d🎀

"You're fucking kidding me." You stare at the text message. Three sentences that might as well be a bomb dropped in the middle of your living room.

Hey, sorry for the short notice, but I’m moving in with my boyfriend at the end of the week.

I know rent’s due soon, but I kinda already spent my half on the security deposit for our new place.

Good luck finding someone else!

shit

Rent is due in nine days, and your bank account isn’t exactly overflowing.

You’ve never lived alone before. Couldn’t afford it even if you wanted to. And the thought of scrambling to find a new roommate in a week makes your stomach twist.

You're halfway through drafting a frantic "roommate needed ASAP" text to your groupchat when your phone buzzes.

it's one of your few friends who actually bothers to check in.

Heard about your roomie bailing. Absolute bullshit.

Anyway I know a guy. Chill as hell, works freelance, needs a place.

You'd vibe.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last thing you want is some rando bringing chaos into your already crumbling life.

But then your landlord's terse "rent due on the 1st, no exceptions" text flashes in your mind.

Fine. Give him my number.

Chan texts you thirty minutes later. His messages are polite. Full sentences, proper punctuation, none of that monosyllabic grunting.

He suggests meeting at the apartment tomorrow afternoon to check the place out, and you agree.

The next day, you're scrubbing the bathroom sink when the doorbell rings. Chan stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like garlic and herbs. "Figured we could talk over lunch," he says, smiling like this isn't weird at all.

Up close, he's so much cuter than you expected, blond hair, unfairly big broad shoulders, dressed in a blank tanktop that showed them off perfectly.

You blink at the take out bag, then at Chan’s easy grin.

There’s no nervous energy radiating off him, no awkward shuffling — just this unsettling calm, like he’s already decided he belongs here. “Uh,” you say, wiping your damp hands on your pants, “you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, already toeing off his sneakers without waiting for an invite. The scent of roasted garlic and rosemary spills into the apartment as he breezes past you toward the kitchen. “But food makes everything less weird, right?”

You trail after him, you don't know whether to be annoyed or charmed.

Chan unpacks the food containers, grilled chicken, some kind of herby rice, roasted vegetables that don’t look like the sad microwave steam bags you usually survive on.

He slides a plate toward you. “Eat first, then interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” You stab a piece of chicken, watching him warily.

Chan shrugs, mouth already full. “Standard roommate shit. ‘Do you snore?’ ‘Are you a serial killer?’ ‘Will you steal my leftovers?’” He swallows, grinning.

“The answer’s no, no, and only if you leave them unlabelled.”

The food is homemade stupidly good, and Chan’s presence is… unsettlingly comfortable.

By the time you’re scraping the last of the rice off your plate, you’ve learned he does something vague with digital marketing (“Basically, I convince people to buy shit they don’t need”), he actually enjoys doing laundry, and he likes to cook.

“So,” Chan says, stacking the empty containers, “you wanna show me around, or should I just start claiming drawers?”

The tour is quick — your apartment isn’t exactly sprawling — but Chan makes appreciative noises at the closet space and tests how sturdy the bed frame is (#whatdatmean).

When you hesitantly mention rent, he waves a hand. “Half’s fine. I’ll pay first and last upfront if you want.”

You stare. “You don’t even know the amount.”

Chan shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and, before you can protest, your own phone buzzes with a notification.

It’s a Venmo payment for double what you were about to say rent costs.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You—what? That’s too much.”

“Nah.” He pockets his phone, grinning at your baffled expression. “Consider it a ‘sorry for being weirdly pushy’. ”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue — not when your bank account is currently breathing its first sigh of relief in months.

A girls got priorities, and he doesn't really seem to mind. it's a win win scenario.

~

The first month was… strange. Not bad, just strange. he was genuinely nice, easy to talk to. it wasn't long till the initial awkwardness — if there was any — wore off. you'd become something sort of friends, and both of you settled into a quiet rhythm.

he'd left cash for rent in a neat stack on the kitchen counter on first of the month, slightly more than his half again.

When you tried to give him the extra back, he just waved you off.

You caught glimpses of his routine. disappearing into his room at odd hours, the low murmur of his voice through the walls late at night.

And then there was the day you came home early.

You weren’t supposed to be back until ten, but your shift ended early, and the bus was miraculously on time for once.

The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the door, just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards under your feet.

You’d barely set your bag down when you heard it — a low noise from Chan’s room.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your jacket. The sound came again, breathier this time, followed by the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin.

you thought it was a girlfriend he never told you about.

The idea punched a weird, hollow ache into your ribs — which was stupid, because it’s not like you had any claim on him.

Still, you stood there frozen in the hallway, his door slightly ajar, listening to the sounds of his pleasure like some kind of creep.

You backed out of the apartment, easing the door shut with just the softest whisper of the latch catching. Your pulse hammered in your throat as you ducked into the stairwell, pressing your back against the cool concrete wall.

The rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop being weird, to just walk back in like a normal person. But the irrational part — the part currently in charge — was too busy replaying the sounds spilling from Chan’s room to listen.

You get out of the building and circle the block twice, three times, counting cracks in the sidewalk. The air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet, and you bask in that atmosphere till roughly an hour has passed.

When you finally drag yourself back inside, the apartment is quiet. Chan’s door is shut tight, the shower running, and no girlfriend in sight.

she must've left early.

You freeze halfway to your room when the shower shuts off. your feet are planted still go to your room, go to your room

but you weren't quick enough, and a few seconds later, Chan emerges with only a towel slung low on his hips.

He's startled when he sees you, droplets flicking off his hair as he jerks his head up. “oh hey—” His voice is casual before you cut him off, "shit—sorry!" your face heats up at the sight, your eyes wander, trailing down his toned chest that still had water droplets running down, before snapping your head in the other direction.

was he always this muscular?

and you can't help but notice that there are no hickeys on his neck, no marks on his arms, and surprisingly put together for someone who just had his girlfriend over less than an hour ago.

"no no— you're good." he reassures with a smile, "you're back early."

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Shift got cut."

Chan leans against the doorframe, his damp hair curling at the ends. You try not to stare at the way his towel clings precariously to his hips, but your gaze keeps flicking downward anyway, betraying you.

"Everything okay?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.

"Y-yeah," you stammer, fingers twisting in the hem of your jacket. "Just—uh. Busy day."

Chan hums, nodding. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a second too long on your flushed cheeks before he grins. "Cool. I was just gonna make some food if you’re hungry."

The casual offer throws you off. You were expecting — what? Awkward silence? Averted eyes? Not this easy warmth.

but you just nod dumbly. "Yeah. Food sounds good."

he pushes off the doorframe, padding toward the kitchen. The towel rides up slightly with each step, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones, and you have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise.

“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, like he can feel your stare burning into his back.

“Fine,” you squeak, following at a safe distance, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The kitchen tile is cool under your socked feet, a welcome distraction from the heat crawling up your neck.

Chan hums again, rummaging through the fridge with one hand while the other keeps his towel secured. The muscles in his back flex as he leans forward, and you’re suddenly very interested in the color of your sponge bob socks.

“Leftover pasta okay?” he asks, pulling out a container with a rattle of plastic. You nod mutely, watching as he moves around the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tiles.

The stove clicks to life, the hiss of gas filling the silence between you. Chan leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, “So,” he starts, “how was work?”

You blink. “Uh. Fine. Boring.” The words tumble out too fast, your pulse jumping when Chan chuckles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of every inch of space between you.

he scrapes the leftover pasta into the pan, the sizzle of garlic and butter filling the silence between you. His towel shifts dangerously low with each stir, but he doesn’t seem to notice — or maybe he does.

The corner of his mouth twitches when he catches you staring, and you snap your gaze to the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating.

"You know," he says, voice light, "most roommates don’t freak out when they see each other half dressed." The wooden spoon clinks against the pan as he scrapes the edges.

"I wasn’t freaking out."

Chan laughs, "You literally yelped like I pulled a knife on you." He glances over his shoulder, eyes dragging down your body in a way that makes your knees weak. "Unless you’re into that."

The pasta sizzles loudly in the pan, drowning out the choked sound that escapes your throat at Chan’s words. "I—that’s not—"

Chan turns fully now, abandoning the stove, and the towel dips dangerously low. His smirk is infuriating, "Relax," he murmurs, stepping closer, "Just teasing."

You laugh nervously, the sound too high pitched, too obvious. "I'm just gonna—" You jerk your thumb toward your room, already backing away. "Change into something more... home-y."

Chan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Home-y,"

"yea—!" your voice cracks "y'know comfortable....home clothes"

Then you gesture vaguely at his towel, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you— uh, gonna put on actual clothes before we eat? Because I'm pretty sure health code violations apply to apartments too."

Chan glances down at himself, then back up at you, "Why?" He grins, tilting his head. "Distracted?"

"Yes—no," you sputter, crossing your arms tightly over your chest like armor. "I just don’t want your—" You wave a hand wildly in the general direction of his hips. "That—near my dinner."

Chan laughs, a full blown laugh, and you take that chance to bolt for your room, shoulders hunched as if that’ll make you smaller, less noticeable.

The door clicks shut behind you with a click, and you press your forehead against the cool wood, exhaling sharply.

"And turn the heat down!" you call out, voice too high,"Unless you want to burn the house down!"

Another laugh, muffled through the door. "Yes, mom," Chan drawls, the playful lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn hotter.

The stove clicks as he adjusts the flame, the sound followed by the soft thud of his footsteps padding down the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to the creak of his bedroom door, the rustle of fabric as he presumably — finally — changes.

You peel yourself off the door, fingers fumbling at the jacket of your shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with nervous sweat, and you wrestle it off.

Home-y. Right. who even says that?

Stupid stupid stupid.

Your dresser drawer sticks halfway open, You grab the first shirt your fingers brush against, soft from too many washes, and a pair of sweatpants with the elastic stretched out.

'He has a girlfriend,' you think, shimmying out of your jeans. The denim catches around your ankles, nearly causing you to trip.

'Probably. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.'

You yank the shirt over your head so hard the neckline stretches. The mirror across the room reflects your flushed face, your hair mussed from the fabric dragging through it.

You look and feel ridiculous.

You pull up your pants, then pause, fingers hovering at the waistband. Avoid him. Simple. Logical. You can do that.

but it wasn't that easy. after all there is only so much avoiding one could do to someone they live with.

The apartment isn’t big enough for elaborate evasion tactics, and Chan seems to have a sixth sense for popping up exactly where you don’t want him.

Leaning against the fridge when you’re raiding it at 2 am, or lounging on the couch just as you’re about to claim it for a late night tv binge.

So you just ended up being cooped in your room for most of the day.

But Chan isn’t stupid. eventually after days passed by, he’s leaning against your bedroom doorframe when you crack it open after what you thought was a safe half hour of silence.

“So,” he says, arms crossed, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re avoiding me.”

You freeze, one socked foot hovering mid step like a cartoon character caught mid sneak. “No,” you lie too quickly.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You literally just ducked into the bathroom because you heard me coming down the hall.”

“I had to pee.”

“For the fourth time today?” His grin lopsided, “Either you’ve got a UTI, or you’re full of shit.”

You grit your teeth, fingers tightening around the doorknob. “Maybe both.”

he sighs out laugh, then steps closer, “Listen,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a serious tone, “if this is about the whole towel thing—”

“It’s not,” you answer quickly, too loud, too fast.

“So it is about the towel thing.”

“I’m not—” You exhale sharply through your nose, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can you just—” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “Give me, like, a three foot radius?”

Chan tilts his head, considering. His gaze drags down your body, before settling back on your face. “Nah,” he says finally, “I like you flustered.”

You bite your lip, eyes darting around, then settle on his, before darting around again.

The silence stretches, until you finally crack under the weight of it. “you—don’t you have a girlfriend?” you blurt, the words stumbling out in a rushed, stuttering mess.

Chan blinks, his smirk faltering for half a second before dissolving into genuine confusion. “A what?” His laugh sounds startled, almost disbelieving.

You press your lips together, suddenly regretting every life choice that led you to this moment.

Chan's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, "A girlfriend?" He repeats, "What, like, some theoretical girl who sneaks in when you're not looking?"

You gesture vaguely at him — the tousled hair, the unfairly sculpted shoulders, the effortless charm that clings to him like a second skin.

"You just—seem like the type." The words tumble out half mumbled, your gaze darting anywhere but his face.

Chan’s laughter echoes through the hallway, loud enough that you flinch—not just from the sound, but from the way it makes your stomach flip.

"Oh my god," he wheezes, leaning against the doorframe like he needs the support. "You thought I had some secret girlfriend sneaking in here to—what, fuck me while you're at work?"

You cross your arms tightly, "It's not that ridiculous," you mutter, but even you hear how weak it sounds.

"First of all, if I had a girlfriend, you'd know. I'm not subtle." His smirk tilts into something teasing. "Second, I'm very single. And third—" He pauses, tilting his head. "Wait. Is that why you've been avoiding me? You thought I was getting laid in there and didn't invite you?"

Your face burns. "No—that's not—"

His grin softens slightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "So," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "what is it, then?"

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of your shirt so tightly the fabric threatens to tear. "Nothing," you lie. "Just—roommate stuff. Boundaries."

Chan hums, "Boundaries," he echoes, Then, "You know you can just tell me if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, right?"

You swallow hard, "Yeah," you mutter, gaze trailing to his eyes and holding his stare for the first time throughout this conversation "I know."

Chan pushes off the doorframe with a shrug, "Alright then," he says, clapping his hands together like he's wiping the whole conversation away. "Takeout time. You in?"

it's like all this man does is think about food...and make you weak in the knees.

You blink, "Uh. Yeah. Sure."

Chan pulls out his phone, already scrolling through delivery apps, "Thai? Or that new Italian place that opened down the street?" He glances up, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Unless you're feeling sushi again, but last time you complained about the wasbi being too strong."

The normalcy of it — the way he remembers your stupid, offhand complaints about condiments — makes something in your chest tighten.

You clear your throat. "Thai’s good."

~

The weirdness fades slowly, chan doesn’t mention the girlfriend comment again, and you stop bolting like a startled deer every time he walks into a room.

He starts leaving his door open when he’s working, the rhythmic tap of his keyboard drifting into the hallway. You catch yourself lingering in the doorway sometimes, watching the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way he bites his tongue when he’s stuck on something.

once, he catches you staring and pats the space beside him on the bed without looking up from his laptop. “Help me brainstorm this dumb tagline,”

You perch awkwardly at first, careful not to touch him, but Chan sprawls like he owns every inch of the mattress, his thigh pressing warm against yours. and before you know it, you’re leaning into him, pointing at the screen. “That one’s terrible,”

~

Movie nights become a thing.

The first movie night starts by accident — or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under your chin, scrolling through your phone while Chan sprawls across the other end, his laptop balanced precariously on his thighs.

Then the Wi-Fi cuts out.

Chan groans, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Fucking landlord,” he mutters, jabbing at his keyboard like it’ll magically fix the connection.

You snort, watching him glare at the screen like it’s personally offended him. “Guess we’re gonna have to talk to each other,”

“Horrifying,” he deadpans, then grabs the remote off the coffee table. “a movie it is.”

You end up with some terrible action movie Chan insists is a “classic,” but neither of you pay much attention. Halfway through, you catch him watching you instead of the screen, his head turning back to the movie when you caught him.

You brush it off, focusing on the screen, but your pulse jumps when Chan shifts closer, his thigh pressing against yours.

The credits roll, and he stretches. The couch creaks as he shifts, stretching his arms overhead with a groan that does things to your already frayed nerves.

"Well," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, "that was a cinematic masterpiece."

You snort, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, if you consider explosions and zero plot development masterful storytelling."

Chan’s chuckles “Plot is overrated,” he says, “Sometimes you just wanna watch things blow up.”

Chan then exhales heavily and stands. “Alright, I’m hitting the shower,” he says, stretching until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. You look away — too late — and Chan’s smirk is audible in his voice. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“In your dreams,” you mutter, but your pulse jumps when he pauses by the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Exactly.”

You sit there, frozen, until the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower starts running. The sound of water hitting tile fills the apartment, and you press your palms to your overheated cheeks, exhaling sharply.

Stupid. You’re being stupid. That probably didn't mean anything.

But then your phone buzzes on the couch beside you, and Chan’s name lights up the screen.

forgot my towel. mind grabbing it?

You stare at the message, then at the hallway, Trap, your brain supplies helpfully.

type back,

Seriously?

he answers immediately

dead serious. i’m vulnerable here.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re already standing. His towel hangs on the back of his bedroom door, You grab it, then walk out to the bathroom.

You knock once, then freeze when Chan calls out, “Just come in.”

Your throat goes dry. “Absolutely not.”

Chan’s laugh echoes off the tiles. “Relax, I’m decent.” A pause. “Mostly.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, then shove the towel through the gap in the door, arm outstretched as far as possible. “Here.”

Chan’s fingers brush yours as he takes the towel. His skin is warm, damp, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice closer than you expected. You can *feel* his smile through the door. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You bolt back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.

too much for your first movie night.

~

just when things were getting normal, It happens again on a monday.

You’re home early again, the apartment is silent. You toe off your shoes, and you were about to shout a "I'm back" when you heard it again.

Low, breathy moans slipping through the crack in Chan’s door.

Your feet root to the floor, ears straining as the noise curls around you.

His voice, thick with pleasure, murmurs something you can’t quite catch — then a wet, rhythmic sound that sends heat flooding your cheeks.

apparently, this man takes his....alone time very seriously.

that's what it had to be right? you can't blame him — you've been there once or twice.

Your breath sticks in your throat, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. The sound— god, the sound — wraps around you, thick and heady, Chan's voice breaking on a moan that scrapes down your spine.

You should move. should bolt to your room, slam the door, drown it out with headphones. but your feet refuse to cooperate.

You tiptoe into the hallway, his door is cracked just enough, and your pulse hammers so loud its drowning out any other coherent thought in your brain.

A peak wouldn't hurt...

The door creaks faintly as it opens another inch, just enough for you to see.

Chan sits on the edge of his bed, but not like you thought. Not hidden, not private. No, this is something else entirely.

A ring light casts a glow over his bare skin, the camera propped on his desk angled perfectly to capture every inch of him. His laptop screen is open with a reflection of him and a rapid stream of comments too fast to read.

Oh.

Oh god.

Your stomach drops, then tightens all at once.

Chan’s head is tipped back, his throat working around a groan as his hand moves lazily between his thighs.

You press yourself against the hallway wall, pulse hammering, thoughts running a hundred miles per hour.

you did not expect this.

His breath hitches, a sharp, punched out sound, and your nails dig into your palms.

Chan’s fingers twist at the base of his cock, his thumb smearing precum in slow circles. The camera catches the way his abs flex as he arches into his own touch, his voice ragged when he murmurs, "Wish you were here." before he bites down on his lower lip. "Could use a mouth right now."

You watch, frozen in place, as his thighs tremble, his free hand fisting in the sheets beside him. The comments on his screen blur into a frenzy of emojis and a bunch of pinging donations. His breath stutters, his jaw clenching as his strokes turn erratic, desperate. “Yeah,” he gasps, voice breaking, “yeah, just like that—”

Then he comes with a choked moan, stripes of white painting his stomach as his back arches off the bed.

Gosh, he’s gorgeous — and you barely register the dampness between your own thighs until Chan slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving.

Chan exhales sharply, his fingers still lazily stroking his softening cock as he leans forward, just enough to tap something on his laptop.

he ends the stream with a wink and a low, raspy comment that you didn't quite catch. The screen goes black, and you barely have half a second to process the situation before your body kicks into motion.

You bolt down the hallway, socked feet silent against the hardwood.

Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you just as Chan gets up. You press your back against the door, lungs burning from holding your breath, and listen.

Water runs in the sink. A towel rustles. Then you hear footsteps.

They pause outside your door.

You purse your lips and hold your breath. Then Chan hums, before his footsteps retreat down the hall.

You slump against the door, exhaling shakily.

Holy shit.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you fumble to pull it out.

you home early?

You stare at the text, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lie, your brain screams. Tell him no. but then how would you fake going into the apartment if you're already inside the apartment?

Just got back

You hit send before you can second guess it.

Cool. Dinner soon?

Your fingers hover over the screen, the weight of his question pressing against your ribs like a stone. The air in your room feels — too thick — and suddenly the idea of sitting across from Chan at the kitchen table, pretending you didn’t just watch him get off on camera, makes your stomach twist.

Gonna shower first.

Your phone buzzes again before you can even set it down,

Can I join?

You nearly drop it, blood roaring in your ears. Then—

jk. don’t use up all the hot water.

You toss your phone onto your bed and drag a hand down your face with a sigh.

You're deeply fucked.

~

That night, you stayed up aggressively googling him till his page came up.

Onlychans? really?

you'd laugh at the username if it wasn't for the videos that popped up when you clicked on his profile.

Chan, shirtless, sprawled across what is unmistakably your living room couch, one hand lazily palming himself through his sweatpants.

Chan, biting his lip as he slicks lube down his cock, the camera angled to capture every twitch of his abs.

Chan, moaning, his head thrown back against the pillows of his bed —your apartment, your shared space — while his other hand works something thick and glistening into his—

You slam the laptop shut.

Your face burns. Your pulse thrums in your ears. The apartment is silent — Chan’s out for a run, or so he’d claimed when he’d left an hour ago.

You open the laptop again.

It’s Curiosity. That’s all.

It starts innocently enough — just checking his schedule, really. A quick glance at his calendar pinned to the fridge.

"For productivity purposes," Chan had joked when you asked.

Then, sure enough, it spiraled.

You memorize the time of his streams, monday nights, Friday nights, he'd timed them perfectly in sync with times he knew you wouldn't be home. that's why you've been blissfully unaware of him filming in different locations around your shared apartment for the past two and a half months.

And the occasional late night surprise session that leaves you fumbling for your earbuds at 1 am. You'd literally be home, but he'd go live anyway. was he into that?

you were into it too, admittedly, because you turned out to be just as shameful as him.

The notification pops up at 1:47 am on a Wednesday 'Chan is live!' (yes, you turned his notifs on) and your fingers freeze mid doom scroll through Instagram.

your room is dark except for the glow of your phone screen, you're supposed to be asleep.

You tap the notification.

Chan’s face fills the screen, his grin already in place as he adjusts the camera. He’s shirtless, propped against the headboard of his bed, one arm draped lazily over his bent knee. The ring light casts shadows along his abs, highlighting every dip and curve.

"Late night surprise," he murmurs, "*Miss me?*" aaaand heat is already pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers work on hinseld, slow and teasing at first, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles while he talks— god, he sure does talk, filthy praises and half formed fantasies spilling from his lips like he’s whispering them directly into your ear. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, your other hand slipping under the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Chan arches his back on screen, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him. "Fuck, you guys are greedy tonight," he rasps, stroking himself slowly. His thumb presses against the head on every upstroke, just how you’ve learned he likes it — learned from watching, from nights spent with your phone hidden under your pillow, screen dimmed to its lowest setting.

"Fuck, m'close," Chan groans, your fingers moving between your thighs in time with his rhythm, matching the pace, hips shifting under the sheets, your breath coming shallow.

It’s not the first time you’ve watched him like this, but it’s the first time you’ve done it live, with the shaky thrill of knowing he has no idea you’re here.

A whimper almost escapes you when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, his breath hitching. You press your palm over your mouth, stifling the sound.

The last thing you need is him hearing you through the thin walls.

The thought alone, him catching you, realizing, sends a sharp jolt between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together, chasing the feeling before it slips away.

His hand speeds up, the wet sound of his skin moving over his cock muffled only slightly by the mic's noise suppression. "God, fuck—gonna come so hard for you," he grits out, his voice cracking on the last word.

You press your free hand harder against your mouth, fingers digging into your own cheek as you watch his stomach tense, the muscles there flexing under the sheen of sweat. Your own movements stutter when he lets out a low, punched out moan, his hips jerking up into his fist.

You’re so close you can’t think straight. The coil in your stomach winds tighter with every stroke of his hand, every filthy sound he makes, matching his rhythm like you’re desperate to prove something— like if you can just finish at the same time, it’ll mean something. Stupid. It’s stupid. But your hips jerk anyway, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts against your palm.

"Fuck, fuck—" His hand stills suddenly, fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he tips his head back, you watch as his body locks up for one second — and then he’s coming, stripes of white painting his stomach, his chest.

Your own climax crashes over you at the same time, so violently you nearly choke on the gasp you swallow down, your back arching off the bed as pleasure burns through you in hot, dizzying waves.

He’s still catching his breath, his free hand dragging lazily through the mess on his stomach, fingers tracing the lines of cum with a slow, absentminded swipe.

His lips curl into that stupid, effortless smirk you’ve seen a hundred times,

"Mmm, fuck," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, still a little breathless. "You all got me good tonight."

He reaches for a towel off screen, the muscles in his arm flexing as he wipes himself clean. You watch, transfixed, as he tosses the towel aside and leans closer to the camera, cheeks are still flushed, his lashes low.

"Hope that was worth the wait," he says, eyes flickering to the chat before he grins. "gosh you guys are generous with the tips tonight." and you catch a few of the comments.

slave4u: how bout you come and give me that tip

sweetheartonline: gone broke just for you </3

Chan just chuckles, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I’m done. You’re all insatiable." He stretches his arms above his head, his torso arching beautifully, "Next stream’s friday. Be good for me til then, yeah?"

With one last wink, he reaches forward, and the screen goes black.

You yank your earbuds out, Your chest heaves, your skin still buzzing, your thighs still sticky, and you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids until colors bloom behind them.

you find it ridiculous that you're actually enjoying this, perverted thoughts. Stupid. So stupid.

~

Two weeks pass after that. You're hyperaware of Chan’s presence in a way that makes your skin itch. Every casual touch sends sparks skittering up your spine.

You try to act normal, you really do.

But you catch yourself staring at his hands when he cooks, remembering the way they moved over himself on screen, and have to physically shake your head to clear the image.

Chan, for his part, seems to thrive on your discomfort. He leaves his bedroom door cracked just a little wider than necessary, and infuriatingly, he's rarely not shirtless.

it's okay. you're okay. at least you tell yourself that.

till it's Friday morning, marking the beginning of your third month.

the apartment is quiet, still bathed in the soft gold of early morning light filtering through the kitchen window. you hum under your breath as you flip pancakes.

then Chan emerges, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep.

He leans against the doorway, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. “Morning,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

this feels too domestic for your liking.

“Morning,” you mumble, not turning around.

Chan pads closer, bare feet silent against the hardwood, until he’s right behind you. His warmth radiates against your back, “Smells good,” he murmurs, and you swear his lips brush the shell of your ear.

The spatula clatters against the pan. too domestic.

Chan chuckles, as he reaches around you to steal a piece of pancake from the prepared stack. His chest presses against your shoulder, his skin searing where it touches yours. “Careful,” he teases, popping the bite into his mouth. “You’ll burn them.”

The pancake batter sizzles violently as you stand there, frozen, Chan’s body heat scorching against your back.

His fingers brush your hip as he reaches for the syrup, and you nearly drop the spatula again.

"You’re jumpy this morning," Chan muses, leaning against the counter beside you. "Bad dreams?"

sure, if 'bad' and 'wet' are the same thing. "something like that."

Chan hums, tilting his head as he studies you. "Got plans today?"

You flip another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just groceries later." The words come out steadier than you feel.

His grin grows. "Mind if I tag along?"

You shrug, "It’s just errands."

Chan snags another pancake, leaning into your space until his bare shoulder presses against yours. "Exactly. Sounds thrilling." His fingers brush yours as he steals the spatula, flipping the last pancake with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. I’ll even push the cart."

You huff a laugh despite yourself. "You’ll get bored in five minutes."

"Bet?" He bumps your hip with his, "Loser buys ice cream."

~

The grocery store is exactly as mundane as you predicted, but Chan makes it unbearable in ways you didn’t anticipate — his fingers lingering when he passes you items, his chest pressing against your back in crowded aisles like it’s accidental. By the time you hit the freezer section, your nerves are frayed.

"Pick a flavor," Chan murmurs, chin hooked over your shoulder as he reaches past you to open the glass door. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "I’m feeling generous."

The freezer air hits your face, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. Chan’s arm brushes yours as he leans in, his fingers tracing the edge of a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. "This one," he decides, plucking it from the shelf. "tastes like toothpaste sometimes, but eh" he said with a shrug.

You snort, grabbing a classic vanilla, but he plucks it from your hands and replaces it with something absurdly decadent, something with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.

"Live a little," he grins, tossing it into the cart.

The checkout line is agony. Chan stands close enough that his knuckles keep brushing the small of your back, each touch sending sparks up your spine.

the cashier — an exhausted looking college student — scans everything, he pushed your hand aside when you tried to pay, and handed the cashier his card.

he caried all the groceries too, and swatted your hand away when you try to carry any.

it feels like he's your boyfriend.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you both, grocery bags rustling as Chan kicks off his shoes. You’re still fumbling with the laces of your sneakers when he brushes past you with the plastic bags.

You follow, already going to pull things out and putting them in their designated cupboards, Chan’s already rummaging through to find the ice cream, His grin is wide as he holds it up. "Scoops or straight from the tub?"

"freezer" you deadpan, "it's probably melted by now"

his shoulders slump a little, turning around to place the tubs in the freezer.

"and, scoops," you mutter, "We’re not animals."

he snickers, "Debatable."

Chan nudges the freezer door shut with his hip, the ice cream safely stowed away for later. "Movie night?" he suddenly asks, casual as anything, "Haven't done one in a while."

You nod, "Yeah. Okay."

You retreat to your room to change, fingers fumbling with the hem of your shirt before you even reach the door. The fabric sticks to your skin, too warm and you peel it off with a relieved sigh the second you’re alone.

The dresser drawer squeaks as you rummage for shorts and a tank top since its getting too hot, but your hands freeze mid reach when you hear Chan’s door creak open down the hall.

The unmistakable sound of fabric hitting the floor — jeans, probably — makes your throat go dry. You strain to listen, pulse hammering in your ears, as Chan hums under his breath. Something clatters, a belt buckle, and then the soft rustle of fresh clothes being pulled on.

You yank your own shorts up so fast you nearly trip, ears burning. Pathetic.

When you emerge, Chan’s already sprawled across the couch in loose joggers and that stupidly thin white tank top.

"You took forever," Chan drawls from the couch, already eating his way through a popcorn bucket.

"You're picking?" he scoffs, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "After the garbage you called 'cinema' last time?"

You snatch the remote before he can lunge for it. "You picked Twilight unironically last time."

Chan clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "Bella Swan is a cultural icon."

You scoff, scrolling through the options, ignoring Chan's dramatic sigh as he flops back against the cushions. His knee bumps yours, but you don't pull away.

"Fine," he huffs. "But if it's another pretentious indie film where people whisper for two hours, I'm revoking your movie privileges."

"Fine," you grumble back, scrolling past a dozen of said pretentious indie films with moody black and white thumbnails. "But only because I pity your attention span."

Chan's grin is immediate as he stretches an arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder.

"pick something with action," then wiggles his eyebrows, "Or nudity."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow—," Chan wheezes, but he's laughing, catching your wrist before you can retreat. His fingers are warm and rough against your pulse point, thumb pressing into the flutter there. "Violent and kinky," he muses, tugging you closer until your shoulders press together. "I like it."

You yank your wrist free and snatch up the remote again, scrolling through titles.

Chan's laughter vibrates through the couch cushions as you land on something, anything, just to shut him up. The movie starts with a car chase, tires screeching, glass shattering. Perfect. Loud enough to distract whenever Chan shifts beside you.

"Action and nudity," Chan murmurs, nodding approvingly at the screen where some actor's shirt rips open during a fight scene. "You do know me."

You sink lower into the couch, arms crossed. "Shut up and watch."

The first ten minutes of the movie blur into a haze of gunfire and badly timed one-liners, the volume turned up just loud enough to drown out the way Chan’s fingers keep tracing idle patterns against your shoulder.

You focus resolutely on the screen, but Chan’s warmth beside you is impossible to ignore. His knee presses into yours, his bare arm brushing against yours every time he reaches for more popcorn, and each touch sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

Then, during a lull in the action, Chan shifts beside you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"You’re not even watching," he mmurmur.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "Am too."

Chan hums, unconvinced, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. "Liar."

His accusation hangs between you, thick and charged, and suddenly the movie feels like background noise.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, tipping your head back just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes are dark, there’s no teasing smirk now, no playful glint — just hunger.

Your breath hitches audibly.

Chan’s thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me to stop."

You don’t.

His lips crash into yours before you can form a coherent thought, the remote clattering to the floor as your hands fist in his shirt.

Chan groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with so much desperation.

The movie drones on, but all you can feel is the way his hips jerk forward against yours as you press closer. His hands slide down to grip your waist, hauling you halfway into his lap without breaking the kissl.

"You’ve been driving me insane," Chan pants against your lips, one hand slipping under your shirt to trace the dip of your spine. "Watching me, pretending you weren’t—fuck—" His words dissolve into a groan when you grind down against him, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

He knows you know. he has all this time. The realization makes your eyes widen slightly—but it doesn’t surprise you. Not really.

Not when Chan’s fingers tighten possessively around your hips, his teeth scraping your lower lip like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

His palm slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin tank top, and your breath stutters against his mouth.

Of course he knew. The cracked doors, the late night streams he timed too perfectly with your schedule. Those weren't just coincidences.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your eyes wide with the realization that just dawned on you.

his lips are swollen from your kisses, panting, “Surprise,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

Chan’s grip shifts, hauling you fully into his lap, and you gasp when his hardness presses against you. His chuckle vibrates through your chest as he rolls his hips up, slow and filthy. “Thought you’d never crack,” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw.

Your hands fist in his tank top, the fabric damp with sweat where it clings to his chest. “You—asshole” you pant, hips jerking against his involuntarily. “All that teasing—”

Chan's grin widens "All what teasing?" he murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kisses to your neck. "You mean leaving my door open just a little too wide?"

His teeth scrape your skin, "Or maybe streaming at exactly the times I knew you'd be home?" His palm cups your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple.

You gasp when he pinches lightly, hips jerking against his. "You're insane," you manage, though the words come out more breathless than angry.

Chan laughs against your throat, before his teeth sink into the tender skin just below your ear. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his hands slide down to grip your hips, guiding your movements as you grind against him. The friction is dizzying, the thin fabric of your shorts doing nothing to dull the heat of him pressed against you.

"Insane?" His breath is hot against your damp skin. "Baby, aren't the one who watched my streams every other night?" His fingers slip under the hem of your tank top, tracing the waistband of your shorts with maddening slowness.

You whine, the sound high and desperate in your throat, and nod before you can think better of it. The admission burns your cheeks, but the way Chan groans against your skin makes it worth it.

"yeah?" he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

Chan’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hot against your lips. “Every fucking time,” he admits, voice rough “I’d pretend it was your hand on me,” His thumb presses into the dip of your hipbone, “Your mouth.” His gaze drops to your parted lips, then back up, heavy lidded. “You have no idea how many times I came thinking about you watching me.”

Chan exhales sharply, his nose brushing yours. “cancelled tonight’s stream,” he murmurs, lips grazing yours with every word. “would rather beg you to fuck me instead.” His palm slides up your ribcage, fingers tracing the edge of your bra through your tank top.

“You don’t have to beg,” you murmur, lips brushing his as you swing your leg off his lap. Chan exhales sharply, hands gripping your waist tighter like he’s afraid you’ll pull away entirely, but then you’re sliding to your knees between his legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his joggers.

His breath catches when you tug them down just enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking against his stomach.

gosh he's even bigger than he looks on camera.

Chan's breath stutters when your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking into your grip before he can stop himself. "Fuck—" His voice cracks, a hand flying to fist in your hair as you stroke him slow, watching the way his eyelids flutter.

He's hot and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip, and the way his thighs tense when you swipe your thumb over the head is obscene.

Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair when your lips brush the head of his cock, his breath stuttering out in a ragged groan. “Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerk up instinctively, but you pull back just enough to tease, swirling your tongue over the tip without taking him deeper, and you can’t resist glancing up through your lashes to watch his face twist with pleasure.

“So loud,” you giggle, blowing a slow breath over the wetness you’ve left behind. Chan’s thighs tense under your palms. “All those streams,” you continue, stroking him lazily with one hand while the other traces the vein running along his length, “and you never moaned like this.”

Chan’s laugh comes out strained, his chest heaving. “it wasn't you,” he grits out, hips rolling up into your touch. His fingers tug at your hair, guiding you back to him with a quiet desperation that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. “Now stop teasing—”

You swallow him down before he can finish, humming around him just to feel the way his whole body jerks. His moan is filthy, unfiltered, his hips canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like he can’t help it.

You take him deeper, throat working around him, and Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.

“god—” His voice cracks when you hollow your cheeks, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. His other hand fists the couch cushion beside his thigh, knuckles going white. “So good—shit—you take me so fucking good—”

You pull off with a slick pop, lips brushing the flushed tip as you peer up at him, teasing, thumb swiping over the bead of precome gathered there.

Chan’s chest heaves, his abs flexing as he stares down at you, His grip in your hair tightens just enough to sting — a silent warning — but you just grin and duck back down, sucking him deep until his thighs tremble.

Chan curses, his hips lifting off the couch as you bob your head, the wet sounds obscenely loud even with the movie still playing forgotten in the background.

“Gonna—” He's cut off by his own gasp, “Gonna come if you keep—”

You pull off with a wet sound, lips slick and swollen, and replace your mouth with both hands, jerking him so fast his hips stutter off the couch, his breath coming in ragged, punched out gasps.

“Wait—fuck—” Chan chokes out, fingers scrambling at your shoulders, but it’s too late — his back arches off the cushions, muscles locking tight as he spills hot over your fingers and his own stomach.

His thighs shake under your palms, his cock twitching in your grip as you stroke him through it, slower now, milking every last drop until he’s whimpering and oversensitive, his hands weakly pushing at your wrists.

“Turn around,” Chan rasps, chest rising and falling rapidly. His fingers slide from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your spit slick bottom lip. “Want you riding me.”

Your stomach flips at the command, but before you can move, Chan’s hands are gripping your waist, hauling you up onto the couch with surprising strength. He settles you over his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the sudden press of his bare skin against yours makes you gasp.

Chan groans, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he leans back to look at you, really look at you, his gaze dragging down your body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

he hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts and tugs, sliding them off, his breath hitching when he finds you already soaked through your panties.

"Fuck," he exhales, dragging the damp fabric aside with one finger, his touch featherlight as he traces your slit. His other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch, his breath mingling with yours. "You're so wet," he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief. "Just from sucking me off?"

You nod, hips canting into his touch shamelessly, his finger circles your clit —once, twice, before dipping lower, sliding into you, crooking just right to make your back arch. His free hand fists in your tank top, dragging you closer until your chest presses against his, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples harden against him.

His thumb pressing firm circles against your clit, and your vision whites out for a second — just long enough to miss the way his free hand fists in your tank top, yanking it up until the fabric bunches just above your chest. His mouth replaces his fingers, teeth scraping over your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you gasp, hips stuttering against his hand.

“Thought about this,” he pants against your skin, his tongue lapping at the wet spot he’s left behind. “Every goddamn stream—imagined you like this, wet and desperate for me.” His finger curls again, dragging a broken moan from your throat, and his grin is all teeth when he leans back to watch you unravel. “Knew you’d be prettier than I imagined.”

You grab his wrist, stilling his movements, and his brows furrow — confused, frustrated — until you swing your leg over him, straddling his lap properly this time. His cock, half hard again, twitches against your thigh as you grind down, the friction drawing a ragged groan from both of you.

Chan’s hands fly to your hips, guiding your movements as you rock against him, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Wanna feel you,” you murmur, fingers fumbling between you to grip him, slicking him up with your own arousal. Chan’s head falls back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you line him up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

You sink down onto him with a choked gasp, thighs trembling as he stretches you open inch by agonizing inch. Chan’s hands clamp around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t rush you —just watches as you take him deeper.

"Fuck," you whimper, nails scraping his shoulders when he bottoms out, your body shuddering at the unfamiliar stretch. "You’re—god—you’re so big—"

Chan groans, hips twitching beneath you, fighting not to thrust up. "Yeah?" His voice is wrecked, breath hitching as you clench around him. "Feel good, baby? Stuffed full of me?" His fingers trail up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts while you adjust. "taking me so good."

You roll your hips experimentally, and Chan’s head thuds back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "That’s it," he rasps, hands sliding to grip your ass. "Use me—ride me just like you imagined."

The words send heat flaring up your neck, but you can’t deny them, can’t stop the way your body responds, hips rolling in slow circles. Chan hisses between his teeth when you clench around him, his fingers flexing against your skin.

"Christ—fuck—you’re so tight," he grits out, eyes locked on where you’re joined. "Bet you thought about this every night, hmm? Watching me stroke my cock on cam while you fucked yourself on your fingers?"

You whimper, thighs quivering as you lift yourself halfway up before sinking back down, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. his breath stutters, his hips jerking up to meet you halfway, and the sudden shift punches a ragged moan from your throat. "Oh fuck—Chan—"

"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your clit as you bounce in his lap. His voice is rough, wrecked, his pupils blown wide, "Tell me how much you thought about this, how many times you came imagining me inside you."

You gasp when he pinches your clit lightly, your rhythm faltering, "Every—ah—every night," you admit, nails digging into his shoulders as you grind down harder. "Watched you—touched myself—god, wanted you—"

Chan groans, fingers tightening on your hips as he guides your movements, thrusting up to meet you. "Knew it," he pants, lips brushing yours with every ragged breath.

"Knew you were getting off to me—fuck—your little gasps when I’d look at the camera—" His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing your nipples through your bra. "Bet you came so pretty for me, huh? All quiet so I wouldn’t hear?"

You nod frantically, hips stuttering as his cock hits that spot inside you, the pleasure building dangerously fast. "Y-yes—*fuck*—Chan, please—"

"Please what?" he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk even as his own breathing falters. He slows your movements deliberately, dragging you through each excruciatingly slow roll of your hips. "Need me to fuck you harder, baby?"

You whine, fingers tangling in his hair as you try to chase your own rhythm, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting. "Yes—god, yes—"

he flips you onto your stomach before you can finish begging, his hands rough and sure as he shoves your knees apart against the couch cushions. The fabric burns against your bare thighs when he yanks your hips back, his cock sliding out of you with a slick sound that makes your face burn.

You barely have time to whimper before his fingers dig into your waist, lifting you on all fours with a sharp tug — his chest presses hot against your back, his breath ragged in your ear as he lines himself up again.

he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your elbows buckle against the cushions. His cock stretches you open deeper than before, the angle hitting deeper, and you choke on a scream when his hips snap forward again, setting a punishing pace before you can catch your breath.

Hands clamp around your hips, fingers bruising as he drags you back onto him with every thrust. The couch creaks beneath you, the sound drowned out by chan’s ragged groans and the slick slap of skin on skin. His rhythm is merciless, no teasing now, just pure, desperate need as he fucks into you like he’s been starving for it.

Chan's grip on your hips shifts — one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine bows beautifully beneath him. "Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice rough with something between awe and hunger as he takes in the sight of you spread out beneath him.

His fingers tighten, pulling just enough to make your scalp prickle, before his palm cracks down against your ass, the sound echoing through the room louder than the forgotten movie still playing in the background.

You gasp, thighs trembling as the heat blooms across your skin, but Chan doesn’t give you a second to recover. His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your nails scrabbling against the couch cushions for purchase. "Take it," he orders, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "God, you feel so good—clenching around me like—" His words dissolve into a groan as he picks up the pace, each thrust punching a ragged sound from your throat.

His free hand slides around your waist, pressing firm circles against your clit, and the dual sensation has your vision blurring at the edges. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his rhythm falters for just a second, "Gonna make you come just like this—spread out, taking me so well—"

His thumb presses harder against your clit, and your back arches involuntarily, a broken moan tearing from your lips as the pleasure crests suddenly, violently.

Chan curses, his grip tightening as you clench around him, your body shuddering through the waves of it. "Yeah, there you go, gonna cum for me?"

You nod vigorously, your fingers twisting into the couch cushions as Chan’s thrusts turn erratic, his breath ragged against your ear. "Cum with me," he rasps, and it’s all you need.

Your body clenches around him like a vice, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense your vision whites out for a second. Chan groans, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken gasp, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Chan pulls out slowly, hissing through his teeth when you clench around him reflexively, oversensitive.

The couch cushions are damp beneath your trembling thighs, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat as you collapse onto your stomach, chest heaving. Chan exhales sharply, running a hand down your spine, before flipping you onto your back, more gently this time.

The shift makes you wince, your body still thrumming with aftershocks, he slides off the couch onto his knees between your legs. His palms skate up your inner thighs, spreading them apart with slowly despite your weak protest. "Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. "Just wanna taste you."

You squirm when his breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, but Chan’s grip tightens, holding you open. "Chan—" His name comes out hoarse, your voice wrecked. "I’m—ah—too sensitive—"

Chan’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open despite your squirming. His tongue flicks over your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, oversensitive and trembling.

“You can take it,” he murmurs against your skin, “You’re a big girl, yeah?” His teeth graze your inner thigh, before his mouth closes over you again, and your back arches off the couch with a choked gasp.

You can take it. You do.

Every swipe of his tongue sends sparks shooting up your spine, your fingers twisting into his hair — not to pull him away, but to keep him right there, his mouth working you through the dizzying aftershocks of your orgasm.

Chan hums against you, the vibration making your toes curl, and his grip on your thighs tightens when you try to press them together instinctively. “None of that,” he chides, nipping at your skin before dragging his tongue up your slit again, “Just let me have you.”

You whine, hips caving into his mouth despite the oversensitivity, the pleasure tipping into something almost painful, but you don’t tell him to stop. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

"so sweet," he groans against you, the words vibrating through your oversensitive nerves. His fingers dig into your hips, pinning you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity. "No— stay still."

You whimper, but obey, letting him spread you wider as his tongue delves deeper, circling your entrance before dragging back up in one long, torturous lick.

"Chan—please—" you gasp, but you’re not even sure what you’re begging for — him to stop or never, ever stop.

His response is to hook your leg over his shoulder, angling you deeper into his mouth, and then he’s sucking you in, his tongue working you with precision. You sob his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably as the pressure builds again, too soon, too much—

You choke out his name, fingers scrambbling at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, before your hips jerk violently against his mouth.

“Chan, gonna—oh god—” The warning spills out brokenly, your thighs clamp around his head as you come with a shuddering gasp, your back bowing off the couch as pleasure rips through you.

he groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat, he doesn’t pull away, just laps at you greedily, his tongue dragging through the mess you’ve made of him with slow strokes.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re perfect like this.” His thumb brushes your clit once, testing, and you jerk with a gasp, your body still thrumming with aftershocks.

Chan grins up at you, all dark eyes and swollen lips, before dragging his tongue up your slit one last time.

Chan rises from between your thighs with a groan, his lips slick and glistening with you, you realize with a jolt — before his mouth crashes into yours, the kiss filthy and possessive, his tongue licking into your mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, sticky with sweat, and he moans into your mouth when you tug — sharp, just to feel him shudder.

You pull away eventually, both of you panting, sticky with sweat and other things, and collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. Chan drags you half on top of him, your head resting against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat still racing beneath his skin.

His fingers trace idle patterns along your back, the movie’s credits roll, forgotten, casting flickering shadows across the ceiling.

You nuzzle into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat slowing down, the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek. His skin is warm and slightly sticky, and you press a kiss to it without thinking, smiling when his fingers pause for a second before resuming their path along your spine.

"Quit staring," you murmur, tilting your head up just enough to catch him watching you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. soft, almost awed, Chan huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing your hipbone where he’d gripped hard enough to leave marks earlier.

"Can’t help it," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion "You’re kinda fucking gorgeous like this."

You snort, but your cheeks heat anyway, and Chan’s grin widens when he notices. He shifts beneath you, rolling just enough to tuck you more firmly against his side, his arm a solid weight across your waist.

The movement makes you wince, your thighs ache in a way that’s equal parts delicious and punishing, and Chan’s fingers tighten reflexively, his smirk turning smug.

"Sorry," he lies, and you bite on his shoulder just to hear him yelp.

his yelp dissolves into laughter, his fingers digging into your sides as he squirms away from your teeth. “Fuck, ow,” he complains, but his grin ruins the effect, “You bite hard—should’ve known you’d be a menace.”

You grin against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the reddening mark you left behind. “Payback,” you murmur, tracing the outline with your tongue just to feel him shiver. Chan groans, his hips jerking reflexively beneath you, and you freeze when you feel him stirring against your thigh—already half hard again.

“Seriously?” you ask, incredulous, and Chan has the audacity to look proud, his smirk widening as he rolls his hips up against you.

“What?” he teases, voice dripping with false innocence. “Can’t help it—you’re right there, all warm and fucked out—” His hand slides down your back, fingers skimming the curve of your ass before squeezing lightly. “And you bit me. That’s basically foreplay.”

You press a hand to Chan’s chest when he tries to roll you beneath him again, your thighs still trembling from the last round. “Shower,” you mumble, and Chan makes a wounded noise against your collarbone in protest.

“Five more minutes,” he tries, lips trailing up your neck like he’s trying to convince you with his mouth.

You laugh, breathless, and squirm out of his grip before he can distract you properly. “No—shower,” you insist, swatting at his hands when they try to drag you back. “We’re disgusting.”

Chan pouts — actually pouts, like this big hunk of a man didn't just fuck the daylights out of you — and flops back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles, but his eyes track your every movement as you stand, snickering when you wobble slightly on unsteady legs.

You stumble towards the bathroom, then you glance back at Chan, sprawled across the couch with his arms behind his head, watching you with that stupid, smug grin, and ask, "When’s your next stream again?"

his grin falters into confusion when your question registers. "Monday," he says automatically, his brows furrowing, "Why?"

You hum, "Just thinking," then you shrug, "maybe I’ll join you next time."

he's caught off guard when you leave him hanging and close the bathroom door behind you, "don't start something you can't finish!"

The air in the car feels heavy before the windows even fog, a heat that comes from years of him teaching you what you didn’t know you wanted, from nights when you clawed his back raw and begged until your throat broke for mercy he never gave. Three years, long enough to be his, branded into your skin in fingerprints and bruises, short enough that you still wake up dazed that the boy who ruined everyone else chose to ruin you permanently. He was the name whispered through every dorm hall, the one with the body that made girls reckless and the mouth that left them wrecked, all sharp smirks and sweat-drenched sheets. You were the quiet virgin, tucked into corners with your books, too shy to hold eye contact, too easy a mark for someone like him. And yet you’re the one he never let go of, the one he corrupted until the girl you used to be blurred into something only he could create, his slut, his whore, his sweetest weakness and filthiest obsession, broken open on his cock night after night until you forgot what untouched ever felt like.

He made you into a cock-hungry whore who can’t sleep without the stretch of him splitting you, who begs to be used against every surface, bent over counters, stuffed full in locker rooms, gagging on his length in lecture halls just because he snapped his fingers. Your body runs on his rhythm, trained to arch and bounce and take every brutal thrust until you’re hoarse from screaming, until the slick between your thighs drips down your legs and stains the sheets he’ll ruin again hours later. He fucks you like you’re nothing and worships you like you’re everything in the same breath—fingers buried in your throat, tongue dragging over your clit until you’re convulsing, cock pounding into you so erratic you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure starts. Three years and every position, every filthy idea he’s dragged out of you has only made you needier, a perfect slut molded for him alone, the kind that cries if he withholds and falls apart the second he gives in.

Jeno drives like he fucks: one hand steady on the wheel, the other always claiming you. Tonight it’s on your thigh, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you who it belongs to, thumb tracing higher each time you shift. The neon glow outside stains his profile in flashes of blue and red, jaw sharp, cheekbones carved, dark hair falling over eyes that cut when he glances at you. His lips are wet, swollen from where you couldn’t stop yourself earlier, and the hickeys on his neck are blooming proof of what he let you get away with before punishing you for it. Every muscle in his arm flexes as he grips the wheel, veins standing out against skin still heated from the gym, and your pulse stumbles watching the way his shirt clings to his chest. He looks dangerous and gorgeous and entirely yours, a vision that makes your thighs press together even as his hand spreads them apart with lazy authority. He drives with the calm of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, one hand on the wheel, the other resting heavy on your thigh, forcing it open a little wider every time you try to press them together. 

The car hums with a low growl, the same kind of sound he makes when you ride him too slow, when he grabs your hips and pounds up into you until your cries echo off the walls. Every streetlight passing feels like a countdown, your body tuned to his even when he doesn’t say a word. This is how he always starts, calm, in control, letting you simmer until you’re wet and aching without him even touching where you need. His profile could be a sin in itself—sharp nose, jaw tightening as he flexes his grip on your thigh, lips twitching like he knows exactly how soaked you already are. He always knows. You stare and he smirks, dragging his thumb closer to the edge of your panties, and you realize you’re already undone just from the way he looks behind the wheel, the boy who turned you inside out now driving you toward another night you’ll barely survive.

Your thighs won’t stay still, no matter how hard you press them together, no matter how heavy his hand clamps down over them. The leather squeaks beneath you with every squirm, breath spilling out in shallow, shaky whines as you turn your face toward his profile, watching the perfect slope of his jaw flex, the wet shine of his lips, the dangerous calm in the way he keeps one hand on the wheel like nothing’s happening while your pulse stutters out of control. “Nono, I can’t wait,” you whisper, voice breaking, teeth dragging over your swollen bottom lip as your hand inches higher, curling over his wrist to drag his palm closer to where you ache. “Jeno, please—” the plea shatters into a whimper as you spread your thighs wider under his touch, desperate, shameless, panting into the hot space of the car.

You lean into him, lips grazing the edge of his ear, and your voice turns filthier, dripping with need. “You can’t make me wait three hours… not when I’m already soaked for you. Pull over, ruin me right here. I want your cock down my throat until I choke, I want to ride you until my thighs give out, I want you to use me until I’m crying all over your seat.” Your nails skim dangerously close to the bulge in his jeans, fingers ghosting over the hard line of him, and you giggle when he growls low in his throat, breath catching on your tongue like gasoline ready to ignite. “C’mon, baby, just let me taste—”

The brakes slam so hard your body jolts against the seatbelt, cuffs clinking violently as his hand shoots up to your jaw, grip bruising, forcing your lips apart in a helpless gasp. The car jerks to a stop on the side of the dark road, headlights spilling into the trees, and he finally turns, his face shadowed and sharp, a growl curling from his chest as his eyes pin you in place. The heat of his breath, the tension in his muscles, the sheer force of his presence makes your stomach twist tight with hunger and fear at once. “You really wanna play with me here?” he snarls, voice low and lethal, but his lips twitch in that half-smirk that tells you you’ve succeeded, that you’ve broken through the calm into the storm you were begging for. And god, he’s terrifying like this—terrifying and so fucking sexy your thighs quake, your mouth falling open around a desperate little gasp as you wait for him to tear you apart.

His grip on your jaw tightens, forcing your head back against the seat until your eyes lock on his, no escape from the weight of his stare. His voice is gravel when he speaks, low and vibrating through your bones, the kind of sound that makes your thighs tremble harder than his touch. “You think you can move my hands like that? You think you can beg and pout and act like a little whore in my car, on my road, when I told you to wait?” His words drip with venom, but his thumb presses against your lower lip until it pops free, your mouth open and panting, saliva catching the glow of the dash. “You don’t get to tell me when, you don’t get to tell me how. You’re mine, and you’ll take it when I decide.”

Your hips lift from the seat anyway, shameless and wild, wrists straining against the cuffs as you push your body into his hold. “Then decide now,” you whisper, voice wrecked with want, tongue darting out to lick at the tip of his thumb just to make him twitch. “Pull me out and fuck me until the windows shatter. I’ll scream for you, I’ll choke for you, I’ll make a mess all over your cock, Jeno—just let me have it.” You grind up into the seat, the slick sound obscene in the silence, and giggle through your gasp when his nostrils flare, his jaw clenching like he’s holding back a beast.

“God, look at you,” he growls, leaning closer, his breath hot against your cheek, his teeth flashing as he bares them in a grin that’s nothing short of feral. “Begging to get ruined by the side of the road, soaking my seat like a desperate slut, rubbing yourself raw because you can’t wait. You wanna be a cock-hungry whore for me so bad, don’t you?” He yanks your chin, forcing you to nod, forcing you to choke out a needy little yes even as your eyes roll back. “Say it,” he snaps, the word a command that burns straight through your spine.

“I’m your whore,” you gasp, shameless, your thighs spreading wider, your chest heaving. “I’m your cock-hungry slut, Jeno, please—please ruin me now.” The words drip from your mouth like sin, and you see the way his lips twitch, the darkness flooding his eyes as his growl deepens, the air in the car turning molten with the promise of what’s about to break loose.

Despite the dominance that drips from him in moments like this, Jeno has always been a sweet, giving boyfriend—three years of him spoiling you, taking care of you, balancing the filth with a tenderness that makes you ache even deeper. Tonight was meant to be different; he’d surprised you with a romantic staycation in a secluded cabin, a weekend meant for slow mornings, wine by the fire, and the kind of intimacy that wasn’t all bruises and cuffs. He’d rushed you when you were getting ready, muttering about check-in times and how he wanted to get there before midnight, and normally you would’ve crawled into his lap before leaving, riding his cock until you were sloppy and satisfied enough to handle the drive. But he didn’t let you, clamped his hand around your wrist, kissed you quick, and said you’d have to wait until you were there. Now the cruel irony sinks in: you’re going to be late anyway, because there’s no version of reality where the two of you can go hours without fucking. It’s not just lust, it’s a need, a hunger that burns both of you raw. You crave him the way lungs crave air, the way your body bends to him without thought, and he’s just as feral, obsessed with you to the point of madness, the kind of man who can’t stand the idea of anyone else hearing the sounds he rips out of you yet thrives on making you scream loud enough for the world to know you’re his. By the time the brakes screech and his growl rips through the car, you both know the truth—you’re never going to make it to that cabin without tearing each other apart first.

The cuffs snap around your wrists before you can even process the sound of them, steel cold and tight, locking you against the headrest so you can’t move, can’t touch, can’t beg with your hands the way you want to. The clink echoes through the car every time you shift, a cruel reminder of your helplessness, and your chest burns with the humiliation of being trapped like this, half-naked under the wash of headlights spilling into the empty lot, nothing to cover you but the shadows painting your skin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, he sets you up like he’s done it a hundred times before, the cuffs cinched just right, your arms pulled tight until your shoulders ache, your body perfectly restrained for him to play with. You’re squirming, trembling, wetness spreading beneath you on the leather, but he doesn’t give you a drop of mercy.

The hum of the engine fills the silence, low and steady like the growl in his chest when you whine too loud. He leans back in his seat, one hand braced on the wheel just to look casual, the other running heavy up your thigh, spreading you wider until your panties stick to the slick between your folds. He knows what the cuffs do to you—knows you’ve loved them ever since the first time he locked you up in his dorm bed, when you were still too shy to admit you wanted to be helpless, when you cried from being edged for an hour while he whispered how pretty you looked begging with your wrists chained. That was the night he broke you open, the night you admitted you got off on being bound, and since then it’s been a sickness between you both. Tonight, parked and hidden but still so close to being seen, he knows you’ll lose your mind.

The cuffs are an old game, one he first slipped on you in his dorm room three years ago when you were still shy, still hesitant, when he wanted to prove how easy it was to make you unravel without giving you anything at all. What should have been a joke turned into a sickness neither of you could cure. Every time he’s chained you up since, you’ve come harder, faster, crying louder, begging filthier, the helplessness rewiring something inside you until you crave the steel bite of restraint as much as you crave his cock. Tonight he doesn’t even have to explain why—he knows you ache for it, knows your body won’t feel right until you’re shackled into place, knows you can’t fight the heat that floods you when you’re rendered helpless under him.

He tilts his seat back with a snap, leather groaning, and manhandles you where he wants you. The chain bites when he pulls your arms higher, locking them tight so your chest arches forward. Then he drags your legs up over the console, spreading you open indecently, your knees splayed wide under the dim glow of the dash. He doesn’t have to say why, he’s displaying you for himself, for the empty street outside, for the thrill of knowing anyone could pass and see you cuffed and dripping in the passenger seat. His palm clamps over your jaw, tilting your face until your mouth falls open like he’s trained you to, his thumb stroking your tongue just to hear the wet gag of your throat when he pushes deeper. “Better,” he tips his head, studying you like a painting he already owns, and there’s something cruel in the way his thumb presses to your tongue as if to remind you he can fill you however, whenever, wherever he wants.

“Keep your fucking eyes on me, slut. Don’t blink. Don’t you dare look away.” His voice is a weapon, deep and sharp, vibrating through your body as you squirm against the cuffs. Your thighs rub together despite the spread, desperate for friction, every nerve ending on fire as your pussy throbs just from the sound of his tone. You moan shamelessly around his fingers, drool spilling down your chin as he fucks them lazily into your mouth, his gaze never leaving your face. He pulls them out with a wet sound, smearing spit across your cheek with a satisfied smirk. The windows fog fast, every gasp and sob bouncing back at you until the car feels like a furnace. Your wrists ache, your shoulders strain, the cuffs clink with every useless pull you make, but none of it matters—not when you’re leaking through your panties, not when the humiliation of being bound, displayed, and denied only makes you wetter. He doesn’t touch where you need, doesn’t offer an ounce of relief, just lets you stew in it, bound and trembling and undone by the sheer weight of his control.

He leans into it, dragging this out, forcing you to understand what these cuffs mean, what they’ve always meant: no matter how bratty you get, no matter how desperate you are, you’re his to break apart when he wants, not before. He clamps your jaw tighter, shoving two fingers back past your lips, fucking them into your throat slow and deep while his eyes stay locked on the road. The humiliation is blinding, spit pouring down your chin, windows fogging with every choked gasp, but it makes your cunt gush harder, the slick squelch between your thighs obscene in the silence. “Pathetic little thing,” he mutters, and your eyes flutter, tears brimming as your body arches against the cuffs.

“Already dripping just because I put you in cuffs. You don’t even need my cock, do you? Just the chains and my voice are enough to make you fall apart.” His words scorch through you, your body jerking helplessly as the obscene wet squelch between your thighs echoes in the silence. You moan louder, shameless, and the smirk on his lips twists darker. He leans closer, breath hot against your ear as he keeps his hand heavy on your throat. “You love it, don’t you? You love being my little slut in cuffs. Love when I take away your hands, take away your choices, and leave you like this, helpless, needy, soaking my seat like a dumb whore.” His grip tightens, squeezing until your eyes roll, until your breath cuts off and your chest heaves, and you can’t even nod, can’t even answer, just choke on the pleasure burning you alive.

He releases you just enough to let you breathe, but his palm never leaves your throat, pressing heavy as his thumb traces over your fluttering pulse. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to be chained up, wanted me to make you cry all over my seat, wanted to be reminded that this is what you’re good for.” His words sink into you like heat, filthy and absolute, and you can’t deny it, not when your thighs are trembling wide open, not when the cuffs clink with every pathetic squirm. He doesn’t even give you a chance to answer before his hand slides lower again, hovering at the edge of your panties, so close you want to scream. He doesn’t touch, not yet. He just hovers, making you quake, making you beg with your whole body while the threat of his cock hangs in the air like a guillotine about to drop.

His hand hovers over your cunt like he’s teasing himself just as much as you, and the cuffs bite deeper when you jerk your wrists to try and close the distance. You’re sobbing out little pleas already, mouth wet and swollen from his fingers, and he just laughs, low and sharp, letting his knuckles brush the edge of your panties before pulling away. “So fucking needy. You love being chained up like this, don’t you? My dumb little whore, dripping just from the sound of the cuffs rattling.” His palm smacks the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting, then presses back down, grinding against the wet lace for two seconds—just enough to make your body seize—before he pulls away again, leaving you gasping. “Pathetic. Can’t even sit there without begging to be ruined.”

He drags his fingers under the band of your panties at last, slow and deliberate, and dips them into your folds, collecting the slick that’s already soaking through the seat. Instead of touching your clit, he pulls them out, holds them in front of your face, and shoves them between your lips. “Taste it. Swallow it all.” His voice is rough, but his eyes burn as he watches your throat work, spit and arousal mixing down your chin. He smears the rest across your mouth, rubbing it in with his thumb like he’s marking you, then grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back, forcing you to look at him. “Look at you. You’re nothing but my filthy little mess. Can’t keep your mouth or your cunt empty for more than five minutes, can you?”

This time, when he slides his fingers back down, he doesn’t stop at your clit. He pushes two inside without warning, deep and rough, his palm grinding down against your swollen clit through the lace as he fucks them into you fast enough to make the cuffs rattle with every thrust. You choke on your own gasp, your thighs jerking, but he doesn’t let you ride it—he clamps his free hand over your throat and growls, “Stay still. You don’t come until I say.” His pace is brutal, fucking his fingers into you like he’s punishing you for every whimper, dragging your slick out loud enough to fill the car with obscene wet sounds. Then, just when you’re shaking, right on the edge, he pulls out and shoves the soaked fingers back into your mouth. “That’s yours. You eat every drop before you get anything else.”

And then he does something filthier, he shoves your thighs higher, knees pinned back against your chest, spreading you wide open against the seat while your wrists strain in the cuffs. With your body folded, your panties stretched tight over your clit, he spits directly onto the wet fabric, watching it darken before rubbing it in with two fingers until you’re convulsing under him. “Look at that. My slut cuffed up, crying, soaking in spit and slick. You look like a fucking porno right now.” He presses down hard, circling your clit through the spit-soaked lace, his eyes locked on your face. “Say it. Say you’re my whore. Say you’ll let me keep you cuffed like this forever.”

Your wrists ache from the cuffs, your body folded in on itself, knees shoved back against your chest, panties dark and clinging to you as his spit seeps through the fabric. You’re panting so hard the windows drip with fog, every sound in the car obscene—wet, messy, desperate. His fingers rub tight circles over your clit through the soaked lace, rough enough to make you thrash against the headrest. You can’t hold it in, the words spilling out high and shameless. “Jeno—fuck—please, baby, please. I need your cock. I need it so bad, I’ll take it anywhere, I don’t care, just, fuck me, ruin me.” Your voice breaks, frantic. “I’ll take it in my pussy, my ass, my throat, I don’t care, I just need you inside me.”

He growls, low and dangerous, pressing his palm harder until your back arches. “Listen to yourself,” he snaps, dragging his hand down to slap your pussy hard through the lace. The sound cracks through the car, and you scream, your body jerking. “Begging to be stuffed in every hole like a fucking cock-hungry slut. You want it that bad?” He smirks, spreading your folds with two fingers just to watch you twitch. “Say it again. Say you’ll take me in your pussy and your ass, that you’ll choke on my cock until you’re crying.”

Tears burn your eyes, your mouth wet with spit and his slick, your voice cracking but still loud, shameless. “Yes! Yes, fuck, I’ll take it, all of it, I’ll take your cock anywhere you want. Please, Jeno, use me, I’m your slut, your filthy, cuffed-up whore, please just give it to me!” Your words collapse into sobs, your thighs trembling violently. “Fuck my ass, fuck my pussy, fuck my throat, I don’t care, I just need to feel you. I can’t wait, I can’t—please, baby, I’ll scream for you, I’ll do anything.”

He grabs your jaw, squeezing until your mouth pops open, spitting inside and watching you swallow before shoving two fingers back down your throat. “That’s all you are, huh?” he snarls, his hips shifting forward so the thick outline of his cock grinds against your bare ass where you’re pressed up against the seat. “A cock-hungry toy. My slut who begs to be filled everywhere until you’re dripping and crying. You want my cock in your ass too? You want me to stretch you open right here, cuffs rattling, windows fogged, anyone who walks past watching you scream for it?” His voice is so dark it makes you clench, and he smirks when he feels the way your body answers for you.

His fingers fuck you open mercilessly, one hand working your pussy until it gushes, the other stretching your ass with rough, deliberate thrusts. The cuffs clink violently with every jerk of your body, your screams bouncing back at you in the fogged glass. He leans in close, voice a gravelled snarl, “You’re dripping everywhere, slut. Both your holes stretched on my fingers like you were made for it. You can’t stop, can you? You’ll take anything I give you.” He slams his fingers in deep, curling them until your back bows off the seat, the wet squelch filling the car louder than your begging. 

Your mouth falls open, drool spilling down your chin as you choke out, “Yes—fuck—please, Jeno, cock, I need your cock, I’ll do anything, please!”

With one final thrust he rips his fingers out, leaving both your holes empty and twitching. The sudden absence makes you cry out, a broken, guttural sound, your whole body shuddering as if you’ve been abandoned on the edge of an orgasm that never comes. He smirks cruelly at the sight, your thighs shaking, your ass slick, cuffs rattling in desperate protest. “Pathetic,” he mutters, wiping your wetness over your stomach before grabbing your chin in his fist. “You’re gonna ride me cuffed, you’re gonna bounce until your thighs give out, and you’re gonna cry like the filthy whore you are for cock. That’s the only way you get what you want.”

He shifts back in his seat, spreading his legs, belt buckle rattling loudly in the cramped silence. The sound is deliberate, a taunt, the promise of what you’re begging for, but he doesn’t free himself yet. He watches your eyes lock onto his hands as he loosens the leather, your breathing turning into ragged sobs when he tugs the strap open only to leave his cock trapped behind his jeans. “Strip,” he orders, voice flat, lethal. “Every last thing. I want you naked, cuffed, dripping in my passenger seat while I’m still fully dressed.” The humiliation burns hot across your skin, your body arching against the cuffs as you whine, but you obey, tugging and writhing until your clothes are stripped away, leaving you bare and shaking while he sprawls back in his shirt and jeans, cool and untouched.

He doesn’t rush. His hand hovers over you, the heat of his palm taunting, fingers brushing your clit oncex just once, before pulling away, leaving your body convulsing. Then he produces a small remote from his pocket, clicks it on, and the hum of a vibrator tucked against your folds makes your eyes fly wide. He presses it there with his palm, letting the buzz tear through you until your mouth drops open in a scream, and then clicks it off, ripping the sensation away. The silence that follows is deafening, the wet sound of your cunt twitching against nothing obscene in the empty night. You sob, tears streaming, and he clicks it on again, this time barely pressing it against your swollen clit before pulling back once more, smirking when you thrash.

“Look at this mess,” he snarls, dragging the toy down through your slick folds before pulling it away again, your body jerking violently at every second of denial. “Drenching my seat like a whore, hands locked up, legs wide open just because I said so. Anyone could walk by and see you cuffed, naked, begging for cock. Is that what you want? You want the world to see you’re nothing but my slut?” You scream through your tears, nodding frantically, your thighs slapping against the leather in erratic, empty movements as you chase the phantom friction. The sound of your wet skin against the seat fills the car, louder than your sobbing.

He clamps his hand around your throat, squeezing until your cries turn to choked gasps. His lips curl in a cruel grin, voice dropping even lower. “You come when I tell you. Not before. You’re mine, and you’re gonna prove it.” His grip tightens, your pulse hammering under his thumb as your eyes roll, the cuffs rattling helplessly above your head. You’re delirious now, your teeth digging into your swollen lip, thighs thrashing against the seat, but he doesn’t waver, doesn’t break, just holds the toy near your clit without pressing it, letting the hum taunt you with every pulse.

“Beg,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear. “Beg loud enough that the whole fucking street hears you. Tell me what you are, tell me what you need.” His hand squeezes tighter as your body writhes, desperation bleeding out of you in incoherent sobs. 

“Please—I’m your whore, your slut, I’ll take it anywhere, I’ll take it in my ass, in my pussy, in my throat—just fuck me, please, please, please!” you scream, voice cracked and raw. The sound echoes into the night, into the empty lot, into the air thick with the smell of sex, and he groans low, the noise dark and satisfied, finally starting to press the vibrator down again with brutal force.

The vibrator torture breaks you down until you’re sobbing in the seat, wrists raw from fighting the cuffs, thighs soaked from your own slick and spit. He keeps you on the edge over and over, pressing the buzzing toy hard against your clit until your body jerks and convulses, then ripping it away just before you can let go, laughing at the tears streaming down your cheeks. “Look at you,” he mutters, smearing his spit over your face with the back of his hand, “my little toy, cuffed and useless, crying for cock like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.” You scream through the denial, hips rutting against air, every sound a filthy chorus of desperation, and it finally tips him over the edge of his restraint.

Without warning he snaps, grabbing your throat in one hand and your waist in the other, dragging you across the console with brute force. Your wrists yank against the cuffs, steel biting deeper as he manhandles you onto his lap, still bound, still crying. His jeans are shoved down just enough, cock springing free, thick and heavy against your stomach before he slams you down on it in one brutal thrust. You scream, the sound raw and unholy, as he fills you in one stroke, no build-up, no warning. The car rocks violently with the impact, leather squealing beneath you, every bounce making the cuffs clatter above your head.

His hand never leaves your throat, fingers digging in, forcing your eyes wide open and locked on his. “Look at me,” he snarls, voice vibrating against your skin as your body convulses around him. “Don’t you dare look away while I ruin you.” His other hand fists into your hair, yanking your head back, spit dripping from your swollen lips as you gasp for air. He slams up into you with bruising force, pace relentless and erratic, the slap of your ass against his thighs obscene in the fogged-up car. Each thrust drives your knees into the dashboard, leaving angry bruises while his cock splits you open raw.

“Bounce,” he growls, slapping your pussy hard with his free hand before gripping your hips and forcing you down. “Faster. Don’t stop until your thighs give out.” You try to obey, riding him messy and desperate, cuffs rattling as you use what little strength you have to push yourself up and down, but his cock is too thick, too deep, tearing you apart. Every movement makes wet sounds echo through the cabin, your slick drenching his lap and the seat, dripping down his jeans. “Look at this fucking mess,” he snarls, thrusting up hard enough to make your breath stutter. “Drenching my lap like a whore, hands locked up, legs wide open just because I said so.”

Your orgasm rips out of you before you can stop it, a scream torn from your chest as your body locks up around him, cunt clenching in convulsions that leave you shaking violently. He doesn’t slow—he slams through it, fucking you harder, overstimulating until your screams turn into sobs, spit and mascara smeared all over your face. He spits into your mouth, snarling, “Open. Choke on it. Good girl. Take it all,” before shoving his fingers between your lips again, fucking them down your throat while his cock punishes your cunt. You gag around his fingers, tears streaming, your body shaking as another orgasm crashes through you, and another, until you’re sobbing into his palm.

His pace is nothing short of unholy now, every thrust shaking the car, leather groaning beneath you as the cuffs clink louder and louder. He pulls one hand from your throat just to spank your ass hard, the crack echoing in the cabin before his palm grips the sting, spreading you wider. “You love this, don’t you? My cock in your pussy, my fingers in your throat, my hand on your ass—stuffed full like the dumb slut you are.” You cry into his palm, choking on your moans, and he laughs, the sound cruel and aroused. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk out of this car. Until your throat is raw and your cunt is ruined.”

Your body breaks again, orgasm after orgasm flooding you until you’re incoherent, babbling his name and begging for more even as your muscles give out. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a second—his cock pistons into you like a weapon, bruising your insides, while his other hand drags your face back to his with your hair. He spits straight into your open mouth again, snarling, “Swallow it, slut. Every drop. Every sound you make belongs to me.” He fucks you through the tears, through the shakes, through the screams, until you’re nothing but a wrecked, sobbing mess in his lap, your wrists rattling in the cuffs with every brutal slam.

The end is a violent crescendo—his growl turns feral as his thrusts deepen, erratic and unstoppable, his cock hitting so deep your eyes roll back. He slams you down one final time, holding you there as he empties inside you, the heat spilling deep while his grip on your throat pins you to him. His voice is dark and final, words rasping against your ear as the windows drip with condensation. “That’s mine. Every sound, every drop, every twitch—mine.” Your body trembles violently, wrecked and spent, your cunt fluttering around him while the cuffs clink one last time, the only reminder that you were bound and owned the entire time.

Your body turns feral the moment he lets go, sanity snapping clean out of reach. You arch over to him and begin bouncing on his cock again like a woman possessed, reckless, insane, no rhythm, just pure animal need. The cuffs rattle violently with every drop of your weight, the chain clinking sharp against the headrest while you slam yourself down on him over and over, so hard it sounds like you’re trying to break his cock in half inside you. Cum squelches out of your wrecked cunt with each brutal descent, dripping down his thighs, soaking the seat, splattering onto the console with every slam. The car rocks on its shocks, leather squealing loud, dashboard rattling as your knees bruise against it again and again.

You’re sobbing but you don’t stop—won’t stop—your voice cracked and high as you choke on every bounce. “Fuck—fuck—oh my God—Jeno—fuck—can’t stop—need it—need your cock—” The words collapse into manic cries, drool and spit flying from your mouth as your head whips back with the force. Your tits are bouncing so hard they’re smacking his face, heavy and wet with sweat, nipples dragging across his mouth every time you drop. He groans into them, catching one in his teeth, sucking hard enough to bruise, spit dripping down your chest as he snarls into your skin. His hands grip your hips bruising tight, forcing you down even harder, snarling into your chest, “Wreck me. Fucking break me. Bounce till this cock splits you open.”

The windows are dripping with condensation, every slam fogging them harder. The sound of your ass slapping his thighs is obscene, thunderous, echoing with each brutal impact. Cum spills with every bounce, slick coating his cock, spraying out onto the seat below. The steering wheel trembles from the rocking, your cuffs rattling a sharp counter-rhythm to the wet slaps of your body on his. Your thighs burn, your ass stings, your lungs heave, but still you keep going, insane, mindless, a cock-drunk whore wrecking yourself until you’re nothing but sweat, spit, and cum dripping down onto him.

He snarls into your ear, teeth dragging down your throat as you slam onto him again and again, cock buried to the hilt. “Look at you. Lost your mind on my cock. You don’t even care where you are, don’t even care if someone walks past, just wanna bounce till you’re ruined. My fucking maniac slut.” You scream, head thrown back, your body convulsing, but still you ride him, reckless, erratic, the cuffs clattering above you like they’re about to break off the frame. Cum squirts out with every drop, dripping down your thighs, soaking his jeans, staining the seat forever.

The bounce turns rabid, your body snapping down on his cock so hard the whole car lurches, shocks squealing as if the frame itself is about to give. The cuffs clink like chains in a madhouse, steel biting into your wrists with every desperate slam of your hips. Sweat pours down your spine, tits flying, leather squealing beneath you until it feels like the seat itself is soaked with spit, cum, and heat. Then his grip shifts, one hand tearing at your throat, the other yanking you forward until your face is shoved down into the sticky leather of the passenger seat, cheek pressed flat against it, moaning into the smell of sweat and upholstery. Your ass is up high, bouncing wild in the dim glow of the dashboard, headlights painting the trees outside while the low growl of the still-running engine vibrates through the car.

“Stay the fuck down,” he snarls, choking you hard against the seat, his belt buckle rattling as it scrapes across your back when he adjusts himself, still half-dressed, broad and brutal, fully clothed while you’re naked, cuffed, and dripping. He holds you pinned there, your wrists jerking behind your headrest, your tits squashed beneath you, while your ass is left high and bouncing. The wet slap of your skin against the chair is loud, obscene, every thrust of your hips spraying slick across the seat, splattering onto the console. He smacks your ass hard, the crack echoing in the cabin, then spreads you open roughly, spit dripping from his lips straight onto your asshole.

The shock makes you scream into the seat, your voice muffled by the leather as he leans down, tongue dragging over the spit-slick rim of your ass. “Fuck, look at you, dripping, cuffed, face in the seat, begging to be eaten like the whore you are.” His tongue circles your ass, licking deep, obscene and filthy, alternating between slapping your cheeks raw and pushing his tongue inside until your legs shake violently. The car rocks sideways with the force of it, windows fogging so hard the glass drips, your fists pounding against the seat in mindless reflex as his growl vibrates against your ass.

Every sound is louder in the silence of the night, the obscene squelch of your arousal spilling out, the squeak of leather under your thighs as you writhe, the metallic clink of the cuffs above you. Your breath fogs the glass until it’s opaque, every gasp crashing into the windows, fists thudding against them as you lose control. You’re screaming into the seat, begging, sobbing, every word soaked in saliva and spit. “Jeno, please—oh my God—please fuck me—eat me, spank me, choke me—I’m your whore, do whatever you want!”

He pulls back just long enough to smack your ass again, harder, the sting making your whole body jolt forward against the console. His reflection glints off the window, ghosting over your sweat-slick skin as he growls, “Begging with your face in the fucking seat, ass up for me like a toy. You’ll ride nothing but air until I tell you.” His voice cuts through the obscene noise of your pussy dripping, the wet slap of your thighs against leather filling every inch of the car. He chokes you harder, pressing your face deeper into the seat until your scream is nothing but a muffled sob, then licks your ass again, rough and possessive, before shoving his cock back inside you in one brutal stroke that makes the entire car jolt sideways across the gravel.

The furnace heat inside is unbearable now, every window slick with condensation, every surface smeared with spit, cum, and sweat. The headlights glow against the trees like a warning, your body silhouetted in the raw blue-green glow of the dash. His cock slams into you from behind, erratic and violent, your face pinned in the seat, his belt buckle rattling as his jeans hang low, his breath snarling against your ear. The car rocks with every thrust, the steering wheel rattling, fists pounding the glass in time with the wet, reckless slap of your pussy drenching his cock.

He slams into you one last time from behind, choking you hard against the leather until you’re drooling across the seat, body convulsing, screaming incoherently into the upholstery. Then, abruptly, he yanks free, your cunt fluttering around nothing, slick pouring down your thighs before hauling you up by the cuffs like you weigh nothing. The door creaks open, cold night air slicing into your sweat-slick skin as he drags you out of the car, bare and dripping, wrists still bound. The engine growls behind you, headlights blazing into the dark trees, neon dashboard glow bleeding onto your body like a stage light.

You barely find your footing before he shoves you hard against the side of the car, your chest colliding with the fogged window so violently it shudders. Your cheek smears the condensation, breath fogging it again with every gasp, while your tits flatten against the cold glass. “Stay the fuck there,” he snarls, one hand knotting in your hair, the other dragging your hips back just enough to slam his cock into you from behind in one brutal stroke. The car rocks with the impact, windows rattling as his belt buckle clinks against your ass with every thrust.

You’re screaming, your voice echoing across the empty lot, half-sobbing, half-laughing, manic with cock-drunk need. The cuffs clatter against the roof as he pins your arms high, your ass bouncing back against his hips as the glass squeaks beneath your body. His hand smacks your ass raw, spit dripping down the curve before he rubs it into the sting, then shoves his fingers into your mouth when you try to cry out. “Open wider,” he snarls, cock slamming deep enough to make the glass tremble. “I want the whole street to hear my slut choking.”

The headlights blaze on your bodies, every thrust painting your reflection in the glass, your eyes rolled back, tits flattened and streaked with condensation, his broad frame clothed and brutal behind you, grinding you against the car like he’s trying to fuck you straight through the window. Your cum smears across the glass in filthy streaks, your breath painting it opaque as he pounds you harder, faster, erratic. The sound is manic: cuffs rattling, wet squelch of your pussy, the slap of skin on skin, your muffled screams into the glass.

“Look at you,” he growls into your ear, voice shaking with how hard he’s thrusting. “Naked, cuffed, fucked against the window with the headlights on—anyone could drive by right now and see you dripping down my cock. And you’d love it, wouldn’t you? You’d love them knowing you’re nothing but mine.” He bites down on your neck, sucking until you sob, his hips jackhammering into you, brutal, erratic, until your knees give and the only thing holding you up is his cock and his hand tangled in your hair.

You lose yourself completely, convulsing against the glass, your scream fogging it white as your body gives out, squirting mess down your thighs. He groans, snarling into your neck, his thrusts uneven, manic, before he buries himself to the hilt and empties inside you, hot and thick, cum dripping down your legs and streaking the car door. His voice is low and final, rasping against your ear as you tremble wrecked and cuffed against the glass: “That’s mine. Every scream, every mess, every filthy mark on this car—mine.”

Your cheek squeaks against the fogged glass every time he slams forward, the window shaking with each brutal thrust. The cuffs bite into your wrists where he’s pinned them high above your head, metal rattling against the roof, and your moans smear the glass white with breath. His voice rasps into your ear, hot and feral, every word a knife. “Look at my slut, face fucked into the window, dripping down her thighs in front of the whole fucking world. You think anyone driving by wouldn’t know you’re mine?” He grinds deeper, the head of his cock hitting so hard you sob, the sound muffled against the condensation. “Say it. Say you love being my public whore.”

Your voice cracks, words spilling frantic against the glass. “I love it—I love it, Jeno—fuck—your whore, your slut—make me show everyone—I’ll spread for you anywhere—please, don’t stop, please!” Your thighs quiver, slick smearing down the car door, and he groans darkly, watching the mess streak shiny in the headlights. He spits on your back, a hot, wet smack, then rubs it into the curve of your ass before spanking it hard, the crack echoing into the night. “Good little slut. You’re gonna leave this car dripping with my cum so everyone knows who owns you.”

He fists your hair, yanking your head back so your face lifts just enough for your eyes to catch your reflection in the glass, mascara streaked, mouth open and drooling, tits smeared flat against the fog. “See that?” he snarls, rutting harder, the car rocking sideways on its shocks. “That’s what a cock-drunk whore looks like. That’s you. You think anyone would believe you’re anything else after seeing you beg like this?” His cock slams deep and raw, each thrust punctuated by the squeak of leather and the rattle of steel.

You choke on sobs but still scream it, shameless and loud, your breath fogging the glass with every word. “I’m your whore—I’m your cock-drunk whore—fuck, Jeno, I’m nothing without you, please keep fucking me, I need it, I need your cum, mark me, own me, ruin me!” The headlights blaze across your twisted reflection as his growl tears through the night, his hips snapping so hard the glass shudders. 

He snarls into your hair, “You’ll get every drop. You’ll leak me down your legs all the way home. And tomorrow, when you’re still sore, you’ll remember everyone could’ve seen you taking it like a filthy little bitch.”

I nodded my head for confirmation. I’d never said it out loud before, but hearing her say it in that way made it real in a way that both terrified and relieved me. She set her mug down and reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. “I love you,” she whispered, “and you’ll always be safe with me.”

But then her expression shifted, “The world isn’t ready for boys like you,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “So let’s keep this just between us for now.” I studied her face. Not once did she ever look disappointed, but instead always carried a worrying look upon her eyes. Outside our front door lay a world that might not understand, or worse, might judge. 

I learned early on to tuck my truth into hidden places and whisper it only in dreams. In daylight, I became good at smiling along, at telling half-truths and nodding when I should. But at night, I was reminded that being different was both my curse and my gift.

Then came Zhong Chenle.

Or, as I liked to refer to him as: the human megaphone

And, unfortunately, also the boy who would go on to ruin my life. 

But I didn’t know that at the time.

I first met Chenle when I was ten. He moved into the house next door with twelve suitcases, a dog louder than he was, and a zero respect for indoor voice etiquette. The first time we met, he rang our doorbell and introduced himself. I opened the door to a boy with a bowl cut, wide-gapped teeth, and this blinding grin that made me forget how to speak for a full five seconds.

“Hi! I’m Chenle. I’m from Shanghai. You’re my new best friend,” he declared.

I blinked. “Uh… what?”

“You have a trampoline. I saw it. Let’s go.”

And just like that, we were friends.

Chenle didn’t knock on doors. He burst through them. Literally. The first week he lived next door, he climbed in through my bedroom window because he “wanted to see if it worked like in the movies.” 

It did not. 

He got stuck halfway in and kicked over my desk lamp in the process. He still insists that it was my fault, somehow. 

He was loud. He was nosy. He told me his favorite animal was a dolphin “because they’re smart and scream a lot, just like me.” (His words not mine.) He drank milk like it was a personality trait and claimed he’d become a millionaire when he was older. He didn’t need to ‘become’ one though, cause he was already a millionaire. His family was completely loaded. 

And I loved him. God, did I love him.

I didn’t know it instantly. It wasn’t the kind of love you recognize, anyway. At first it was just the comfort of having someone close. We spent years growing up like two peas in a pod. We had a standing Friday night ritual of junk food and horror movies that neither of us had the guts to admit scared us. We'd stay up until 2AM pretending not to be terrified, jumping at every creak and then laughing until our stomachs hurt.

Sleepovers blurred into weekends, which blurred into seasons. We built forts in my living room. We argued over Mario Kart so loudly that my mom made a rule that “no one named Chenle is allowed to enter the house after 9PM on weekdays.

By the time we hit middle school, Chenle had taken to calling me his “number one.”

“My number one sidekick,” he’d announce dramatically, throwing his arm around my shoulders while we walked home.

I’d snort, shoving him off. “I’m not your sidekick. You’re my sidekick.”

“In your dreams. I’m the main character. You’re the tragic subplot.”

He’d always grin after saying that, oblivious. I’d grin too, although maybe less oblivious.

Because at some point, in the middle of all the chaos and teasing and sleep-deprived laughter, something shifted. I started noticing things I shouldn’t. Like how his laugh had changed. I started seeing it differently. Or how his hands had gotten bigger, and when I ruffled his hair, my heart would do this annoying flipping thing like it was trying to escape my chest and launch itself at him.

That’s when I realized my first real crush wasn’t some girl who brushed by me in the halls, or a senior who looked cool leaning against lockers.

It was Chenle.

My best friend.

The boy who once tried to convince me that bees were government spies.

I hated it.

Not because I didn’t like him, like I clearly did. I hated it because it changed the rules of everything. How could I sit next to someone during a movie knowing my fingers are twitching to hold theirs? How could I hear “you’re my number one” and not wonder if it could ever mean something else?

Spoiler alert: I didn’t. I just laughed. I shoved him harder. I hid behind sarcasm and jokes and really long sips of soda whenever he got too close. I buried it. Deep inside my soul.

Because if I told him, I might lose him. And losing Chenle? That wasn’t an option. Not then. Not ever.

So I kept the secret. I played my role. I smiled when he made dumb jokes and called me his “ride or die.”

But part of me kept whispering: I love him. And he’ll never know.

In terms of high school cliques, Chenle and I were placed somewhere between semi-popular and beloved chaotic pests. We weren’t the jocks, but we were the ones who people invited to parties just in case they needed some crazy shit to happen. Mostly Chenle. I was more of a corner-wallflower-watching-me-spontaneously-lick-someone’s-arm kind of guy.

So when the whispers started about a new transfer student, I barely cared at all.

“She’s from somewhere fancy,” someone whispered behind me in the homeroom.

“I heard she studied abroad in like, five countries, so her family is like rich rich.” said another.

“Bro. She wears strawberry clips in her hair.”

Chenle perked up. “Strawberry clips?” he repeated, spinning in his chair. “That's either peak fashion or someone trying to start a cult. Either way, I respect it.”

“Calm down,” I muttered, not bothering to look up.

“No. You don’t understand. This is important. Fashion statements mean she’s either really weird or really cool. I need to know which.”

“You say that like you don’t own a hoodie with a dolphin eating pizza on it.”

“And that hoodie changed lives,” he replied solemnly.

Naturally, we got our answer when the classroom door creaked open and you walked in.

You weren’t like anyone I’d ever seen before. You didn’t just enter a room—you landed in it. Head held high, eyes scanning the class like you were appraising a room of overpriced art. Your uniform was regulation, sure, but somehow you made it look like it belonged on a fashion runway in Tokyo. And there, clipped into your hair on either side, were two fat, ridiculous plastic strawberries that glinted in the fluorescent light like they knew they were starting something.

I blinked. Chenle gaped.

You introduced yourself with a smile, and somehow your voice made the classroom feel warmer. It was terrifying. I immediately went back to pretending to read. Chenle, of course, did not.

“Hi! I’m Chenle,” he said as you passed our row. “Welcome to whatever level of academic purgatory this school is.”

You raised a brow. “Thanks? I think?”

“Don’t worry, I’m the unofficial welcoming committee,” he added, gesturing to himself. “And this guy next to me—” he kicked my foot under the desk, “—this is Jaemin. He’s cool, in a broody, possibly-vampire kind of way.”

I looked up. Just once.

You smiled at me. It was small, polite. You probably forgot it a second later.

I didn’t.

“Hi,” I said, trying not to sound like my throat had been replaced with sandpaper. “Nice clips.”

Your smile widened just enough to make me regret every life choice that led to this moment. “Thanks. They remind me not to take anything too seriously.”

Chenle clapped once, loudly. “See? ICONIC.”

You laughed. And just like that, you were in.

It was like watching magnets meet. You and Chenle clicked instantly. loud to loud, weird to weird, chaos to chaos. He made a joke, you added the punchline. You rolled your eyes, he rolled with it. If Chenle was a human sparkler, you were a box of matches, and every time the two of you talked, the hallway got a little brighter and a little more flammable.

“Have you ever tried wasabi KitKats?” he asked you once at lunch.

You didn’t even blink. “I ate three and hallucinated.”

Chenle gasped like he was witnessing true divinity. “I knew it wasn’t just me!”

That was day 5 of knowing you. On day 6, the three of us were grouped for a science project, and by day 7, Chenle had already given you a ridiculous nickname (I will not repeat it here on the grounds of secondhand embarrassment). You didn't even flinch. You just fired one back at him and kept walking like you'd been part of this dumb dance all along.

And me?

Well… I was there.

Reluctantly. At first.

See, I’ve never been good with change. New people throw off my rhythm. And you weren’t just new—you were disarming. The kind of person who could insult someone and still have them thank you afterward. You took up space, not in a loud way, but in a comfortable-in-your-own-skin way. The kind of confidence people fake. But with you, it was just… real.

So yeah, I held back. Answered your questions with shrugs. Laughed when it felt safe. You didn’t seem to notice. Or if you did, you didn’t push.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because then one afternoon we were all sitting on the floor of the library, fake-studying for a history test, and I realized I was laughing. Like, really laughing, because you’d just impersonated our history teacher’s monotone voice and Chenle’s laugh at the same time, and I genuinely thought I would choke on my own spit.

You looked at me like you’d just unlocked a new level. “See? He can laugh,” you said, triumphant.

And I hated how good that made me feel.

After that, it was just… us.

The three of us. A trio.

Lunch breaks became sacred rituals. You’d bring snacks, Chenle would bring gossip, and I’d pretend I wasn’t enjoying the way you both pulled me into your tornado of nonsense. We’d sit on the floor behind the gym building to escape the sun and the noise, passing chips and bad jokes like currency.

Group projects became borderline illegal. We got nothing done, but our PowerPoint slides had amazing content.

We had doodles on each other’s notebooks. Nicknames that made zero sense to anyone else. Inside jokes about pigeons and the government. You’d steal half my lunch without asking. Chenle would throw pencils at your head. I’d sigh and clean up after both of you.

It was fun. Too fun.

And yet, somewhere along the way, I started feeling like I was always walking a half-step behind you two.

It wasn’t anything either of you did. Not on purpose. But I’d notice the way you’d look at Chenle first when something funny happened. How he’d instinctively hand you the last piece of candy. How your conversations sometimes stretched on without me, like I was background noise to your main act.

And I hated that I noticed.

Because we were fine. We were good. I wasn’t jealous. I wasn’t anything.

…I was just—

There. On the edge of something I didn’t want to name. Laughing when you both laughed, trailing behind when the hallway got too crowded, watching as the space between you two narrowed by the day.

It was easier not to think about it. Easier to ignore the tightness in my chest when Chenle called you by a nickname he hadn’t used on anyone else. Easier to smile, make jokes, and pretend I was still in control.

Because if I thought about it too long?

I might start realizing things I wasn’t ready to face.

It starts slow.

Like a leak in the ceiling you don’t notice until there’s a puddle on the floor.

One day I’m sitting across from you two at lunch, peeling the label off a juice box, and I catch Chenle looking at you.

Not the way he looks at spicy ramen or a sale at the convenience store. No. This was different.

He looked at you like you were something to be memorized.

And I froze. Juice box half-peeled. Air caught in my lungs like a glitch.

Because I’d seen that look before.

In bathroom mirrors. In stolen glances. In my own eyes.

I started seeing it everywhere after that.

The way he leaned closer when you spoke. The way he remembered little things about you — your favorite gum flavor, how you hated when your sleeves got wet, how you always liked cinnamon on hot cocoa.

I watched you laugh at something dumb he said and lean into his space like it was yours to take. And he let you. Of course he let you.

And the part that broke me wasn’t just that he liked you.

It was that I did too. I liked you both.

Then came the sleepover.

Chenle’s living room. Popcorn everywhere. A horror movie on mute. You were half-asleep, slouched on the floor pillow. I was curled up on one end of the couch, scrolling through my phone and trying not to acknowledge the emotional chaos ongoing in my brain.

Chenle flopped between us, laughing at something stupid, his arm brushing yours like it had done a hundred times before.

And then… he leaned over.

Rested his head on your shoulder.

Didn’t say a word.

Just rested.

You didn’t move. You didn’t even blink. You just tilted your head a little, like it was normal, like it was okay, like this was something you both did now.

I couldn’t breathe.

I stared at the TV, pretending to watch, heart pounding. My mouth was dry. My skin felt too tight.

I don’t even know what I was jealous of. Him? You? The space between you?

Or maybe just the fact that I wasn’t there. That I couldn’t be.

That I was watching someone I wanted melt into someone else.

I stayed up that night after you both fell asleep.

Chenle was snoring like a lawn mower, limbs flung out like a starfish. You were curled up in a blanket on the floor, hair in your face, softly breathing. I sat in the dark with my knees to my chest and stared at the ceiling.

Because what do you do when the two people you love most are standing right next to each other, and you know you’ll never be enough for either?

I thought I was doing a good job.

Like pretending, keeping it together, or smiling when I was supposed to. Laughing when I had to. Memorizing the exact distance I could stand from you without feeling like my chest was going to cave in.

I told myself I could handle it. The trio dynamic, the shared jokes, the way you always seemed to look at Chenle a second longer than you did me. I’d made peace with being on the sidelines. Or at least, I thought I had.

And then you pulled out the gum. “Limited edition,” you said, grinning. “Spearmint. Only the cool people get a piece.”

“Guess I’m getting two,” Chenle announced, already reaching for one.

You swatted his hand. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” You handed out pieces one by one until the pack was nearly empty.

“Yo, toss me one?” I asked casually, too casually, already stepping forward.

You blinked, glanced down at the foil. Then your face shifted a little.  “Oh,” you said, voice softening. “That was… the last one.”

It was in fact the end of the pack. Chenle was already unwrapping it, mid-chew, completely unaware of the tiny little earthquake that had just ruptured my insides.

“Wait,” Chenle said, catching the shift in the air. He turned to me, holding out the gum with a shrug and that easy, careless smile. “You want it?”

It should’ve been simple.

Say yes. Take the gum. Laugh it off.

But instead, I just… froze.

Because it wasn’t about the gum. It was never about the gum.

It was about how effortlessly he offered it to me. How kind he was without knowing it. How easy it all came to him with you, with everyone. And how suddenly, in that moment, I realized. 

He’d always be the one who got the last piece.

Of everything.

Of you.

My mouth opened. Then closed. Then it opened again. I think I managed a smile. Or something that could’ve passed for one.

Then I turned around and walked away.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t joke. Didn’t look back.

Just left.

It started with a text.

[You]: lunch tmrw? chenle has music club. ur not allowed to say no. i’ll bring grape juice.

I stared at it longer than I should’ve.

Part of me wanted to ignore it. Part of me wanted to throw my phone into a river. 

[Me]: if there’s no grape juice i’m suing

And that was that.

We met behind the gym, our usual spot. Same cracked tiles. Same half-broken bench. You were already sitting when I arrived, legs swinging slightly as you balanced a lunch tray in your lap. When you saw me, you raised a can in greeting. “Your gross purple sugar water, as promised.”

I sat beside you, trying not to let our knees touch. “Wow. A romantic.”

“Please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’m a walking rom-com. But like… the low-budget kind.”

I snorted. “So self-aware. I’m proud of you.”

And just like that we slipped into the rhythm again. Jokes. Teasing. You flicked a crumb at me when I said your rice balls were lopsided. I mimed choking on your soda when you tried to psychoanalyze my favorite potato chips. It was easy. It was safe.

Almost.

Because in the quiet that came between bites and laughter, I caught myself looking at you. Not like I used to, but with something softer. Sadder. Like admiring a painting you know you'll never be able to take home.

Your hair caught the light just so. Your lips were curled in that kind of smile people don’t realize they’re wearing—the kind that comes from being at ease, from knowing you’re seen.

And in that moment, it hit me all at once:

You were happy.

Without Chenle here, without the noise and the banter, you were still you. Still bright. Still strange. Still lovely in that way that made my ribs feel too small.

And for a brief, flickering second—I imagined it.

Us.

Just us.

Me handing you the grape soda. You laughing at my dumb jokes. No triangle, no third, no half-steps behind.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it?

It wouldn’t be real. Because I’d still be thinking of him too.

Still catching myself looking for his reaction when you smiled. Still waiting for his voice to jump into the conversation with something wildly unhelpful but weirdly profound. It was never just one of you. It was always both.

And if I couldn’t love you without loving him… Then I couldn’t love either of you the way you deserved.

You nudged my arm, snapping me back. “You okay? You’ve got that ‘I just composed a sad indie ballad in my head’ look again.”

I chuckled. “Just full of bad poetry and spicy tteokbokki.”

“Tragic,” you said, mock solemnly. “At least you look pretty while suffering.”

That made me smile. And hurt. At the same time. I looked at you again and something inside me settled. Quietly. Like dust after a storm.

This would be the last time we’d do this—just us. You didn’t know that, but I did.

Because I’d made my decision.

I loved you. I loved Chenle.

And I couldn’t have either of you.

So I’d carry that love the way you carry an old photograph—worn, soft around the edges, a little blurred. Beautiful. Untouchable. But still carried with you.

You tossed me a napkin as I stood up to leave. “You’ve got sauce on your mouth, drama king.”

I wiped it without looking and grinned. “Thanks. I live to impress.”

You laughed. And it sounded like every version of goodbye I’d never have the courage to say out loud.

Weddings are funny.

Everyone says they’re about beginnings—the start of something new, something shared. But when you're standing on the outside, watching it all unfold from behind a wall of hydrangeas and polite distance, weddings feel more like endings.

And this one?

This one felt like the final chapter of a book I dog-eared years ago, hoping I'd someday be brave enough to finish.

The ceremony was beautiful. Of course it was. Chenle’s family did everything big. There were gold accents, string quartet, lots of laughter that bounced off the walls. Your side was smaller, but no less warm. You walked down the aisle with your head held high. Like you did once before.

Even now, you refused to blend in.

Even now, you stood out.

And Chenle looked like he belonged nowhere else but at the end of that aisle. Nervous smile, fingers twitching at his side, eyes locked on you like gravity had chosen a new north. He looked the same, somehow. But older. Softer. Better. Because of you.

I stood at the back. Far enough away that no one would notice if I slipped out early, close enough to hear the vows. I told myself I was only there because he asked. “My number one,” he’d said with a grin. “You better show up, or I’m taking you out of the group chat forever.” Classic Chenle logic.

I hadn’t known if I’d wanted to come. But here I was.

You reached him. Your hands found his. The whole world seemed to still.

And me? I smiled. A real one.

Because of course it was you two.

It was always going to be you two. And I was okay with that.

heh

Bang Chan wasn’t just her boyfriend.

He was her provider. Her protector.

It didn’t matter that he was knee-deep in deadlines, producing tracks until sunrise, answering five calls at once, and coaching the younger members like a seasoned general—

────୨ৎ────

The fur coat was stunning. Hand-delivered from Milan.

Not just fur. Cruelty-free, custom dyed in her favorite shade, with a golden nameplate on the inside that read:

“For my queen. - BC”Real Fendi. Snow leopard print, soft as sin, the kind of thing only his girl could pull off. She hadn’t even asked for it—just sighed once at a photo on her phone—and now it was hanging in her closet like it had always belonged there.

“I just mentioned it once,” she breathed, stunned.

“You don’t mention things to me, baby,” Chan said with a lazy smirk from the doorway, sleeves rolled, veins prominent, eyes dark. “You make declarations. And Daddy listens.”

────୨ৎ────

He was at the studio when she sent him the mirror selfie. Her in the coat, nothing underneath but lace.

Chan nearly groaned aloud, biting his lip as he watched the photo load. It was late, everyone else had gone home, but he was still at the mixer, sleeves rolled up, chest heaving with the weight of his next verse.

And now? Now he was hard.

He called her immediately.

“You tryin’ to kill me, princess?” he murmured, voice already thick. “You really put that on while I’m here working?”

She giggled sweetly. “I missed you.”

Chan’s response was immediate. “Stay right there. Don’t take it off. I’ll be home in fifteen.”

When he got back, she was waiting.

She was lounging on their bed, that coat slipping off one shoulder, her lips glossy, eyes wide and waiting. Chan stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, watching her like he hadn’t seen her in weeks.

“Come here.”

She obeyed instantly, crawling to him on all fours, the coat dragging behind her like a queen’s train.

He caught her chin between his fingers when she reached him, lifting her face to meet his eyes. “You know what this coat means, don’t you?”

She nodded. “That I’m yours.”

“No, baby,” he corrected, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. “That you’re my only. And I take care of what’s mine.”

────୨ৎ────

There were perks to dating the leader of Stray Kids.

Like when she wanted a quiet date night, and Chan rented out an entire theater. Not just the movie—they projected a montage of her favorite K-dramas, edited together by a professional team he personally directed.

While she sat curled up in her fur, eating popcorn from a crystal bowl, Chan lounged beside her in joggers and a tight black tee, arm around her shoulder, legs spread like he owned the whole damn city.

Because he did. When it came to her—he did.

“Everyone should know what kind of taste my baby has,” he murmured against her temple. “And no one gets to enjoy it but me.”

────୨ৎ────

Her nails were fresh.

Long, almond-shaped, with crushed diamonds embedded in a sheer pink base. Chan had flown in a nail tech from Japan who only did private celebrity sessions. She didn’t even ask. He just made it happen.

He watched her trace a finger down his chest one night, those expensive nails glinting in the warm bedroom light.

“You like them?” she whispered.

Chan didn’t answer with words.

He grabbed her by the wrist, pressed her palm flat against his abs, and dragged it slowly lower until her hand was resting right over the hard bulge in his sweats.

“I paid for those hands,” he growled, voice thick. “Now put ‘em to work, princess.”

Her fingers twitched against the heavy outline in his sweats. He was already hard, aching, and she could feel the heat through the fabric—how thick he was, how much he needed her.

She didn’t rush.

Instead, she trailed her nails—slowly, teasingly—up his length, letting the crushed diamonds scrape softly through the cotton. Just enough to make him hiss.

Chan’s jaw tightened. “Don’t play.”

But she only smiled, sinking to her knees between his legs, those glossy, dangerous nails curling under the waistband of his sweats and pulling them down with a drag so slow it felt like torture.

His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, leaking.

And her breath hitched at the sight.

All that for her.

She wrapped one manicured hand around him—delicate, expensive fingers closing around his base like they were sculpted for this. He groaned low, head falling back, and the sound made her clench.

She stroked him slow. Luxurious. Worshipful. Letting her rings clink softly with every glide. Her thumb swiped across the tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum with a practiced motion, her other hand resting light on his thigh, nails biting down with each twitch of his hips.

He looked down at her, eyes blazing.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Spoiled little thing… working Daddy’s cock like a fucking jewel thief.”

She grinned—wicked and proud—and twisted her wrist just how she knew he liked it. Grip just right. Pressure perfect. The way only she knew how to do.

And when his hips started to stutter, when he cursed under his breath in three different languages, she leaned in and whispered, sweet and smug:

“Wanna come for me, Daddy? All over the hands you bought?”

His groan broke in his throat.

And seconds later, he did.

────୨ৎ────

Studio nights weren’t quiet anymore.

Sometimes, she came barefoot, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies and nothing else, curling up on the sofa while he clicked through beats. Sometimes, she sprawled across his lap, thighs bare, pressing lazy kisses to his throat while he adjusted synth levels like it was just another Tuesday.

“Need to focus, sweetheart,” he’d murmur—but his hand would already be gripping her thigh, stroking slow circles, letting her know she was welcome anywhere he was.

She slid under the console like she belonged there, eyes glinting in the dim studio lights, lips already parted.

He didn’t say a word. Just let out a breath and leaned back slightly in the chair, the hand not working the mixer dropping to the side—to her.

She unzipped him slow. Silently. Pulled him out with both hands like unwrapping a gift she already knew by heart.

He was half-hard already. That changed the moment her warm breath ghosted over the tip.

She started with his balls—because she liked to tease. Wet, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin. Tongue tracing slow circles. Gentle sucks, one after the other, until his thighs twitched and his breath caught in the mic.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

She giggled against him.

And then she moved up.

Took the tip between her lips. Swirled her tongue around it like candy. Then sank down in one long, greedy motion—until he hit the back of her throat.

Chan slammed his hand on the desk, pretending it was about a track beat.

In reality, he was struggling not to thrust into her mouth.

She set a rhythm—slow, wet, deliberate. Hands twisting at the base, spit dripping onto her fingers as she bobbed her head. Every time she hollowed her cheeks and moaned around him, his grip on the chair tightened.

“You’re insane,” he rasped, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m working—”

She pulled off with a pop. Whispered, “Then work, Daddy. I’ll just keep your stress levels down.”

And went right back down on him.

Deeper this time. No mercy. Her nails dug into his thighs while her tongue worked underneath, tip pressed into that sensitive spot beneath the head. She sucked like she was trying to milk him, and Chan was fucking losing it.

When she went back to his balls—licking, sucking, slurping—and stroked him at the same time?

That’s when he came. Hard. Into her mouth, into her throat, with his head thrown back and a low growl muffled by his sleeve.

She swallowed everything.

And when she came back up from under the desk, licking her lips like she’d just come back from brunch.

────୨ৎ────

When she missed him during tour, she didn’t cry. She waited—with full trust that he would make it up to her.

And oh, he did.

The moment he stepped through the door, he lifted her up, walked her straight to the bed, and unwrapped her like a present.

“My good girl,” he whispered, voice rough, eyes dark with hunger. “Waited so sweet for me.”

She moaned as his hands explored her body like it had been years, not weeks. His thrusts were punishing, praise spilling out between every deep stroke, his voice laced with so much heat and pride, it broke her open.

“Missed this pussy,” he growled. “Missed my perfect, spoiled baby.”

────୨ৎ────

Once, a stylist made the mistake of telling her she “looked expensive.”

Chan had overheard. And later that night, he chuckled as he kissed her bare shoulder and whispered:

“She is expensive. And I’m the only one who can afford her.”

────୨ৎ────

Chan knew she didn’t love him for the money. Not the furs, not the jewels, not the VIP service that followed her around like a shadow.

She loved him.

It was in the way she waited for him to get home, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, sleepy-eyed and soft. In the way she packed snacks for the studio because she knew he’d forget. In the soft kiss she left on his temple every morning before he woke up.

And God—when she showed up at the studio late at night, just to sit quietly and wait?

That did him in.

She’d curl up on the studio couch, that coat wrapped around her, half-asleep but still humming along to the beat he was mixing. No complaints. No demands. Just there for him.

That was why he spoiled her. That was why he had to.

Because she was more than his girl.

She was his Life.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───