don't mind me...

The first thing Chan heard... Was your heartbeat.

Not through the monitor. Not through the frantic voices of doctors rushing around the room.

But through the overwhelming silence that followed. The kind of silence where everyone was afraid to say the wrong thing.

Dr. Lee looked from the monitor... To your eyes... Then to Chan.

"...She's responding." He couldn't process the words. "What?"

The doctor smiled.

A real smile. The first one he'd ever seen on her face.

"...She's responding."

It wasn't a promise. It wasn't a miracle.

Not yet.

But it was hope.

Real hope.

After three hundred and sixty-four days...

Hope had finally answered back.

The next seventy-two hours passed in fragments.

Doctors.

Scans.

Neurologists.

Nurses checking your pupils every hour. Chan slept exactly forty-three minutes. No one could convince him to leave.

Not the members. Not the nurses. Not even Dr. Lee.

"Christopher."

"I'm staying."

"You need rest."

"I rested."

"...When?" He blinked. "...Yesterday?"

"You slept in a chair."

"I was horizontal."

Dr. Lee pinched the bridge of her nose. "You are impossible."

He smiled for the first time in months. "...I've been told that."

You didn't open your eyes again for another day. The doctors explained that this wasn't unusual. Your brain was waking slowly. Carefully. Like someone opening the curtains after living in darkness for a year.

Everything took time. Even consciousness.

Chan decided...

He could wait a little longer.

The first time your eyes opened... It lasted less than five seconds.

Your eyelids fluttered.

Heavy. Uncertain.

The hospital lights were too bright.

You frowned weakly. Then closed them again.

"...Baby?" Chan was already standing. His chair crashed onto the floor behind him. "I'm here."

Nothing.

You'd already drifted back to sleep.

But this time... It wasn't the same sleep.

It was natural.

Healing.

The next morning...

You opened them again. Longer this time. The ceiling. White. Blurry and strange before your adjusting vision. Your eyes wandered slowly.

Machines.

Curtains.

Window.

A man sitting beside your bed. He looked exhausted. Dark circles beneath his eyes. Hair longer than you remembered. His hoodie looked familiar.

Very familiar.

You blinked. "...Chris?"

It barely existed. More breath than voice. But he'd heard it.

Chan froze.

Every emotion he'd buried for nearly a year surfaced all at once.

He laughed.

Then cried.

Then laughed again.

"Oh my God." He grabbed your hand carefully. "So..." Another broken laugh. "So you do remember me."

Your eyebrows pulled together.

"...Why..." Your voice was painfully weak. "...Are you crying?"

He couldn't answer.

Not properly.

Instead... He pressed your hand against his forehead.

"I missed you."

The words dissolved into tears.

"So much."

Recovery wasn't beautiful.

It wasn't like the movies. You couldn't sit up immediately. You couldn't walk. Some days, you couldn't even stay awake for more than twenty minutes.

Your muscles had weakened, your balance was gone. Even holding a spoon became exhausting.

There were physiotherapists. Occupational therapists. Speech therapists. Exercises that left you frustrated enough to cry.

"I can't do it."

"You can."

"No." Your hand trembled violently as you tried to lift a plastic cup. "I used to."

Tears filled your eyes. "I can't anymore."

Chan knelt beside your wheelchair.

"You will."

"How do you know?"

He smiled gently.

"Because..."

He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"I've seen you do harder things."

Your memory returned like scattered puzzle pieces.

Some mornings... You remembered everything. Other days... Simple things escaped you.

You forgot the accident. Until someone accidentally mentioned it.

You forgot your hospital room number. Forgot what month it was. Forgot that nearly a year had passed.

One afternoon... You frowned while looking out the window.

"...Chris?"

"Hm?"

"When's our anniversary?" He smiled softly. "It already happened."

"Oh."

You looked confused. "I don't remember celebrating." His smile faltered, "...You were busy." You tilted your head, "Busy?" He squeezed your hand. "You were sleeping."

Understanding slowly settled across your face.

"...Oh."

Neither of you spoke after that.

The members visited almost every day.

Felix cried the first time you smiled at him. "I told you." He wiped his face dramatically. "I told everyone you'd wake up."

Hyunjin snorted. "You literally cried to me three months ago, saying you were losing hope."

"...That wasn't the point."

Changbin laughed. "The point changed."

Han walked over carefully. "...Can I hug you?" You smiled. "If you don't squeeze too hard." He hugged you anyway, then immediately apologized. "I squeezed too hard."

"You definitely did."

The room erupted into laughter.

It felt... Normal.

For the first time in a very long time.

One evening... Chan wheeled you into the hospital garden. Spring had arrived. Cherry blossoms drifted lazily through the warm air.

You closed your eyes. "...It smells nice." He looked over. "You always said spring smelled hopeful."

"I did?"

"Mhm."

"What did you say?"

"I said it smelled like pollen."

You laughed. A real laugh. Small. Breathy, but real.

Chan stopped walking.

"...What?"

"You laughed."

You blinked. "I... did?"

"You laughed." He covered his face. "I almost forgot what it sounded like." Your smile slowly faded. "...I'm sorry."

He immediately shook his head.

"No."

He knelt beside your wheelchair.

"No."

He gently took your hands. "Don't apologize." His eyes glistened. "You've spent enough time saying nothing. You don't have to apologize anymore."

Three weeks later...

The physiotherapist smiled. "I think someone's ready."

You frowned. "Ready for what?"

She looked toward Chan.

"Go on." He blinked. "...Me?" She nodded. "Help them."

He carefully stepped in front of you. Your legs trembled as you pushed yourself upright. Everything shook.

Your knees. Your hands. Your breathing.

"I've got you." You nodded.

One step.

Tiny. Painful.

Then another.

The room applauded quietly. Not because you'd walked, but because you hadn't given up.

"You know..." You whispered later that evening. "I remember something." Chan looked up from the book he'd been pretending to read. "What?"

"...The camping trip."

He laughed. "The terrible one?"

"It wasn't terrible."

"It absolutely was."

"The trees were beautiful." He groaned dramatically. "See?"

"You still don't get it."

"I never will."

You smiled. "They weren't just trees."

"What were they? You looked out the window. "They were proof... That ordinary things can still be beautiful."

Chan stared at you. Then, quietly closed the book. "...I think I finally understand."

The day you were discharged...

The nurses lined the hallway.

Every single one. Even the ones who weren't working.

Felix had secretly organized flowers. Han somehow convinced the staff to let him bring balloons.

Dr. Lee smiled warmly. "I hope I never see either of you here again." You laughed softly. "So do I."

Before leaving... Chan turned back toward Room 714. The room that had held nearly a year of his life. The room where he'd learned how fragile tomorrow could be.

He quietly bowed not to the room.

But to the memories inside it.

Then he walked away, hand in hand with you.

Home felt... Different. Not because the apartment had changed. Because you had.

The plants were somehow still alive. "You watered them?" Chan looked offended. "Obviously."

You raised an eyebrow. "You kill cactuses."

"...I improved."

"Liar."

"I had help."

"I knew it."

He laughed. "I missed arguing with you."

"I missed winning."

"You rarely won."

"I absolutely did."

"You absolutely didn't."

That night... Neither of you slept.

Not because of fear. Because neither of you wanted to waste a second.

You sat together on the balcony, wrapped in one blanket. The city glowed below.

Quiet. Peaceful.

You rested your head against his shoulder.

"...Chris?"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry I scared you." His arm tightened around you. "You don't ever have to apologize for surviving." Tears gathered in your eyes. "I don't remember everything."

"You don't have to."

"What if I never do?" He thought for a moment. Then smiled. "Then... We'll make new memories."

You looked up at him. "Together?"

He kissed the top of your head. "Always."

Silence settled comfortably between you.

Not the painful silence of hospital rooms. Not the hollow silence of unanswered prayers.

Just... Quiet. Warm and comfortable, like home.

After a while... You reached for his hand. Your fingers intertwined naturally with his.

Exactly as they had before. Exactly as they always would.

"I've been thinking."

He smiled. "Uh-oh."

"We should go camping again." His head snapped toward you. "...Absolutely not."

You laughed so hard your sides hurt. He joined in immediately, and the sound echoed across the balcony.

Light. Carefree. Alive.

It was the kind of laughter that couldn't exist without surviving grief. The kind earned only after walking through darkness together.

Below them, the city carried on as it always had. Cars passed. People hurried home from work. Windows glowed with ordinary evenings.

For so long, Chan had believed ordinary was something to escape.

Now... It was everything he'd ever wanted.

The next morning, he turned down an optional studio session.

Not because he loved music any less.

But because breakfast with you mattered too. Because grocery shopping together mattered, watering plants mattered, and sleepy conversations over burnt toast mattered.

Life hadn't become perfect. You still had hospital appointments.

Physiotherapy.

Days when your body became tired too quickly. Days when memories refused to return. Days when fear crept quietly back into both of your hearts.

But they faced those days together.

One ordinary morning at a time.

Months later, on a warm autumn afternoon, the two of you found yourselves walking through the same park where the leaves had once begun to fall outside your hospital window.

You moved more slowly now, your hand rested comfortably in his. There was no rush. No destination, just the simple joy of walking side by side.

You stopped beneath a tree, watching a golden leaf spiral gently to the ground. "It smells different today," you murmured.

Chan smiled. "Like people slowing down?" You looked at him in surprise. "...Did I use to say that?"

"You did."

You smiled softly.

"I still believe it."

He looked around at the amber leaves, the quiet path, the warmth of your hand in his. Then back at you.

"So do I."

The wind carried another leaf between you. This time...

Neither of you hurried to catch it.

Some things weren't meant to be held forever. Only appreciated while they were there. And after everything you'd almost lost... That was enough. More than enough.

It was home.

The End

Author's note:

This is the end of Hollow! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing this story. I honestly forgot how much I enjoy writing after the last unfinished fanfic I did with Oscar Piastri, the texting and social media posting drew a lot out of me, and honestly? It was just too tiring, and I burnt out.

If you want to read some drabbles on the before/during/after the fanfic storyline, feel free to comment what you'd like and I'll give you some! This is—in my opinion—the best fanfic I've written, and definitely the one I enjoyed writing the most! I'll also take commissions and suggestions!

The bedroom door barely clicks shut before Changbin’s hands are on your shoulders, steering you backward toward the bed. His mouth finds your neck, hot and insistent, before he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Been thinking about this all fucking night,” he murmurs, dark eyes catching the dim light from the hallway. His fingers work the button of his dress shirt, impatient, and you watch the fabric part to reveal the muscle beneath—chest, shoulders, that body that makes your mouth water. “All those people. Your family. My family. And all I could think about was getting you alone.”

You push him back until his knees hit the mattress. He sits, looking up at you with that grin—the one that says he knows exactly what’s coming and he’s been waiting for it since the candles were lit on his cake.

“Then let me give you your birthday present, big boy.”

Your knees find the floor before he can argue. The carpet is soft beneath you, and the position feels right, feels like where you’ve wanted to be all evening. His belt buckle is cool against your fingers, the leather stiff, and you work it open with practiced ease. The sound of it sliding free makes his stomach tense.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and you haven’t even touched him yet.

His pants come next, button and zipper, and you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs. The cotton is black, stretched taut over the shape of him underneath, and when you pull everything down his cock springs free—already hard, already slick at the tip, curving up toward his belly.

Changbin’s cock is perfect. Thick enough to stretch your jaw, long enough to hit the back of your throat, with a vein running along the underside that you’ve traced with your tongue more times than you can count. The head is flushed, darker than the rest of him, and the bead of pre-cum gathered at the slit catches the light like something precious.

“You gonna stare at it all night or—“

You cut him off by wrapping your lips around the head.

His words dissolve into a groan, low and wrecked, and his hips jerk up before he can stop himself. You let him, taking him deeper, letting the weight of him settle on your tongue. The taste is salt and skin, and your mouth floods with saliva almost immediately.

“Oh, fuck, baby.” His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “Your fucking mouth.”

You hollow your cheeks and pull back, slow, letting him feel every ridge of your palate, every millimeter of suction. When you reach the tip you swirl your tongue around it, lapping at the slit, tasting the bitter pre-cum that’s already leaking steadily. Then you sink back down, and this time you don’t stop until he nudges the entrance of your throat.

Changbin’s head falls back. His fingers tighten in your hair.

“That’s it. That’s fucking it.”

Spit is already gathering at the corners of your mouth, slicking his shaft, making the slide easier. You work him with one hand at the base, twisting on the upstroke, and your other hand cups his balls—heavy and tight, drawn up close to his body. They’re warm in your palm, the skin soft and loose, and when you gently roll them between your fingers he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. Something between a whimper and a curse.

“Christ. Christ.”

You pull off just long enough to catch your breath, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his cock. “Like that?”

“You know I fucking like that.” His voice is ragged. His chest is flushed, color creeping up from his collar. “Don’t stop.”

You take him back into your mouth and you make it messy. Spit runs down his shaft, drips onto his balls, pools at the base where your hand is working what you can’t fit.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” His head drops back against the mattress. “Yeah, get me fucking soaked.”

The sounds are obscene—wet and slick and loud in the quiet bedroom—and you lean into them, let them fill the space between his heavy breathing and the creak of the mattress when he shifts his weight.

“Look at you,” he mutters, and when you glance up his eyes are fixed on your face. On your stretched lips. On the shine of spit smeared across your chin. “So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips buck.

“Yeah. Yeah, you like that.” His hand is still in your hair, and now he uses it—guides you down, holds you there, lets you feel the thickness of him filling your throat. Your eyes water. Your jaw aches. And you love it. You love the weight of him, the taste, the way his composure is crumbling with every stroke of your tongue.

Your free hand drops lower, past his balls, and your fingers graze the spot behind them. He twitches and swears, and his thighs tense on either side of your head.

“Fuck, you’re nasty tonight.”

You would smile if your mouth weren’t full. Instead you double down—bob your head faster, spit pooling and dripping, your hand twisting and stroking and your mouth working the top half of his cock while your spit slicks everything. His balls. Your fingers. The inside of his thighs where you’re braced.

“Baby.” His voice cracks. “Baby, I’m gonna—if you keep—“

You don’t let up. You hollow your cheeks and suck hard, your tongue pressing flat against that vein, your hand cupping his balls and squeezing just enough. His whole body goes rigid.

“Fuck, stop. Stop.”

You pull off immediately, a trail of spit snapping, and look up at him. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving, his cock slick and shiny and twitching against his stomach. He looks absolutely wrecked.

“Not yet,” he pants. “Not like this. I need to fuck you.”

He’s on his feet before you can respond, pulling you up, spinning you around. Your dress is still on—a little black thing you’d picked out specifically because it made his eyes go dark when you walked out of the bedroom hours ago—and he rucks it up around your hips with hands that aren’t gentle.

“Bend over. On the bed. Now.”

The mattress meets your palms, your knees. The sheets are cool and white and already rumpled from where he was sitting. Behind you, Changbin goes still.

So still.

“What,” he says, and his voice has dropped into something reverent. “What the fuck.”

His fingers find the base of the plug. The one you’d slipped in hours ago, before dinner, before the restaurant, before you’d sat across from his mother and made small talk about your job while wearing a silicone plug in your ass. It’s a small thing, jeweled at the base, and he traces around it with his thumb.

“You’ve been wearing this all night?”

“Happy birthday, baby.”

His groan is guttural. His hands are on your ass, spreading you open, and you feel his cock nudge against your thigh—harder than before, impossibly, like the sight of that plug has sent him into a different gear.

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” He taps the base of the plug, just lightly, and the vibration makes you clench. “Sitting there. Looking all innocent. Talking to my dad about fuck all. And you had this inside you the whole time.”

“Wanted to be ready for you.”

“Ready.” He laughs, but it’s breathless. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

He grips the plug and twists it, slow, and your arms nearly give out. The stretch is familiar but sharp, a reminder that it’s there, that you’ve been full all evening without anyone knowing. He pulls it out just enough to make you gasp, then pushes it back in.

“Bin,” you moan out.

“Fuck.” He pulls the plug out completely—slow, so slow, and you feel every ridge, every millimeter of silicone dragging against that sensitive ring of muscle—and sets it aside.

His thumb presses against you, slick with lube from the plug, and circles once before pushing inside. “Gotta make sure you’re ready,” he mutters, and you can hear the strain in his voice. “Gotta—fuck, you’re so fucking perfect, baby.”

His thumb slides out, and then two fingers are pressing in, and your forehead drops to the mattress. Your back arches. Your hips push back against his hand, greedy, and the word “please” slips out before you can stop it.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”

“Where.” His fingers crook inside you, and your vision whites out for a second. “Where do you want me to fuck you.”

“My pussy first. Please. I need you in my pussy.”

He doesn’t make you wait. His fingers withdraw, and then the head of his cock is pressing against you, slick and hot. He drags the tip through your folds, coating himself, and when he pushes in you both make the same sound.

“Oh, fuck,” he grits out. “You’re so wet. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

He bottoms out and stays there, his hips flush against your ass, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. You can feel all of him—the length, the thickness, the way he’s throbbing inside you—and for a moment neither of you moves.

His body covers yours, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear. “I love you,” he says, and the words are so tender in contrast to everything else that your heart stutters. “I love you so fucking much. But right now I’m going to fuck you like I don’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Then he pulls out and slams back in.

The bed frame rattles and thumps against the wall. You’re already babbling something, words that don’t make sense, just sounds and curses and his name. He fucks into you hard, relentless, and the angle has him hitting deep, deeper than you expected, and your fingers claw at the sheets.

“This what you wanted?” His voice is rough. “Wanted me to fuck you like this? Bent over on my birthday, still wearing your pretty little dress?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“You’re so fucking dirty,” he groans. “You like being my dirty little slut, hm?”

He lands a smack on your ass, sharp and hot, and the sting radiates outward. You cry out—half pain, half pleasure—and he does it again, harder this time, his rhythm never faltering.

“So fucking good.” His hips snap forward, and the wet sound of him fucking into you fills the room. “Your pussy’s so good. Taking me so fucking good, baby.”

The dress is bunched around your waist. Your thighs are slick with your own arousal, and you can feel it dripping, can feel how wet you are from sucking his cock and taking his fingers and now this—his cock pumping into you, his hand gripping your hip, his breathing ragged and loud.

You look over your shoulder, and the sight almost makes you come—Changbin, still half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, his muscles flexing with every thrust. His hair is falling into his eyes. His jaw is clenched. He’s looking down at where your bodies meet, watching himself disappear into you, and his expression is one of total, consuming want.

“Bin.”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick to yours. “Yeah, say my fucking name.”

“Bin, I want you in my ass.”

His rhythm stutters. His fingers dig into your flesh. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“Please, Binnie. Want you to fuck my ass.”

He pulls out, and the emptiness is back, but only for a moment. You hear him spit—hear the wet sound of it—and then his hand is on himself, slicking his cock, and the head is pressing against your asshole.

“Ready for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

He pushes in. Slow. So slow. The stretch is different from the plug—hotter, thicker, longer—and your mouth opens on a sound that doesn’t quite come out. He stops halfway, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“Still okay, baby?”

“Don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop.”

He sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully seated, and the fullness is indescribable. You feel stuffed, overwhelmed, and when he starts to move you think you might actually lose your mind.

“Your fucking—God, baby. So tight. So fucking tight around my cock.”

He fucks your ass the way he fucked your pussy—hard, deep, without mercy—and the sounds you’re making aren’t words anymore. They’re moans. Gasps. Broken versions of his name. The spit from earlier is still drying on your chin, and you’re still wearing your dress, and you’re being pounded and it’s everything you wanted.

“Knew you were saving it for tonight, didn’t you? Knew you wanted my cock in your ass.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

He fucks you harder. The bed is slamming into the wall, and you don’t care if the neighbors hear, don’t care if the whole building knows what’s happening in this room. His hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, and you sink deeper into the mattress, your ass higher, the angle even sharper.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Touch that pretty pussy while I fuck your tight, little ass.”

Your hand moves without thought, fingers finding your clit, and the double sensation makes you keen.

He’s babbling now, his words running together. “So good, so fucking good, best fucking present, your ass is so tight, gonna fuck it forever, never wanna stop—“

His rhythm falters. His hips stutter. You can feel him swelling, feel him getting even harder if that’s possible, and you know he’s close.

“Gonna come,” he gasps. “Gonna come in your ass. Fill you up. Fuck, fuck, fuck—“

He slams deep and holds there, and you feel it—the pulse, the heat, the wetness flooding inside you. His groan is long and broken, his body shaking, his fingers gripping your ass cheeks hard that the flesh bunches in his palms.

“Fuuuuuck.”

The sound stretches out, dissolves into breathless panting. He stays inside you for a long moment, his forehead pressed to your back, his chest heaving. When he finally pulls out, you feel his come trickle out after him, hot and slow.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You can’t. You’re both too wrecked, too spent, your bodies slick with sweat and trembling with aftershocks.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he finally mumbles into your shoulder.

You laugh, and it comes out weak and breathless. “Happy birthday.”

He snorts. “Best birthday ever.” He shifts, and collapses beside you, his hand reaching over to run up and down your back. “We’re gonna have to change the sheets.”

“Worth it.”

“Yeah.” He rolls onto his side, pulls you with him so you’re face to face, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. “You’re fucking incredible. You know that, right?”

You smile, still a little hazy. “You might’ve mentioned it a few times.”

“I’m serious.” His dark eyes are soft now, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You were born. That’s worth celebrating.”

He breathes out a laugh and leans in for a kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

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Smut Warnings: Kissing, a lot and it is messy. Chris uses his big hands. Manhandling (male and female). Dry humping/Grinding. Nipple/breast play. Fingering. Handjob. Teasing. Unprotected sex (do what your want, but deal with the consequence). Cowgirl. Subby!Chris. Begging. Squirting. Multiple orgasms. Reverse cowgirl. Hair pulling. Doggy. Rough sex. Creampie.

"Why not take it all off?"

You roll your eyes dramatically and shake your head, knowing your reactions will be caught but you smile widely. The seven men stage are in their element. Missing the devious little puppy that is Seungmin but still enjoying themselves the best they can.

Chris has been teasing the younger Australian but your eyes are locked on your husband. The white tank, spiked blonde hair that has grown out enough to show his dark roots. He's a walking 90s boyband member and daydream. It's driving you insane. Leather pants and the band around that bicep that you know accidentally has nail marks in it.

When he starts beatboxing, you groan and tilt your head back, looking up at the gray skies in disbelief. The bass comes in with a growl of his voice. Soon he sings the riff for the guitar and you have to peak, your head tilting to the side trying to decide what he is cooking up.

When it hits, the camera pans on him with his back to the crowd and his arms out stretched. The crowd goes wild and so do you. The alt rock version of Chk Chk Boom is something you had been begging for since he joked about it months ago. When prep for the stage started, you began bothering Chris about it. For weeks he just shrugged and said he didn't have time to do it properly but he would do it eventually.

He had made it happen. As you're vibing along down in the pit with some Stay, he catches your eye and gives you a wink.

Mother fucker knew what he was doing.

"Fuck! Goddammit, Chris!” You groan and toss your phone to the end of the hotel bed. "He's an actual fucking problem."

The beeping of the lock is the alert you need. Throwing your the blankets off, you’re up and across the room in record time. He’s walking in after sliding off his shoes.

You stop where the carpet meets the tile of the hotel room. You've had a chance to change but your makeup is still intact but your hair all over the place from the amount of times you've ran your fingers through it. Your bottom lip is red and swollen from biting it and your face is flushed.

Chris know this look. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. The little things he did on stage to tease you worked. He stirred you up enough that you are now in his favorite Fangirl mode. He also has been checking your cycle tracker. You're feral. You're ovulating, today.

Mother fucker knew what he did.

The pair of you stare at each other for a couple of moments before you snap and you're on him before his bag hits the floor. Arms around his neck, fingers in his still stage damp hair, and your lips pressed to his. He stumbles slightly, his back hitting the hotel room door but he quickly rights himself and wraps his arms around your waist, holding you tightly against him with a groan.

"Christopher," your voice is gasped as your lips move from his over his jaw. "You're so fucking amazing."

"Guess what else I am," you hear his soft tease as his hands slide down your back and over the curve of your ass . His spreads his fingers wide and grabs a hold of you, pulling you closer just to hear that satisfied sound that leaves you. He feels your smirk against his skin and he grips your harder before lifting you off your feet.

"You're mine." Your fingers tighten in his hair and you tilt his head so he looks up at you, smiling in the way that makes his cock throb for you.

"I'm all yours, baby girl." He whispers against your lips before releasing another groan when you kiss him.

This is something you have been playing with recently, not the reversal of your rolls but the way he will put you in the positions of control without you asking or taking. He has willing been giving in to you and allowing you to take the reigns. Chris does love to submit to you when he needs his mind to shut off but when he feels the thrill of you being above him roll through the dynamic, he's usually lost.

The confidence that you feel as you watch him come undone under your hands, your mouth, under your body is what drives him and allows him to give in to you. Years in the making and his newest addiction.

With your hand in in his hair you can control the depth of the kiss and how you tease him with your tongue, the sweetness of your blue raspberry slurpee lingering. It's when you nip at his lower lip and move like you're pulling away does his hand come up and pull you back into the kiss, taking full control and ravishing your mouth like you haven't kissed in weeks.

Which is not true.

Chris feels moment you melt back into the kiss, releasing the small bit of control you held and that is when he allows the kiss to end. After a few sweet lingering pecks on your lips, one final long kiss of passion does he fully allow you to part. You're both panting but smiling widely.

"Did you have a good time, baby girl?" His voice is rough and you feel it shoot down your spine and settle between your thighs.

"Chris, it was amazing. I was blown away. I missed Seungmin so much and I know you guys did too. He's really proud of that show and Stay are super happy."

There is the softest, dreamiest smile on Chris' kiss swollen lips. He pushes off the door and continues into the hotel room but stops at the foot of the bed, waiting to see what you'll do. He lets out a low chuckle when you suddenly cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist and arms around his neck.

As he starts to lay you down on the bed, you quickly throw your weight and push off the bed with the arm you released him with. The audible "oof" that leaves your husband makes you grin.

Flipping your hair up and out of your face, you smirk down at him, your hands on his abdomen as you settle back on him. You bite the corner of your lip and shift slowly as you feel him already hard under you.

"All that working out and your wife still bested you."

He arches as your hips circle over his slowly, the ghost of friction against him already making him pant softly. "You caught me off guard."

"Never let let guard down, Bahng," you giggle before your eyes widen and you squeal trying to cling to him as Chris tosses you over and onto the pillows at the top of the bed.

"You were saying?" He has one knee on the bed, his arm behind him to grip his shirt and pull it over his head before tossing it to the ground.

"I love that you can toss me around." You state plainly, still a little dazed that he did it with such easy.

"My love, you can toss me around just as easily." He tries to counter but you just shake your head. "I work out to keep up with you, wife."

You flush and stretch your leg out, letting it catch on his shoulder, halting his movements, "still not too much?"

His eyes stay locked on yours as he slides a hand down your calf before cupping the heel of your foot. He leans in and places a soft kiss to the top as his fingers gently squeeze and massage your heel and arch. Your eyes close as relief shoots up your leg, the pain of being on your feel for so long immediately.

"Eyes on me, baby girl." His lips find your ankle and your eyes open once more before he speaks again, his voice full of sin and sincerity.

"It's never enough. I always want more of you," he says your name against your skin as his trails kisses from your ankle, up your calf, the inside of your thigh but before he gets to the aching burn of your core, he moves to nuzzle his nose with yours.

"Give me more. Never less."

With a bright smile you cup his cheeks and pull him in for a kiss, one that he lets you control. Your fingers move through his hair, scratching over his scalp softly and he makes a pleased sound in his throat as his hands move to press deep and massage the flesh of your thighs.

"Where did you find these shorts?" His voice gravelly as he kisses over your cheek and along your jaw.

"A store." You smile before moaning and pressing up against your husband as his hands grip your ass where the material of your black shorts clung to the curve. "Do you like them?"

He groans and grinds against you, his own shorts slipping over the fabric of yours. "Fuck yes, the best shorts every made." He leans back over you, capturing your lips as his hips continue to grind into yours, teasing you both.

Wanting to be comfortable you opted for breathable yet stylish. You matched the alt rock look the boys had on stage in the black shorts and your slashed SKZ shirt. Chris had only seen you from above and then from your feed as he was on the ride back.

The way your clothing clung to you and the way you were branded with his ring and his band's merch always made him a little feral. It was something that would happen even before the marriage and before you were dating. He loved seeing you in his things.

Chris's hand slips up your side, pushing the distressed shirt up with it before his fingers meet your breasts, your nipple hard enough to press against the fabric of your bra. When his thumb slides over it and adds to the friction, you whimper and arch away from the kiss.

"Christopher, please." Your hands slide down and you're pulling your up before unhooking your bra from the front.

"Please what?" His eyes meet yours as his head leans down and he softly sucks your nipple into his mouth. You both let out sounds of pleasure as his tongue circles the swollen peak.

Your fingers curl into his hair to keep him in place as you arch up into his mouth. "Oh fuck, Chris touch me. Hands too."

Within seconds your shorts are at an ankle and his fingers are teasing over your heated, swollen skin. He groans against your skin and sucks hard as he thirsts one finger deeply into your soaked core.

Your cries echo off the walls of the hotel room along with the sounds his soon to be two fingers are pulling from your pussy. Within moments he has you leaking down his wrist as his fingers curl to rub against your gspot. When he pulls away from your breast he looks down to see your thighs shaking, not just from the movement of his fingers but also from the pleasure he is putting you through.

"That's it baby girl," he smirks as his eyes turn to your face; flushed with your lips swollow as you pant heavily through the moans and cries of his name.

A soft whisper of your name grabs your attention so you swallow through your dry mouth and look down at your husband who has a devious smirk on his lips. You can feel the wetness coating your thighs and seeping into the bedding below you as he continues to apply pressure to that one spot.

"Fuck you are beautiful. Always but right now, baby girl?" His voice is low but you can hear the deparation in it and that is what makes you clench around his fingers, your climax just within arms reach. "Touch me, baby girl, please."

Chris begging for you to touch him makes your walls flutter around his fingers once again but as his fingers slow to allow you to sit up, it changes the pressure and depth of his fingers. "Oh fuck, Christopher." Your head falls forward onto his arm as you grind yourself against his hand, the heel pressing into your clit.

Reaching out your fingers graze over the throbbing length of his cock, barely hidden behind his shorts. He chokes on a groan of his own as he chases the feeling of your hand. "Please,"

Slipping the front of his shorts down, your hand curls around him and strokes.

Once, twice, three times before he groans and grinds into your hand. His shaft pulses against your palm and as you slip your fingers up, along the veins to tease him, a whimper leaves his lips.

"Lay back for me?" You kiss over his jaw, your pleasure forgotten. The desire to make your husband fall apart becoming the most important focus.

He shakes his head but as your thumb caresses around the ridge at the head of his cock, making it twitch and throb in your hand. He groans and thrusts against you as precum drips from the deep red tip. Gently, you manage to lay him back, his fingers withdrawing from your pulsing core and that earn him a gasp that almost ruins your plans.

You have to place both of your hands on his broad shoulders and quickly move to straddle him to keep him below you. After he settles and you've gotten situated above him, your hands start to wander, tracing his pectorals, his abdominals, over his biceps. When your hands return his chest, you use it as leverage to lift your hips, angling just right so when you lower back down, you're slowly taking him into your wet heat.

As soon as he feels your walls starting to surround him, Chris groans and grips your hips, not to push or pull but just because he needs to touch you. The whine that leans him as you take his wrists and pin them to the mattress beside his head makes you clench around him.

"Barely inside and you already can't keep your hands to yourself," you tease as you lean down and nuzzle your nose to his.

He whines, Christopher actually lets out a whine, from below you and flexes his hands. You feel the strength in the body under you but knowing that he would never use it to take what he wanted unless you asked always skyrocketed your self esteem.

"My big strong husband unable to do anything but lay here and take it like the good-" the groan that earns you is enough for your walls to clench around him. "Good boy that he is."

"Baby girl, please just fucking sit all the way on it." He shifts his hands so your palms are touching and he can curl his fingers over yours. "Please."

You smile and rotate your hips as you finally lower yourself, taking him to the hilt. "Oh fuck," you both moan together as you wiggle on his lap, giving yourself the chance to adjust for just a moment before you're moving.

"Holy-y shit, shit-t" Chris groans below you already lost in the feel of your pussy wrapped around his cock. "Feels so fucking good," the grip he has on your hands allows you to use him as leverage as you move harder.

His groans and you're soft cries are echoing off the walls with the sounds of your bodies colliding. "Use me, baby girl," his next groan is deep and you clench hard as your hips circle over him, feeling how his shaft massages your fluttering silken walls.

"Christopher," your gasp has his eyes opening to look up at you. "Fuck feels so good," your head drops back and after shifting so he is holding both of your wrists in his hand, Chris groans as you instantly grip him tightener.

With your head tipped a far back as it is, the ends of your hair tickle the tops of Chris's thighs and he growls, at the image of your hair curled around his fist as he fucks into you. He needed it, now. "Holy shit, turn around. Let me see that ass bounce," he smirked as you slowed and looked down at him. "I've been a good boy, fuck, haven't I?" His hand releases both of yours. "Please?"

"Holy shit," you whimper as your nails digs into his forearms, neither of you stopping the nasty, slow grind you've started on his cock. The begging making you move on your own, only causing his begging to increase in frequency and volume.

"Please, I've been good, please!" Your walls are fluttering consistently as you're nearing your release, the way the head of his cock teases that spot inside you making you drip down his shaft.

"Oh god, Chris, I'm so close," you're panting loudly as your hips jerk wildly the closer you get to your orgasm.

"Cum all over my cock, baby girl. Use me to make yourself cum, do it baby," his words are as nasty as the sounds coming from you as your climax hits.

A soft scream of his name leaves you as you release over his groin and lower abdomen. A low whine from the man below you as he takes over loving you on him to help you ride it out. Whispered praises and gentle hands hold you as you come to a stop. Your break is short before you slowly pull off Chris, his cock still angry red and throbbing against his lower abdomen.

Slowly, you turn so your straddling his hips reverse, giving him the view he begged for. Gripping his cock tightly with one hand, his other goes to get a handful of your ass, squeezing and spreading to watch your swollen sex clench around nothing. "Fuck, thank you, baby girl," he breaks off into a shout as you lower yourself back onto his cock, instantly taking him wholly inside.

The whimpers and jumbled mess of words that leave your husband as his hands grip and caress your hips or ass turn into groans as you start moving on him once again, the pace punishing as he gets closer and closer to his own orgasm. His eyes trained on your ass as you move, one of his hands fist your hair, tugging softly.

As your back arches, you clench around him and that is when Chris loses it. It's nothing for him to sit up and roll so you're on your knees under him, spread just how he likes. The grip on your hair tightens and his other hand presses down on your back to arch you more for him. "There you go, fucking perfect, my little wife."

The pace he sets is brutal and all you can do is moan, loudly, and let your husband have his way while he pounds himself deeper into you than you thought possible. The way his hips slam against yours shoves the bed, supposedly immovable, into the wall.

"Chris!" Your nails drag down the fabric of the bedding as his grip on your hair tugs you back more. He knows that if you had enough you would safeword but with the way your pussy is clenching and soaking him, he knows you needed this as much as he did.

"This what you wanted? Tease me until I break and fucking shove my cock as deep as possible? Fuck, you love this shit, I can feel your pussy sucking me in deeper, baby girl."

When his hips start to snap in shallow, quick thrusts against your gspot, Chris shoves your head into the blankets. "Scream all you want, baby girl," he groans as your walls flutter against him. "Cum on my cock."

Your arms flail behind you until you grip his forearms, dragging your nails down his skin. The growl that leaves Chris is what shoves you over the edge. You cum as he does, slamming home, releasing deep inside of you while your walls flutter and milk him. Your name leaves him in a chocked off groan as he grinds harder, shoving his cock as deep as possible.

"Fucking take it all," he snarls as his climax burns through his veins once again, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself slowly on him. "You're fucking perfect."

The aftermath is nothing but gentle hands, warm kisses, and soft giggles. You're both cleaned and tucked into the hotel bed, pressed close but enough space left to watch each other as you talk about anything and everything.

"Chris?"

"Yeah baby girl?"

"Why does it feel like-" quickly his arms tighten around you as the front legs of the bed snap and you've both slid down the slick sheets.

His back hits the wall, a sharp hiss leaving him as your elbow finds his ribcage and the palm of your other arm pressing into his hip. It takes you a moment to realize what has happened before you try and fail to get yourself up and off of him, giggles starting already.

"Hold on, hold on - ow fuck my bladder," he groans when your elbow lands on him again but you're laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. "Baby, stop moving." He's quick to get his arms around you but your laughter is so contagious he can't fight it anymore and you're both laughing from the awkward position you have been put in.

"We'll have to add this hotel to the list."

"This number seven, by the way."

"Holy shit."

"Thrust game on point."

"Oh shut up!"

The hotel phone sends a shrill ring that slices through the laughter of the room. You look down at your husband and giggle. "Not it."

He sighs and nods, "fine, you menace."

"You love me!"

“Are you sure about this?” Chan asked.

You nodded. “Of course,” you replied. “I've done it plenty of times before. It'll feel good, I promise.”

Recently, Chan complained about tense muscles post workout. Particularly in his abdomen. It has persisted for a few days, and it has become increasingly uncomfortable. To the point where he told you about it. Telling you led to you offering to give him a massage.

“Please?” you plead. “I promise that I won't hurt you.”

He contemplated it. A moment went by until he let out a sigh. “Alright,” he relented. 

You had a pleased smile. “Great! You won't regret it!” you exclaim. He rolled his eyes. 

“I sure hope not,” he teased. His response was met with a slap on the shoulder.

“Shut up,” you scoffed. “Now, unless you want to stay uncomfortable, I suggest you remove your shirt and lay on the bed.”

“Wow. So demanding,” he replied, amused. “At least take me out to dinner first.

You rolled your eyes. “Just shut up and do what I asked!” you snapped. He just laughed.

“Alright alright,” he replied, his hand raised in surrender. “I will.” He muttered under his breath. “So bossy.”

Chan stared at your bed before pulling at his shirt. Hooking his fingers underneath, he pulled it up and over his head. His shirt was discarded on a nearby chair. Slowly, he walked over to the bed and sat down in the middle. He looks over at you expectantly. You nod.

“I'll be back,” you announced. You disappear and come back about five minutes later. You're holding towels and a bottle of oil. “You mind moving? I need to lay down towels to avoid a mess.”

He nodded and got up, giving you the space to place the towels down. You pat the bed, signaling for him to lie down. He laid down onto the towels and shuffled around. Once he was comfortable, he gave you a thumbs up.

He'll admit… he was a little nervous. Why was he nervous? He wasn't sure. He did trust you, after all. Maybe it was just the level of intimacy that comes with a massage. Especially a massage from someone close to you. He just brushed it off and waited with anticipation.

You crawl up onto the bed and scoot closer. You proceeded to move over and straddle his hips. The swift movement caught him off guard. He didn’t mind it, though. Whatever was most comfortable for the two of you, I guess.

“Hey, you mind me sitting here, do you?” you asked. “It's okay if you're uncomfortable. I can just move.”

He shook his head. “No, it's okay. I don't mind.” 

“Okay,” was all you said before you reached for the bottle of oil next to you.

You grab the bottle and dribble oil into your palm, tossing the bottle off to the side. Your hands rubbed together in order to warm up the oil. Cold oil was the last thing you would want to use on your skin. Once satisfied, you take your oiled hands and begin massaging his abdomen. You felt the muscle behind your fingertips tense. 

“You okay?” You asked. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Just… ticklish. You can keep going.”

You took the answer as confirmation to keep going. The more you feel around, the more evident the mentioned tension becomes. You start out gentle, feeling out the more prominent problem areas. It was when you had everything mapped out that you pressed deeper. 

The massage starts out around his midsection. Your thumbs and palms press down on the muscles, smoothing them down to ease them. Whenever you pressed on areas that were particularly tense, a moan would slip out. You paused after it happened a few times.

“Are you alright? I'm not hurting you, am I?” You asked in concern.

“No, I'm… I'm okay,” he assured. “It doesn't hurt. You can keep going.”

“You sure?” He nods. “Okay… if you say so.”

When you continued, a thought appeared in his head: this might have been a mistake. He didn't expect to be so sensitive there. It didn’t help that you were above him, straddling his hips with your hands on him. Feeling him all over as you massage him. 

You would be lying if you said his moans didn't affect you. Every sound sent a wave of heat through you. The view below didn't help you either. Him on his back, shirtless. His eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. Fuck. You shook the thoughts away, scolding yourself for having such filthy thoughts. You brush them off and continue with the massage.

Meanwhile, he tried his hardest not to make any noise whenever you pressed down into his flesh. However, he couldn't help the quiet moans that would occasionally slip past his lips. Pain and discomfort replaced with bliss. Embarrassment lingered but he persevered.

You weren't lying when you said it would feel good. The massage did feel good. Too good. If this wasn't embarrassing enough, what happened next was the icing on the cake. You were massaging somewhere around the lower end of his abdomen. Your thumbs had pressed down, rolling out some tension, when something unexpected occurred:

He let out a loud whimper.

You paused from the shock. His eyes shot open. Every muscle in his body had people tense, which you felt beneath your hands. However… that wasn't the only thing you felt. If whatever just occurred wasn't embarrassing enough, it was about to get worse.

Oh yes… it was clear with the way something was now pressed against your inner thigh. 

He was hard.

Shocked, you looked down at him. He was absolutely mortified. He had his hands over his face. His ears and neck were a fiery red, likely hot to the touch. He hasn't moved an inch since it happened.

“I'm so sorry,” he groaned. His words were muffled by his hands. “I didn't mean to make it weird. I couldn't help it.”

You were hearing what he was saying. However, his voice was distant at this point. Your mind had gone elsewhere. You tried not to let your mind wander, but it was already too late.

“Fuck. That was hot. What other noises could I pull out of him?” You thought. 

That thought alone sent a wave of heat through you. You felt like a pervert for making something innocent out to be sexual. However, you weren't the one to moan and end up hard from a damn massage. You shook the thoughts of your head and focus on the situation in front of you. He was still babbling, trying to explain himself and apologize. 

“I really am sorry and I–” he rambled, but you interrupted him. You grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his face. 

“It's okay,” you assured with a smile. “I'm not mad at you.” 

He raised a brow. “You… aren't?” He asked. You shake your head in response.

“I think it's hot, actually,” you muttered. You lean in close. “How you're so… sensitive.” His mouth parted from surprise. 

“I…” he tried to speak, but nothing else came out.

You hummed. “Now… you want to go take care of that…” you point to his hard-on. “Or would you rather I take care of it?” He nodded, but you shook your index finger and tutted. “I want an answer.”

Chan bit his lip to hold back a whine. “Please… touch me…” he breathed out shakily. “Please...” 

He looked and said it so prettily that you couldn’t resist. “I can do that,” you murmured.

You leaned over and pressed your lips together in a burning kiss. The kiss was full of lust and heat but mixed in with passion as well. He quickly reciprocated, reaching a hand up to grab your nape. Your tongue pressed against his mouth, which he happily accepted with a moan. You both let out a collective moan when your tongues slide against one another.

Your mouth moved away from his, despite his protests, to press open-mouthed kisses onto this jaw and down his neck. Each kiss down his neck was slow and deliberate. Kisses slowly turned to soft suckling of the flesh. He leaned his back, exposing his neck and letting out soft moans. 

The kisses moved down his neck and collarbones onto his chest. The neck was off limits for hickeys. Due to his line of work and all. His torso was another story. You placed kisses all over his pecs before sucking hickeys into the flesh. Red and purple marks were blooming all over.

You moved lower until you took a nipple into your mouth. That earned you a gasp. You suckled on it, while your fingers played with the other one. He let out a whine when you swirled your wet tongue around it. He arched up into you, the hand on your nape gripping tighter. Your hand and mouth switched sides, resulting in another whine.

When you were satisfied, you proceeded lower. Kissing and sucking the supple skin on your way down. His toned abdomen had an evident trail of saliva and bruising left behind. Your mouth brushed the hem of his shorts. 

You let your fingers hook under his shorts and underwear, only pulling them down slightly. Enough to expose his pelvis, but not the one place where he wanted you most. You kiss it, dragging your tongue before sucking hickeys along his pelvis. All he could do was whimper. The attention being put around such a sensitive area was driving him crazy.

Something possessive in you wanted to mark him there. To leave him a reminder of who he let do whatever they pleased to his body. A reminder every time he got naked for the next couple of days. The thought had you aching between the legs. 

On the other hand, he didn’t seem to like the pace at which you were going. 

“Ngh… stop teasing me,” he whined, hips twitching. “Just touch me, please.”

“If you keep whining and squirming, I won't,” you affirmed. “Be. Patient.” He didn't say anything else after that. 

A few more gentle kisses were placed before you were satisfied. Your fingers kept their grip as you finally pulled down his shorts and underwear down and off. His hard cock sprung up once it was released from the confines of his clothing. You admired it, biting your bottom lip without realizing it.

You placed a hand on his chest, slowly trailing down until you grabbed him in your hand. The breath in his throat hitches when you give him a few strokes, slow and purposeful. Your thumb brushes the tip, his hips twitching upward. 

Ok. Enough games. You needed him in your mouth. Right now.

You lean down and gave the tip a teasing lick. This was repeated a few more times until you licked up the entire length of him. He wasn't given any time to react to any of it. Not when you took him in your mouth.

Chan let out a surprised moan. The hand holding your nape instinctively moved into your hair. The wet warmth of your mouth felt like bliss. Despite that, he fought the urge to buck up into your mouth. He sat there restlessly as he prayed that you start moving soon.

The pace started out slow, moving up and down as you took more of him in your mouth. A moan rumbled in your throat when you took him all in. The tip of your nose brushed against his pelvis. It was after a moment of stillness that you started moving again. 

You pulled yourself off, much to his protests. He didn't have to wait long, though. You playfully slapped the tip on your tongue before taking him in your mouth once more. Your mouth took him most of the way, letting your hands do the rest as you sucked.

His lips parted, moans slipping from him. He let his head tilt back. The breaths he let out were labored as his chest heaved. The hand on your hand gripped tighter, but not enough to hurt.

“Mm yes… like… like that,” he breathed out. “Feels so good.”

Every sound and word of praise went straight through you and down. The head you gave him was sloppy. You were drooling, saliva dripping down your hands and onto the base of his cock. The wet sounds of your slurping filling the room was downright filthy. 

You were moaning around it. There was an intense throbbing between your legs. You could tell he was getting close. It was obvious by the tightening grip on your head and his moans morphing into whines. He was trying so hard not to buck up into your mouth.

“Nngh… gonna cum” he moaned. 

He was right there on the edge… until you stopped. 

His eyes opened, a groan leaving him as he watched you pulled away. While he wished you didn't stop, the sight he was met left him breathless. You were glowing. Your lips were parted, connected to his cock by only a string of saliva. Your eyes were glossy and dark with lust.

“Why did you stop?” he asked. “I was so close.”

“I said I would take care of it…” you replied. “I didn't say I'd let you cum that easily.” Your expression got dark. “You don't cum unless I say you can. Understood?”

He let out a low moan. “... yes,” he murmured.

You smirked. “Good,” you whispered. Your mouth ends up back on his cock again.

This was going to be a while.

.

.

.

.

He lost count on how many you have edged him at this point. Every time he got close, you would stop. He was frustrated, both sexually and emotionally. Tears pricked his eyes. He was desperate, his mind turned to mush as he babbled.

“Nghh pleasee… lemme cum,” he cried. He was desperate. He needs you. “Just fuck me. Anything.”

You were expecting desperation to have him saying anything. But to fuck him? Has he ever bottomed before? You'll just have to find out for yourself.

“You want me to fuck you?” you asked. 

He let out a shaky breath. “I mean I… yes.” He swallowed. “I've only ever bottomed a few times before, but it's been a while since then.”

“Would you like to?” you asked. However, you already knew the answer but asked anyway to be sure. “You know I would likely have to prep you, right?”

He nods. “I do, yes,” he whispered. “I want to.”

“Ok…” you mutter. You press a gentle kiss on his hip. “Wait here.”

You removed yourself from the bed and walked off. This was not how you expect the massage to turn. When you first grabbed a bottle of massage oil beforehand, you didn't think you'd end up grabbing a bottle of lube later on. You had a handsome man, waiting in bed to be fucked, so you weren't exactly complaining.

You returned, dressed down for the occasion and a bottle of lube in hand. His eyes were on you, taking you in hungrily as you walked back up to where he was. You get back up onto the bed. A hand was placed onto his thigh.

“Go on… spread your legs,” you command quietly. He obliged. “Good.” 

The lube was applied to your fingers, rubbing it between them to warm it up. You move them near his ass but paused. Your eyes studied him for any hesitation. He nodded in response to your silent question. 

You pressed in with one finger, starting out small at first until you add a second. With time, you gain a rhythm, adding a third finger. It wasn't long until you heard moans once again. His hips rolled against your fingers. 

“Mm… I think I'm ready,” Chan moaned. His patience was wearing thin. “Please. Need you now.”

How could you say no when he asked so nicely?

Your fingers were pulled and moved to grab the lube. A generous amount of the substance was thoroughly applied onto you. Maximal comfort is what you're aiming for. You were done with the application and are now ready. 

You inched closer, grabbing on and lining yourself up. “Tell me if it hurts or you want to stop, okay?” you assured. He nodded in confirmation.

“Yes… now can you please fuck me?” he pleaded.

“So demanding,” you remarked.

Slowly, you pressed into him until you bottomed out. You remained there, watching his expression for any hesitation or discomfort. You didn’t find any. Still, you asked if he was alright, only to be met with a more than enthusiastic response. Impatient, but enthusiastic, nonetheless.

You took the initiative and started moving. The pace was moderate, but nothing over-the-top. It wasn't often you keep such a pace. However, you still wanted to tease him a little more. It was only a matter of time until he got impatient again.

“Move faster,” he demanded. The snippy words and annoyed look on his face made you smile.

His demands were answered when you moved up to a quicker speed. The room filled up with moans once more. His eyes fluttered closed and his head fell back. He grabbed onto your arms when you moved into missionary, keeping a firm grip on you. 

At some point, you pulled all the way out and slammed back into him. He let out a surprised moan, his blunt nails digging into your skin. His body arched up into you, chests pressing together. Oh, he liked that. 

You started fucking into him harder. Every brush of the prostate resulted in a whine. A spurt of precum would dribble down his cock. He was in a state of bliss.

His eyes opened and locked onto yours. “Mm can you– can I flip around?” he gasped. “I want to be on my hands and knees.”

You nodded and pulled out, moving around so that he is now faced away. You lined up and slid back in. Your previous pace continued, hips slamming into him as you pounded him. 

He felt overwhelmed. Completely lost in pleasure. Every thrust had his arms and legs feeling like jelly. He collapsed onto the bed when his arms gave up. His face was now down on the mattress, while his ass was up in the air. You were relentless. A hand grabbed his hair, almost pressing him down further. He just moaned as you used him as you pleased.

“Fuck… just look at you,” you scoffed. “You put on this… leader persona for the public. Feeding into this given role as some dominant man for your fanbase.” You laughed. “What would your fans think if they saw you… bent over and taking my cock like a bitch in heat.”

He let out a moan that morphed into a whine. His cheek burned out of embarrassment. However, his body betrayed him when the humiliation had his lower abdomen burning with arousal. He couldn't bring himself to care anyway when you felt this good. When he was so full of you. 

“Mngh… gonna cum,” he slurred. “Please lemme cum.”

The familiar heat in his abdomen threatened to bubble over once more. Helpless high-pitched moans slip out of him. The growing sensation of his impending orgasm was intense. He could tell it was going to be explosive. 

All of a sudden, he was flipped onto his back again. He let out a quiet gasp when his legs were being wrapped around your waist. Your weight was pressed further. Each thrust hitting spots that made him see stars.

A hand brushed away a strand of hair stuck to his forehead. “I want to watch as you come apart on my cock,” you muttered. “To watch as pleasure overwhelms your body.”

You admired the man below you. Cover in a thin sheet of sweat. A flush progressed from his ears and neck down to his chest in splotches. His eyes were glossy and black, pupils almost swallowing the iris whole. His plush lips were red and swollen. He looked beautiful when he was all fucked out. 

Your hand grabbed onto his neglected cock, giving it a few quick strokes. “Go on… cum for me,” you whispered. He moaned.

Chan let out a loud cry of your name. Streaks of cum landed all on his abdomen and chest. His body convulsed as the most intense orgasm of his life shook through him. His vision became spotty. He had never felt anything like it.

Your thrusts slowed to a stop as the orgasm washed over him until you eventually pulled out. If you thought the sight before was beautiful, the one after was breathtaking. His eyes were closed as he let out soft pants through parted lips. His chest, blooming with hickeys and glistening with streaks of cum and sweat. He was basking in the post-sex afterglow. 

You reach a hand and cup his cheek. “Hey,” you whispered. Your thumb brushes against the sweaty skin. “You okay?”

He nuzzled into your hand. “Yeah, I'm okay,” he mumbled. “Just tired.”

You smiled. “I know,” you replied. “Give me a moment. I'll be back.”

Before you leave, you removed the towels on the bed and discarded them. You walked out of the room, only to return with a damp towel and a glass of water. The towel was gently brushed over his body thoroughly. You cleaned the remnants of sweat and cum, cooing softly how he did so well. You found his discarded underwear and pulled up and over his legs. 

The aftercare followed up with sitting him up and pressing the glass to his lips. “Drink. Slowly.” That was all you told him before he drank every last drop of water in the cup. “Good.”

The cup was put in the sink before you headed back. You took time to clean up and put on something to sleep in. You felt much better. Upon returning, the sight you walked in on made you smile. 

Chan had made his way underneath one of your blankets. He was snuggled up in your bed like it was his own. His eyes were closed. He looked so peaceful and content. It made your heart flutter.

He must've sensed your presence when you pulled back the blanket and laid beside him. His eyes opened and his arms pulled you into him. He leaned and pressed a loving kiss onto your lips. You reciprocated, a warm blooming in your chest. You pulled back first, but he was the one to break the silence.

“Hi,” he whispered.

You giggled. “Hi. How do you feel?”

“I feel tired, but good,” he answered honestly. “I don't think I've ever cummed that hard in my life.” You couldn't help the laugh that left you.

“I'm honored,” you replied with a laugh. He laughed too but then got serious.

“I don't… I don't want this to be a one-time thing. Something to do once and forget like nothing else happened,” he confessed. The look on his face was vulnerable, almost… sad. 

You were speechless. “I…” you tried to speak, but nothing came out. He took that as a sign to keep going.

“I want to mean more than a friend who you fucked that one time. I…” he paused. “I want to be loved… and cherished… and cared for once.” He let out a shaky breath. “I've kept it in for so long but... I want you to love me like I love you.” A tear fell down his cheek. “Please tell me you love me too.”

You were completely flabbergasted. Out of the things that occurred tonight, a love confession was the last thing you expected. You were in a state of shock. That didn’t last long as butterflies erupted in your stomach. Your cheeks felt warm and your chest felt fuzzy.

You cupped his cheek. “I… I don't want this to be a one-time thing, either,” you confessed. Your thumb brushed the stray tear off his cheek. “I can't just move on and pretend this didn't happen.” You move closer until your noses touch. “I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love you too. I love you.”

His teary eyes widened in shock. Simultaneously, you both leaned forward and locked lips. His lips were so soft and warm. You don't think you could ever tire from kissing them. The thought of being able to kiss him like this, especially all the time from now on, had your stomach fluttering with butterflies.

It was Chan that pulled away first before he started giggling. The tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks were red. He leaned over, hiding his face in your neck. You laughed and pulled him away from hiding.

“No no. None of that,” you told him. “I want to see you.”

He looked sheepish, a shy smile evident on his face. His arms pulled you in close until your chests touched. He laid his forehead on yours, closing his eyes with you following. He felt warm and tingly all over now.

The silence between you didn't last very long. “Does this mean you'll give me more ‘massages’ now?” he asked sleepily.

You smiled. “Only if you ask nicely,” you murmured. 

That answer resulted in a collection of quiet, sleepy giggles.

.

You’re humming softly to yourself, enjoying the domestic peace, when the sound of the front door clicking open makes your stomach tighten without even realizing it.

He’s in that post-studio slump—hair slightly messy, jacket half unzipped, dark sweatpants clinging lazily to his frame. Even like this, he’s magnetic, and you can’t help your eyes flicking to him, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice low but warm. He’s leaning against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bag like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. There’s something about the quiet moment between you, the house empty except for the two of you, that makes your pulse skip.

“Hey,” you respond, turning the last plate in the drying rack. “She’s gone with your mom for a bit. Peace and quiet finally.” You smirk lightly, feeling the domestic satisfaction of a chore almost finished, of the house temporarily all yours.

Chan doesn’t answer immediately. He’s watching you, eyes dark and unreadable, and the way he tilts his head, the faint curve of his lips… it makes your stomach tighten.

“How was your day?” he asks finally, voice low, casual, but there’s an edge to it you can’t ignore.

You wipe your hands and lean on the counter slightly, tilting your head. “It was good. Quiet mostly. I spent a lot of time with her today—playing, reading, the usual.” You shrug, almost casually, but your mind flashes to the small incident that had made you pause earlier. “Actually… she called me ‘eomma’ by accident when I was tucking her in. She caught herself, of course, but…” You trail off, shrugging again, trying to sound lighthearted.

Chan freezes. His hand tightens on the doorframe ever so slightly. The air between you thickens, charged. You’re focused on the dishes, but you sense the change immediately—something about the way he’s looking at you now, so intense, so fixed.

“That… she called you ‘eomma’?” His voice is low, careful, like he’s trying to keep it steady but failing.

“Yeah,” you say softly, trying not to make it a big deal. “She didn’t mean it, of course. She’s just a kid. Funny little slip, though.” You laugh lightly, thinking nothing of it.

But Chan doesn’t laugh. He’s moving closer now, footsteps soft on the wooden floor, yet every inch he covers makes your pulse race. You feel heat creeping into your cheeks without realizing it.

“Do you…” he begins, voice husky, almost strained. He stops just a foot behind you, hands brushing against his sides, clearly holding back. “… do you even know what that means?”

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze, and suddenly you realize the tension in the room is different—he’s not just tired from the studio. There’s something urgent, something dangerous lurking beneath his calm exterior.

“I… I don’t think so?” you murmur, unsure whether to tease or pull back.

Chan swallows hard, jaw tight. “You do.” His hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your shoulder, lingering just a second too long. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

You shiver at the faint contact, heart hammering in your chest. The kitchen, usually so safe, so ordinary, now feels like a pressure cooker, every glance, every breath charged.

He steps even closer, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. His hand hovers near yours, almost touching, almost claiming, but he’s still holding back. His voice drops lower, rougher:

“You have no idea how long I’ve been holding myself back…”

Your stomach twists. There’s a rawness in his words, a confession buried under his restraint. And suddenly, you realize—this isn’t just casual attraction. This is months of buried tension, of him trying to be professional, trying to keep a safe distance, and now… that little word from his daughter, that slip of innocence, has cracked the dam.

He steps so close now that your shoulders brush. The sound of his breath, slow and measured, is in your ear. His hand finally settles on your hip, lingering, warm, insistent—but not yet claiming.

“I shouldn’t…” he murmurs, voice rough. “I shouldn’t do this. I can’t…”

But you feel the change in his body, the way he’s leaning toward you, a weight pressing, wanting, needing.

⸻

The kitchen feels impossibly small, even though it hasn’t changed. The sound of water running in the sink mixes with the soft rhythm of your movements, but every glance over your shoulder makes your stomach twist.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” His voice is low, casual, but there’s an edge to it that makes your chest tighten.

“See what?” you murmur, turning a plate in the drying rack. You try to keep your tone light, casual, but your pulse is betraying you.

“That look you had… when you told me she called you ‘eomma’.” His hand brushes the counter near yours—not enough to touch, just close, lingering in your space. “Like it didn’t even register to you what that meant to me.”

You pause mid-scrub, heart hammering, suddenly aware of how close he is. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the water and the sound of your own breathing.

Chan steps forward slowly, each movement deliberate, deliberate enough to make you flinch slightly. He stops just behind you, hand hovering near your hip. “I’ve been trying to keep this under control,” he admits, voice rough. “Professional. Safe. But…” He swallows, and you feel him tense behind you. “you are all I can think about.”

Your chest tightens, and you can’t help the way your hand lingers on the plate a moment too long. “Chan…” you start softly, unsure if you should say more, unsure how to respond to this sudden rawness in his tone.

He leans just a fraction closer, breath warm against your ear, hand brushing your side lightly—not claiming, not touching fully, just teasing, testing. “Do you have any idea,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, “how long I’ve been holding myself back?”

You swallow hard, aware of the way his body is pressing near yours, how the heat radiating off him is suddenly impossible to ignore. “I—” you start, but your words catch in your throat.

His hand moves a little lower, fingers brushing the curve of your waist, lingering as though memorizing your shape without crossing any lines yet. Every subtle contact sends sparks through you. “I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like…” he continues, voice dropping, almost a growl. “…having you here… really here… with us.”

You feel a shiver run down your spine, a mix of anticipation and something heavier, something dangerous threading through the air between you. His gaze flickers from your face to your hands and back again, and it’s impossible not to notice the hunger there—the tension he’s been bottling up for months, finally seeping through.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs again, a little louder, a little more urgent this time. His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pressing lightly, tracing a path that’s careful, teasing, but unmistakable.

You feel yourself leaning back slightly against him without meaning to, heart racing, knees suddenly weak. “Chan…” you whisper, barely audible, aware of the way his presence is filling the space around you.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lets his hand linger, brushing over you, every movement deliberate, testing your reaction. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches you bite your bottom lip, fingers tightening slightly on the plate. He notices every little thing—the way you shift when he moves, the small intake of breath, the quickening heartbeat he can almost feel through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I shouldn’t,” he mutters finally, voice rough, low, almost pained. “I shouldn’t be doing this…”

But he doesn’t pull away. His hand slides up slightly, resting just above your hipbone, pressing, brushing, teasing. His gaze is locked on yours, dark and heavy, and it’s clear that “holding back” is becoming impossible.

“I’ve held myself back for months,” he admits, voice dropping to a growl. “Months of trying to pretend… that this—” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, “—that nothing could happen. But seeing you with her today…” He swallows, every muscle in his jaw tight. “…it’s like seeing everything I’ve been holding in, everything I’ve been wanting, come to life right in front of me.”

Your breath hitches, and you find yourself instinctively leaning into him, not fully, just a little. Every nerve in your body is alive. His hand moves slightly, brushing the small of your back again, warm and deliberate, teasing, and you know he’s waiting, testing, wondering if you want this as much as he does.

“You make it impossible,” he murmurs, voice rough, deep, with that desperate edge you’ve come to recognize. “Every time I see you, every time I think about you with her… I can’t hold it back anymore. I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want you like this, but I do.”

Your chest tightens, every breath shallow. You’re caught in the gravity of him, of the tension he’s creating. And even though he hasn’t claimed you yet, hasn’t crossed the line fully, the teasing, the closeness, the restrained desire—it’s enough to leave you trembling, anticipating, and completely undone.

⸻

The silence between you is deafening. Chan’s hand still rests just above your hip, warm, steady, but trembling slightly with restraint. His jaw is clenched, his eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

You’re frozen in place, your breath shallow, heart hammering in your chest. His presence is overwhelming. The smell of his cologne clings faintly to the fabric of his hoodie, mixed with the lingering hint of coffee and the faint sweat of a long day in the studio.

“God…” he mutters suddenly, breaking the silence, his voice low and rough. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Before you can respond, his hand tightens on your hip, turning you toward him. The plate you’d been holding clatters softly into the sink, forgotten, as his body presses into yours. His other hand rises to your jaw, cupping your face as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you firmly enough.

His lips crash onto yours.

It’s not tentative, not careful — it’s months of restraint ripping apart at the seams. His kiss is hungry, desperate, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into your mouth. Your knees buckle slightly at the force of it, but his hand on your hip steadies you, pulls you closer until your chest is flush against his.

You gasp into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him, and he growls softly in response, deep in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. His tongue parts your lips easily, claiming, exploring, and you melt against him before you can think of resisting.

Your hands fly to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. You can feel the solid muscle beneath, the steady hammering of his heart against your palm. He’s warm, solid, consuming, and you can’t get enough.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps, eyes burning into yours. His voice is so rough, so desperate, it makes your whole body shiver. “If I keep going… I won’t be able to hold back anymore.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you tug him back down by the collar of his shirt, your lips crashing into his again.

That’s all the permission he needs.

He groans into the kiss, low and broken, and suddenly he’s moving faster, hungrier. His hands are everywhere — one sliding down to your ass, squeezing firmly, pulling you up against the hard outline straining in his sweatpants; the other buried in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

He pushes you back against the counter, the edge digging into your lower back, but you don’t care. All you can feel is him, his body pressing into yours, his mouth devouring you like he’s been starving.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, nipping at your bottom lip before trailing hot, desperate kisses down your jaw. “Do you know how many times I’ve pictured this? Coming home and finding you here… waiting for me like this…” His mouth brushes against your neck, and your head tilts instinctively, granting him access.

Your breath hitches as his teeth graze your skin, then suck gently, leaving a faint mark that makes your core throb. “Chan…” you gasp, your voice breaking as your fingers tighten in his jacket.

That sound — his name falling from your lips like that — makes him snap all over again. He growls low against your throat, his hips grinding against yours in a slow, deliberate roll that makes your stomach clench.

“You’re driving me insane,” he pants, his breath hot against your skin. “Every time you’re here, every time I see you with her, acting like you’re already… already ours—” He cuts himself off with another kiss, deeper, filthier this time, swallowing the moan that slips from your throat.

Your hands fumble with the zipper of his jacket, tugging it down his shoulders. He shrugs it off without breaking the kiss, his hands sliding under your shirt at the same time. His palms are hot, rough from hours in the studio, exploring the bare skin of your waist, your ribs, inching higher.

He pulls back only long enough to look down at you, eyes dark and blown wide with hunger. “Tell me you want this,” he breathes, voice ragged. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you whisper, breathless and desperate. “God, I want you, Chan.”

That’s it. The final crack.

With a growl, he lifts you onto the counter, your legs parting instinctively to make room for him. He steps between them, grinding his hips against you, the hard length of him pressing through his sweats and your jeans. The friction makes you whimper into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise.

He breaks the kiss again, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he groans, his hips rolling into yours again, harder this time. “You’ve ruined me, do you understand that? You’ve ruined me.”

Your fingers tug at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more, and he rips it over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it blindly behind him. His chest and abs glisten faintly with sweat, muscles flexing as he pulls you closer, his mouth crashing back onto yours.

The counter beneath you is cold, hard, but his body is heat, solid, overwhelming. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him tighter against you, grinding shamelessly against the thick bulge pressed to your core.

He groans, low and broken, biting at your neck again. “Fuck… I need you,” he pants against your skin, his hands fumbling with the button of your jeans. “I need you right now.”

⸻

Your jeans are half-undone under his fumbling fingers when Chan suddenly growls in frustration, ripping his mouth from yours. His eyes are wild, chest heaving, sweat glistening at his collarbones.

Before you can react, his hands slide under your thighs. In one effortless motion, he lifts you off the counter, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. The raw strength in his arms makes your stomach flip, your arms automatically wrapping around his shoulders for balance.

He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t even waver—he carries you down the hall with long, purposeful strides, his jaw set tight, eyes locked on you like a man starved. The door to his bedroom swings open, and he lays you down on his bed, the mattress sinking beneath your weight.

For a moment, he just stands there at the edge, chest rising and falling, looking at you sprawled across his sheets. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he shakes his head, almost laughing at himself. “Fuck… I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs, voice rough.

His hands come down to your ankle first, fingertips brushing against your skin as he slides your shoe off, then the other. Slow. Intentional. Like he’s savoring every second. His palms run up your calves, squeezing lightly, before hooking into the waistband of your jeans.

He looks up at you, eyes dark, asking silently if he can keep going.

You nod, breathless.

The corner of his mouth lifts in the faintest smirk before he tugs your jeans down inch by inch, peeling them from your thighs, down your knees, all the way to your ankles. He tosses them aside carelessly, but his eyes never leave your body.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, almost to himself. His hands trail up your thighs again, kneading, spreading them just slightly. He hovers over you, pressing a hot, hungry kiss to your inner thigh.

You whimper softly, and he chuckles low against your skin. “Already making sounds for me, baby? I haven’t even started yet.”

His mouth trails higher, peppering kisses along the inside of your thighs before he pulls back suddenly, climbing up your body instead. His fingers tug at your shirt, and he growls softly when you raise your arms, letting him pull it off over your head. He tosses it to the floor without a glance.

Now, it’s just your bra and panties, and the way his eyes darken at the sight of you makes you shiver. He leans down, kissing you hard, his hand sliding behind your back to unclasp your bra with practiced ease. He pulls it away slowly, his gaze drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin.

“Fuck,” he groans, his mouth descending to your chest. His lips wrap around one nipple, sucking hard, his tongue swirling while his hand kneads the other breast. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He alternates between them, sucking, biting gently, lapping until your nipples are swollen and sensitive. Then he pulls back, smirking, his lips wet, eyes heavy with hunger.

“Still so many layers to get through,” he murmurs, fingers teasing at the waistband of your panties.

He hooks his thumbs in the fabric and drags them down agonizingly slow, eyes locked on yours the whole time. When they’re finally gone, you’re bare before him, spread out on his sheets, flushed and trembling.

His breath catches. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice breaking. “You’re perfect.”

He doesn’t dive in right away. Instead, he starts with kisses—soft, deliberate—along your stomach, your hips, your thighs. His hands grip your knees, spreading you slowly, reverently.

Then his fingers trail up, feather-light over your folds. Just a tease. Just enough to make you jolt.

You whimper, hips bucking, and he groans. “So sensitive already,” he whispers. “So wet for me.”

He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, gentle but steady, before sliding one thick finger inside you. Slowly. All the way. He groans deep in his chest when he feels how tight you are around him.

“Fuck, you’re gripping me so hard,” he mutters, eyes locked on the way his finger disappears inside you. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He pumps it in and out slowly at first, curling it just slightly, watching your back arch against the sheets. Your nails dig into the blanket, and he smirks. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

A second finger joins the first, stretching you, filling you more. He pumps them in deep, curling upward to hit that spot that makes you cry out, your hips jerking.

“There it is,” he growls. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? Right there.” He keeps curling, pressing, relentless, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit in time with his thrusts.

You’re gasping, moaning, your body trembling under his touch. The wet sounds of his fingers thrusting into you fill the room, obscene and delicious.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “I want you to cum for me, right on my fingers,” he whispers, voice dark and commanding. “Give it to me, baby. Let me see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

His pace quickens, fingers plunging faster, harder, thumb pressing harder against your clit. The pressure builds fast, unbearably fast, your whole body tensing.

“Chan—!” you cry out, legs shaking as the wave crashes over you. Your walls clench around his fingers, pulsing, your body shuddering as you cum hard, soaking his hand.

He groans, watching you unravel, his pace slowing only when your aftershocks make you whimper. He pulls his fingers out slowly, glistening, and smirks as he brings them to his lips.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmurs, sucking them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

⸻

His lips were still wet from kissing you when he pulled back just far enough to murmur against your skin, voice gravelly, “Not done with you yet.”

You barely caught your breath before he was lowering himself down the bed, dragging his mouth slowly across every inch of your body on the way—your collarbone, the swell of your breast, your stomach—leaving heated, damp marks as if he needed to stake a claim on each part of you.

When he reached your hips, he pressed his mouth to your inner thigh, not touching where you ached, just breathing you in. His hands gripped your knees and pushed them wide apart, spreading you open under his gaze. He licked his lips slowly, eyes hooded but laser-focused on you, making you feel like prey caught in a hunter’s sights.

“You’re trembling already,” he rasped, thumbs stroking circles into the soft skin at your hips. “So pretty like this.”

The first touch of his tongue was light—just a lazy swipe up your folds, enough to make your stomach tighten and your breath catch. He hummed low in his throat at the taste, then leaned back in to do it again, slower this time, pressing harder, dragging from your entrance all the way to your clit until you gasped.

He smirked against you, eyes flicking up to watch your reaction as his tongue circled once, twice, over your clit, deliberately slow, before backing off again. “Sensitive, huh?” His voice was rough with hunger.

You whimpered, hips shifting instinctively, but his arm shot out, bracing firmly across your lower stomach, pinning you down against the mattress. “No running,” he said softly, though the command in his tone left no room for disobedience.

Then he buried his face between your thighs.

His tongue flicked, licked, teased in maddening patterns. Sometimes feather-light, sometimes firm and broad. He traced every inch of you with meticulous care, mapping out your reactions, learning exactly how you twitched when he pressed the flat of his tongue right against your clit versus when he wrapped his lips around it and sucked gently.

The pressure of his arm kept you from bucking too much, but your hips still jerked against his mouth, needy, desperate. He groaned at the movement, the sound vibrating against you, making you moan louder.

When he finally let his arm shift, he used his free hand instead—his long fingers sliding through your folds, gathering your wetness. One finger slipped inside you with ease, curling upward deliberately until your breath hitched, then retreating just as slow.

“God, listen to you,” he muttered against your skin before sucking your clit into his mouth again, finger thrusting deep at the same time.

Your hands scrambled for purchase—his hair, the sheets, his shoulders. He let you tug his curls, let you whimper his name into the air, but he didn’t let up. Another finger joined the first, stretching you as his tongue moved faster, dragging over your clit in relentless circles.

The coil inside you snapped tighter, tighter—he could feel it, hear it in the way your voice broke, the way your thighs clenched around his head. And he only pushed harder, curling his fingers against that spot again and again while sucking harshly on your clit.

“Chan—” Your voice cracked, begging, warning, and he only groaned in response, devouring you like he’d been starving for months.

Your release crashed over you in a rush, sharp and overwhelming. Your thighs squeezed tight around his head, back arching, a strangled cry ripping from your throat. He didn’t pull away. He licked you through it, fingers working you mercilessly until you were shuddering, body going limp.

When you tried to push his head away, whining at the sensitivity, he ignored you, tongue flicking faster, fingers still curling deep. “One more,” he demanded against your swollen clit. “Give me one more.”

You were already oversensitive, but the way he coaxed your body, never relenting, had you spiraling again far too quickly—pleasure stacking until another orgasm ripped through you, wetter, messier than the first. You gasped his name brokenly, trembling as your release soaked his hand, his chin, the sheets beneath you.

He finally slowed then, licking the last of you gently, soothing where he’d ravaged, fingers slipping free only after he was satisfied you’d given him everything.

When he looked up, lips shiny, chin glistening, his smirk was downright sinful. “Told you,” he rasped, crawling up to press a sloppy kiss against your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, “I wasn’t done with you yet.”

⸻

Chan’s mouth was still wet from you when he kissed up your stomach, the sticky trail of his tongue cooling against your skin before his lips pressed to yours. You tasted yourself on him, hot and slick, his kiss deep and hungry as if he couldn’t bear a second of separation.

“Not done with you,” he rasped against your mouth, voice ruined, chest heaving. “Not even close.”

His cock was already hard and heavy, dragging lazily through your folds, smearing your wetness. The swollen head nudged at your clit once, twice, and you jolted, overstimulated from his tongue, whimpering. His grin was wolfish.

“You’re shaking already,” he murmured, biting your lip. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

“Chan, please—” Your voice cracked, a broken plea, your hips arching up helplessly.

That broke the last of his control. He braced himself above you and pressed forward, groaning deep in his chest as the thick head of his cock forced you open. Every inch was a stretch, slow and deliberate, until his hips met yours and he was buried to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he gasped, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “So fucking tight around me. Better than I ever imagined.”

Your nails raked down his back, desperate, as he pulled out almost all the way before sliding back in, slow but forceful. The drag of him inside you was unbearable—thick, deep, too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he stilled, buried deep, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You know how many times I’ve pictured this? Knocking you up. Filling you again and again until it takes. Giving my kid a brother or sister.” His hips rolled sharply against you, making you cry out. “Making sure you’re swollen with my baby.”

Your walls clenched around him hard, and he hissed, groaning. “Yeah, you like that? You like when I talk about stuffing you full.”

He snapped his hips into you, setting a brutal rhythm. Skin smacked loud and obscene, your moans echoing with his low groans as his hand caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Say it,” he growled, pace punishing. “Say you’re mine.”

“I—I’m yours, Chan—oh god—”

“That’s right,” he snarled, biting down on your neck and sucking until he left a dark bruise. “All mine to fuck, to fill, to keep. Gonna make sure you’re dripping with me for days.”

Every thrust hit deeper, harder, angled perfectly to crush your sweet spot. Your body arched into him, toes curling as the orgasm built fast, unbearably tight.

“Chan—please—I’m gonna—”

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, voice breaking. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock, milk me dry.”

Your release hit like lightning, your body clamping down on him violently as you sobbed his name. He cursed, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself deep, grinding against you as hot spurts of his release flooded you.

“Fuck—” His voice cracked as his cock twitched and pulsed inside you, his release endless, filling you until it spilled past his cock.

He stayed there for a long moment, pressed tight against you, forehead to forehead, chest heaving like he was afraid to move.

⸻

Chan stayed pressed against you, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild, still slick from the first release. When he pulled out, you shivered at the sudden emptiness, only for him to lean down with a smirk and sweep his thick fingers through the mess leaking from your walls.

“Not wasting a single drop,” he murmured, voice rough, voice low, and before you could react, he pushed the warm, slick cum back inside you. You gasped, thighs trembling, the overstimulation overwhelming. His fingers pressed deep, curling inside you, dragging every last inch of slick with him.

“You feel that?” he groaned, leaning over your body to press a sloppy kiss to your temple. “All of me… still inside you. Mine. Do you feel that?”

Your hips lifted instinctively, walls tightening, and he chuckled low, darkly, the sound vibrating against your ear. “Good girl. That’s it. Take it. Feel how full you are for me.”

His fingers didn’t stop. Curling, dragging, pressing just right, he worked your body with patience and obsession. Slow at first, almost teasing, then faster, merciless, watching you arch and writhe, helpless beneath him.

“Chan—oh, fuck—” You trembled, nails raking down his shoulders as your back arched.

“Shhh,” he murmured, hand pressing hard against your thigh to keep you spread for him. “Not done. I’m not letting you go yet.”

His thumb brushed tight, precise circles over your clit while his fingers explored inside, pushing in just the right way to make you shiver, whimper, and squirm. Every motion, every press, every curl was deliberate. He wanted to wring every tremor, every gasp, every twitch from your body.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice low, teeth grazing your shoulder as he fucked his fingers inside you, steady but unrelenting. “Every bit of you. Mine to touch, mine to ruin.”

Your walls clenched so tight around him that he groaned and buried his face into your neck, inhaling your scent as he worked. “Yeah, just like that. So fucking responsive. God, I could do this forever.”

Your back arched again as another wave of pleasure hit, your body shaking, breath stuttering. He held you down with one hand, the other buried inside you, sliding slick, teasing, curling, dragging — overstimulating you into helpless gasps.

“Chan—please—” you whimpered, trembling.

“Don’t stop,” he rasped, grinding slightly against you, fingers curling in ways that made your toes curl. “Ride it out. Let me feel every tremble, every shake.”

The orgasm hit hard, building from the constant, deliberate stimulation. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing his fingers as your hips jerked under him, body trembling with every pulse.

He groaned into your neck, holding you close as your body shook, his thumb still pressing relentless circles over your clit. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Just like that. All mine.”

⸻

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he eased his fingers out slowly. Chan shifted to lay beside you, letting his body settle against yours. His chest pressed gently to your back, one arm draped across your waist, the other brushing your hair softly from your face. Your skin was still warm, slick with sweat, muscles trembling, and your breaths came slowly, trying to catch up with the intensity of the night.

He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head, then to your shoulder, lingering, just letting you feel the warmth of him. “Hey… you’re okay,” he murmured, voice quiet and soothing. “I’ve got you.”

You tilted your head slightly, nuzzling against him. “I… I’m okay,” you whispered, still trembling slightly.

He smiled softly, pressing another gentle kiss to your hairline. “Good,” he murmured. “Just rest for a moment. No need to move, no need to say anything. I’m right here.”

His hands moved slowly over your back, rubbing gentle circles along tense muscles, tracing the lines of your shoulders and down your spine. Every touch was deliberate, soothing, and tender, letting your body settle, letting the overstimulation melt into warmth.

“You know…” he murmured softly, letting the words linger, “…you’re not just the babysitter anymore.”

You shifted slightly, resting more fully against him. “I… I guess not,” you whispered, voice small but content.

He pressed another soft kiss to your temple, brushing his fingers lightly through your hair. “No,” he said, voice gentle. “You’re… part of our lives now. And I’m really glad. Really glad you’re here.”

You sighed softly, closing your eyes, letting yourself sink into his chest. His warmth was grounding, his touch comforting, and the quiet rhythm of his breathing made you feel safe.

“I just… want to hold you,” he murmured, arms tightening slightly in a gentle embrace. “Keep you close for a little while. No need to think about anything else.”

You let out a small, contented laugh, nuzzling against him. “I like that,” you whispered.

He hummed softly in response, pressing another slow kiss along your shoulder, then jaw, brushing gentle fingertips along your arm.

You curled fully into him, chest pressed to his, fingers tangled together, letting every small brush of his lips, every gentle touch, every soothing word wrap around you. The intensity of the night softened into warmth, care, and comfort, and you let yourself melt completely into him.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again, voice soft, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

TYSM for reading!!

Feel free to check out my master list to see more of my works!

You were crouched low on the scuffed bookstore carpet, knees aching, fingers trailing over the spines of the books that lived on the bottom shelf—the ones the algorithm loved and the ones that left you a little restless at night. Thick paperbacks with soft matte covers and titles that promised everything: possessive heroes, filthy mouths, the kind of tension that made your stomach tighten just reading the blurb. BookTok’s dream men lived here. The ones with leather jackets and gravel voices and hands that knew exactly what they were doing. The ones readers whispered about in the comments like shared secrets.

You pulled one free, the pages already falling open to a scene you’d read three times before. Heat crawled up your neck as your eyes snagged on the words. You shifted your weight, biting the inside of your cheek, completely absorbed—

Until boots stopped in front of you.

You looked up.

And the air left your lungs.

He was tall enough that the fluorescent lights caught the sharp cut of his jaw, the glint of metal at his lip and brow. Black leather jacket, scuffed at the elbows, hung open over a dark tee. A motorcycle helmet dangled from one hand like it weighed nothing. Dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and when his eyes—warm, sharp, amused—locked onto yours, something in your chest stalled completely.

He looked like he’d stepped straight out of the pages in your hands. The exact fantasy every girl in the comments section had been tagging.

You froze. Book still open. Mouth slightly parted. The most gorgeous man you’d ever seen in real life was standing in the romance aisle staring down at you like he’d found something interesting on the floor.

He moved closer. Then he crouched—no, squatted—right in front of you, forearms resting on his knees, the helmet set carefully aside. The leather of his jacket creaked softly. Up close he smelled like cold air, motor oil, and something clean underneath.

A slow, cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Any recommendations?”

His voice was low. A little rough. The kind that would sound even better saying filthier things.

Your brain short-circuited.

Every coherent thought scattered. The only books you actually read were the ones filled with the exact kind of scenes currently open in your lap. The steamy, dirty, raunchy ones. The ones you reread with the lights off. Heat flooded your face so fast it almost hurt. You tried to speak and only managed a soft, strangled sound.

He chuckled under his breath. The sound was warm and quiet, like it was just for you.

“Cute,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Before you could recover, he reached out and gently tugged the book from your hands. You made a weak protesting noise, but he was already scanning the page. His eyes moved quickly. Then slower. The smirk deepened into something sharper, darker. He glanced up at you through his lashes, still holding the open book between you like evidence.

“Dirty girl…”

The words were soft. Almost fond. Completely devastating.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it. You lunged half-heartedly for the book, but he closed it with a quiet snap and stood in one smooth motion, towering over you again. He set the paperback carefully back on the shelf—right where you’d pulled it from—then picked up his helmet.

Without another word he turned and walked away down the aisle, leather jacket shifting with every step, the low thump of his boots fading toward the front of the store.

You stayed frozen on the carpet, cheeks burning, pulse racing, the ghost of his voice still curling in your ears.

Dirty girl.

⸻

You didn’t even remember standing up.

One second you were still crouched on the carpet with your pulse in your throat, and the next your feet were carrying you down the aisle, past the registers, and straight through the automatic doors into the late-afternoon air. The parking lot stretched out behind the bookstore, half-empty, sunlight glancing off windshields. And there he was—already at a sleek black motorcycle near the far end, helmet in hand, swinging one long leg over the seat like he belonged to the machine.

Your body moved before your brain caught up.

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you must look. Chest rising too fast. Zero plan. Zero words.

He looked up.

That same slow smirk curved his mouth the second he saw you standing there. Like he’d been expecting it. Like he’d known you’d follow.

He set the helmet on the seat, swung his leg back off the bike, and walked toward you with easy, unhurried steps. The leather jacket shifted with the movement. When he stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your chin up, he simply held out his hand.

Palm up. Waiting.

You stared at it, confused.

“Phone,” he said, voice low and amused.

Your brows furrowed. He just kept his hand there, patient, that cocky little curve still on his lips. Heat crawled up your neck again. You hesitated—long enough for him to tilt his head slightly, eyes glinting—then fumbled your phone out of your pocket and placed it in his palm.

His fingers brushed yours. Warm. Calloused. Gone too fast.

He opened it without asking (you didn’t even remember leaving it unlocked), thumbs moving quickly across the screen. A few seconds later he handed it back. You looked down.

Chan

A new contact. A number already saved.

You whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Chan…”

The name felt soft in your mouth. Dangerous.

He watched you the whole time, something darker flickering behind the smirk. You swallowed, opened a new text, and typed your name with slightly shaking fingers before hitting send. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket a second later. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, then looked back at you.

“Y/N.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate, tasting every syllable—sent a sharp flip through your stomach. Like he’d just claimed the word.

He stepped in a fraction closer, close enough that the edge of his jacket almost brushed your arm. His voice dropped even quieter.

“Text me later, pretty girl.”

Then he turned, swung back onto the bike in one smooth motion, pulled the helmet on, and kicked the engine to life. The low, throaty growl of it vibrated through the asphalt under your feet. He glanced at you one last time—smirk still visible even behind the dark visor—before the bike rolled forward, accelerated, and disappeared out of the lot in a clean arc of black leather and chrome.

You stood there long after the sound faded, phone warm in your hand, the contact name still glowing on the screen.

Chan.

Your heart hadn’t slowed down once.

By the time you made it back to your car your cheeks still felt hot. You sat in the driver’s seat for a full minute just staring at the new message thread—empty except for the text you’d sent with your name. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. What the hell were you even supposed to say?

Hey, sorry for staring at you like a weirdo while holding open smut? Please come ruin my life?

You locked the phone instead, dropped it into the cupholder, and started the engine with a shaky exhale.

The entire drive home the only thing you could hear was his voice saying your name like it already belonged to him.

And the quiet, cocky promise that still echoed in your bones:

Text me later, pretty girl.

⸻

You lasted exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes.

One hour and forty-seven minutes of pacing the length of your apartment in socked feet, phone clutched in one hand like it might explode. One hour and forty-seven minutes of talking yourself in and out of the same decision on a loop.

Just text him.

Absolutely not.

He told you to.

That doesn’t mean you have to.

He called you pretty girl.

He also called you a dirty girl while reading smut over your shoulder. That is not normal. That is not safe. That is—

You spun on your heel and marched back toward the couch, only to reverse course halfway there.

You were not this girl.

You did not make big leaps of faith. You did not make rash decisions. You were the girl who canceled plans because the idea of small talk made your stomach hurt. The girl who spent Friday nights in bed with a weighted blanket, doom-scrolling until her eyes burned or rereading the same worn romance novel for the comfort of knowing exactly how it ended. You liked predictable. You liked controlled. You liked the version of desire that lived safely between pages—where the only risk was a paper cut.

You did not text sexy strangers named Chan who looked like every book boyfriend you’d ever fantasized about and somehow made “dirty girl” sound like a compliment.

Your thumb hovered over the empty message thread anyway.

The contact name stared up at you.

Chan.

Your pulse jumped. You could still hear the way he’d said your name in the parking lot—low, deliberate, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. Your stomach did that stupid flip again just thinking about it.

Text me later, pretty girl.

You exhaled hard through your nose and locked the screen. Unlocked it. Locked it again. Opened the thread one more time. Your thumb trembled just above the keyboard.

A notification banner slid down from the top of the screen—some random app update, something dumb and irrelevant—and you reacted on instinct, swiping it away.

Except the banner vanished a fraction of a second too soon.

And your thumb landed dead-center on the call button.

The phone connected before your brain even registered what you’d done.

One ring.

Your eyes went wide. “No—no no no—”

Two rings.

You scrambled to end it, heart slamming so hard it hurt, but your fingers were suddenly useless.

Three—

The line clicked.

A low, familiar voice answered on the other end, rough around the edges like he’d just been doing something with his hands.

“…Pretty girl?”

You froze in the middle of your living room, phone pressed to your ear, every coherent thought evaporating into pure static.

Silence stretched.

Then a soft, knowing chuckle rolled through the speaker—warm and far too pleased.

“Didn’t think you’d actually call,” Chan said, voice dropping into something quieter. Almost intimate. “But I’m not complaining.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

On the other end of the line, you heard the faint shift of leather, the quiet clink of something metal. Maybe keys. Maybe the zipper of that jacket. His next words came slower, like he was smiling.

“You still there… or did I already scare you off?”

Your free hand curled into a fist against your thigh. Your face felt like it was on fire. Every introverted, careful, risk-averse bone in your body was screaming at you to hang up immediately and change your number.

Instead, your voice came out small and mortified and completely traitorous.

“…Hi.”

Another soft laugh. Lower this time. Like he’d just won something.

“Hi, Y/N.”

The way he said your name again—soft, deliberate, a little rough around the edges—made your knees feel unreliable.

You sank down onto the edge of the couch because standing suddenly felt like a bad idea.

And just like that, the careful, controlled version of yourself you’d spent years perfecting started slipping through your fingers… one quiet breath at a time.

⸻

You sank deeper into the couch cushions like they might swallow you whole and spare you from this moment.

The line was quiet for a beat too long. You could hear the faint ambient noise on his end—maybe wind, maybe the low hum of a garage or open window. Your own breathing sounded embarrassingly loud in the silence.

“Hi,” you repeated, weaker this time, because your brain had apparently decided one syllable was the best it could do.

Chan’s voice came warm and rough, like he was smiling. “You sound surprised to hear from me. You’re the one who called, pretty girl.”

Heat flooded your face. “I—I didn’t mean to. There was a notification and I tried to swipe it and—” You stopped yourself, mortified. “It was an accident.”

“Mm.” The sound was low, thoughtful. “Accident. Right.” A soft rustle on his end, like he was shifting position. “You gonna hang up on me then?”

Your thumb hovered over the red button. Every careful, introverted instinct screamed yes. Instead you whispered, “…No.”

“Good.” The word landed soft and pleased. “I’ve been thinking about you since I left the lot.”

Your stomach flipped hard. “You have?”

“Hard not to.” His voice dropped a little. “Girl on her knees in the romance section, holding open a book full of filth, looking up at me like I’d walked straight out of the pages. Then she follows me outside like she can’t help herself. Yeah. Stuck with me.”

You pressed your thighs together without meaning to. “I wasn’t—on my knees. I was just looking at the bottom shelf.”

“Uh-huh.” Amusement curled through the words. “And the book?”

Silence.

He chuckled, quiet and knowing. “Still thinking about what page it was open to. That scene was… detailed. You like that kind of thing, Y/N?”

Your name in that tone did something illegal to your pulse. You swallowed. “I read a lot of different things.”

“Sure.” Another soft shift on his end. You imagined him leaning back, long legs stretched out, that leather jacket still on. “But that one had you flushed pink before I even said a word. Cute.”

You exhaled shakily. The sound must have traveled clearly because his next words came slower.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That little breath.” His voice had gone lower, rougher around the edges. “You’re nervous. Or something else.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I’m not—”

“You followed me out to my bike,” he continued, almost gently. “Gave me your phone when I asked. Text, it was an accident that you called… but you’re still on the line. Still talking to me. Still breathing like that.”

Your free hand curled into the fabric of your sweatpants. You hated how accurate he was. Hated how the low timbre of his voice seemed to travel straight down your spine and settle warm between your legs.

“I don’t usually… do this,” you admitted, voice small. “Talk to strangers. Especially not ones who look like—” You cut yourself off.

“Like what?”

“…Like they stepped out of one of those books.”

A quiet, pleased hum. “Yeah? Which parts?”

You closed your eyes. Your face felt scorching. “The… obvious ones.”

“Leather? Bike? Piercings?” He paused. “Or the part where I called you a dirty girl and you looked like you wanted the floor to open up and take you?”

A tiny, involuntary sound escaped your throat—half breath, half something weaker.

The line went very quiet for a second.

Then Chan’s voice came softer. Darker. “That little noise you just made. Do it again.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” No judgment. Just heat. “You like when I say things like that. When I’m direct.”

Your thighs pressed tighter. The shift of fabric felt too loud. You were getting wet faster than you ever had in your life—embarrassingly, ridiculously fast—just from his voice and the memory of how he’d looked crouched in front of you.

He must have heard the change in your breathing because his next words were almost gentle.

“You’re getting worked up, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Liar.” The word was fond. “Your breath keeps catching. And you’re trying so hard to stay quiet.” A low chuckle. “Cute. Tell me what you’re wearing.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Right now. At home. What are you wearing while you’re on the phone with the stranger who called you a dirty girl in public?”

You looked down at yourself—old soft sweatpants, a loose tank top with no bra because you hadn’t expected to leave the couch, hair in a messy knot. “Just… clothes. Nothing special.”

“Describe them.”

The command in his tone made your stomach clench. You hesitated, then quietly obeyed. “Sweatpants. Tank top.”

“Bra?”

“…No.”

Another soft, rough sound from him—almost a hum of approval. “Good girl.”

The words hit you like a physical thing. A tiny whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Chan’s breath caught audibly. When he spoke again his voice had gone gravel-rough.

“Fuck. That sound.” He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to stay controlled. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now. Sitting there all shy and flustered, making little noises like that because I called you good.”

Your hand had drifted to your thigh without permission. You forced it still. “Chan—”

“Yeah, baby?” The endearment landed soft and filthy at the same time. “You wet for me already? Be honest.”

The question punched the air out of your lungs. You should hang up. You should laugh it off. You should do anything except answer.

Instead your voice came out barely above a whisper. “…Yes.”

A low, satisfied groan rumbled through the speaker. “Jesus. You’re something else.” You heard the faint sound of movement on his end—maybe him adjusting himself. “I’ve been hard since the bookstore, you know that? Watching you blush and stutter and try to snatch that book back. Then you followed me out like a good little thing. Now you’re on the phone admitting you’re wet just from talking to me.”

Your breathing had gone noticeably shaky. Every word seemed to sink lower, heat pulsing between your legs in time with your heartbeat. You could feel how slick you’d become, the soft fabric of your sweatpants suddenly too much and not enough.

“I—I don’t do this,” you tried again, weaker.

“I know.” His voice gentled for a second, almost tender underneath the heat. “That’s what makes it so fucking hot. Careful girl like you, all worked up over a stranger on a bike. Bet you’d let me talk you through it if I asked nicely.”

A broken little sound left you. Your hips shifted restlessly against the couch.

Chan swore softly under his breath. “Listen to you. Getting wetter by the second and trying so hard not to make noise. You touching yourself, Y/N?”

“No,” you gasped, and it was still true—but your hand was trembling against your thigh, inches away from where you needed it.

“But you want to.”

Silence. Then a tiny, traitorous, “Yes.”

“Good.” The word was pure sin. “I want you to wait. Can you do that for me? Keep your hands to yourself until I say. Just listen to my voice and stay wet and aching.”

The command sent a full-body shiver through you. You nodded even though he couldn’t see it, then whispered, “Okay.”

“That’s my girl.” Pride and heat tangled in his tone. “Tell me how it feels. Are you throbbing? Sensitive?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Yes—god, yes.”

“Bet that pretty clit is swollen already. Bet if I was there I’d find you soaked through those sweatpants. I’d make you sit on my face until you forgot how to be shy.”

A full whimper tore out of you this time—high and helpless. Your hips jerked.

Chan’s breath went rough. “Fucking hell. That sound is going to live in my head. You have no idea how badly I want to hear what you sound like when you cum.”

Your entire body felt feverish. The ache between your legs had become sharp, insistent, almost painful. You were dripping, thighs slick, every shift of your body reminding you how empty you felt.

“Chan—” Your voice cracked. “I can’t—this is—”

“Too much?” he asked, softer now, but still dark. “Or not enough?”

Both. It was both. You were trembling, chest rising fast, completely undone by nothing but a voice and filthy words and the memory of leather and smirk and “dirty girl.”

You managed a shaky, “I need to go.”

A pause. Then a low, understanding chuckle that still sounded wrecked. “Yeah. Okay, pretty girl. Go ahead and hang up.” His voice dropped into something intimate and wicked. “But the second this call ends, I want you to put your hand between your legs and think about me while you take care of that ache. Think about my mouth. My hands. How I’d sound telling you what a good dirty girl you are while you cum for me. Can you do that?”

Your answer was barely air. “Yes, Chan.”

“That’s it.” Soft. Possessive. “Text me when you’re done. I want to know how hard you came thinking about me.”

Your face burned. Your whole body burned.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Talk soon, Y/N.”

The line went dead.

You sat frozen for three full seconds.

Then the phone slipped from your hand onto the cushion beside you, and your palm was already sliding under the waistband of your sweatpants like it had a will of its own.

You were soaked—embarrassingly, shamelessly wet, the soft cotton of your underwear clinging. Your fingers slipped through the slick heat and a broken moan punched out of you at the first direct touch. You were so swollen, so oversensitive already that the lightest circle over your clit made your thighs jump.

You dropped your head back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut, and let every filthy second of the call replay.

His voice saying dirty girl.

The way he’d called you good girl like it was both praise and claim.

Bet if I was there I’d find you soaked through those sweatpants.

I’d make you sit on my face until you forgot how to be shy.

Your fingers moved faster, circling, dipping lower to gather more wetness and drag it up over the aching bud. Two fingers slid inside easily—you were that far gone—and the stretch pulled a high, needy sound from your throat. Your other hand shoved the tank top up so you could palm your breast, thumbing over a tight nipple, imagining it was his mouth, his piercing dragging, his teeth.

You fucked yourself on your fingers with increasing desperation, palm grinding against your clit on every stroke, hips lifting to meet the motion. The wet sounds filled the quiet apartment. Your orgasm built terrifyingly fast, coiled tight and mean at the base of your spine.

When it hit, it wrecked you.

You cried out—raw and unrestrained—thighs clamping around your hand as wave after wave pulsed through you. Your walls fluttered and clenched around your fingers; slick coated your palm. You kept rubbing through it, oversensitive and shaking, until the pleasure edged into too-much and you finally stilled, gasping.

For a long moment the only sound was your ragged breathing.

Eventually you slipped your hand free, staring at the evidence glistening on your fingers. Your whole body felt loose and hot and a little stunned.

You reached for your phone with the clean hand.

Opened the thread.

Typed with still-trembling thumbs.

Y/N: I did what you said.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then immediately dropped the phone like it burned and covered your burning face with both hands.

What the hell had you just done?

And why did part of you already want to do it again?

⸻

Your phone buzzed against your thigh while you were still trying to convince yourself that the last hour had been a temporary lapse in sanity.

You’d cleaned up, changed into fresh underwear like that could erase what you’d done, and were currently lying in bed staring at the ceiling with a pillow half-smothering your face. Your body still felt loose and oversensitive. Every time you closed your eyes you heard his voice again and the ache between your legs pulsed like it hadn’t just been thoroughly taken care of.

The buzz came again. Then a third time.

You peeked out from under the pillow, heart already climbing into your throat, and unlocked the screen.

The message thread was open.

Chan: good girl

Chan: now look what you did to me

And then the photo loaded.

You stopped breathing.

It was a mirror selfie. Dim lighting, probably his bedroom or bathroom. Chan stood shirtless in front of a full-length mirror, phone in one hand, the other shoved down the front of light-grey sweatpants. His fingers were wrapped firmly around the thick, obvious outline of his hard cock, gripping it through the fabric like he needed the pressure. The sweats hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing the deep cut of his V-line and the trail of skin leading down. His abs were tight, defined, flexing slightly with the way he stood. And the tattoos—God, the tattoos. Full sleeves you hadn’t been able to see under the leather jacket earlier. Intricate black ink wrapping both arms from shoulder to wrist, shifting with the tension in his muscles.

His head was tilted just enough that his dark hair fell into his eyes. The lip piercing caught the light. His expression was pure heat—lids low, mouth parted slightly, like he’d taken the photo right after stroking himself to the memory of your little sounds.

You stared so long the screen almost dimmed.

A new message popped up while you were still frozen.

Chan: been hard since you whimpered for me

Chan: keep thinking about how wet you sounded

Chan: you still dripping, pretty girl?

Your face went nuclear. You pressed your thighs together under the blankets and typed with unsteady fingers.

Y/N: you’re not playing fair

Chan: never said i would

Chan: answer the question

You hesitated, then honesty (and residual boldness from the orgasm) won.

Y/N: …yes

Chan: fuck

Chan: show me

Your stomach dropped.

Y/N: show you what

Chan: how wet you still are

Chan: or how red your face is from staring at my cock

Chan: dealer’s choice

You actually laughed under your breath—high, nervous, disbelieving. This man was unreal. You rolled onto your side, phone clutched close, and typed.

Y/N: you’re insane

Chan: and you’re still not denying you were staring

Chan: it’s okay. i wanted you to look

Chan: wanted you to see what that little “yes, chan” did to me

The memory of saying those words made fresh heat pool low in your belly. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, then opened them and stared at the photo again. The way his hand gripped himself. The strain of the fabric. The tattoos shifting over muscle. You wanted to trace every line of ink with your tongue. You wanted him to push those sweats down and show you everything.

Y/N: the tattoos are new information

Chan: yeah? you like them

Y/N: a dangerous amount

Chan: good

Chan: you can touch them next time

Chan: if you’re good for me

Next time.

The casual certainty in those two words made your pulse stumble.

Y/N: you’re very confident there’s going to be a next time

Chan: you texted me after making yourself cum to my voice

Chan: you stayed on the phone when you “accidentally” called

Chan: you followed me to my bike

Chan: pretty sure the only person still pretending this isn’t happening is you

You bit your lip hard. He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part.

Y/N: i don’t do things like this

Chan: i know

Chan: careful little book girl getting all messy for the guy in the leather jacket

Chan: bet you’re aching again just from the picture

You were. God, you were. The dull throb had returned with a vengeance the second the photo loaded. You shifted restlessly against the sheets.

Y/N: maybe

Chan: no maybe

Chan: tell me

A beat. Then:

Y/N: i’m aching

Chan: where

Y/N: you know where

Chan: use your words, y/n

Chan: i like when you get shy but still obey

The command in the text shouldn’t have been as effective as it was. You typed slowly, face burning.

Y/N: between my legs

Chan: more

Y/N: i’m wet again

Y/N: and sensitive

Chan: jesus

Chan: you have no idea how badly i want to put my mouth on you right now

Chan: spread you open and lick up every drop until you’re crying

Chan: then slide in slow just to feel how tight you’d squeeze me after already cumming once

A soft, helpless sound left you in the dark of your room. Your free hand had drifted under the waistband of your underwear again without full permission, fingers resting against slick heat but not moving yet. You were soaked. Again. Ridiculous.

Chan: are you touching yourself

Y/N: …not yet

Chan: but you want to

Y/N: yes

Chan: ask me

Your breath shuddered.

Y/N: can i

Chan: can you what

Y/N: can i touch myself

Chan: while you look at my cock and think about me fucking you?

Y/N: yes

Chan: then do it

Chan: slow

Chan: i want you to take your time

Chan: and i want you to tell me when you’re close

You pushed your underwear down your thighs with shaking hands and let your knees fall open. The cool air of the room against your wet skin made you shiver. You stared at the photo—at the thick outline under grey fabric, at the way his fingers dug in, at those tattoos flexing—and circled your clit with two fingers the way you’d done earlier. Softer this time. Slower. Like he told you.

Your breathing picked up almost immediately.

Y/N: it feels good

Chan: yeah?

Chan: imagine it’s my hand

Chan: i’d be rougher than you

Chan: two fingers deep while my thumb works that pretty clit

Chan: i’d make you look me in the eyes the whole time

Your hips lifted. A quiet moan slipped out. You typed one-handed, messy.

Y/N: chan-

Chan: i know baby

Chan: keep going

Chan: tell me how wet you are

Y/N: soaked

Y/N: it’s dripping

Chan: fuck

Chan: i’m stroking my cock right now looking at your messages

Chan: thinking about how you’d look with your mouth open for me

Chan: or bent over my bike with those little sounds pouring out of you

The mental image punched the air from your lungs. You pushed two fingers inside yourself and moaned louder this time, the wet sound audible even to your own ears. Your thumb kept pressure on your clit, circling, chasing.

Y/N: i’m close

Chan: already?

Chan: needy thing

Chan: hold it

Y/N: i can’t—

Chan: yes you can

Chan: not until i say

Chan: breathe

Chan: think about how full you’d feel with me inside you

Chan: how i’d talk you through it

Chan: how i’d tell you what a good dirty girl you are for cumming on my cock after only knowing me one day

Your walls fluttered hard around your fingers. You were shaking, thighs tense, right on the razor edge. Tears of frustrated pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes.

Y/N: please

Chan: please what

Y/N: please let me cum

Chan: beg properly

Y/N: please chan

Y/N: i need it

Y/N: please please please-

Chan: cum for me

The orgasm tore through you viciously. You cried out into the quiet room, body arching, fingers grinding deep as wave after wave crashed over you. It lasted longer than the first one—sharper, meaner—until you were left twitching and oversensitive, hand still pressed between your legs like you were holding yourself together.

It took almost a full minute before you could type again.

Y/N: oh my god

Chan: yeah?

Chan: that sounded like a good one from over here

Y/N: you can’t hear me

Chan: don’t need to

Chan: i can picture it perfectly

Chan: pretty girl all fucked out in her bed because of some dirty texts and a picture of my cock

Chan: you’re dangerous for my self control

You lay there boneless, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling with a dazed little smile you couldn’t quite wipe off.

Y/N: says the man who started it

Chan: and i’ll finish it too

Chan: when you’re ready

Chan: until then…

Chan: sleep tight, dirty girl

Chan: dream about me

You locked your phone, set it on the nightstand, and immediately unlocked it again just to stare at the photo one more time.

Full tattoo sleeves.

Grey sweatpants.

That hand.

That smirk you could practically feel through the screen.

You were so completely, utterly screwed.

⸻

Morning light filtered through the kitchen window in soft gold streaks.

You moved on autopilot—grabbing your favorite mug, spooning coffee grounds, yawning so hard your eyes watered. Your body still felt loose and heavy from the night before, like the orgasms had rearranged something fundamental inside you. Every time your mind drifted back to grey sweatpants and low commands and come for me, your stomach flipped and your cheeks heated all over again.

You were mid-reach for the oat milk when your phone started buzzing against the counter.

FaceTime.

Chan.

Your hand froze. The phone kept vibrating, his name glowing on the screen like an accusation. Memories from last night slammed into you in a messy rush—your own desperate typing, the way you’d begged, the shameless sounds you’d made alone in the dark. He had seen none of it and somehow still witnessed everything.

You almost let it ring out.

Almost.

On the fourth buzz you answered, immediately shifting the camera so it faced the ceiling, and propped the phone against the fruit bowl like it might bite you.

A second later his voice came through, rough with sleep and warm with amusement.

“There she is. Was starting to think you were gonna leave me hanging, pretty girl.”

You cleared your throat, still not looking directly at the screen. “I… wasn’t sure if we were doing phone calls in daylight.”

His soft chuckle rolled through the speaker. “After last night? We’re doing whatever I can get.” A pause. You heard the shift of sheets on his end. “Move the camera. I wanna see you.”

You hesitated, fingers hovering, then slowly rotated the phone so the front camera faced you. You kept your eyes on the coffee pot like it required intense concentration.

Chan went quiet for a beat.

Then, lower: “Fuck.”

You glanced at the screen despite yourself.

He was propped up against a headboard, shirtless again, dark hair messy, one arm tucked behind his head. The tattoos you’d only seen in the mirror selfie last night wrapped both arms in full, intricate sleeves. Morning light cut across his collarbones and the defined lines of his chest. His eyes were heavy-lidded and already locked on you with zero shame.

“Morning,” he said, voice still gravel-rough. His gaze dipped, openly taking in the low cut of your tank top, the way the thin fabric clung, the clear lack of a bra. “You always look this soft first thing, or is this just for me?”

Heat crawled up your neck. You turned back to the counter and poured hot water into your mug, very aware of how the movement made the tank top shift. “I just woke up. Don’t really have a ‘for you’ morning routine.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You heard the smile in his voice. “Those shorts are doing the most, Y/N.”

You looked down. The tiny black booty shorts you lived in around the house had ridden up a little from moving around. You tugged at the hem self-consciously, which only made him hum in amusement.

“Don’t pull them down on my account.”

“Chan.”

“What? I’m just observing. You’re the one who answered a FaceTime looking like that after cumming twice for me last night.”

Your entire face went hot. You spun toward the fridge to hide it, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. “We are not talking about that.”

“Oh we definitely are.” His tone was pure delight. “You’re still shy. That’s cute. Really cute. Especially after all those pretty little messages you sent me.”

You grabbed the oat milk, closed the fridge with your hip, and kept your back to the phone as long as possible. “It was late. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Mm. Sounded like you were thinking pretty clear when you were begging.”

You made a mortified sound and finally turned, mug in both hands like a shield. “Can you not?”

Chan’s grin was slow and wicked on the screen. He looked unfairly good for whatever early hour it was—sleepy eyes, lip piercing catching the light, the sheets pooled low around his waist. “I’m just saying good morning to the girl who told me she was soaked and then asked permission to touch herself. Feels rude not to acknowledge her.”

You set the mug down harder than intended. Coffee sloshed. “I’m hanging up.”

“No you’re not.” He sounded completely certain. “You’re gonna keep making your coffee while I look at you, and you’re gonna pretend you’re not already thinking about last night every time you shift your weight.”

Traitorously, you did shift your weight. The seam of the shorts pressed against you in a way that felt too noticeable all of a sudden. You turned away again, needing something—anything—to do with your hands, and bent to open the lower cabinet for the sugar.

The second you folded forward, the already-short shorts rode up high. Cool air hit the lower curve of one cheek. You heard Chan’s breath catch through the speaker.

You straightened so fast you nearly knocked your head on the counter edge, yanking the fabric down with one hand while clutching the sugar with the other. Your face felt like it was on fire.

On the screen, Chan had sat up a little straighter. His eyes were darker now. He dragged his lower lip between his teeth for a second, then exhaled a quiet laugh that sounded strained.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I did not.”

“Uh-huh.” He ran a hand through his hair, the tattoos flexing with the motion. “You bend over in those tiny shorts right in front of the camera and expect me to believe it was an accident? After last night?” His voice dropped. “You’re lucky I’m not there. I’d have my hands full already.”

You focused very hard on stirring sugar into your coffee. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still blushing.” He tilted his head, studying you. “I like it. Like that you’re all shy and flushed pink in the morning even after you let me talk you through cumming. It’s a good look on you.”

You finally risked another glance at the screen. He was watching you with that same focused intensity from the bookstore—like you were something interesting he’d found and planned on keeping. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it sat something heavier. Hungrier.

You took a sip of coffee to buy yourself a second. “Do you always FaceTime girls the morning after dirty texting them, or am I special?”

His expression softened just a fraction. “You’re special.” The words landed simply, no teasing for once. Then the smirk crept back. “Also I’ve been hard since I woke up thinking about the sounds you probably made, so this is an act of self-control. Be proud of me.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Chan—”

“Too much?” He looked completely unrepentant. “I’ll behave. Mostly. Tell me about your day. What does careful little book girl do on a regular morning besides torture men through FaceTime in booty shorts?”

You leaned against the counter, nursing your mug, and somehow—slowly—the conversation shifted. He asked real questions. Where you usually got coffee if not at home. What you were currently reading (you refused to tell him the title after the bookstore incident). Whether you preferred rainy days or sunny ones for staying in bed. He listened like the answers mattered, occasionally tossing in a soft tease that made your stomach flip, but never pushing all the way back into last night’s territory.

At some point you realized you’d stopped hiding from the camera. You were just… talking to him. Smiling a little. Rolling your eyes when he said something cocky. Letting yourself look at the tattoos and the sleepy mess of his hair and the way his mouth moved around your name.

Eventually he glanced off-screen and sighed. “I gotta get going soon. Ride in a bit.”

Disappointment flickered through you before you could stop it. You covered it by taking another sip. “Okay.”

He watched your face carefully. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re already missing me.” His voice gentled. “Text me later. Or call. Or FaceTime me in those shorts again. I’m not picky.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.” His eyes flicked over you one more time—slow, appreciative, lingering on the neckline of your tank top and the stretch of bare legs below the shorts. “Have a good day, Y/N.”

“You too, Chan.”

The call ended.

You stood in the quiet kitchen, coffee cooling in your hands, the ghost of his voice still curling around you. Your skin felt too warm. Your pulse hadn’t fully settled. And the worst (best) part was that you were already counting the hours until you could justify messaging him again.

You glanced down at your ridiculous pajama shorts and low tank top and let out a shaky little laugh.

⸻

The park had felt like a good idea at the time.

You’d lasted maybe two hours at home after the FaceTime before the walls started closing in. Every quiet second left too much room for replaying Chan’s voice, the way he’d looked sleep-rumpled and shirtless on your screen, the casual way he’d called you special. So you’d pulled on jeans, a soft long-sleeve top, and sneakers, grabbed the current romance novel you were only half-focused on, and walked the fifteen minutes to the only park in the city that wasn’t just a playground and wood chips. The one with the wide open grassy stretch and a few old trees that actually gave shade.

You’d claimed the base of the biggest one, back against the rough trunk, knees drawn up, book open in your lap. For a while it worked. The breeze moved through the leaves. Kids’ distant laughter floated from the other side of the park. You even managed to lose yourself in a few pages.

Then a shadow fell across the grass in front of you.

You looked up.

The man was older, clothes layered and dirty, eyes too sharp for someone who’d just been wandering. He stopped a few feet away and smiled in a way that didn’t reach those eyes.

“Nice day to be alone,” he said.

You offered a tight, polite smile and looked back down at your book, angling your body slightly away. “Mm.”

He didn’t take the hint. He stepped closer. “What’re you reading? Something dirty?” His laugh was wet and unpleasant. “Girls who sit out here by themselves usually are looking for something.”

Your stomach tightened. You closed the book around your finger. “I’m just reading. Have a good day.”

He didn’t move. “Don’t gotta be rude. I’m just being friendly.” His gaze dragged over you in a slow, obvious way that made your skin crawl. “Pretty thing like you. Sitting under this tree all by yourself. Bet you thought the open air would keep you safe, huh?”

The words landed wrong—too knowing, too deliberate. Your pulse kicked hard. You shifted, starting to stand. “I need to go—”

“Nah.” He moved faster than you expected, blocking the easiest path out from under the tree. “Stay. Talk to me. Or don’t talk. I don’t mind quiet.”

Your phone was in your back pocket. You reached for it on instinct, thumb swiping across the screen without looking as you tried to keep your voice steady. “Please leave me alone.”

“Or what?” He took another step. You could smell alcohol and unwashed clothes. “You gonna scream? Nobody’s close enough to care. Just you and me and all this nice empty grass.”

Your fingers must have landed on a recent contact. You didn’t realize the call had connected until much later. At the time all you knew was that your heart was slamming against your ribs and the man’s eyes had gone flatter, hungrier.

“I said leave.” Your voice came out thinner than you wanted.

He smiled wider. “You’re at the park sitting under this tree all by yourself… and you really thought nothing would find you?”

⸻

Chan was three streets over when the accidental call came through his helmet Bluetooth.

He almost ignored it—he was already doing fifteen over, enjoying the pull of the bike and the rare stretch of open road—but the name on his display made him tap the side of the helmet immediately.

Y/N.

The line opened to chaos.

Her voice first, tight and trying to stay calm: “Please leave me alone.”

Then a man’s voice, closer to the mic than it should have been, oily and amused. “Or what? You gonna scream? Nobody’s close enough to care. Just you and me and all this nice empty grass.”

Chan’s entire body went cold.

He heard her again, smaller: “I said leave.”

And the man, voice dropping into something truly ugly: “You’re at the park sitting under this tree all by yourself… and you really thought nothing would find you?”

Chan already knew which park. There was only one in the city with real trees and open grass instead of plastic playground equipment. He was less than four minutes out if he ignored every traffic law that existed.

He ignored them.

The bike snarled underneath him as he opened the throttle all the way, lane splitting through gaps that shouldn’t have been big enough, heart jackhammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt. Her breathing had gone audible on the line—short, scared pulls of air. The man’s voice kept going, low and continuous, saying things that made Chan’s vision tunnel. He heard fabric shift. Heard her try to move. Heard the exact second the man’s tone changed into something that meant hands were about to follow words.

Chan took the final corner so fast the bike nearly dragged metal.

He saw them the second he cleared the tree line.

You, back against the trunk, phone still clutched in one hand like you’d forgotten it was there, face pale. The man was right in your space, one grimy hand already reaching for your wrist.

He was off the bike in a single violent motion, helmet ripped off and dropped, closing the distance in long, furious strides. The man only had time to turn his head before Chan’s hand fisted in the front of his layered jackets and slammed him backward hard enough that the guy’s boots left the grass for a second.

“Back the fuck up.”

Chan’s voice was unrecognizable—low, lethal, stripped of every ounce of the teasing warmth you’d heard on the phone. He didn’t wait for a response. He shoved the man again, harder, sending him sprawling into the open grass, then stepped fully between you and him like a wall.

The guy scrambled up, mouth opening, but whatever he saw in Chan’s face made the words die. Chan took one step forward. Just one. The man flinched, turned, and stumbled away toward the far end of the park without looking back, muttering under his breath until distance swallowed the sound.

Silence rushed in to fill the space he left.

Chan stood there for a second longer, chest heaving, hands flexed open and closed like he was resisting the urge to go after the guy and finish it. Then he turned.

The second his eyes landed on you the entire lethal posture cracked.

“Hey—hey, look at me.” He was in front of you instantly, hands hovering near your shoulders like he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure if he should. His voice had dropped into something rough and urgent. “Y/N. You okay? Did he hurt you? Did he touch you before I got here?”

You were still pressed against the tree, phone hanging limply at your side, the call still connected until Chan gently took it from your hand and ended it without looking. Your whole body felt floaty and too sharp at the same time. The adrenaline had nowhere to go. Your knees were unreliable.

“I—” Your voice came out cracked. You tried again. “I’m okay. He didn’t—he didn’t get that far.”

Chan’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over you like he needed visual proof, lingering on your wrists, your face, the way you were still half-braced against the bark. Then he let out a long, shaky breath and dragged a hand through his hair.

“Christ,” he muttered. “I heard all of it. The second that call connected I just—” He stopped, shook his head once, hard. When he looked at you again his eyes were still too bright, too intense. “I didn’t think. I just drove.”

You realized distantly that his bike was still running a few yards away, abandoned at an angle, helmet on the grass beside it. He’d come in that fast.

Your hands were trembling. You noticed it the same moment he did. Chan’s expression twisted into something pained, and this time he didn’t hesitate—he reached out and carefully, slowly, folded you into his chest.

The leather of his jacket was sun-warm and solid. He smelled like wind and metal and the faintest trace of cologne. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, the other spanned wide and protective across your upper back. You could feel how hard his heart was still beating under your cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he said against your hair, voice low and rough. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t mean to fist your hands in the back of his jacket. You didn’t mean to press closer like the tree behind you had disappeared. But the alternative was standing on your own while the leftover fear still buzzed under your skin, and right now his body was the only thing that felt steady.

Chan held on tighter, like he’d reached the same conclusion.

For a long minute neither of you spoke. The park noises slowly filtered back in—birds, distant traffic, the rustle of leaves overhead. His thumb moved in small, absent strokes at the base of your skull.

Eventually he eased back just enough to look at your face, hands still bracketing your shoulders.

“I’m taking you home,” he said. Not a question. “Or to my place. Or wherever you want. But you’re not walking anywhere alone right now, and you’re not staying here.” His eyes searched yours. “Okay?”

The protectiveness in his voice wrapped around the leftover fear like a blanket. You managed a small nod.

Chan’s shoulders dropped a fraction, relief bleeding through the lingering anger. He bent to grab his helmet, then reached for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers were warm and sure around yours.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he said, quieter now. “Let’s get you out of here.”

And for the first time since the man’s shadow had fallen across your book, your lungs filled all the way.

⸻

Chan’s hand stayed wrapped around yours as he guided you toward the still-running bike. He finally killed the engine, silence rushing in, then turned to face you fully. His eyes searched your face like he was still checking for damage.

“Whose place are we going to?” he asked. Voice low. Careful. “Yours or mine. Your call.”

You hesitated. Home meant familiarity—your couch, your blankets, the safety of four walls you controlled. But it also meant being alone the second he eventually left, replaying the man’s voice under that tree. The alternative sat in front of you wearing open concern and a leather jacket, waiting patiently for an answer he wouldn’t push.

“…Yours,” you said quietly. “If that’s okay.”

Something in Chan’s expression eased. He gave your hand a small squeeze. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

He let go only long enough to pick up his helmet and hold it out to you. When you just stared at it, he stepped closer.

“Ever been on a bike before?”

You shook your head.

“Alright. I’ll go easy.” He helped you with the helmet first—gentle fingers brushing your jaw as he adjusted the strap—then swung onto the seat and steadied the bike. One gloved hand extended toward you. “Put your foot there. Swing your leg over. I’ve got it.”

You followed his instructions, heart still beating too fast for entirely new reasons as you settled behind him. The second you were seated he reached back, found your wrists, and guided your arms around his waist.

“Hold on to me. Tight is good.”

You locked your fingers together against the soft fabric of his shirt under the open jacket. He was solid and warm and very real.

Before he started the engine again, Chan glanced over his shoulder. The teasing glint that had been missing since the park flickered back into his eyes, softer than usual but still there.

“So,” he said, voice low enough that it stayed between the two of you, “this remind you of any of the scenes in those dirty books of yours?”

Your face went hot inside the helmet. You tightened your arms around him in retaliation and felt the rumble of his quiet laugh more than you heard it.

“That’s what I thought.”

The bike came alive underneath you with a deep, rolling growl. Chan pulled away from the curb smoothly, one of your hands instinctively pressing flatter against his stomach as the momentum shifted. Wind slid over your arms. The city blurred at the edges. You kept your cheek hovered near the back of his shoulder, not quite resting it there, and focused on the steady expansion of his breathing under your hold.

He drove like he’d promised—controlled, no more reckless speeding—but every turn still pressed you closer into his back. By the time he turned into a quieter neighborhood and rolled into the driveway of a low, modern house with dark siding and a detached garage, your nerves had settled into something quieter. Not gone. Just… held.

Chan killed the engine, toed the kickstand down, and reached back to help you dismount before swinging off himself. He took the helmet from you, set both of theirs on the seat, and immediately laced his fingers through yours again like the contact was non-negotiable.

“Come on.”

His place was clean but lived-in. Shoes by the door, a leather jacket thrown over the arm of a dark couch, the faint smell of coffee and something woodsy. He didn’t give you a tour. He just led you straight to the couch, gently pushed you to sit, and disappeared into the kitchen. You heard cabinets, the fridge, the clink of glass.

He came back with a bottle of water and a soft grey hoodie that clearly belonged to him.

“Drink.” He handed you the water, then held the hoodie out. “And put this on if you want. Adrenaline crash is gonna hit soon if it hasn’t already. You’ll get cold.”

You took both without arguing. The hoodie was huge on you, still carrying the faintest trace of whatever cologne he wore. You pulled it over your head and immediately felt a fraction safer, like the fabric itself was an extension of the way he’d put himself between you and danger earlier.

Chan sat down on the coffee table directly in front of you, elbows on his knees, close enough that his legs bracketed yours. He watched you drink like it was important.

“Talk to me,” he said after a minute. Soft. No teasing. “You don’t have to rehash the whole thing if you don’t want to. But I need to know where your head is at.”

You stared at the water bottle. The man’s voice still echoed faintly—you really thought nothing would find you?—but it was quieter now, competing with the memory of Chan’s body slamming into him and the way he’d said I’ve got you against your hair.

“I freeze,” you admitted. The words came out small. “When things get bad like that. I freeze and my brain just… static. I couldn’t even remember I had a phone in my hand until you took it.” You swallowed. “If you hadn’t answered—”

“But I did.” Chan’s voice was firm without being hard. He leaned in a little, eyes locked on yours. “I answered. I got there. He’s gone. You’re here. That’s the only version that matters right now.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Chan’s gaze flicked over your face again, lingering on your eyes like he was still cataloguing every micro-expression. Then he exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

“I’m not gonna hover all night if you need space,” he said. “But I’d… really rather you didn’t go home alone yet. Guest room’s made up. Or you can take my bed and I’ll stay out here. Whatever feels least weird.” A beat. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely. “I’ll even try not to bring up the dirty-book thing again for at least an hour.”

A tiny, unexpected huff of almost-laughter escaped you. The sound seemed to loosen something in his shoulders.

You looked down at the oversized sleeves of his hoodie covering your hands, then back up at him. The intensity from the park was still there under the surface, but it had reshaped itself into something quieter. Protective. Steady.

“I’ll stay,” you said. “Guest room is fine.”

Chan nodded once, like that settled it. He didn’t move from the coffee table right away, though. He just stayed there in your space, close enough that you could have reached out and touched the fresh scuff on his jacket from where he’d grabbed the guy, and let the silence sit comfortably between you.

For the first time since the shadow had fallen across your book, the static in your head started to fade.

And the person who’d made it fade kept watching you like leaving you alone again was the furthest thing from his mind.

⸻

You’d both say there in the quiet living room after the guest room decision was made, the weight of the afternoon still lingering like a third person on the couch. Chan had looked at you for a long moment, then tipped his head toward the kitchen.

“Stay. I’m getting us something stronger than water.”

He disappeared again. You heard the soft clink of glass, the opening of a cabinet, the quiet pour of liquid. When he came back he had two tumblers with a finger of amber liquid each. He handed one to you and finally—finally—shrugged out of the leather jacket.

The air left your lungs in a slow, traitorous leak.

The mirror selfie hadn’t done him justice. Not even close. The tattoos wrapped both arms in dense, intricate blackwork from the curve of his shoulders all the way down to his wrists, shifting every time the muscles underneath flexed. His arms were thicker than you’d realized, veins faintly visible along his forearms, the kind of strength that looked earned rather than decorative. The dark T-shirt he wore clung to the broad line of his chest and the flat plane of his stomach. He tossed the jacket over the arm of the couch like it weighed nothing and dropped into the seat beside you—close, but not quite touching—before taking a sip of his drink.

You stared a second too long.

Chan caught you. Of course he did. The corner of his mouth curved, soft and knowing, but he didn’t call it out. He just rested his free arm along the back of the couch, the movement making the ink ripple, and nodded at your glass.

“Drink. Not enough to get you drunk. Just enough to take the edge off.”

You obeyed. The alcohol was smooth and warm going down, settling in your stomach like a quiet promise of looseness. You took another small sip. Then a third. The residual tremor in your hands slowly eased.

For a while you simply sat there in the low light of his living room. Evening had fully arrived outside the windows. Somewhere deeper in the house a clock ticked. Chan’s presence beside you was solid and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of rushing whatever this was.

“I froze,” you said eventually. The words came easier with the drink warming your blood. “I told you that earlier. But it’s… more than that. I always freeze. Even when it’s not dangerous. I overthink everything until the moment passes and then I hate myself for not doing something.” You stared into the glass. “Today I kept thinking, if I just stay quiet and polite maybe he’ll get bored and leave. Like being nice would protect me.”

Chan was silent for a beat. When he spoke his voice was low and careful.

“Being nice doesn’t stop people who’ve already decided to be ugly. That’s not on you.”

You glanced at him. He was watching you with that same focused intensity from the park, but softer now. The tattoos on the arm draped behind you looked almost alive in the dim light.

“I heard your voice change on the phone,” he continued. “The second I realized what was happening I felt like I couldn’t get to you fast enough. I’ve never driven like that in my life.” A humorless huff of breath. “Probably broke about twelve laws. Worth it.”

Your chest tightened. You took another sip to hide whatever expression was trying to form on your face. The alcohol had started to loosen the usual knots in your tongue. Desire—quiet, heavy, inevitable—had begun low in your belly the second the jacket came off and only grown with every minute spent this close to him. It mixed with the leftover fear and the relief until everything felt heightened.

“You’re really strong,” you said without meaning to. Your eyes had drifted back to his arms. “I mean—obviously. But when you stopped him it looked… effortless.”

Chan’s gaze dropped briefly to his own forearm, then back to you. Something hotter flickered behind the softness.

“Adrenaline,” he said. “And the fact that he put his hands near you.” He shifted a little closer on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight. His knee now rested lightly against yours. “You keep looking at the tattoos.”

Heat crawled up your neck. The drink made it harder to look away. “They’re… a lot. In a good way. The picture last night didn’t—” You stopped, bit the inside of your cheek. “Never mind.”

“Didn’t what?”

You exhaled, resigned to the honesty the alcohol was dragging out of you. “Didn’t do them justice. Or the rest of it.”

Chan’s eyes darkened a shade. He set his glass on the coffee table without looking away from you, then leaned back again, the movement casual and deliberate at the same time. The shift made the fabric of his T-shirt pull across his chest and shoulders.

“You can look,” he said quietly. “I don’t mind.”

The permission settled warm and dangerous between you. You let yourself take him in properly this time—the dense ink, the clear strength in his arms, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. Desire curled tighter. You were suddenly very aware of the fact that you were still wearing his hoodie, that it smelled like him, that your legs were tucked under you on his couch after one of the scariest afternoons of your life and all you could think about was how close his mouth was.

Chan’s voice dropped even lower.

“How’s your head now?”

“Louder,” you admitted. “But in a different way.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second. The air in the room seemed to thicken. He reached out slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the backs of his fingers. The simple touch sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“You can stay out here as long as you want,” he said. His hand lingered near your jaw before dropping. “Watch something. Talk. Sit in silence. I’m not going anywhere.” A beat. The faintest smirk. “And if you keep looking at me like that I’m going to start taking it personally.”

You felt the flush rise all the way to your ears. The drink had made you braver, but not brave enough to close the remaining distance. Not yet. Instead you curled deeper into his hoodie, pulled your knees up, and let your shoulder rest lightly against the arm he still had stretched along the back of the couch.

Chan didn’t move away. After a moment his fingers began tracing absent, gentle patterns against the fabric near your shoulder—nothing demanding, just quiet contact. Proof of presence.

The evening stretched soft and slow around you both. You talked in fragments—about the book you’d been trying to read under the tree, about how long he’d been riding motorcycles, about nothing important at all. Every so often the conversation lulled and the awareness of him would rush back in: the heat of his leg against yours, the flex of inked muscle when he lifted his glass, the way his voice sounded deeper in the intimate quiet of his living room.

Desire never left. It simply sat between you like a third heartbeat—acknowledged, restrained, waiting.

At some point your head tilted fully against his shoulder. Chan shifted just enough to make it more comfortable, his cheek briefly resting against your hair. Neither of you commented on it.

Outside, the night deepened.

Inside, the edge of the day finally, carefully, began to dull—replaced by the steady warmth of a man who had dropped everything to reach you, and the quiet, growing certainty that you were no longer interested in keeping him at a safe distance.

⸻

The second drink settled warmer than the first.

You weren’t drunk—nowhere close—but the careful walls you usually kept so high had lowered just enough for impulse to slip through. Chan noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything. Every time you shifted a fraction closer on the couch, every time your eyes lingered on the ink wrapping his arms, the corner of his mouth would tilt like he was filing it away.

At some point your knee had fully pressed against his. Then your shoulder. Then, without fully deciding to, you turned more toward him, one leg tucked under you, the oversized sleeve of his hoodie slipping down to expose your wrist.

You stared at his bicep for a long second.

The muscle sat thick and rounded even at rest, the tattoos stretching over it every time he so much as breathed. The memory of how easily he’d thrown that man off you earlier flashed behind your eyes. Strength like that shouldn’t have been comforting. It was.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

“Can I…?”

Chan followed your gaze. Understanding flickered across his face, followed by something hotter. He didn’t make you finish the sentence. He simply shifted, angling his upper body toward you, and rested his arm along the back of the couch again—closer this time, giving you easier access.

“Yeah,” he said. Soft. Rough around the edges. “Go ahead.”

You hesitated only a second longer before reaching out. Your fingers brushed the warm skin just above his elbow first, testing, before carefully wrapping around the fullest part of his bicep. The muscle was even firmer than it looked. Dense. Solid. When he flexed once under your hand—just a little, controlled—you felt the power of it all the way up your arm.

A tiny, involuntary sound escaped you.

Chan’s eyes darkened. He stayed perfectly still otherwise, letting you explore, but his voice dropped lower.

“Like what you feel?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak right away. Your thumb traced the edge of one of the larger tattoo designs almost without permission. “You’re… really strong.”

“You mentioned that earlier.” There was a smile in his voice, but it sounded strained now. “Keep touching me like that and I’m gonna start having trouble being a gentleman.”

The warning sent a slow pulse of heat through you. Still, you didn’t pull your hand away. If anything you shifted closer, close enough that your thigh pressed fully along his, close enough to catch the faint scent of his skin beneath the lingering trace of wind and leather. The alcohol made the boldness feel almost reasonable.

“I don’t think you’re very good at being a gentleman,” you murmured.

Chan let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Careful, pretty girl.”

But he didn’t stop you when your fingers trailed higher, following the line of ink toward his shoulder. He didn’t stop you when you leaned in another inch. The air between you had gone thick, charged, every small movement suddenly meaningful. His free hand rested on his own thigh like he was deliberately not reaching for you yet.

Time blurred. The clock somewhere in the house kept ticking but neither of you acknowledged it. You talked in lower voices now—about nothing and everything. How long the tattoos had taken. How you’d never done anything this impulsive in your life. How the fear from the park still sat under your skin but felt manageable with him this close. Every so often your hand would drift back to his arm, or his knee would press a little more firmly against yours, or your eyes would catch and hold for too long.

The tension never eased. It only wound tighter, slow and deliberate, until the space between your mouths felt like the only thing left in the room.

It was late—properly late—when Chan’s voice cut through the quiet.

He had turned more fully toward you at some point. One arm still along the back of the couch, the other resting near your knee without quite touching. His eyes moved over your face like he was memorizing it.

“Y/N.”

The way he said your name made your stomach flip.

“Yeah?”

He lifted his hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him, and brushed his knuckles along your jaw. The touch was feather-light. Reverent. His thumb rested just beneath your lower lip.

“I want to kiss you,” he said. Simple. Honest. A little rough. “Been wanting to since the bookstore, if I’m being real. But I need you to tell me it’s okay. Especially after today.”

Your heart slammed so hard you were sure he could feel it. The alcohol, the residual adrenaline, the hours of building tension, the solid warmth of his body so close—all of it narrowed into this single point of contact where his thumb rested against your skin.

You didn’t look away.

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

Chan’s eyes flashed. He leaned in with agonizing care, closing the last of the distance like he was afraid of startling you. The first brush of his mouth against yours was soft—almost questioning. A test. When you didn’t pull back, when your fingers instead curled into the front of his T-shirt, he made a low sound in his throat and kissed you properly.

It was slow. Deep. Controlled in a way that somehow felt more intense than if he’d been rough. His lips were warm and sure, the faint press of his lip piercing a tiny delicious contrast. One of his hands slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other settled at your waist over the hoodie, gripping just enough to anchor you.

You kissed him back with more hunger than you expected from yourself. The soft, needy sound you made into his mouth made his fingers tighten in your hair. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss another degree, tongue brushing yours in a way that sent heat flooding south so fast it almost left you dizzy. Still, he kept it reined in—no rushing, no pushing you down into the cushions, just the thorough, devastating attention of someone who had been thinking about this exact moment for days.

When he finally pulled back it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you were breathing harder. His hand was still in your hair. Yours was still fisted in his shirt.

“Jesus,” he murmured against your mouth. “You have no idea how hard it is not to take that further right now.”

Chan sat at the kitchen island long after he’d insisted you take the guest room, laptop open, screen light washing over the tattoos on his forearms. Sleep had refused to come. Every time he closed his eyes he heard that bastard’s voice through the phone again, or felt the exact weight of your body shaking against his after he’d gotten to you. The kiss on the couch had only made the restlessness worse—now he knew the soft sound you made when you were kissed properly, the way your fingers curled into his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear.

You felt the truth of the statement in the tension running through his body, in the way his thumb kept stroking absently behind your ear like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“But I won’t,” he added, quieter. “Not tonight. Not after everything. I just—” He kissed you once more, softer this time, lingering. “Needed to know what you tasted like.”

Your pulse was still racing. Desire sat heavy and unmet low in your belly, but underneath it was something warmer. Safer. You leaned in and brushed your mouth against his again, smaller, shyer, but deliberate.

Chan exhaled shakily and pulled you fully against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. His arms wrapped around you, strong and careful. You could hear the rapid beat of his heart beneath your ear.

“Stay right here for a while,” he said into your hair. “Just like this.”

You nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt again, and let yourself melt into the solid heat of him.

The tension didn’t disappear. It simply settled around you both like a living thing—present, patient, and nowhere near finished with either of you.

Outside, the night kept its silence.

On the couch, Chan held you like he had no plans of letting go anytime soon.

⸻

The house had gone completely still.

He tried to focus on the work in front of him. Failed. Rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the clock. Past two.

That was when he heard it.

A small, broken sound from down the hall. Then another. Soft whimpering, the kind that punched straight through the quiet.

Chan was on his feet before he’d fully processed the decision. He moved down the hallway on silent feet and stopped outside the guest room door. Another distressed noise filtered through the wood—higher this time, laced with fear.

He knocked once, lightly.

No answer.

He knocked again, then carefully pushed the door open.

Moonlight cut across the bed through the half-open blinds. You were tangled in the sheets, brows furrowed deep, cheeks wet with tears that kept slipping from the corners of your closed eyes. Your hands were fisted in the blanket like you were still trying to push someone away. Another soft, wounded sound left you.

Chan’s chest went tight.

“Y/N,” he called gently, stepping inside. “Hey. Pretty girl. Wake up.”

You didn’t stir. A tear tracked down into your hair.

He crossed to the side of the bed and lowered himself to one knee, keeping his voice low and steady. “Y/N. It’s me. You’re safe. Come on, baby, open your eyes for me.”

Your lashes fluttered. For a second you only stared at him in pure, disoriented panic—chest heaving, body still half-trapped in whatever the dream had shown you. Then recognition hit, and the fear cracked into something rawer.

“Chan—” Your voice was wrecked. You tried to sit up too fast and only succeeded in getting more tangled. Fresh tears spilled over. “I—he was—I couldn’t move again—”

“I know. I know.” He reached out slowly, giving you time to reject the contact, and brushed the wetness from one cheek with his thumb. “It was a dream. You’re in my house. He’s not here. You’re safe.”

The words seemed to reach you in pieces. Your breathing stayed ragged. You looked so small in the middle of the guest bed, still wearing his hoodie from earlier, eyes glassy and lost. Something in Chan’s expression shuttered and then softened all at once.

“Come here,” he murmured.

He didn’t wait for you to try standing on unsteady legs. Instead he slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you clear of the mattress in one smooth, careful motion. You made a quiet sound of surprise and instinctive protest, arms looping around his neck on reflex as he straightened.

“Chan—put me down, I’m fine, you don’t have to—”

“I’ve got you.” His voice left no room for argument, but it stayed gentle. “Just for a minute. Let me.”

You subsided, cheek ending up against the side of his neck, and felt the steady strength in the arms holding you. He carried you out of the guest room and down the short hall like you weighed nothing, shouldered his own bedroom door open, and crossed to the large bed that still looked barely slept in. The sheets were dark and cool when he lowered you onto them.

The second your back touched the mattress you tensed, guilt flickering across your face even through the leftover fear.

“I can go back to the other room,” you whispered. “You need sleep too. I don’t want to take your bed after you already—”

Chan braced one knee on the mattress and looked down at you, hair falling into his eyes. The moonlight caught the edge of a tattoo on his arm as he reached out and smoothed your hair away from your damp cheek.

“You’re not taking anything,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway. And I’d rather have you right here where I can see you than down the hall having another nightmare I might not hear in time.” His thumb stroked once beneath your eye, erasing the last trace of tears. “Stay. Please.”

The soft plea undercut every argument you had left. You searched his face for any sign that he was only offering out of obligation, but all you found was open, stubborn concern and the same quiet intensity from the couch earlier.

“…Okay,” you breathed.

Some of the tension left his shoulders. Chan straightened just long enough to pull the blankets back properly, then hesitated.

“I’ll sleep on top of the covers if that makes you more comfortable,” he offered. “Or the floor. Whatever you need.”

You shook your head against the pillow. The idea of him on the floor after everything felt wrong. “You can—under is fine. Just sleep.”

He studied you for another second, then nodded. The mattress dipped as he rounded to the other side and slipped under the blankets, keeping a careful stretch of space between your bodies at first. The heat of him still reached you immediately. In the dark he turned onto his side to face you.

“I’m right here,” he said into the quiet. “If the dream comes back, you wake me. No guilt. No apologizing. Just wake me.”

Your throat felt tight again, but this time it wasn’t from fear. You nodded, curling one hand into the front of the hoodie you still wore like an anchor.

For a while the only sound was the two of you breathing. The leftover images from the nightmare slowly lost their sharp edges, replaced by the solid reality of Chan’s presence a foot away—his steady inhale, the faint scent of his skin, the knowledge that the same arms that had carried you in here had already proven they would put themselves between you and anything that tried to hurt you.

Eventually you shifted a little closer without fully deciding to. Chan didn’t comment. He simply extended one arm in silent invitation.

You took it.

Your head settled against his chest, ear over the strong, even beat of his heart. His arm curved around your back, heavy and warm and protective. The last of the adrenaline and fear drained out of you in a slow, inevitable wave.

Sleep came softer this time.

And when a faint echo of the park tried to surface again near dawn, all it took was the unconscious tightening of Chan’s arm around you and the low, half-asleep rumble of his voice against your hair—

“I’ve got you. Sleep, pretty girl.”

—for it to fade completely.

⸻

Three weeks blurred by in a haze of routine neither of you questioned.

Somehow your car started ending up in Chan’s driveway every evening after work like it had a mind of its own. You’d text when you were leaving the office. He’d reply with a simple door’s unlocked or just got back, come in. Some nights you cooked together in his kitchen while he leaned against the counter and watched you with that quiet, hungry focus. Some nights he ordered food and the two of you ate on the couch with your legs tangled. Occasionally you went home. More often you didn’t. The guest room stopped being used entirely after the third night you fell asleep against his chest and woke up in his bed with his arm locked around your waist.

The kissing had grown dangerous.

What started soft and careful on the couch became open-mouthed and desperate against his front door the second it closed behind you. Hands started wandering—yours under his shirt to map the ridges of his abs and the warm ink on his back, his sliding up your thighs until his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear and stopped there like a silent promise. He would bite your lower lip and murmur filthy observations about how wet you already were, how good you smelled, how he could feel you throbbing through your jeans. You would whimper and roll your hips and still, somehow, it never crossed the final line. The tension became a living thing that followed you both through the day. By the time the week was almost over you were wound so tight that even the brush of his fingers against yours felt like foreplay.

Which was how you ended up exactly where you were now.

Chan had gone out for a late ride to clear his head. You’d let yourself in with the key he’d pressed into your palm two days ago, showered, stolen the soft black hoodie that smelled the most like him, and settled on his couch with the book you’d been too embarrassed to read in front of him all week. It was one of the filthier ones. The kind that didn’t fade to black. You’d only meant to reread a little. Just enough to take the edge off the constant ache he’d left you with that morning when he’d pinned you to the mattress and kissed you until you were shaking, only to pull away with a wicked smile and the soft command to be patient.

You were so absorbed that you didn’t hear the motorcycle until the front door opened.

Chan stepped inside, helmet in one hand, leather jacket still on, hair wind-tossed and cheeks faintly flushed from the ride. He took one look at you—curled up in the corner of his couch, bare legs tucked under you, wearing nothing but his hoodie and a pair of simple black panties—and stopped dead.

His eyes darkened instantly.

“Well,” he said, voice already rough. “That’s a fucking sight.”

You jumped, slamming the book shut on instinct, cheeks flaming. “You’re back early.”

“Traffic was light.” He set the helmet down, shrugged out of the jacket, and walked toward you with slow, deliberate steps. The black T-shirt underneath clung to him from residual heat. “What’re you reading, pretty girl?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” He reached down and plucked the book from your hands before you could stop him. You made a grab for it; he simply lifted it higher, eyes scanning the page you’d been on. The smirk that curved his mouth was pure sin. “Oh. One of those.”

“Chan—give it back—”

He ignored you, turning a little so the light hit the page better. His eyebrows rose. Then he let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Look at this. She’s on her knees with her hands tied. He’s got her hair wrapped around his fist. Telling her she’s going to take every inch like a good girl or he’s going to keep her on the edge all night.” Chan’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, molten. “This what you’ve been sitting here getting wet to while I was gone?”

Your face felt nuclear. You pressed your thighs together under the hoodie, already embarrassingly slick just from the way he was looking at you and the knowledge of exactly which scene he’d landed on. “I was just—”

“Just reading,” he finished for you, voice dropping. He stepped closer until he stood between your knees, still holding the book open. “Let’s see what happens next then.”

And then he started reading out loud.

His voice was low, rough, perfect for the words. He didn’t rush. He let every filthy line land as he reached down with his free hand, curled his fingers around your ankle, and slowly tugged you forward until your ass was at the edge of the couch cushion. You gasped; he kept reading, calm as anything, while he set the book down on the cushion beside you just long enough to grip the hem of the hoodie and drag it up your thighs.

“‘He spread her legs wider,’” Chan read, eyes flicking between the page and your face, “‘and dragged his knuckles over the soaked center of her panties, just light enough to make her hips jerk.’”

His own knuckles followed the words exactly—slow, barely-there pressure right over where you were already wet and aching. A helpless whimper punched out of you. Chan’s jaw flexed, but he kept going.

“‘She was dripping for him. Ruined already and he hadn’t even taken her underwear off yet.’” His knuckles pressed a little firmer, rubbing a deliberate circle that made your head fall back. “Sound familiar, Y/N?”

“Chan—”

“Keep listening.” He picked the book up again with his free hand, the other still tormenting you through the thin cotton. “‘He hooked his fingers in the waistband and peeled them down her legs, telling her to lift if she wanted him to touch her properly.’”

You lifted without thinking. Chan’s eyes flashed with dark approval as he dragged your panties down and off, tossing them aside. The cool air of the room hit your soaked cunt and you shivered. He groaned under his breath at the sight, but still—still—kept reading.

“‘He dragged two fingers through her folds, gathering the wetness, and spread it over her clit in slow, filthy circles.’”

His fingers mirrored the line. Hot. Calloused. Perfect. You cried out softly as he rubbed tight, slick circles over the swollen bud, your hips already trying to chase the pressure. Chan’s breathing had gone heavier. He set his knee on the couch beside you for a better angle and kept his voice devastatingly steady even as his fingers worked you.

“‘She was so sensitive she tried to close her thighs. He simply shoved them back open and told her to take it.’”

Chan’s free hand pressed firmly against your inner thigh, pinning it open. The next circle of his fingers was firmer. Meaner. Your back arched.

“Oh my god—”

“‘He slid two fingers inside her without warning, curling them until he found the spot that made her see stars, and started fucking her with them in deep, steady strokes while his thumb kept working her clit.’”

Chan did exactly that.

The stretch of his fingers punching inside you punched a broken moan from your throat. He was rougher than the teasing touches of the past week—deeper, more certain, like he’d been holding this exact thing back for days and was done waiting. His thumb rubbed relentless circles while his fingers curled and thrust, the wet sound of it obscenely loud in the quiet living room. You clutched at his forearm, nails digging into the tattoos, thighs trembling.

He leaned down until his mouth was right beside your ear, the book dangling forgotten from his other hand now.

“You’re soaking my hand already,” he rasped, dropping the pretense of reading. “All that tension this week and you were sitting here in my hoodie reading about getting finger-fucked like a desperate little thing. Should’ve just asked me, pretty girl. I would’ve taken care of you the second I walked in the door.”

Your only answer was a high, needy whimper as he curled his fingers harder. The coil in your belly wound terrifyingly tight, terrifyingly fast. Weeks of denied release had left you right on the edge already.

Chan kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath your ear, still working you open with those devastating fingers.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he murmured against your skin. “All over my hand while I do exactly what that dirty book of yours described? Use your words.”

“Yes—please—Chan, please—”

“That’s my girl.”

He fucked his fingers into you deeper, thumb pressing firm, relentless circles, and the orgasm crashed through you so hard your vision whited out. You cried out his name, thighs clamping around his hand, walls fluttering and clenching as wave after wave wrecked you. Chan worked you through every pulse, murmuring soft, filthy praise against your cheek the whole time—that’s it, just like that, fuck you look so pretty cumming for me—until you were shaking and oversensitive and trying to squirm away.

Only then did he ease his fingers out.

You watched through dazed eyes as he lifted them to his mouth and licked them clean with a low, appreciative sound that made your spent body clench all over again. When he looked back down at you—flushed, spread open on his couch, wearing nothing but his hoodie and a wrecked expression—the heat in his eyes had turned feral.

He braced both hands on the cushion beside your head and leaned in until his lips brushed yours.

“We’re not done,” he said quietly. Rough. Certain. “I’ve been patient for a week. I’m done being patient. Tell me right now if you want me to stop.”

Your hands were already fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. Your voice came out wrecked and honest.

“Don’t stop.”

Chan’s control snapped with a low, hungry sound.

He kissed you like he was starving for it—deep and open and filthy—while his hands shoved the hoodie up and over your head, leaving you completely bare beneath him. Then he stood just long enough to rip his own shirt off, kick his boots away, and shove his jeans and underwear down in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free thick and hard and already leaking, and the sight of it made your mouth go dry.

He didn’t give you time to stare.

Chan hooked his hands under your thighs, dragged you even closer to the edge of the couch, and notched the head of his cock against your soaked entrance. He held your eyes as he pushed in—slow, relentless, stretching you open around every inch until he was buried to the hilt and both of you were shaking.

“Fuck—Y/N—” His forehead dropped to yours. “You feel unreal.”

You could only whimper and wrap your legs around his waist, already clenching around the thick intrusion. Chan gave you three careful breaths to adjust. Then he drew back and snapped his hips forward hard enough to punch a cry from your throat.

After that there was no more restraint.

He fucked you deep and steady on his couch, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise as he kept you open for every thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. You clung to his tattooed shoulders, nails dragging, moaning brokenly every time he bottomed out. Chan watched your face like he was addicted to every expression, occasionally dropping down to kiss you filthy and deep or to rasp praise against your mouth—so tight, taking me so well, look at you, my perfect dirty girl—until you were right on the edge again.

When he slipped a hand between your bodies and rubbed tight circles over your swollen clit you shattered with a sob, cumming so hard around his cock that he cursed and buried his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he fucked you through it. The clench of your cunt dragged him over right after—he drove in deep one last time and came with a low, guttural groan, pulsing hot inside you while his arms locked around you like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space.

For a long time the only sound was the two of you trying to remember how to breathe.

Chan eventually lifted his head, brushed damp hair off your forehead, and kissed you—slow and deep and lingering. When he pulled back his eyes were softer, but the heat hadn’t left.

“Next time,” he murmured against your lips, “we’re trying the part where her hands are tied.”

You laughed, breathless and wrecked and happier than you’d been in years, and pulled him back down into another kiss.

The tension that had been building for weeks finally, thoroughly, broke.

And neither of you had any intention of putting it back together.

⸻

Epilogue:

Months later, the leather jacket still lived on the hook by Chan’s front door.

So did your shoes. Your books had slowly colonized the coffee table and the nightstand on “your” side of the bed. The guest room had officially been converted into a reading nook with a ridiculously comfortable armchair he’d assembled one Sunday while muttering about how you needed better light for your dirty novels. You still blushed every time he said it. He still smirked like it was his favorite hobby.

The nightmares about the park had faded. On the rare nights something dark tried to creep back in, you only had to shift closer and Chan’s arm would tighten around you on instinct, voice rough with sleep as he pressed a kiss to your hair and murmured, “I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.”

You never froze the same way again.

Not when he looked at you across a room like he was already imagining peeling your clothes off.
Not when he crowded you against the kitchen counter and kissed you stupid.
Not when he picked you up from work and dragged you onto the back of his bike on warm evenings and took the long way home just so your arms would stay wrapped around him a little longer.

The tension never really disappeared. It simply changed shape—settled into something deeper, steadier, and somehow even hungrier. Some nights he still made you read the filthiest scenes out loud while his hands recreated every word until you were shaking and begging. Other nights were quieter: you draped across his chest on the couch, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare thigh while some documentary neither of you were watching played in the background.

One evening in early fall, you came home—because it was home now, even if the lease still had only his name—to find Chan in the kitchen, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, tattoos on full display as he stirred something that smelled incredible. He glanced over his shoulder when the door opened, and that slow, private smile curved his mouth.

“There she is.”

You dropped your bag and walked straight into his chest. His arms closed around you immediately, wooden spoon still in one hand, chin resting on top of your head.

“Missed you,” he said simply.

You smiled into his shirt. “I was gone for six hours.”

“Yeah. And I still missed you.” He tipped your chin up and kissed you—slow, lingering, the kind that still made your knees unreliable even after all this time. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm. Soft. A little wicked around the edges. “Also I may have bought you another book. The one with the motorcycle club and the ridiculously possessive guy. Figured we could workshop a few scenes later.”

You laughed, shoving lightly at his chest, and he only grinned wider and pulled you closer.

Later that night, after dinner and a shared shower and the kind of unhurried, devastating sex that left you both wrecked and smiling, you lay tangled in his sheets with your head on his chest. Chan’s fingers combed lazily through your hair. The city hummed quietly beyond the window. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.

“Hey,” he said after a long, comfortable silence.

“Mm?”

“I’m really fucking glad you were crouched in the romance section that day.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. The moonlight caught the edge of his lip piercing, the faint scar on his eyebrow, the open affection in his eyes that still sometimes stole your breath.

“Yeah?” you whispered.

Chan nodded, thumb brushing your cheek. “Best decision I ever made was asking a shy girl for a book recommendation.” His voice dropped, warm and rough and full of everything the months had built. “I love you, pretty girl.”

The words settled over you like the softest blanket.

You stretched up and kissed him—slow and sure and smiling against his mouth.

“I love you too, Chan.”

Outside, the night kept moving.

Inside, the biker with the filthy mouth and the softest heart held you tighter, and the girl who used to freeze had never felt more certain of exactly where she belonged.

TYSM for reading!!

Feel free to check out my Master list part 1 and Master list part 2 to see more of my works! (Part 2 has my newer and better ones)

You’re tangled in them when he returns. You’ve been sleeping on your stomach, your cheek pressed to the pillow, one arm tucked beneath it, the other thrown out. Your tank top has ridden up to expose the soft curve of your hip, and your shorts are twisted. You’re dead to the world, utterly oblivious.

Chan slips from the balcony doors like smoke, silent and fluid. He doesn’t make a sound as he crosses the room, though he’s loathe to put distance between them. The hunger gnaws at him, but another instinct, a deeper one, reins it in. He wants to watch you for a minute. Just a minute.

He sinks to the floor by the bed, resting his chin on the mattress. The scent of you is a balm. Soap, sleep-skin, the lingering sweetness of the body lotion you’d applied after your shower. He breathes it in, slow and deep, letting it calm the thrashing thing inside him. Your left wrist dangles from the edge of the bed, limp and right beside him. Chan nuzzles his nose against it, directly above your veins. He can feel the steady pulse of your life there, a hypnotic metronome against his lips.

He’s so thirsty. He could end it right now. A quick nick, a few deep swallows, and he’d be sated for weeks. But no. That would be a sacrilege. He wants the whole experience. Your waking, your gasp, the way your eyes will find his in the dark. He wants the way your fingers will curl into his hair, not in fear, but in a kind of desperate, instinctual welcome.

He drags his tongue over the delicate skin of your wrist. The salt of your skin is a promise and he can't help the way his eyes roll to the back of his head just at the simple taste. And the smell–the smell is a hundred times stronger here, so close to the source. The scent of you, blood and sweat and want, is a drug.

You stir, a soft sigh leaving your lips. Your fingers twitch, brushing against the hair falling over his forehead. It’s an innocent touch, but it sends a jolt through him so potent it nearly whites out his vision. He has to grip the sheets, knuckles white, to keep himself from sinking his teeth in then and there. Control. He needs control.

He moves away, unbuttoning his coat as he stands. He lets it drop to the floor with a soft thud. His shirt follows, and then his jeans. He’s naked in the dim light from the street, a pale silhouette. The sight of him should be alarming, a predator in your bedroom, but you’ve only ever known him as this. As yours.

When he turns, your eyes are open and you're looking right at him.

You don't speak, just watch, eyes trailing over his naked body as he makes his way back to the bed, his movements fluid and unnaturally graceful. He slides in behind you, a cool line of skin against your back. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His chin finds your shoulder.

“Missed you,” you murmur, your voice rough with sleep.

“Missed this,” he replies, his lips grazing the skin behind your ear. “Missed you.” His nose traces the line of your throat, and you tilt your head to give him better access. He nips at your earlobe, a sharp, quick sting that makes you gasp. His hand slides down, splaying across your stomach, fingers dipping just below the waistband of your shorts.

You arch into his touch, a silent plea. He answers by sliding a finger through your folds, finding you already wet. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Were you dreaming of me or are you just quick?"

A small laugh escapes your lips. "Bit of both. You did just preform a little strip show. Might have something to do with it."

He grins against your neck, the sharp points of his fangs scraping lightly. “Did you like the show?” He circles your clit with his thumb, slow, deliberate circles that have you squirming against him.

"I always like your shows." You quip, your fingers sliding down his torso and wrapping around his cock. He's hard, already leaking. A sharp inhale from him, and his hips buck forward into your palm. "You look hungry."

"I waited," He gasps against your skin, gently pushing away your hand. He doesn't want to cum now, not yet. He needs to taste you first. "For you."

He rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so that you're straddling him. The thin fabric of your shorts does nothing to hide the heat of you from where you're seated on his stomach. He reaches up, hooking his fingers into the neckline of your tank and pulling it down, exposing one breast. He latches on, swirling his tongue around the peak before sucking it into his mouth.

You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He works you over, his other hand sliding down to grip your hips.

"I don't know why you insist on waiting every time," You purr, running your fingers through his hair, urging him closer. "Jeongin has expressed his interest in helping you out, letting you feed on him."

He considers it, for a fleeting second. The thought of Jeongin, warm and willing, his throat bared in an offering. But the thought is sour, the imagined taste of him thin and metallic compared to the complex, layered flavor of you. Jeongin is an appetizer. You are a feast. The idea of feeding from anyone else is like considering eating ash when a banquet is laid out before you.

"Jeongin doesn't taste like you." He murmurs against your skin, moving to your other breast. His hands are on your ass now, kneading the flesh, pulling you impossibly closer. "No one does."

"Such a flatterer," you breathe, but your back is arching, pushing yourself further into his mouth. He bites down gently, not enough to break the skin, just enough to make you cry out, a sharp, beautiful sound that goes straight to his cock. He wants to hear more. "I still think you should let him try. He's an eager one. Eager to please."

"He's eager to get his throat ripped out," Chan says, pulling back to look at you. Your pupils are blown wide, your lips parted. "I'm not gentle when I'm hungry."

"You're always gentle with me," you counter, and the absolute certainty in your voice unravels something inside him. He is gentle with you. He has to be. You are the only thing that keeps the monster at bay.

"Because I love you," he says, and the words are raw, stripped of any poetic flair. They are the simple, brutal truth. "And I want to eat you alive. Do you see the contradiction?"

"I do," you whisper, leaning down to kiss him. It's a slow, deep kiss, a mingling of breath and saliva and unspoken promises. Your tongue traces the sharp point of one of his fangs, a gesture of trust that still manages to steal the air from his lungs. "That's why I love you."

He flips you over, suddenly, pinning you beneath him. Your legs wrap around his waist, and he can feel the heat of you through the thin cotton of your shorts. He rocks against you, a slow, torturous rhythm. He can feel the thread of your pulse, can see the blue veins beneath the skin of your throat. He leans down, licks a long stripe from your collarbone to your jaw.

"Chan," you whine, your hips bucking up to meet his. "Please."

"Patience," he chides, but his own patience is wearing thin. He wants to be inside you, wants to feel you clench around him as he drinks. He wants to be buried in you in every way possible. He tugs at your shorts, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. Your tank top is next, and then you're naked beneath him, pale and perfect in the moonlight.

He takes a moment, just looking. The way the light catches the dust motes in the air around you, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath, the dark, wet patch on your stomach where you’d been sitting on him. You're a work of art, and he's the only one who gets to see it.

He settles between your thighs, his cock nudging at your entrance. He doesn't enter you, not yet. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, and kisses you again. This kiss is different. It’s hungrier, more desperate. His fangs scrape against your lips, and you taste the faint, coppery tang of your own blood.

You moan into his mouth, your legs tightening around him. "Please," you beg again. "Chan, I need you."

That’s it. That's the breaking point. The plea in your voice, the way your body is arching up to meet his, the sheer, unadulterated want that’s pouring off you in waves. He can't wait any longer.

He sinks into you in one smooth, deep stroke. The feeling of you, hot and tight and slick around him, is so overwhelming that he has to stop, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He can feel your heartbeat against his lips, a frantic, fluttering thing. He can hear it, too, a rapid, thumping rhythm that drowns out everything else.

You're panting beneath him, your fingers tangled in his hair. "Move," you gasp. "Please, move."

And he does. He starts with slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in. He sets a deliberate, punishing pace, designed to drive you both to the edge and keep you there. The hunger is a roaring fire in his gut, but the pleasure is a cool, soothing balm, and the two sensations are at war with each other.

He wants to drag this out, wants to make it last for hours, but he knows he can't. He's been waiting for too long, and the need is too strong. He can feel the change happening, can feel the predator taking over. His vision sharpens, the colors in the room becoming more vivid, the sounds of the city outside fading into a dull hum.

He finds the perfect spot on your neck, the place where your pulse is strongest. He licks it once, twice, a slow, deliberate motion that makes you shudder. "Look at me," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open, and they find his. Your pupils are blown wide, your expression is one of pure, unadulterated bliss. You’re not scared. You have never once been afraid of him.

"Chan," you breathe.

He bites down.

The rush is instantaneous, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated sensation. The taste of you is a symphony on his tongue, a complex mix of iron and salt and something that is uniquely, intoxicatingly you. It's better than he remembered, better than he'd imagined in the long, lonely weeks on the road. The fire in his gut is flares, a deep, spreading warmth that makes him feel whole again.

You cry out, a sharp, choked sound that is equal parts pain and pleasure. Your body arches off the bed, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling so hard it should hurt, but he barely feels it. All he can feel is you, the hot slide of you around his cock, the desperate, rhythmic pumping of your heart, the rich, life-giving liquid flowing into his mouth.

He's losing control. He can feel it, a fraying at the edges of his consciousness. The human part of him, the part that loves you, that wants to cherish you, is being swallowed by the ancient, ravenous thing that lives inside him. He should stop. He knows he should stop. He's had enough to suffice for weeks.

But he can't.

His hips snap forward, a brutal, unforgiving rhythm that has you seeing stars. You can feel the strength in him, the barely leashed power that's thrumming through his entire body. He's holding you down now, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your shoulders, pinning you to the bed. You're completely at his mercy, and it's the most thrilling thing he's ever felt.

"Don't stop," you gasp, your voice a ragged, breathy whisper. "Chan, please, don't stop."

It's the wrong thing to say. The words are gasoline on the fire of his hunger. He growls against your skin, a low, primal sound of pure, unadulterated possession. He wants to devour you, to consume every last drop of you until there's nothing left. He wants to crawl inside your skin and make a home there.

The thought is so terrifying, so abhorrent, that it shocks him back to himself.

He pulls back with a strangled cry, ripping his teeth from your neck. The loss is immediate and agonizing, a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. His fangs are still out, his lips slick with your blood, his chest heaving with ragged, unnecessary breaths. He looks down at you, at the dazed, blissed-out expression on your face, at the two neat puncture wounds on your neck, already beading with blood.

Horror washes over him, cold and sharp. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice a hoarse rasp.

You just smile, a slow, languid curve of your lips. You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing against your own blood on his lips. "You're shaking," you note, and he is. His whole body is trembling with the force of his want, the effort of reining himself in.

"I took too much," he says, the words thick with self-loathing.

"No," you say, your gaze steady and unwavering. "You took exactly what I wanted to give you."

He wants to believe you. He wants to believe that this is a gift, that you're not just a victim in this twisted, beautiful dance. But the evidence is right there on your skin, in the pale, slightly clammy feel of your flesh beneath his hands.

He shifts, moving to pull out of you, to put some distance between them, to give you a chance to recover. But you stop him, your legs tightening around his waist, your hands gripping his arms.

"Where do you think you're going?" you ask, a hint of a challenge in your voice.

"You need to rest," he says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"I need you to fuck me," you counter, and the bluntness of your words makes him flinch. You're always like this after he feeds. Bolder, more demanding, as if some of his own untamed nature has been transferred to you in the exchange.

He hesitates, caught between the primal urge to claim you completely and the overwhelming need to protect you. You solve the dilemma for him, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate circle. The movement sends a jolt of pleasure through him, and he can't stop the low groan that escapes his lips.

"See?" you murmur, a triumphant glint in your eyes. "You're not done. And neither am I."

He's lost. He knows it. There's no fighting you, not when you look at him like that, not when your body is calling to his, a siren's song of blood and sex and love.

He gives in.

He starts to move again, a slow, deep, grinding rhythm that's designed to make you fall apart. He leans down, his lips hovering over the wound on your neck. He doesn't bite, not again, but he can't resist the urge to taste. He licks at the blood, a slow, gentle lap of his tongue that makes you shudder.

"Channie" you whine, your hands sliding down his back, your nails scoring his skin. He's so close, he can feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the familiar tightening in his balls. He wants to wait for you, wants to feel you come apart around him, but he's not sure he can hold on.

"Let go for me," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me feel you."

And you do. Your back arches, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your inner walls clench around him, a series of tight, rhythmic spasms that pull him right over the edge with you. He follows you into the abyss, his own release a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that leaves him empty and spent and whole.

He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He can still taste you, can still smell you, and the hunger is finally quiet, a sated beast purring in the depths of his soul.

You're the one who breaks the silence. "Jeongin's going to be so jealous," you say, your voice a sleepy, satisfied murmur.

Chan lifts his head, a real smile, a genuine, untroubled smile, finally gracing his lips. The thought of the others, of the world outside this room, feels distant and unimportant. Here, with you, he's just a man in love.

He shifts to the side, pulling you with him so you're tangled together, a mess of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek.

He looks at the wound on your neck, the two small, dark marks that are a stark reminder of what he is. The pride he feels is a dark, twisted thing, but it's there all the same. You wear his mark. You are his. And he is yours.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, his touch gentle as he traces the puncture wounds.

"A little," you admit, nuzzling into his hand. "In a good way. Like a good workout. A pleasant ache."

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "You're something else."

"You knew that when you picked me," you say, your eyes drifting shut. You're exhausted, spent, and completely at peace.

He watches you drift off to sleep, your breathing evening out, your body relaxing against his. The streetlight outside casts a soft glow across your face, illuminating the smattering of freckles across your nose. He wants to memorize every detail, to burn this moment into his memory so he can carry it with him when he's away.

He presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead, a stark contrast to the primal violence of just moments before. He'll clean you up, he'll change the sheets, he'll bring you water in the morning. He'll take care of you. It's the least he can do.

He settles back against the pillows, pulling you closer, and just watches you sleep. He's a monster, a creature of the night, a predator. But here, in this room, with you, he's just Chan. And for now, that's enough.

✩ Star's Taglist: @karlee10261990, @niku0704, @fizzy0719 ✩ Comment here to be added or send me an ask

     You had a routine. Every night, after an eight to ten hour shift at work, you liked to take the train home. It was the fastest way there and you loved riding alone, completely isolated and listening to music until you eventually reached your stop and started the short walk back home. The night air was peaceful, the lack of socializing gave you time to decompress, and even though most didn't like being out at night, you thrived in the dark. Always had, ever since childhood. There was always a pleasant feeling that came with walking around whenever you were forced to, enjoying the moment of tranquility and freedom for as long as you were able. 

     Tonight was supposed to be the same, until you noticed the man getting on the train after you. How he kept his head held high, dark bangs framing his face while his leather trench coat billowed behind him. The man was dressed rather formally under that jacket, too, and when he turned his head toward you, you noticed the strange eyes that met your own. Heterochromatic, except one was a stark white, almost like paper. It startled you, especially when the man grinned wide and took his seat across from you. The smile showed off his dimples, eyes crinkled in what could be described as a sweet expression, though his vibe threw you off completely. Something about him didn’t sit right with you.

     When he sat down, you shifted out of discomfort, returning his smile with a stiff one of your own before looking down at your phone, hoping to ignore him. The train started up and took off, sending you straight into a tunnel where the dim lights shined brighter overhead. They flickered, creating moments of complete darkness that made your body tense, your grip tight around your phone as you scrolled idly through random posts you didn’t care for. He was just sitting there you, quiet. The lights stopped flickering and you chanced a glance, finding him staring back at you. Watching.

     “Nice night tonight.” Classic line. As he spoke, you noticed both an accent and something shining in his mouth, squinting to catch what it was. Only for him to stop, making you blink and focus back on the small talk he was trying to indulge in with you. 

     “It is.” Your expression gave away your awkwardness, pretending to be friendly so he would leave you alone. Then, you looked back to your phone, trying to give him the subtle hint that you weren’t up for conversation. To your surprise, he didn’t engage with you any further. Just hummed, went silent, and that was as far as the interaction went. Though, you did catch him staring a few times. First, at your face, and then strangely enough, he would glance at your neck.

     The train ended up stopping and he didn’t take his eyes off you once as you stood from your seat, walking over to the doors to get the fuck out of there.

     “Get home safe.” Creep.

     That wasn’t the first time you’d seen him, either. The next night, right after you got off of work, you saw him at the train station. Sitting on one of the benches with his back straight and hands on his laps. At first, you were nervous to be near him, so you stood a good several feet away, hidden from sight. However, once the train came, you had no choice but to board it with him, shuffling from behind the corner and stiffening when his eyes met yours again. At your approach, he paused in front of the door, then stepped back and gestured for you to get on before him. A real gentleman, you were sure.

     Every time after that was the same. You would see each other at the station, he would let you on first, and then he would start idle conversation. After the first three times where you were very standoffish, you gave in and finally started to respond. Especially the week after you first met where your day was at its roughest and you needed someone to vent to. He sat there, nodding along, listening to your rambles with a patient, welcoming disposition that slowly started to gain your trust. The man was odd, but he was kind. Sweet, a good listener. Someone you’d been yearning for all this time. Still, he unnerved you more often than not, so you kept him at arm’s length.

     “You know, all these times we’ve talked to each other and you never told me your name.” He’d mentioned randomly one night, right in the middle of telling you about his job as a prison warden. A job you didn’t expect him to have, no doubt, though you supposed you couldn’t have guessed his profession if you tried. His getup was so strange to you; didn't seem like it belonged to a warden of all things.

     Against your better judgement, you gave him your name. He smiled.

     “It’s nice to meet you. Call me Chan.”

     Introductions were officially out of the way and it seemed that was his sign to keep conversations going every time you saw each other, and you hated to admit that you rather enjoyed his company. It was nice to be able to talk to someone, no matter how offputting they tended to be, because by God was he offputting at times. 

     “You alright? You’ve been staring for, like, ten minutes.” This time, it was you initiating the interaction, breaking the silence to finally get down to the bottom of something that had been bothering you since you met the guy. 

     “You smell nice.” Chan’s demeanor didn’t change one bit. He was calm, collected, answering you as if his response was one that explained everything. Your reaction was instantaneous, lips curling into a frown while your brows furrowed over narrowed eyes. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Before you could’ve asked, he tilted his head, eyes darting down to your neck again. “Those scented oils you wear. They smell really good.”

     … Oh. So he’d probably just seen you rubbing them onto yourself, then. That made sense, you supposed. He liked the smell and couldn’t help but consistently look at the source. 

     “Oh. Thank you.”

     “You don’t have to wear them, though. It covers up how you smell naturally.” Right, okay, that was weird. Definitely weird, right? You tried to hide your unease, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of your jacket.

     “Yeah, that’s kinda the point.” 

     “Just think you shouldn’t have to, is all. You would smell perfectly fine without them.” He shrugged, his nonchalance easing your mind, as well. Maybe you were freaking out over nothing. Chan was weird, but he hadn’t been creepy towards you in the slightest. Probably just didn’t think you had to wear it, since it was late and there were no other people around to appease. No one but him.

     Then there was the night a few days after that where you’d asked about the metal pieces in his mouth. A grin pulled at his lips, though unlike his usual smiles that seemed sweet and cute, this one sent shivers down your spine. Flashing said metal pieces that were pointed at the tips, covering his canines, he licked across his teeth and you watched his tongue drag over the shiny material. Something inside of you responded rather quickly to the visual, breath caught in your chest while your eyes locked onto his lips. Pillowy and soft, inviting in the worst way possible.

     “Do you like them?” The question left you more than a little flustered, face feeling hot while your eyes widened. Unsure of how to respond, you just nodded, nibbling on your lip.

     “They look cool. Kinda like vampire teeth.” At that, he quirked a brow.

     “You don’t say. Wanna feel them?” What? Despite your apprehension, you once again nodded your head, more than a little eager, leading him to chuckle and rise up from his spot across from you. Leisurely, he walked across the train with ease and took a seat next to you. The closest you’d ever been, besides the times he would let you through the door before him, your shoulder brushing his chest as you crossed the threshold. Now, you could feel his jacket touching you. There was no warmth coming off of him, and yet you found yourself readjusting to be just a bit closer, thigh touching his.

     Chan took your hand in his own, fingers gently wrapping around yours, then he brought it to his face and opened his mouth. Plush lips parted and you didn’t hesitate to just go for it, index finger tapping one of the fangs out of curiosity. Just as you thought, it was sharp, so much so it left an indent on your skin just from touching it. You pulled away, but you couldn’t keep yourself from gawking at them.

     “Why do you wear them?” Part of you was almost scared to ask, but like the mismatched colors of his eyes, the fangs enticed you. The fact that he wore them so casually and didn’t seem to ever go without them.

     “They help me eat.” Was all he gave you. Disbelief led you to scoff, clearly doubting such a response.

     “Be honest. You like cosplaying, don’t you? That’s totally a contact in your eye.” Chan didn’t seem offended. Instead, he looked amused by your accusations, an easygoing grin taking the place of that too-wide smile. His eyes flicked down to your neck again, right before meeting your gaze with a look you couldn’t decipher. Something primal crept up your spine like a chill, making your hairs stand on end and your body become rigid.

     “You think I go to work in a costume?” He got you there, huh? Now, you were just embarrassed, stammering over your words after being proven wrong. Most likely wrong, at least. “Would you like to see how I use them?”

     You went silent. Confused on what he meant, since he didn’t seem to have any food with him or anything.

     “There’s nothing to eat?”

     “Think about it.” You did, your brain working overtime to figure out what the fuck he meant by that, because there was absolutely nothing around to demonstrate. Rather than wasting your time trying to come up with an answer, you decided to just find out.

     “Show me.” Something in those dark eyes lit up. Chan visibly perked at your retort, licking those faux fangs again before cocking his head, shuffling closer to you. His arm slid across the seat behind your back, resting there while the other remained on his lap. Clenched in a fist, as if in resistance. You watched as he swallowed thickly and allowed his eyes to drop downwards.

     “Close your eyes. Lean your head back.” Was he about to pretend to bite you? With a humored huff, you gave him a look of baffled interest, wondering where he was going with this. The thought of his mouth on your neck was both nerve wracking and exciting, for some reason. You didn’t know him well, definitely not well enough to let his teeth get close to your skin. Maybe you were the freak here. Nevertheless, you sighed and let your eyes fall shut, head falling back with your arms crossed over your chest. Chan inhaled sharply. “Perfect, just like that.”

     When his thumb touched your neck, you flinched, but then forced yourself to relax as he brushed it along your skin. Rubbed it, actually. Like he was trying to take something off. Then, he leaned in again and sniffed you, groaning while his free hand moved to rest just under your jaw.

     “You’re perfect. Hold still for me, okay?” Sharp pain. It happened so quickly you were stunned, eyes shooting open, feeling two small pricks on the side of your throat, sinking deeper into your flesh until you started to bleed. His mouth settled over the wound and you could feel his tongue lapping at it, suckling and coating your skin in saliva. Just as quickly as the pain started, however, it fled. Left your body relaxed, shoulders slouched with one of your hands resting limp on his shoulder.

     “What? Oh, my god-” It felt nice, all of a sudden. Your mind was clouded by a wave of euphoria, veins buzzing beneath your skin while his every touch on your body left you so much warmer, filled with tingles and light as a feather. Chan readjusted your position, the arm on the back of your seat moving to cradle your head with his hand while his other arm wrapped around you to pull you flush against him. Head fuzzy, you moved your hands to his chest and rested them there, moaning softly and leaning into his touch. He made a low rumbling sound, the things in your neck withdrawing so he could lick and suck at the wounds left behind.

     “Fuck, that’s good,” His voice in your ear made your body shudder in his grasp, hands clawing at his jacket as if begging him to take it off. “Shh, I got you. Just a little more.”

     He dove back in. Bit the other side of your neck, your whimpers filling the train around you as the lights above flickered and flashed. Why did it feel like that? It felt like you were high, but not, just an intense moment of bliss that had you craving so much more. To be bitten again and again and again-

     Chan allowed you to push his jacket just off his shoulders, your hands moving to his hair and neck, clinging to him like your life depended on it. At that moment, it probably did.

     “Please.” You managed to whisper, pulling him closer, one of your legs hooking around his hip to draw him in and never let him go. His laughter made your heart race faster, that hand on your waist moving down to gently push at your thigh just as he withdrew again.

     “Not here.” That didn’t please you in the slightest. Before you could even really start whining, start pleading, he shushed you again. Gave one last lick to the open wounds on your neck before covering them with his gloved hands. “I know. I’ve been waiting for so long, you have no idea, but we have to be patient, okay baby?”

     “Need you.” His gaze softened, a hand brushing the hair out of your face.

     “I need you, too.” He leaned forward, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon. I promise. You’ll be mine again.”

     “Chan-?” 

     With one last flash of lights, he was gone. You felt freezing cold. Lonely, a sense of emptiness growing deep within your chest and spreading all throughout your body. It was as if a piece of you had left with him, the pleasant haze vanishing the second he was gone, bringing your attention to the soreness coming from the wounds on your neck. 

A grimace took shape on your face as you brought your fingers to the two tiny holes, only to find that there was no blood. He'd licked the wounds clean. Why did he do that? Did you really just let him... Although you wanted to be angry, all you felt was an unshakeable craving. A craving for him and all the feelings and sensations he brought with him. Not even just that indescribable euphoria, but his presence as a whole. Something about him drew you in and now you would never be able to let go.

The train had stopped. Rising from your feet on trembling legs, you grabbed onto the railing to keep yourself from collapsing, stumbling out the door and onto the street outside. 

Unaware of the eyes in the darkness that followed you all the way home.

Thanks for reading!! I hope you guys are excited for this series!!

Taglist:

@chikmentendies

@banana-creampie

“You’re joking,” Chris stares at you in disbelief.

“No sir, I’m not jaurking at all. Rules are rules,” you purse your lips. “Unless she likes you, we can’t have sex.”

“But baby, she hates me!” he vehemently protests. “I don’t think I ever walked out of this house without a scratch, and I mean that literally.”

“Well, never say never,” you knowingly grin at him. “I was convinced I’d never hear you call me baby one day, but that happened, so…”

Aaaand you’re wet.

When he does that stupid thing with his stupid dimples, your brain turns off. If he adds that stupid giggle frosting on top, your heart melts.

And motherfucker knows that because the night you finally, and very much drunkenly, confessed your feelings to each other, that was word for word what you said to him!

“You wanted me to call you baby that much?” he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Are you trying to charm me into caving?” you put your hands on his shoulders.

“Is it working?” he speaks against your lips.

When does it not, though, this MOTHERFUCKER!

Every time he takes your lips within his, your spine immediately evaporates. Willpower? Nope. Feminism? Never heard of her.

But if you fold like the wettest napkin even at make-believe, then what the hell are you gonna do if you will have to stand your ground one day?

“NO!” you stop him with a smack on his peach-shaped ass. “My word is final. She either purrs on your chest, or we’re not doing it.”

“Oh, come ON!”

You quickly remove yourself from the room to go take a cold shower because you don’t believe a word of what you just said. If he kisses you for ten more seconds, you will jump him yourself, and in a very Victorian-man-seeing-an-ankle fashion. If you can survive tonight, then you can train yourself to not turn into a fucking puddle every time he blasts the puppy eyes at you. And also…

Chris might be one of the better apples of the bunch, but he’s still a man. You kinda wanna see how long it’ll take him to snap and get aggressive on the seduction.

And it’s kinda hot to think about.

Thanks to whatever stars aligned, you’ve managed to survive the night despite his sexy as hell scent, his habit of sleeping naked, and even the discreet dry humping incident. Come the morning, you pat yourself on the shoulder for a job well done, and almost wheeze at the hysterical sight of a morning wood situation going on. Though the comedy lasts for only about five seconds when you’re suddenly consumed with this urge to taste him.

You slap yourself to get it together and make a mental note of the three different wake up calls you want to try on Chris starting tomorrow morning.

After a quick shower, you get ready for work and head to the kitchen for your caffeine intake, but you don’t know what to make of the bizarre sight you’re met with. Chris is crouching on the living room floor, not moving an inch.

“Baby, what are you doing?” you cackle at the weird tactical assault position.

“Slow blinking,” he explains in lowercase letters. “I heard that’s how cats show affection.”

Oh my GOD?!

Well, no, you did not think he would actually go for it, thank you very much, but there’s your big buff Samoyed man, trying to make himself as small for your palm-sized girl as he can so he wouldn’t look as threatening. AT 7 AM IN THE MORNING!

You didn’t have any intention to actually abide by your arbitrary rule, but on the other hand, this show seems very bingeable.

Within the next few days, Chris becomes a total catthropologist, studying every single detail about Magda. Wherever he randomly runs into her, he kneels and extends his hand so she gets used to his scent. He picks up on her quirky habit of stashing hair ties all over the house, buys an entire pack to “hunt” with her, and even goes out of his way to fill up half the snack cabinet with tasty treats.

“Don’t spoil her this much!” you whine upon seeing the newest Churu pack.

“Hey, everything is fair in love and war, and this is active fucking warfare that you started,” Chris refutes, pointing at you. “I’m conditioning her to think I’m a tube machine; I don’t give a fuck.”

That evening, you finally come home after working so late, wondering what kind of hilarity you’ll be greeted by this time. At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if you find Chris actually building a parkour for Magda.

“Hey, baby, I’m home,” you call out towards the TV sound. “Are you watching a Big Cats documentary or something?”

When you walk into the living room, your heart almost pops like a champagne.

It’s not a Big Cats documentary, but there is a bird feeder livestream on the screen. Chris has dozed off on the couch, several hair ties scattered on the floor like gigantic Froot Loops, and Magda has turned into a croissant on his chest like the fluffiest sleep paralysis demon in existence.

Oh, it’s so cute, you’re gonna DIE!

You take a short video of the wholesomest thing you’ve ever seen and snap a few pictures back to back, then head towards them, gently sitting on the couch to not disturb either. Magda instantly wakes up and moves to your lap to continue her nap. You caress Chris’s rioting curls for a while with a fond smile on your face, and eventually overcome by your excessive adoration, you place a big kiss on his forehead.

“Mm, welcome home, baby,” he greets you with a smile, then proudly declares. “I think I’ve made some progress today.”

“Yeah?”

“But I think I still have some ways to go,” he rubs his eyes and sits up. “Is it cheating if I suggestively meow at her?”

Is it weird that you suddenly want to have his babies? WHY IS HE BEING SO ADORABLE?

“Why don’t you suggestively meow at me first?” you scratch under his chin, and he immediately flinches. 

“Baby, please, I’m… I’m not…”

“You what?”

“How do I put this delicately? I’ve been, um…” he scratches his nape sheepishly, “saving all my love for you, so…”

You crack up at his choice of words and grab your phone, presenting the evidence to end his misery.

“NO FUCKING WAY, THAT DID NOT HAPPEN!” he borderline screams, scaring Magda into hiding.

“I believe the saying goes as ‘Pics or it didn’t happen’, but suit yourself,” you lock your screen.

“That means she likes me now, right? RIGHT?” he asks again just to confirm. “That has to be like third base in cat-timacy.”

“I think so,” you feign cluelessness.

“Then can we now please, but please,” he cozies up to you, “do other stuff than cuddling?

“I can’t fucking believe you,” you finally burst out laughing. “I really thought you would just go ‘fuck this’ like on day two.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he frowns. “You told me we can’t have sex unless she purred on my chest.”

“And it’s very cute that you believed it,” you squish his cheeks, “but I had every intention of fucking you tonight no matter what because enough is enough.”

“YOU’RE TELLING ME I DIDN’T HAVE TO PUT MYSELF THROUGH THIS AND THAT AT ALL?”

“Well, no, BUT!” you point at him, “because you did, you deserve a very special treat.”

“Y–Yeah?” he instantly backpedals, loving what he’s hearing. “What–What kind of a treat?”

“Anything you want,” you whisper into his ear.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” he folds in half like he’s about to cum.

“As if you’re capable of asking for something freaky,” you let out a hearty laugh. “I’ve known you my whole life. The most you’ll ask, IF you can, is maybe anal.”

“And if I ask… you’ll…” he hesitantly asks. “You’ll do it?”

“Do you want our first time to be anal?”

“I’m asking, like… hypothetically at SOME point in time but maybe like next week since it’s my birthday,” he rapid-fire raps the sentence to tackle his embarrassment to the ground. “Would you say yes?”

“If you can persuade me,” you rub the tip of his reddened ears teasingly.

“Oh, I’m gonna eat your pussy so hard, you’ll black out.”

And that’s Chris’s all-time favorite kiss. The kind where he kisses into your smile. Your laughter. Your giggles. Because every time without fail, he contracts it from you, and you end up laughing like idiots in the middle of kissing.

Every time without fail, you fall deeper in love with each other.

“Well, since I can have anything,” he tucks your hair behind your ear, “I do have a special request.”

He whispers it in your ear as if there is a crowd in the room that shouldn’t hear your intimate secrets. You can’t help but laugh again, and after giving him one last kiss, you head to the bedroom to get ready. Shortly after, you emerge again and find Chris in the kitchen doing the dishes, tightly wrapping your arms around his waist to press your breasts on his back.

He’s so excited, you can actually feel his body perk up at your touch.

“No looking,” you tickle his sides as a threat and turn him towards the bedroom door, still behind him. “Come this way, lover boy.”

The ambiance is just right with the dim lights and the scent of Chris’s favorite candles on the nightstand, and when you enter the bedroom, his heart starts beating in his ears. He sits on the bed, covering his eyes per your request. You close the door, finally ready to present yourself.

“Alright, you can look now.”

He opens one eye first, and his face immediately falls, completely awestruck. He thickly swallows and his lips part, leaving you wondering just how the heck he can breathe this heavily from only this much. He extends one hand to you to come closer, and you catwalk your way to him, clad in nothing but fishnet stockings and high heels, perching on his lap.

“Let the record show that I love and respect you very very much,” he utters staring at your breasts, excited to the point of a blackout.

“Where did that come from all of a sudden?” you snort.

“Because I’m about to fuck you like you’re my government-assigned whore.”

You let slip a little shriek through your giggles when he slams you on the mattress, inhaling your lips as he guides you both towards the headboard. You are so consumed by your lust for him that you’re about to shred his clothes to pieces. You almost cum untouched when he stands on his knees, letting you take in the overwhelming beauty of his gorgeous physique. How he looks like he’s sculpted by gods. How he looks like he’s made of marble. How everything on his body is so hard, and how his cock is leaking like it’s about to burst.

You gasp when he tangles his fingers into the fishnets and tears the fabric just around the crotch area.

“You’ve been dying to bounce on this for days, haven’t you?” he makes you palm his girth, throwing his head back when you gently squeeze it. “Had fun dragging me through hell?”

“Yes,” you shamelessly smirk at him.

“Can’t believe I’ll finally get to taste you,” he growls as he descends between your legs. “But gotta check something first.”

He puts his thumb on your mound and his pinky right under your stomach, seemingly measuring something.

“What are you doing?” you chuckle.

“Nothing,” he purses his lips. “Just reference.”

“Reference for w— OH MY GOD, CHRIS!”

He doesn’t hear the question. He doesn’t hear anything other than how you moan his name and the lewd sounds he makes on your sopping wet pussy, losing himself in the taste he’s been yearning for for years.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he inaudibly whispers into you. “And now all mine.”

You don’t need to hear it—you feel each and every one of those words echo in your ribcage, and they inflate your heart to a size that takes up all the space in your chest. It’s true. And now he’s all yours too.

You have never loved anything as much as you love this man.

“S–So close. Please,” you reach for his hands. “Baby, I’m almost there. A little fa— Oh, yes, like that. Like that. God, I’m gonna cum so hard for you…”

You say “for you”, and something explodes within Chris. He starts moaning into you so loudly that it’s as if he’s trying to say something through screams. You don’t need to hear it. You too would die for him in a heartbeat.

For the first time in your life, as your entire body gets shocked from head to toe, you moan an “I love you” when you cum.

Without giving you a moment’s respite, he flips you over and takes a delicious bite from your ass, ripping the fabric covering your hips completely.

“On fours for me,” he instructs with a gentle tap on your thighs, pumping himself to full hardness, then presses his tip against your oozing entrance. “Teases are the worst kinds of flirts, baby. You had this coming.”

“YES!”

He rams his cock into you, unwittingly sending himself to another dimension. He’s lost count of how many times he’s imagined this exact moment, but no matter how vividly he’s tried picturing it, it could never compare to the real thing.

“Harder,” you grit your teeth. “Go harder. I can take it.”

“Mm, good girl. Gooood girl. Learning to take your man properly,” he pulls your hair a little, grazing his teeth against your jawline. “Feels full, yeah?”

“So much,” you claw at the pillows. “So… S–So full…”

“All for you. It’s all for you. Taking it so well, my beautiful angel,” he leaves wet kisses all over your neck. “Turn around. Let me see your pretty face.”

He quickly realigns himself, but takes his sweet time sinking in, loving the way his cock disappears into you. He sucks in such a sharp breath in delight, his face all contorted, dying of how maddeningly pleasurable your pussy feels around him. He suddenly throws your legs on his shoulders and leans forward, making you whimper at the sensation.

“So fucking wet for me. Your walls are soooo swollen, baby,” he pants as he picks up his pace, fingertips sinking deeper into your flesh. “I could totally knock you up like this.”

“Trying to be my baby daddy?” you flash him a fucked out smile.

To your absolute surprise, Chris lets out a very loud exhale and throbs inside you so hard that you feel it in your stomach.

“Oh my GOD, really?!”

“SHUT UP! I’ve always wanted to be a father,” he tries to bury his embarrassment under the bed. “So what if I want it to be with the love of my life?”

“I’m…” you look up at him, on the brink of tears for no reason. “I’m the love of your life?”

“You can’t be serious,” he slows way down and lowers himself to be closer to you. “Did an entire decade we’ve known each other NOT tip you off?”

If happiness had a shape, it would be in the shape of Chris. You’re so endeared, you start laughing all of a sudden, pulling him into a kiss. You don’t even understand how that can happen. You can physically feel yourself to be at the absolute capacity of the love you can hold for him, but every time you kiss, you still fall deeper in love.

Every single time without fail.

“I love you. God, I love you so much,” he drowns your face in pecks. “You’re my everything.”

“What I’m about to say might make you shrivel like a prune, but I’m just gonna,” you blurt out.

“W–What is it?”

“I want a forever with you, Chris.”

You didn’t need to say it—he knows. He’s known all this time. But when he finally hears it directly spilling from your lips, he feels each and every one of those words echo in his ribcage, and they inflate his heart to a size that takes up all the space in his chest.

He has never loved anything as much as he loves you.

“Then it’s yours,” he holds your face. “Everything I have, everything I am, all of it is yours forever.”

“Cum inside me,” you hold onto his shoulders. “Let me have you.”

“No, cum with me,” he urges. “Go on baby, cum with me.”

Any other person in the world, and a climax is a total gamble. The odds are never in your favor because the house always wins. But when it’s with Chris, it’s terrifying how easy it is. When the man you’ve been in love with your whole life just asks for it, turns out it’s the same thing as having him devour you between your legs for hours on end. It feels like you merge into this single entity when he finally finally empties himself inside you with loud cries of your name. And you wish you could spend the rest of your life in this bed in each other’s arms, just letting him rest on your chest as much as he wants while you stroke his hair.

God fucking knows he’s been running far too fast for far too long.

When you finally come to your senses, a sound steals your attention, which alerts you that Magda is about to scratch her way into the bedroom. You welcome the cuntress in as you leave to get some water, and she immediately bolts towards the bed. When you return with a sweating glass bottle, you find her on top of Chris, shoving her tiny head into the crook of his neck.

“Oh crap, this early in the relationship, and I already have to share you?” you giggle, bursting with endearment. “I really didn’t think this through, did I?”

“Nah, it’s fine. We’ll just get a big ass doggo brother for her, and he’ll snuggle with you,” he puts out the remnants of the wildfire inside him with the ice-cold water, then threateningly points at you with his eyes psychotically widened. “Don’t even think about revoking sex until his training is complete, or I swear to god I’ll fucking riot!”

❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to co-parent a stray with Chris.

This is a one shot. There is no part two.

「© 2026, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」