White-hot and overwhelming, your walls fluttering wildly as you take him deeper. Your eyes even begin to water, lashes sticking together as tears spill over, your mouth trembling against his in a silent sob.
Then—squelch—a wet, gushing sound punches from your pussy as you bottom out, his hips fully flush against your ass. The obscene noise—like air forced from a tight space—makes you shudder, your thighs shaking violently around him.
“Fuck—” Onyankopon snarls into your mouth, his grip on your waist bruising, “Tight-ass pussy always tryna act brand new.”
You whimper—pitiful, unable to do nothing else.
His palms cradle the plush underside of your thighs—calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh as he lifts you effortlessly, your body hovering above him for one breathless moment before he drops you back down.
The descent is slow—agonizing—every inch of him dragging against your walls until you’re whimpering nonsensically, Creole curses and praise tumbling from your lips in a slurred mess—
“Ah—Mon Dieu—Papa, li two cho—!”
Then—smack—your ass lands heavy against his thighs, skin sticking wetly before peeling apart with a lewd clap that ricochets through the living room. Your vision whites out for a second, mouth falling slack as pleasure crackles up your spine—
“Shit.”
Your voice fractures, knees trembling where they bracket his hips. His grip tightens—lifting you again—only to drop you back onto him, the force punching the air from your lungs.
“Fuck,” you sob, nails raking down his chest, “P—Papa, li two gwo—!”
You’re too big.
“Talk that shit now,” he taunts, “Thought you was hungry?”
“O—O bondye—P-Papa—!”
I can’t.
The fabric of your top crumples violently in Onyankopon’s fists—fingers twisting, yanking the material taut as he uses it like reins to drive you down onto him. Every bounce wrenches a gasp from your lips, your body jolting with each punishing thrust, his dick spearing into you with a relentless, bruising rhythm. Your face crumples, pouting down at him—eyes glazed, lips swollen and trembling—as he growls up at you in thick, guttural Creole.
"Ou vle sa, mm? Ou vle Papa kraze ou?"
You want me to break yo’ shit, huh?
You nod frantically, a pathetic, shuddering “Mm-hmm—!" hiccuping from your throat as your cream spills obscenely down his shaft, pooling at the base where his balls glisten with your slick.
“I—I’m gonna’ cum—!" you mewl, voice breaking, thighs quivering as your walls flutter wildly around him.
But Onyankopon doesn’t speed up—doesn’t slow down—just keeps grinding you onto him at that same, devastating pace, letting you feel every inch as your orgasm crests. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing through you as your pussy gushes—hot, wet pulses of arousal soaking his lap, dripping down his abdomen in sticky rivulets.
“Regarde ça," Look at that, he mutters, voice rough with lust as he watches you squirt all over him—“Fais un gros désordre, mm?"
’Made a big fuckin’ mess.
Onyankopon’s grip shifts—his hands cinching around your waist as he stands in one fluid motion, twisting you midair before slamming your back flush against his chest. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling at his forearms as he bends you forward in the same motion, your spine arching obscenely as he crowds over you.
“Ain’t took my pussy like this inna’ minute. Let a nigga feel you.”
This position—back arched deep, ass tilted up, your body folded in half—was never one you could handle. He knew it. You knew it. Years of marriage, and he only pulled it out on two occasions: when you’d pissed him off just enough to deserve it—or when he wanted to ruin you so thoroughly you’d forget your own name.
His dick sinks back into you—slow, sadistic—the stretch bordering on pain as your walls flutter wildly around him. A petulant whimper claws from your throat, your face tucking into your own shoulder as you try to steady yourself.
Too deep. Too much.
Before you can adjust, his palm wraps around your throat from behind—his fingers splayed possessively as he jerks his hips forward, bottoming out with a force that makes your vision blur.
Your cry is muffled against your own skin, tears pricking at your lashes as he starts moving—no build-up, no mercy—just deep, piston-like thrusts that punch the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.
“Always actin’ brand new,” he grits out, “Like I ain’t had this pussy a thousand times.”
Onyankopon yanks your head back as he starts fucking you with those long, slow, punishing strokes, burying himself to the hilt each time with a rough grunt. Your entire body shudders in shock, fingers clawing at your own ankles as you struggle to stay grounded, but there’s no escape—just the relentless drag of him stretching you open, over and over, the obscene squelch of your soaked pussy echoing in the air between you.
A dumb, pleasure-drunk frown twists your face—eyebrows knitted, lips parted in a silent gasp—before your voice finally shatters into whiny, hiccupping sobs.
“Ohh my god. Shit. Ughn, fuck—!"
Your thighs tremble violently, your back bowing even more as pleasure coils tighter in your gut—each thrust dragging you closer to the edge. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Just keeps stroking into you—rough, unhurried, perfect—until your mind whites out completely.
The next shift happens like lightning—his arms wrapping around you, hauling you flush against his chest as he lifts you just enough that your toes barely skim the floor, his strength suspending you effortlessly between his body and the air. His palm presses flat against your throat again—his lips dragging hot against the shell of your ear as his thrusts turn uneven, deeper, desperate.
“Missed this shit... missed you…”
You’re too far gone to answer—just weakly nodding, your head lolling back against his shoulder as pleasure crackles through every nerve. Onyankopon’s thrusts turn frantic, his breath ragged against your neck, his voice breaking every snap of his hips—
“Shit—fuck—gon’ make me—"
Your body aches—muscles trembling, thighs slick with sweat—but you force yourself to roll your hips back against him anyway, meeting each deep thrust with a weak but determined grind. Your voice is nothing but a breathless whimper, barely audible over the filthy slap of skin, but you need him to hear your words.
“I love you—love you so much—“
Your words dissolve into a gasp as he rams into you again, the force of it making your toes curl against the floor. You tilt your head back, pressing your temple against his, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper—
“Such a good...good father... takin’ care of us.”
Onyankopon groans—low, raw—the sound vibrating against your skin as his fingers flex possessively around your throat.
"Fuck—" he grits out, voice strained—almost shy—as if he’s not used to being unraveled like this.
You reach back blindly, fingers tangling in his braids, tugging just enough to make him growl.
“Sound so pretty,” you slur.
He curses again, biting at your shoulder as if you contain his own pleasure.
“Chill.”
His warning rumbles against your lips, but it's unsteady—almost shaking—his usual arrogance stripped bare as his breath hitches. You don’t listen. Instead, you crash your mouth against his in a sloppy, desperate kiss, swallowing his next groan whole as he thrusts up into you—harder, deeper—his hips pistoning in a rhythm that has you both practically singing into each other’s mouths.
His moan becomes muffled against your lips—“Oooh, shit—“ low and graveled, his forehead pressing against yours as his pace turns erratic. You nod frantically, whimpering in agreement, your own sounds just as broken as his, your nails scraping down his chest as you begin begging him.
“Fill me up, baby.”
And that’s all it takes.
Onyankopon cums with a ragged groan, his entire body tensing as he spills into you in thick, pulsing waves—hot, endless, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he rides it out, fucking his release even deeper inside you.
You giggle—weak, breathless, but elated—the sensation of him twitching inside you sending little aftershocks of pleasure through your own trembling body.
Onyankopon’s chest heaves against your back, his lips still hovering over yours as he mutters—“Goddamn."
“Mmm,” you arch farther into his touch, “Would’ve gotten that last night if you weren’t so tired…"
His lips drag slowly along the curve of your ear—hot breath making you shiver as he murmurs, “Patience builds tension, girl.”
He grinds deep one last time, lazily rocking into you just to feel your walls flutter weakly around him.
Your fingers tighten around his forearm, a pathetic little “‘M tired now, Papa…" slipping from your lips—weak, whiny, still buzzing from pleasure.
“Oh, ‘you tired now?”
You twist in his arms, draping yourself fully against him—your arms looping around his neck, forehead pressing to his as you sigh, “C’monn, let's go shower."
“Aight. We hunchin’ again?"
“No, boy! I wanna go to bed. It's nearly twelve."
He smacks his lips, eyes flicking past you to the clock on the wall—then freezes.
“It's what time?"
You blink up at him, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone—that dangerous edge creeping in.
“Um…fifteen minutes to twelve?" you offer hesitantly.
Onyankopon exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening as he looks down at you with narrowed eyes.
“Imma' kill yo' son."
Your hands fly up in protest, gripping his shoulders—“Well hold on!—He's a little over curfew, it's fine!”
“So now I'm doin' too much?” He smacks his lips, pulling back just enough to level you with a look—mockingly pitching his voice higher, mimicking your earlier whimpers— “’You’re such a good father’—what happened to allat’, huh?"
You squeak, cheeks flushing hot as you slap a hand over his mouth, cutting off his teasing.
“Stop it!”
He licks your palm—nasty—making you yelp and yank your hand back as he grins, triumphant.
“So you gon’ need the belt after him, huh?”
You scrunch your nose.
“No. And you’re grumpy.”
A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away—just tilts his head, pressing his forehead a little harder against yours in that way he does when he’s softening, letting you know he’s conceding.
“Imma’ let up, aight?"
Your shoulders relax, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you exhale, melting into him.
“'…’Kay.”
His lips brush your temple before he murmurs, “Lemme’ just call and check on ‘em—after that? Imma’ rub on yo’ feet and knock the fuck out."
You exhale as he finally pulls away, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Always unable to let go of that protective dad instinct, even when he was supposed to be letting up—but that was just him. Overbearing, stubborn, yours.
The moment settles into something tender as you watch him grab his phone off the coffee table, his heavy silhouette outlined by the dim light of the living room.
“I love you," you murmur, the words slipping out sweet and easy—like they always did.
He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up in that rare, real smile—the one reserved just for you.
“’Love you more, girl.”
And just like that—the day ends, wrapped in warmth, in home, in family.
part 5 | series masterlist
summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached.
pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader
genre: smut, fluff
cw/tags: explicit sexual content, praise kink, oral (f & m), protected sex, daddy/babygirl dynamics (he calls you babydoll), porn w/plot ofc, dirty talk, fingering, teasing, switch!Bangchan
soundtrack: mhmm - Chase Shakur & Rimon , f****n’ sound - Lucky daye, excited! - dustin conrad
a/n: I love when you guys leave comments, it feeds my hungry soul. A good chunk of this chapter is literal porn, so if that’s not your cup of tea, you’ve been warned. I’m not apologizing for the filth. Enjoy :)
* ✩˚word count: 12.1k ˚✩ *
When Chan cupped your face and asked what the two of you were going to do about this, you did not see yourself ending up here.
With him hovering over you now, one hand resting at your waist while the other traced absentminded circles along your side, as though he couldn't quite convince himself to stop touching you.
Your back sank further into the cushions as he kissed you again, slow and unhurried this time. His lips lingered against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize every part of you, and somewhere along the way, so caught up in the warmth of him, you didn't even realize your hips had shifted until they brushed against his.
Chan smiled into the kiss.
When he finally pulled away, there was barely an inch between you before he leaned in to steal one more quick peck.
Then another.
Only then did he sit back, slipping an arm behind you to help you lean against him.
"I-I'm sorry," you whispered more embarrassed than anything. A quiet laugh escaped him. "For what?" he asked, turning just enough to look at you properly. "Having a very normal reaction?"
You scoffed, refusing to meet his eyes.
"I think I should be the one apologizing." His fingers found yours, absentmindedly weaving between them before lifting your hand toward his lips.
He pressed a gentle kiss to your fingertips, then the back of your hand, lingering there for a moment. "The idea of...." he hesitated, smiling to himself. "Having a family with you."
You looked at him again.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "Hearing you talk about wanting a family with me.…" he let out a quiet breath. "It made me feel....secure."
Your expression softened, "Chan....."
He shook his head with a quiet laugh, almost like he couldn't believe the thoughts coming out of his own mouth. "I've spent so long worrying about whether I'd ever be enough for someone else…. whether anyone would really want this life."
His eyes met yours again. "And then you looked at me and talked about a future that has Jia in it."
His gaze lingered on your face before dropping briefly to your lips. "If circumstances were different.…" he murmured, pressing another lingering kiss to the back of your hand, "…I don't think I'd be able to think about anything else. I'd do it right now."
You frowned slightly. "Do what?"
His eyes lifted back to yours, "….I'd put a baby in you right now."
The words landed with complete sincerity. Like he'd forgotten they were supposed to sound outrageous.
Your eyes widened, "Chan!"
"Hm?"
"You can't just say things like that." A nervous laugh escaped you despite yourself, your body heat slightly rising you were sure he could feel how warm you were getting.
It took him exactly one second to replay what he'd just said. His ears immediately started turning pink "….Right,” he looks away back towards the tv.
You chuckled softly, a quiet sound meant to soften the moment, to give him space to breathe. "We should probably finish the movie."
"Probably," he reached for the remote, fingers trembling just a little.
Twenty minutes passed, though the clock on the wall seemed to mock you, insisting it was longer. You couldn’t tell what had happened on the screen. The plot had dissolved into a haze of flickering colors, shadows dancing behind your eyelids.
Somewhere during the first scene after pressing play again, Chan shifted faintly beside you, it was barely even noticeable. Until his hand settled on your thigh. Not high enough to be considered too intimate, just above your knee. Warm and steady, like he’d done it without thinking, as if it belonged there.
Your eyes stayed fixed on the TV, but his eyes lingered elsewhere, watching you in the silence. Neither of you spoke. Neither moved. A minute passed. Then his thumb brushed over your leg, a slow, deliberate stroke.
You swallowed hard, heart pounding. The movie blurred into a swirl of colors, everything completely meaningless.
His hand hadn’t moved away. If anything, it had crept a fraction higher, pressing into the space between your thoughts, and closer to the bottom of your shorts.
He still hadn’t looked at you.
"Are you even watching this?" you whispered.
"Not even a little."
You let out a soft, trembling laugh. "Good."
"Why?"
You finally turned your head, meeting his gaze.
Because I want to see what you’re afraid to say.
Because I want to feel your hand tremble again.
Because I want this to go further.
Your voice was barely more than a breath, "Because I haven’t been paying attention since you said you wanted to put a baby in me."
Chan finally looked over, his eyes dark and searching, pulling you into his gaze. Despite the tips of his ears flushing with a bright pink hue again, his hand continued its slow ascent. It rested in the middle of your thigh, thumb gently caressing, sending a shiver through you.
"Why….is it something you want?" His voice was low, heavy with hunger, and his eyes never left yours as he watched your breath hitch.
You hesitated, your lips parting slightly, "I—"
"Hmmm?" he prompted softly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he gripped your thigh, pulling you closer toward him. A small gasp escaped you, caught between anticipation and surprise.
"What's going through that pretty head of yours?" he whispered, voice thick with desire, eyes burning into yours as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.
You played with the hem of your shirt, lips trembling as you tried to find the words. The space between you felt smaller, charged with unspoken promises. "I just…" you started, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t realize how much I wanted this, how much I’ve been waiting for you to make a move."
Chan’s gaze darkened further, and his thumb pressed a little harder against your thigh, slow and deliberate. He leaned in closer, so close you could feel his breath against your lips.
“You’re beautiful when you’re nervous,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft, yet edged with desire. “Tell me what you want.”
Your heart pounded fiercely, every nerve alight. The world outside the room faded into insignificance. All that mattered was the way his eyes held yours; intense, hungry, and waiting for your answer.
You drew in a shaky breath, voice trembling. “I want you closer. I want to feel everything....your skin, your breath, what it’s like when we’re not holding back.”
His thumb resumed its slow path along your thigh, a lazy rhythm that made thinking nearly impossible. “You really mean that?” Chan’s voice dipped lower, rougher. The question wasn’t a challenge, it was a door he was holding open, waiting to see if you’d walk through.
You nodded, the motion small and unsteady.
“Words, baby.” The endearment slipped out so naturally you wondered if he’d been holding it back for weeks. “I need to hear you say it.”
Your throat tightened. “I want this. I want you.”
Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or hunger finally given permission to surface. His free hand came up to your jaw, cupping it the same way he had earlier that evening when he’d first asked what you were going to do about all this tension between you.
Back then, you hadn’t had an answer.
Now your body seemed to know exactly what to do.
Your hips shifted again, pressing against the side of his thigh, and this time you didn’t pull away. Chan noticed. His eyes flicked down to where your bodies met, then back to your face with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to see.”
His thumb traced the curve of your jaw before his hand slid back into your hair, gentle but deliberate. He tilted your head slightly, exposing the line of your throat, and leaned in until his lips hovered just above your pulse point.
Not kissing, or licking, just breathing against you. The warmth of it made your fingers curl into the cushion beneath you.
“Chan…”
“I know.” His lips brushed the word against your skin.
Then his mouth pressed against your neck, soft and searching, and your eyes fluttered shut. His kiss was unhurried, almost reverent, like he was learning the shape of you one breath at a time. His hand on your leg tightened just slightly, grounding you both.
Your fingers found his shoulder, then his collar, then the warm skin at the nape of his neck. The contact drew a quiet sound from him, something between a hum and a sigh, and the vibration traveled through his lips straight into your bloodstream.
“You’re shaking,” he said against your throat.
“Because of you.”
“Good.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I want you to feel this. All of it.”
His hand slid higher on your thigh. Still over the fabric of your shorts, still maddeningly patient, but the intention was unmistakable now. His palm settled at the crease where your leg met your hip, thumb tracing the seam.
Your breath caught.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.
“It’s not. It’s.....Chan, please.”
The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, “please what?”
A frustrated laugh escaped you, shaky and thin. “Don’t make me say it out loud.”
“Oh, but you’re so pretty when you’re flustered.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, then another to the corner of your mouth. “I could watch you struggle for words all night.”
His fingers curled against your inner thigh, and the pressure sent a jolt through you that made your hips rock forward without permission. There was nothing to hide behind now, no movie to pretend to watch, no plausible deniability about what was happening between you.
Chan shifted, and suddenly his body was closer; not hovering over you again or pinning you down, but angled toward you in a way that made everything feel more intimate. His knee pressed against the outside of your leg. His shoulder brushed yours. His breath mixed with your breath.
“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “More times than I should probably say out loud.”
“Tell me?"
His eyes searched yours, checking. “You sure?”
“I want to know.”
His hand moved. Up, slowly, until his thumb rested just below the waistband of your shorts. Your shirt had ridden up slightly, leaving a band of bare skin exposed, and he traced it with deliberate focus as his hands rested at your mid-section.
“I thought about kissing you first,” he said, voice low and steady. “Slow. The way you deserve.” His thumb dipped beneath the waistband, just barely, and your stomach tightened. “Like this.”
His lips found yours again, and this kiss was different from the ones before. Deeper and more certain. His mouth parted against yours, and when your tongue brushed his lower lip, he made a sound low in his chest that you felt in your ribs.
Your hands found the nape of his neck.
His hand slid further beneath your shorts.
The fabric stretched to accommodate him, elastic giving way to his knuckles, his palm, the gentle press of his fingers against you. Not where you wanted him most, not yet, but close enough that every nerve in your body had rerouted itself to that single point of contact.
He broke the kiss to breathe, forehead resting against yours. “And then I thought about touching you.”
His thumb traced a line on your pelvic bone causing your hips to buck. “Like that?” he asked, the question dripping with something darker now.
“Lower,” you breathed.
Chan’s eyes flicked to yours. The pink in his ears had spread to his cheeks, but his expression was steady and focused, “show me.”
Your hand covered his arm, his hand still hidden beneath the dark fabric of your shorts, and guided it downward. The movement was slow, deliberate, charged with the kind of tension that made the air feel thick.
When his fingers brushed against the damp cotton of your underwear, you both stopped breathing.
“Fuck,” he whispered. The word was so quiet, so reverent, that it didn’t sound like profanity at all. It sounded like a prayer.
His fingers pressed against you through the fabric, experimental and gentle, mapping the shape of your arousal without any rush. The pressure was light, too light, but the fact of his hand there, the heat of his palm cupping you through cotton, made your head fall back against the couch.
“Look at me,” he said and you did.
His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the brown of his irises. The boyish fluster from earlier had burned away, replaced by something sharper. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
“Is this okay?” His fingers pressed a little harder.
“Yes.....God, yes.”
He kissed you again, swallowing the sound you made when his middle finger found the seam of you through the damp fabric and traced it up and down. The friction was perfect, maddening, but not nearly enough.
Your hips rolled against his hand.
“There you go,” he murmured against your mouth. “Take what you need.”
His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, your back against the arm of the couch and your legs tangled with his. The new angle gave him better access, and he took advantage of it immediately, fingers moving in slow, steady circles that had you gripping his arms.
“Does that feel good?”
You couldn’t answer. Your voice had fled somewhere behind your hammering heart. He smiled then kissed your collarbone. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The pressure built in increments. He varied his speed and intensity in response to the sounds you made, faster when your breath hitched, lighter when your nails dug into his skin, harder when your hips chased his hand.
His lips never stopped moving. Your neck. Your jaw. The hollow beneath your ear. He kissed each spot like he was cataloging it for later, filing away which places made you shiver and which made you sigh.
“I want to feel you,” he said against your ear, his voice rough. “Can I—”
“Yes.”
He laughed softly, “you didn’t even let me finish.”
“I don’t care what the question is. The answer is yes.”
His fingers stilled against you. For one heartbeat, then two. Then his hand withdrew from your shorts, and the absence of his touch was so acute that you nearly whimpered. But he was already moving, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts, looking up at you with an expression that was half question and half plea.
“Lift your hips for me.”
You did, and he peeled the fabric down your thighs with a care that made your chest ache. The shorts joined the growing collection of forgotten things on the floor; the remote, your earlier inhibitions, every reason you’d ever given yourself for why this couldn’t happen.
Your underwear stayed on, for now.
Chan’s breath shuddered out of him as he looked at you. His hand found your bare thigh, palm spreading wide over muscle and skin, and he dragged it upward until his thumb rested against the damp cotton between your legs.
“You’re soaked,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
His thumb pressed down, and the fabric did nothing to hide how much you wanted this, how much you wanted him. The evidence was there, impossible to ignore, soaking through the thin cotton barrier.
“Chan, please.”
“Please what?” He was pushing again, but his voice had lost its teasing edge. Now he just sounded desperate, like he needed the words as much as you did.
“Touch me, underneath. I need to feel—”
He didn’t let you finish. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and his fingers: warm, calloused, trembling just slightly, finally, finally touched bare skin.
He froze, and you could feel it in the tension running through his forearm, the way his breath stopped halfway up your throat. His index finger rested just above where you needed him, and the pause stretched long enough that you opened your eyes to check if something was wrong.
Nothing was wrong. Chan was looking at you like you'd just handed him something fragile and precious, something he was terrified of breaking.
"Chan." Your voice cracked on his name.
"Hang on." He swallowed hard. "Give me a second."
His thumb traced a slow arc over your hipbone, the motion almost unconscious. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something barely above a murmur. "I've wanted this for so long that I need to make sure I don't rush it."
"You're not rushing." Your hips tilted toward his hand, seeking pressure. "You're torturing me."
A laugh escaped him, breathless and warm against your cheek. "Good."
But he didn't make you wait much longer. His middle finger slid lower, parting you with a gentleness that made your toes curl. The sound you made, half gasp; half moan, seemed to embolden him. His finger traced your slickness upward, circling once, twice, before retreating just enough to make you whimper.
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "I've got you."
His hand withdrew from your underwear, and before you could protest, he was shifting your position. Strong hands gripped your hips, repositioning you until your back was fully against the couch cushions and your legs draped over his lap. The new angle left you completely open to him, and the vulnerability of it sent heat flooding through your chest.
But Chan wasn't done.
His palm slid down your calf, fingers wrapping around your ankle with deliberate care. He lifted your leg, bending it at the knee, and pressed a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Then higher, your shin, the sensitive spot just below your knee. Each kiss was slower than the last, his breath warming your skin seconds before his lips made contact.
"What are you doing?" The question came out reedy, thin.
"Something I've thought about." Another kiss, this time to the tender flesh of your inner thigh. "Something I've thought about a lot."
He lifted your leg higher, guiding it over his shoulder. The position pulled you closer to him, your hips tilting upward, your thighs falling open. The damp cotton of your underwear was fully exposed now, the evidence of your arousal impossible to hide in this position.
His eyes dropped to the spot, and his expression shifted. The boyish flush on his ears had spread down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. But his gaze was steady and hungry. He looked at you like a man who'd finally been given permission to want something after convincing himself he never could.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said, echoing his earlier words.
Then he lowered his head. His mouth pressed against you through the cotton.
The heat of his breath penetrated the fabric instantly, and your back arched off the couch before you could stop it. A broken sound clawed its way out of your throat, something between a moan and his name, tangled together beyond recognition.
Chan hummed against you, and the vibration traveled through the soaked fabric directly into your core. Your fingers scrambled for purchase, one hand fisting in his dark hair while the other gripped the couch cushion hard enough to leave marks.
"Fuck." The word left you on a shudder.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing against you. "That good?"
"You know it is,” you breathed out, “don’t ask silly questions.”
"I wanted to hear you say it." He pressed another kiss to the cotton, softer this time. Then another, slightly firmer. His free hand slid up your thigh, thumb stroking the crease where your leg met your hip. "I wanted to hear the sounds you'd make."
His mouth was still there again, his tongue pressing against you through the damp cotton, relentless and unhurried. The fabric had grown impossibly wet against your skin, and the warmth of his tongue was undeniable, even with the thin barrier between you.
He licked a slow, deliberate stripe along the seam of your underwear, and the sound you made was barely appropriate; a broken, keening sound that seemed to surprise even you.
Chan responded by pressing his mouth harder against you, licking feverishly, while his nose brushed against your clit through the soaked fabric as he angled his head. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, anchoring you in place as he worked you through the cotton. He was thorough. He licked and sucked and breathed against you like he was trying to memorize the shape of you through the fabric, learning every curve and crease with his tongue.
Your hips bucked against his mouth, chasing the friction, and he let you. He let you rock against his face, his hands firm on your thighs holding you steady while you took what you needed. When he finally pulled back, it was only to hook his fingers into the waistband of your underwear.
His eyes met yours. He didn't ask. He didn't need to.
You lifted your hips, and he slid the wet fabric down your thighs, past your knees, off your ankles. The fabric landed somewhere on the floor, joining the rest of the discarded things between you.
And then he looked at you. Really looked at you.
His breath caught in his throat again, and for a long moment, he didn't move. His hands rested on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin at your crease, but his eyes were fixed on the place he'd been worshipping through fabric moments before.
"Fuck," he whispered again, softer this time.
Then he lowered his head.
His first kiss, bare skin this time, nothing between you but air and want, made your entire body shudder. His lips parted against you, and when his tongue touched you, finally touched you without anything in the way, you cried out.
He didn't stop or pull away. He licked into you like he'd been waiting his whole life for the taste, and judging by the sounds he was making, low and desperate against your skin, maybe he had. "Baby," he whined against your skin, the word vibrating through you. "You taste incredible."
"Chan please—" you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against your lower ones. "Please what, baby?"
"More." The word came out desperate, ragged. "Please."
His eyes met yours, dark and hungry, and he added his middle finger, pumping in and out of your core, as you forgot how to breathe. Once you were stretched out, he added another, making you mewl from underneath him.
He licked and sucked and pressed his tongue inside you beside his fingers, his own moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh. He was obsessed, you could feel it in the way he kept going, even when your legs trembled, even when your fingers pulled his hair hard enough to hurt. He didn't care, he just wanted more of you.
"Chan—" His name came out on a sob as your orgasm crested, your body shuddering against his mouth. He still didn't pull away, instead he licked you through it, gentler now, drawing out every last tremor until you collapsed back against the cushions, breathless and shaking.
He finally lifted his head, his chin glistening, his lips swollen and wet. He looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "You okay?" he asked, his voice rough.
You couldn't speak. You just pulled him up by his shirt and kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips. He smiled against your lips, a soft hum of approval vibrating through you.
Your hands slid from the hem of his shirt to his shoulders, then down his chest, savoring the warmth of his skin through the fabric. You broke the kiss slowly, your mouth trailing to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down to his neck. His pulse fluttered under your tongue.
"Mmm," you murmured against his collarbone, letting your fingertips graze the waistband of his pants. "Taste good."
He shivered, hands coming up to cup your face, tilting you up to meet his gaze again. But you shook your head gently, sitting up and pressing him back into the cushions. Not with force; with a slow, irresistible pressure, your body following him down as you straddled one of his thighs.
"Stay," you breathed, and his hands fell obediently to his sides.
You let your gaze travel down his body; his parted lips, his heaving chest, the unmistakable bulge straining against his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, a wordless plea, and you rewarded him by sliding them down. Your eyebrows shot up as you realized he wasn't wearing anything underneath.
His cock stood rigid and flushed, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. He sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body tensing under your gaze. You didn't speak right away. Instead, you let your eyes trace the length of him, the way his cock twitched in the open air, the way his stomach quivered with each shallow breath. The silence stretched, thick and electric, until he let out a soft, pleading whimper.
Your voice came out low and affectionate as your hand wrapped around the base. "Look at you. So hard and ready after taking care of me like that. You must like pleasuring me or something."
He shivered under your touch, hips jerking slightly upward. Leaning down, you pressed a soft kiss to the head before dragging your tongue slowly along the underside. His thighs flexed, a shaky sound escaping him.
"Please," he whined, the word cracking with need.
You chuckled softly, circling the crown with light, teasing licks. "Not yet. I want to hear those pretty sounds a little longer." Your fist stroked him in unhurried pulls, your mouth hovering close so your warm breath teased his sensitive skin. "You're so sensitive. I love when you twitch and moan like this."
Chan groaned, head tipping back as his fingers dug into the cushions. You took him into your mouth, sucking and making out with his tip gently at first, then pulling off with a wet sound to lap at the slit. "That's it. Just let me handle everything. You're perfect like this, all desperate."
His whines grew louder, hips thrusting shallowly into your grip. "Please....more. I need you."
You wrapped your mouth around him, working down his shaft slowly, deliberately, drawing out every broken sound he made. His hips rocked in small, desperate rolls, chasing your warmth without quite forcing the pace, still letting you lead. His hands had moved from the cushions to your hair, fingers threading gently, not pushing, just holding on like you were his anchor.
You pulled off with a wet pop, your hand still stroking him as you pressed a kiss to his inner thigh. He whimpered at the loss, a shudder running through him.
You breathed against his skin, lips trailing upward. "You must be close baby." He whimpered in response.
"You've been neglected, haven't you, love?" He nodded desperately then gasped once your tongue circled his head again, lapping at the bead of precum that had gathered.
His grip in your hair tightened. "Please—I—please, I need to—"
"Yeah, baby?" Your voice was soft but certain. You kissed the tip once, twice, then looked up at him through your lashes. His chest was heaving, his eyes glazed and wet. "You've been so good to me, Chan. You gonna cum?"
A desperate nod. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Fuck!”
"Go ahead, let go baby." You took him deep, until you were choking, all the way until your nose brushed his belly, then swallowed around him.
The sound he made was raw, almost pained, a broken cry that turned into a long, shuddering moan as his release hit your throat. You stayed still, letting him pulse against your tongue, your hand cupping his balls gently as you milked every last drop. When he finally stilled, trembling, you pulled off slowly, licking your lips clean.
You crawled up his body, lifting his shirt off as you press soft kisses along his stomach, his chest, his neck. His eyes were dazed, lips parted, and cheeks flushed. You brushed your thumb against his cheekbones and kissed him slowly.
"You're perfect," you whispered against his mouth. He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into a proper kiss, arms wrapping around you as he shifted and melted into the couch. "Fuck," he sighs out, in a daze, as you pull away.
You kiss his nose, "good?" His hold on you tightens as his eyes meet yours, "Perfect," he pecks your lips. "You are so perfect."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, so loudly you were convinced he could feel every beat through the fabric of your shirt. Judging by the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, maybe he could.
"You're staring," you whispered, trying to hide your face against his shoulder.
"I know."
"It's making me nervous."
He laughed softly. "Don't be acting all shy now."
You groaned, burying your face even deeper into his chest. "I mean it," he said, still smiling. "You're cute."
"I'm choosing to ignore you."
"noted."
He let the silence settle after that, his hand moving slowly up and down your back in an absentminded rhythm. Every now and then his fingers paused at the curve of your waist before continuing, as if reassuring himself you were still there. Your breathing gradually matched his.
The room felt warm, the movie long forgotten somewhere behind the sound of your heart settling back into a normal rhythm.
After a while, Chan pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "We should probably get cleaned up."
You made a quiet, reluctant noise into his shirt. "I know," he chuckled. "I don't really want to move either." Neither of you did immediately.
Another minute passed before he finally sighed dramatically. "If we stay here any longer, I'm never getting off this couch."
You lifted your head just enough to look at him, "I wouldn't be opposed to that."
He smiled before brushing his thumb across your cheek, "come on." This time, when he stood, he kept one hand wrapped around yours, helping you to your feet. You swayed for a second, earning a quiet laugh from him.
"You okay?"
"Mhm."
"You sure?"
You wrapped your arms around him and pressed your body against his, "I'm positive."
His expression softened before he reluctantly put space between you two, "Be back," he said before leaving a kiss on your forehead. He disappeared down the hall for a moment while you flattened your hair as best you could with your hands. A second later you heard the bathroom sink running.
"I left you a towel," he called. "And I put a clean shirt on the counter if you'd rather wear that to sleep."
"Channie," you looked at him and smiled fondly. "You didn't have to."
"I figured you'd be more comfortable."
Something about that made your chest ache. By the time you stepped into his bedroom a few minutes later, he'd already changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and an old T-shirt, his hair still damp around the edges from splashing water on his face.
He looked up immediately. "You feel better?" You nodded.
"Good," and without another word, he disappeared into the kitchen. You heard a cabinet open, then the refrigerator.
When he returned, he balanced two glasses of water in one hand. "I know," he said before you could tease him. "I'm hovering."
"You are, dad."
He smiled, "Humor me."
You accepted the glass anyway, smiling as you took a sip, he looked completely satisfied.
"What?"
"I don't know." He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "Taking care of you just.…makes me feel better."
You leaned over and bumped your shoulder against his, "Is that so?" He nodded and laughed before taking your empty glass from you. "Bed?"
"Bed."
Chan turned the lights down until the room was bathed in a soft amber glow before pulling you towards the bed and pulling back the covers. You climbed in first, settling against the pillows while he walked around to the other side.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight and almost instinctively, you rolled toward him. He opened an arm without a word, and the way you fit against him as though you'd done it a hundred times before had your heart fluttering.
His chin rested lightly on top of your head, "you comfortable?" he asked.
"Mhm."
"You need anything?"
You shook your head. "You?"
"I've got everything I need." His answer came so simply that it made you smile. Outside, the neighborhood had gone still. Somewhere in the distance, a car pulled from someone's driveway disappearing into the night.
Chan's fingers traced slow circles against your arm beneath the blanket. "Thank you," he murmured after a long while.
You tilted your head. "For what?"
"For trusting me."
Your eyes searched his face. He wasn't looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling, his voice barely above a whisper, "I don't ever want you to feel like you have to be anything except comfortable with me."
You reached up and intertwined your fingers with his. "And vice versa." His hand squeezed your hand gently as a comfortable silence settled over the room, neither of you feeling the need to fill it.
It wasn't long before your eyelids grew heavy, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you toward sleep. Just before you drifted off, you felt him press one last kiss into your head. "Goodnight," he whispered.
You smiled against his chest, "goodnight, Chan."
𐙚
He had never been the kind of man who woke up slowly.
His body snapped into consciousness all at once, like a switch being thrown, and that morning was no different, except for the heat. It pooled low in his belly before he even opened his eyes, a steady throb that matched the rhythm of his pulse.
The bedroom was still dark, thin streaks of dawn threading through the curtains, and beside him, You breathed in the slow, even cadence of deep sleep.
You were laying on your stomach, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, your chan's shirt has ridden up, the sheet had slipped sometime in the night, leaving your back slightly bare to the dip of your waist where the blanket pooled. Your skin looked impossibly soft in the half-light.
Chan turned onto his side carefully, making the mattress shift only slightly. He didn't want to wake you. Not yet.
His mind flickered back to the night before; the taste of you, the sounds you'd made, the way your fingers had twisted in his hair. There was a reason he didn't suggest going all the way last night. Other than the fact that you did not mention it, Chan wanted the first time with you to be special.
Now, hours later, his body was making a compelling argument that 'not yet' had expired.
He watched you sleep for a long moment. The gentle rise and fall of your ribs. The flutter of you eyelashes; dreaming, perhaps. A small whimper came out with your exhale, and the sound of it, that tiny sound, sent a fresh pulse of want through him.
Chan leaned in and pressed his lips to your shoulder.
It was as light as a feather, barely a brush of skin against skin. He waited, your breathing didn't change.
He breathed you in, and his hand, moving of its own accord, ghosted up the length of your spine without touching, hovering just above the warm skin.
He kissed the nape of your neck, letting his mouth linger this time. The taste of you, slightly salty and something faintly vanilla from your body wash, spread across his tongue.
Then another, this time to the curve where your shoulder met your neck. He parted his lips slightly, just enough to feel the fine hairs there, and a sound rumbled in his chest that he swallowed before it could escape.
Your shoulder blade drew his mouth next, then the soft inward curve of your waist where the blanket had tangled. He was moving lower, propping himself on one elbow, mapping the landscape of your back with lips and breath. Every kiss was a question he wasn't asking aloud.
Do you know what you do to me?
Do you feel this too?
Can I have more?
"Chan?"
Your voice was thick with sleep, muffled by the pillow. You hadn't moved, hadn't even opened your eyes, but your hand had found his shoulder beneath the blanket and rested there, warm and grounding.
"Morning," he murmured against your lower back.
"What time is it?"
"Early."
You made a sleepy, questioning sound. "Why are you awake?"
He could have said something sweet, something about the sunrise or needing water. Instead, he let his teeth graze the rise of your hip, and said, voice rough, "Because I've been thinking about the way you taste."
Your breath caught. A small hitch that made the muscles of your back tense and release. Now he could see one eye, cracked open and watching him. "You're going to be the death of me," you whispered.
"Can I?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them, hoarse and urgent. "Please. Let me...just let me taste you again. That's all I want." He was already moving, already settling himself lower. "I'm just asking for this. For you. On my tongue."
"You're begging."
"I'm absolutely begging."
You propped herself on your elbows and looked down at him, and something in your expression shifted, from sleepy amusement to a quiet, considering heat. "You really mean it."
"Every word."
Your throat moved as you swallowed. "Then what are you waiting for?" He didn't need more than that.
Chan's hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your soft skin as he settled lower still, his shoulders nudging your thighs apart. The scent of you, warm and faintly musky and entirely you, filled his senses, and his mouth literally watered. He had to pause and press his forehead against the inside of your thigh just to steady himself.
"You okay down there?" Your voice was breathless, half-laugh.
"I'm trying not to embarrass myself," he admitted.
"That's adorable."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
He lifted his head and met your eyes. "Sit on my face."
The words landed between you like a stone dropped into still water. your lips parted, pupils went wide, swallowing the brown of your irises. "What?"
"You heard me." His voice was steadier now, confidence returning. "Sit on my face. I want to feel you above me."
The hesitation lasted only a heartbeat, and then you were moving, shifting up the bed as he rolled onto his back, arranging herself with a kind of focused precision that told him that you wanted this just as badly as he did.
Your thighs settled on either side of his head, and the world narrowed to the sight of you above him, backlit by the gray dawn. You were breathing hard, and so was he.
"Like this?"
"Exactly like that."
Chan's hands slid up the outside of your thighs, over the swell of your hips, pulling you down gently. His tongue curled against you, and the sound you made, a sharp, surprised gasp that turned into a moan halfway through, unraveled something in his chest.
He worked slowly at first, relearning the topography of you. The way you responded when he used the tip of his tongue versus the flat of it. The small, involuntary rock of your hips when he found a rhythm you liked. His hands gripped you harder, not to direct you, because he needed something to hold onto as he lost himself in your taste.
Your fingers found his hair, twisted and pulled at the strands. The sting on his scalp sent electricity straight down his spine. "There," you gasped. "Right there. Don't stop, Channie, please don't stop."
He continued fucking into you with his tongue, because who would he be if he didn't listen to you?
Time softened around the edges, became measured in the back and forth movement of your hips, the increasing urgency of your sounds, the way your thighs began to tremble against his ears. The taste of you was everywhere; on his tongue, his lips, his chin. He was drowning in it and had never been happier.
Your breathing changed, quickened almost. Your thighs clamped tighter, and Chan moaned against you, the vibration pulling another cry from your throat.
"I'm—" you couldn't finish the sentence.
He understood anyway. His tongue lapped against you harder and faster, as one of his hands left your hip to slide up your stomach, feeling the flutter of your breath beneath his palm. Your thighs squeezed him harder, fingers clenched in his hair as a raw, broken cry tore from your throat, your hips wildly grinding against his tongue as he flattens it.
He held you through every pulse, every shudder, drinking you down until you went limp above him, trembling and gasping. Only when your grip loosened and you collapsed to the side, pulling him closer to you, did the room fill with the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft, satisfied weight of your body against his.
Chan eased back as you slid off his face, your body still trembling from the orgasm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and hungry as he watched you catch your breath beside him. The gray dawn light painted soft lines across both of you.
You turned toward him, fingers tracing down his chest. "Channie... I want more. I want you inside me. We...we can use protection, but...." you paused, "fuck I need you."
His cock twitched hard at your words. He reached in the nightstand without hesitation, tearing open a condom packet with his teeth. Sliding his pants off and rolling it down his thick length, he positioned himself between your spread thighs.
"You sure?" he asked, voice rough.
"Please."
He pressed the head of his cock against your slick pussy and pushed in slowly. Inch by inch, stretching you open until he bottomed out. A shared groan filled the room.
"Fuuuuck," he gasped closing his eyes. He stayed there for a long moment, buried deep, letting you both adjust to the thick stretch. His hips rocked in tiny, shallow movements at first, barely pulling back before sinking in again. The slow drag of his cock against your walls drew soft sounds from both of you.
"You like that, baby?" He moans against your lips causing you to whine. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back as you urged him deeper. He answered with a low groan, beginning to thrust in a steady rhythm, "you feel so good, babydoll....so so good."
He throws his head back grinding into you. Each stroke was deliberate, hips rolling forward until he was fully seated inside you before withdrawing almost completely, only to push back in again.
The wet sounds of your bodies grew louder with every thrust. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in as he kept the pace measured, savoring the way your pussy clenched around him every time he bottomed out. You could feel every inch of him sliding in and out, the friction building heat between you causing your moans to get louder and more erotic.
"Keep squeezing me like that, babydoll," he growled, voice strained. He leaned down to kiss you, tongue sliding against yours while his hips continued into slow, deep thrusts. "I'm close," you breathed into his mouth.
"Yeah?" He thrusted hard into you. "Gonna cum for me baby?" Your nails dug into his back as the pleasure built gradually. He kept fucking you with that same controlled pace, angling his hips to hit the spot that made your breath hitch. The tension coiled tighter with each stroke, bringing you closer, until he stopped thrusting and pulled out suddenly, causing you to clench around nothing.
Your eyes shot open, "Chan," you whined out.
"Shhh, babydoll, I got you," he murmurs while admiring your pussy, before leading his cock back into you. "I got you."
Chan lingered above you, his breath warm against your lips as he eased his hips forward again. Instead of rushing, he kept the motion unhurried, sinking into your soaked pussy again with deliberate care. Every inch of his cock stretched you open slowly, the thick head pressing deeper until he was fully seated inside you once more. A low, shared sigh escaped both of you at the full connection.
Your eyes were in the back of your head, "F-fuck daddy, right there," you moaned out gripping his shoulders. The term of endearment made his cock throb inside of you, and his hips stayed buried in you.
"Say it again, babydoll," he rasped out, ".....please." He tried letting your walls adjust around him while his hands roamed gently over your sides. One hand sneaked down between you, as his fingers brushed your clit in soft circles. His other hand found yours, squeezing you gently. His mouth found yours again, the kiss slow and deep, tongues sliding together as he began to rock his hips in smaller, measured movements.
"J-just like that, daddy," you mewled out as he dragged his cock out just to slam it back into you, drawing out a loud groan from the two of you.
Despite wanting to continuously slam into you, he felt himself getting close, so he kept each thrust measured and sweet. He pulled back only a little before pushing forward again, the drag of his cock against your inner walls steady and intimate. Wet sounds filled the quiet room with every gentle stroke, but he never quickened the pace. Instead he focused on the way your body responded, watching your face for every flicker of pleasure.
Your legs stayed wrapped around his waist, heels resting against his lower back as you encouraged him to stay close. He answered by leaning down to press kisses along your jaw, then down your neck, his lips warm and lingering on your skin. The slow rhythm continued, his cock sliding in and out with careful control, the head brushing that sensitive spot inside you on every inward push.
Time stretched as he kept fucking you like this. Minutes passed with the same unhurried pace, his hips rolling forward to fill you completely before easing back almost to the tip. Your pussy clenched around him with growing need, but he didn’t speed up. He simply adjusted the angle slightly, angling his cock to press against that perfect spot again and again, drawing soft gasps from your throat.
Your hands explored his back, fingers tracing the muscles that flexed with each controlled thrust. He groaned quietly against your shoulder when your nails dragged lightly over his skin, the sound vibrating through his chest. Sweat began to gather between your bodies, but he kept the connection tender, pressing his forehead to yours as he continued the steady rhythm. "You like this, babydoll?"
You nodded as the pleasure built gradually, "Fuck yes." you whisper. "Yes yes yes." Every slow stroke pushed you closer without overwhelming you, his hips started stuttering as you squeezed tightly. “come on babydoll, let go,” he grunted out as you tightened your legs around his hips.
Your second orgasm approached like a rising tide rather than a sudden crash. When it finally washed over you, your pussy pulsed and fluttered around his thick length, squeezing him in rhythmic waves. Your back arched, pressing your chest to his as the sensation rolled through you in long, drawn-out pulses.
Chan held still through your climax, buried deep while your walls milked him. He kissed your temple, “that’s it baby, there you go,” he murmured softly against your skin as your breathing slowly evened out.
Only when your tremors began to fade did he resume the gentle thrusting, still keeping the pace measured and loving. He lasted longer this way, savoring every moment inside you. He can't remember the last time he's had sex, let alone with someone who reciprocated his feelings.
His own release built again slowly, his cock twitching inside the condom as the pressure mounted. When he finally came, it was with a deep, drawn-out groan, his hips pressing forward one last time as he emptied himself. His body shuddered against yours in long waves, the condom catching every pulse of his release.
He didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed nestled inside you, softening gradually while his hands continued their gentle exploration. One hand stroked your back. The other traced slow circles over your hip and thigh. His lips brushed yours in a series of soft, lingering kisses, each one unhurried and full of affection.
When he finally eased out, he did so with care, removing the condom and tying it off before dropping it aside. Then he gathered you against his chest, pulling the blanket up to cover both of you. Your bodies remained pressed together, skin to skin, as the morning light grew brighter outside. His fingers kept moving in slow, soothing strokes along your spine, and the quiet intimacy of the moment stretched on without any need to rush.
Neither of you spoke for a long while, but when you did the conversation drifted in and out between comfortable silences, interrupted only by lazy kisses and quiet laughter whenever one of you caught the other staring again.
Eventually the sunlight spilling through the curtains grew brighter, stretching farther across the bed until it reached your legs.
There wasn't much to say. The room was quiet except for the occasional creak of the house settling and the distant chirping of birds outside the bedroom window. Every so often Chan would brush another kiss against your forehead or lazily trace circles along your back, neither of you particularly interested in being the first person to move.
Eventually, hunger won.
"If we don't get up," you mumbled against his chest, "we're going to waste the entire day."
Chan let out a sleepy hum, "I don't see the problem."
You smiled. "You said you needed groceries, especially for Jia."
One eye cracked open.
"…I did say that."
"And I need groceries too."
He sighed dramatically, tightening his arms around you for one last minute before finally letting go. "Five more minutes."
"You said that fifteen minutes ago."
"Then I'm making progress."
𐙚
By the time either of you finally convinced yourselves to leave the bedroom, the morning had quietly become afternoon. The house had settled into its usual weekend rhythm. Sunlight spilled across the hardwood floors in wide golden strips, warming the quiet rooms as if the day had been patiently waiting for the two of you to rejoin it.
Chan wandered into the kitchen first, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he opened the refrigerator. He stared inside for a long moment. "...I've definitely been putting this off."
You laughed from somewhere down the hall. "That bad?" He stepped aside just enough for you to look.
Half a carton of milk.
A few eggs.
Butter.
One container of yogurt.
Three different condiments.
You looked back at him, "so....you've been surviving." You leaned against the counter, folding your arms. "My refrigerator isn't much better."
Chan glanced over at you, "No?"
"I keep buying ingredients because I think I'll cook."
"And then?"
"I get home from work and eat cereal."
He laughed quietly, "That explains a lot."
"It really does."
A comfortable silence settled between you as the coffee maker sputtered to life, filling the kitchen with its familiar sounds. Chan reached into the cabinet for two mugs without thinking, only hesitating for the briefest second before carrying on as if it had always been the obvious choice.
You noticed.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
By the time the coffee had finished brewing, the rich smell had drifted through the kitchen. Chan poured two cups and handed one to you, your fingers brushing lightly against his as you accepted it.
"Thanks."
He answered with a quiet hum before leaning back against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. For a while, neither of you said anything, simply standing there with warm mugs in your hands, watching the backyard through the kitchen window.
"What time are you getting Jia tomorrow ?" you asked eventually.
"Around three."
You nodded into your coffee. "So we've got today."
"And most of tomorrow."
It was a simple observation, but it settled between you with a weight neither of you expected. Not because you had anything special planned, but because knowing there was still time somehow felt important.
Chan took another sip before setting his mug on the counter, "I still need groceries."
"Me too."
He glanced over at you, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Want to just go together?"
You smiled over the rim of your mug, "I was hoping you'd ask."
𐙚
Nearly forty minutes later, the reusable shopping bags were tucked into the back seat, coffee cups abandoned in the cup holders, and the two of you were pulling into the grocery store parking lot.
Saturday afternoons always seemed to bring everyone out at once.
Families navigated overflowing carts through the parking lot while college students hurried inside with hastily scribbled shopping lists clutched in one hand. Somewhere nearby, someone was losing a battle with a shopping cart that refused to separate from the rest of the line.
Chan grabbed one with considerably less effort before falling into step beside you, "you have a list?" he asked.
"Somewhere," you dug through your bag until you found a crumpled receipt folded into quarters, every bit of blank space covered in handwriting. He looked at it for a second before laughing,"....that's your list?"
"It made sense when I wrote it."
"I believe you," his smile lingered as the two of you wandered inside.
The store hummed with the familiar rhythm of a busy weekend. Shopping carts rattled over tile, conversations drifted from neighboring aisles, and somewhere overhead an employee announced a sale that neither of you paid much attention to.
Without ever deciding to, you settled into an easy pace.
You paused to inspect produce while Chan wandered a few feet ahead, reaching automatically for the things he always bought. Every so often one of you would stop beside the other.
"Need cereal?"
"Mhm."
"You still out of coffee?"
"Unfortunately."
A carton of eggs appeared in the cart.
Then bread.
Then fruit.
Somewhere along the way, Jia's favorite yogurt ended up beside your coffee creamer. A loaf of bread rested against vegetables you'd picked out. His pasta sat next to spices you knew you were almost out of.
Neither of you questioned it.
It wasn't until you reached the meat department that you finally glanced down into the cart. You rested both hands on the handle, smiling to yourself, "our groceries are kind of... mixed together."
Chan followed your gaze. For a long second, he simply looked, "...Huh."
"My stuff's with yours."
"And mine's with yours."
"They're going to have to be sorted when we get home."
He nodded once, "...Probably."
Neither of you reached into the cart. Instead, Chan picked up a package of chicken, dropped it in beside everything else, and continued walking. You smiled to yourself before following him.
For now, it didn't seem important whose groceries belonged to which house.
By the time you reached the checkout, neither of you had made much progress figuring out whose groceries belonged to whom. You started unloading the cart onto the conveyor belt while Chan grabbed the divider.
"Everything before this is mine," you said, pointing toward the growing pile.
"Mhm."
Coffee. Vegetables. Pasta. Chicken.
When you reached for the yogurt, Chan quietly slid it onto his side of the divider. You frowned. "...That was mine."
"It was?"
"You watched me pick it."
"Huh."
Before you could say anything else, he reached over and moved your coffee beside it.
"...Chan."
"What?"
"Those are my groceries."
He didn't even try to look innocent, "I know."
You narrowed your eyes. "You're trying to pay for them."
"I might be."
A laugh escaped you as you immediately slid both items back across the divider, "you are absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because they're mine."
"They're groceries."
"They're my groceries."
Resting his forearms on the cart handle, he smiled in that infuriatingly calm way that told you he'd already decided this conversation was entertaining, "I invited you."
"...To the grocery store."
"I still invited you."
"You don't buy someone groceries because you invited them to buy groceries."
"I don't see why not."
"I do."
The cashier glanced between the two of you, her expression already giving away that she'd decided this was the highlight of her shift.
Chan reached for his wallet anyway.
You caught his wrist before he could, "no."
He looked down at your hand before meeting your eyes again. "What?"
"I cook for you and Jia because I want to."
"I know."
"So you're not paying me back through produce."
He laughed. "I'm not paying you back."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Saying thank you."
"You can say thank you for free."
"...It's less convincing."
The cashier let out a quiet laugh before clearing her throat, "your total," she said, nodding toward your side of the divider, "is fifty-eight forty-three."
Chan looked almost offended, "....See?"
You blinked. "What?"
"It wasn't even close to a hundred."
You stared at him for a second before shaking your head, "that is the part you took away from this?"
"I feel vindicated."
Laughing, you handed your card to the cashier, "you are unbelievable."
A grin spread across his face, "so I've been told."
--
By the time the groceries were loaded into the back of the car, the afternoon sun had shifted just enough to stretch long shadows across the parking lot.
Chan started the engine, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel as he pulled out onto the main road. The radio hummed low beneath passing traffic, filling in the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be fixed.
You rested your elbow against the window, watching neighborhoods blur past before glancing over at him.
“What was Jia like when she was little?”
He smiled faintly, eyes still on the road. “She’s still little.”
“You know what I mean.”
A small exhale through his nose, like he’d already accepted the correction. “I know.” There was a pause as he thought back, “…She was fearless.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“It should,” he said, finally glancing over with a grin.
That pulled a laugh out of you.
“She climbed everything,” he continued, warming into the memory. “The couch, the bookshelves, kitchen chairs. I’d turn around for two seconds and she’d be somewhere she absolutely shouldn’t be.”
“Chan.”
“I’m serious.” His mouth curved. “One time I walked into the kitchen and she was standing on top of the table.”
You turned fully toward him. “How did she even get up there?”
“I still don’t know,” he admitted, laughing now. “She just….figured it out.”
“And what was she doing?”
“Getting bananas.”
The car filled with your laughter, “she climbed onto the table…” you repeated, incredulous.
“…because she wanted fruit,” he finished, like that explained everything. “I found her holding the bunch over her head like she’d just won something.”
“Oh my God.”
“I didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.”
“Both,” you decided immediately.
“Definitely both,” the memory softened him a little, the grin easing into something fond. “I used to think she didn’t understand gravity.”
“She still doesn’t.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “No… she just negotiates with it better now.”
The laughter settled gradually, the car slipping back into an easy quiet. A few minutes passed before your voice came again, softer this time.
“What about food?”
The shift was subtle, but it landed differently. You noticed it in the way his hand adjusted on the steering wheel before he spoke.
“When her mom left…” he began, voice quieter, “Jia had just turned two.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“I couldn’t cook,” he admitted after a moment.
“Not even a little?”
A small, sheepish smile. “I could ruin cereal.”
That earned a quiet laugh from you.
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you,” you said, still smiling.
“I lived off frozen dinners before she was born. After….that didn’t really work anymore.”
His eyes stayed on the road, but his voice shifted into memory, “so I started calling my mom. My sister too. Pretty much every night.”
“Every night?”
“Pretty much,” he said, amused at himself. “I’d just put them on speaker and stand in the kitchen like I had any idea what I was doing.”
You smiled. “That’s kind of sweet.”
“It was chaos,” he corrected immediately, but he was laughing. “I’d be like, ‘Okay… now what?’”
“And they’d tell you?”
“Yeah. ‘Dice the onion.’”
“Simple.”
“Except I didn’t know what ‘small’ meant.”
That made you laugh, “like… tiny? Medium? Is there a rule?”
He shook his head, smiling. “I asked that exact question.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
The two of you laughed again, softer this time, the kind that fades into something more comfortable. “I burned chicken three nights in a row once,” he added.
“Three?”
“I kept thinking I’d learned something from the night before.”
“And had you?”
“No,” he admitted, amused. A pause, then a small shrug. “But eventually… I got better.”
“What was the first thing you actually made right?”
His expression shifted slightly at that, “chicken noodle soup.”
“Why soup?”
“Jia got sick.”
The air in the car changed, not heavy, just quieter, “she wouldn’t eat anything,” he said. “I ended up sitting on the kitchen floor with her because she wouldn’t stay in her high chair.”
You watched him as he spoke, like you could almost see it, “she only ate maybe….three bites,” he said softly.
“And that was enough?”
“It felt like I’d won the lottery.”
Silence settled again, this one thoughtful rather than empty. After a while, he added, quieter still, “I figured if I was going to do this by myself….she deserved more than microwaved dinners.”
You looked at him for a long moment, “Chan.”
“Hm?”
“You’re a great dad.”
He smiled, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes this time. “I’ve mostly just been trying to stay one step ahead of her.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
A glance at you. “No?”
“I think you’ve spent the last four years building a life where she never has to wonder if someone’s coming home.”
That landed and stayed there. Chan didn’t respond right away. Just kept driving, fingers tapping once against the wheel like he was holding the words somewhere quieter than speech.
Then, after a beat, a small, genuine smile returned. “…Thanks.”
And this time, he didn’t try to say anything else.
He didn’t need to.
--
By the time Chan turned into the neighborhood, the conversation had already softened into something familiar.
Jia’s unwavering belief that broccoli was just “tiny trees.”
The phase where she had refused to wear matching socks for an entire week on principle alone.
The brief, intense period where she had announced she was a dinosaur and responded only to roaring.
It came in fragments between laughter, the kind that filled space without needing to push anything out of it.
Eventually, the house came into view. Then the driveway.
And when Chan pulled in, the two of you both seemed to notice it at the same time. The grocery bags in the backseat. Still sitting there. Still very much not sorted.
A pause settled over the car.
“…Right,” you said slowly. “We’re going to have to separate all of this.”
Chan followed your gaze like he’d only just remembered they existed. “…Yeah.”
Neither of you moved for a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t reluctance exactly. More like the quiet realization that the moment had finally caught up to you.
“…Do you remember what’s yours?” he asked.
You leaned slightly to see better, squinting at the jumble of bags. “I know the coffee is mine.”
“…I think.”
That made him turn his head toward you. “You were confident for a second there.”
“I was confident,” you defended lightly. “Until you made me think about it.”
A small laugh left him as he opened his door. “That’s dangerous.”
“So is this grocery strategy.”
That got a fuller exhale of amusement from him as he stepped around the car. You followed him to the trunk.
The air outside felt a little cooler, quieter without the movement of driving, like the world had paused just long enough for this to become its own small task.
Chan lifted the first bag and held it out slightly. “Okay. This one?”
You peered inside, then frowned. “I genuinely don’t know.”
“Helpful.”
“I’m trying.”
He handed it back into the trunk and picked up another. “This?”
You leaned in closer this time, taking your time. “Wait… I think those are your onions.”
A pause.
Chan blinked once. “I don’t buy onions.”
“You literally picked them up.”
“I would remember that.”
“You made me smell them.”
That did it. You both broke out into laughter at the same time. Your hand went to your face, shoulders shaking. “Oh my God.”
Chan bent slightly at the waist, laughing harder now, one hand braced on the edge of the trunk like he needed support to survive the memory.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he said through a laugh. “This feels like we’re dividing assets.”
“That’s exactly what it feels like,” you said, still laughing. “Custody agreement for groceries.”
He pointed at you without hesitation. “This is your influence.”
“My influence?”
“You kept saying ‘I'll use it’ about everything.”
You straightened, defensive but amused. “Because I will use it, whether its with you guys or by myself.”
That hung there a second longer than the joke deserved. The laughter didn’t stop, but it shifted, softer now, less chaotic. Chan looked at you over the open trunk, expression easing into something quieter. He picked up another bag, holding it for a moment before handing it over like he’d already accepted the answer.
“…Yeah,” he said gently. “We will.”
And somehow, that landed more than the joke ever did.
--
The house was quiet as you both stepped inside, the bags heavy in your hands. The familiar sounds; the soft rustle of plastic, the faint clink of bottles filled the space. You set your bags down on the counter while Chan moved to start unloading his own, a slow, practiced rhythm.
He looked up at you with a small, familiar smile. “Leave your bags for now,” he said softly. “We can take them over to yours when we get a chance.”
You nodded, knowing he was right. It was easier this way, him handling the division, the organization, the flow of the household. No need to worry about sorting everything immediately.
He moved with a quiet purpose, opening the fridge and freezer, carefully placing items where they belonged, his movements slow and deliberate, as if tending to something fragile.
"Here, just put them away while they're still in the bags, so you don't leave anything behind," he says glancing towards you. You watched him for a moment, feeling the steadiness in his movements, the familiar quiet confidence.
You watched him for a moment, feeling the steadiness in his movements, the familiar quiet confidence. It wasn’t just about groceries. It was about the rhythm of the home, the way things could be organized and cared for without words, a shared understanding that everything would find its place naturally in time.
“Thanks,” you said softly, reaching for the bags again. “It’s….nice having this kind of normal, even if it’s just for a little while.”
He smiled, a little tired but genuinely peaceful. “Yeah,” he replied. “It’s good. We’ll make it feel like home, one step at a time.”
Later, as the evening settled in, you found yourselves in the kitchen again, this time side by side, reheating leftovers in the microwave. The hum of the appliance blended with the faint, distant chatter from the living room, stories about the day, sprinkled with the occasional giggle.
The quiet rhythm of the house continued, unhurried; passing plates, brushing shoulders, sharing small, knowing smiles as you set the table together.
You exchanged a glance, a small, knowing smile passing between you, feeling the unspoken understanding that everything was okay, just as it was.
You both sat side by side at the kitchen table, the soft glow of the overhead light casting a warm, calming hue over everything. The gentle clatter of plates and silverware punctuating the quiet. Outside, the faint sounds of the evening drifted through the window; distant traffic, a birdcall or two, filling the space with a peaceful, familiar rhythm.
You reached for a glass, taking a sip before glancing at Chan. “Do you remember how she used to react to changes?” you asked softly.
Chan chuckled, a quiet laugh that carried a hint of nostalgia. “Yeah,” he said with a small shake of his head. “She’d get all anxious if her routine was even a little different. Like, when she’d go to bed start asking for her nightlight or Leebit a hundred times.”
You smiled, remembering those nights. “She still does that?” you questioned.
"Not so much now," he nodded thoughtfully. “She’s adaptable. Just needs a little time to process.....speaking of I want to make sure she’s okay, you know. Before we talk about anything new between you and I.”
You looked at him, your expression softening. “Yeah. I think that’s smart.”
He paused, glancing down at his plate, then back at you with a quiet resolve. “I just… I want to be careful. Not rush her or make her feel overwhelmed. I want to tell her first, in a way she can understand, simple, gentle. No big surprises. Just us, taking it slow.”
You reached across the table, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “That’s the right way. She’ll trust us more if she knows she’s safe.”
The gentle hum of the house wrapped around you both, quiet but steady, an unspoken promise that patience and love would guide you through. No matter how long it took, everything would fall into place when the time was right.
You looked down at your plate, then back up at him, feeling the quiet strength in his words. “We’ll get through this,” you said softly. “One step at a time.”
He nodded, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. “Yeah. One step at a time.”
And in that peaceful moment, with the evening settling around you, you both knew that love wasn’t about rushing or pushing, it was about patience, trust, and quietly building something steady and real, day by day.
𐙚
The soft hum of the house continued around you, but at the table, everything seemed to slow down. The gentle flicker of the candlelight cast warm shadows across your faces, and for a moment, the world outside faded away.
You sat close, your shoulders just barely brushing, the quiet comfort of each other’s presence wrapping around you like a shared secret. You reached for your glass, but you hesitated as your arm brushed against his. He looked up at you, eyes dark and steady, a quiet understanding passing between you. The air grew thick with unspoken longing, a slow-burning tension that didn’t need words.
He shifted slightly, closing the space just a little more, his gaze dropping to your lips. You felt your heartbeat quicken, the anticipation building gently.
Without a word, he leaned in, a small, deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand reached out, resting softly on your thigh, warm and grounding.
Your breath hitched as he brushed a tender kiss along the corner of your mouth, then along your jaw, slow and deliberate, as if savoring each moment. His lips lingered there, sending a shiver through you, and you instinctively leaned into him, closing the gap.
The slow, steady press of his lips against your skin sent a ripple of heat through your body. You felt the faint brush of his fingers, the subtle pressure of his hand, grounding you in the moment. Your eyes fluttered shut for a brief second before opening again, meeting his gaze; soft, intense, full of promise.
The atmosphere shifted seamlessly, from calm and gentle to something more electric, yet still tender. You could feel the unspoken desire simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to unfold fully. But for now, it was enough; this quiet, lingering closeness, the shared breath, the unhurried connection at the heart of it all.
In that silence, at the dinner table, love and longing intertwined, simple and profound. And you knew, without saying a word, that this moment was just the beginning of something deeper, something waiting patiently just beneath the surface.
masterlist | next
a/n: ovulating (੭ ˊ^ˋ)੭ ♡ but originally, I wanted to do the whole weekend in this chapter, but I now have different plans. also for the love of GOD if you are a minor and interacting with this, don’t let me find out. You will get blocked.
summary — The plan was flawless: slip into a high-end Manhattan rooftop party as "Lola," charm the leader of Stray Kids, spike his drink, and vanish with the haul. But Chris doesn't go down easy. When the sedative fails to pull him under, a high-stakes duel of dominance explodes behind closed doors-leaving a trail of stolen platinum, a phantom ache, and a fiercely obsessed popstar determined to hunt his beautiful thief down.
pairing — Idol! Chan x Agent! Reader (Cipher)
genre — spy/thief au, crime/action romance, smut, dual pov, first part of a series maybe?
cw/tags — smut, rough sex, slight choking/neck holding, hair pulling, marking/biting, different positions, dirty talk?, drug use (spiked drink/ sedative), Alcohol, theft & crime elements.
word count — 2.2k words
A/n — this is the major series debut maybe?? If you guys want a part two please tell and tell you thought about this story!!! ALSO heavily inspired by the song "Livin' La Vida Loca" by Ricky Martin the specific part "Woke up in New York City, In a funky cheap hotel, She took my heart and she took my money, she must've slipped me a sleepin' pill" funny story I kept getting this idea while playing this song on JustDance 😭😭😭 I hope you guys enjoy it!!! (NOT READ PROOF YET)
The rooftop in Manhattan is a glass-and-steel jewel box floating above the electric spill of the city. Private party. The kind where the champagne costs more than most people's rent and the laughter is a currency all its own. You’re there as Lola tonight. Hair a cascade of ink-black waves, lips the color of a fresh wound, a dress of red silk that moves like liquid sin. You hold your martini—three olives, always—not like a drink, but like a weapon you're deciding whether to use.
He’s across the terrace, holding court but not really listening. Bang Chan—Chris to the inner circle—leader of Stray Kids, here for a magazine shoot and some industry mingling he’d rather avoid. He’s in a simple black suit, but it can't hide the leashed energy, the sharp intelligence in his eyes as they scan the room. They land on you. And stop.
You feel it—the weight of a gaze that’s more than casual appreciation. You’re used to being looked at. You are, after all, the trap. But this… this feels like being seen. You give him the ghost of a smile, the one that says come here, I dare you.
He does.
“You look like you’re plotting a murder,” he says by way of hello, his voice a low, warm rumble that cuts through the cocktail jazz. His English is flawless, edged with that melodic Australian accent.
“Or a masterpiece,” you counter, taking a slow sip, your eyes never leaving his. “The line is famously thin.”
He laughs, a genuine, surprised sound. He gets you a drink without asking what you want—a bourbon, neat—and hands it to you. “Try this. It’s got more of a heartbeat.”
You take it. Your fingers brush. The contact is a static shock. Professional detachment, you remind yourself. He’s a target. A rich, famous, beautifully packaged target.
The flirtation is a duel. He’s quick, clever, disarming. He doesn’t just parrot lines; he listens. He asks about the book you’re pretending to have read, calls you out on a detail you fudge. It’s exhilarating. Dangerous. For a moment, you forget the tiny, odorless vial tucked against your thigh.
He leans in, the scent of him—sandalwood and something inherently good—washing over you. “You’re not like anyone here,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“And what are they like?” you purr.
“Predictable.” His eyes hold yours. “You’re a mystery wrapped in a red dress.”
The plan is simple. Get him alone. Spike his drink when he looks away. Your team—Emma on comms, Victor and Liam as shadows in the service corridor, Halle as your getaway driver in a nondescript van three blocks away, Ethan already scrubbing the building's external feeds—is in position. The moment arrives. He turns to flag down a waiter. It takes less than a second. The clear liquid disappears into his bourbon.
You suggested going somewhere quiet and he took you to his private suite
The secluded room was as a velvet-draped cocoon, the city's glitter a silent panorama beyond the glass. The drug was in his system. You’d watched it disappear into the amber depths of his bourbon. You were counting the slow, silent beats in your head.
Sixty. He should be feeling a heaviness behind his eyes. Ninety. A slight slur, a blink that lasts too long.
But Chris just set his glass down on the low table with a definitive click. His eyes, dark and clear, found yours. There was no haze in them. Only a focused, burning intensity that stripped away every layer of your “Lola” persona and saw straight down to the frantic pulse beneath.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel through the plush sofa and into your bones.
“And what am I thinking?” you breathed, your professional smile feeling brittle.
“That this is a game,” he said, closing the small distance between them. “And you’re not sure who’s winning.”
Before you could summon a retort, his hand was cradling the back of your neck, his touch both firm and impossibly gentle. He didn’t ask. He took.
His mouth crashed into yours.
It wasn’t the tentative kiss of a new attraction. It was a claim. A hot, searching, open-mouthed kiss that stole the air from your lungs and the plan from your mind. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of expensive bourbon and a heat that was purely, dangerously him. You gasped into the kiss, and he swallowed the sound, his other arm banding around your waist to haul you flush against him.
Every alarm in your trained mind was blaring. Abort. Disengage. This is a critical deviation. But your body—your traitorous, alive, starved body—arched into the solid wall of his chest. Your hands, meant to push him away, fisted in the fine wool of his suit jacket, holding on.
He broke the kiss, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gusts against your lips. “You taste like a lie,” he whispered, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse in your throat. “And I want to drink the whole bottle.”
The metaphor, the raw poetry of it, cracked something open inside you. This wasn’t some mark drowning in his own ego. This was a man who saw in layers, who felt in colors. And he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating mystery he’d ever encountered.
Pivot. Adapt. The objective is still the same. Overwhelm. Distract. Take control.
You let the calculated seductress fall away, replaced by something hungrier, more real. You kissed him back with a fury that matched his own, biting his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth until he groaned. You pushed him back, and he let you, falling onto the deep cushions of the sofa, his eyes wide with surprise and blazing desire.
You straddled his lap, the red silk of your dress riding high on your thighs. You framed his face with your hands, forcing his gaze to hold yours. “You talk too much,” you breathed, before descending on his mouth again.
This time, you led. Your kiss was all teeth and tongue and desperate, slick heat. You poured every ounce of your conflicted energy into it—the fear, the adrenaline, the shocking, unwanted thrill. He met you thrust for thrust, his hands sliding up your thighs, gripping the bare skin above your stockings, his fingers digging in with a possessiveness that made your core clench.
He stood up suddenly, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He carried you like that, through a door you hadn’t noticed, into a lavish bedroom suite. He didn’t make it to the bed. He pinned you against the nearest wall, the cool wallpaper a shock against your back.
He growled into the skin of your neck, his mouth leaving a trail of burning kisses.
His hands finding the hidden zipper of your dress. He yanked it down in one smooth, ruthless motion. The red silk pooled at your feet like spilled blood. He looked at you, standing there in just your lace bra, panties, and stockings, and the raw hunger in his eyes was almost feral. “You’re a storm. A beautiful, fucking dangerous storm.”
He stripped his own jacket and shirt off, revealing the taut, sculpted planes of his torso, the muscles you’d only seen in photos and videos now a living map under your fingertips. You pushed him backward onto the king-sized bed. He fell, pulling you down on top of him.
What followed was not love-making. It was a collision.
There was no gentle undressing. Clothes were torn at, pushed aside. His mouth was everywhere—sucking a dark mark onto the swell of your breast, laving your nipple through the lace until you cried out, biting the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You retaliated, scraping your nails down his back, leaving red trails, sinking your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, tasting salt and skin.
When he finally, mercifully, pushed your panties down your legs and thrust into you, it was with a single, deep, conquering stroke that punched the air from your lungs. You were wet—shamefully, betrayally wet—but he was big, stretching you, filling you in a way that felt less like sex and more like a brand.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural.
You forced your eyes open. His face was above yours, strained with pleasure, his gaze locked on yours with an intimacy that was more invasive than his body inside you. He moved, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm that had the headboard slamming against the wall in a steady, obscene beat.
There was no tenderness. It was a furious, glorious fight for dominance. You rolled him over, riding him with a desperate intensity, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing. He gripped your hips, guiding you, slamming you down onto him, his eyes devouring the sight.
“You’re perfect,” he choked out, his hands sliding up to squeeze your breasts, his thumbs rubbing your nipples. “Fucking perfect. Like this—taking what you want.”
The words, the filthy, praising truth of them, coiled the tension in your belly tighter. You were close, teetering on an edge made sharper by the knowledge that this was wrong, that you were betraying every rule, that you were feeling.
He seemed to sense it. He flipped you again, onto your hands and knees. He entered you from behind, one hand tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your back, the other wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, possessing. The new angle was devastating, each thrust hitting a spot that made you see stars.
“Come on, Lola,” he snarled, his pace becoming brutal, animalistic. “Let me feel it. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
The permission shattered you. Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and silent, a seismic wave that locked your muscles and tore a soundless scream from your throat. You clenched around him, pulsing wildly.
With a ragged shout, he followed, his own release pumping into you, hot and deep, as he collapsed over your back, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his body trembling.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of harsh breathing and the distant hum of the city. The drug, delayed or fought off by his sheer will and adrenaline, finally began to pull him under. You felt his weight grow heavier, his breathing deepen and slow into the rhythms of unconsciousness.
You carefully extracted yourself from under him. He murmured something unintelligible, his hand fluttering as if to reach for you, before falling still.
You stood naked by the bed, looking down at him. In sleep, the intensity was gone. He looked young, vulnerable. A faint bruise was already forming on his shoulder from your bite. Your chest ached with a hollow, terrifying pang.
Then your comm buzzed. Emma’s voice, a lifeline to reality. “Lola, extract. Now. Heat on the perimeter.”
You moved.
Like a ghost, you dressed in the practical black clothes from your go-bag that Ethan hid earlier in the vents. You wiped down every surface with a chemical cloth. You collected the red silk dress, the stockings, every strand of your dark hair from the sink. You took his wallet, sliding out the thick stack of bills and the platinum cards. You lifted the heavy, exquisite watch from his nightstand, the metal still warm from his skin. You found his passport in the inside pocket of his discarded suit jacket.
You paused, your fingers on the small, worn photo tucked behind a credit card—a picture of him with his members, all laughing, younger. You left it.
With one last, unreadable look at the man sleeping in the tangled sheets, you slipped out the service entrance. You were a shadow dissolving into the pre-dawn grey of New York.
Behind you, in the silent suite, Chris slept on, a phantom’s kiss on his lips and a void where his world used to be.
The silence after the door clicks shut is the loudest sound you've ever heard.
You stand in the sterile, beige hallway of the hotel's service level, your back pressed against the cool metal of the door you just exited. The only light comes from a flickering fluorescent tube overhead, casting long, nervous shadows. In your hands, you clutch a small, nondescript black duffel. Inside: a fortune in platinum, a passport that isn't yours, and a watch that weighs more than your conscience.
Your heart isn't hammering. That's the first wrong thing.
It's a slow, thick, sickening thud against your ribs, like a funeral drum. Your palms are dry. Your breath is even. The professional calm is a shell, holding back a torrent of something hot and shameful and terrifyingly close to grief.
Move, Cipher.
Emma’s voice in your earpiece is a crackle of static, impatient. “Status? We’re at extraction point Delta. Ethan reports all feeds are on a clean loop. You have a ninety-second window before a security sweep.
“Copy,” you whisper, the word tasting like ash. “En route.”
Your legs carry you forward on autopilot, down the back stairwell, your soft-soled shoes making no sound. The motions are perfected, a deadly ballet you've performed across a dozen cities. But tonight, the choreography feels off. Your body is moving, but some essential part of you is still back in that suite, tangled in the sheets, tangled in him.
You see it all again, not as the operative, but as the woman.
The shock in his clear, dark eyes when he didn't succumb to the drug. Not confusion, but a sharp, intelligent reassessment. He’d looked at you then like you were a puzzle he was delighted to solve. The feel of his mouth on yours—not the calculated, dominant kiss you’d expected from a mark, but something hungry and generous and real. It had disarmed you completely. In that moment, ‘Lola’ had shattered, and ‘Y/N’, the ghost you keep locked away, had gasped for air.
The sex hadn’t been part of the plan. It had been a catastrophic, beautiful detonation.
You’d used every skill, every trick, every whispered lie to overwhelm him, to regain control of a situation spinning into the void. But somewhere between the bite of your teeth on his shoulder and the way he’d chanted your fake name like a prayer into your skin, the performance had bled into something perilously authentic. You’d felt your own carefully constructed walls crumbling. You’d wanted. Not the score, not the victory, but him. The solid warmth of him under your hands, the raw sound of his pleasure, the way he looked at you—even in the furious, physical dark—like you were a revelation.
And then, the aftermath.
Him collapsing into a deep, drugged sleep, finally. The peaceful slackness of his face. The way his hand had twitched, seeking you in the emptiness. You’d stood there, naked and shivering in the air-conditioned chill, and you’d hesitated.
For the first time in your professional life, you’d looked at a mark and seen a person. A good person. A person who wrote music that moved millions, who led his team with a fierce, protective love, who kissed like he was trying to memorize the shape of your soul.
You’d touched the side of his face. Just once. A brush of your fingertips against his jaw. A goodbye you had no right to give.
Then the cold logic had reasserted itself, a survival instinct as deep as marrow. He’s a target. He’s the job. Sentiment is a flaw. Flaws get you killed. Remember Prague.
The memory is a blade—a different face, a different promise, a different alley filled with the coppery smell of your own blood. Trust is a luxury people like you can’t afford. Love is a death sentence.
Now, you slip out a side door into the damp, pre-dawn alley. The van is idling, a silent, dark shape. The side door slides open. Halle is at the wheel, her face a mask of focused calm. Victor pulls you inside, his grip firm.
“Clean?” Liam asks, his eyes scanning the alley.
“Clean,” you confirm, your voice hollow.
Emma looks at you from the passenger seat, her gaze sharp, analytical. She takes the duffel, unzips it, and lets out a low whistle at the gleam of the watch. “The Patek. Nice work, Cipher.” Her eyes flick back to your face. “Biometrics spiked for a long time. Encounter ran hot.”
You meet her gaze, letting the professional ice settle back into your veins. “He was resistant. Required prolonged physical persuasion to ensure full incapacitation. Protocol was maintained.”
You sound convincing. You sound like the flawless weapon your agency forged.
Emma holds your stare for a beat too long, then nods, turning to stow the bag. “Next briefing is in Paris. Get some rest.”
You sink onto the bench seat as the van pulls away, melting into the waking city. You don't look back at the hotel shrinking in the rearview mirror.
But you feel him.
Not as a mark, not as a score. But as a phantom limb. An echo in your nerves where his hands had been. A taste on your tongue that isn't olives or bourbon, but something uniquely, devastatingly Chris.
You stole his watch, his money, his identity. He, in a few brutal, beautiful hours, stole something far more precious from you.
Your numbness.
And as the first grey light of New York City breaks over the skyline, a single, traitorous thought carves itself into the cold stone of your heart:
I hope he finds me.
CHRIS'S POV
The first sensation is a headache. Not a gentle throb, but a deep, punishing pound behind my eyes, as if someone replaced my brain with a dying star. The second is a profound, bone-deep warmth, a physical satisfaction so complete it feels like a memory. The third… is the silence.
My eyes snap open.
The ceiling is unfamiliar. Vaguely ornate. Hotel. The Pierre. Right. The rooftop party.
Lola.
The thought is a lightning strike, vivid and immediate. The taste of her—martini-olives and something darker, sweeter. The feel of red silk under my hands. The sound of her gasp when I kissed her. The searing, desperate look in her eyes, like she was fighting a war inside herself. The way she moved on top of me, a perfect, furious contradiction of control and surrender.
I stretch an arm across the bed, expecting to find warm skin, tangled hair.
My hand hits cold, empty linen.
I sit up too fast. The room spins. Fuck. The bourbon. I don’t usually get hangovers like this. This feels… chemical. Wrong.
The other side of the bed is pristine, untouched. As if no one ever slept there. As if it was all a dream.
But it wasn’t. The ache in my muscles, the faint, pleasant sting on my back from her nails, the distinct, hollow feeling of release… that was real. The memory of her is branded into my senses.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the plush carpet. My gaze sweeps the room. My suit jacket is draped over a chair. My shirt is on the floor. My pants… somewhere.
My wrist feels light. Instinctively, I look at the bedside table. My watch is gone.
The Patek. The one my dad helped me pick out after our first major tour. The one I rarely take off.
A cold trickle, entirely separate from the headache, starts down my spine.
I stand, stumbling slightly, and go to the chair. My wallet is on the seat. I pick it up. It’s light. Too light. I flip it open.
Empty. All the cash. Every single credit card. Gone.
My passport. Where’s my fucking passport?
A frantic search of the room—under the bed, in the bathroom, the closet—yields nothing. Just my clothes, scattered like evidence. And no trace of her. No forgotten earring, no lipstick stain on a glass, no lingering scent on the pillow. It’s as if a professional cleaning crew came through and removed every atom of her existence.
She stole from me.
The realization is a cold fist in my gut, followed immediately by a surge of white-hot anger. She played me. The whole thing—the magnetic pull, the sharp conversation, the way she looked at me like I was the only person in the universe—it was an act. A fucking performance to get me alone and… rob me blind.
I should feel violated. Enraged. Humiliated.
And I am. God, I am so pissed. My hands are shaking.
But underneath the fury, thrumming like a live wire, is something else. Something infinitely more dangerous. Fascination.
Because who the hell is she? She didn’t just take a drunk guy’s wallet. She targeted me. She got past security, into a private party, and chose me. She withstood a conversation that would have sent most people scrambling. She kissed me back with a fire that felt terrifyingly genuine. And then she vanished into thin air, leaving no digital fingerprint, no physical evidence. Nothing.
That’s not a grift. That’s an operation. That’s art.
And she’s the most breathtaking artist I’ve ever met.
“Lola,” I whisper to the empty room. The name feels fake on my tongue now. A costume. But the woman inside it… she was real. I felt her. In the moments when her guard was down, when she was biting my shoulder, when she came apart around me… that was real. I’d stake my life on it.
The anger and the fascination twist together into a single, potent, obsessive knot. I need to find her. Not to get my stuff back. I can replace the watch, the cards, the passport is a headache but manageable. I need to find her to look her in the eye and ask why. And to see if that fire in her eyes ignites again when she sees me.
I call the front desk, my voice deceptively calm. “I need to report a theft from my suite. No, I don’t want to involve the NYPD yet. I need to speak with your head of security directly. Now.”
The chaos that descends is both professional and deeply, darkly amusing.
The hotel security chief is a grim-faced man in his fifties. He’s apologetic, then confused, then utterly baffled.
“Mr. Bahng, we’ve reviewed all footage from the lobby, the elevators, the service entrances, and the perimeter cameras for the relevant time window.”
“And?”
“There is no footage of a woman matching the description you provided entering or leaving the hotel with you, or at all last night. The guest list for the rooftop party has been cross-referenced. No ‘Lola’ is registered. The credit card you used to open your tab was swiped by you alone.” He shifts, uncomfortable. “Are you… certain you weren’t alone?”
The implication is clear. They think I’m a famous idiot who got blackout drunk, lost his shit, and is now concocting a story to cover it.
My anger simmers, but I keep it leashed. “I’m certain.
Back at the company-rented penthouse, the storm hits properly.
Our manager, Mr. Kim, looks like he’s about to faint. “Your passport? Chan, do you have any idea the paperwork, the embassy visits, the potential visa issues for the upcoming schedules? And a watch worth more than this suite? And you say a woman did this? What woman? There is no woman on any camera!”
The PR team is huddled in a corner, speaking in frantic, hushed Korean. “We can spin a pickpocket story… but no evidence? It makes us look careless or… or like we’re lying. Was it a fan? A stalker? Should we increase security?”
Through the pandemonium, my members filter in, drawn by the noise.
Jeongin pokes his head in, eyes wide. “Hyung, what’s going on? The staff are running around like ants.”
Before I can answer, Changbin lets out a low whistle, picking up the incident report from the table. “Stolen passport, credit cards, and the Patek? Damn, hyung. You got hit by a pro.”
It’s Hyunjin who zeroes in on the heart of it, his artist’s perception razor-sharp. “A woman? The one in the red dress from the rooftop? The one who looked like she’d murder you for fun and kiss you after?”
All eyes turn to me. I just nod, running a hand through my tangled hair.
Felix bursts out laughing, a bright, surprised sound in the tense room. “No way! That goddess? She robbed you? I mean… respect. That’s a power move.”
Jisung is grinning, shaking his head. “I told you she was out of your league, hyung. I didn’t mean she was in a different league of international theft.”
Seungmin pushes his glasses up. “Statistically, it’s far more likely you were targeted specifically. The lack of footage suggests sophisticated planning and possibly insider knowledge or tech interference. She wasn’t an opportunity thief. You were the objective.”
Leave it to Seungmin to analyze my romantic—or criminal—disaster like a news case.
Lee Know just smirks, leaning against the doorway. “So, how was it?”
The room goes quiet. The staff look horrified. My members lean in.
I look at the wall, but I’m seeing her. The flash of her eyes in the dim lounge. The feel of her silk dress giving way. The desperate, perfect sync of our bodies. The hollow ache she left behind.
“It was the best night of my life,” I say, the words quiet, raw, and completely honest.
The silence deepens, then breaks into a chorus of groans, laughter, and disbelieving head-shakes from the members.
Mr. Kim just puts his head in his hands. “He’s in love with the woman who robbed him. Wonderful. This is a PR narrative from hell.”
But he’s wrong. It’s not a narrative. It’s a compulsion.
As the chaos swirls around me—the frantic calls to banks and embassies, the security debates, the members’ teasing that’s laced with genuine concern—I feel eerily calm at the center.
Lola. Ghost. Thief. Artist.
You took my watch, my money, my documents. You left me with a headache, a mystery, and a heart that’s beating a frantic, obsessed rhythm I don’t recognize.
This isn’t over.
I’m going to find you.
And when I do, you’re going to give me a hell of a lot more than just dinner.
Warnings: light smut, alcohol use, drunk sex, unprotected sex (wrap up guys)
summary: You decided to let chan throw the dumb “welcome to Korea” party but you didn’t expect to wake up in one of the members bed, and you definitely didn’t expect for someone to find out
pairing: stray kids x reader (seungmin x reader in this chapter)
word count: 3.2k
It’s two days after the bowling night. Two days of awkward glances, Felix hovering but never daring to touch you, Chan watching everyone like a hawk, repeating his rule like a prayer: she’s off limits. Tonight, though, tonight is different. The dorm is alive, music thumping so loud the walls shake, bottles litter every surface, and for the first time since you landed, Chan relaxes. “Y/N!! come here!,” he yells over the noise, pressing a cold soju bottle into your hand, dimples deep. “Tonight you don’t have to be the best friend from Australia. You just get to be you.”
You take a sip. Then another. Then another.
It feels good. Free. For months you’ve only been Chan’s girl, the girl from the stories, the forbidden one. Tonight the alcohol burns warm down your throat, blurs the edges, makes every touch feel lighter, every look feel heavier. You laugh too loud, lean too close, let the boys spin you round until the room spins. Chan is dragged off by Changbin and Jisung halfway through the night, yelling something about a drinking game, and before you can look for him, Felix is there, glued to your side like always, freckles glowing, hand hovering near your waist but never landing, too scared to break the rule. “You okay?” he asks, voice soft, eyes full of that same desperate adoration. “Don’t drink too much, yeah? I’ll look after you.”
You smile, fuzzy, warm, already too far gone to feel guilty about anything. “I’m perfect, Lix. Don’t worry about me.”
And then, someone calls his name. Hyunjin yells from the kitchen, waving him over, and before he can argue Minho appears, claps him hard on the shoulder, and physically steers him away. “She’s fine,” Minho says, glancing straight at you, one eyebrow raised like he already knows exactly how this night ends. “Go on. We’ll keep an eye.”
Felix looks back once. Twice. Then he’s gone.
And suddenly, you are alone in the middle of the crowded room.
You turn. Leant against the dark hallway wall, away from the noise, drink in one hand, the other stuffed deep in his jeans pocket… is Kim Seungmin.
You barely know him. Since you arrived he’s been the quiet one: polite, dry little smirks, answers in one word, hangs back, never draws attention to himself. Chan always said “Seungmin’s the good one, sensible, stays out of trouble, never causes drama”. You bought it. Everyone buys it. He looks like an angel, soft dark hair, big innocent eyes, pretty mouth that barely smiles. But right now? Right now he isn’t looking at you like the good boy.
He pushes off the wall and walks slow towards you. He’s had a few, you can tell by the flush high on his cheekbones, the way his eyes are darker, heavier, half‑lidded. He stops so close you smell alcohol and mint and him, and for the first time he doesn’t look shy. He looks hungry.
“You are absolutely wasted, aren’t you?” he says, voice lower, rougher than you’ve ever heard it, no politeness left at all. He tilts his head, eyes dragging slow from your face right down your body and back up, and you shiver so hard you almost drop your glass. “Chan’s gonna kill someone if he sees you like this. All pretty… and no one watching.”
Your heart slams. “I’m fine. Felix was just-“
“Felix is gone,” Seungmin cuts in, stepping closer still, until his chest almost brushes yours. He leans down, mouth right next to your ear, breath hot and dangerous, and whispers something that makes your knees turn to water
“And we both know… he’s never gonna be brave enough to do what I’m about to.”
“And what exactly are you about to do, Seungmin?” you breathe, voice barely there, head swimming.
He smirks. That tiny, wicked smirk you saw once at dinner, the one that said I know more than I let on. He takes your glass from your fingers, puts it down on a side table without breaking eye contact once, then rests both hands light on your waist, firm, claiming, nothing gentle about it. The music thumps around you; people laugh and shout five feet away but it feels like you are the only two people in the whole world.
“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want,” he murmurs, fingers pressing just a little harder into your skin, dragging you flush against him. “But I’ve been watching you since you walked through that door three days ago. I’ve heard Chan say it a hundred times, off limits, don’t touch, she’s mine. And honestly?” He laughs, low, dark, nothing like his usual laugh. “Rules were always made to be broken. Don’t you think?”
You should say no. You should push him away, find Chan, go to bed, be the good best friend. But the alcohol has melted every single filter you own. You look up at him, at the boy everyone thinks is harmless, and you realise: he is the most dangerous one of all. Because no one suspects him. No one would ever believe sweet quiet Seungmin would be the first one to touch you.
You wind your arms round his neck. His breath catches.
“Show me then,” you whisper. “If you’re so brave.”
That’s all it takes.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
He doesn’t kiss you there. Too many people. Too many eyes, especially Chan’s. Seungmin may be reckless but he’s not stupid. He laces his fingers tight through yours, keeps his head down, and pulls you fast and quiet through the bodies, out the main door, down the hall, away from the noise, away from the party, away from all of them.
“Where are we going?” you giggle, stumbling a little, leaning all your weight on him, and he catches you easy, strong arm round your waist holding you up.
“Somewhere no one will find us,” he says flatly, and then he’s guiding you out the back entrance, into the cool night air, and round the side of the building to the quiet dorm entrance only they use. “Everyone’s staying at the main party for hours. Chan’s already three sheets to the wind, he won’t even notice you’re gone till morning. Felix is too busy moping to look. Minho knows… and he won’t say a word. He never does.”
You don’t even question how he knows all this. You just let him lead you up the stairs, key in the lock, door clicking shut behind you, silence. Total silence. Just you. And him. And the knowledge that what you are about to do will ruin everything.
And neither of you cares. Not even a little bit.
The second that lock turns, the good boy dies completely.
Seungmin shoves you back soft but firm against the closed door, one hand flat above your head, the other gripping your jaw tight enough to hold you still, and he kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. No shyness. No hesitation. Pure, filthy, desperate need. His mouth is hot, demanding, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing every little noise you make, and you realise very fast, Seungmin does not do soft. He takes. Exactly what he wants.
“God,” he groans against your lips, already moving down your neck, biting and sucking marks he knows you’ll have to hide tomorrow, hands roaming everywhere at once, greedy. “You have no fucking idea how many times I’ve imagined this. Chan going on and on about you, my best friend, don’t touch, every single time I just thought… watch me.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, hair messy, lips swollen, eyes black with want.
“You gonna let me ruin you tonight,” he murmurs.
You’re so drunk, so turned on, so far past caring you can only nod, fast, desperate, and pull him back to you. “Yes. God..yes, Seungmin, please.”
“Good,” he whispers.
He walks you backwards slow through the dark dorm, never once breaking the kiss, until your legs hit the edge of his bed and you fall back into the soft sheets. He follows you down, body heavy and warm between your thighs, clothes coming off fast, discarded on the floor in a messy pile, and every touch is electric. He is nothing like you imagined: rough when he wants to be, precise, knows exactly how to make you shake, whispers the filthiest things right against your skin that you would never in a million years have thought came out of his mouth.
“So pretty… all mine tonight… Chan can make all the rules he wants… right now you belong to me…”
It’s messy. It’s drunk. It’s fast and slow and perfect and so, so wrong. Every time you remember who you are, Chan’s best friend, OFF LIMITS, it just makes it hotter. The danger. The secret. The fact that if anyone walked through that door right now your whole world would shatter.
And Seungmin loves it. He loves that it’s wrong. He loves that he’s the one doing it. He holds your wrists down above your head with one hand, uses the other to make you fall apart over and over, and when he finally pushes inside you it’s everything, sharp and deep and blinding, and you have to muffle your scream into his shoulder because the walls are thin, and people are still in the building.
“That’s it,” he growls, pace hard and steady, face buried in your neck, voice wrecked. “Take it. Take every single bit. Let them hear if they want. Let him hear. Let him know someone finally stopped listening.”
For hours it’s just skin and heat and pleasure and no thoughts at all, no Chan, no rules, no Felix, no consequences. Just Seungmin. Only him.
When it’s over you’re both sweaty, breathless, tangled in his sheets, bodies still buzzing. The alcohol is starting to wear off just a little, enough that you feel the very first prickle of panic, but not enough to make you move. Seungmin lies on his back beside you, one arm thrown lazily behind his head, the other resting light on your bare hip, staring at the ceiling, already slipping back into that quiet blank face, like he didn’t just absolutely ruin you five minutes ago.
“You okay?” he asks, normal voice, like nothing happened.
You nod into the pillow. “Yeah. Yeah I’m… wow.”
He huffs a tiny laugh, that familiar dry one, and glances at you, eyes softening just a fraction. “Told you I wasn’t what everyone thinks.” He traces slow patterns on your skin. “This stays between us, yeah? Obviously. Chan would actually kill me. And… honestly? I don’t regret a single second. Do you?”
You think about it. You really do. And even with the cold dread creeping in… you don’t.
“No,” you whisper. “I don’t.”
“Good.” He leans over, presses one last soft, completely un‑Seungmin‑like kiss to your forehead. “Get some sleep. We’ll work out the rest tomorrow.”
You’re exhausted, drunk, worn out, brain completely empty, so you curl into his side, eyes already closing, and within seconds you are gone.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
You wake up confused. Head throbbing, mouth dry, sheets tangled round your naked body, sunlight already starting to creep through the curtains. For two seconds you have no clue where you are, then it all comes flooding back: the party. The drinks. Seungmin. Everything you did. Every single rule you shattered into a million pieces.
Your stomach drops so hard you think you’ll be sick.
Oh my god. Chan. CHAN.
You sit up fast, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart hammering so hard you can hear it in your ears. Seungmin is still asleep beside you, hair messy, one arm thrown over his face, completely unbothered. You look round the room, clothes everywhere, the evidence impossible to miss, and you want to cry. You came here to be close to your best friend. You promised yourself you’d never hurt him. And night one of freedom and you slept with the one person literally no one saw coming.
“Shit shit shit shit SHIT,” you breathe, scrambling out of bed, grabbing your things, shaking legs barely holding you up. You have to get out. You have to get back to your room, get changed, pretend NONE OF THIS EVER HAPPENED.
Seungmin stirs, blinks at you slow, smirks that wicked smirk again. “Leaving so soon? Scared someone’ll find out?”
“YES SEUNGMIN I AM SCARED,” you hiss, pulling your dress over your head, hands shaking. “Do you realise what we did? Chan will EXILE you. He’ll never speak to either of us again! Felix-”
You stop dead.
Felix.
The boy who confessed everything to you three nights ago. The boy who loves you. Who was told don’t touch her and obeyed. And you, you went and gave yourself to the quiet boy who didn’t even hesitate.
You feel sick.
You yank the door open — ready to sprint down the hall to your room and lock yourself away forever, and you freeze.
Right there. Back pressed to the wall opposite, knees pulled to his chest, head in his hands, FELIX.
He’s still in last night’s clothes. Hair a mess. Eyes swollen, red‑rimmed, completely shattered. He’s been there ALL NIGHT.
He lifts his head slowly when he hears the click. And the look on his face, pure, unfiltered agony, will haunt you for the rest of your life. He looks from your messy hair, your swollen lips, the marks Seungmin left all over your neck that you haven’t even seen yet… to the open door behind you… to Seungmin sitting up in bed, sheets low on his hips, completely unashamed.
And Felix, sweet, sunshine Felix, he doesn’t yell. He doesn’t scream. He just stares at you, voice cracking so thin you barely hear it
“You… you knew. You knew how I felt. Everyone knew. Chan told me..stay away, she’s off limits, and I DID. I respected it. I waited. And you… you just gave yourself to the first person who didn’t care?”
His voice breaks completely. Tears spill fast down his freckled cheeks.
“I stood here. For hours. I heard everything. Every single noise. Every time you said his name… you never wanted me.”
You can’t breathe. You can’t speak. There are NO WORDS. No apology big enough. No excuse. You stand there half‑dressed, exposed, guilty as sin, and you just cry, silent, hot tears running down your face, because he is right.
You did know. You did lead him on. You let him hope. And then you got drunk and you forgot all about him and you let Seungmin do exactly what Chan forbade.
Behind you, Seungmin sighs, swings his legs over the bed, pulls on his sweatpants, leans in the doorway completely calm. He looks at Felix, broken Felix, and he doesn’t even look sorry. He just tilts his head, that rebellious streak flaring again:
“Don’t act so surprised, Lix. You had months. You had every chance. You were too much of a coward to break the rule. I wasn’t.” He glances at you, sharp, final. “And she didn’t exactly say no, did she?”
Felix flinches like he’s been hit.
“Get out,” he whispers, to both of you, but his eyes never leave yours. “Just… get away from me. Please.”
You stumble past him, bare feet cold on the floor, whole body shaking, and you don’t stop running till you slam your own bedroom door shut and slide down the back of it, sobbing into your hands.
It’s over. Everything is ruined.
You broke Chan’s number one rule in the worst possible way.You destroyed Felix, the boy who loved you first, most, and honestly. You slept with Seungmin, and you still don’t even know who he really is. And worst of all… you would do it again.
You hear footsteps in the hall. Felix’s quiet broken sobs fading as he goes to his room and locks the door. Seungmin’s door clicking shut, calm, unbothered, like he didn’t just blow the whole dynamic of the dorm sky high. Somewhere down the hall Chan stirs, still drunk, still clueless, still thinking his best friend is safe and untouched and his.
You curl up on your floor and cry until you have nothing left. You thought moving here would fix everything. You thought you’d just be Chan’s best friend again.
You had no idea one night would turn your whole world upside down.
And you have a terrible, sinking feeling… this was only the FIRST mistake.
You finally drag yourself up, look in the mirror, and gasp.
Your neck. Your collarbones. Your shoulders. Covered. Purple, red, dark, Seungmin marked you everywhere. Claimed you. Left his signature all over your skin so that everyone will know exactly what you did, even if they don’t say it out loud. You scrub at them hard till your skin burns but they won’t fade. They’re there to stay.
A soft knock at your door makes you jump out of your skin.
You don’t answer. You already know who it is.
On the other side, Felix. Leaning his forehead against the wood, voice barely audible through the panels, broken and raw and angry all at once
“You had no right… you knew… you let me believe… and now I hate that I still want you even after you’ve ruined me.”
He walks away as you slide back down the door. you knew you needed to fix this… you had too.
A/N: i’m soo glad you guys liked the last chapter and i promise each chapter just gets more and more messy 🙏😭 i hope you enjoyed! (if your not already on the tag list and want to join, comment!!)
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Genre: established relationship, street interview, relationship reveal (?), fluff
Summary: You get stopped to do a street interview while you're in Italy with your boyfriend and decide "Why not?"
Except the question they ask isn't what you'd expect.
"So, what song were you humming just now?”
Normal question right? No biggie. But the song you were humming was an unreleased Stray Kids song written by your boyfriend Chan....
Oops?
Word Count: 1.6k
A/N: So this CONCEPTUALLY is a continuation of Bestie Knows Best (imo) but you don't specifically have to read that to understand this! Just know her and Chan are already dating <33
God Run It just REALLY got in my head. This fic was also partially inspired by @gingerayen 's TikTok Reveals Their Relationship series (a BANGER go read it if you havent)
Also this *may* lead to another part of this fic... it's an idea I've had for a while and I kinda set it up at the end to continue but hehe we shall see!
⁽ᵈᶦᵛᶦᵈᵉʳ ᵖᶦˣᵉˡ ᵃʳᵗ ᵇʸ ᵐᵉ⁾
(writing masterlist) | (Bestie Knows Best pt 1)
Before you and Chris had started dating, you’d never been to Italy. Now, you’d been four different times, which was still drastically more than zero.
Italy was stunning. From the rolling hills and vineyards, to the stunning architecture. You and Chris had played tourist a few times, and gone on a few date nights, too, between his photoshoots and other Fendi-related things.
When he could, he liked to slip you in to his Fendi photoshoots. Not in the pictures themselves, but he could normally get you into the set to at least watch the shoots happen. It was especially fun for you seeing how professional photography shoots went. You’d even gotten to talk to some of the photographers and make some friends.
And mayhaps you’d been invited to help as a photography assistant at the next fashion week event.
Today, though, Chris was busy with things you couldn't come to. Honestly, you weren't bothered by it. You didn't expect to trail behind him at every work thing he went to like a lost puppy, but he always felt bad when you came along and then had to be alone.
“Chris,” you told him as you ate breakfast in your hotel room, “truly I'm fine. I don't tag along on your trips because I expect you to be free the whole time.”
He huffed. “Yeah I know, I just…” The tips of his ears turned pink. “I want you there, too.”
You laughed softly, leaning over to give him a kiss. “You won't be gone all day, and don't act like you won't have fun still.”
He grumbled half-heartedly. “Well, what are you gonna do today?”
You shrugged. “The weather looks nice, so I think I'm gonna just do some window shopping.”
“Take my card at least, then,” Chris said, fishing out his wallet and handing it to you.
You sighed, knowing better than to fight him at this point. “And what if you need to buy something?”
He just shrugged. “I have another. Plus, Fendi usually has me covered.”
His car came to pick him up about 30 minutes later. You walked down to the lobby with him, lingering behind on the off chance someone was watching. That didn't stop Chris from giving you a soft kiss before he left.
Once his car pulled away, you decided to head off, too.
You didn't have any specific destination in mind. There was a cute cafe you'd seen the other day when you and Chris were out that you were hoping to stumble across again, but other than that, you had no plans.
You tried not to look too touristy, but you also couldn't help whipping out your camera from time to time.
There was just so much beauty in this city, it was hard to resist capturing it.
You did end up finding a cute boutique that you shopped around in for a while. You left with a nice new dress that you couldn't wait to show off to Chris.
With a bag on your arm, you meandered through the city happily. You sent Chris a picture of the bag with a winky face.
Contact name: Christopher 💜
Y/N: bought something cute <3
Christopher 💜: oh my gosh
Christopher 💜: well everything looks cute on you so
Y/N: says the man modelling for Fendi
Christopher 💜: exactly, so i know what i'm talking about ;)
Christopher 💜: i cant wait to see it love
You started humming absentmindedly as you walked. You always had a song in your head, and today was no exception.
This song, in particular, had been regularly popping up since Chris had you listen to it a few days ago.
“Excuse me.”
You blinked, glancing to your left and noticing a man standing there with a mic. Another person was next to him holding up there phone.
He smiled at you. “We're doing street interviews about music. Are you down to participate?”
Why not, huh?
“Sure,” you agreed, stopping to face him.
He beamed. “Great! So, what song were you humming just now?”
You blinked, starting to replay the song in your head as you tried to remember the name of it. You hummed some for a moment before your eyes went wide and you cut it off.
“Um,” you laughed sheepishly, “okay, actually I can't legally tell you that.”
His eyes widened and he laughed incredulously. “You can't legally share it? What is the name of it some government secret?”
You laughed more freely. “Not that kind of intense. It's just unreleased.”
He looked excited at that. “Something you wrote then? Are you a secret artist I don't know about?”
“Oh, no,” you said. “My creativity lies in photography. I love music, but I'm not skilled enough to make it.”
“Then how did you get access to secret files that are so top tier you can't share them?”
You hummed. “Should I answer that? I'm not sure how great this content is for your video. I'm sorry.”
“Are you kidding me? This is the juciest interview we've had all day!” He countered gleefully. “Come on, spill!”
“Okay, okay,” you laughed. “My partner produced the song, and it's for a fairly well-known music group, so.” You shrugged. “Legally, they'd have my head if I spilled.”
He leaned in excitedly. “Can't you give us any hints? Surely there's no rules against that.”
“I'm afraid the fans are already gonna find this somehow,” you admitted. “They're like, scary good, and I haven't even said any names!”
“I honestly don't think that narrows it down,” the guy countered. “Everyone online is an internet sleuth these days. What genre are they? Is it even a they?”
You winced. “They're not Italian, how about that?”
“Oh? So why are you in Italy then?” He asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.
You just shook your head, drawing your fingers over your lips to mime a zipper.
“Fine, fine,” he relents dramatically before turning and pointing at the camera. “If you're watching this in the future and you know what song it is now, comment down below!”
You told Chris about the interview that evening. After he checked that the guy wasn't rude or pushy, the two of you laughed about it.
“Which song were you humming?” He asked.
“That one you showed me a couple weeks ago,” you replied.
He laughed. “Do you think Stay will find it?”
“I wouldn't be surprised if they did.”
You honestly forgot about the video until it surfaced on your timeline a few months later.
The day after Stray Kids had dropped their teaser for “Run It.”
The video had nearly a million likes. It was edited well enough, nothing added or removed to make you sound bad, which you were grateful for.
Curious now what people thought, you decided to check the comments.
@ unkn0wn401 5 mo ago - I have never been more curious in my life. INTERNET DETECTIVES GET ON THIS
@ 143kpopfans 1 hr ago - okok so… does anyone else hear ‘Run It’ or am i delulu???
-> @ binchans-pinky IM GLAD ITS NOT JUST ME OMG
@ papawolf42 3 mo ago - watch us all come back here in the future with our jaws wide open
-> @ jennifer-ferret - GIRL COME BACK OUR JAWS ARE ON THE FLOOR
-> @ papawolf42 - IM BACK OH MY GOD IT WAS STRAY KIDS THE WHOLE TIME?!?!!!!
@ skzcodered 2 hrs ago - but ok fr she's either dating someone on Stray Kids's production team… or 3Racha themselves 👀
@ kingdomlvr20 30 mins ago - Thats CLEARLY Run It. IS SHE DATING CHANGBIN??
-> @ dwaekikiki - OR HAN OR CHAN?!!!
@ jypapi-is-my-bias 10 mins ago - if this ISNT Run It, I'll buy everyone tickets to the tour FR
-> @ binchans-pinky - soo i also think its Run It, but thats still a bet I'm willing to take
@ teffyx 2 mins ago - its so obvious??? Guys she was in *Italy* so clearly she's dating Chan?!!
-> @ bangchans-wifey - oh my god youre so right?!! Wasnt he doing a Fendi thing like a week or two before this video was posted?!!
-> @ noeasynoeasy - WHY DOESNT THIS COMMENT HAVE MORE LIKES OH MY GOD WE CRACKED IT
You took a screenshot of the comments section and texted it to Chris.
Contact name: Christopher 💜
Y/N: [screenshot.png]
Y/N: um… oops?
Christopher 💜: hahahahaha
Christopher 💜: Stay are sleuths, i'm not surprised they figured it out
Y/N: am i gonna get sued LOL
Christopher 💜: no i promise you wont hahaha
Christopher 💜: the song is already partially out anyway, and we've dropped bigger spoilers before haha
Y/N: okay but what about the relationship theorizing part..?
Christopher 💜: have they found your socials yet?
Y/N: no, thankfully it doesnt seem like it
Christopher 💜: well… its not the least evidence but also, if you dont want to be public yet, we can just ignore it
Y/N: do you want to be public?
Christopher 💜: we've been together for nearly 3 years, i'd love to show you off eventually, but i also know itd be a lot of eyes on you and i dont want to force you into that if you dont want it
Christopher 💜: we also dont need to use this as our reason to reveal us dating. we can just ignore it and it'll eventually fizzle out
Y/N: maybe we can talk about it tonight?
Christopher 💜: of course lovey <3
Christopher 💜: if it helps at all, the comments seem very positive about the whole thing ;)
Y/N: thats true…
Christopher 💜: i have to go to a 3racha meeting now, but i'll text you later ok? Love you
Warnings: Virgin!Chan, Cursing, P in V, Multiple Rounds, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Fluffy loving ending. Slightly Proofread. Sorry if I forgot any.
Request can be found here! Hopefully this is good :( I wrote it while in the car and half asleep so it honestly feels like a fever dream lol.
-🩵
Felix had invited you over for game night again. The last time you were over you were complete shit faced and ended up cuddled up to Chan. Nothing happened but when it’s mentioned it always makes him blush so much.
Chan was such an attractive man and knowing it made him blush always gave you butterflies. This highly gorgeous man becoming all flustered when it came to you.
The night started off as normal, you all playing games drinking and munching back on Felix’s cookies. Minho suggested playing truth or dare which everyone roared about. Last time you guys placed this Jeongin ended up streaking down the road and you found out Jisung masturbated 3 times that day. You know. Normal stuff for friends.
“Felix truth or dare?” Jeongin asked with a devilish smile.
“Dare” Felix replied with an eyebrow raised.
Jeongins smile grew as he spoke “I dare you to go to the fridge and eat one of those spicy peppers of Minhos with no drink”
Felix’s whined “are you trying to kill me?” He said getting up heading to the fridge. “What if don’t? What’s the punishment?” He asked looking at the pepper with a gulp.
“If you don’t you can’t game for the next 2 days” jeongin challenged.
Felix groaned taking a big chunk out of the pepper swallowing it fast. His face grew red as the heat started to kick in coughing at random.
“Y/n truth or dare?” Seungmin asked you, felix dying in the background.
“Uhm truth?” You said looking at Felix not wanting that to happen to you.
“What’s the freakiest thing you’ve ever done in bed?” He asked the other boys waited for your answer wide eyed.
You sighed before answering “Hmm at the park on the bench, sitting on my exs lap as people passed.” You said almost to nonchalantly.
Everyone just kinda stared at you, faces red as they listened. Chans face was beat red as he shifted a little his slightly hard cock poking up at your words.
You stared at everyone “what? You asked I just answered” you giggled.
As the game went on Chan couldn’t stop thinking about it. His head swirling with thoughts of you, how soft you must feel. How hot it would be if you’d do the same thing with him.
“Earth to Chris” Felix said teasingly as he waved his hand across his face.
Chan blinked “ah sorry was a bit zoned out” he said with a chuckle.
“Truth or dare” Minho said, as he said early but Chan was to lost in his thoughts to hear the first time.
“Oh let’s go with truth I guess” Chan said nervously.
“How many people have you slept with?” Minho asked.
Chans eyes went wide “well uhm- zero” he said softly.
Everyone’s eyes went wide staring dumb at him. “There’s no fucking way- you’re a virgin??” Changbin said as Minho started to laugh.
“I mean I’ve done things just not- just not sex” he said feeling a bit embarrassed now. He looked over at you, you were staring at him with a soft blush.
The boys continued to teased him for a few minutes not understanding how he could be. “Chan you’re- well you how can you be a virgin dude?” Jisung asked.
Chan shrugged “i don’t know just never felt right with someone” he said softly. He looked over at you again. He’d give anything if he could do it with you. He’s had such a crush on you for a while. He wasn’t sure about his feelings until the day you two ended up cuddling together.
He’ll never tell you but you admitted you had a crush on him in your drunk state. He only half heartily believed you wondering if you were just out of your mind drunk.
A few hours had passed and your buzz had wore off, however you still didn’t want to drive home. You were just gonna crash on the couch until Chan offered you his bed again. You smiled excepting of course, this time you were actually coherent and in the right mind to remember.
“Thanks for letting me crash in here again” you said with a smile.
“Of course, the couch is so hard.” He said with a laugh.
As you both crawled into bed you sighed, Chans bed was so comfortable and it just smelled like heaven. You could feel him become a bit tense as you pushed your body back against his. You smiled to yourself a bit feeling him becoming hard. You moved again this time on purpose, you could hear him moan softly. The sound sending jolt through your body straight to your core.
“Chan” you said softly. He let out a soft hum in response. “I can help change that you know? I mean the whole virgin thing. If you wanted to..” you blurted out.
He almost choked on air as tried to wrap his mind around what you just said. “I- you really want to?” he said in a croak.
You nodded, making him groan in response “oh- ok I would love to but just know I’ve- I’ve never done it before so might not be good” he said his face as red as tomato now.
You smirked “don’t worry handsome you can use me till you get the hang of it” you said voice low and hot. You pushed yourself back onto Chan more feeling how hard he was already. “Channie need you” you said voice faint head already empty.
He groaned eyes fluttering “yeah? What- what do you need?” He said as he leaned his body against you. “You I need you, please f- fuck Me” you said trying to be as sexy as possible.
His hands wondered to your hips pulling you against his cock harder. He started to rut against your ass letting out small sounds. He could honestly cum like this, the feeling of having you so close and knowing you wanted him? His mind was fuzzy.
You pulled away swiftly pulling your shorts down to your knees pushing your now bare ass against him. Chan let out a deep whine he quickly did the same his hard cock smacking against your ass.
He pushed his cock between your folds, humping into your soft thighs. His hands gripped around you wondering your body now. “Fuck y/n are you positive about this?” He asked again wanting to make sure.
“Mhm.. so fucking sure please use me channie” your words came out as a long moan the feeling of him making your cunt clench. You needed him just as bad, you had some many thoughts of this. How he’d look, sound, taste everything.
“You’re soaked already” he said his head now in the crook of your neck. He left soft kisses to your neck as he moved more letting all your juices coat him nicely. “Can- can I put it in?” He asked his voice sounding desperate.
As soon as you nod he was trying to push the head in. He felt embarrassed when he kept slipping letting out a whine. “I’m sorry” he said softly before aligning himself up right to finally push in. The smallest bit in he was already gone. “Sh-shit. You’re so fucking warm-“
He fucked into you sloppily, feeling you so tightly around him. “Can- can I play with your pretty breasts?” He asked. You smiled at his request “You can touch anywhere- anywhere you want I’m all yours”
Your words stirred something in him, his thrust become deeper as he played with your tits his lips attached to your neck. He was leaving wet kisses as he sucked pretty little marks on you. His hand came down to play with your pussy as he fucked into you.
The way your pussy pulled him in, clenching around him was to much. “Y/n fuck- you feel to good- I’m gonna cum” he said in a high pitched whine.
He was filling you up, hitting all your sweet spots. How could this be his first time? Fuck he was so good at it, he just felt perfect like he was made for you. “Ah channie cum it’s ok” you said pushing yourself back to meet his thrusts.
“I don’t want it to end- fuck- but you feel so good- ah fuck you’re so warm so fucking warm” he kept rambling as his high was coming close. “Y/n I can’t- to good- you feel to fucking good oh my god!” His voice sounded strained.
He came in that moment hands pulling you close as possible as he pumped himself deep into you. “Fuck y/n- fuck!” He moaned. The feeling of him cumming pushed you over the edge his hand never stopping on your clit. You came with in a few minutes of him. If he didn’t just cum he would have again at the feeling.
A few moments later both of you were breathing better not panting as much you could see his cock already hard again. “How are you so hard already?” You questioned.
He shrugged a bit “maybe cause I came so fast? I don’t know” he chuckled embarrassed a bit. “Can I ride you?” You blurted out looking down at him. He groaned at the question but nodded. You straddled him, letting yourself sink into his length.
“Ah- ah fuck- y/n I- fuck” his words were incoherent as you bounced on his cock. Your hands laid on his chest as you used his cock. Leaning down to kiss him sloppily tongues fighting for dominance.
It didn’t take long for him to cum again. Especially this way. The way you were using him, bouncing that perfect body. Those delicious tits bouncing and the taste of your tongue on his. It as so much you felt so good.
He pulled you to him after everything, holding you close as you both tried to catch your breaths. “Y/n.. you didn’t just do this cause I was a virgin right?” He questioned. You sighed a bit “no.. maybe I like you and wanted to be the one to help you experience it first the first time.” You admitted.
His heart thumped fast at your confession. “I like you too..” he said softly his hand rubbing your back. “Really?” You asked looking up at him.
“Yes, of course I do” he said with a smile. Your eyes went wide and a small blush creeped across your face. “So uhm- would you maybe wanna go on a date?” He choked out. You nodded happily kissing his nose.
And that was it, that’s how you two started now going on almost a year the boys still tease him about everything. Little do they know how well he fucks.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵
♡ Genre: grease inspired 50s au, some angst and fluff, this was supposed to be a long full length fic but it somehow became just porn with plot lol
♡ Word Count: 11.2k
♡ Summary: You were so excited to see him again– the guy you'd spent your entire summer with, entagled in a fleeting but explosively sweet romance. But the Chris you meet again isn't the one you remember, and now if he wants to win you back he's going to have to prove just how devoted to you he really is.
♡ Warnings: chan is referred to as chris, smoking (cigarettes), some misogyny + toxic masculinity + fuck boy behavior, some 50s references and lingo, 1 instance of reader shoving chan in a fit of anger / sadness, jealous and mildly possessive chan, minor appearances from felix, changbin, minho, and hyunjin (who goes by sam)
♡ Smut Warnings: 1 reference to reader losing their virginity to chan, references / flashbacks to other smut scenes before the main scene, light dom/sub dynamics, switch!chan, pet names (doll, sugar, baby), public sex, car sex, exhibitionism, oral (f rec, referenced m rec), fingering (f rec), nipple play, daddy kink, panty stealing (kind of), squirting, 1 mention of reader having pubic hair, maybe a lil breeding kink??, protected piv
♡ Notes: i've had this sitting in my drafts since december and finally got around to finishing it gfdhgfh this is incredibly self indulgent as grease is one of my fave movies ever and chan as danny zuko is constantly rattling around in my brain. the build up is pretty short (by my usual standards) as i moved the plot along a lot quicker than i normally would so idk if it's my best work but hopefully you enjoy it!
♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.
You remember well the first time you met Chris. Lounging aimlessly at the beach with the sunset on the horizon, his feet in the sand with a silver dog tag necklace hanging low over his bare chest, a cigarette from his previously discarded jeans held between his lips. Fresh from the ocean with beads of water still dripping off his toned body, slicking back his damp hair before fumbling through a different pocket for his lighter.
You watched him bring it up to his face after successfully digging it out, cupping his other hand around it to protect the flame as he lit the cigarette in his mouth. You watched him take a long drag, watched him blow the smoke out from the corners of his mouth, watched him sigh before deciding to towel dry his legs enough to wrangle his jeans back on.
The beach had been quickly growing sparse by the time you spotted him. Groups of friends clearing out to make it to the local diner before all the tables were filled, parents wanting to get their kids to bed before the moon fully rose in the sky, couples on double dates bunching up in one car as they decide to hit the drive-in together.
You yourself were in no rush to leave– you came alone, tired of your parents bickering during what was supposed to be a fun family vacation. You’d stay as long as you could, you’d decided– really soak in the peace the sea brings before returning to your aunt’s beach house, where you were all staying for the summer.
But safe to say, the sight of him enraptured you. He was handsome, devastatingly so– you never expected to see a man with a visage to rival even that of James Dean himself with your own eyes, but there he was before you; and your heart stuttered when he glanced over in your direction.
He had just finished pulling his jeans up and over his haunches when he noticed you, cocking a brow when your eyes met– and you could tell in an instant that he knew you’d been staring at him. His smile made your breath hitch, pretty dimples peeking out on his cheeks as he acknowledged you with a playful wave.
Hesitantly, you lifted your hand and waved back, and he grinned, eyes still locked on yours as he pulled up the zipper of his jeans. He turned back to his belongings on the ground, shook the sand out of his white tee before pulling it on. He grabbed his leather jacket, slung it over his shoulder before turning to look at you once more.
You swallowed, face running hot from his gaze alone– you hoped, as he began walking towards you, that you could play it off as having not put on enough sunscreen before coming here. You were sitting on a towel, legs to your chest with your arms wrapped around them, but you lowered them as he approached you.
He tossed his cigarette to the the side once he was close, letting its flame fizzle out in the sand. He looked you up and down when you stood up, introducing himself with a charismatic smile that made your heart race faster. You stuttered when speaking, and his smile widened, one of his hands going to rest in the pocket of his jeans while the other kept his leather jacket in place over his shoulder.
Chris was the most, to say the least– and when he asked if he’d see you again tomorrow, you promised him he would. You watched him walk over to a beat up, old top down cadillac, throwing his jacket into the car before jumping in– literally jumping in, hand on top of the closed car door as he hopped over it into the driver's seat.
He gave you another glance after starting the ignition, and you smiled meekly as you offered him another wave. Chris grinned, raising his hand to say goodbye before putting it back on the wheel and burning rubber out of the parking lot.
You spent nearly every summer day with him after that. Days at the beach spent splashing each other in the water while you giggled, hopping in his cadillac to go catch whatever new flick was showing, or sharing a milkshake at his favorite diner. He’d hold your hand as you walked through the sand, giggled with you over silly inside jokes while eating burgers and fries, hugged you tight after you gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek at the end of the night.
Chris gave you dimes to pick tunes on the jukebox, and would sing along to your selections with the prettiest voice you’d ever heard. He took you to the county fair, would shoot you goofy grins after kissing you with lips sticky from cotton candy, got on the ferris wheel with you and squeezed your hand when the height made you dizzy, kissing away your nerves when you reached the very top.
He won you a teddy bear from the soda toss, put his leather jacket over your shoulders when the sun set and the air began to chill, wrapped his arm around your shoulder while you were waiting in line to buy some popcorn. He’d lean down to whisper a joke in your ear, and you’d slap his arm with a giggle while he squeezed you closer.
You watched him soup up the engine of his car, and he’d take your hand after a long day of working on it, pull you in to dance with him while the radio blared the hippest tunes. When he was satisfied with the restoration of his cadillac, he started taking you out on long drives, wind whipping through your hair as he drove fast through the back streets of the city.
He’d drive you to secluded hills overlooking the city, where you’d make out until he had to drive you home in time for curfew. He’d park his car far down the street, away from where your family could see him dropping you off– because Lord knows your mother's heart would give out if she saw you spending your vacation with a guy that looked like him.
And through it all, days spent back at the beach where you first met him were always your favorite. You would let Chris lay you down on a towel in the sand and kiss you over and over, until you were both heaving and hot. You lost your virginity to him like that– alone on the beach, towels laid down and moon high in the sky after having snuck out of the window of your guest bedroom to meet him.
He’d whisper sweet words in your ear, make you fall apart with deft fingers and an equally deft tongue. Sometimes, instead of sneaking out to see him, he’d be the one showing up at your guest room's window, grinning at you as you opened it to let him in. He’d fuck you there, in the bed with his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans of pleasure, lest your family discover what it is you’re really up to while "alone" in your room.
Chris would crawl over to you in the passenger seat at the drive-in, sink to his knees and dip his head underneath your long poodle skirt, the flick on screen long forgotten as he pulled your panties to the side to kiss and lick your dripping pussy. Sometimes he’d fuck you there too, parked all the way in back with the windows and hood of the car up to hide what you were doing (as if the rocking didn’t give it away to anyone who happened to look.)
Sometimes, when he parked up the street to drop you off after sharing ice cream at the drive thru malt shop, you’d lean over the gear shift, taking his cock out of his jeans and sucking him off right there, with not nearly enough care for who could possibly see you. He’d give you the sweetest kiss before helping you out of the car, promising he’d see you tomorrow too, and the day after, and the day after that, until eventually your family’s summer vacation had to come to an end.
Chris was a dreamboat that day, as he always was– hair greased back with a few curly strands left over his forehead, loose black tee tucked into his jeans, leather jacket on with its collar ever so slightly popped, his dog tag necklace sparkling when the sun hit it just right. He was leaning against the door of his newly souped up cadillac with a lit cigarette resting between his lips, though he promptly threw it to the ground when he saw you walking over.
“There’s my girl! And ain’t she a doll,” he grinned as he pulled you to his body, kissing you sweetly as you blushed. You weren’t wearing anything he hadn’t seen you in before– just one of your usual white blouses and pretty pink skirts, but he always made sure to tell you that he thought you were the absolute most.
He walked around to the other side of the car, opened the door for you and closed it shut behind you when you got in. He hopped into the driver’s seat after, starting the ignition and turning to you with that beaming smile that made your stomach flip. “What’s the plan today, sugar?” he asked, throwing his arm around you while leaving one hand on the steering wheel.
In the end, you spent the day as you had many times before– driving through the city, hitting up the diner to split a strawberry milkshake, and watching the sunset at the beach; the same beach where you met him, and where the house you were staying in lied just a couple hundred yards away. You were sitting on the rocks, his leather jacket off and resting behind you, his arm curled around your waist.
His jeans were filthy with sand, as was your skirt, but neither of you cared– you just stayed there together, watching the sun sink lower and the waves crash against the shore. Chris kissed you when you looked up at him with watery eyes, agonized over the idea of never seeing him again. He’d given you the best summer of your entire life, and all you wanted was to stay– but you couldn’t. And though he comforted you the best he could, you both knew it was the end.
Chris held your hand to help you off the rocks, gave you a kiss before you turned away to make the walk to your aunt’s beach house. And you both knew it was the end– but not just yet. He came to your window later that night, and you let him in, bringing your hands to his face and eagerly pressing your lips to his.
He walked you back to the bed as you kissed him, laid you back gently and crawled between your legs. He made you cum on his fingers before reaching into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a condom and tearing it open with his teeth. He rolled it easily down his cock, his jeans having fallen down his legs just enough to let him fuck you.
You reached your hands underneath his shirt, hungrily tracing your hands over every inch of his skin. Your nightgown was bunched above your thighs, legs spread wide to accommodate him. He eventually pulled the top of it down too, exposing your chest to him and leaving your stomach as the only covered part of your body.
Sweat dripped from his brow, his normally perfectly slicked hair tousled from your fingers sliding through it– and you didn't care that the pomade in his hair dirtied your fingers; in fact, it made it feel nicer when you brought your hand to one of your breasts, and rolled your nipples between them. Your stomach flipped when he grinned and called you a dirty girl, running a hand through his hair to grease up his fingers too and tweak the other nipple not being played with by your own.
He kissed you to muffle your moans and desperate whines, and it was nowhere near as effective as when it was his hand clamped over your mouth, but it was better. He had to slow down when fucking you fast unintentionally made your bedframe slam against the wall, and you gasped, praying no one woke up from the sound.
Thankfully, no one came knocking on your door– and though you were both desperate, clinging to one another hard and sliding your tongues around each other’s with fervor, he fucked you slow and deep after that. "Chris, daddy, please– 'm gonna cum," you moaned when he brought his slicked up fingers to your clit.
Chris groaned before kissing you again, and you came with a muffled cry, your nails digging desperately into his biceps. He kept rolling his hips into you through it, your body trembling with sensitivity until he eventually came too, all his cum spilling into the condom.
He stayed for a while after that, holding you close and wiping tears from your eyes with his thumbs. He snuck out in the middle of the night, promised you despite it all that it wasn’t the end– you’d see each other again someday, he just knew it; he wanted you to believe it too.
You got a couple of hours of sleep before morning, and gave your family the best smile you could manage as you tossed your luggage in the trunk of your dad's chevy bel air. You slouched in the back seat, trying not to cry and wishing more than anything you were in Chris’ old cadillac instead.
The Chris you reunited with wasn’t yours, and if it was, then fate was cruel for bringing you back to him.
The Chris you knew wouldn’t have looked at you like that– like you’re a desperate and fast girl, or an overly smitten near stranger hoping to get her kicks from him one last time while his friends snickered behind him. The Chris you knew wouldn’t join in on their snickering, tilting his head with an amused expression, tongue poking his cheek as he combs his fingers through his slicked back hair.
The Chris you reunited with wasn't yours, and the realization that you didn't really know him the way you thought you did utterly broke your heart.
You were back in the city– your parents, after having settled whatever marital disputes they were having, decided to settle down here. They loved their time together in the city when all their little tiffs were said and done, and they could tell you loved it here too.
They thought it’d benefit everyone to set up shop somewhere new, where everyone could reset. Plus, your mom wanted to be close to her sister again– and you certainly wouldn’t complain about spending more time at your aunt’s beach house.
You desperately wanted to see Chris again, and you knew it’d only be a matter of time before you did– unlike you, he grew up in the city, lived here his entire life. And while it’d been months since you parted at the end of summer considering your parents had to do a lot of work to shift the family business to a new location while also looking for a decent house up for sale, it would happen eventually– you were certain of it.
And soon enough you did see him, knew in an instant it was him even at a distance– because you’d recognize his restored cadillac anywhere. He was leaning against the car door like usual, cigarette in his mouth and leather jacket on his back, with a circle of friends around him. You never met his friends– he told you they were pigs, said that you wouldn’t like them much.
Besides, you were only going to be in town a few short months– why waste your precious few days hanging around with other people when you could be alone? That’s what he always told you– and as you tentatively began to walk up the street closer to them, you could tell they certainly did talk more vulgarly than you were used to hearing.
“C’mon man, you gotta let me borrow her,” one of his friends begged in reference to his car, “she’s a real pussy wagon. My chick’ll cream if I pick her up in it.” “Get your own wheels, bozo,” Chris shoved him with a laugh, “I ain’t lettin’ you take my girl on any joyrides.”
“What if you come too? Make it a double date, you know– and nobody’s got bigger tits than Annette. I got dibs, but she’ll be real nice eye candy for you,” his friend persuaded and Chris hummed, as if seriously considering it. Would he really go?
“Mm, maybe,” he grinned, tossing his cigarette to the ground and digging it into the gravel with his foot, “You do got a point. Tell her to bring a pretty friend, and I’ll think about it.” You blinked, stopped walking and simply stared at him. Had he moved on already? It’d only been a few months, but maybe you fell for him harder than he fell for you; the thought of it made your heart sink to your stomach.
His friend cheered and hugged him tight, and Chris pushed him away with another laugh, running a hand through his hair to fix it up as he characteristically did whenever it got even the slightest bit out of shape. In that same moment is when he glanced over in your direction, catching sight of you by pure coincidence.
His eyes widened when he saw you, mouth gaping open for a split second before he called your name in a mix of utter shock and joy. That was more like the Chris you knew– and it gave you hope. You ran up to him, and he to you, bringing his hands to your shoulders and touching you up and down your arms– truly, he couldn’t believe you were here, and he had to touch you to be certain it was real.
“What– what are you doing here? I-I thought you went back home with your folks, I thought–” he was smiling, entirely giddy as he looked you up and down. “We moved! I’m here to stay,” you told him excitedly, bouncing on your heels as you stared up at him.
It made you so, so happy; to the point that the contents of his prior conversation entirely lifted from your mind. It pains you thinking back to how naive and lovesick for him you were– you wish you'd have known better.
“I can’t believe it! I–” he started to exclaim, but then realized his friends followed him, crowding around his back while shooting him inquisitive looks, and he quickly took his hands off you.
He cleared his throat, tucked his hands in his pockets in a gesture meant to bring him back to his aloof state of being, and he grinned– not that pretty grin that made your heart flutter, but a wicked one. “I mean– that’s cool, baby.”
You didn’t like it, your brows furrowing at the change in his demeanor. “Christopher–” you started, but one of his friends spoke up before you could talk much more. “Who’s the chick?” he asked as he looked you up and down, and Chris hesitated. “Oh, uh–”
“Oh, I know!” the friend suddenly exclaimed, hit by an epiphany, “the one from the beach you wouldn’t let us meet– the one who puts out. This her? It is, isn’t it?”
Your face burned red, unpleasant heat crawling over your body as the rest of his friends snickered. He told them you put out? Why would he do that? Your expression crumbled, body trembling with embarrassment and grief, but Chris kept his own cool.
“Don’t worry, doll, I didn’t tell them all the horny details,” he smirked, and his friends' snickers erupted into full on laughs as they slapped his back in amusement. Your body burned hot with indignation, eyes welling with tears as your frustration and anguish boiled over. You shoved him as hard as you could, though it hardly even caused him to take a step back.
“I wish I’d never laid eyes on you, you– you creep!” you cried before turning away, ready to run back home to throw the teddy bear he won you in the trash and sob into your pillows. “That’s not all she laid on him,” one of his friends commented under his breath, the rest laughing and hooting as you sprinted away from them, back down the street.
Chris just watched, body tense and face sullen, heart twisting in his chest. He watched you turn the corner, wiping tears from your eyes before you disappeared entirely out of view, his friends still laughing and giving him pats on the back.
But when he turned to them, he put the smirk back on, and they all hopped into his car to hit the drive-in as if he didn't care about what just happened with you, as if the guilt wasn't going to eat away at him every night.
The next time Chris sees you is weeks later, at a new mom-and-pop shop freshly opened on the edge of the city. He’s there with his friends, all of them jumping out his cadillac before he’s even fully parked, rushing inside to grab a good table.
And when he walks in, it’s not his friends that he sees first but you– sitting at a booth with another guy across from you. There's an empty plate with tiny remnants of ketchup still left behind that he just knows you used for your french fries, and a milkshake between you with two straws stuck in it.
Part of him is relieved you aren’t sharing a single straw with the man like you would’ve done with him, but his gut still twists from the sight regardless. And when you giggle at something indiscernible the guy says, Chris feels liquid hot envy boil in his blood, jaw tightening and fists clenching as he cracks his neck.
“Chris, over here!” his best pal, Felix, calls from across the shop, and that’s when you see him too. You can’t help but look when you hear his name called, eyes widening when they land on him. He tenses, eyes lingering on you for a few seconds longer before he inevitably joins his friends at the table they scouted out in the middle of the room.
He can't focus on anything his friends are saying– the only thing he vaguely hears through the fog in his brain is Changbin begging the others for spare nickels so he can afford the dog-sled delight. It all becomes tuned out noise, because all he can think about is how much he missed you, and how much it pisses him off that you're here with someone else.
It's Chris' own fault, he knows that, and that makes the feeling even worse– like bile in his throat that he can't swallow down. It doesn’t take Minho, the most perceptive of his friend group, to notice that he’s staring at you and to comment on it.
“What, you still hung up on that chick?” he questions, and Chris scoffs as he snaps out of his fog, leaning back in his chair and acting as aloof as he can bring himself to. “What? No, of course not,” he says, but his eyes still linger on you, fingers twitching with irritation when he hears you laugh again, and watches you playfully slap the man’s arm like you would do to his.
Eventually, you hold out your palm to your date, and he watches the guy dig through his pockets to give you something. Chris knows immediately what's happening– you’re waiting to be given a dime or two, and you’ll saunter off to the jukebox to pick a new tune once they’re in hand.
He watches you rise from the booth, waits until you’ve made the walk over to rise from his table, muttering to his friends that he needs to hit the can real quick. He takes a few steps in the direction of the bathroom, and then immediately turns, going straight to you instead.
He props an arm on the jukebox after he approaches, leans against it and looks down at you as you cycle through the record choices. “Hey baby,” he tries, but you ignore him, don’t even spare him a glance as you continue to give the jukebox your full attention.
“Listen– I’m sorry,” he tries again, and you just hum in acknowledgement, still not turning your gaze to look at him. He swallows, glances back at his friends who are perfectly oblivious to what he’s doing, and then back to you. “I just– you know how it is, right? The guys, they expect me to act a certain way, and–”
“That’s why I’m so glad I met Sam,” you interrupt, turning around to look at your date and offer him a sweet wave. Chris hates it, but at least you’re talking to him now– he’ll take what he can get. He still ends up scowling however when your date waves back, and you turn back to the jukebox, still without glancing up at Chris himself.
“What, you like that square?” he scoffs as he looks your date up and down. He’s smartly dressed; pristine khaki slacks and a brown sweater vest pulled over his white button up, his hair in a neatly styled, respectable crew cut– but that’s not your type.
At least, he hopes it's not; because that would make Chris the outlier, and that’s not what he wants to be. He’ll also be damned if he ends up losing you to a goody two shoes like that.
“He’s sweet to me. And I don’t have to question what his intentions are, unlike with you,” you reply, and the emphasis put on 'you' makes his heart sink. While he certainly deserves to hear it, it doesn’t make him any less upset– not with you, but with himself. He really let his pride and reputation get in the way, and he knows he fucked up. But he wants you, and surely you know that, right?
You finally settle on a tune; Those Magic Changes– the one he knows is your absolute favorite. The one he even used to serenade you with once whilst dancing, you giggling away with a cute blush on your cheeks whilst he twirled you around. He sang it more exaggeratedly towards the end, purposely putting on a goofy voice to make you laugh harder as he dipped you down.
He kissed you before lifting you back up, and then again when you were completely upright, your hand on his shoulder and his arm around your waist, your other free hands intertwined. The way you looked at him when he pulled back from the kiss made his heart pound, but he played it cool– shot you that grin that always made your legs feel like jelly, kissing your cheeks when it made your blush deepen.
Chris liked feeling the heat of your blush against his lips, liked having your hands on him even when it was in the purest of ways, liked the way you giggled and smiled at him when he playfully winked at you. The memory strikes him hard when you press the play button to start the song, and he takes a step back from the jukebox, fists clenched at his side.
You look at him then– really look at him. Instantly he feels small, your gaze that once held so much love for him now meeting him with the utmost scrutiny. He fucked up, he knows he did– but what does he do now? He can’t even trust himself to say something without fucking it up even worse.
And the pain of it all hits you too– he can see it in your eyes just before you steel your expression, and do your best to act unaffected. "See you around, Christopher," you mutter as you turn away from him and the jukebox.
You walk back to the booth where Sam awaits your return with a smile, while Chris just stands there, your favorite song blaring painfully loud in his ears as he stares at your back. "..begs you please, come back to me, please return to me, don't go away again," the lyrics mock him harshly.
He doesn't know what to do, but he knows he has to do something, anything, to show you he’s sincerely sorry. He needs to show you he still wants you, needs you to give him another chance– more than he’s ever needed anything.
The next time Chris sees you is once again by coincidence, while he’s sitting alone in the parking lot of the sock hop his little sister just begged him to take her to. He was trying to decide what to do with his time– if he left, he’d have to come back in a couple hours to pick her up, but surely it was better than sitting around outside, bored out of his mind while he waited for her.
He could go in, but sock hops aren’t really his thing– the only time he ever danced was with you, and he didn’t plan on changing that. All he’d do inside is stand on the edge of the room and watch his sister dance, and he didn’t much feel like doing that either. Besides, his little sister was a good girl, and she didn’t need, nor want, his constant supervision.
And he’s just about to turn the key in his ignition and burn rubber when he sees you, arm linked with stupid fucking Sam as he opens the door for you with his free hand. And fuck, he doesn't even care that he's about to crash your date– he just needs to talk you. He jumps out of his car in a rush, pulling open the door to the building and heading straight to the line leading to the dance floor.
Chris’ jaw tenses when he sees you– Sam is leaning down to whisper something in your ear while you wait in the line, and you cover your mouth as you giggle. He hates how similar it is to the days he spent with you at the fair, waiting in line for rides and popcorn. The envy bubbling in his gut makes him feel sick, and he has to take a breath to calm himself down before he approaches you.
He steps to where you are in the line when he feels mellowed out enough, you and your date turning around curiously when they hear his voice call your name. Your eyes widen when you see it's him, but you’re quick to correct your expression before your date notices anything off about you. “Can I talk to you?” Chris asks, not at all acknowledging Sam’s presence beside you.
Even when you divert your gaze to glance at your date’s reaction, Chris’ eyes stay firmly on you, awaiting your answer. “Please?” he follows up, and it makes you swallow. It’s the first time he’s ever taken a pleading, desperate tone with you, and he can tell rejecting him isn’t going to come easily to you– it gives him hope that you'll finally hear him out, maybe even take him back.
“I–” you hesitate a moment, and just as Chris’ new, shiny hope begins to dim, you unlink your arm from your date. “I’ll be right back, just stay in the line,” you tell Sam before shooting Chris a look and walking past him. He follows you back outside, and you cross your arms as you stand against the cold brick of the exterior.
“What do you want?” you cut straight to the point. There’s a million things he wants to say, but his built up jealousy causes him to ask the stupid, burning question first and foremost. “Since when do you go to sock hops?” he questions, and it almost makes you laugh– he’s unbelievable, breaking your heart like that and then pulling stunts like this.
“Since nice boys ask me to go with them. Why, you jealous?” you accuse him and he scoffs, trying once again to play off what he feels. “Me? Jealous? Don’t make me laugh,” he says, unable to help the instinctive reaction to being called out. And he instantly regrets it, but it’s too late to take it back.
“Oh, so you won’t mind if I go back inside then?” you ask as you step away from the wall, starting to walk past Chris and back to the doors. He grabs your arm to stop you, and you look up at him expectantly. “Don’t, I–” he grits his teeth, hesitates for a moment, but ultimately decides to be honest, “I am, okay? So don’t.”
He lets your arm go, and his admission thankfully proves enough to make you stay. You settle back against the brick wall, but you don’t look at him after– instead you look down at the ground, staring at your sleek, black and white saddle shoes instead of meeting his gaze.
It’s silent for a moment, with Chris wracking his brain as he tries to figure out the right thing to say to you. “What you did was terrible, you know,” you end up breaking the silence first, your voice soft.
“I know, I– I meant it when I said I was sorry,” Chris says while moving a step closer to you, and still you hesitate to look at him. “I didn’t believe you. Still don’t,” you reply, and honestly, he can’t blame you– he should’ve been more sincere when he approached you.
But he was being a fucking idiot, still trying to play it cool even though it was just the two of you standing there by the jukebox. And who gave a fuck if his friends happened to look over and saw him talking to you? Why should he care? Is it really so wrong for him to be whipped for you?
Even the first time he saw you again, he should've done all the things he really wanted to do. He should've kissed you and hugged you tight, should've told you how happy he was to know you’re here to stay, should’ve flipped his friends the bird and told them to fuck off if they questioned him. But he didn’t– he cracked under the expectations, and you suffered for it.
There’s a lot he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it– he’s never been vulnerable about his feelings before you, but he wants to try. Even if he screws up over and over again, he’ll keep trying– because you deserve it. And he should apologize again, sincerely, but there’s another question burning in his blood that he has to ask.
“Do you really like that guy? You’re not, like– going steady, are you?” Chris questions and you shrug, finally looking up from the ground to meet his eyes. “That depends,” you tell him, peeling your back away from the wall to stand directly in front of him, holding your hands behind your back.
“On what?” he follows up, and you smile– a small one, but it’s enough for him. “On you,” you answer, and the hope flares back up, drowning out the envy and shame in veins and replacing it with pure, unfiltered glee.
“Yeah?” he grins as he tilts his head, and your smile grows the tiniest bit more as you nod. You may still have your doubts about his sincerity, but the fact that you’re willing to give him a chance is all he needs– he’ll use the time you give him to prove it to you, to make sure you’re left with no doubts that you’re the one that he wants, to promise that he'll never break your heart again.
“Come with me then, back inside– you’re gonna be my date,” he says as he holds out his hand to you. Sock hops may not have been his style before, but they can be for you. “What about Sam?” you question, but still take his hand regardless.
“He can stag it the rest of the night for all I care. You’re mine, sugar,” Chris replies, and it sends butterflies sweeping through your stomach as you giggle in delight. “And your friends?” you ask next, knowing it’s very well possible he’ll crack under the expectations of his rep with them again if they see you together.
“Fuck ‘em,” he replies easily; and you’re both sure it’ll be easier said than done for him to not give a shit what they think, but he’ll do his best. He doesn’t want to do anything to make you regret giving him another chance. “Let’s dance, baby,” he grins at you, pulling you along with him as he steps back inside the building with you in tow.
There’s a thought in Chris’ head that he never before thought he’d ever have– the sock hop was perfect. And well, maybe it’s not the sock hop itself necessarily that he enjoyed, but you– yes, it was most certainly you. The time spent with you was everything he’d been missing, everything he could’ve ever hoped for following your departure from the city and his subsequent abysmal fuck up.
He knew he didn’t deserve any of it– and he was certain you were going to share a more serious talk about it all later, but he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt walking back into the building and seeing Sam utterly bewildered that his date was now clinging to his own arm instead.
And he won’t shirk his responsibility to do better by you– he’ll own up to his mistakes, he’ll change, be someone deserving of you. It may take a lot of time and effort to unlearn all the dumb shit he’s taken in over the years, but he swears he’ll try– tonight is just the start of a lifetime of proving to you that he’ll do anything to keep you.
All night, you’ve been positively radiant– and truly, Chris has never felt luckier in all his life. He delighted in the way you smiled at him while dancing, enjoyed the way you squealed in excitement and bounced on your heels when the live band decided to play a cover of your favorite tune, couldn’t help the way a goofy grin spread over his face when you pecked him on the cheek following a slow dance.
You’re the only one in the world who’s ever seen it, you know– the only one who gets to see his dimples, or to hear him giggle. The only one he’s ever sung to and danced with, the only one he’s ever wanted to stay up all night talking on the phone with, the only one he’s ever taken out for more than a quick and simple joyride in his car.
He could feel the inquisitive, disbelieving stares too– Chris has lived here his entire life, and everyone knows the kind of guy he is. And maybe he’s simply lucky– he knows he’s nothing but a delinquent, knows his reputation precedes him, knows he doesn’t deserve the affection of a good girl like you.
Regardless of it all, you love him– enough to give him another chance even when he hasn’t yet done enough to earn it. And effortlessly, you unlock the soft part of him– the part of him that desires and yearns and wants. He burns for you, the only girl in the world his heart has ever raced for, the only who knew who he was beyond the rough surface he projected to the rest of the world.
Now you’re outside tentatively standing next to Chris’ car, waiting for him to come back from confirming with his sister that she’ll hitch a ride home from her friends instead of him. It embarrasses him how she grills him with questions about you– and he answers in the vaguest of terms, having to promise that he’ll fill her in on it all in more detail later, but to please just let him go be alone with his girl.
He’s certain that no one else would believe it if he told them, but his intentions to be alone with you are entirely pure. Now that he’s close to having you as his again, he wants to do right by you– take it slow, kiss you soft and tender, touch you light and chaste, respectfully, sweetly. He wants to take you on dates again, wants to save up all his quarters to buy you something special, wants to devote his every moment to showing you how sincerely he loves you.
He wants you to meet his friends properly (after he gives them a stern warning to be gentlemen in front of you), wants you to meet his parents, and he wants to meet yours in turn. He wants to stop playing it cool and aloof and confident when he feels something– doesn’t want to keep pretending that the way you look at him doesn’t drive him wild, not just with lust but with adoration.
And certainly, you know that Chris is softer than he outwardly appears– you’re not blind to the way his cheeks and ears burn when you kiss him sweet and call him that name that makes his heart skip a beat. And unlike you, Chris knew what he was doing– so it was natural for him to always be the one leading your little song and dance, even when on the inside he felt like he was going to positively combust from the way your eyes sparkled at him.
There’s something you’ve been wanting to try– something that you couldn’t before, because your summer together passed by in a blink, and there was so much you didn’t know when your relationship first began. And Chris has taught you a lot in your time together– maybe more than he even realizes.
He may not know it, but he’s made you into a real insatiable minx. And now that you know he’s willing to beg and plead and grovel for you to take him back, oh how it makes your heart race with the possibilities. How far can you take it? How far is he willing to go for you, to prove that he’s devoted to you entirely? Would he really do anything to keep you?
Chris told you, just a few moments ago as the sock hop was coming to an end, that he’ll do anything and everything to make sure you don’t regret giving him another chance with him. He looked you straight in the eyes, vulnerable and entirely sincere, squeezed your hands in his as countless promises left his lips.
Could he be manipulating you? Is he nothing but a dirty liar? It’s certainly possible– but you’d like to believe the Chris you knew last summer is the truest version of himself. You’d like to believe that the Chris you saw tonight isn’t an act to keep stringing you along. So you want to try something– something bold, something the you of last summer would’ve never thought to do.
You don’t think your shyness will ever entirely evaporate given that Chris is such an utter dreamboat, but he does well enough at playing it cool, so who's to say you can’t do it too? You can be playful and enticing, can play it coy and innocent while you flutter your lashes at him, can smile and pout at him in a way that makes desire spread through his veins like explosive, hot fireworks.
When Chris walks back out of the building you have to make a conscious effort to ignore the butterflies in your stomach– you’ve decided you’re a woman on a mission tonight, after all. The parking lot is sparse now, and the last stragglers from the sock hop all shuffle to their cars, his sister and her group of friends being among them.
Though you only met her briefly, you offer her a pleasant wave goodbye, and she smiles at you as she returns it– though you don’t miss the way she shoots her older brother a look after. A look that says “don’t fuck this up for yourself.” It almost makes you giggle– you like having his sister on your side; you get the impression she’ll chew him out if he doesn’t shape up the way he’s promised to.
Chris doesn’t turn to you until after his sister and her friends have peeled out of the parking lot– you’re not sure if it’s because he wanted to make sure she was going to be safe, or if it’s because he felt like she’d gotten enough of an eyeful of him being affection with you, and he’d be embarrassed if she saw anymore. You like either answer.
“Hi baby,” he says, soft and sweet as he smiles, and it makes your heart once again skip a beat. Even after hours of dancing, he still looks utterly perfect– not a single piece of his greased up hair out of place. You hope you’re faring the same– you didn’t really get a chance to look at yourself in the mirror at the end of the night to know for certain, but you want Chris to think you look divine.
“Am I taking you straight home?” he asks; it’s dark out now, but you still have a fair amount of time before you’re expected back home. And while he’d love to spend more time with you, he isn’t going to assume– this is a trial period, after all; he still has to earn that, he’s sure.
Calling you his earlier was more hope on his end than confidence– he wants you to be his, but he knows he has to earn your trust back first. And he’s going to be a gentleman– any boundary you have, he’ll adhere to, no matter what. He refuses to fuck up with you again.
“No,” you answer short and simple, smiling up at him as you do. But before he can ask you what you want to do until curfew, you’re speaking again. “My shoe's untied,” you pout, leaning back against his car while gently lifting your foot from the ground to show him, “can you fix it for me, please?”
“You want me to tie it for you, baby?” he laughs a little as he tilts his head to the side, thinking you’re just oh so cute when you keep up the pout as you nod. He gets down on one knee easily, and you put your foot right on his knee, watching as he ties your laces back together. When he’s finished, you don’t put your foot back on the ground– you press it right to the middle of his chest.
“Baby?” Chris looks up at you curiously– and there’s a twinkle in your eye he’s never seen before. He almost thinks you’re going to kick him back on his behind, but you don’t– you take your skirt into your hands, and start to pull it up. Slowly, it rises above your calf, your knee, your thigh, until he can see your pretty white panties, with its precious little pink bow in the center.
“S-Sugar, what– what are you–” he stammers, struggling to form words in a way he never has before. You’ve never exposed yourself to him like this– just out in the open, with no barrier between you and the rest of the world. You aren’t in your bedroom, you aren’t inside the car with the windows and hood up– you’re out, in the middle of the fucking parking lot where anyone could see.
Fuck, even the times at the beach, when he made love to you in the sand, were much, much more secluded than this– because those excursions were isolated, close to your aunt’s beach house and happening in the dead of night. And this is very much not– it’s barely even 9 o’clock, and you’re at a public venue; anyone could come by, and for any reason.
“I need your help with something else too, daddy,” you say as you pout some more, clearly acting coy, and he swallows as he stares up at you. “Can you do it, daddy? Can you help me?” You take as much of your skirt's fabric into one hand as you can, keeping it lifted above your thigh while you move your other hand between your legs, pulling your panties to the side to show him your pussy.
The action sends all of Chris’ blood careening to his cock– he can’t believe you’re really doing this right now. “Right– right here? N-Now?” he gulps, taking a quick glance around the parking lot. You’re alone now, but still– he never thought you’d do something so bold. Even just fooling around in the back seat of the cadillac with as much privacy as he could give you made you impossibly shy.
“Yes, here, now,” you tell him, keeping your panties hooked to the side with two fingers, while using the other two to spread your folds apart for him the best you can. You’re trying to entice him, and fuck, is it working. He never thought he’d see you this way, and it’s making him feel so utterly electric– he’s a fucking live wire, and he’ll pour his current straight into you.
Anything you want from him, it’s yours– he doesn’t need any convincing, he’s already impossibly ensnared by the rope that is your desire for him. And fuck, he said he wouldn't do this, said he'd be a gentleman, take things slow and build back up to intimacy with you– but if you're practically begging him for it, how can he resist?
Chris takes your foot into his hand, carefully lifts it from his chest and throws your leg over his shoulder before he crawls closer to you. The concrete of the parking lot ground is brutal against his knees, but he doesn’t give a shit– you need him, and that’s all that matters.
He replaces your hand, keeps your panties shoved aside with his own. Now that your hand is free you use it to hold onto the car door and give yourself some extra support as he starts placing kisses to your clit. His lips always feel so perfect– especially when he licks them first, gets them nice and wet for you; the sensation draws out a pleasant sigh, but you both know it isn’t really enough.
Chris likes to tease you, make you wait until you’re squirming and trembling from all his repeated kisses, gets you so worked up you could beg and cry before he finally gives you his tongue. But tonight is about getting what you want, when you want it– so as much as you enjoy his soft little kisses, you’re not going to let him work you up.
He’ll be the one fraying at the edges, the one desperate and pleading, the one who feels like his brain is filled with cotton, looking up at you from down on his knees with glassy eyes full of need. You let go of the car door, bring your hand to his head and thread your fingers through his hair. You pull back just enough to have his head tilting away from your pussy, making his eyes land straight up at you.
“Baby–” he gasps, and again you meet his gaze with that sinfully deceitful pout. “You said you’d do anything for me, daddy,” you say as you shoot him your best doe eyed look, “Did you mean it? Will you do anything for me?” Fuck, you’ve got him throbbing– you can see his erection straining against his jeans, and it nearly makes you grin in delight.
Still, you don’t crack– Chris always does well at only showing you the version of himself he wants you to see, and you will too. You won’t give him your meek looks or timid declarations of desire for more of his touch– he’ll only see a new you; a confident you who knows exactly what she wants. You’ve learned from the best, after all.
“Well?” you demand when he doesn’t immediately answer, and you watch him swallow, swearing you can see the shiver that spreads down his spine and throughout the rest of his body. “Y-Yeah baby, I meant it. I’d do anything for you,” he tells you, hoping you can’t see how red his face and ears are getting in the low light.
“Prove it– prove you want me, prove you’re good for something,” you say, and again he shivers, breath catching in his throat. “Eat it, make me cum.” Fuck, Chris is reeling– he still can’t even believe it’s really you talking to him this way. His brain feels like a faulty circuit board, all his synapses sparking dangerously as they fire off, ready to ignite his blood and engulf him in an uncontrollable flame of desire.
When you let go of his hair, he wastes no time diving right into your pussy, eating you out like a man starved. He brings his free hand to your ass, squeezes and holds you in place while he shakes his head to get more of you on his tongue, his nose bumping your clit and making your legs quiver.
You bite your lip, doing your best to suppress the loud moan he brings out of you by sucking on your clit. His plush lips wrapped around it, the flicks of his tongue, how expertly he sucks– it’s already so overwhelming, in the best way possible. Chris does his best to sink lower, tries to lick at your hole and get his tongue inside, but it’s hard like this– he’s not sure if he can.
“B-Baby, doll, let me lay you down, in the car, let me–” he pulls away from your dripping center to look up at you, and fuck, he looks ruined in the prettiest way imaginable. His eyes are hazy and pleading, glistening with your arousal from the tip of his nose all the way down to his chin, sweat dripping down his brow. “Need to spread you out, I– please? Gotta taste more of you.”
Shit, you can’t deny you want it– especially not when he’s begging like this. You nod, and he smiles at you in appreciation, a smile that makes your knees even weaker than they already are. You take your leg off his shoulder, and he quickly rises to his feet, giving you a messy kiss before he ushers you away from the car door to open it for you.
You crawl into the back seat, and he follows, slamming the door shut behind him. He waits until you get comfortable, not acting until you're lying propped against the opposite door of the car. Chris hooks your panties in his fingers, pulls them down your legs and tosses them aside into the footwell; it'll be a sweet treat for him when he finds them again later.
He'll keep them, he thinks– stuff ‘em in his pocket and take them back to his room, where they'll lie safe and protected under his pillow. It's a dirty thought, one that'd otherwise fill his gut with shame, but right now all he feels is need– need for you to cum on his tongue, need to give you everything you want and more.
He settles on his stomach between your legs, and it’s certainly not easy, but he manages well enough. One of your legs ends up over his shoulder again while the other stays spread out with the help of his hand holding you under the knee. And finally, his tongue dips into your hole, and it’s pure bliss– maybe even more so for him than you. He’s hungry, utterly ravenous; all he can think, breath, and taste is you, you, you.
“Chris– your fingers, need your fingers,” you whine more shamelessly than you would've otherwise liked, but you know he enjoys it. He separates from you long enough to run his fingers between your folds, making sure they’re nice and slick for you before he presses them to your hole.
He slides one finger in first, bringing his mouth back to your clit while you adjust to the feeling. Your legs are already trembling by the time he adds another finger, and when he starts curling his fingers to hit your most sensitive spot while flicking his tongue against your clit you can hardly even breathe– it’s just so, so good.
Your stomach is clenching, thighs and legs shaking hard, your release building up with an intensity you’ve never felt before. “Oh, fuck, Chris–” you cry when he presses the tips of his fingers into your spot harder. You’re certain that if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re still wearing your shoes, your toes would be curling from the pleasure.
Your pussy sounds so sloppy and messy, and Chris himself isn’t making it any better– he’s drooling so much, his saliva drenching you just as much as your own dripping arousal. You’re breathing hard, and even your hands are shaking as they continue to hold up your skirt to watch him devour you.
“Oh my god, ‘m gonna cum, I’m gonna– fuck, gonna cum for you daddy, please don’t stop,” you’re crying loud– and you know you should at least try to be quieter considering how out in the open you are, but you’re too far gone to care. With your head thrown back, you whimper and moan, high pitched and loud, eyes rolling back as your orgasm takes you.
It feels like it’s endless, the waves of pleasure ceaselessly jolting your body as your vision blurs white; and you feel wet; so, so wet. It’s only when you finally come down from the high and lift your head back up from where it thunked against the car door to look at Chris that you realize why you feel so drenched.
It’s not just your thighs that are dampened– it’s your skirt, Chris’ face and shirt, the leather of his seats; all of it is soaked with your cum. Your face starts to burn hot, and you swallow as Chris stares at you, almost bewildered. “Baby– did you just..?” You squirted for him, because of him– he doesn’t even fucking care how much of a nightmare it’s going to be to clean his car, all he can think about is how fucking sexy it is.
You simply nod, because it’s all you can think to do– you really weren’t expecting this to happen. “Oh my god, baby, you have to do it again, please, you have to,” he practically whines, and his enthusiasm over it makes you giggle. You honestly feel more than a little shy about it, but Chris’s apparent elation makes it worth the tinge of embarrassment.
You reach out for him, take the necklace dangling from his neck into your hands and pull, urging him to come closer to you. He crawls up your body, and you kiss him, sliping your tongue into his mouth and tasting yourself all over him. “Fuck, you’re so dirty baby,” he groans when you pull away, “what are we going to do, huh?”
It makes you giggle again, a soft thing full of mischievous delight. He basks in it, giggles with you before he kisses you again. “Need your cock now,” you tell him when he pulls away, and shit, he’d nearly forgotten how fucking hard he is whilst wrapped up in pleasuring you. He can feel it straining against his jeans, desperate for stimulation of its own.
“Yeah? Want my cock baby?” he asks, grinning at you the way he always had before; you tug on his silver chain again in response. “Don’t forget, you’re giving me everything I want. Everything, okay?” you say once his face is mere inches from yours again, making him look you closely in the eyes. Chris swallows as he nods, the smile you offer him once again making his brain feel fuzzy and floaty.
He looks you over once more, really takes it all in before he scrambles over the front seat, reaching for the glove box where he still has some spares from your time together over the summer. Condom in hand, he settles back over you, and you help him with his jeans while he tears the package open. He spreads it quickly down his length, and you take your legs in hand, holding them under your knees to keep yourself open for him.
The sight of you like that is dizzying– legs open, skirt bunched up all the way to your stomach, pussy wet and glistening, with the hair there matting from how wet you are; you’re perfect. So fucking perfect. He moans as he pushes into you, so slick that you take him with ease. You take his face in one of your hands and pull him down to kiss you, a desperate one that makes pleasure lick over every inch of his skin.
Chris rolls his hips into you slowly to start, while you let go of the leg you're still holding to wrap your limbs around him, keeping him pressed close. He grabs onto the car door, uses it to keep himself steady when he starts to pick up the pace of his hips, harsh breaths and low moans leaving him freely. Neither of you are trying to be quiet, the street lights are burning bright, the hood of his car and the windows are down, anyone could hear you or see you– and the excitement of it all makes the pleasure he feels all the more intense.
“Baby, your tits– let me see ‘em, please, can I see ‘em?” he asks between labored breaths– he needs to see them, has missed them more than is probably allowed. You quickly do as he asks, fumbling with the top few buttons of your blouse to expose yourself to him. You tug down your bra so he can see your breasts bare, and again he groans, bringing his free hand to one of them to brush his thumb over your hardened nipple.
“Oh, you’re so pretty– so, so pretty baby,” he says, groaning when the words make you clench harder around him. It doesn’t take long for the car to start rocking with the motion of his thrusts, his rhythm quickly growing sloppier. He’s been so worked up, and believe it or not, he hasn’t actually fucked anyone since you– he feels so high strung and on edge, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out.
He just hopes he can make you cum again before he does, or at least make you cum with him– he needs you to be happy with him. You can feel his cock twitching and throbbing, you can tell that he’s already impossibly close– so, like the little minx you are, you talk dirty to him, wanting to see him utterly unravel at the seams. “You gonna fill me up, daddy? Make this pussy all yours?”
Chris gasps and shudders, goosebumps erupting all over his impossibly hot skin. He knows he can’t actually– all he’s going to really fill up with his cum is the condom, but fuck, the thought of it is making his head swim. “Y-Yeah, gonna fill you up baby, daddy’s gonna make you so full,” he breathes, and God, that really does it for you.
You bring your fingers to your clit, rubbing in quick, practiced circles. Even through the condom he can feel you gushing and soaking his cock, and it sends him over the edge– as do the sounds of your incredibly pretty whimpers and moans of pleasure. His hips still when he cums, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as his eyes roll back, head thrown back in utmost bliss.
It takes Chris a few moments to recollect himself and catch his breath, and he slowly slips out of you when does. He tucks his softening length back in his jeans before he helps you fix your bra, and smoothes your skirt out over your legs while you button your blouse back up. “You feeling okay, baby?” he asks, wiping messy strands of hair out of your face.
You’re both covered in a sheen of sweat, faces flushed and hot, hair utterly a mess– it’s obvious, even with your clothes fixed up, what you’ve been doing. “Mhm, are you?” you ask, and he smiles, giving you a quick peck on the lips. “I’m peachy keen, jelly bean,” he replies and you giggle, kissing him once more.
He looks at himself in his rearview mirror when he pulls away, does his best to fix his messy hair while you lift yourself up from your propped position and stretch out your aching limbs. He then takes another glance around the parking lot, and notes that you’re still the only ones here– thank God. He was too enraptured by you to check earlier, and he’s grateful that no one else has showed up.
“Should probably get you home now, yeah?” Chris asks, looking at the clock on his dashboard and noticing it’s now getting dangerously close to your 10 o’clock curfew. He helps you get into the passenger seat when you nod, and you smile at him when he settles in beside you. He turns the key in the ignition, one hand resting on your thigh while the other stays on the wheel, and he drives you home.
Chris parks up the street, like he did all those times at your aunt’s beach house. He watches you walk over to your house, and he smiles when you turn around to blow him a kiss. At 11 he leaves his car, walks up the street to your home, and approaches the only window with a light still on– the window to your new bedroom. And you smile as you open it for him, letting him crawl his way inside.
He sees the teddy bear he won you at the fair sitting right in the middle of your bed, nestled against your pillows, and he smiles, delighted that you still kept it even after he broke your heart. “I love you, baby,” he tells you in a whisper after a sweet kiss, “never gonna hurt you again, I promise.”
“You better keep that promise, mister. Or I might just have to make you jealous again,” you warn and tease him with a cheeky little smile. He strips out of his jeans and tee shirt as you turn off your lamp, lies down beside you after you settle into your bed, runs his hand up and down your back as you press yourself against him. Head on his chest, with your arm and leg tossed over him, he kisses your head and smiles once more– because as he promised, this is just the start of a lifetime.
Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.
Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.
Warnings: a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory, mentions of vomit/vomit scenes, fem reader, suggestive, self image issues
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 19.5
Chapter 20 *18+*
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24…
Drabbles and Asks…
Showing The Alphas Your Nails
What They Love About You
How They Feel About The Bump and Physical Touch
Pack’s Reaction to Chapter 19(Chapter 9.5)
you can also find this story on ao3 here:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Mafia! Bang Chan x Reader
Synopsis: Chan introduces himself and takes you on a not so voluntary trip.
Warnings: tension, extreme themes, needles, SMUT in future parts!
A/N: Please read with caution! I wish to keep things a surprise so I don't want to give too much away, but please take care of yourselves!
This is for entertainment purposes only!
Xoxo💋
Last Chapter Next Chapter
Chapter 2
“My name is Diamo-”
“Your name is Hwang Y/N, baby sister to Hwang Hyunjin, princess of the Hwang Family.” He crosses his arms over his chest and your heart feels like it’s going to explode out of your chest.
“Who the hell-”
“Chan, Bang Chan,” he pulls down his mask and has a smug smirk on his face.
“Nice to make your acquaintance.” Silence stretches, you’d heard about Chan. Whispers at events and family functions. He’s dangerous, he’s a skilled assassin, he’s ruthless and rude.
“What do you want with me…”
“Your time.” he says vaguely.
“What do you mean…”
“I mean you're leaving here and coming home with me.” Your breathing basically stops. Before you realize what’s happening, his mask is back up and he’s dragging you through the club and to a van.
The doors slam open and he tosses you in before sitting beside you.
“Listen, I don’t know what you want from me-”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re coming home with me. I’m keeping you and when your brother inevitably comes to save you, I end him slow and messy.” He says these words like it’s nothing, like he’s discussing a sports game.
“Chan-”
“Dragonfly, this can go one of two ways. You can obey me and make this as painless as possible. Or you can argue, fight me and I make this painful.”
“You’re threatening me?!”
“No, I’m promising you.” The car whizzes past the city, lights and buildings blurring in the windows. As your mouth goes to open Chan gives you a look that silently says to keep your mouth shut.
The mansion comes into view, its multiple stories with balconies on each side and in the front. The car pulls up to the front door, and he gets out, dragging you with him. His hand stays clamped around your wrist as he pulls you up the steps.
“Chan! Hold on-”
“Walk faster.” He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even hesitate. Inside the mansion is beautiful, but it lacks personality. There’s a marble floor, but no color, just black and white furniture and appliances. A couple cold but obviously professional paintings. There’s a grand kitchen across the hall from a large living room complete with a fireplace.
“Get a good look, you won’t see much of it.”
“What?!” He doesn’t respond, the shy, mysterious client is gone, now you’re facing a man who’s strong and angry. He takes you to a room on the second floor. The dark door opens, and inside is a room with a bed, a tv, an en-suite bathroom, and barred windows.
“Welcome to your new home.” He grins wolfish and condescending before he pushes you inside, slamming the door shut. A lock turns and your heart races.
“Chan!” You beat on the door, and there’s no response. He’s left you alone for the time being. You walk around the room. None of this makes sense. You hadn’t done anything to the guy, why did he want you? The bathroom is extravagant, a large standalone tub, a shower, a double sink vanity. You look at the tub, noticing jets and even controls giving it a luxurious feel.
There’s a walk-in closet to the corner of the bathroom, where clothes, both fancy and casual hang. All of them are exactly your size and similar to what you wear. The realization gives you a bone chilling revelation.
He’s been watching you.
A nauseous feeling presents itself in your stomach. Who exactly is this guy.. And what the hell does he want?
Your heels cause your feet to ache, and you slip them off, your feet now touching the cold floor. Your dress is short, the air cold, forcing goosebumps to rise on your skin as you look out the window between the bars at the sunset.
Would Hyunjin know to look for you? Would he even realize you were missing? It had been days since you talked. The thoughts cause your head to ache. The bed is large, it dominates the middle of the room along the dark painted wall. The blankets are soft, fluffy and warm. The sheets are fresh, like they were washed earlier that day. Like he had prepared this for you.
Sitting on the bed you stare at the ceiling, a chandelier hangs down, making the room feel fancy, elite, and yet all you feel is an unnerving chill to the cold atmosphere.
You turn the tv on, a low hum of noise in the otherwise deadly silent room, but it doesn’t help. Eventually the lock clicks over and the door opens, revealing Chan with a tray of food.
“Figured you might be getting hungry.” He smiles. The way he’s so casual about this makes your skin crawl.
“What am I here for?”
“All in due time, dragonfly.” His grin is that wolfish, smug smile.
“What did I ever do to you for you to take me prisoner?” He fixes your food on a plate, it’s your favorite. It makes questions swirl in your head.
“It’s your favorite,” he presents it gently, with a coke.
“How long have you been watching me..?”
You’re not entirely sure you want the answer, but all of this is so crazy you need something, some form of clarity.
“For a long while, dragonfly.”
“Why…” the nickname he keeps calling you feels possessive. It grates on your nerves.
“You’ll find out. Now eat.” His voice is firm. He notices your hesitation.
“It’s not poisoned, besides if that were the plan, you never would’ve left the club.” He keeps that same grin on his face.
“Now eat. You’re going to need your strength.”
“What for…”
“Eat.” The word is clipped, his face now falling to a frown. The fork clanks against the plate as you eat. The food is delicious, but the silence is thick with unsaid words and tension.
“You said you were a business man…”
“Yeah.” He watches you eat, eyes sharp.
“You know my brother…”
“Uh huh.”
“Friend or foe?”
“What do you think, dragonfly?” The inflection in his voice says he wants you to guess, despite the answer being obvious.
“What did he do?”
Chan chuckles, it’s dark and it sends a shiver down our spine.
“You’re a curious one. The time for questions is over. Finish your food.”
He watches you eat every bite. It's uncomfortable. It’s weird. It's obsessive even. Once your plate is clean, and your soda can is empty, he takes the tray and walks out abruptly, the door closing and the lock once again clicking in place. Your brows furrow, waiting in the room awkwardly.
Minutes pass and the door opens again. This time he’s carrying a case.
“What’s that…?” You trail off, fear present in your voice. He turns his back to you, setting the case on the little desk under the tv mounted on the wall.
“Ch-Chan..?”
His body is large enough that you can’t really see what he’s doing. Once he turns around, you can see the needle.
“What the fuck is that?!” Panic seizes your voice as you back against the headboard. He advances towards you.
“Shhh, relax, Dragonfly. It's just going to help you relax.”
“I am relaxed!” It comes out rushed, frantic.
“Give me your arm, don’t make this harder.”
At the last second you scoot off the bed, going into the bathroom, heart racing, and when you're about to lock the door, he busts through it, forcing the door to knock into your forehead.
You cry out in pain and walk backwards falling back into the tub where he follows you, taking your arm and injecting the needle.
“No! No!” You squirm but it’s too late. It’s done. The liquid is warm in your veins.
“What.. was that..” your voice slurs suddenly.
“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re just going to sleep.” His grin is sick, as your vision spots.
“That’s a good girl.” He praises you, but his tone is vile and condescending as it fades out and everything goes dark.
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( s. changbin x fem!reader ) • warnings. unprotected sex , p n v , changbin lifts reader up , dirty talk 𓄵 word count. 489 { back to library }
sometimes you liked ragebaiting your boyfriend , especially when he just got home from the gym. “hey baby.” he dropped his gym bag , immediately coming to kiss you , like he always did.
“hi binnie.”
he didn’t even bother showering before crawling into bed with you. “you know, stays say you’re getting smaller.” you smirked , watching him lift his head up off your chest.
“what?”
you chuckled at his confused face. “yeah they said you looked like you were slimming down , and i gotta say binnie.” you clicked your tongue trying not to laugh. “i think they might be right.”
“you think im getting smaller? i literally started bulking again.” he said , sitting up on his knees ; it took you everything not to fold , because you loved when he bulked , and you could tell he was bulking again. “baby i can still carry you.”
“i don’t know bin , last it felt like you were gonna drop me.” you bit down on your lip to conceal your laugh.
and that’s how you found yourself suspended in the air , changbins arms tucked under your thighs as his cock drilled into you. “fuck binnie!”
he held you up with no ease , his cock hitting deep inside you. “fuck baby you’re always so tight in this position.” he grunted. “am i too small now?”
he held you up against the wall , slowly grinding into you. “look at me baby.” he grabbed your chin. “look at you.” he smirked , kissing your lips , laughing when you chased his lips , delivering a deep thrust that had you gasping at the sheer thickness that was stretching you out. “such a needy slut for my dick.”
“i can feel you tightening around , you gonna cum for me baby?”
“fuck yes!” you screamed , he moved you up and down on his dick. “binnie i’m gonna cum!”
“cum for me baby.”
he held you down on him , shaking in his arms as you came. “fuck.” he cursed as you came down from your high , slowly moving his hips as he came to his peak.
“shit.”
sitting down on the bed , holding you in his lap as he pulled you into a messy kiss , his cock half hard inside you; his neck wrapped lazily around your neck , pulling away , giving you a peck.
“you still think i can’t hold you up?” you smirked , grinding down on his cock , he hissed , his cock getting hard again.
Our Sanctuary
Bang Chan X f! Reader
MDNI | Mature | Explicit | Fluff
Four months into a hidden pregnancy, you and Bang Chan navigate the quiet sanctuary of your domestic bubble, choosing to embrace your deep intimacy and keep your high-stakes secrets in the dark.
SSB1
The kitchen tiles are cool beneath your bare feet. A shock of cold that travels up through your arches, grounding you in the predawn quiet. The apartment is still, no hum of traffic yet, no distant sirens, just the soft whoosh of the refrigerator and your own slow footsteps padding across the floor.
Your mouth feels like sandpaper. The water bottle on your nightstand was empty, the last drops drained hours ago during one of those half-awake moments you've grown accustomed to. Pregnancy thirst, the books called it. A normal symptom. Normal. You've learned to redefine the word over these past four months.
The cabinet door opens with a whisper. You reach for a glass, your movements slower now, more deliberate. Four months. You've crossed the threshold from the grueling first trimester into something resembling stability. The nausea has faded from a constant roar to an occasional murmur. The exhaustion still clings to you, but it's different now, less bone-deep sickness, more the weight of your body working overtime to build something miraculous.
You're heavier. Fuller. Your belly presses against the thin cotton of his tank top, stretching the fabric in ways it was never designed to accommodate. It's an old one, from the depths of his closet, the logo cracked and faded. You've claimed it as yours now, along with most of his wardrobe. The tank hangs loose around your shoulders, gapes at the armholes, but across your midsection it pulls snug, a visible testament to the life growing inside you.
Braless. You can't deal with underwire anymore. Can't deal with lace either. The delicate scratch of it against your sensitized skin, the way it digs into your hips. So you've surrendered to simple white cotton panties, the kind that sit low on your hips and feel like nothing at all. Practical. Soft. Enough.
You fill the glass from the filtered pitcher and turn to lean against the counter. The water is cold, so cold it almost hurts going down, and you drink half of it in three long swallows. Outside the kitchen window, the sky is still dark, that deep blue-black that comes just before dawn begins its slow creep.
Then you feel him.
His body heat reaches you first, a familiar radiant warmth. Then his arms slide around you from behind, his chest pressing against your back, his face burying itself in the curve of your neck. His hands find your belly immediately—they always do now, drawn to the swell like magnets, splaying wide over the stretched cotton. Protective. Possessive. Amazed.
"Hey." His voice is low, graveled with sleep. His lips move against your skin with the word, a soft brush that raises goosebumps down your arms. "You okay?"
"Just thirsty." You lean back into him, letting his solidity hold you up. "Go back to sleep."
"Mmm." He doesn't move. His thumbs trace slow circles on your stomach, a habit he's developed without noticing. "Woke up. You weren't there."
The words are simple, but the weight behind them isn't. In the months since you moved into his apartment, since the world narrowed to these walls and the secret growing inside you, he's become attuned to your absence. Even in sleep. Even in exhaustion.
And he is exhausted. Dance practice. Recording sessions. Production meetings that stretch into the night. He pours himself out for a hundred thousand strangers every single day, and then he comes home and pours whatever's left into you. You've told him to rest. You've begged him to sleep. But Christopher Bang does not know how to be anything less than fully present for the people he loves.
You feel it then. Pressed against the curve of your ass, unmistakable even through the thin cotton of your panties. The hard, insistent length of him.
"Mr. Bang." Your voice tilts toward teasing. "What kind of dream were you having?"
He chuckles, low and rough. His breath fans warm against your ear, stirring the fine hairs at your temple. "Not a dream. Just morning wood, baby."
"Just morning wood," you repeat, skeptical.
"Just morning wood," he confirms, but you can hear the smile in his voice, the one that carves those deep dimples into his cheeks.
You bite your lip, a slow curl of heat unfurling in your belly. Deliberately, you press back against him, a gentle grind that makes his breath hitch. Your free hand comes to rest on top of his, your fingers threading between his knuckles where they press against your stomach.
"Baby," you say, your voice light, conversational, as if you're addressing someone else entirely, "daddy's being naughty again."
His laugh is a surprised burst of sound, bright and genuine. It fills the quiet kitchen, bounces off the walls, warms you from the inside out. This. This is what you've been missing, the ease of it, the playfulness. For months, your physical relationship has been suspended in time, both of you too terrified of the first trimester to risk anything. But you're past that now. Stronger. Ready.
"Baby doesn't mind," Chan murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Daddy's naughtiness is the reason he's coming."
"Stop saying 'he.' We don't know that yet."
"You're right, you're right." He's grinning now, that boyish, unguarded grin that makes your heart stutter. "The little one. Our little one."
"Better."
He spins you then, slowly, carefully, his hands gentle on your waist. You turn until you're facing him, your back against the counter's edge, your belly brushing against his abs. His hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and he looks at you with an intensity that makes the air in the kitchen feel thin.
His hair is a disaster. Messy and unstyled, falling over his forehead in chaotic waves. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but there's something else burning beneath the drowsiness, something darker and hungrier. He's shirtless, his chest bare, the muscles of his shoulders and arms thrown into relief by the dim light filtering through the window. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and beneath them, the evidence of his arousal strains against the fabric.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi," you whisper back.
The kiss, when it comes, is not gentle. It starts soft—a brush of his lips against yours, tentative, searching. But then his mouth opens, and your mouth opens, and suddenly it's not soft anymore. It's desperate. It's hungry. It's months of careful distance and terrified restraint dissolving in a single, searing moment.
His tongue slides against yours, tasting of sleep and something sweet, something uniquely him. His hands leave your face, sliding down your neck, your shoulders, your arms, until they find your thighs. He grips you firmly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and lifts.
You gasp into his mouth as he sets you onto the counter. The marble is cold against your bare legs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body. He steps between your thighs, settling there like he belongs, like this is where he's always meant to be. His hands slide up your legs, over your hips, your waist, until they find the hem of the tank top.
He pulls back from the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, the sound loud in the silent kitchen. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and his chest rises and falls with the effort of restraint.
"God," he breathes. "I missed you."
"I'm right here."
"I know." His hands tighten on your waist. "I know. But I still missed you. I missed this."
Your heart clenches. You know what he means. You've been here, together, every night, his arms around you, his hands on your belly. But this—the heat, the hunger, the reckless abandon—has been locked away, deemed too risky. You've both been so careful. So terrified.
But you're not terrified anymore.
He reaches for the straps of the tank top, his fingers hooking underneath the thin fabric. He pulls them down, slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on yours the entire time. The cotton slides over your shoulders, your arms, catching briefly on your wrists before falling to pool around your hips on the counter.
Your breasts are bare.
Chan stares.
His eyes trace the curves of you, the new fullness that pregnancy has brought. Your breasts are larger now, heavier, the areolas a darker shade of pink and wider than before. Veins trace faint blue lines beneath the skin, mapping the changes your body is undergoing. You feel a flash of vulnerability—your body has become something unfamiliar, something you're still learning to recognize—but then he looks at your face, and the expression in his eyes steals your breath.
It's not just hunger. It's wonder.
"How," he says, his voice barely a whisper, "are they even bigger?"
A laugh escapes you, surprised and genuine. "It's normal. During pregnancy. They're getting ready to—"
"Milk," he finishes. "I know. I read the books." His eyes flick back to your breasts, and he swallows hard. "I just didn't expect..."
"Didn't expect what?"
"Didn't expect to want you even more." His voice is rough, almost pained. "Every day. Every change. I just want you more."
He leans in, his lips finding the curve of your left breast. The first kiss is whisper-soft, a brush of warmth against the sensitive skin. Then another. Then another. He traces a path from the outside curve inward, toward the center, toward the peak that's already tightening in anticipation.
"I should take advantage of these now," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. "Before the little one hogs it."
You laugh, the sound bright and easy, and then he closes his mouth over your nipple and the laugh dissolves into a moan.
His tongue circles the tight peak, slow and deliberate. The sensation is electric—sharper than before, more intense. Everything is more intense now, your body recalibrated to a higher sensitivity. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, and he groans against your breast.
"Okay?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look at your face.
"More than okay."
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. His tongue laves the underside, tracing the new fullness, before drawing the nipple into his mouth. He sucks gently, rhythmically, and the pull of it sends sparks skittering down your spine, lighting up nerves you didn't know you had. Your head falls back against the cabinet, your spine arching, pressing yourself deeper into his mouth.
"Chris," you breathe. "Chris, I—"
He pulls back, his lips glistening, his eyes dark. "Bedroom?"
"Bedroom."
He lifts you off the counter as if you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist, your arms circling his neck, and he carries you through the dark apartment with the practiced ease of someone who could navigate this space blindfolded. His bedroom, your bedroom now, yours together, is still warm, the sheets rumpled from sleep, the pillows still carrying the indentations of your heads.
He lays you down on the bed with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. Then he steps back, just for a moment, and pushes his sweatpants down over his hips. They fall to the floor, followed by his boxers, and then he's standing before you, fully naked, fully magnificent.
His body is still the one you remember—the broad shoulders, the carved chest, the trail of dark hair leading down his stomach—but your eyes fix on his cock, thick and fully erect, curving upward toward his belly. The sight of him, the sheer familiar beauty of him, sends a pulse of heat straight to your core.
He kneels on the bed between your spread legs, his eyes traveling over your body with the same reverence he showed in the kitchen. Your tank top is still bunched around your hips. He reaches for it, pulling it the rest of the way off, and then his fingers find the waistband of your simple white cotton panties.
"These," he says, his voice rough, "are surprisingly sexy."
"They're practical."
"Practical can be sexy." He eases them down your legs, over your knees, past your feet. He tosses them aside and then just looks at you. All of you. Splayed out on his bed, your belly soft and round, your breasts full, your thighs slightly thicker than they were four months ago. "Everything about you is sexy."
He bends over you, his body covering yours but careful not to put weight on your stomach. His face hovers inches above yours, his eyes searching.
"Can I?" The question is soft, almost tentative. "It's been a while. And I know the doctor said it was okay, but I need to hear you say it."
You reach up, your fingers brushing the hair back from his forehead. "Yes. But gentle. Just... gentle."
"Always," he whispers. "Always gentle with you."
He reaches between your bodies, his fingers finding your entrance. A slow, testing touch. You're wet—achingly, embarrassingly wet. The kiss in the kitchen, the attention to your breasts, the sheer anticipation of this moment—it's all pooled between your legs, making you slick and ready.
He feels it too. A soft groan escapes him, and then his hand is gone, replaced by the blunt head of his cock, pressing against your opening.
The first push is slow. Exquisite. You feel every inch of him as he enters you, the stretch of it, the fullness. Your body yields to him, welcoming him in, and he keeps going, steady and unhurried, until he's buried to the root.
"Oh," you breathe.
"Yeah." His voice is strained, his forehead pressed to yours. "Yeah, baby."
He doesn't move. He stays there, deep inside you, letting you adjust to the sensation. The world narrows to this—the two of you, connected, his breath on your lips, his heart hammering against your chest. Outside, dawn is beginning to paint the sky in shades of gray and pale gold. But in here, time has stopped.
"Okay?" he asks again.
"Okay. Move. Please move."
He does.
His thrusts are slow, steady, deliberate. Each one a rolling wave of pleasure that builds in the base of your spine and radiates outward. He watches your face the entire time, his eyes never leaving yours, cataloging every flutter of your eyelids, every parting of your lips. His moans are soft, barely more than breaths, but they vibrate through his chest and into yours.
"You feel—" He breaks off, swallows. "You feel so good. So tight. God, baby."
The fullness is overwhelming. You feel stretched around him, exquisitely full, every nerve ending alight. He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then sinks back in, slow and deep. The rhythm he sets is patient, careful, designed to bring you nothing but pleasure.
Your hands find his back. His shoulder blades, the dip of his spine, the flex and shift of his muscles with every thrust. You clutch at him, anchoring yourself, letting the sensation roll through you.
"Talk to me," he murmurs. "Tell me what you need."
"Just this. Just you."
His mouth finds yours, the kiss deep and searching. His pace remains steady, unhurried, but you can feel the tension building in his body, the trembling restraint. He's holding back. He's always holding back, even now, even when he's buried inside you.
"Chris," you gasp. "You can—you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." His voice is firm. "This is about you. Only you."
You don't have the breath to argue. The pleasure is coiling tighter, a spiral of heat that winds through your belly and tightens your thighs around his hips. Your nails dig into his back, your spine arching off the bed. He feels it—of course he feels it—and his thrusts quicken, just slightly, just enough.
"That's it," he breathes. "Come on, baby. Let go. I've got you."
The coil snaps.
Your climax rolls through you in waves, soft and deep, less explosive than before your pregnancy but somehow more profound. It radiates outward from your core, suffusing every limb, leaving you trembling and gasping beneath him. He fucks you through it, his rhythm steady, his eyes locked on your face, watching you come undone.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so fucking beautiful."
As the aftershocks fade, he pulls out. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, but he's already shifting, his hand wrapping around his cock, stroking himself quickly. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw tight, and then he groans—low and ragged—and spills himself onto your belly, hot and thick.
You stare at him, at the mess he's made, at the way his chest heaves with exertion. An unexpected laugh bubbles up from your throat.
"Why did you pull out? I'm already pregnant."
He opens his eyes, still breathing hard, and a sheepish grin spreads across his face. "I was being mindful of the little one."
"The little one is fine. The little one is the size of an avocado right now."
"An avocado that I don't want to traumatize." He collapses beside you, his body curving around yours, his hand finding your belly immediately. His release is sticky between you, but neither of you cares. "Too early to introduce them to... fluids."
You laugh again, the sound bright in the dim room. "Fluids."
"I'm serious."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm a considerate father." He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your neck. "And a considerate partner. Who just wanted to make sure you were comfortable."
Your laughter softens into a smile. You turn your head, your nose brushing against his. "I was. I am. That was... exactly what I needed."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The dawn light is stronger now, filtering through the curtains and painting gold stripes across the bedspread. Chan stretches beside you, his body still tangled with yours, his hand still pressed to your belly. You can feel the baby moving—a faint flutter, like butterfly wings against the inside of your skin. Can he feel it too? You think yes, from the way his breath catches.
"Hey little one," he murmurs, his lips brushing your stomach. "Sorry about the fluids."
You swat his shoulder. "Stop."
"Never." He kisses your belly again, softer this time. "Daddy loves you. Daddy loves your mommy. Daddy is going to go make breakfast as soon as he can move again."
"You have work."
"I have work," he agrees, but he doesn't move. He stays right where he is, his face buried against your stomach, his body curved around yours. The moment stretches, soft and golden, until the alarm on his phone shatters it.
He groans. "Five more minutes."
"Go. I'll be here when you get back."
He lifts his head, his eyes finding yours. "Promise?"
"Promise."
He extracts himself from the bed with visible reluctance, his hand trailing across your skin as he stands. You watch him pad toward the bathroom, admiring the play of muscles in his back, the way the dawn light catches the edges of his form. A few minutes later, you hear the shower start.
You lie there, your hand on your belly, your body still humming from his touch. The baby flutters again, as if in response, and you smile.
Four months down. Five to go. And then, the real adventure begins.
When Chan emerges from the bathroom, hair damp and skin flushed, he's wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. He crosses to the closet, pulling out clothes for the day—dark jeans, a simple black t-shirt, a jacket for the studio. You watch him dress, appreciating the ritual of it, the quiet domesticity.
"Breakfast first," he says, catching your eye in the mirror. "I'm not leaving until you've eaten."
"You're stubborn."
"Learned from the best."
You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles. "Fine. But something simple. And then you're going to work, and I'm going to take a nap."
"Sounds like a plan."
He finishes dressing and then comes back to the bed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there, warm and soft.
"I love you," he says. "Both of you."
"I know." You catch his hand, squeeze it. "We love you too. Now go make breakfast. Your child is hungry."
His smile is brilliant, dimples and all, and he leaves the room with a lightness in his step that wasn't there yesterday. You listen to him moving through the kitchen, the clatter of pans and the opening of the refrigerator, and you let yourself sink deeper into the sheets.
The world outside doesn't know about you. Doesn't know about the baby, about the life growing inside this apartment, about the love that's taken root in these walls. For now, you're a secret. A beautiful, fragile, precious secret.
You had quietly made peace with the shadows of this arrangement, content to let the world stay clueless while your entire universe narrowed down to a single, crucial focus: bringing his child safely and healthily into the light. The storm of corporate fallout, the inevitable media frenzy, and the legal warfare of breaking his contract were all realities you had agreed to not think about during your late-night kitchen whispers, choosing instead to stabilize your private sanctuary and face the music together only when the baby's safely in your arms.
( 애인 ) you don't expect anything to come out of rating your exes—well, you don't expect them to see it. but it doesn't go as awful as you'd think...
💭 :: 27ss dirty jokes/innuendos allusions to sex reader is lowk #thatgirl jeongin gets his own warning seungmin barks han is precious sunoo/ni-ki/megan cameo
𑣲⋆ note ⸝⸝ this is for my lovely amazing thoughtful kind talented pretty girlfriend @kloversung because it's our one month (everyone cheer 🍻) i hope she knows how much i love her & i wanted to write a silly smau for her ♡ i love you ky baby (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
or: you didn't think a mere pheromone perfume would have this much of an effect on him. congratulations, you've earned his attention and the hatered of your neighbors, boo you whore
warnings: MDNI! ot8 x reader (separate), they go FERAL, probably highly unrealistic portrays of what a pheromone perfume does, dom/sub dynamics, overstim edging piv begging etc etc, scent kink?, they're really really needy, overuse of italics
bang chan
"P-please please, just -"
and it's the first you've heard him beg.
his voice breaks into a ragged exhale, forehead pressed against your shoulder, inhaling like he's trying to burrow into your skin. His hips stutter, losing rhythm entirely, and the bedframe bangs against the wall with every desperate push of his hips against yours.
He'd laughed when you uncapped the perfume bottle - "Really, babe? Pheromones?" - watching as you dabbed it behind your ears, along your wrists. "Cute," he’d teased, leaning in to sniff you with exaggerated flair. "Smells like -"
His breath caught.
"it actually smells...nice"
And within minutes he was on you.
You didn’t think it’d be this bad - didn’t think the perfume would turn him into this much of a mess, wrecking you like he’s trying to brand himself inside you.
He’s close, faster than any other time - you can tell by the way his rhythm stutters, the way his fingers tremble where they grip you. But he won’t cum, won’t let himself, not until you’re shaking apart under him first. "No wait-" he twitched when you clench around him, his hips jerking wildly, like he’s losing alll semblance of control.
His forehead drops to yours, sweat and tears and god knows what dripping between you, thrusting hard, grinding deep enough to make you sob. "Gonna - fuck, gonna ruin you-"
His thighs tense violently, muscles locking up as he tries - and fails - to hold back. You can feel him twitching inside you, his cock pulsing in erratic little jerks as his breath hitches against your skin. "you're - hnn -you're g-gonna -" His words dissolve into a broken whine when you tighten around him again, dragging a punched out moan from his throat.
His hand slides between you, thumb circling your clit with a precision that shouldn’t be possible when he’s this far gone, tipping you over with a scream that he swallows with his mouth.
He fucks you through it, rough, chasing his own release like he’ll die without it.
then entire body stills , eyes rolling back as he finally, finally gives in - cuming with a choked off cry that sounds more like pain than pleasure, his hips rutting forward in tiny thrusts as he spills into you.
But even as his orgasm crashes over him, he doesn't stop - can't stop. His hands scramble to grip your thighs, dragging you impossibly closer as his hips jerk forward again, his cock still hard and twitching inside you. "it's not -fuck- s'not enough."
lee minho
the perfume must've worn off by now, 'cuz it's been hours.
You try to push back against his thigh, your arms trembling, but he groans, and in one fluid motion, he wrenches your wrists behind your back, pinning them there with one hand.
"Thought you could - hngh - get away?" His voice is a dark laugh, but it cracks halfway through, betraying the desperation beneath the bravado. His hips stutter, losing rhythm for just a second, and he groans , forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. "Fuck - you’re ruining me -"
He’d been smirking when you first sprayed the perfume, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. "Really, baby? You think that’s gonna work on me?"
but then it's like a switch flipped - One second he was teasing, the next he had you bent over the couch, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he ruined you.
Now, his free hand slides around your throat, holding , "Gonna - hnn - gonna fuck you stupid ," he rasps, but it sounds more like a plea than anything. His hips snap forward, and you feel him twitch inside you, again, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
The couch creaks so loud you worry it's gonna break, leather protesting under the force of his thrusts, and you try to push back against his thigh again - just to see what he’ll do.
His grip on your wrists tightens instantly, fingers digging in hard " Stay still ," he orders, and then his mouth is on your neck, sucking, marking you as his. His hips jerk forward again, erratic now, and you can feel him trembling - shaking - barely holding it together.
"M-Min, please -" Your voice cracks, barely audible over the wet smack of his hips slamming into yours,
He pulls your hair sharp, tipping your head back, and his lips brush your ear. "Please what , sweetheart?" He’s panting, voice wrecked, but there’s that smug edge to it, "Use your words."
You whimper, and he groans like the sound punched the air from his lungs. His grip tightens almost painfully, and you can feel him twitching inside you again, so close. "Wanna cum,"
"Then cum," he growls, biting down on your shoulder again.
And you do -
you shatter around him, vision going white, and he follows with a groan, his hips stuttering wildly as he spills inside you for the nth time tonight.
seo changbin
“You smell so good,” Changbin groans, and it's the first time he's been so turned on - so hard - by something like the mere scent of you, and the thinks you've unlocked something new in him.
“Yeah?” you murmur, running your tongue along the underside in one slow, filthy stroke. His breath punches out of him like he’s been hit, fingers scrambling to fist in your hair. “You like how I look too, or just the perfume?”
Changbin chokes - half laugh, half moan - before his head drops back against the mattress. “Fuck - both, obviously - ” His hips roll up, desperate, but you hold him down with a palm splayed over his stomach, relishing the way his abs jump under your touch.
“God, please-” His voice cracks, and you finally take him into your mouth, swallowing him down until your nose brushes the wiry hair at his base. His hips stutter, thighs trembling under your grip, and you hum around him just to feel the way his whole body seizes.
his thighs quiver under your palms as you hollow your cheeks, dragging your lips up his length. A string of broken curses spills from his lips, fingers tightening in your hair - not to guide, just to hold on.
The musk of his arousal mixes with the heady sweetness clinging to your skin, and when you swipe your tongue over the slit, he whimpers, hips jerking off the bed.
“F-fuck,” His voice is ragged, breath coming in shallow pants. You take him deep again, relishing the way his cock twitches against your tongue, the salt of him thick on your taste buds. His abs flex violently when you swallow around him, a choked-off moan tearing from his throat. “God, your mouth - shit, shit, shit-”
You pull off just to watch his face crumple, lips slick and swollen as you tease the tip with featherlight kisses. His chest heaves, eyes wild, and when you grin up at him, he makes a sound like he’s been gutted.
“Please,” he gasps, hips canting up uselessly. “Please, please, please-”
The desperation in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. You lick a slow stripe from base to tip, humming when his fingers spasm in your hair. “Gonna-” His warning is half swallowed by a groan as you take him all the way down again, nose pressed to his pelvis, and stay there, throat working around him until his legs shake.
He comes with a sob, hips stuttering as he spills down your throat, and you swallow every last drop, lapping at the oversensitive head until he’s whimpering.
Hwang Hyunjin
The shower spray is hot, steam curling around Hyunjin’s bare shoulders as he kneels on the tiled floor, hands clamped around your thighs to hold you still.
He'd crowded you against the tiled wall, his mouth already on your neck before the showerhead even finished warming up, frantically pulling both your clothes off as his hands slid down your waist, "Fuck," he muttered, voice rough, nose dragging along your collarbone "What the hell do you have on?"
You barely had time to answer - not that you could’ve, not with the way his tongue was suddenly all over you, his hips pressing into yours with a desperation that made your breath hitch.
The saleswoman had promised the perfume would be effective, but you hadn’t expected this. Hyunjin’s fingers dug into your thighs as he lifted you, your back hitting the slick tiles, and then his mouth was between your legs before you could even gasp.
His tongue was relentless, hot and wet and insistent, licking into you like he was trying to memorize your taste.
"Oh my god-" you choked out, fingers tangling in his dripping hair, tugging as his lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur. He moaned against you, the sound muffled but filthy, hips jerking forward, grinding against your leg.
"Taste - fuck -" he slurred, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in, tongue fucking into you with a broken noise.
Water cascaded over both of you, he was too busy lapping at you like he was starved.
"Fuck, you taste—" he groaned against your skin, the words muffled by your flesh as his lips sealed around you again, sucking hard enough to make your toes curl against the slick tiles. You gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging as his tongue pressed deeper, fucking into you with a rhythm that had your vision spotting.
"Hyune—" you whined, back arching off the wall, water spraying across your heated skin. He didn’t let up, his hands sliding under your thighs to hike a leg higher, spreading you wider.
His nose brushed your clit as he licked a slow, filthy stripe up your slit, and you squeaked, hips bucking wildly. "God, you’re - hnn - you’re ruining me," you babbled, voice cracking as his tongue circled your clit again. your orgasm was building up, fast .
He pulled back just enough to pant against your thigh, lips slick and swollen, "Smell so good," he slurred, nuzzling into your skin like he was drunk on you, his hips rutting against your leg in frantic, aborted thrusts. "Taste even better- "
You barely had time to even breathe before his lips sealed around your clit again, and - oh god - your vision whited out. Your back arched off the wall as you came with a broken cry, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.
He didn’t stop, tongue lapping at you through it, drinking you down, rutting against your leg-
And then he broke.
His own climax hit him, hips stuttering as he came untouched, his cock twitching against your calf, stripes of white mixing with the water running down your skin.
his forehead pressed to your stomach, whole body shuddering as he rode it out. You carded your fingers through his sopping hair, watching as he trembled, his breath coming in ragged gasps before he managed,
"please tell me you bought whatever you had on"
han Jisung
"please, please don’t stop," Jisung whines, voice cracking as his hands scramble uselessly at your hips, fingers slipping against your sweat slick skin. His thighs tremble under you, muscles jumping with every roll of your hips, every tight clench of your cunt around him.
You’re both a mess - his cock twitching inside you, oversensitive and leaking, your own thighs sticky with his spend and yours, dripping down onto his stomach in a slow, obscene trickles.
The room reeks of sex, of sweat and musk and the thick, honeyed scent of that godforsaken pheromone perfume you have on that got him so putty in your hands in the first place.
"You’re so good," he babbles, hips jerking up helplessly, chasing the drag of your walls around him even though he’s shaking with it, even though his cock is red and oversensitive and dripping.
"So pretty, so perfect - fuck, fuck, fuck, your pussy’s killing me-" His words are cut off when you grind down, the swollen head of his cock catching on that sweet spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
You’re exhausted, this is - what, the third orgasm? fourth? you've lost count. your thighs burning, cunt throbbing with every movement.
but with the way he’s looking at you, lips bitten raw, eyes wet and pleading, tears clinging to his lashes, you can’t stop. Not when he sounds like this, not when he’s begging so pretty.
His fifth (?) orgasm hits him so intensely, it's got his back arching off the bed, hands clawing at your thighs like he’s trying to ground himself, to survive it.
You feel him pulse inside you, but there’s barely anything left to spill, just weak little spurts that make him sob,
"N-no more, please-" he chokes, but his hips stutter up anyway, betraying him, fucking shallowly into you like his body’s forgotten how to stop.
"You can take it," you murmur, riding him through the aftershocks of his fifth release like it’s nothing, like his cock isn’t twitching pathetically inside you, oversensitive and spent.
"C’mon, baby, one more - just one. For me." You grind down, relishing the way his breath hitches, the way his hips jerk up helplessly, betraying him even as he sobs out a weak "No, no, ‘m gonna die-"
he looks ruined right now. it only spurrs you on, rolling your hips in tight, practiced circles, milking him dry until his sixth orgasm punches out of him with a choked gasp. It’s barely anything this time, just a weak dribbles that leak out around him.
You settle above him, panting, thighs trembling with the effort of holding still. His chest heaves, sweat slick and flushed, his hands limp at his sides like he’s given up.
You lean down, pressing a kiss to his jaw, humming when he whimpers at the contact. "So good for me," you coo, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. "Took it so well."
His breath hitches when you shift, and then you’re moving again, slow at first, then faster, his oversensitive cock stirring inside you despite his weak protests.
His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in, his voice cracking around a "Fuck " that turns into a broken moan halfway through.
You lean down, pressing your lips to his ear, your voice dripping with sweetness. "Think you can handle another?" His
lee felix
Felix’s thighs tremble where they’re splayed open, his cock twitching pathetically in your hand - red and overstimulated, dripping precum onto his stomach in a messy trail.
His breath comes in shaky gasps, lips bitten raw, fingers clawing at the sheets, trying to anchor himself. "P-please - fuck - please," His voice breaks, high n' so desperate , tears welling in his lashes as you slow your strokes to a torturous crawl.
You remember the way he’d grinned when you first showed him the perfume bottle - how he’d rolled his eyes but bought it anyway because you’d pouted, because he always caves for you.
Who knew he'd be like this. His hips jerk off the bed, his cock leaking against your palm, his entire body wracked with shudders as you squeeze him justtt shy of release again.
"No - hnn - no more , I can’t -" He sobs , back arching, eyelashes rimmed with tears.
his stomach is drenched , a glossy mess of precum and sweat, his abs clenching with every thrust. His cock pulsing in your hand, the head flushed dark and aching.
You brush your thumb over it, slow , just to watch his entire body jerk, his mouth falling open in a soundless scream.
his arm flew up to cover his face, ashamed of the tear spilling down his cheeks. "Y-you’re killing me -"
"You bought it for me," you murmur, and his hips twitch up helplessly. "S’your fault , baby."
Felix whines, a high and broken sound, his fingers tangling in the sheets like he’s trying to rip them apart.
"D-didn’t - hngh - didn’t know -" His words are cut off when you speed up, wrist flicking up in quick strokes, his toes curling into the mattress. "F-fuck - stop , s’too much -"
But you don’t stop- you slow down instead, your strokes lazy, teasing, and Felix keens, his entire body bowing off the bed. "P- please ," he begs, "just - fuck - just let me cum -" His cock twitches, dripping, and you grin, " Ask nicely," you purr , and he chokes, his face flushing darker.
Felix’s breath hitches, his lips parted around ragged gasps, his eyes rolled back with desperation . "P-please," he whispers, voice breaking , "please let me cum, please-" His hips jerk up, pathetic , and you coo, "good boy ,"
Kim seungmin
gosh if Seungmin was in the right state of mind, he would be embarrassed right now.
his fingers settle against your hips - gentle at first, just the barest press of his thumbs into your skin as you rock back onto him at a pace so slow it’s cruel.
The headboard isn’t even knocking. The sheets aren’t even rumpled. You can feel him trembling beneath you, his thighs locked tight, his breath coming in little gasps every time you clench around him "F-fuck," he grits out, voice strained, "you’re - hnn -you’re killing me -"
and you shift backwards, just enough for your hair to brush his cheek - just enough for him to catch a whiff of you .
And then - oh - his head falls back against the pillows with a thud , his eyes rolling so far back they might stay there. "Oh," he chokes, voice gone , "oh fuck -" His hips jerk up violently, slamming into you so hard you yelp, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you upwards. "S-smell - fuck - smell so good -" His words slur together, his hips pistoning up mindlessly , his cock throbbing inside you.
"hnng- thought it 'wasn't gonna work' " you tease, grinding down, and Seungmin snaps , you don't even register him flipping you onto your back so fast the room spins .
His lips crash into yours, messy and so desperate , tongue licking into your mouth "gonna ruin you -" he gasps between kisses, his hips snapping forward with a wet slap, his cock pulsing and leaking inside you.
His hands wander, greedy, one tangling in your hair to yank your head back, the other groping at your throat , "M-mine," he murmurs, teeth scraping your jaw, "all fucking mine -"
yang jeongin
Jeongin hates you.
At least, that’s what he keeps saying into your skin between desperate bites - his hips pistoning into you from behind so hard the bed screeches across the floor.
"f-fuck" His voice cracks , stuttering , his cock twitching inside you "H-hate you - hate how you smell -"
And it’s hilarious , really, because he was the one who bought it for you.
Jeongin had shoved the little black box into your hands two days ago, muttering something about "thought you'd like it."
The box was sleek, expensive-looking, the kind of thing that made your brows raise when you peeled back the velvet lining. Pheromone Amplifier, the label read in delicate silver script. For enhanced attraction - effects may vary.
Idiot. He hadn’t even read the fine print.
Now? His teeth are sunk into your shoulder, his hips slamming into yours like he’s trying to punish you for his own mistake.
"S’your fault," he hisses, voice wrecked, his hands clawing at your waist, pulling you back onto him, "Should’ve - hngh - should’ve thrown it away -"
You laugh between a moan, grinding back just to hear him whine, and he stops , flipping you onto your back so fast the room spins. His pupils are blown , lips swollen from biting them, his cock throbbing where he quickly sheathed it back nside you.
"S’not funny ," he gasps, his hips are already stuttering , his rhythm falling apart as he chases his release.
His forehead drops to yours, his breath hot against your lips, and when you clench around him , he sobs , his entire body locking up. "N-no - stop " His voice is shattered, raw, his hips jerking forward helplessly. "gonna cum too fast-"
You wrap your legs around his waist to trap him, and Jeongin cums with a moan , his cock pulsing inside you as he spills, his body collapsing onto yours, "H-hate you," he whispers , but his arms are wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck, his lips pressing shaky kisses to your skin.
"it's your fault," he mumbles, and you laugh, running your fingers through his sweat damp hair.
"You bought it," you remind him, and Jeongin groans , his hips twitching against yours, he’s already hard again?
"shut up ," he whines, but he’s pulling you closer, his mouth sealing over yours in a messy, desperate kiss. "... Again ."
⌗oneofakind — lino and jisung are in a relationship .. but they both have feelings for you
( minsung x fem!reader ) • warnings. threesomes , oral ( m. receiving ), unprotected sex , language 𓄵 word count. 2789 { back to library }
( yeni’s notes ). is it really pride month if i don’t do a minsung fic
jisung was never 100% sure what his sexuality was — maybe he was bi ? he never really had a stable girlfriend , and that definitely wasn’t because he wasn’t attracted to them ; he just didn’t feel strongly for them … but he felt that way away lee know.
lee know was his roommate; and his best friend. lee know was always confident in being a bisexual man , he knew what he wanted , he dated who he wanted — when they first started living together jisung would watch the man bring in a plethora of men and women , he’d be sitting in the kitchen in the morning and they’d be tip toeing out , giving the boy an awkward smile.
the two ended up in a relationship a year after living together; and a year of lee know watch his best friend fight off his feelings for him , before he said fuck it and asked the younger boy out.
three years later , jisung had moved all his stuff into lino’s room , leaving his room empty — which is where you came in , and changed jisungs entire view on his sexuality.
you were his co-worker in your final year of college ; and after many disagreements with your roommate and her bum of a boyfriend — you needed a way out.
you and jisung had become super close at work , you knew about his boyfriend and you met lino a few times , which is why you said yes when he asked you to move in with them , freeing you from your roommate.
you had only been there a few weeks when jisung first felt it for real — maybe he already felt it but he ignored it , he walked into the kitchen and you were making breakfast for the apartment , you had been up early and feeling super grateful you decided to clean the apartment and make breakfast for everyone.
his heart jumped in his chest as you served him his food — the way it only jumped for lino. he was confused because he had fully believed that he didn’t like women , his past relationships compared to his current one with lino proving that , but here you were ; in his sweatshirt he lent to you and never asked for it back , now smelling like you.
over the next couple of months his feelings for you grew stronger ; which made him feel like crap. he had lino , he loved lino — but he couldn’t deny the feelings that were brewing inside of him for you.
and lino could tell.
lino knew his boyfriend like the back of his hand; he knew when something was up. he could tell jisung had a crush on you , and it didn’t bother him at all. even he thought you were incredibly attractive. he’d catch jisung staring at you while he was staring at you.
you were none the wiser about both the boys feelings about you , you were just extremely grateful they had given you a place to stay. of course you thought they were attractive , you’d be an idiot to not think so , but you just assumed that they were in a monogamous relationship and you loved your friendship with jisung.
“you hear what sara did yesterday during closing shift?” you and jisung sat the kitchen table sharing a bowl of ice cream; lino hadn’t been home all day and you both had the day off. “no but im sure we’ll have to fix it tomorrow.”
the two of you laughed ; the door opened lino walked into the apartment seeing the two of you sitting so close , your legs draped over his. “what are you two laughing about?”
“just a coworker.”
he nodded , making his way into the to change into something comfortable , making his way into the kitchen. “what did you two do around here all day , except eat up all the snacks?”
“we watched a bunch of movies , and cleaned up the apartment.” jisung said , you scoffed at him.
“more like i cleaned up the apartment and you laid on the couch watching tv.” jisung smiled sheepishly.
“i helped i put the shoes on the stand.”
lino smiled watching the two of you interact , you fit right in with their couple. “yn im sorry jisung is so lazy , i made him like that.” jisung pouted. “i do everything for him , so he’s used to being spoiled.”
“it’s okay , i don’t mind; it’s the least i can do for you guys after you let me stay here rent free while i finish school.” you said. “i swear i’ll find something soon and get out of your hair.”
that genuinely made jisung sad; he didn’t want you to leave , he liked the way everything was. “there’s no rush.”
and it genuinely wasn’t both of the men wanted you there , even though they hadn’t discussed it together , they both could tell they were falling for you.
“jisung-ah.” lino’s lips ghosted the neck later that night , you had been gone to bed , having to work tomorrow. you were a heavy sleeper , jisung and lino knew this which is why it made it so much easier for lino to pull jisung close to him. “hy-hyung , sh-she’s.”
“she’s sleep , i checked on her before coming to bed.” his hands tracing circles on the boys stomach. “she won’t be up for the rest of the night.” jisung barely had time to react before lino was in between his legs.
“bu-but still what if she wakes up to use the bathroom?”
“then i’d ask her to join.” lino’s finger pulling at his waistband. “i’m sure you wouldn’t mind jisung-ah.”
“ah hyung.” he whined , the thought of you join making his cock stir. “hy-hyung don’t joke like that..” lino chuckled at his boyfriend.
“and what makes you think i’m joking?”
lino pulled the younger boy's pants down. “look at how hard you’ve become.” the elder teasing the boys cock through his underwear , he whimpered. “you must really want her to wake up.” lino smirked.
“jisung-ah, do you want to fuck our pretty roommate?”
lino massaged the boys cock , jisung hissed. “come on, answer my question , be good for your hyung.”
“ye-yes.”
lino pulled down jisung boxers , wrapping his hands around his cock , stroking it. “yeah?” jisungs hips bucking up , fucking his boyfriends hand. “you wouldn’t get jealous about me giving someone else attention?”
“no-not anyone else.” he stuttered. “ju-just her.” lino smirked , releasing the boy's twitching cock , getting rid of his pajama pants , climbing back in between the boys legs.
“just her?” lino lined his cock up with jisungs hole; pushing in.
“hyung!”
lino held the boys hips as he pounded into the younger boy who whimpered and moaned below him. “i bet you she’d sound so pretty , just like you.” lino grunted. “wanna watch me fill her up? fuck her dumb just like i do you.”
“fuck yes!” lino’s hand wrapped around jisungs cock , jerking him off as his cock hit his g-spot , the boys eyes rolling to back of his head. “hyung hard please!”
lino sped up , fucking his cock deeper inside; jisung yelped cock twitching as he came hard into lino’s hands. “hy-hyung fuck i came.”
lino kept going , fucking him roughly until he reached his own peak , his cum leaking from around them , his softening cock slipping outs he fell next to the boy , wrapping his arms around his small waist. “you really like her?”
“i do.” jisung confessed. “i love you , you know i do.” lino listened. “but i can’t deny that i do also like her.”
“i would never hurt you hyung.”
“i know jisung-ah.” he pulled the boy into a cuddle. “she’s one of a kind isn’t she?” the younger boy nodded.
“what if it weirds her out or something , she still is my best friend and coworker?”
“let me talk to her , don’t worry about it.” he said. “i promise.” kissing the top of the boy who was drifting off to sleep.
—
lino stood in the kitchen answering emails when you walked through the door , sitting your bag in the chair. “god work was stressful today.”
he put his phone away; watching you open the fridge , looking for food to fill your starving stomach. “jisung had to stay late to train a new girl.” sitting down with a piece of watermelon lino cut up earlier. “he was so mad , he wanted to come home with me so bad.” you laughed.
“that’s funny because that’s how we got close.” you said. “he trained me on my first day.” taking a bite of the fruit. “soon he’ll be inviting her to stay just like he did with me.”
“i doubt that.” lino said , you looked up from your phone. “jisung doesn’t take to many people like he did you , you must’ve made quite an impression on him.”
“me? i doubt that.” you said.
“what makes you think that?” he asked , you shrugged. “i mean he has you , and you’re like the best thing a person could ask for.”
“and you aren’t?”
“what i mean is , you guys are in a relationship.” you said , he nodded.
“yeah we are.” he started. “but that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t open up our relationship for someone we both have feelings for.” you almost choked on your watermelon.
“feelings? for who? me?” you pointed , he smirked.
“is that so hard to believe?.”
“well yeah i thought you and him were gay.” you confessed. “and i assumed you and him were monogamous.”
“i mean we aren’t going around fucking random girls and guys for fun.” he said. “you’re different , we both like you.”
“jisung likes me?”
“he isn’t exactly subtle about it , you don’t feel him staring at you? you don’t see the way we look at you?” you shook your head , going quiet now.
“am i making you uncomfortable?” he asked. “if i am tell me and i’ll stop , but don’t let this ruin your relationship with jisung , that was his biggest issue with bringing this up — he didn’t want to ruin what you guys already have.”
“im not uncomfortable , just a bit shocked.” you said softly. “i do think you both are attractive though.”
“could you see yourself being in a relationship with us?”
you thought about it for a second; you did care for jisung and lino , living here had been the best thing to ever happen to you , financially and mentally. “i mean i could.” you said , he pushed himself off the counter , you watched him walk over , standing in front of you.
“look at me.” grabbing your chin , lifting up to look directly at him. “i need you to answer it confidently , i don’t want you to get into this and it ends up hurting you and jisung.”
“i could see myself in a relationship with you both.”
his thumb swiping across your bottom lip , he smirked watching your eyes glaze over so quickly. “i knew you and jisung had things in common.” pushing his thumb into your mouth. “so submissive.”
a heat burning in your stomach hearing that information; panties soaking as he pressed down on your tongue , you moaned around his digit , he pulled his thumb out. “so cute , your eyes are blown.”
the door opened up and jisung shuffled in , headphones around his neck as he walked in. “jisung-ah come here.” lino called the boy over.
he pulled the boy into a kiss , you watched jisungs eyes widened and he quickly pulled away. “hy-hyung i told you.” his eyes darted to you and then back at the elder. “not with her here.” he whispered.
“jisung-ah i didn’t take you as someone so selfish , i thought you didn’t mind sharing me.”
it took a few seconds for it to register in his mind , his eyes slightly widening. “really?” he turned to you. “really?” he didn’t know what to do , he wanted to kiss you , he wanted to kiss lino — he was overwhelmed.
“you want to kiss her?” lino spoke up , knowing jisung , he was probably overthinking everything. “kiss her.”
he looked at you for your consent , grabbing your cheeks; pulling you into a kiss , lino watched as you two messily made out , neither one of you dominating the kiss. “okay that’s enough , the chair is about to tip over.”
jisung pulled away , his chin wet. “look at you two , making a mess already and we haven’t even gotten to the bedroom.” lino mocked you both. “get up.”
taking charge , guiding both of you to his bedroom. “get undressed.” he sat down on the bed , watching you both , slowly take off your clothes , leaving you both naked while he was fully dressed. “look at that.” he said, leaning back. “two pretty sluts in from of me , so desperate to get fucked.”
he undid his belt with one hand , lifting his hips to pulling his pants down , letting them pool at his ankles. “knees.” was all he said and you both followed.
he beckoned you both over , freeing himself from his underwear. “jisung-ah you get to taste me all the time.” he grabbed the boys face. “let her go first alright? be a good boy and wait.” the younger boy nodded.
“ok-okay.”
he watched lino tap your lips with the tip of his cock , your lips slowly parting as his guiding himself inside. “good girl.” his hands coming up to run his fingers along jisung scalp , making sure to give him attention. “fuck , your mouth feels so fucking good.”
“take it deeper.” he groaned, watching you gag on his cock. jisung moaned watching the scene unfold , his cock twitching against his thighs. “yeah, fuck.” he pushed jisung forward , giving him the go to join you.
the two of you going down on lino would stay on his mind forever , he was glad you agreed to the relationship — he couldn’t live only having you both like this once. “fuck you two are gonna make me fucking cum.” he groaned.
both of your tongues touching , his hips bucking up as he came , his load dripping from his cock ; both of you licking it up. “fuck.” just the sight of you two makeup , his cum dripping from your chins had him hard again. “get up, both of you.”
he instructed both of you to get on the bed , his cock hung and hard. “jisung-ah , don’t you want our pretty princess to ride you?” the younger boy nodded.
“that’s not how you ask.” his voice stern. “you’ve lost your manners.”
“please ca-can she ride me?”
“why are you asked me?”
he turned to you , his eyes blown; a whimper falling from his lips that made you want to jump his bones. “pl-please can you ride me?”
you pushed him back , climbing on top of him; straddling his waist. “look at you two , so desperate to get fuck.” his words making both of you moan out. “go on , fuck yourselves silly , you already look like it.”
you quickly grabbed his base , sinking down on him. he let out the most pornographic moan ever as your hips began to rock , slowly picking up the past. “yn.
hearing him moan your name , made something snap in lino — he wasn’t holding back anymore. “my two sluts.” he slapped your ass. “fucking each other stupid.”
he grabbed the lube from his nightstand , coating his cock in the liquid , along with the rim of jisungs hole. he lined himself up , pushing himself inside — jisungs eyes shot open due to the immense pleasure. “hy-hyung , yn— oh fuck!”
his body was overwhelmed with feeling of your cunt squeezing him and lino pounding into him. “fuck i’m gonna cum!”
lino’s hand came up to your boob , squeezing them pulling your head back. “doing such a good job.” he praised. “riding our hannie like that , you see how hard he’s about to cum.”
you moaned out , your own orgasm approaching. “gonna fit right in.” he let you go and you came , holding jisungs shoulders as you climaxed.
“oh my god!”
your orgasm triggering jisungs , his hands tightening around your waist as he bucked up into your body , lino hitting the spot that had him seeing stars — shooting his load inside of you , both of you moaning a the warm sensation. “fuck.”
lino still thrusting watching you two make out as jisung softened inside you — he came with a deep thrust , filling the boy with him cum.
the three of you spent , laying in the bed. “you guys have to get up and shower,” he said , the two of you laying there half sleep , he shook his head. “both of you get up , you have to shower and eat.”
he smiled fondly at the two of you , watching you both interact , holding each other in each others arms.
he was confident it was gonna work out even better than he imagined.
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Synopsis: He's good with handling materials. Always has been. What to do when he can't handle you? Let him figure it out.
Sit back, relax, and you might need a snack?
Tags/cw: 18+, mdni, p in v, pussy eating, heavy dirty talk, etc..
Songs:
Good Enough by AV
Girls Like You by Tone Stilth
Do U? By Do or Die
Exchange by Bryson Tiller (plus the instrumental)
All We Do by Trey Songz (Instrumental)
Zoro was always up to something. Weather it was his job, or out drinking with some of his friends. Working long hours at the warehouse was his norm.
Home was home. A place he kept uptight as best as he could. With a beer in hand, he rubbed the back of his head as he stood there over the dining room table. His eyes stared at the beautiful handwritten note there. Intricate in his eyes.
His mind swirled with thoughts of the woman whom he met at the bar earlier that night. You, in simple work attire that suited your frame. If he had to guess, you had to be a secretary or a company worker. He stared at the ten digits for a moment longer.
You were a delight to talk to. Even better to look at. With an exhaled breath, he took a swig before placing the glass bottle right beside the smaller paper. Pulling out his phone from his back pocket, he unlocked the screen. Adding your name to his contacts, he turns the phone off before picking the bottle back up.
It was late, and he had work in the morning. Placing the half empty beer bottle into his fridge, he switched the lights off and headed to bed, leaving the small paper there in darkness.
On the other side of town, you lay in bed with the thought of the man you met that night. You couldn't quite understand why you gave him your number. Maybe it was out of curiosity? Might have been interested. Who knows. You did think he was handsome. Even with the moss color of his hair to his blunt vague words.
You were actually kinda hoping he'd reach out. However, there was a little bit of doubt on the other side of that. You dismissed the thought before leaning over in bed. Pulling the small cord on your lamp, darkness fills the room.
It took a few days before he reached out. A Saturday night. Rain pouring down outside, giving the city a reflection of itself. A simple "hey".
You responded back almost immediately. Before you knew it, you both ended up texting all night. Not literally, but long enough to see the time pass by. You both talked about nothing and something at the time. What started as uncertain quickly transformed into depth.
Every chance you both got, there was always a text. Then, it led to phone calls. You'd laugh at his humor, and he'd snorted at your feedback. Just hearing each other's voices made the night soothing for the both of you. This went on for weeks. Until the connection developed in person.
Drinks at the bar? He'd pay. Nightly walks afterward? Yep. Visits? You both were working on it. He figured you'd both have to pick the time and day. It came sooner than you thought. Zoro, there, with his form of a gift. Homemade onigiri.
The redness in his cheeks gave him away like always.
"For you. Here." Handing you the plate wrapped in aluminum foil. You smiled.
"I didn't know you were a cook." Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he gave a slight frown. One you could read as his form of a pout.
"I'm not. It's just somethin' I can sometimes do." Laughing, you let him inside. Taking in your space, he noted how comforting it was. It was so.. you. He thought it matched your personality perfectly.
"Nice place." He said as he toed his shoes off by the door.
"Thanks. Make yourself at home." You took the plate into the kitchen. Zoro, following you and not far behind. Placing the plate down, you took the foil off. Seeing six small ones there, you picked one up.
"Do they taste as good as they look?" Your question is a sweet sly remark. Grey eyes narrow before the sound of a deep chuckle leaves him.
"Well?" At this point, his arms were crossed over his chest as he waited. You took a bite, the rice and tuna hitting you at once. Not bad, but not good either. Covering your mouth, you chew.
"Not bad." Raising an eyebrow, he loosened up a bit. His arms falling to his sides as he leaned against the counter.
"Really?" When you nodded as you at the rest, the plate was pushed towards him. He eyed the plate.
"Wanna share?" You had already grabbed another. Four left sitting. Reaching for one, he shared the plate with you. Chatter filled the room. Your laughs and his. You both finished the plate, returning it later after washing it.
As you talked about your interests, you found his attention nice. Too nice at that. He just let you talk and talk and talk. You were starting to wonder if he was becoming bored.
"Why'd ya stop? M'still listenin'." At this point, you two were comfortable. Relaxing on your couch as silence filled the room.
"I've been talking for the past hour."
"And?"
"And you're not bored of it? Like at all?" You asked.
"No. So continue."
This became a regular. Late night talks at your place. Of course you would have them at his, but you preferred for him to come over to you. Something about hearing him say "Wait for me there." Made your heart beat a little faster.
The relationship was developing fast. From nicknames to cuddling to touching. He always looked forward to stopping by or staying the night. Nothing better than having his face buried into your cleavage as he talked about his day. If he was lucky at times, a kiss was always given to him.
It didn't take long before your first time together. Drinking at the bar led to you both making unprotected decisions. Raw, steamy sex in his truck behind the bar. Windows fogged, and the area filled with grunts and soft moans.
And right now, that's where you are about to be at this point. You'd been ignoring him for a few days. The reason? The accident. It caused him to have a scar over his left eye now. Concerned about it, you were. You even helped him heal it up. But you noticed how it complimented his face more whenever you FaceTimed each other.
Material Handler or not, it gave him more appeal to you. Very much appeal. So, of course, you blank out during the FaceTime calls. If anything, you'd probably be all over him if he came by any time soon. Oh, how the lucky stars shined down on the opportunity.
His hands were made for work, and so was his tongue. With you on your back on the bed, a leg lifted in his rough hand, and a pillow beneath your hips. You, trapped in the perfect position for his tongue to explore.
He had figured it out long ago. The extra long stares. The lazy drag of your finger there and with his earrings, whenever he was asleep beside you. The way you’d touch his tanned skin whenever you were laying on top of him. There was even that time he secretly caught you touching yourself to the thought of him. A secret he would not dare tell you.
Many orgasms down, and your body couldn't handle the next. His marks, becoming more prominent in the dimly lit light of your bedroom as he adds another one to the collection. What started as a simple conversation led to hunger and...
"Z-Zo— Wait, Mnh…"
The desperation in your voice filling his ears. Like it was the best song he has heard over and over again. From the physical exertion he was putting into your body to the furniture rattling around the room. Each thrust making your legs wobble in that way he knew was spot on. His one good eye enjoying the view below him. Warm puffs of air leaving his part lips, swollen slightly from your kisses and bites. He was too into it. Loving how you moaned so sweetly for him.
His nails digging into the soft flesh of your hip and thigh. His head turning slightly to place a kiss on your ankle as he kept that same pace. Deep. Hard. The groan he let out from his chest vibrated against your skin. A sigh that you were squeezing him deliciously.
“Easy, baby…” A grunt followed afterwards. His large hand rubbing your thigh as he held it against his chest. His other hand moving from your hip down to the swollen bud he abused during tongue foreplay. His thumb rubbing tight circles in contrast to the dick he was giving you.
“Let that pretty pussy take what she needs…” Only when you were close again did you began to run, actually trying to scoot away. He breathed out an amused chuckle before pulling you back. His hands keeping you there at the edge.
“N-No more~, I can’t—, m-mmm, ugnnn…”
“Nah, don’t run. Lemme hit that spot…”
Your trembling body and voice filled the room again. Tears welling up in your beautiful eyes as he fucked you into the mattress. He adjusted the angle. His hips slapping against yours. His thumb going back to rub circles as your stomach caved. Hitting that sponge spot just right.
“There it is…”
That familiar tightness pulled at you. Your eyes rolling back as tears streaked down your face.
“Mmmmh, O.. Oh!… Aghh~”
“Z.. Zorooo~”
“I hear ya, baby… F-F-Fuuuuck… Thaaat’s it, ma..” The pressure kept rising as you tried to hold out back as best as you could. However, your body was losing its control. You legs shaking in his grip, your lips apart, and the incoherent moans and whimpers leaving your mouth. He was not far behind. The way you tightened around him like you were wanting more. Sucking him in so good. The slick cream ring forming at the base as he beat your guts in. You sounded absolutely ruined now.
“Just let go ma… Keep cryin’ for me. Give me that nut, baby… soak this dick..”
The crack in your voice was the braking point. Zoro let out a throaty moan as your pussy spasmed and flooded around him. He groaned deeply, pulling out in time to cum on your stomach and clit.
“S-Shiiit~”
He managed to catch himself before collapsing right on top of you. Your bodies glistening with sweat and the scent of each other as you laid together. He made sure to keep most of his weight off of you. You didn’t mind it. As you both simmered down in the afterglow, he nuzzled his face against your neck. His earrings dangling lightly agaisnt your shoulder.
“You should’ve told me what was up.” He murmured against you. You panted a few more times before responding.
“Would the sex be the same if I did?” You felt the snort he made as he laughed against you. You chuckled as well. A few minutes had passed before he got up to clean you up. You were satiated as you scrolled through your phone. Your arms trembled ever so often. A reminder of what he did. Maybe you liked a bit of miscommunication. the kind where he wouldn’t speak up about it, but to physically fix it himself.
AN: Sorry for the hiatus. I took some time for myself. Happy Pride and Juneteenth. Enjoy 💚
Credits to @omi-resources for the header/dividers.
[ ▸ ] — you arrive at camp skz ready for cabins, campfires, and the particular kind of crisis only a child with wet socks can create. you are not ready for changbin, who turns out to be built, funny, stubbornly helpful, and much too good at making kids feel brave. by the end of summer, cabin fever has less to do with the woods and everything to do with the boy you keep finding beside you.
[ ☰ ] — event masterlist - schedule
[ ✐ ] — 9k
[ ⌗ ] — camp counselor!changbin x camp counselor!reader coworkers to lovers slow burn? camp shenanigans graphic & detailed smut oral ( f receiving ) squirting
[ ✉︎ ] — aaaaaand we're back! first of all—please listen to because and endless sun. these capture the vibe of this fic best <3 i'm so excited for you to get to know my big, beefy, softy camp counselor husband. this boy is quietly c o n f i d e n t over lifeguard!chris's loud cockiness, which is a little refreshing...but just wait until you get to the smut scene 😈 so happy to see everyone's response to the event so far <3 so without further ado, enjoy hunnies, and please like, reblog, and comment to show your support—it really does mean a lot to us writers. and i LOVE seeing what you guys think! feedback is always appreciated. love you all so much! mwah!
The first thing you saw when Chaewon turned off the main road was a wooden sign nailed between two posts at the edge of the trees.
CAMP SKZ
Strength. Kindness. Zeal.
You stared at it through the windshield, your iced coffee sweating between your knees.
“Screaming. Kid. Zoo,” you said.
Chaewon laughed hard enough that the car swerved slightly on the gravel. “We haven’t even parked yet, bitch.”
“I’m preparing myself.”
“You’re going to love it.”
The road curved beneath a canopy of pine trees before opening into a clearing. Cabins sat in neat rows along dirt paths, dark green with cream trim and little wooden signs hanging near the steps. The main lodge stood at the center of camp with a wraparound porch and a bell mounted beside the door. Farther down, the lake flashed blue through the trees, bright under the afternoon sun.
Counselors were already everywhere. Some carried bags. Some dragged coolers. Someone near the sports field was fighting with a volleyball net that had wrapped itself around his leg. Music played faintly from somewhere near the mess hall, interrupted by laughter, shouts, and the slam of car doors.
Chaewon parked beside Cabin Three and turned off the engine.
You sat there for a second.
She nudged your arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Just accepting that I voluntarily gave up six weeks of air conditioning.”
“You also gained practical experience for your social work degree.”
“I could’ve done that indoors.”
“You would’ve hated indoors.”
You opened your door and stepped into warm air that smelled like pine, dust, sunscreen, and lake water. You grabbed your backpack and reached for your duffel just as someone jogged past the parking area carrying two stacked coolers against his chest. He moved quickly over the gravel, shoulders broad beneath a fitted gray shirt, arms locked around the cooler handles like they weighed nothing. His black shorts clung to thick thighs, and his hair was damp at the edges from the heat.
A voice called from the lodge porch. “Changbin! Chan said those go by the mess hall!”
The guy turned his head. “I know. I’m saving them from Jisung.”
“I didn’t do anything!” another voice yelled from inside.
“Yet.”
“No one respects me here!”
The guy, Changbin, laughed and kept walking.
You realized you were still holding your duffel strap without lifting it.
Chaewon followed your gaze. “Oh,” she said.
You pulled the bag from the trunk. “What?”
“You’re studying social work, not anatomy, girlfriend.”
You shoved your backpack higher on your shoulder and started toward the lodge. “Keep talking and I’ll request a different roommate cabin.”
“You can’t. I already claimed you.”
“Unfortunately.”
Inside the lodge, the main room was full of folding chairs, clipboards, name tags, and counselors trying to look normal while silently judging where to sit. You followed Chaewon to two chairs near the middle. A woman with a neat ponytail and a staff binder stood at the front, speaking to a guy who nodded with his whole attention.
“That’s Director Hong,” Chaewon whispered. “She runs the camp.”
A few minutes later, Director Hong clapped her hands once, and the room quieted.
“Welcome to Camp SKZ,” she said. “For those of you returning, welcome back. For those of you joining us for the first time, we’re glad you’re here. The next three days are staff training. Campers arrive on day four, which means you have three days to learn the grounds, your roles, the emergency procedures, and each other.”
Introductions came next.
Chan went first. He was the head counselor, assigned to leadership games, campfire circles, evening reflections, and night rounds. He had a calm, friendly way of speaking that made the room settle around him.
Minho handled nature trails and animal care, introducing himself plainly before telling everyone not to touch anything with teeth, venom, suspicious coloring, or an attitude.
Jisung ran games, skits, and cabin competitions, which explained why he had already made three people laugh before orientation started.
Hyunjin handled arts, mural painting, and talent show costumes, speaking with enough passion about glitter supervision that even Director Hong looked amused.
Felix ran the baking club and kindness crew, warm and bright as he explained that campers would make simple treats and write notes for each other throughout the week.
Seungmin handled music, morning announcements, and talent show rehearsals with a polite smile that made it clear he would absolutely make children rehearse until they got the words right.
Jeongin led beginner archery and team games, relaxed and confident with a whistle already hanging around his neck.
Then Changbin stood.
You made a point of looking at his face, but it didn’t help much.
“I’m Changbin,” he said, one hand lifting in a small wave. “I’m studying kinesiology. I’ll be running athletics, strength challenges, canoe safety drills, and helping with any activity where someone might decide they’re stronger than common sense.”
Jisung leaned back in his chair with a frown. “You can just say my name.”
“I was being polite.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was trying.”
The female counselors followed.
Bestie Chaewon handled drama games and cabin bonding, which fit her perfectly because she could make forced group activities feel almost normal.
Yunjin led waterfront activities and swim safety, sunglasses perched on her head, whistle ready, voice strong enough to cut across a lake.
Minji ran crafts and friendship bracelets, sweet until she began discussing bead organization with startling seriousness.
Hanni handled dance and movement games, smiling as she promised to make even reluctant campers move by the end of the summer.
Nari took quiet hour, the reading corner, and puzzles, her voice soft but steady.
Jisoo led gardening and outdoor science, already excited about the herb beds and the little greenhouse behind the mess hall.
Kazuha handled yoga, stretching, and morning warm-ups by the lake.
When it was your turn, you stood with your clipboard against your chest. “I’m studying social work,” you said. “I’ll be helping with camper care, cabin check-ins, conflict resolution, and general emotional damage control.”
Chan nodded solemnly. “We’ll need that.”
“Especially from the counselors,” Seungmin said, glancing at Jisiung.
Jisung pointed at him. “You all are obsessed with me.”
“I didn’t name you.”
“You looked right at me.”
You sat back down, and Chaewon leaned toward you.
“Good intro,” she whispered.
“Thanks. I blacked out.”
After orientation, Director Hong walked everyone through the rules. No campers alone near the lake. No hiking without two counselors. No food in cabins unless you wanted bugs, raccoons, or a lecture from Minho. No swimming without Yunjin present. No campfires without Chan or Director Hong. No using the emergency golf cart unless it was a real emergency.
Jisung raised his hand. “What counts as a real emergency?”
Director Hong looked at him.
He lowered his hand. “I know.”
Staff week moved quickly after that.
You unpacked in Cabin Three with Chaewon, fought over the bed by the window, lost because Chaewon had already put her pillow there. You toured the mess hall, infirmary, craft cabin, waterfront, sports field, hiking trails, storage sheds, and the little patch of garden beds behind the kitchen. By the end of the first day, your shoes were dusty, your shirt clung to your back, and you had already learned that camp maps looked cute until you were the person trying to follow them.
You also learned that Changbin was very helpful.
He carried coolers. He moved tables. He fixed a wobbly bench outside the mess hall because he had noticed it during the tour. He helped Minji lift craft bins onto a high shelf. He took a stack of folded camp shirts from Felix before Felix could insist he had them. He moved through camp like his body was always ready to be useful.
On the second day, you rotated through everyone’s activity areas so you could understand where campers might need support. Baking club with Felix smelled like cinnamon and sugar even before anything went in the oven. Arts with Hyunjin involved brush washing rules, canvas labeling, and a warning that creative freedom did not include painting on cabin walls again. Quiet hour with Nari was peaceful enough that you considered hiding there until August.
Then you reached athletics.
Changbin stood under the shade of a large oak with his clipboard tucked under one arm. He had changed into black shorts and a sleeveless staff shirt, which felt deeply unnecessary and also unavoidable. Sweat had dampened the hair at the nape of his neck. His shoulders looked broad enough to be unfair.
You walked up beside him and forced yourself to look at the equipment.
“Social work has brought me to sandbags,” you said.
He laughed. “You sound thrilled.”
“I’m open-minded.”
“You look suspicious.”
“I can be both.”
He walked you through each station. Relay races for teamwork. Obstacle courses for confidence. Strength challenges adjusted by age. Balance games for campers who hated running but still wanted to feel included. He spoke clearly, not rushing, and every explanation came back to safety and encouragement.
“You really thought this out,” you said.
He shrugged. “Kids remember when adults make them feel weak.”
You looked at him. He kept his eyes on the field. “I don’t want to be that guy.”
The answer stayed with you longer than you expected.
Later that afternoon, during canoe safety training, Changbin demonstrated emergency carries with Jisung, who seemed far too excited to be rescued.
“Lift me like I matter,” Jisung said, standing with his arms out.
Changbin sighed. “You matter less every time you speak.”
“Cruel.”
Changbin still lifted him easily, shifting Jisung over his shoulder while the group clapped and laughed.
You watched the movement of Changbin’s arms, the stability in his stance, the way he carried Jisung like it cost him almost nothing. Changbin set him down and looked across the group.
“Anyone else want to try being carried?”
His eyes landed on you. You felt heat creep up your neck.
“No,” you said immediately.
He grinned. “I didn’t say your name.”
“You looked at me.”
“You can hear smiles and read looks now?”
“With enough suspicion, yes.”
He crossed his arms, which did not help the arm situation. “Scared?”
That was unfair.
You pushed your clipboard into Chaewon’s chest and stepped forward. “Fine.”
Changbin crouched in front of you. “Piggyback is easiest.”
“Don’t drop me.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “You think I’m going to drop you?”
“I just met you yesterday.”
He laughed, and you climbed onto his back before you could overthink it. His hands hooked securely under your thighs, warm through your shorts. Your arms settled around his shoulders. He stood slowly, and your stomach dropped for reasons that had nothing to do with height.
He was solid beneath you. Steady. “You good?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You sound tense.”
“You’re holding my thighs in front of coworkers.”
His laugh came out low. “That would do it.”
He carried you across the grass with no visible effort, taking even steps while everyone watched. You tried to keep your face neutral. It was difficult when his shoulders moved beneath your arms and his hands stayed firm under your legs.
“Still good?” he asked.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m responsible.”
“You’re showing off.”
“Also that.”
You laughed, and his grip tightened for half a second before he lowered you carefully back to the grass. When your feet touched down, he didn’t immediately move away. Neither did you.
Chaewon coughed behind you. “So educational.”
You turned and snatched your clipboard from her hands.
By the time campers arrived the next morning, the staff had fallen into a loose rhythm.
You also learned that Changbin could not say no when someone asked for help. That became obvious before lunch on the first camper day.
He carried luggage. Then more luggage. Then a stack of bunk mattresses someone wanted moved. Then water jugs. Then a box of sports jerseys. Then he tried to help Jisoo carry soil to the garden beds and almost walked straight into Director Hong.
“Changbin,” she said.
He froze with a bag of soil against his chest. “Yes?”
“Have you eaten?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. She raised her eyebrows.
You walked over and took the clipboard tucked under his arm. “I’ll finish check-ins for athletics. Go eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating through your shirt and you just tried to put gardening soil in the sports shed.”
He looked down at the bag.
Jisoo gently took it from him. “This one’s mine.”
Changbin rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.”
You pointed toward the mess hall. “Food.”
He smiled, sheepish. “You’re kind of scary.”
“I’m practicing for my future career.”
He leaned closer as he passed. “It’s working.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
The campers turned Camp SKZ into exactly what you had expected and nothing like you had imagined.
They arrived shy, loud, tearful, excited, sticky, sunburned, already missing home, already making friends, already losing water bottles. By the end of the first day, you had learned that a seven-year-old could cry over the wrong bunk with full-body devastation, a nine-year-old could ask forty-three questions about snakes without breathing, and a twelve-year-old could clock adult tension with terrifying accuracy.
Her name was Aria. She was in Cabin Five, wore friendship bracelets up both arms, and had the steady gaze of someone who missed nothing.
She found you on the second day while you were helping pass out orange slices after relay races.
“Do you like Counselor Changbin?”
You dropped an orange slice. “What?”
Aria looked over at Changbin, who was crouched by the water cooler helping a younger camper tie his shoe. “Because he likes you.”
You crouched to pick up the orange. “You should eat more fruit.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’re very direct.”
“My mom says that.”
“She’s right.”
Aria took an orange slice from the bowl and narrowed her eyes. “He gets smiley when you walk over.”
“I think he’s just friendly, Aria.”
“No, Counselor Felix is friendly. Counselor Changbin is smiley.”
She walked away before you could recover. Across the field, Changbin looked up and caught your eye and smiled while waving.
Damn it.
The first two weeks moved in heat, noise, and routine.
You spent most days moving wherever you were needed. You helped Milo, a quiet camper who hated being away from home, find a book in Nari’s reading corner. You sat with Theo after he scraped his knee and insisted he could see bone. You mediated a fight between two girls who both wanted to be “the moon” in Hyunjin’s talent show backdrop. And you helped Felix talk a younger camper through the devastation of spilling flour everywhere.
Changbin’s athletics area quickly became one of the busiest parts of camp. Kids liked him because he made everything feel possible. He gave them choices. He let them try again. He celebrated effort without making it sound fake.
He was also extremely competitive.
You learned this during the first staff game night, when Jisung suggested charades and Changbin treated it like an Olympic event.
“No, no, no,” he said, leaning over the table as Chan pulled a slip from the bowl. “We need categories. We need a system.”
“It’s charades,” you said.
“It's a competition.”
“It’s people pretending to be lawn mowers.”
“And we should win by being the best lawn mowers.”
“You almost made Felix cry because he guessed pancake instead of waffle.”
Changbin turned to Felix. “I apologized.”
Felix smiled gently. “You did.”
You and Changbin kept ending up together after that. Sometimes it was staff scheduling. Sometimes it was Chaewon’s interference. Sometimes it was the campers, who started treating you like a matched set after Color War planning began. Sometimes it was just you finding him across the mess hall without meaning to, or him appearing beside you with an extra water bottle because you had forgotten yours again.
He was kind in ways that didn’t ask for attention.
His body was easy to notice. Everyone noticed it. The arms, the shoulders, the thighs, the way his staff shirt pulled across his chest when he lifted something heavy without thinking.
But the rest of him was harder to ignore.
By week three, Color War began.
Director Hong announced it at breakfast, and the mess hall exploded. Campers cheered, counselors groaned, Jisung stood on a bench until Chan told him to get down, and Seungmin immediately demanded rules in writing so he could find loopholes.
The teams were divided after lunch. Chan and Minji led Green. Yunjin and Felix led Blue. Minho and Nari led Purple. Hyunjin and Hanni led Yellow. Seungmin and Jisoo led Red.
You and Changbin got Orange.
Jisung and Jeongin were in charge of scorekeeping, which everyone was okay with.
“Why don’t I get a team?” Jisung demanded.
“Because last year you taught your team psychological warfare,” Chan said.
“It worked.”
“A camper cried because you told him Blue had eyes everywhere.”
“That was unrelated.”
“It was very related,” Jeongin said, pressing his lips together.
Orange team met under the shade of a pine tree after breakfast. You had twelve campers, including Milo, Theo, Aria, and two sisters who immediately asked if they could be co-captains.
Changbin clapped his hands once. “Okay. Team name ideas.”
“Orange Crushers,” Theo said.
“Fire Tigers,” one of the sisters offered.
“Cheese,” Milo said.
Everyone looked at him.
He shrugged. “Orange cheese.”
Changbin nodded seriously. “Strong option.”
You covered your mouth to keep from laughing.
Changbin crouched in front of the group. “What about Fire Foxes?”
Milo raised his hand slowly. “Can foxes be scared?”
“Sure,” you said. “Brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared.”
Milo nodded. “Then yes.”
So orange became the Fire Foxes.
Color War lasted three days and nearly ended several friendships.
There were relay races, canoe races, trivia, tug-of-war, obstacle courses, banner painting, skit battles, water balloon tosses, and one very serious marshmallow tower competition. Changbin treated every event like the championship match of his life, but he was never harsh with the kids. He got loud, encouraging, and ridiculous. He let Theo paint orange stripes across his cheeks, and carried Milo on his shoulders during the chant competition when Milo got too nervous to stand in front.
You tried to pretend it didn’t affect you.
The tug-of-war was the worst though.
Orange faced Blue in the final round. Yunjin stood on the opposite side with Felix and their team, looking far too confident. Changbin positioned the Fire Foxes along the rope, checking their hands and feet.
“Lean back,” he told them. “Use your legs. Listen to each other. Don’t yank early.”
Theo bounced in place. “Can we yell?”
“Absolutely.”
You stood beside Changbin at the back of the line. “You’re more excited than they are.”
“I love tug-of-war.”
“I can tell.”
“We’re going to win.”
“You know they’re children, right?”
“Our children.”
You looked at him sharply.
He didn’t seem to realize what he had said until a second later. His ears turned red.
You smiled slowly. “Our children?”
“Team children.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird.”
Jeongin blew the whistle, and the rope snapped tight.
The Fire Foxes screamed immediately, some pulling in sync, some just making noise. Changbin planted his feet behind the last camper and shouted encouragement over their heads.
“Lean back! Good! Good, Milo, keep going! Theo, feet down! There you go!”
You shouted with him, laughing when Felix’s team began chanting “Blue! Blue! Blue!” across the line.
“Orange!” Changbin yelled.
“Orange!” the kids answered.
The flag in the center wavered. For a moment, Blue pulled ahead. Then Milo, face red with effort, yelled, “Fire Foxes unite!” The entire Orange team screamed and pulled.
The flag crossed the line. Orange won.
The kids lost their minds. Theo threw himself at Changbin’s waist. Aria grabbed your hand and jumped up and down. Milo smiled so widely it made your chest hurt.
Changbin looked at you over the chaos, face bright with sweat and orange face paint. “We won,” he said.
You laughed. “We did.”
He held up his hand. You high-fived him, but he caught your fingers for half a second before letting go. It was quick—probably nothing. But your heart treated it like something.
Week four was when everyone started to wear down.
The first burst of summer excitement had softened into exhaustion. Campers were homesick again in smaller, quieter ways. Counselors snapped at each other more easily. The heat pressed over the camp every afternoon until even Jisung ran out of energy.
Changbin began overdoing it again.
You saw it before anyone else did. He stayed late to fix the shed door. He covered Jeongin’s team games when Jeongin got a headache. He carried supplies to the waterfront. He helped Chan with night rounds. He ran athletics all morning, then joined canoe drills because Yunjin needed another adult.
Then the accident happened.
Minho led a nature hike with Cabin Four and Cabin Five, and you joined because Milo had been anxious that morning and asked if you were coming. Changbin came because the trail dipped near the creek and Director Hong wanted another counselor there. Jisung came because he claimed hikes needed a morale boost, which Minho argued against until Chan said it might help keep the campers entertained.
It was warm but not miserable under the trees. The campers moved in uneven clusters, stopping to look at mushrooms, interesting rocks, and one beetle that caused all the girls to scream. Jisoo identified plants along the way while Minho reminded everyone not to touch anything without asking.
Milo walked beside you near the back. “You think there are bears?” he asked.
“No.”
“You said that fast.”
“Because I feel confident.”
“What if there’s one bear?”
“Then Changbin will ask it to join tug-of-war.”
Milo looked ahead at Changbin, who was helping Theo cross a muddy patch. “He would win.”
“Probably.”
You heard Changbin laugh ahead of you, like he had caught part of it.
The trail narrowed after the creek. Minho led the group down a slope where roots crossed the dirt in thick lines. He warned everyone to go slowly. And for once, everyone listened.
Almost everyone.
Theo slipped first. His sneaker slid on loose dirt, and he grabbed at the closest thing to him, which happened to be your arm. You caught him before he fell fully, but the sudden pull knocked your weight sideways. Your foot landed wrong against a root, and pain shot through your ankle hard enough to make your vision flash.
You sat down fast, gripping Theo’s shoulder to keep him upright.
Changbin was there in seconds. “I’ve got him,” he said, steadying Theo.
Theo’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to!”
You forced yourself to breathe through the pain. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay. I’m okay.”
“You’re hurt!”
“Yeah, but I’m not mad. Accidents happen.”
Minho crouched by your foot, careful as he checked the ankle. His face stayed calm, but his jaw tightened slightly. “Can you stand?” he asked.
You tried.Pain flared immediately.
“Nope,” you said, sitting back down. “Absolutely not.”
Jisung hovered behind him with wide eyes. “Do we need the emergency golf cart?”
Minho looked at the narrow trail. Jisung looked too. “Right,” he said. “No golf cart.”
Changbin crouched in front of you. “I’ll carry you.”
You looked at him. “It’s downhill.”
“I know.”
“That makes it harder.”
“I know.”
“You’re tired.”
His expression changed, just a little. “I can do it,” he said.
“Bin.”
The campers had gone quiet, all watching.
Changbin lowered his voice. “Let me help you.”
Your throat tightened at the softness of it.
You sighed and then reluctantly nodded.
He turned and crouched. You climbed onto his back carefully, trying not to jostle your ankle. His hands slid under your thighs, secure and warm. He stood slowly, testing your weight before taking the first step.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m conscious.”
“That’s one thing.”
“My pride is dead.”
“We’ll hold a service.”
You laughed despite the pain, forehead nearly brushing the back of his shoulder.
Minho led the group slowly. Jisung walked with the campers, distracting them with a story about the time he claimed to have been saved by a herd of deer.
Changbin moved carefully down the trail. Every step was controlled. You could feel the effort in his body, the way his back shifted beneath your chest, the way his breath deepened as the path dipped and turned. He warned you before uneven patches and tightened his grip when the ground got loose.
“You still okay?” he asked after a few minutes.
“You’re asking a lot of questions again.”
“You’re injured on my back. I’m allowed extra questions.”
“You love extra questions.”
He laughed, breathless this time. “Maybe.”
You rested your cheek near his shoulder and stopped teasing.
By the time you reached the infirmary, your ankle was swollen, Theo was crying again, Milo had handed you a crushed granola bar from his pocket, and Changbin’s shirt was damp with sweat.
Nurse Park checked your ankle and declared it a mild sprain. Ice, rest, elevation, no hiking, and limited activity for a few days.
Theo stood by the doorway, face miserable. You waved him over and he came slowly.
“I really am sorry,” he said.
“I know,” you said. “And I really am okay.”
“You’re not going to leave camp?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
Changbin stood near the foot of the cot, arms crossed, eyes still on your ankle.
You looked at him. “You okay?”
His gaze flicked up. He blinked. “Me?”
“You carried me down half a trail.”
“I’m fine.”
You tilted your head.
He sighed. “I’m sweaty and I want water.”
“See? Honesty. Growth.”
He smiled.
After that, the camp became unbearable because everyone had heard how Changbin carried you out of the woods.
Everyone.
By dinner, Jisung had already told three dramatic versions of the story. In one, Changbin had sprinted through the trees with you in his arms. In another, he had fought off a raccoon. In the third, he had lifted a fallen tree.
“There was no raccoon,” you said, sitting at the staff table with your ankle propped on an extra chair.
Jisung ignored you. “The raccoon had a knife.”
Minho set his tray down. “There was no racoon.”
“You weren’t looking.”
“I was leading the hike.”
“Exactly. Your back was turned. Raccoon opportunity.”
Changbin sat across from you, still looking tired, still looking pleased every time someone mentioned the carry even though he tried to hide it.
But underneath the jokes, something had changed.
Changbin stayed close. He walked you to meals. He carried your activity binder even when you told him not to. He sat with you during quieter parts of the day when your ankle had to stay elevated. He was careful not to hover in a way that made you feel helpless, but he noticed every wince, every shift, every time you tried to stand too quickly.
The final week came too fast.
Your ankle healed. The talent show took over the lodge. Hyunjin became intense about costumes, Hanni ran dance rehearsals until the campers begged for water breaks, Seungmin somehow got an entire group of ten-year-olds to sing on pitch, and Jisung hosted with enough chaotic confidence that everyone worried until it actually worked. Theo forgot his line during rehearsal, and Changbin crouched near the edge of the stage, gently telling him to say what he meant instead of worrying about perfect words.
On the final performance night, Theo did exactly that.
“Camp is scary at first,” he said, voice shaking into the microphone. “But then it gets less scary because people help you.”
Half the staff cried, Jisung and Felix being the loudest.
The next day, families began arriving after breakfast. Campers who had spent six weeks claiming they were ready to go home suddenly clung to counselors like they were being sent across the ocean. Parents collected luggage, crafts, damp towels, missing socks, and stories their children told too loudly.
Milo found you near the cabins with his backpack on and his eyes wet.
“You’re leaving too?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” you said.
He nodded, looking down. You crouched carefully in front of him. “You did really well this summer.”
“I cried a lot.”
“But you also tried a lot.”
He thought about that. Then he pulled something from his backpack and handed it to you. It was a folded piece of paper, soft at the edges from being carried around.
You opened it after he hugged you before running off to find his parents. It was a drawing of you, Changbin, Milo, and a fox standing under a tree. Above it, in uneven letters, he had written:
CAMP WAS THE BEST!
You folded the paper again and pressed it against your chest.
After the families left, the camp felt strange.
The staff gathered in the mess hall for one last dinner, though no one was as loud as usual. People looked tired and emotional, picking at pasta, trading stories, pretending the end of camp wasn’t sitting right there beside them.
Later, as the sun started lowering behind the trees, Changbin found you outside Cabin Three.
He sat beside you, knees touching yours. You watched the empty field. The tire stacks were put away. The banners had been taken down. The volleyball net sagged slightly in the middle.
After a while, Changbin said, “Do you want to get out of here for a bit?”
You turned to him.
“There’s a place,” he said. “Past the ridge. Smaller lake. Quiet. Minho showed me during staff week.”
“You’re inviting me back into the woods.”
“I promise not to let you fall.”
“You said that like someone with a hero complex.”
“I have a mild hero complex.”
“It’s not mild and you know it.”
He smiled. “Come with me anyway.”
You should have said no. There was packing to do. Cabins to sweep. Forms to finish. A duffel bag on your bunk, still half-empty because you kept pretending tomorrow was not happening.
But the camp was too quiet, and Changbin was looking at you like the summer was not finished with either of you yet.
“Fine,” you said. “But if I sprain anything else, I’m billing you.”
“I accept the terms and conditions.”
The trail to the hidden lake was narrower than the others, tucked behind the older cabins and past a low ridge where the trees grew closer together. Changbin walked beside you, slowing when the ground got uneven even though your ankle had healed.
You noticed. He noticed you noticing.
“I’m not hovering,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
You smiled. “Maybe.”
The farther you walked, the quieter the camp became behind you. Then the trail dipped, and opened suddenly. The lake sat between the trees, smaller than the main one and completely still near the shore. The water caught the late sunlight in warm strips. A narrow wooden dock stretched out from the bank, weathered and uneven, the planks glowing from the heat of the day.
You walked to the end and looked out. “Damn,” you said quietly.
Changbin stood beside you. “Yeah.”
“You hid this all summer?”
“I didn’t hide it.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
He looked at you. “For the right time.”
You turned back toward the water because it was safer than looking at him. “That was smooth.”
“I can be smooth.”
A breeze crossed the lake, moving over your skin. The sun was lower now, gold touching his face and shoulders. He looked tired from the summer, hair a little messy, shirt wrinkled, small scratches on his forearms from camp work. He also looked calm in a way you had not seen often. No campers to watch. No equipment to carry. No schedule to chase.
Just him. Just you.
Changbin stepped closer. “I wanted to kiss you after Color War,” he said suddenly.
Your pulse jumped. You looked at him, stunned. “After tug-of-war?”
“Yeah.”
“When you said our children?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I was hoping you forgot that.”
“Not a chance.”
“I wanted to kiss you then,” he said, opening his eyes again. “And after the campfire. And pretty much every minute since I met you.”
Your throat tightened. “That’s a lot of almost kissing.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours first, asking without words. You let him take it. “I didn’t want to mess up camp,” he said. “Or make things awkward. Or make you feel like you had to let me down gently and then still eat breakfast across from me all summer.”
You smiled despite yourself. “That would’ve been horrible.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re very considerate.”
His thumb moved over your knuckles. You looked down at your joined hands, then back at him. “For the record, I wanted you to kiss me too.”
His expression changed slowly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
You pretended to think. “ Since staff week.”
He stared at you. “Staff week?”
“You carried coolers.”
“That’s all it took?”
You shrugged. “You had arms.”
He laughed, surprised and bright.
And then you tugged him closer by the hand. His smile faded as he leaned in.
The first kiss was softer than you expected.
Careful. Warm. Slow enough that you felt the restraint in it. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb settling near your jaw, and your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
You pulled him closer, and the kiss changed. His other hand found your waist. Yours slid up to his shoulder, then the back of his neck, damp curls brushing your fingers. He made a low sound against your mouth, and every almost from the past six weeks pressed into the space between you.
When you broke apart, his forehead rested against yours. “Fuck,” he whispered.
You laughed softly, breathless. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I’m trying to be normal.”
“How’s that going?”
“Bad.”
His hand tightened at your waist, and your stomach dipped.
The lake moved quietly beside the dock. You looked toward it and Changbin followed your gaze.
“No,” you said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I was thinking the water looks nice.”
“You were thinking skinny dipping.”
His mouth twitched. “I can think two things.”
You stared at him for a second. Then you stepped back and pulled your shirt over your head.
Changbin froze.
You dropped the shirt onto the dock. “Are you coming or not?”
He blinked once. “I’m coming alright.”
“Don’t sound so shocked. You brought me to a secret lake at sunset after six weeks of almost kissing.”
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“That is, unfortunately, attractive.”
He laughed and pulled his own shirt over his head. You tried not to stare, but let’s be real—that was impossible.
The summer had shown you enough of him to be dangerous. Sleeveless shirts. Swim days. Athletics demonstrations. His arms around coolers, ropes, paddles, sandbags. But this was different. Bare chest, strong shoulders, hard abdomen, water-bright light touching his skin. He noticed your eyes move over him, and the pleased look on his face made you want to shove him into the lake.
“Yeah?”
“You have been visually aggressive all summer, sir.”
“Visually aggressive?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not a real phrase.”
“It is now.”
You unbuttoned your shorts before you lost your nerve, pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. Changbin’s eyes dropped, then lifted quickly back to your face like he was trying to be respectful and failing in real time.
You smiled. “Yeah?”
“I’m responding.”
“Cute.”
He groaned. “Don’t call me cute right now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying very hard not to embarrass myself.”
You stepped to the edge of the dock in your bra and underwear. “Try harder.”
Then you jumped.
The water was colder than you expected, closing over your head in a rush that shocked the heat right out of your skin. You came up gasping, pushing hair out of your face as Changbin laughed from the dock.
“That was brave,” he called.
“That was stupid. Get in.”
He jumped in beside you, sending up a splash that hit your face.
“Asshole,” you said, wiping water from your eyes.
He surfaced close, grinning. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
The water settles around you, cool against your skin. You both swim for a while reliving the summer and moving through the lake as the sun lowered toward the trees. It felt unreal after weeks of noise and heat and responsibility.
By the time you climbed back onto the dock, both of you were soaked and breathless, your skin prickling in the evening air. The wooden planks were still warm from the sun. You sat near the edge, water dripping from your hair, and watched Changbin pull himself up after you.
He looked at you like he had run out of reasons to wait, pushing you down gently.
Your back met the dock a moment later, his body over yours, one hand braced beside your head. He kissed you deep, slow, his weight careful but present. Your legs parted for him without thinking, and he settled between them with a quiet groan.
The world narrowed to warm wood beneath you, cool lake water on your skin, and Changbin’s mouth moving over yours like he had been waiting all summer.
His fingers brushed your wet hair away from your face. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.
You looked up at him, at the damp curls falling over his forehead, at the restraint in his jaw, at the way his chest moved with every breath.
You pulled him down again. “Don’t stop.”
Changbin’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your soaked panties, and he didn’t ask—not with words. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and searching in the fading golden light, and you lifted your hips in answer.
“There you go,” he murmured, dragging the wet cotton down your thighs. The fabric fought him a little, clinging to your skin, and he laughed under his breath. “These are really on there. You trying to keep them, or…?”
You propped yourself up on your elbows. “Shut up and take them off, Bin.”
“Bossy.” He grinned, that crooked, infuriating grin you’ve been watching all summer across campfires and mess hall tables. “I like it.”
Your panties came free with a wet, heavy sound when he tossed them aside. You were bare now, your cunt exposed to the evening air, and the vulnerability of it made your stomach flip. But Changbin didn’t dive in. He sat back on his heels, his own boxer briefs dark with lake water and pulled down just enough to free the thick, flushed length of his cock. His hand moved on it absentmindedly—a slow, lazy stroke from base to tip—while he just looked at you.
“What?” you asked, and your voice came out a little thin.
“Nothing.” His thumb circled the head, smearing the slickness gathering there. “Just thinking about how long I’ve wanted to see you like this. Spread out on this dock. All summer I’ve been fucking losing my mind.”
Your laugh was breathy and a little nervous. “You hid it well.”
“Did I?” His grip tightened on himself, a quick, rough pump that made his abs tense. “Because I was jacking off in the staff showers every night thinking about your mouth. So maybe I didn’t hide it that well.”
The confession landed in your gut like a hot stone. You felt your cunt clench around nothing, and Changbin noticed. His eyes dropped to the wet gleam between your thighs, and his tongue swept across his bottom lip.
“I need to taste you,” he said. “I’ve been needing to taste you since the first week of camp.” He had already lowered himself onto his stomach, the dock creaking under his weight. His shoulders pushed your thighs apart, and the heat of his breath ghosted over your cunt. “I’m done being patient.”
His tongue found you in one long, flat stroke from your entrance to your clit.
Your back arched off the wood. A sound punched out of you—half moan, half gasp—and your hand flew down to grip his hair, still damp from the lake, soft and thick between your fingers.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “Oh, fuck.”
Changbin hummed against your cunt, and the vibration ricocheted through your whole body. His tongue circled your clit in a slow, deliberate figure-eight, and then he sucked—hard enough to make your thighs snap toward his ears.
He just laughed. “So sensitive,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips were glossy with you. “I’ve barely started.”
“Then fucking start.”
His eyebrow lifted. “What did I just say about being bossy?”
But he did start. He buried his face between your legs, his tongue pushing inside you, curling and stroking, and his nose pressing against your clit with every forward movement. He wasn’t neat about it. He wasn’t delicate. He ate your pussy like he was trying to climb inside you, and the wet, obscene sounds of it—the lapping, the sucking, the groan he made when you tugged his hair—echoed across the empty lake.
“You taste so fucking good,” he said, the words muffled against your flesh. “Better than I imagined. And I imagined a lot.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn't. All you could do was feel: the slick heat of his mouth, the persistent pressure on your clit, the way his cheeks brushed your inner thighs with every shift of his jaw. Your hips started to move, rocking against his face, and he let you. He groaned and opened his mouth wider, tongue flattening so you could grind against it.
“Yeah,” he panted, pulling back for air. “Use my face. Fuck, that’s hot. That’s so fucking hot.”
His hand moved on his cock again, faster now. You could hear it—the wet slap of skin on skin—and when you lifted your head to look, the sight nearly undid you. Changbin was kneeling between your legs, one hand wrapped around his thick, leaking cock, the other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. His eyes were fixed on your cunt.
“Do you know what you look like right now?” he asked, and his voice wrecked. “All spread open and dripping. Your clit all fucking swollen. I can see it begging for me.”
“Then stop talking and—”
He didn’t let you finish. His mouth closed over your clit and his fingers pushed inside you—two of them, curving up, finding the spot that made your vision go white.
The sound that came out of you was inhuman.
“That’s it,” Changbin said, fucking you with his fingers now, slow and deep. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? Right there? Your pussy is clenching so hard around my fingers. You’re so fucking tight.”
“Bin—”
“I can feel it. I can feel how close you are. Don’t hold back. Don’t you fucking dare hold back.”
You weren't holding back. You were falling apart. The pressure built low in your belly, different from anything you’d felt before—heavier, more insistent. It wasn’t the familiar climb toward orgasm. It was something new, something that almost scared you.
Changbin’s mouth was relentless on your clit. His fingers pumped faster, crooking on every thrust, and his other hand had abandoned his cock now—both hands on you, spreading you open, holding you in place.
“I want you to come,” he said against your cunt. “I want you to come so hard you forget your own name. I want to feel it. I want to taste it. Give it to me.”
The pressure crested. Your whole body locked up. Your thighs clamped around his head. A scream tore out of your throat—loud enough to scatter birds from the trees on the far shore—and then you were gushing. Liquid sprayed from your cunt, soaking Changbin’s face, his chest, the dock beneath you. He didn’t pull away. He groaned, low and satisfied, and kept his mouth on you through the whole thing, drinking you down as you squirt all over him.
“Holy fuck,” you gasped, when you could finally breathe again. Your legs were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. “What the—what was—?”
Changbin sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was dripping. His hair plastered to his forehead. He looked absolutely wrecked, and absolutely delighted.
“You just squirted,” he said, like he was telling you the weather. “All over my face. All over this dock.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. You clapped a hand over your face. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t do that.” He pulled your hand away, and pinned it to the dock beside your head. “Don’t hide from me. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“I didn’t—I’ve never—”
“I know.” His grin was sharp and filthy. “I could tell. You got so tight around my fingers right before, and then you made this sound—this little whimper, like you didn’t know what was happening to your body—and then you fucking soaked me. Look at me. I’m covered in you.”
You looked. His chest shined with your wetness. His face was still slick with it. And his cock—God, his cock—was so hard it looked painful, bobbing against his stomach, the tip an angry, desperate red.
“I’m embarrassed,” you admitted, and your voice cracked on the word.
Changbin’s expression softened for half a second. Then it sharpened again, that predatory edge returning. “Being embarrassed makes it even hotter. You know that? Knowing I’m the first person to make you do that. Knowing I made your body do something you didn’t know it could do.”
He’s stroked himself again, faster now, his grip tight. The slick sound of it filled the space between you.
“I could come just from watching you,” he said. “Just looking at your pussy right now. It’s so wet. So pink and puffy and wet. I want to fuck you so bad I can’t think straight.”
“Then fuck me.”
His jaw clenched. “Say it again.”
“Fuck me, Changbin. I need your cock. I’ve been needing it all summer.”
Something snapped in him. He moved fast—faster than you expected—gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them up toward your chest. You folded in half beneath him, and the tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, hot and blunt and perfect.
“Slow,” he said, but he said it to himself, not to you. “I’m gonna go slow. I’m gonna be gentle. I’m gonna—”
The head started pushing in.
You both gasped.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re—you’re so—I can’t—”
“Bin.”
“Just—just give me a second.” He was trembling. His arms were shaking where they bracketed your shoulders, and his forehead dropped to yours. “You’re so fucking tight around me. If I move, I’m gonna come.”
You clenched around him deliberately.
His eyes flew open. “Did you just—?”
“Maybe.” You clenched again. “What are you going to do about it?”
The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
He pushed deeper—slowly, so slowly—and you felt every inch of him. The stretch was intense, almost too much, and you grabbed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He hissed, but didn't stop.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Yeah. Yeah, just—keep going.”
“I’ve got you.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you.”
He bottomed out, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were so full, so impossibly full, and you could feel him throbbing inside you, could feel the heat of him, the pulse of his heartbeat in his cock.
“You feel that?” he asked. “You feel how deep I am?”
“Yes.”
“I’m all the way inside you. Every inch. You’re taking every fucking inch of me.”
He pulled back, just a little, and thrust in again. A slow, rolling grind that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Your eyes fluttered shut. Your mouth fell open.
“Look at me,” he said. “I want you to look at me while I fuck you.”
You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, sweat-damp and intense, his eyes burning. He was beautiful like this—all that compact muscle coiled with the effort of holding back, his jaw tight, his lips parted.
“There you are,” he murmured. “There’s my girl.”
The words hit somewhere deep in your chest. You reached up and pulled his mouth to yours.
The kiss was messy and uncoordinated, more teeth and tongue than anything else. He fucked into you slowly while he kissed you, and the rhythm of it built something hot and tight in your belly again. His tongue slid against yours. His cock slid against your walls. Everything was wet and hot and perfect.
“You’re so deep,” you gasped against his mouth. “You’re so fucking deep, Bin.”
“Yeah? You like that?”
“I love it. I love your cock. I love how it fills me up.”
He groaned, his hips jerking harder. “Keep talking. Don’t stop talking.”
“I’ve wanted this so bad. All summer. Watching you lead, watching you swim, watching you laugh with the kids. I wanted you to bend me over the arts and crafts table and fuck me stupid.”
“The arts and crafts table?” He laughed, breathless. “That’s where you wanted it?”
“I wanted it everywhere. The mess hall. The bunk beds. The fucking canoe shed.”
“The canoe shed? That place smells like mildew.”
“I don’t care.”
He kissed you again, harder this time, and his pace picked up. The slow, rolling thrusts became something more urgent. His hips snapped against you, and the dock creaked beneath you both, and the sound of your bodies meeting—wet and rhythmic—filled the evening air.
“I’m not gonna last,” he said, the words ragged. “Not like this. Not with you talking like that.”
“Then don’t last. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.”
But he did stop. He pulled out—completely—and you made a sound of protest that he silenced with a hand on your stomach.
“Turn over,” he said.
“What?”
“Turn over. I want to see you from behind. I want to watch your ass while I fuck you.”
You scrambled to obey, rolling onto your stomach. The dock was hard against your knees, but you didn’t care. Changbin’s hands found your hips, gripped them tight, and he pulled you up onto all fours.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. Look at this perfect ass. I’m gonna die. I’m literally going to die.”
“Please don’t die before you finish fucking me.”
“Fair point.”
He pushed back in, and the angle was different like this—deeper, somehow, hitting a spot that made your arms give out. Your chest dropped to the dock, your ass still in the air, and Changbin groaned.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. Face down, ass up. Take my fucking cock.”
He wasn’t holding back anymore. His hips slammed against you, hard and fast, and the sound of it—the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the dock, his low grunts and your high whimpers—was obscene. It was the filthiest thing you’d ever heard.
“You hear that?” he asked, his voice was wrecked. “You hear how wet your pussy is? How good you’re taking me?”
You couldn’t answer. You could only moan.
“That’s what I thought. You can’t even talk, can you? Too full of my cock to say a word.”
He reached around you, his fingers finding your clit, and rubbed tight circles against it. You bucked back against him. Your thighs shaking. Your whole body shaking.
“You gonna come again? You gonna come on my cock this time?”
“Yes,” you managed. “Yes, yes, fuck, yes —”
“Do it. Come on my cock. I want to feel it. I want to feel your pussy squeeze every drop out of me.”
It hit you like a wave. A real one, not the overwrought kind—violent, sudden, stealing your breath. Your cunt clamped down on his cock, and you screamed, and Changbin shouted something—your name, maybe, or just a string of curses—and his rhythm broke.
He pulled out fast, hand flying over his cock, and you felt the first hot splash of his cum against your spine. He groaned, stroking himself through it, painting your back and ass. It went on and on, pulse after pulse, until you were dripping with him.
The dock creaked as he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, both of you covered in sweat and lake water and each other.
“Holy shit,” he said finally.
You turned your head to look at him. “Yeah.”
“You squirted.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.”
“I’m going to mention it again. Multiple times. Probably for the rest of my life.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “This is the best last day of camp ever.”
You laughed, and the sound was hoarse and broken and happy.
Changbin grinned before it began to fade, just a little, replaced by something more serious. “Hey.”
“What?”
“I meant what I said. About wanting you all summer.” He reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear. “This wasn’t just...I mean, it was hot. It was really fucking hot. But it wasn’t just that. For me.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest. “It wasn’t just that for me, either.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in then and kissed you softer than before.
Afterward, the sky darkened to a deep blue over the trees.
You lay on the dock wrapped in Changbin’s open shirt, your own clothes scattered nearby and your hair still damp against your neck. The wood beneath you had lost some of its warmth, but Changbin was close enough that you didn’t feel cold. His arm rested under your head, and his fingers moved slowly over your side in quiet, absent patterns.
The walk back to camp was darker and slower. Changbin held your hand the whole way, partly because the trail was uneven, partly because neither of you wanted to stop touching. Crickets hummed in the grass, and the camp lights came into view through the trees one by one.
Tomorrow would be full of packing, sweeping cabins, loading cars, promising to text, and trying not to cry in the parking lot. Tomorrow would pull everyone back toward normal life. University. Jobs. Apartments. Schedules that did not include campfire songs and sunscreen checks.
But tonight, Camp SKZ was still yours.
Changbin stopped outside your cabin, turning to face you.
The porch light washed over his face, softening the tired lines around his eyes. His hair was still damp, and his shirt was wrinkled. He looked like summer had left its fingerprints all over him.
He leaned down, and you met him halfway. The kiss was gentle. Slow. Not careful because he was unsure, but careful because it mattered. His hand settled at your waist, warm through your shirt, and you held onto him for a few seconds longer than necessary.
When he pulled back, his smile was small and private. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
“You better. We have cabins to clean.”
“Romantic.”
“Welcome to real life.”
He kissed you once more, quick and sweet. “I still want it.”
Your chest warmed. “Me too.”
You went inside after that, closing the cabin door quietly behind you. And outside, the camp settled deeper into the night.
