ੈ✩ warnings: reader has a panic attack, implied reference to previous toxic relationship
ੈ✩ synopsis: you see someone that looks like your ex in a museum, and that’s enough to send you over the edge these days. Your friends call felix, the only one that can stop your panic attacks.
ੈ✩ word count: 2.2k
ੈ✩ photos credits: Pinterest
ੈ✩ Repost from AO3 (yyngbk)
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊ *ੈ
HAPPY PRIDEEEEE !!!! 🤩🤩 no but srsly to all my trans sisters and brothers have a wonderful month 💜
Sorry for the gap the corporate world was beating my ass. . . But this man has been controlling my mind recently. . . (Like watching his old lives at work)
Anyways enjoy !!! Please be aware of warnings 💜
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊ *ੈ
—————————————————————————
“Yeah she um… saw something”
You were curled up, sat on a cold marble ledge. It froze you through to your core, and even with your platform shoes, you could feel the cold of the ground too.
“Something that she thought looked like him… it wasn’t though, but it still sent her off”
And that didn’t help the way your limbs were already locking together. You could feel your thighs squeeze against your hips as you tensed. It ached but you couldn’t stop, and you’d had way too many of these to know resisting it just made it tighter.
“Are you sure? We don’t want to inconvenience you… it’s just we’ve all tried, but she’s just getting worse”
Your kneecaps rattled together and your shoulders locked, sending your arms into a shaky mess. Your head dropped and stared barrenly at your hands, only partially visible through the tears filling your eyes.
“Thanks Felix, means a lot”, your friend concluded before taking the phone from her ear and hanging up. Even at that, her voice muffled as she spoke. The pounding in your head was ceaseless and rhythmic.
You’d seen someone who looked like… let’s say some guy. It wasn’t him. But it was close enough. And now you were locked up in a position you couldn’t move from. Your breathing was already turning your head dizzy, and god knows you couldn’t try to snap out of it. It encompassed your whole brain.
Your friend said something close to your ear but you couldn’t hear. At this stage you weren’t even perceiving that you were in public anymore. On the third floor of the museum just past the renaissance paintings. In a corner enough to be ignored, but still seen and gawked at by passerbys.
—
Felix gave a short wave to your friends with a cheesy (definitely forced) grin as he rounded the corner past the paintings. As he knelt down in front of you, you could tell he was out of breath, even if he tried to hide it. He pushed his hair out of his face and began speaking into the ether, as you certainly couldn’t look at him right now.
“Hey hey hey angel I’m here… I made it”
“I’m here alright”
His tone was purposefully gentle and low, enough to send any normal person to sleep on the spot. He knew he had to repeat himself so you’d actually hear it. Even so, his words broke through your ears in crackles still, and you clamped your eyes shut.
“Sorry I took so long… ok?”
His apology was ridiculous, but your brain was too fogged to think about that.
He began soft rotations of his fingers on your left kneecap. Your abdomen constricted at the feeling, but after a moment or two, began to let loose. Being touched in this state was probably the worst thing anyone could do, but you have to start somewhere. And he knew exactly how to start. After a few minutes the circles numbed your knee, and it felt like his fingers had melted into your skin.
“Did something scare you, my princess… did you… see something?”
He ducked his head left, and then right, trying to catch your eye as you ran from his gaze. You could tell how carefully he chose and placed his words. Wanting to understand but not needing to know.
Your body had boxed itself off and was punching itself over and over. Your abdomen lurched in pain once in a while, making you almost throw up. Your shoulders turned even tighter.
What you didn’t realise was that, after a while, you could finally hear his every word without a fuzz and a pound between each phrase.
He left it a few more moments just rubbing your knee, knelt on the marble floor in front of you. Another sting to your abdomen sent your head flying up into a painful gulp, your eyes clamped shut once again.
“Hey”, he almost whispered. Your eyes creaked open, focused on the floor
“Hey, can I see my girl?”
Your eyes shifted to your hand. A blink sent a tear spiralling to your hand, unblurring your vision and making you see how white your knuckles had turned from gripping your jeans.
“Can I see her… please?”
You still didn’t have any control. But your eyes darted back and forth in his direction. 25% towards him, then 50%. And then finally.
“There we are, that’s my girl”, he sighed, with a twinge of relief himself. This was the hardest part, for him at least. Snapping your head out of itself and getting your focus. He finally had something to work with.
He beamed at you and shut his eyes for a second. You knew you looked a mess and started to perceive it. He looked at you with nothing but adoration, but you could feel your over-heating, tear-stained cheeks and quivering bottom lip. You mentally gave yourself a kick for being such a child, and dropped your head again.
This time, something blocked your movement and Felix met your eyes again. You saw his arm in your lower line of sight, meaning his hand was extended just under your chin.
“Just focus on me baby ok?”
“It’s just me and you here no one else ok”
He spoke slowly, shaking his head in the second sentence but eyes locked hard on yours. He went silent for a second and you began to notice his slow and timely breathing.
It was a few minutes, or maybe hours, you’d still lost track of time, before either of you spoke again. You just watched him breathe and kept yourself in those deep brown eyes that felt like a hug.
You gave a hard blink and a gulp at another hammer in the back of your head, and he took his chance. You felt two fingers slide between your kneecaps to pry your locked knees apart. A part of you tried to resist, but the numbness of your left knee rendered the attempt ineffective. He quickly slid forward, still on his knees but knelt a little higher, fitting comfortably between your legs. You could feel his presence now, and even his breath on your skin.
“Thank you, princess”, he whispered to your right ear, as if he was talking to the real you trapped somewhere inside your brain.
You offered a gulp and a nod before staring at the floor again. Your arms still shook, legs now tremoring on the floor without the ability to lock together. Moving closer and sitting up had meant he was well out of your line of sight. No brown eyes to focus on. But only for a second, that was.
He gently and swiftly curled his fingers round your palms, unlocking them from the crumpled fabric of your jeans. He held your hands delicately but firmly, immediately rubbing circles on the back of your hands with his thumbs.
Your head bolted up out of shock. That other part of your body had taken this as the greatest insult, and your breath hitched, eyes agape and brow furrowed as you turned up to look at him. He’d laid the ultimate trap, as you were almost instantly locked into those brown eyes again. His brow furrowed itself as he began to speak.
“Just breathe with me ok angel?”
You didn’t hear the first part, but that was the last attempt the ringing in your ears made to come back. He began to exaggerate breaths up through his nose and out through his mouth, lips prettily pouting in the motion. It was an exaggerated act, and you started to perceive yourself in public again, but his eyes were serious.
You forced your breath to match his, or at least roughly. Your first breath in was staggered like a cliff face, but the breath out almost felt like you were going to pass out. You held back another abdomen attack and almost threw up, only stopping yourself by clenching your eyes shut.
“It’s ok”, he said earnestly with a tilt of his head. He wrapped his finger tips just round the top of your ear, probably pushing some hair back. It most certainly wasn’t ok.
“Let’s try again maybe?”
The way he looked at you was without any pressure but you felt like you couldn’t let him down. Not twice. You nodded briefly before he subtly smiled, and you tried mirroring his deep breaths again.
Once and then twice, in and out. It was hitched and a mess, but breath went in and then out. Roughly there right?
A third time too, your eyes bolted on his.
And then a fourth. Your knees began to tremor even worse but he pretended not to feel it against his hip. It gave you the confidence to ignore it and go for another breath.
Five and then six. You hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t really leading anymore, and you were equally breathing in tandem.
“Oh that’s my brave girl, just like that”
He detached his eyes from yours for half a second to brush a lock on the other side of your head behind your ear. A very small part of you panicked at his eyes drifting away, but your breathing was too rhythmic now. You could still feel his warm, soft hand on your left hand.
Your breathing remained the same. Felix gently knelt down, lower this time, after tucking your hair back, finally getting a good view of you and the mess you were in. He’d stopped doing his heavy breathing but you were still copying the rhythm. It wasn’t long enough to let it go just yet, but he knew you’d reached that point. He’d dragged you far enough out the cave.
“That’s my good girl”, he mouthed with a tilted head and a smile like a puppy.
He gently encompassed your right kneecap with his palm, lowering it to the ground and stopping the tremor in an instant. For the first time in what seemed like hours, you realised not one part of you was shaking.
You felt a stillness, finally, in your body. Like a calm pond. Slowly, your breaths became less exaggerated, just like he’d done moments ago. You just looked into each other’s eyes and said nothing. He was slowly rubbing your thigh with his hand, and still politely smiling at you with those perfect rose shining lips.
“Are you alright princess?”
You nodded, and you meant it. He looked relieved, but a new dread filled from the bottom of your stomach. Your body was calm, but the gut punches from your abdomen still left marks. The adrenaline of the panic attack had been masking how bad they were all along. No more kicks to the stomach, but the residue pain was unbearable.
“It hurts so so much”, you muttered under your breath. Your gaze was turned down again but this time it didn’t matter. You were out of the attack; this was something different.
“What was that my baby?”. His concern was devastating.
“Angel”, you said, looking at him now. You held back tears so hard you could feel the muscles twist behind your eyes. He met your face with wide doey eyes.
“It hurts so much”.
You flung yourself into his torso and he immediately enveloped you in a hug. His right arm reached around your back, and left hand laid gently on the back of your head, pulling you into his chest. He gave a soft rub with his hand on your head right where the pounding used to be, as if he knew.
You clawed gently at his cotton shirt, and began to cry lightly into it too. Did this look like another breakdown? Yeah. But this was more a release of emotion. A release of everything that was built up over that attack. You just sat and whimpered between tears, feeling utterly useless and pathetic.
“I know princess”, he started, “I know”
“I know it hurts”, he echoed, almost to himself.
At this point, although you couldn’t see it, he was tearing up a little too. He hated seeing you like this, and he’d do anything to pull you out of it. But seeing you cry was always the worst for him.
You just sat there still. People probably still passing by and gawking, not that they could see you with Felix’s arms shrouding you entirely.
“You're my brave girl, remember that ok?”, he started, interrupting the silence with clear and slow words, “you’re so so strong and I’m so proud of you”
He lifted your face to place a long, warm kiss on the centre of your forehead before enveloping your head once again. Just letting you sit there and recover, giving sensitive rubs of your lower back.
—
It was only that night that he brought it up again. Once you were fully out, and the stomach pain was only a memory. You were curled up, head on his chest to hear his soft heartbeat, his fingers curling around your hair. He said it was only 10 minutes to get you out of it this time. Last time it had been 17, and the time before that 49. The few times before that… you thought it best not to count.
He lifted you up and grabbed your face to kiss it all over, before leaving a lingering kiss on your lips.
You sat on your knees a little shocked. He was way more proud than you even were of yourself. And looking at the beam on his face, you realised no one could ever truly deserve someone like him.
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in which your friend felix introduces you to his friend group. you immediately know you're not going to get along with their leader. he's arrogant, controlling and becoming your number one enemy. but neither of you can deny the deep-rooted desire for each other.
mdni!
warnings: heavy sexual themes, enemies, fem reader, jerking off, mentions of porn, name calling (bitch/whore/slut), a little sprinkle of degradation, deep throating (choking on his cock), use of toys (vibrator), oral, fingering, marks (hickeys/bites), bondage, safe words, spanking, unprotected sex, breeding (let me know if i forgot anything), mentions of food
wc: 9.6k
based on this drabble
felix should have warned you before introducing you to his group. instead, he had only grinned the entire drive over, one hand lazily drumming against the steering wheel while saying things like “just don’t let chan scare you off.” as if that could have prepared you for what would happen.
but you understood the second you walked in. the room shifted around him. conversations paused when he spoke. people looked at him before making decisions. even sitting back against the couch with one arm slung over the backrest, chan carried himself like he owned the place and everyone inside it.
and apparently, everyone let him.
your first impression of him settled quickly: arrogant. controlling. the kind of man who expected obedience simply because he existed.
his first impression of you formed just as fast. too observant.
he noticed the way your eyes tracked everything, the way you watched interactions instead of trying to force yourself into them. most people met him and got nervous. eager to please. careful with their words.
you didn’t. worse, you looked at him like something didn't sit right.
felix introduced you with an easy grin, entirely unaware of the tension that sparked the moment chan’s gaze landed on you.
chan leaned back slightly, eyes dragging over you once before he gave a curt nod. “heard a lot about you.” you smiled politely but your tone sounded anything but. “ditto.”
a few people in the room choked on their drinks. felix looked between the two of you like he’d just realised he accidentally lit a match near gasoline.
chan's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. and that was the beginning of it.
after that, it became a pattern, predictable in the most irritating way possible. every time you showed up, chan noticed immediately.
it didn’t matter if he was mid-conversation, or across the room pretending not to pay attention, the second you walked in, his focus shifted. like some invisible thread pulled tight between you.
you noticed it too. the way his eyes found you first. always. and somehow, every single interaction between the two of you turned into a fight.
“we’re ordering from rossi’s,” chan announced one night from the kitchen, barely glancing up from his phone. “rossi’s is awful,” you said immediately.
a silence fell over the room. han muttered, “oh, here we go.” chan looked up slowly. “awful?”
“their pasta tastes microwaved.”
“it’s italian. one of the only italian places around here."
“that doesn’t automatically make it good.”
he stared at you for a second too long before scoffing softly. “you always this difficult?”
you leaned against the counter. “you always this bossy?”
his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile.
that should’ve warned you. because after that, he started seeking you out. deliberately.
if you sat somewhere, suddenly chan needed that exact spot. if you disagreed with something, he’d argue just to keep you talking longer. if someone else interrupted your banter, he looked annoyed by it.
and the worst part? you kept engaging. every single time.
“move,” he told you one evening when you stole his usual seat on the couch. you looked up from your drink. “there are six other places to sit.”
“that’s my spot.”
you scoffed, “sounds made up.” the room went quiet again. felix was already grinning into his drink.
chan stepped closer, towering over the couch while you refused to move even an inch. “you enjoy testing me.”
“you enjoy acting like a fucking dictator.”
“someone has to keep order around here.”
you snorted. “order? how dramatic."
his eyes narrowed. yours sparkled with amusement.
and there it was again, that awful little pull between irritation and entertainment that neither of you seemed capable of escaping.
because no matter how much chan acted annoyed by you, he kept looking for reasons to provoke you. he’d throw comments your way from across the room just to watch you snap back.
he learned exactly what got reactions out of you. the fastest way to make you glare. the quickest way to make you roll your eyes. the comments that made your lips twitch because you were trying not to laugh.
and god, he loved when you laughed. especially if it was usually at his expense.
“you know,” you said one night after he interrupted somebody for the fifth time, “normal people let others finish speaking.”
“normal people have useful things to say.”
you groaned in annoyance, “see? this is exactly why i can’t stand you.”
“funny." he drawled, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his drink, “why do you keep talking to me then?"
your stomach flipped annoyingly hard at that. because he was right. you looked away before anyone noticed the heat crawling into your face.
but later that night, while everyone else talked around him, you caught chan watching you from the other side of the room, completely focused, making it feel far more dangerous than the arguing ever had.
chan realised something was wrong the first time you followed him without actually being there.
he was at the studio, headphones hanging around his neck while he stared blankly at the unfinished track glowing on the monitor in front of him. one hand tapped impatiently against the desk. the bass loop repeated. and repeated. and repeated.
all because his brain kept replaying something stupid you’d said three nights ago. “you always act like you’re in charge even when nobody asked you to be.”
he could still hear the smugness in your voice. could still picture the look on your face when you’d said it.
“for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, dragging both hands over his face. it was ridiculous. you were ridiculous. annoying. argumentative. impossible.
so why the hell was he thinking about you while trying to work? even worse, why did the thought of you make his chest tighten strangely?
he shoved the feeling away immediately. hatred. obviously. that had to be what this was.
except hatred usually didn’t make his pulse jump every time his phone lit up with a message in the group chat, secretly hoping it was you.
hatred shouldn't make his cock hard. and it definitely shouldn't make his thoughts slip to you when he was jerking off.
hatred shouldn’t have made him notice your absence the second he walked into felix’s apartment friday night.
he asked about you before he could stop himself. felix looked up so fast it was almost suspicious. “damn,” he said slowly. “you didn’t even say hi first.”
chan frowned immediately. “i was just asking.” felix smirked at that, “sure you were.”
he ignored the grin spreading across felix’s face and scanned the room again anyway. you weren’t there. and suddenly, the night felt off. quieter, less entertaining. he hated that most of all.
and once he noticed it, he couldn’t stop noticing it. every room he entered, his eyes searched for you automatically. every conversation felt slightly duller when you weren’t interrupting him halfway through it. every joke landed flatter when it wasn’t making you roll your eyes.
it got worse after that. at the gym, he caught himself thinking about the way you looked at him whenever you argued, so... unimpressed. like you enjoyed challenging him just as much as he enjoyed provoking you.
this was the first time he felt the pressing need to jerk off. to the thought of you.
he rushed home from the gym, cock already half-hard in his pants. had been for the past hour. even an ice-cold shower did nothing.
he dropped his gym back to the floor, making his way to his room immediately, dropping onto his bed. he ran his hands over his face, grabbing his hair.
"fuck you." he said into the empty room before grabbing his hard on through his shorts, squeezing it.
he didn't want to do it, jerking off to you. his pride, his ego, screamed at him to stop. to not do this with you on his mind. he grabbed his phone, unlocking it with one hand while his other slipped into his pants.
porn should do it. watching any other chick, hearing her moans instead of your fucking laugh in his mind. porn used to be his remedy when his mind wouldn't shut up about you. but right now it did nothing. he only saw you. only heard you.
he groaned in frustration, closing the tab on his phone, forcing his hand to stop working his cock. it twitched desperately in his fist, demanding more.
he wanted to text you. to tell you to stop invading his thoughts. tell you how much he hated you. for being so fucking mouthy. for making it impossible for him to jerk off properly. to demand you to do something about it. but he knew you'd only mock him for it.
his thumb moved on its own as it opened his photo gallery. he didn't notice what he was searching for until he found pictures of the last time you hung out with the group.
he loved the shirt you were wearing back then. loved how it made your tits look. fuck. suddenly he was thinking about your tits, wondering what they'd feel like in his hands. he imagined you arching your back, leaning into the touch as he grabbed them, squeezed them, pinched your nipples until you were whimpering.
his hand started moving on his cock again without him realising. his mind was too far gone. he thought about swirling his tongue around your nipples, sucking on them, wondering what your moans would sound like.
but he didn't only want to suck your nipples. he wanted to suck the soft flesh surrounding them. sucking, biting until it left a mark. right on your precious tit. he'd cover you in them, leaving marks all over you. fuck, you'd look so beautiful when he was done with you.
he noticed his fist jerking his cock only when he groaned involuntarily, his eyes fixated on the screen, on the picture of you. he wanted you. needed you. so bad it made his balls tighten.
he felt his orgasm approaching. fuck no, he couldn't cum to the thought of you. no matter how many times he thought of you while jerking off, he always managed to distract himself enough, think of anything but you when he found his release.
but right now he couldn't stop. couldn't stop imagining leaving his marks on you. he wanted to spank you until your butt cheeks were all red and covered in his handprints. finally making you realise who was in fucking charge.
the thought of you surrendering to him, to having his way with you, finally made him come undone. he gave his cock a few more strokes, tearing his gaze away from his phone, head thrown back against the pillow. and he blew his fucking load to the thought of you, whispering your name into the dark room.
after that, chan started gravitating towards you unconsciously. if you were in the kitchen, suddenly he needed a drink. if you were outside, he somehow ended up outside too. if you sat on the couch, he’d lean against the wall closest to you without even realising it. and then there was the hugging thing.
god, he hated the hugging thing. you hugged everyone. felix. the other members. friends arriving. friends leaving. everyone except him.
the first time he noticed it, irritation flared so fast it startled him. the second time, it became impossible not to watch.
you’d grin at somebody, arms wrapping around them casually while chan stood nearby pretending not to care. pretending not to notice. pretending he didn’t immediately wonder what it would feel like if you touched him like that. if your tits pressed against him. your scent surrounding him.
it got even worse when someone else made you laugh. especially men.
one night, seungmin had you nearly doubled over at the kitchen counter, laughing so hard you grabbed his arm for balance.
chan felt something ugly twist in his chest. before he even realised what he was doing, he crossed the room. “what’s so funny?” he asked flatly.
your laughter faded slightly as you looked up at him.“nothing you’d enjoy.”
“try me.”
"you don’t have a sense of humor.”
seungmin laughed awkwardly before quickly excusing himself the second chan looked at him.
coward.
you narrowed your eyes immediately. “did you just scare him off?”
“if he got scared that easily, that’s his problem.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“then stop talking to me.” he said quietly, stepping closer.
the words settled heavily between you. your expression flickered for half a second. and christ, that was another problem entirely.
because lately, every time you looked at him, he forgot for a moment that this was supposed to be hatred at all.
a few days later, a heavy summer storm hit the city. and it had gotten bad fast.
rain hammered against the streets hard enough to blur the city lights, thunder rumbling low and heavy overhead while you hurried towards the studio building with your jacket pulled uselessly over your head. you and felix had made plans to go out for dinner after the studio tonight.
by the time security let you upstairs after recognising you as “one of felix’s people,” you were completely soaked. your shoes squeaked against the floor as you pushed open the studio door with an exhausted sigh already forming, only for it to die immediately when you saw who was inside.
chan sat alone in the swivel chair in front of the mixing desk, one arm resting against the armrest while music played quietly through the speakers.
of course. you sighed dramatically. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
he glanced over his shoulder lazily. “nice to see you too.”
“where’s felix?”
“not here, obviously.”
you rolled your eyes, already pulling your phone out.“helpful as always.”
“i try.” but when chan turned fully in the chair, whatever sarcastic response he’d been about to make stopped short.
his eyes dragged over you slowly. rainwater clung to your clothes, your shirt damp enough to stick to your skin, droplets still sliding down your neck and disappearing beneath the fabric. his dick twitched. for once, chan looked genuinely speechless.
your stomach flipped annoyingly at the expression on his face. “take a picture,” you muttered.
his jaw tightened immediately, like he’d just been caught doing something illegal. before he could answer, your phone buzzed.
felix: « storm’s too bad. roads are fucked. can’t make it tonight sorry 😭»
you stared at the message in disbelief. “you’re joking.”
“what?”
“felix bailed.”
chan snorted softly. “smartest thing he’s done all week.”
and then the power cut out. the room dropped into darkness instantly. you jumped hard enough to knock your knee against the couch beside you. “shit—”
a laugh echoed through the dark. “you scared of a little darkness?”
“absolutely not.”
“you literally jumped just now.”
a flashlight flicked on a second later, illuminating the room dimly from below as chan leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too entertained by your suffering. the lighting made him look unfairly attractive. which only irritated you further.
“what, no candles around?” you asked dryly. “could make this whole thing a little cosier.”
his brows lifted. “this is a fucking studio.”
“and?”
“not exactly a place that calls for romance.”
you snorted. “pity. you probably bang a lot of chicks here considering you’re basically married to the studio. could’ve at least provided them with ambiance.”
chan barked out a laugh at that. an actual laugh. "trust me,” he said, eyes glinting in the flashlight glow, “i don’t need romance for that.”
“oh, i’m sure your personality alone does all the heavy lifting.”
“you saying i’m charming?”
“i’m saying you’re bossy. probably sucking up to people if you want something.”
he shook his head slowly, still staring at you in that intense way that always made your heartbeat feel uneven.
outside, thunder cracked loudly enough to rattle the windows. you crossed your arms instinctively, suppressing a shiver.
unfortunately, chan noticed immediately. his eyes narrowed slightly as another tremor ran through you. “you’re freezing.”
“i’m fine.”
“you’re shaking.”
“wow,” you deadpanned, “your observational skills are incredible.”
he rolled his eyes before reaching behind him blindly, grabbing a black sweater from the couch and tossing it towards you.
it hit your chest. you looked down at it suspiciously. then back at him. “…you own sweaters? wow. didn't expect that with you always running around in your stupid tank tops." you loved the stupid tank tops.
“hilarious.”
you held the sweater between two fingers. “this thing probably reeks of ego.”
“put the fucking hoodie on.”
you snorted softly, still not moving. “i think i’d rather suffer.”
“christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “stop being so fucking stubborn.”
“make me.” the words slipped out too naturally. too easily. and the second they did, the room changed.
chan went still. the flashlight from his phone cast shadows across his face as his eyes locked onto yours with dangerous intensity.
your pulse skipped. his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. slowly. oh, he knew exactly how to make you less stubborn.
“careful,” he said quietly. your breath caught despite yourself.
but instead of backing down, you tilted your head slightly. “or what?”
his eyes darkened slightly at that. the storm outside seemed louder suddenly, rain hammering against the windows while the studio sat in near darkness around you.
chan leaned back slowly in the chair, one hand still holding his phone loosely against his thigh. “you really don’t know when to stop talking.”
you clutched the sweater against your chest. “you say that like you aren’t the one constantly starting arguments with me.”
“because you make it easy.”
“or maybe you’re obsessed with hearing yourself speak.”
he laughed quietly under his breath. “see?” he murmured. “there it is.”
“what?”
“that mouth.”
heat crept annoyingly up your neck. you tried to ignore it. “you mean the one that hurts your feelings every other day?” you said sweetly.
“please.” his gaze dragged over you again, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. “if anything, i think you enjoy getting my attention.”
you scoffed immediately. “you’re unbelievable.”
“you came here soaked out of your mind during a storm.”
“to see felix.”
“sure.”
“god, your ego is exhausting.”
“and yet you ended up alone with me.”
the words landed heavier than they should have. you hated that your heartbeat reacted instantly. and chan noticed, your flushed face making him way more aroused than it should.
his eyes narrowed slightly, like he was studying every tiny shift in your expression.
“you know what your problem is?” you said, mostly to regain control of the conversation.
“enlighten me.”
“you think everybody wants you.”
one corner of his mouth pulled upward. “you saying you don’t?”
your breath caught for half a second. just enough. his expression changed immediately the moment he noticed. to satisfaction? or interest? something far more dangerous underneath both.
“wow,” he said softly. “that almost sounded convincing.” you glared at him. “you’re insufferable.”
“and you’re nervous.”
“i’m cold.”
“right.” his voice dipped lower on the word. you hated the way it affected you. hated the way the flashlight glow caught against his jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on you like he was trying to peel apart every reaction you had.
outside, thunder cracked again. you instinctively stepped closer to him. not close enough to touch. but close enough for him to notice.
a mistake. because chan's gaze dropped briefly to your bare legs before lifting back to your face.
“put the fucking sweater on,” he said quietly this time. “why? worried about me?”
his eyes held yours. “more than i should be.”
the room went painfully still after that. your pulse stumbled hard enough to make you angry.
you ended up leaving the studio an hour later once the rain calmed enough to be manageable again. not before chan practically shoved the sweater at you a second time after catching you trying to hand it back. “put it the fuck on,” he said flatly.
“wow. so caring.”
“don’t flatter yourself.”
you rolled your eyes, but you still wore it out into the storm. and annoyingly enough, by the time you got home, you realised it smelled exactly like him.
cedar wood and clean laundry. you hated that.
hated it even more when you caught yourself pulling the sleeves over your hands and burying your face into the fabric for half a second while kicking your shoes off near the door.
“oh, this is bad,” you muttered to yourself immediately. because now your apartment smelled faintly like chan too.
meanwhile, back at the studio, chan sat alone in the chair staring at his phone like it had personally offended him. the power had returned twenty minutes ago. music played softly through the speakers again. but he hadn’t gotten any work done since you left.
his mind kept replaying the way you looked wearing his sweater. sleeves hanging past your hands.
your hair still slightly damp from the rain.
fuck.
he scrubbed a hand over his face aggressively. this was getting ridiculous. you were annoying. stubborn. mouthy. constantly arguing with him.
he did not fucking care whether you got home safe. so why was he still staring at your contact like a man possessed? his thumb hovered over the keyboard. stopped. started again. stopped.
don’t text her. seriously. don’t. you’d never let him live it down.
he tossed the phone onto the desk. picked it back up thirty seconds later. “for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
before he could overthink it again, his fingers moved.
chan: « got home okay? »
he stared at the message the second it sent, immediate regret settling in. what the hell was wrong with him? his phone buzzed less than a minute later. and despite himself, his heart kicked hard against his ribs.
« no actually. died halfway there. »
his mouth twitched instantly. god. there it was again. that stupid rush every time you answered him.
« tragic. hope my hoodie survived though. »
you snorted softly to yourself while curling further into your couch.
« barely. still reeks of your fucking ego. »
he leaned back in the chair, smiling before he could stop himself, like an idiot.
« you still wearing it? »
your eyes narrowed at the message.
« why? you miss it? »
three dots appeared almost immediately. disappeared. appeared again. you stared at your screen way too intently.
« maybe i just don’t trust you with my clothes. »
heat crept into your face annoyingly fast.
« relax. i’m not trying to steal your precious hoodie. »
« already did. »
your stomach flipped. you hated how much you liked this version of him. because somehow, over text, the banter felt even more entertaining. like all his attention narrowed directly onto you. you bit your lip before typing back.
« you this annoying with everyone or am i special? »
this time, his reply took longer. far longer. chan stared at the message for a while, jaw tightening slightly because the answer came too easily.
you’re the only person who talks back.
you’re the only one i think about this much.
you’re the only one who gets under my skin.
instead, he typed:
« don’t let it get to your head. »
a couple days later, you found yourself back at the studio again. mostly because felix had begged you to bring him lunch after claiming he was “seconds away from starving to death.” dramatic.
you sat cross-legged on the couch while felix inhaled noodles beside you, rambling about some artist they'd been working with while music played quietly through the speakers.
you were halfway through making fun of him for nearly setting the break room microwave on fire earlier when the studio door opened.
and immediately, your attention shifted. chan walked in wearing all black, headphones hanging around his neck, one hand pushing through his hair tiredly before his eyes landed on you.
his expression barely changed. but his heartbeat did. fast enough to irritate him instantly. because there you were again, sitting comfortably in his space like you belonged there now. laughing, talking, wearing that exact expression that always made him want to argue with you just to keep your attention on him longer.
“look who decided to show up,” you said casually.
“look who keeps invading my studio.”
felix looked between the two of you with immediate interest.
chan dropped into the chair across from you before his eyes narrowed slightly. “did you bring my hoodie?” you blinked innocently. “no.” his brows lifted. “no?”
“that’s what i said.”
“you keeping it now?”
you snorted softly. “maybe i like it.”
his gaze flickered over you slowly. "should i be worried?”
“depends,” you said lightly. “you emotionally attached to it?”
“not usually.”
felix looked absolutely delighted. “jesus christ,” he whispered to himself.
you ignored him. mostly because chan was still staring at you with that infuriatingly focused expression that made you feel overly aware of yourself.
“i can go get it right now if you’re gonna be dramatic about it,” you said.
the smart response would’ve been no. he knew that. he should’ve said: don’t bother. it’s just a hoodie. bring it whenever.
instead, his mouth betrayed him. “go ahead.”
you stared at him for a second before laughing in disbelief. “you are such a fucking pain in the ass.”
“you took my hoodie.”
“you told me to wear it!"
“didn’t say permanently.”
you narrowed your eyes at him while felix openly watched the exchange like live entertainment. “see?” you muttered. “this is exactly what i mean. you always need things your way.”
“and you always pretend you don’t like giving me a hard time.”
“i could think of a million things i'd rather do.”
“sure.” god, that smug look on his face made you want to throw something at him.
instead, you leaned back against the couch dramatically. “well, too bad. i’m not going home right now just because you snapped your fingers.”
his jaw twitched slightly. “fine,” he said after a second. “i’ll pick it up tonight after the studio.”
your heart stumbled instantly, hard enough to genuinely piss you off. because suddenly all you could think about was chan standing inside your apartment. wearing that look, talking to you in that low voice, being alone with you again.
you forced yourself to stay casual. “fine.” but the word came out thinner than you intended.
his eyes stayed on you for one extra second too long before the corner of his mouth tilted upward slightly, satisfied. like he’d already figured out exactly what that idea did to you too.
a little after eight, your phone buzzed. you stared at the notification longer than necessary.
« address. »
your thumbs hovered over the keyboard while your heartbeat steadily picked up speed. this was a bad idea. letting chan into your apartment, alone, at night, after whatever the hell had been happening between you lately, felt objectively stupid.
his hoodie sat freshly washed and perfectly folded on your desk like evidence of a problem you refused to acknowledge. you should’ve just brought it to the studio earlier.
after another minute of overthinking, you sent him your address anyway. the three dots appeared almost immediately.
« be there in thirty. »
your stomach flipped. “this is so fucking stupid,” you muttered to yourself. and yet you still fixed your hair before he arrived. fucking pathetic.
exactly thirty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. of course he was punctual. you had no idea why the smallest thing about him annoyed you this much.
you grabbed the hoodie quickly before opening the door just enough to shove it towards him immediately. “here. now leave.”
chan looked down at the folded sweater in your hands before slowly lifting his eyes back to your face. “cute welcome.”
“you came for the hoodie. here it is."
instead of taking it right away, he leaned one arm against the doorframe casually. his gaze stayed fixed on you while he finally took the sweater from your hands. and then he noticed it. the scent. your detergent.
his fingers tightened slightly around the fabric. fuck. he hated how much he liked it. hated the immediate thought that crossed his mind.
you narrowed your eyes. “why are you looking at it like that?”
“nothing.”
“you’re literally glaring at your own hoodie.”
“i’m thinking.”
“dangerous hobby for someone like you.”
his mouth twitched. there it was again. that tiny almost-smile that only ever seemed to appear around you. “you washed it.”
“obviously.”
“didn’t think you had it in you.”
you scoffed immediately. “god, you’re annoying.”
“you say that every time you see me.”
“because it remains true every time i see you.”
he laughed quietly under his breath before his eyes drifted past you briefly into your apartment. “you gonna make me stand out here all night?”
“that was actually the plan.”
“rude.”
“you'll survive.” but despite the sarcasm, you stepped aside anyway.
the second chan walked past you, the atmosphere shifted. you shut the door quickly behind him before you could overthink the fact that you were now alone with him again.
his eyes landed on you again almost immediately. “you nervous?” he asked suddenly. you blinked. “what?”
“you keep fidgeting.” you immediately stopped moving out of spite. “you’re imagining things.”
“am i?”
“yes.”
he hummed softly, unconvinced. “interesting.”
“what is?”
“you only get defensive when i’m right.”
“and you only talk this much when you want attention.” his brows lifted slightly. "you think i want your attention?”
you laughed once in disbelief. “please. you practically orbit around me at this point.”
that hit harder than intended. you could tell immediately by the way his expression shifted.
chan stepped closer slowly, enough to make your pulse spike.
“careful,” he said quietly. “you’re sounding very confident for someone whose heart is racing right now.”
your breath caught. “you’re insufferable.”
“you already said that.”
“because you keep proving it.”
“then tell me why,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “you still let me in?"
the tension snapped tighter instantly.
“don’t flatter yourself,” you said, though your voice came out weaker than intended. “you came here for a hoodie.”
“right.” the way he said it made heat spread low in your stomach. because suddenly it very much did not feel like this was about the hoodie anymore.
the room felt unbearably small now. every sarcastic comment, every lingering glance, every argument between you two over the past weeks suddenly sat heavy in the air between you.
chan stayed close. close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw every time you opened your mouth again. which, naturally, only made you want to push him further.
“you know,” you said lightly, even though your pulse was completely betraying you now, “for someone who supposedly can’t stand me, you spend an awful lot of time in my personal space.”
his eyes narrowed. “you think this is me trying to be close to you?”
“i think you’re obsessed with annoying me.”
a humourless laugh left him. “trust me,” he murmured, “if i wanted to annoy you, you’d know.”
your stomach tightened hard at the tone of his voice. but you still crossed your arms stubbornly. “wow. terrifying.”
chan couldn't help but stare at your arms crossed over your tits. those goddamn tits. “you should be scared.”
“of what?”
his gaze locked onto yours completely. “of how much i’m trying not to lose my patience with you right now.”
the words hit like a physical thing, your breath catching slightly. his expression darkened. “there it is,” he said quietly. you swallowed once. “there’s what?”
“that look.”
“what look?”
“the one you get when you stop pretending you hate this.”
heat flooded your face instantly. “you’re delusional.”
“am i?” he stepped even closer. your back nearly brushed the edge of the counter behind you now. every instinct screamed at you to move. you didn’t. because despite the tension winding painfully tight in your chest, despite how impossible he was, you wanted him close.
“you talk too much,” chan muttered suddenly, eyes fixed on your mouth now instead of your eyes.
you scoffed softly, though it came out shakier than intended. “yet you’re always listening.”
“that’s the problem.” your heartbeat stumbled at his low voice. “do you have any idea,” he said slowly, “how fucking badly i want to shut that smart mouth of yours?”
silence crashed between you. your breath came shallow now. because suddenly all the tension between you two finally had a name. and judging by the way chan looked at you, he’d stopped trying to deny it entirely.
you should’ve stepped away. should’ve said something sarcastic. something sharp. something safe.
instead, your eyes flicked briefly to his lips before you whispered, far too softly: “what’s keeping you then?”
that was it. whatever restraint chan had left snapped instantly. his hand caught your jaw almost desperately before he crashed his mouth against yours. like he’d been holding himself back for weeks and finally lost the fight.
the kiss was all heat and frustration and ruined patience. you kissed him back immediately, fingers gripping the front of his shirt as his other hand braced against the counter beside you.
and god, chan kissed exactly how he argued: intense and demanding. like he tried to be in control even in the heat of the moment.
a quiet sound caught in his throat when you pulled him closer, like he couldn’t quite believe this was finally happening either.
his forehead pressed briefly against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe, both of you visibly affected now. and then the idiot actually muttered: “still think i’m annoying?”
you let out a breathless laugh despite yourself. “the most annoying."
his mouth curved against yours again. “yeah,” he murmured, already kissing you again, “but you kiss me anyway?"
you snorted against his lips. "just trying to see whether your ego is justified."
a dark chuckle escaped chan's throat, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, his erection pressing against your lower belly.
"think you can impress me with a hard cock?" chan's hands twitched at that. he wanted to smack that smug expression of your face so badly. wanted to make you shut that goddamn mouth of yours.
instead, he inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "watch it." he said through gritted teeth, trying to hold onto his last bit of self control.
"or what?" you replied confidently, looking up at him, smiling way too sweetly. chan's breaths came out heavier, his hips grinding against you instinctively.
"or i will show you exactly what this cock is capable of doing to you. and spoiler alert, you're not gonna like it."
you snorted at that. actually snorted, right in his face. "yeah? think you're gonna break me, channie?" the soft nickname on your lips were his complete undoing. his cock twitched, you felt it through the fabric. he placed his hands on the counter on either side of you, pulling back but caging you in. he could no longer be this close to you, he had to get his cock away from you. because he was about to snap.
"you have no idea what you're doing to me." he spoke, voice rough. a smug expression crossed your face, you leaned forward, breath hot against his ear as you whispered, "what if i know exactly what i'm doing to you?"
his hand shot up, grabbing your hair so hard it hurt, tilting your head back. you couldn't help yourself but moan out, legs clenching together. chan smirked, grip tightening in your hair, "you fucking like that? being manhandled? where's your fucking smugness now?"
you stared at him, hating how your body betrayed you. "fuck you, chan." you muttered. but that only encouraged him. he knew he had you.
"that the only comeback you can think of?" he mocked, his other hand now grabbing your jaw, holding your head in place. he pressed his body against you again. "c'mon, put that smart mouth to work. i dare you."
but you remained silent, breaths coming out in puffs as you tried to calm your racing heart. "where did your attitude go, hm?" he asked, pushing his leg between yours. he pressed his thigh against your core, making your breath hitch, looking at you with mocking eyes.
"you asked me if i think i can break you? yes, i can. tell me to stop and i will leave right through that door. but if you say yes to this, i will make sure you forget your own fucking name."
he waited. patiently. for any answer. for a simple yes or no. you blinked up at him, mind racing, until you finally nodded your head confidently. "is that a yes?" he asked, tone still mocking. "use your fucking words." his tone was commanding as ever. but he needed to hear it, needed your verbal consent.
"yes—" you choked out. and after that, all hell broke loose.
a low sound escaped chan's throat, his grip on your hair tightening, yanking your away from the counter and towards the couch. it hurt, the way he was handling you. he pushed you towards the sofa, finally letting go of your hair. "undress." he said, standing tall in front of you, arms crossed as he watched you. "i'm not gonna ask again."
your fingers trembled slightly as you started undressing yourself, eyes never leaving his. "for fuck's sake." chan muttered, clearly impatient. he smacked your hands away, basically ripping your clothes away. his hands roamed over your body, feeling your warm skin against his fingertips. you felt better than he could have ever imagined. he groaned, his mouth suddenly back on yours. the kiss was laced with desperation as his hands grabbed your tits, squeezing them through your bra before taking it off with skilled fingers. "fucking perfect." he muttered more to himself than you.
he pinched your nipples hard, needing to know how you react to it. you hissed, biting your lip, gaining a smirk from chan.
he pushed you down on the couch, standing tall in front of you. his thumb traced over your lower lip. "open." he grabbed your hair, tilting your head back. "tongue out." your jaw clenched slightly, not wanting to obey him, wanting to challenge him. but when his grip in your hair tightened painfully, you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. chan leaned forward, spitting into your mouth before sliding two fingers along your tongue. he moved them further into your mouth, his cock twitching in his pants.
"i'm gonna show you how to put that smart mouth of yours to good use, yeah?" he muttered as he started sliding his fingers in and out of you. you wrapped your lips around them, looking up at him. he pulled your hair harder, tilting your head further, retrieving his fingers from between your lips and smacking your cheek hard. "fucking answer when i'm talking to you."
your breath caught in your throat, eyes watering the slightest bit. "well right now, you're all big words and no fucking action." your snappy response earned you another slap against your cheek, coating it with your saliva that was still on his fingers.
"you fucking bitch." chan just shook his head, unable to believe that you still had the audacity to talk back. he yanked your hair. hard. moving you to lie on your back, head on the armrest of the couch. he pulled you further until your head was hanging over the edge.
he was already working on his pants, pulling them down, freeing his cock, right over your face. he gave it a few strokes, watching you. he didn't waste another second, tapping it against your lips. you smelled him, the saltiness of his precum coating his tip.
he didn't push in, not yet. he smeared his precum over your lips. "tap my thigh three times in a row if it gets too much. understand?" he asked, growing more impatient by the minute. you nodded. fucking nodded. "words, sweetheart." he said through gritted teeth.
"i understand." you said.
"good girl."
"don't fucking call me that. i'm not your good girl."
chan only grinned at that. "you'd rather i keep insulting you?"
"i'd rather you finally put that cock to use." you snapped back. he smacked your tit, making you flinch. "yeah, i fucking should. shut that goddamn mouth of yours for once."
and with that, he pushed his cock past your lips, his hips snapping involuntarily, shoving his length down your throat. "fuck—" he cursed loudly, watching your throat, how it took shape of his length. "holy—"
you immediately gagged around him, not having expected him to just shove his entire length in with no further warning.
and he fucking kept it there, making you choke, cutting off your air supply. you tapped his thigh three times, and he immediately pulled back, realising that he got caught in the moment. you immediately took a deep breath, coughing.
"you want to be treated like a fucking whore, then fucking take it like one."
"you're a fucking asshole, bang chan, you know that?"
a dark chuckle erupted from somewhere deep inside him. "yet you still take my fucking cock like you're my own personal slut." and before you could say anything, he rammed his cock back into your mouth, deep down your throat.
his hips moved in quick little thrusts, fucking your mouth till you couldn't breathe, pulling back to let you get some oxygen before repeating his movements. his hand reached for your throat, squeezing it, feeling the pressure of his own hand around his cock buried deep down.
you choked. hard. your body started jolting until he finally pulled out, a long strip of saliva still connecting your mouth to his cock.
"you're trying to fucking choke me to death?" your voice sounded hoarse, your throat so raw it hurt to talk. chan just grinned down at you, his fingers smearing your own saliva all over your pretty lips. you caught his finger, biting it.
"fuck! you bitch!" chan called in surprise, withdrawing his hand, connecting it to your cheek with a hard smack. and of all possible things you could have done, you fucking moaned at his action. "you're un-fucking-believable." chan muttered through gritted teeth.
"on your hands and knees." he ordered, voice way too calm for the storm inside him. you snorted. "don't fucking boss me around like that."
chan was losing his patience. he grabbed you, handled your body with a strength that left you breathless as he flipped you over on your stomach. "don't make me tie you the fuck up."
you snorted again. fuck, it drove him wild. he wanted to punish you for fucking breathing. "be my guest. i don't own any ropes."
a slow, wicked grin spread on chan's face. "oh, trust me. i can get very creative." and with that, his hands left you and you heard him wander off. you turned your head to the side, watching him waltz around your apartment like he fucking owned the place.
"what the fuck are you doing?" you snapped, already shuffling to get up.
"if you dare move even a fucking inch, i'm gonna spank your ass till it's burning red." your breath hitched at his words. but that still didn't stop you from rising to your feet and following him. who did he even think he was?
you found him in your bedroom, picking up a belt that was stored neatly in one of your drawers. he looked ridiculous. going through your stuff, half naked, his stupid cock still glistening with your saliva.
you stood there, butt naked, crossing your arms over your chest. "stop fucking going through my stuff."
"why? hiding something you don't want me to find?"
you snorted, "no. just don't like fucking assholes going through my things."
he walked past your bed, opening the drawer of your nightstand. "oh my god! you have no fucking respect!"
you knew what he would find. and you couldn't care less. he held up your pink vibrator a few seconds later, grinning like he found a precious treasure. "cute." he muttered.
"oh wow, blame a girl for owning a goddamn vibrator."
chan turned around, standing in front of you, vibrator in one hand, belt in the other. "you get yourself off with this thing?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"yes." you replied confidently but couldn't suppress the soft flush spreading from your neck to your face. chan grin only widened. his eyes travelled past you, landing on a light scarf hanging over the back of your desk chair. "perfect." he muttered, walking past you to grab it. "remember how i told you not to fucking move?"
you rolled your eyes, "remember how i told you not to boss me around?"
chan came up behind you. you could feel the heat radiating from his body. he threw the vibrator and the scarf on the bed. your eyes followed the items. "you know, that scarf is actually my favourite, if you ruin it—"
"don't care." he cut you off, grabbing your wrists, yanking them behind your back harshly. he tied the belt around them, making you gasp.
"and the only thing i plan on ruining," he moved his hands up your arms, fingertips ghosting over the skin, giving you goosebumps. "is you."
his lips connected to your shoulders, leaving a few kisses till he reached your neck. his arms snaked around you from behind, pulling you flush against him, his cock hard against your butt. he bit your neck hard, making you hiss, before sucking the flesh, making sure to leave a fucking mark.
he pulled back slightly, watching the skin change colour, grinning in satisfaction, before repeating it a little further up. your ass ground against his cock, making him suck your skin harder.
"fuck, you like getting marked like a fucking whore?" he whispered against your skin, his hands squeezing your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you moan. "chan—"
you moaning his name like that was his complete undoing. he needed more. needed more of you moaning his name, screaming it.
he grabbed the small vibrator from the bed, turning it on and guiding it over your hardened nipples. you pressed yourself harder against him, soft moans now constantly leaving your lips. he started grinding his hard cock against you, moving the vibrator down to your cunt, running it over your clit lazily. you arched your back, your hips starting to move against the toy. "chan, please—" you couldn't suppress the soft whimper, no idea where the sudden needy tone came from. but it made him lose his mind.
he threw you on your bed, yanking your ass up before you could even gather yourself, your hands still tied tightly behind your back.
he started wrapping your scarf around your thighs in figure 8s, tying them together. once he was done, he took a step back, admiring the view. you turned your head to the side, pressed against the mattress, ass in the air. you tried to get a glimpse of him. he stood there, swallowing hard, just... watching you.
"you're a fucking weirdo, bang chan."
his eyes didn't move away from your bare core, "shut up or i will gag you." he said as his eyes finally met yours. he moved closer to the bed, leaning forward, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of your face. "if anything gets too much, you use the word 'red' and i will stop immediately, okay?" you blinked at him a few times. the fact that he still ...cared, despite the hatred, despite you riling him up constantly, made something warm settle in your chest. "okay."
his hand started caressing your butt cheeks, way too softly. the serious expression on his face was replaced by a smirk. and then he smacked you. hard. you couldn't move, hands tied together, thighs tied together. all you could do was flinch.
"you should learn to fucking listen. if i tell you not to move, you don't fucking move." another smack. you opened your mouth, wanting to protest. he cut you off with another deliberate slap. "don't you fucking dare talking back right now." he said, making you grin. fucking grin.
"god—" he shook his head, his next smack making you wince from the sting. and then his finger just entered you with no fucking warning. you moaned out loud in surprise, moving back against his touch.
chan let out a dark chuckle. "you're so fucking desperate, it's pathetic." he said, his finger moving in and out of you with ease. "so fucking wet."
his free hand slapped your ass again, so hard it left a handprint. he added a second finger, curling them inside you, making you moan involuntarily. "fuck, chan—"
his cock twitched at you moaning his name again. fuck, that did things to him. "again." he muttered, teeth clenched, trying to keep any bit of self-control. "moan my fucking name again." he pumped his fingers faster, curling them at just the right spot, his name leaving your lips in soft moans, driving him insane.
he dropped to his knees, pulling his fingers out of you and burying his face into your cunt. "fuck!" you cried out, body jolting forwards. he grabbed your hips harshly, holding you in place as he fed on you like a man starved.
"tastes so fucking good." he groaned against you, his tongue swirling around your clit a couple of times before licking up to your entrance, pushing inside you. he reached for the vibrator again, turning it on, bringing it to your clit, while his tongue moved in and out of your hole.
you ground your cunt against him, moaning shamelessly as you felt your orgasm build up. "chan—" you moaned and he knew. he wanted to deny you the orgasm, wanted to edge you, to make you feel as desperate as you always made him feel. but he couldn't. not when you were moaning so sweetly. not when your cunt was grinding against his face so desperately.
your legs started trembling and he threw the vibrator away. it scattered on the floor somewhere as chan grabbed your hips harder, fingers digging into you so hard, they'd leave bruises. he held you in place, burying his face deeper inside you.
"just fucking come on my face already." he murmured into you, big hands moving to your ass, squeezing the cheeks harshly.
you tried to hold back your orgasm, not wanting him to feel even the slightest amount of pride for making you come. and he noticed. noticed the way you tried to hold back.
"for fuck's sake!" he groaned, pushing two fingers back inside you, curling them right where you needed them, making you cry out.
"stop being so fucking stubborn." his fingers pumped into you relentlessly, hitting your g-spot again and again, making you see stars, head spinning. until you finally could no longer hold back. with one last flick of his tongue over your clit, you came undone. he guided you through your orgasm and you could feel his fucking grin against your cunt.
"that's it." he murmured, clearly satisfied with himself. "just shut the fuck up." you snapped. bad idea. he smacked your cunt so hard, it made you lose balance, collapsing onto the mattress. with your legs and hands still tied, you couldn't lift yourself up, legs still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm.
chan just chuckled darkly behind you, giving his cock a few pumps, watching you being completely at his mercy. he's been dreaming about this, fantasising about it. his eyes wander over your body, spotting every goddamn mark he left. bites, hickeys, fingerprints. he loved it. but he needed more.
he reached forward, grabbing your hair and yanking you back. his breath was hot against your ear, his cock pressing against your ass. "i'm gonna fuck you now, yeah? fill that pretty little cunt. mark you properly."
he gave you a few seconds to protest, but you didn't. you were still catching your breath, body still trembling. he let go of your hair, starting to undress himself. you didn't want to look. you knew he was handsome as fuck, didn't need a proof of that. but you couldn't help turning your head, watching him over your shoulder. fuck.
"stop staring." he said, not even looking up as he neatly placed his clothes over the chair at your desk. your eyes traced his toned body, all the way to his perfect ass. goddamnit.
"don't fucking flatter yourself." you snorted, but your words lacked any bite. chan ignored it, standing behind you, cock fucking throbbing and all. "ass up." he ordered. you struggled against the restraints, trying to move back onto your knees.
"fucking pathetic." chan murmured as he gripped your hips and pulled you up. his hands sprawled over your butt cheeks, squeezing them. you hissed. they still hurt from earlier.
chan just watched you for a while, with you getting impatient. "stop staring." you repeated the words he just threw at you, grinning to yourself. his hands flinched against your butt cheeks, ready to smack the shit out of you, but he took a deep breath instead.
he spit down on his cock, using one hand to spread his saliva over it, before pushing inside you with no further warning. "fuck!" you cried out, jolting forwards. "godfuckingdamnit chan!"
you were so fucking wet, he just slid right in, all the way. he gritted his teeth, trying not to think too much about how fucking good you actually feel. trying not to think about how he actually, finally, has his cock buried inside your fucking cunt. trying not to think about— fuck. his cock twitched inside you, realising how your walls are clamping down on him.
it pissed him off. how good you felt. how warm you were. how fucking wet. how much he wanted you, even though he finally had you.
he grabbed your hair, wrapping it around his hand, yanking you back forcefully, his cock buried to the hilt. he yanked until you were pressed against his chest. "i'm not gonna last long if you keep clenching your fucking walls around me."
your soft moans turned into a snort. "who's pathetic now? you haven't even fucked me properly, channie."
he lost it at the sweet nickname on your lips. his free hand smacked your ass. hard. grabbing your hips. the grip in your hair tightened as he started moving. his hips snapping brutally, each thrust into your sensitive cunt making you whimper.
"you drive me fucking insane." he murmured against your neck before biting down hard, making you cry out in surprise. he groaned against your skin, keeping a steady rhythm. you cried out his name again, and again, making his head spin.
he let go of your hair, forcing you to fall onto the mattress, grabbing your hips, fucking deeper into you. his pace brutal and intense. until your legs could no longer hold you up. they shook so violently, you collapsed onto the mattress.
but he didn't stop. he adjusted to the changed angle within seconds, pushing your hips further down, hips slamming against you, fucking you into the mattress. he moved one hand between your shoulder blades, the other staying on your hip, almost his entire weight holding you down.
"chan—" everything was overwhelming and the familiar knot started tightening in your stomach. his cock rubbed against that sweet spot deep inside you, making your walls clench violently around him as you came hard.
chan cursed under his breath, your orgasm triggering his own. his thrusts become sloppy, desperate to fill your cunt with his load. desperate to fucking breed you.
with a guttural groan, he stilled deep inside you. his arms shook slightly as he emptied himself into you. you felt it, his thick load warm inside you. "fuck, that's it." he murmured almost inaudible, his hips doing small micro thrusts.
he removed his hands from you, placing them on the mattress beside you. but he didn't pull out. not yet. he reached for the belt around your hands, undoing it, freeing you.
you were both breathless, panting heavily. chan's hand reached for your face, swiping some loose strands away. "you okay?"
your body was sore. you were hyper aware of every mark he left on you, your skin burning. but you nodded. the intensity of both your orgasms was enough to make up for the soreness.
he pulled out slowly, sitting back, watching you. your legs were still tied together, looking absolutely perfect to him.
when his cum started dripping out of you, his eyes widened, addicted to the view. "fuck," he groaned, fingers catching the thick liquid, smearing it over your cunt. when more started dripping out, he groaned.
he collected every drop, pushing two fingers inside you. "chan?!" you called out in surprise, but his name died on your lips, turning into a moan. his mind was fucking gone, as he started fucking his cum right back into you with his fingers.
"fucking appreciate the load i gave you." he said, voice dark. he smacked your ass, fingers pumping in and out of you, pushing his cum back inside.
"don't lose a single fucking drop or i'll have to fill you up again."
and right then, fucking his seed back into your cunt, having you whimper at his touch, moan his name with a broken voice, one thing became perfectly clear to him. that he didn't want this to be a one time thing. already too obsessed with the way your body reacts to his.
ꨄ︎ a/n: this idea has been for a month and finally decided to get it out. i don't know where the depravity came from (i do) but i hope you like it all the same! forgive any typos especially with past/present tense as i usually write in present
ꨄ︎ warnings: felix is a stalker. voyeurism. masturbation (m & f).
ꨄ︎ word count: 1,561
It started your first day in the office. Your computer wasn’t working, so IT sent Felix upstairs to fix it. And the moment he looked up and saw your smile, he was done for.
Obsessions weren’t new to him. Usually, it was a new hobby, certainly never a person.
Until you, kitten.
What began as harmless curiosity quickly spun into something else entirely. His access to the security cameras told him when you arrived each morning. Your employee records gave him access to your phone number and address. Soon he was remotely checking your work computer throughout the day. Eventually, one of the three monitors on his desk was dedicated entirely to observing you.
It helped that you were terrible with electronics, always needing him to come fix something. Always giving him an excuse to be near you.
But work only gave him eight hours with you and he wanted the other sixteen too.
At first he slipped a tracking device on your car.
It’s just to make sure you get home safely, kitten.
Then he started driving past your apartment occasionally, then weekly, then daily. He learned which lights belonged to your unit and which windows you liked to leave open. His favorite days were the ones where you exercised in the living room, dressed in biker shorts and a sports bra, completely unaware of your audience.
It felt wrong—the first time his cock twitched while watching you. Invasive. But the guilt faded quickly. He convinced himself anyone with eyes would react that way to you and he has to be the one to keep an eye on you.
To protect you from them, kitten.
One evening after confirming you were gone, Felix let himself into your apartment. The electronic lock took less than a minute to hack.
The first camera went into the living room. The second overlooked the kitchen and dining area. The third was on a bookshelf across from your bed.
Obviously.
He meant to leave immediately after placing them, but curiosity pulled him toward your dresser. The top right drawer was the first he opened and held exactly what he was looking for. He ran his fingers along the lace panties, smiling softly at the various shades and imagining how they’d look against your skin.
He took a red pair for himself.
Back at home, he was alerted to your arrival by the tracker and promptly darted to his computer to view the cameras.
It was surreal enough being there himself. But seeing you in your home now, hearing the sound of you moving throughout was entirely new, and fresh. And fuck, he wished he was there with you. Wished he could just tell you how much he wanted to be with you. Every waking moment.
His eyes followed you through the apartment on the cameras, but lost you when you entered your bathroom.
That felt like too private a place to watch you, kitten.
He had to have some standards.
He maximized the camera feed, letting the image of your room fill up the entire 45-inch monitor.
You returned a while later with a towel wrapped around your body and a bottle of lotion in your hand. His eyes darted to the windows in your room, making sure they were closed.
Can’t have you exposed and vulnerable, kitten.
You sat at the edge of your bed and dried off, giving him glimpses of parts of you he’d never seen before. Thighs. Stomach. Tits.
His cock stirred beneath his sweats.
When you finally let the towel fall completely, he leaned back in his chair, pulse racing as he watched you moisturize.
He would have given anything to be the one doing that.
You stood and turned around, showing your ass to the camera. His hand flew to his cock, gripping it through his sweats as if that would stop it’s longing to be inside of you. He kneaded the length of it with his thumb as you returned the towel and bottle of lotion to the bathroom.
He used the time while you were off screen to pull down his sweats and boxers. He didn’t care what you were about to do. If you sat there and scrolled on your phone or went to sleep, he wouldn’t stop stroking his cock until he came with his eyes locked on you.
He spat into his hand then grabbed his hardened cock, slowly stroking it as you came back into frame. His brow furrowed when you climbed straight into bed without putting on any underwear or pajamas.
Is that how you always slept?
He could only hope.
You pulled out a Kindle from your nightstand and leaned back against the pillows. You bent your knees and his heart stopped at the sight of your cunt, peeking out from between your thighs. He gripped his cock tighter.
You propped up the device and after a few swipes, became impossibly still as you read.
What are you reading, kitten?
He wished he knew.
But he got a good idea fairly quickly when you started to rub your thighs together. And when you pinched your nipple between your fingers, he was certain it was of the smut variety.
The thought of you reading sexually explicit content and touching yourself (while he watched you with his cock in his hand) sent even more blood rushing to his already painfully erect appendage.
He rubbed his thumb across the tip of his cock, smearing the precum as you continued your own movements. When you released a soft moan, the sound came straight for his soul.
But hearing it through the speakers wasn’t enough. He needed the sound closer. He grabbed his headphones and put them on before maxing out the volume.
He needed to clearly hear every sound that fell from your lips, every rustle of your sheets.
Felix squeezed his cock harder as he stroked it, watching closely as your hand snaked between your thighs, fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He was suspended in disbelief at what he was seeing. At how gracious you were to bless him with this presentation on his first night with you.
It was almost like you were touching yourselves together.
He could so easily picture himself on the bed with you, face between your thighs, nuzzling his nose against your cunt, inhaling your scent.
Bet you smell good, kitten.
You spread your legs further apart, plunged your fingers into your cunt then brought the back out to spread your juices around your clit. Your hips started to move as your breathing grew shallow.
He stroked his cock faster.
You moved your hand back up to your tits, cupping one and pinching the nipple, then moved it back to your clit. A soft whimper of frustration fell from your lips.
I could do both for you, kitten.
You worked yourselves up together, moaning and groaning as you both pleased yourselves. You returned your fingers into your cunt, slowly fucking yourself, then picking up speed, smacking your palm against your clit.
He gripped his cock harder, stroking from tip to hilt furiously. He wanted to know how his cock would feel inside you. Your cunt gripping him. Your juices coating his thighs.
He grunted at the thought.
He leaned back in the chair, teeth gritted as you rolled over. You placed the Kindle on your pillow and kept your right hand between your legs, fingers still driving into your wet cunt.
And the sounds it made, kitten.
Your hips bounced against your hand as you let loose on the bed, eyes still on the words giving you so much pleasure.
Was it possible to be jealous of an electronic device? Because he sure fucking was. Fuck that Kindle. Fuck whoever wrote that story. He was desperate to be the one making you feel like that.
Felix couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. And as far as he was concerned, even blinking was a waste of time with you in front of him like that.
He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting off his release.
“Oh fuck,” you moaned. “Fuck me, please.”
Was that dialogue from the story?
Dare he believe it was meant for him?
Because he did.
He imagined mounting you from behind, plunging his cock into you, pounding your cunt until he filled you with his cum.
He couldn’t hold back anymore and neither could you.
Come with me, kitten.
He groaned as you cried out. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, carrying him through his orgasm as cum spurt out the tip of his cock. It went everywhere—the floor, his desk, the keyboard. He didn’t fucking care.
When your hips stopped writhing against the bed, you flipped over onto your back and slipped your fingers into your mouth, moaning at the taste of yourself.
His cock twitched.
He looked down at it with furrowed brows as if it had a mind of it’s own.
Not yet.
He would wait for you to fall asleep. He wanted to cum while imagining himself standing over you, waking you up with his warm cum drenching your angelic face.
You made your way to the bathroom again and he finally stood to clean himself up, too.
Felix was happier than he’d been in a while.
No longer did he ever have to spend his time without you.
how was that? 🫣 i could see a part two eventually but that's it for now, unless the thought becomes an obsession lol. i'm working on writing without censoring myself, without stopping and feeling the need to perfect and just posting it. such a relief. being a virgo blows sometimes 😂
Just a thought, how would chan react when his s/o calls him something very endearing (more so than like regular nicknames like babe or love) for the first time in their relationship.
Cus rn my entire feed is the pic Jeongin sent with chan looking like the fluffy mashed potato he is and I just wanna be domestic with him looking all fluffy and cute.
Okok byeee love so much mwuah mwuah mwuah<33
Why are you guys so full of ideas, what 😭?? 🤍🤍🤍
you called me WHAT? (bang chan)
This is all a made-up scenario!
Synopsis: You call Chan a name a bit too endearing for the stage in your relationship right now. He wants to set boundaries.
Warnings: Bang Chan x gn!reader, est relationship, miscommunication, gets kinda serious, fluff
A/N: I tried to make this as fluffy as possible without it being too seriously deep. I think Chan would take this seriously, so whoops... (It's fluffier at the end) This was requested!
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warnings: super famous hyunjin, confident reader, suggestive
𝄞 he's mine · MoKenStef
THE APARTMENT was quiet in a comfortable way, filled only by the low sound of the television and the clinking of the glass in your hand.
on your phone screen, another edit. and another, and another.
and another one.
Hwang Hyunjin in slow motion leaving a fashion show in Paris like it had been engineered in a lab specifically to destroy the female public’s sanity.
black coat slipping off his shoulders, tired gaze, rings shining on his fingers while he fixed his hair.
in the comments, a collective apocalypse:
“HE KNOWS THE EFFECT HE HAS”
“this man ruined my life”
“I would let him step on me”
you let out a small laugh through your nose, resting your chin on your hand, the worst part was that you understood them, you really did.
Hyunjin was handsome in an irritating way.
almost unfair.
the kind of man that seemed to always exist under cinematic lighting, even in shaky airport videos.
the annoying part was that he was a handsome man, and he knew it.
the pop-up notification appeared on the screen, making you leave TikTok and open WhatsApp:
babe 🧡
i’m here, princess!
you took another sip of wine while waiting, less than two minutes later, the door code was typed from outside, and then he walked in.
the suitcase bumped lightly against the wall as it was dropped near the entrance.
Hyunjin looked exhausted.loose black hoodie. mask pulled down to his chin. messy travel hair. heavy sleepy eyes.
and still… beautiful, absurdly beautiful.
his eyes found you in the kitchen almost instantly, as if automatically searching.
❝ you didn’t even come to greet me? ❞ — his voice came out low, hoarse from the trip.you slowly lifted your phone.
❝ i was busy watching this mess ❞
he narrowed his eyes immediately.
❝ oh no ❞ you laughed.
❝ Hyunjin, this girl said you two are spiritually married ❞ — you started reading the comments out loud, getting closer to him.
❝ good for her ❞
❝ this one called you daddy! ❞
Hyunjin let out a tired sigh, walking slowly toward you.
❝ babe ❞ — he squeezed your waist.
❝ hm? ❞
❝ put that phone down ❞
his calm tone didn’t fool anyone, you knew him too well.Hyunjin stopped in front of you, sliding his hands slowly over your waist while you were still holding your unlocked phone showing his edits.his fingers gently pressed the fabric of your shirt.
❝ i spent the whole day hearing people scream my name ❞ — he murmured, leaning his face closer to yours. — ❝ and then i get home and you’re ignoring me because of me. ❞
you bit back a smile, sooo dramatic.
❝ poor k-pop sex symbol, it must be so hard being pretty. ❞ — you pouted dramatically. he finally let out a short nasal laugh.
❝ you think it’s funny until someone tries to steal your boyfriend. ❞ — he started drawing small invisible circles on your waist
.❝ no one’s gonna steal you. ❞ — you didn’t even really look at him, you knew exactly what you meant, you were sure.
❝ i know ❞ — he answered softly.
since you started dating, even with his wish, you never wanted to appear publicly with him, because you didn’t want to lose your peace.
even though close friends said it would work as “protection” for your relationship, you didn’t care.
the whole world could want him to the point of madness, but at the end of the night, it was you wearing his shirt with nothing but underwear underneath.
it was you holding a glass of wine while he buried his face in your neck, tired from the trip.
Hyunjin snatched the phone from your hand without warning.
❝ hey! ❞ — you pouted, watching the smile grow on his face.
❝ enough of my edits for today. ❞
❝ jealous of your own fandom? ❞ — you raised an eyebrow.
❝ i miss you. ❞ the answer came out so simple it made your chest tighten a little, he dropped the phone on the sofa without even looking where it landed, going back to holding your waist right after.
❝ come here ❞ — he murmured, pulling you toward the bedroom.
damn, maybe the girls in the comments were right about one thing: it was impossible to say “no” to him.
❈ Synopsis : You come home sick and tired of life, you're about to sleep in your clothes of the day, to lazy to put pijamas on, but Chan enters home earlier, see you in a mess and doesn't accept it.
❈ Genre : fluff ; romance
❈ Characters Count : 3k
❈ Song Rec : Space Song by Beach House
❈ [Venus] : take care of youuu ! ♡
𝖄ou had a bad day. It was so long, it felt like a week passed but no. It was one single day. But at least you ended work sooner than usually.
You return home tired, you're cold, your hands and lips are dry, your hair is messy because of the wind, your head hurts a lot, and on top of everything : you feel like you can't do anything.
You close the house's door behind you, remove your shoes to take slippers and go slump down on the couch. You're too tired to put your pajama.
You're eyelids start to be too heavy for you to keep your eyes open. You're about to sleep like that, until you hear some open your door.
“Is someone here ? you heard.
— Hmm.”
The person walks in until the couch and kneels next to your lying body. You open one eye to see Bangchan's face then push your head further in the cushion.
He kneels down in front of you and puts his hand down on your head, patting you.
“Hey, is everything good ?
— Hmm.”
His eyebrows narrow. He lays his hand on your forehead.
“Wow, you're sick !
— Am I ? you say, batting your lashes in tiredness.
— Try to take a hot shower, I'll bring your pajama to you.”
Soon, you wake up with his help before he lets you go to the bathroom on your own. He goes to search for you a pajama. When you're in the room, you turn on yourself to face the mirror and watch your very pale face with, still, almost closed eyes. With a knock on the door, Chan enters and put the clothes in your hand, then, with a kiss on your head and some sweet words he leaves.
༺✩༻༺✩༻༺✩༻༺✩༻༺✩༻༺✩༻༺✩༻
Hot water, poured in a cup with a teabag, some cookies in the tray, next to it, and a glass of water. He takes the tray and walks through your shared room to put it on the dresser.
“Hun ? he's now close to the bathroom's door, waiting for you to answer.”
Instead of hearing your voice, you open the door and smiles softly at him.
He watches your dripping hair for some seconds, then, he enters the room you're in, takes the towel and push you until you're sitting on the queen-sized bed.
“Eat, it's for you.”
As you bite in a brownie, he sits behind you and dry your hair with the towel, carefully.
“Is it good ?”
You nod in answer.
“Lixie handed them to me this morning, he says as he braids your hair.
— I'll let you some.
— You don't have to, don't worry.
— It's because I'm full, you say with a sly grin.
— Oh, you're mean !
— I'm not mean, I'm just lovely.
— Liar !”
He tickles you until you apologize to him. And after some long seconds, he stops and continue to bread your head.
“Thank you, Channie.
— What ? Why ? he knot an elastic on the end of the braid.
— For taking care of me.”
Seconds pass.
“I'm your husband, Y/N. Of course I take care of you.”
You don't answer, and you feel, again, a kiss on your head as you almost finish the plate. Then, you lay on the bed and Chan covers you up.
And with that, the lasts words you heard before falling in Morpheus' arms were “I love you”.
fic about you gaining weight after not eating regularly for awhile from a depressive episode and 'blank' notices of course and comforts you and helps you get back into eating regularly and when you get Insecure about gaining extra weight 'blank' insists you look perfect with all the extra weight
I'm thinking of writing this mainly because I need comfort on my body type so I wanted to regardless buuut I'm stuck between doing fem chan/skz because happy pride or just regular so I'll have yall choose since I'm indecisive
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Synopsis: What happens when SKZ receives their first kiss from you?
Warnings: Stray Kids (Hyungs) x gn!reader, est relationship, fluff, headcanons
A/N: I recently finished watching the Descendants trilogy (I didn't like The Rise of Red, sorry!), and this song has been stuck in my head since.
☆ Bang Chan:
gets really flustered and kind of surprised (like an, "oh, me?" kind of thing)
giggles and kisses you back on the head
really just super giddy about it
☆ Lee Know:
is surprised, yet he knew it was gonna happen (he knows he's handsome)
doesn't kiss you back, but he hugs/cuddles you instead
if he does kiss you, it's a small peck on the cheek
☆ Changbin:
kisses you back thoughtfully
messes with your hair, ruffling it (he was waiting for this)
he's kinda the most typical one here
☆ Hyunjin:
kisses you back while running fingers through your hair, pulling you close (he's a hopeless romantic, what can I say)
he holds your hand, swinging it and kissing that, too
really just poetic about it
Warnings: Potentially bad angst, angst in general, mentions of insecurities - burn out, overwhelm, anxiety -, I think that's it.
A/N: First time writing angst in awhile but this is low key how I've been feeling lately aside from not dating Chris obviously. I wanted to express that in the idea of a fic so here it is and I tried making it longer since I feel my fics aren't very long. I hope this turns out good, I feel like the angst wasn't too crazy but the end is super fluffy so its okay. Okay thanks for reading enjoy!
~
It wasn't rare these days for you to be at home alone these days, despite the fact that you shared the spacious apartment with your boyfriend of 4 years. You've been together for so long now, been through many a fight and hardship together. Though lately it's been tense. Quiet like you both are tip-toeing around each other. Like you both know that anything could break the constructed normalcy between you two now.
Though it's easy to blame the other when your both to blame. You push Chris away when you're at your lowest expecting him to be able to read your mind, despite him already being wound so tight already. You're both struggling in your own ways but, you both find it hard to open up. You've been anxious and feeling so low not even having the energy to talk and, now with the worsening ache in your stomach today you can't help but feel worse. While Chris has been stressed and overwhelmed from working so hard.
You're exhausted and irritable. Chris has been sleeping at the dorms more and more lately. Truthfully he's scared. Scared to admit that you two are hurting, that you're broken, like you might be too far gone to fix. Chris is scared to lose you, it might be one of his biggest fears.
The sound of the front door closing behind him echos through the apartment. Usually you'd get up immediately rushing into his arms but with your with your cramps you're rooted in place - not that you'd be able to find anything to say.
"Hey babe... m'home..." Chris mumbles as he quietly makes his way into the bedroom. He talks as though he's scared to unsettle the room. You glance up at him nodding your head in his direction once before looking away again pressing harder against your abdomen.
"You okay...?"' He questions quietly his eyes worn and tired but the concern is hard to miss. "Stop.. please." You mutter back voice rough from not speaking in hours. He's taken aback, confusion striking his features now. "Stop...? ...Stop what- what do you mean I'm just-" He doesn't get to finish speaking — "You don't have to pretend to care." You cut in your rough voice making you sound colder. His face falls as he stops moving closer, his hands clenching and uncleching at his sides.
"You really think... I'm pretending to care...?" His voice gets lower not with anger but an unbelievable amount of hurt he's trying hard to mask. "I know things have been tense lately... so it might be hard to believe.. but I do still care about you." He runs a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh before he sits down on the edge of the bed.
"What... what happened to us Chris...?" The vulnerable question was expected at some point but it still catches him off guard. His first instinct is to get defensive, looking away his jaw jumps once before letting out an uneven breath. "Are you not gonna say anything? Chris im serious- "I know- its not like im unaware onlf you always pulling away and ignoring me." His words hit you hard, its not like it's not true but it hurt to hear out loud especially since hes been doing the same. "Are you kidding me.. what about you. You never even stay over here anymore of course I'm not going to be happy-go-lucky."
"And why do you think that is?"
"So all of this is my fault now- you're not going to sit here and act like you're not also to blame."
He sits and stares at you before his eyes dart away a heavy sigh leaving him. He runs a hand through his hair again his voice barely audible now.
"I don't know... we just... haven't been talking." He mutters looking down at his hands in his lap. He slowly reaches a hand out to rest on your thigh his eyes pleading. "I'm sorry... you're right- there's been so many times... I've wanted to just-"
He cuts himself off his eyes suspiciously watery before he looks away. You shift closer cupping his cheeks Turing him to face you again. "Talk to me- please... I can't keep going on like this." "You don't understand how many times I- I thought about ending things... how many times I thought it'd be better to leave then stay in this limbo..." The admitted words — 'breaking up', the fact that it's crossed your mind more then once. It absolutely breaks Chris in two.
He stares up at you mouth open and closing like he's unsure of what to even say. He simply pulls you into his arms holding you tight against him sniffling softly. "I was scared... and I was being selfish... I didn't want to admit we were struggling... "I didn't wanna lose you... I still don't..." His admission cracks your heart open. You let out a shaky breath holding him tight as tears spill over your blotchy cheeks.
"I don't wanna lose you either.. of course I don't... you think I haven't been scared...?" "I thought you stopped caring... I've missed you so much but... if I say anything I'm nagging and clingy." Your eyebrows pinch together as you try not to cry more. "Oh babygirl... I've never stopped caring about you... I just thought you wanted space and then eventually the work piled up." He groans under his breath frustrated with himself and the situation. "It felt like you were pushing me away... I thought I was doing the right thing." You look up at him with glassy eyes sighing softly. "We both pushed each away... I just get scared... if I say anything.. anything at all that's bothering me... I'll scare you off. I mean I get mean and moody why would you want to put up with that... why should you have to..." "Because I love you.. even when you get a little grumpy or you're just not having a good day or week.. whatever. You think you'll scare me away for being human, baby I've been thinking of ways to fix things for weeks... knowing I couldn't picture myself with anyone else."
"I know I've been distant... and so busy but I swear... There's no where else I wanted to be.
His words send a tender ache beneath your ribs one that has your eyes watering again. "Chris stop saying stuff like that..." You mutter with a watery laugh but the look in his eyes is tender, serious as he wipes your tears away. "I don't want this distance between us anymore. I miss you so much and I can't stand walking around our home worried it's just a breaking point for us." You nod as you cup his cheeks resting your forhead against his before you hiss softly under your breath. Your cramps picking the perfect moment to act up again. Chris's eyes lock on you immediately his hand finding your abdomen. Feeling the tense muscles under his palm his eyes soften with concern.
"Baby, how about I take care of you tonight, we can talk more tomorrow let me just be here for you right now...?" He looks at you with those soft worried eyes, a look you know all too well - before you shrug your shoulders. Your habit of not accepting help feeling full circle to the topic of your issues right now — though it's not a no.
He gets up and finds your heating pad plugging it in before adjusting it against you and tucking you back into the covers. "I'll be right back.. I'll make you some tea, have you eaten..?" He asks as his voice taken a noticeably softer edge. You look down at your lap shaking your head. He sighs softly in understanding before kissing your forehead, standing up to fix you a quick meal and tea.
He comes back a few minutes later with a steaming bowl of ramen and an equally steamy mug of green tea. Setting them both down on your side table before sitting down on the edge of the bed, he brushes some hair out of your face.
"Here baby eat up, I made you some ramen." His voice was soft and it coaxing. He hands you the bowl and watches you carefully for a moment as you eat before getting up to change into something more comfortable. "I'll be right back love, you just rest up and eat okay?" You nod softly as you continue to eat watching him move around the room, with an ease that wouldn't suggest how tense these walls have been lately.
By the time he makes it back into bed fresh faced and clingy. He slips into bed next to you as you're sipping your tea a small smile tugging at you lips. He wraps his arms around you tight watching you set you mug down before looking down at him. "Feeling any better baby?" His voice is soft devoid of the tense and rough cadence, his fingertips brushing gently against your arm. "Yeah... I am it's just..." You trail off the words left unsaid, obvious to Chris. "I know baby... but it's been a long day for us both yeah? Let's just try and get some rest and we can talk more in the morning hmm?" He asks softly his eyes soft and focused on you, his fingertips continuing their gentle movements up and down your arm.
You smile softly leaning down to kiss his cheek before nodding. "Okay... yeah that sounds good."
You move closer into his arms letting him hold you against his chest. "Missed this... missed you... so much."
You bury your face in his chest sniffling softly but Chris just holds you even tighter.
He holds you all night and he doesn't let go. Not even even when the sun begins to peek through the blinds and through your curtains. The same ones you two picked out together when you moved in together after two years of dating. You think back to moments like that a lot, especially lately.
Like how despite how busy Chris would be he'd always make sure when he's home you're right next to him even as he works. Or how he'll fight with you on making dinner despite you both being tired, wanting to be the one to take care of him. You think back to some of your first dates a lot — lots of late night walks and cooking dates at your apartment. All the times he'd help you take off your makeup when you were too tired to yourself or how you'd help style and take care of his curls.
You miss the simple moments the most with him. Sitting in peaceful silence together his arm around your waist or hand perched on your thigh, never letting you forget here's right by your side.
You turn in his arms brushing the dark strands of his curls out of his eyes. You smile a weary smile your nose pressing gently against his cheek. He shifts under your touch blinking slowly up at you.
"Mmm morning baby... how you feeling?"
Chris's morning voice has a grin tugging at your lips before you hum nodding slowly.
"I slept great.. how bout you?" You ask as your hand plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I slept pretty good... mhmm."
He says as he nods before leaning back staring up at you.
"Are you still upset... you know about everything...?"
The question catches you off guard, you pull back yourself watching him closely. "I'm upset that... it's taken this long for us to even acknowledge we were struggling." The words hit you both, it anchors you both to the room, the moment heavy and waiting.
"Me too... but we're here now... that's progress right...?" His words come out shaky, unsure like he's still scared you'll pull the rug out from under him and still suggest breaking up. "Yeah... progress... we just need to talk to each other... instead of pretending ignoring the problem is going to solve anything." Chris sits up nodding, suddenly more serious now.
"Okay let's just... lay everything out on the table.. talk about what's been bothering us and, maybe ways to fix the distance that's been happening between us. Do you... wanna start?" He's completely focused on you his tone soft and patient. You feel your stomach ease a little. You've been worried for weeks about this conversation but right now you feel like you can speak your mind.
"I've just been... really down, like I didn't have much energy to be in a relationship..." You look down as you admit not feeling being in the right mental space to be in a relationship a wave a guilt washing over you. "Like talking and having to be cheery and being nice to be around... it just felt like too much... I guess I was being selfish." He shakes his head quickly, taking your hands squeezing them gently.
"Baby please don't call yourself selfish just because you were struggling. If you don't feel like talking then tell me... we can just sit in silence until you feel like talking again. Just please don't push me away I want to help you.. be there for you always."
"Well you can't push me away either... it's like you're scared to come home these days." His face falls before sighing softly. "You're right... I thought I was giving you space but I was only making things worse... I should've talked to you... ask you what you needed instead of assuming and pulling away."
You sigh shakily before nodding slowly. "We both made some mistakes... yeah..." He lets out a small shaky laugh. "We just gotta tell each other what's on out mind... we can't keep bottling things up baby. It's not healthy and it's only hurting us in the long run."
"I know, I know... it's just hard... I get so scared letting people in... because it's just seems like everytime I do I feel like a burden like I'm being too much. He moves in closer cupping your cheeks his gaze steady and sure. "You're not a burden, you're not too much. You're human and sometimes you won't feel up to talking, you won't be happy all the time, and that's okay none of that means you're not deserving of love and being happy. I'll always take care of you and I'm sorry I haven't been doing a very good job of that lately."
A watery laugh escapes you as you fall into his arms tears streaming down your cheeks staining his shirt. He runs a hand up and down your back tugging you gently into his lap. He presses a few tender kisses to your temple keeping you wrapped tight in his arms. You feel safe like nothing could get to you right now.
You stay in his arms for a while, you're not sure for how long but it isn't until he pulls away kissing your forhead you remember he has work still to get to today. "Are you sure you have to go in today?"
He smiles that sweet lopsided grin you love, hugging him tighter at the sight of it.
"Yeah baby I gotta go... but only for a few hours I promise. I'll make sure I make it back soon okay?" He leans in nuzzling his nose with yours before kissing your lips a few times before nipping at your lip pulling away with a smirk.
"You're such a tease." You say with an eye roll as you watch him get up to get dressed. He playfully pouts at you before leaning back over the bed kissing you again before looking down at you.
"Don't act like you don't love it." He teases before heading off to the bathroom. You laugh to yourself as you get up to get ready for the day yourself. Feeling a weight off your shoulders now that you two have talked and came to an understanding. You two truly just need to work on opening up and being more honest with each other. It won't be easy and you won't unlearn every insecurity and bad habit over night but it's a start.
By the time Chris is dressed and ready for work your setting the dishes from breakfast in the sink he comes up wrapping his arm around you from behind. His voice is soft and full of affectionate promise.
"When I get home it'll just be me and you I promise."
He kisses your neck before you turn around in his arms kissing him slowly. Pulling back you look up at him with soft eyes and a nod.
"I'll hold you to it Christopher."
He laughs brightly shaking his head before squeezing you. "C'mon baby I gotta get going but I'll be back soon I promise." You laugh with him following along with him to the front door with a playful pout.
"No pouting baby — he kisses you once, then twice — you won't even notice I'm gone." You roll yours eyes again before kissing him playfully shoving him out the door. He laughs, his eyes crinkled at the corners as his dimples pop out. He leans in one last time for a sweet kiss before pulling back his voice as soft as his eyes. "I love you.. so much." You feel yourself melt under his touch whispering against his lips — "I love you too baby.. more than anything." You can see his eyes get a little brighter at your words before he gives a shy smile heading off now.
Once you say goodbye and close the door behind him you feel lighter than you have in weeks. Like there's been a weight lifted off your chest, your heart. You two talked, you held each other close you can feel the hope bloom between you like a rose bud. You're not scared to see a breaking point between you two - you're just looking forward to spending one day at time with the love of your life.
~
Okay that was the end I hope you all enjoyed. Hopefully the angst was good and it was worth reading to get to the fluff. I don't typically write angst but I was in a mood so here we are. Also the songs I listened to as inspo would've made it much angstier i should've listened again oh well. Thank you for reading please let me know what you thought and if you really liked please do reblog! Okay that's all byeee ily ♡
[ @softasapril has sended you a message : this has been sitting on my drafts for way too long ; I DON’T LIKE THIS 😭😭 ; also this was a request, idk if i should say the name of the person because stuff, so i’ll just let y’all know this was a request. Enjoy your reading! ]
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There’s a particular kind of silence that settles over a briefing room right before everything goes wrong.
You’d learned to recognize it over the years. The specific quality of air when a mission is about to become a problem, something too still, too careful, like the room itself is holding its breath. You’d felt it in Marseille right before the extraction went sideways. You’d felt it in Prague two seconds before your handler’s voice crackled off comms entirely.
You feel it now, sitting in the third chair from the left in Sub-Level 2, watching Director Yoon click to the next slide.
The slide has two photos on it.
One of them is you.
The other is Lee Minho.
“Codename: Stitch,” Director Yoon says, gesturing to you with the laser pointer. Then she moves it to him. “Codename: Thread.” A pause. “Effective immediately, you’ll be operating as a joint unit under the Meridian protocol.”
The silence after that is a different kind. The kind that comes from two people in the same room deciding, simultaneously, not to say what they’re thinking.
You glance sideways. Minho is already looking at you and the expression on his face is exactly what you’d expect — nothing. Controlled, clean, every reaction filed somewhere behind his eyes where you can’t reach it. It’s infuriating precisely because you know you’re doing the same thing.
“With respect,” Minho says, looking back at Yoon. His voice is polite in that way that means the opposite. “Is there a reason you’re pairing two solo-track operatives on a joint assignment.”
“There’s always a reason,” Yoon says. “I’m not required to share all of them.”
“The op?” you ask.
She clicks forward. The next slide is a photograph of a man in his mid-fifties, silver-haired, the kind of face that looks trustworthy in the way only practiced liars manage. Below the photo: Viktor Selim. Arms broker. Six countries, fourteen aliases.
“Selim is attending a private auction in Vienna in eleven days,” Yoon says. “He’s brokering the sale of a weapons guidance system stolen from a NATO facility in Gdańsk eight months ago. The buyer is unknown. The system ends up in the wrong hands and we’re looking at a regional destabilization scenario with global implications.” She clicks again. The next slide is an invitation — cream colored, embossed — for something called the Weiss Foundation Gala. “The auction is embedded within this event. Invitation only. Donors, diplomats, very old money.”
You already see where this is going.
“The cover,” Minho says flatly.
“Married couple. Recently relocated to Geneva. He’s a private equity consultant, she works in art acquisition.” Yoon doesn’t blink. “You’ll have eleven days of joint preparation. Backstory, behavioral alignment, social conditioning. The legend is already built. You just have to inhabit it.”
Another silence.
“When do we start,” you say. Not a question.
The apartment they put you in for prep is in the 4th arrondissement, which means Yoon either has a sense of humor or genuinely believes proximity to good pastry will improve your working relationship. You’re not ruling either out.
Minho gets there first. You know this because when you let yourself in with the key card there’s already a coffee on the kitchen counter — one cup, not two — and a folder open on the table, and his jacket draped over the back of a chair like he’s lived here for years. Like he’s already decided which parts of the space are his.
You drop your bag by the door, clock the apartment in about four seconds — two exits, good sightlines from the main windows, second bedroom door half open — and then look at the coffee.
“you could’ve made two,” you say.
“I didn’t know when you’d arrive.”
“We were on the same flight.”
“I got off faster.”
You look at him. He looks at you. This is how it usually goes.
You’d met Minho eighteen months ago during a joint debrief after an op in Jakarta where your paths had overlapped by about forty minutes of real time and considerably more in the aftermath. You’d reached the same conclusions via slightly different routes and submitted reports that were nearly identical in structure, almost word for word on the key assessments. Director Yoon had apparently flagged this as remarkable.
You’d found it annoying.
Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t, and that was somehow worse — the particular irritation of encountering someone who thinks the way you do and having nowhere to put the friction of it. You could argue with someone sloppy. You could dismiss someone reckless. Minho was neither, which meant every disagreement you had with him was a real one, fully loaded, no cheap exits.
“What’s the social schedule,” you say, pulling out the chair across from him.
He slides the folder toward you. “Three pre-gala events. A private dinner on the eighth, a gallery opening on the tenth, the gala itself on the eleventh. Selim attends all three. He’ll be vetting potential buyers at the dinner which means we need to be visible and credible by then.” He leans back. “The legend says we’ve been married four years.”
“I know what the legend says.”
“Then you know we need a working shorthand by the eighth.” A slight tilt of his head. “That’s six days.”
“I’m aware of how numbers work.”
He almost smiles. Doesn’t reach anything. “you keep doing that.”
“Doing what.”
“Saying things I’ve already accounted for, like you’re correcting me.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’re not.”
You hold his gaze a second longer than necessary, then look down at the folder. “The gallery opening. What’s the objective.”
And like that, you’re working. Which is the only thing you’ve ever been any good at.
The behavioral conditioning, as Yoon calls it, is a clinical way of describing something that is profoundly strange in practice.
You have to learn each other. Not the op-relevant surface stuff — you already know his field record, his response times, his preferred sidearm, the three languages he’s fluent in and the two he just functions in. You know his codename and his clearance and the general architecture of how he moves through a problem.
You don’t know how he takes his coffee (black, no exceptions, you find out on day one) or what he does when he can’t sleep (reads, apparently, actual novels, nothing useful) or the way he goes very quiet right before he says something that lands.
He doesn’t know those things about you either and you can feel him cataloging them. The same way you are. It’s like being studied by someone using the same methodology you use, which means you can see every observation as it’s being made, and it makes your skin feel strange.
“The story of how we met,” he says on the second evening. You’re both at the table, files spread out, working through the social logistics. “Yoon’s team has a version in the legend packet.”
“I read it.”
“Do you like it.”
You glance up. “It doesn’t matter if I like it.”
“It matters if you can deliver it convincingly.” He sets down his pen. “The dinner is a small room. Twelve, maybe fifteen people. Someone will ask. Probably more than once.”
You look at the legend packet. The official story has you meeting at a charity function in London, introduced by a mutual friend. It’s fine. Clean. Completely forgettable.
“It’s too smooth,” you say.
“Agreed.”
You look up again. He’s watching you.
“Couples fight about how they met,” you say. “Not seriously but — one person always remembers it differently. Small things. Who spoke first, what the other person was wearing. It’s not a problem, it’s texture. Makes it real.”
Minho is quiet for a second. “So we adjust the legend.”
“We keep the frame, change the details. Give ourselves something to disagree about.”
“What do we disagree about.”
You think. “You thought I was with someone else when we met. Spent the whole conversation being careful about it. Found out later I wasn’t.”
Something shifts briefly in his expression. “And your version.”
“I knew you thought that and I didn’t correct you because I wanted to see what you’d do.”
The shift again. Harder to read this time.
“that’s very you,” he says.
“It’s also very you,” you say. “You’d have done the same.”
He looks at you for a moment. “probably,” he says. And then he picks up his pen and you go back to work and you don’t examine why that exchange feels like it settled something.
The first real test is a dry run at a restaurant on the fifth day — one of the agency’s consultants playing a suspicious contact, stress-testing the cover.
You’d agreed beforehand: minimal physical contact, only what’s natural, let it develop in the room instead of choreographing it. You’d both made this point separately, at almost the same time, and there’d been a short pause where you both registered that.
The consultant’s name is Mr. Park and he’s good. Warm and probing in equal measure, the kind of social pressure that doesn’t feel like pressure until you’re halfway through the main course and realize he’s gotten considerably more out of you than you intended.
He asks how you met. Minho tells the London story — their version, the one you’d built — and does something small with it, a slight smile at a specific detail, like the memory has texture. You pick it up without thinking, add the correction about what you were actually wearing, which contradicts what he said, and his eyes cut to you with exactly the right quality of fond exasperation.
“she always does this,” he tells Park.
“You’re wrong,” you say pleasantly.
“I’m not wrong, I was there.”
“So was I, that’s my point.”
Park laughs. The conversation moves on.
Afterward outside on the street Minho stops walking for a second. You stop too.
“the detail about the dress,” he says.
“What about it.”
“That wasn’t in the legend.”
“No.”
He looks at you. “It was good.”
You start walking again. “I know.”
He falls into step beside you and you’re almost to the corner before he says, quietly: “you picked up on the smile.”
“You did it on purpose.”
“I wanted to see if you’d catch it.”
“I caught it.”
“you did,” he says. And there’s something in his voice that isn’t quite the usual temperature, something slightly less managed, and you decide not to look at him for the rest of the walk back.
Six days of this and you know things about Lee Minho you didn’t want to know.
You know he gets up before you every morning, not by much but enough. You know he makes noise in the kitchen on purpose because he figured out on day two that you wake up disoriented and the sound gives you a second to orient before you have to be a person. You know this because you’d do the exact same thing and you recognized the logic of it immediately and it made you furious.
You know he doesn’t argue for the sake of winning. He argues when he thinks something matters. His threshold for what matters is very high and very specific and it lines up with yours in a way that should probably be classified.
You know that the thing that reads as coldness from the outside isn’t coldness. It’s precision. He doesn’t waste warmth on things that don’t warrant it, which means when it appears it’s real, and you’ve started noticing when it appears.
This is a problem.
Not a mission problem. The mission is, professionally speaking, going fine. The cover is solid. You move well together in social environments which neither of you had been certain about, given that you’d never operated in the same room for longer than a debrief. The professional problem is actually the personal one — somewhere in six days of learning the shape of each other, the dislike had started to change texture.
It was still there. That was the thing. You still found him aggravating in all the specific ways you always had — the absolute certainty in his own assessments, the way he sometimes got to a conclusion a second before you and didn’t announce it but you could tell, the complete lack of wasted motion in everything he did that made you want to introduce some chaos on principle.
But underneath that, or alongside it, something else had moved in.
You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. You were both, you suspected, pretending very competently that it wasn’t there, which was both a professional strength and a significant personal failing.
The dinner is on the eighth. A private house in the 16th, candlelit and expensive, twelve people including Viktor Selim and a woman you identify within four minutes as his security lead despite the evening gown.
You and Minho arrive slightly late, which is correct for the cover — established couple, comfortable, not performing eagerness. He has his hand at the small of your back when you walk in, which is also correct, the exact degree of casual familiarity that reads as long term, and you’re aware of it in a way you shouldn’t be, or at least not this much.
Selim is across the room. You see him register you both in the first sweep he does of new arrivals — assessing, not suspicious, just the automatic cataloging of a careful man.
“he’s looking,” Minho says, very low, close to your ear. Not a whisper, just quiet. The kind of thing that looks like intimacy from across a room.
“I know. Don’t react to him yet.”
“I know.”
You take a glass from a passing tray and turn slightly toward Minho, angling yourself so Selim has a profile view. “He’ll come to us,” you say. “He’s that kind of man.”
“How long.”
“Forty minutes. He wants to watch first.”
Minho makes a small sound that means he agrees and you have a brief strange moment of registering that you’ve developed a communication system that runs on sounds and small movements and you’re not entirely sure when that happened.
Selim comes over in thirty five minutes, which is close enough that you file it as a minor win. He’s charming in that specific way that means he’s done it thousands of times. He asks the right questions — what brings you to Paris, how long in Geneva, do you know the so-and-sos in Zurich. Minho handles the business detail, you handle the social warmth, and it works the way things work when two people have divided a task correctly without discussing it.
At some point Selim says something mildly dismissive about art acquisition — your cover’s profession — in the way that men like him sometimes do, a light condescension dressed up as a joke, and you feel Minho’s hand shift slightly against your back.
Not much. Just — present. A small pressure that says I noticed, I’m here, do you want to handle it or should I.
You handle it. Smooth, smiling, precise enough that Selim adjusts his register for the rest of the conversation without quite knowing why.
Later in the car Minho says: “the hand thing.”
“What hand thing,” you say. Even though you know.
“When he made the comment.”
“I noticed.”
“And?”
You watch the city go past outside the window. “It was useful.”
“It wasn’t calculated,” he says. “I want to be accurate about that.”
You turn your head. He’s looking out his own window.
“okay,” you say.
“I’m just — noting it.”
“noted,” you say, and somehow that word carries a lot more than it should, and you both let it sit there for the rest of the drive.
The gallery opening is easy, comparatively. You’ve got Selim’s measure now and he’s warming to you — to the cover — the way marks do when they’ve decided you’re safe. The danger zone is always after that, when they start talking more freely, because free-talking men sometimes say something that makes them remember they should be careful.
You manage it. Minho manages it. You do the thing where you bicker mildly about something minor — this time whether you’d been to this particular artist’s last show — and Selim watches with the indulgent look people get watching other people’s long marriages, which means the cover is doing exactly what it needs to.
What isn’t supposed to be happening is that the bickering is, increasingly, just you two talking. Overlapping, correcting, building on what the other said — the line between performing it and just doing it has become something you’re having trouble finding.
In the car again. It’s become your space, the car. The in-between.
“you told him we’d been to Lisboa in April,” Minho says.
“The legend has us in Lisboa in April.”
“He might verify.”
“I know. I already laid a trail. The hotel, the restaurant, the gallery we supposedly visited. It’s clean.”
A pause. “when did you do that.”
“Before the dinner.”
Another pause, different quality. “you didn’t mention it.”
“You’d have done it yourself if I hadn’t.”
“That’s not the point. We’re operating jointly. You should have—”
“I would’ve told you if you’d asked,” you say, and there’s more edge in it than you intended. “I wasn’t hiding it, I just—” You stop.
“you just what,” he says. His voice has changed. Still even, but different even.
“I’m used to working alone,” you say. True. Also not the whole truth.
“So am I,” he says.
Silence. The city moves past. You’re tired in that specific way you get after hours of being on — performing, maintaining — and the tiredness has apparently decided to affect your defenses because you say, before you’ve decided to: “You were right about the Lisboa detail. I should’ve told you.”
He doesn’t say I know or yes you should have, which is half of what you’d expected.
He says: “I’ve been doing the same thing. Two items I didn’t table. I’ll send them over tonight.”
You look at him. He’s looking forward, profile clean in the passing streetlights. “okay,” you say.
“We work better when we’re actually joint,” he says. “I don’t love it either but it’s true.”
“I know it’s true.”
“Then we should act like it.”
“Agreed,” you say, and somehow that sits easier than it should, and you both let the rest of the drive go quiet.
The night before the gala, neither of you sleeps much.
You know this about each other because you’re both in the kitchen at 2am, and the difference between this moment and the first evening is significant enough that you both notice it and neither of you says anything.
He makes two coffees this time without being asked.
You sit at the table with the operation files spread out even though you have them memorized, because having something to look at makes the sitting easier.
“Contingencies,” Minho says.
“If the security lead makes us, we’re tourists. Lost the invitation, a friend got us in, we don’t know Selim.”
“If Selim makes us.”
“Mission’s burned and we get out. The system’s not on-site tonight, it’s in transit. Yoon has the intercept team on the transport route.” You pause. “The gala is just the intelligence layer. Selim’s contact, the handoff protocol. We’re not extraction, we’re information.”
“right.” He wraps both hands around his mug. “And if something else goes wrong.”
You look up. “Define something else.”
He looks at you over the rim. “The cover. If someone pushes harder than expected on the personal detail.”
“We hold. The legend is solid.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he says, and his voice has the quality it gets when he’s decided something matters.
You hold his gaze. The kitchen is quiet. It’s 2am and you’re eleven days into an op and the line between cover and something else has been blurring for days in a way that is operationally inadvisable and you know it and so does he.
“Minho,” you say.
“I’m aware,” he says. “I’m not — I’m not doing anything with it. I just think we should name it so it doesn’t become a variable we’re not accounting for.”
This is such a him thing to say. Name the variable. Account for it. Don’t let it run loose in the margins.
“fine,” you say. “it’s a variable.”
“yes.”
“It doesn’t affect the mission.”
“no,” he says. “but it’s there.”
“it’s there,” you agree.
And then you both go back to the files and the kitchen stays quiet and neither of you does anything about the variable, because you are both, above everything else, professionals.
But it’s there. You both know it. And somehow that’s enough for right now.
The gala is beautiful in the way that things built for the purposes of concealment often are — every surface worth looking at, every detail designed to direct the eye away from whatever’s actually happening underneath.
You understand this. You’ve been doing the same thing for eleven days.
You arrive as the Leins. That’s the legend’s surname — you’d found it mildly annoying when you first read it in the packet and you’ve never said so. Minho, you suspect, feels the same. He’d also never said so.
The room is large, high ceilinged, full of people doing what people do at these events — performing their own legend, everyone with a version of themselves calibrated for the occasion. You move through it well. You always have, both of you, and together you’re better at it than either of you alone, which is something you’d have resisted admitting three weeks ago and which is now simply true.
Selim is at the far end of the room. He sees you and raises his glass, which means you’ve cleared his vetting process, which means the last eleven days worked.
“there,” Minho says quietly.
“I see him.” You’re watching the room, not Selim specifically — the contact will come to Selim, not the other way around. “The contact arrives within the first hour. Yoon’s brief said Selim doesn’t like to wait.”
“Northeast corner,” Minho says. “The man in the grey jacket. He’s been watching the entrance.”
You find him. Clock him. “He’s not the contact.”
“No, he’s the advance. Contact comes after the advance confirms the room.”
“Ten minutes,” you say.
“Eight,” Minho says.
You don’t argue. Minor point.
It’s seven minutes.
The contact is a woman, which you’d both flagged as a possibility in your respective assessments and which Yoon’s briefing had listed as unlikely. She moves to Selim smoothly, the greeting warm enough to read as social, and you reposition without discussing it — you drift right, Minho drifts left, covering angles.
This is the part you’re good at. Not just the social performance, though you’re good at that too. The spatial awareness, the way you read a room’s geometry and slot into it, covering angles without referencing each other because you don’t need to. You’ve done this in other configurations, other teams, other ops, and it’s never felt quite like this — the particular fluency of two people thinking the same way.
You get the contact’s name from a greeting exchange close enough to catch. Minho gets her associate’s name from the man she arrived with. You don’t compare notes because you don’t need to — you’re both noting everything and you’ll debrief in the car.
Selim drifts toward you thirty minutes later, warm, relaxed, the ease of a man who thinks he’s read the room correctly.
“the Leins,” he says, and that small possessive — already abbreviated to a group noun — means you’ve been accepted.
Minho puts his hand at your waist and it’s the cover, entirely the cover, and you lean into it the minimal degree that reads as habitual, that reads as four years, and you feel rather than see the slight shift in how he holds himself — the precise millimeter adjustment that looks like ease but isn’t, that looks like unconscious comfort but is something slightly more deliberate and slightly less calculated than either of those things.
The conversation with Selim runs twenty minutes. You gather what Yoon needs. It’s enough.
The car again.
You give Yoon’s team the verbal summary over comms — names, logistics, confirmation of the handoff timeline. Six minutes. When you’re done Minho drops the earpiece into his jacket pocket and the silence is different from mission silence. It’s the silence that comes after.
“good,” he says.
“Yes.”
“The contact’s name checks against a flag in the German database. Yoon will have it.”
“I know. I flagged it while you were getting the associate’s ID.”
He nods. You watch the city again. You’ve watched this city go past so many times in this car that you know the route back in your bones.
“After the debrief,” Minho says.
You glance over.
“We’ll be reassigned. Separately, probably.” He’s looking out his window. “Yoon said the joint unit was specific to Meridian.”
“I know.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I wanted to name that one too,” he says. “so it’s not—” He pauses, which is unusual for him, Minho who is always precise with language. “so it’s not a variable we’re not accounting for.”
You look at him. The streetlights move across his face and you’ve spent eleven days learning the architecture of his expressions, the small tells, the places where the control doesn’t quite reach.
“That’s a different kind of variable,” you say.
“yes,” he says. “I know.”
“Minho.”
“I’m not—” He stops again. “I’m not asking for anything. I’m just being accurate.”
“You’re always being accurate.”
“it’s a failing,” he says, and there it is — the thing underneath the precision, a small dry humor that surfaces when his guard is at low tide, that you’ve come to catalog the way you catalog everything — carefully, and with more attention than you intended to give it.
“It’s not a failing,” you say.
He looks over.
“It’s annoying,” you say. “but it’s not a failing.”
Something changes in his face. Not much. Enough.
“after the debrief,” he says again.
“after the debrief,” you agree.
The car keeps moving. The city keeps going past. You don’t do anything about the variable because you are almost back to the apartment and the debrief is tomorrow and there are procedures to follow, reports to file, a mission to close properly.
But after the debrief.
You’re both accounting for it.
and somewhere in the space between cover and collapse, the line disappears — not with a dramatic crossing but with the quiet, certain recognition that two people who think in the same sharp register have, without meaning to, started thinking of each othher.
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