Valerie!

HOW TO NAVIGATE: Each member's fics have now been separated into individual masterlists for easier access, you can find the links attached to each member which will lead you to their spread. then as for the Headcanons and Series, they have also been put into one separate Masterlist which is also attached below.

Bang Chan

🐺 Masterlist

Leeknow

🐰 Masterlist

Changbin

🐇🐷 Masterlist

Hyunjin

🥟 Masterlist

Jisung

🐿️ Masterlist

Felix

🐥 Masterlist

Seungmin

🐶 Masterlist

Jeongin

🦊 Masterlist

SERIES AND HEADCANONS MASTERLIST

🌸HEADCANONS

Bff! Straykids in a staring match with you

Enemies with benefits (hyung line)

Bf! Skz and how they fuck you during a fight

Bf! Skz and how they jerk off to you (hyung line)

Bf! Skz and how they jerk off to you (maknae line)

Straykids and their styles of dominance (OT8)

Straykids and their styles of submission (OT8)

How each member falls for their enemy (OT8)

Straykids and everything about their cum (OT8)

👨🏼‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻Boy x Boy

Just This Once (Hyunjin x Jisung) BL

Part one Part two

You Just Mess Me Up (Hyunjin x Seungmin) BL

Part one

Between The Lines (Chan x Hyunjin) BL

Part one Part two Part three Part four

🩶SERIES

Naughty Dorm Chronicles (OT8 Series)

A little audience never hurt (Chan x Reader x Jeongin)

Angry Boys (OT8 Series)

OT8 Masterlist

Enemies To Lovers (OT8 Series)

OT8 Masterlist

The Love Diary (OT8 Series)

Chan’s entry | Minho’s entry | Changbin’s entry | Hyunjin’s entry | Jisung’s entry | Felix’s entry | Seungmin’s entry | Jeongin’s entry

Escape (Chan x Reader x Hyunjin)

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You’d been friends for so long that boundaries like this didn’t exist between you. He was gay, after all. Out and proud, a top through and through, with zero experience or interest in women. Or so you’d always believed. His stories were always about men: the chase, the dominance, the raw power of it. You’d listen, tease him, and share your own hetero escapades without a hint of awkwardness.

But that evening, as the wine warmed your veins and loosened your tongue, you dove into the details of your best sex ever.

"It was with this guy I met at that bar downtown," you started, your voice dropping low as you painted the picture. "We barely made it to his place. He pushed me against the door, kissing me like he was starving—slow at first, lips brushing mine, then deeper, his tongue teasing until I was melting. His hands slid under my shirt, fingers rough on my skin, tracing up to my breasts, pinching my nipples just hard enough to make me gasp. Then he dropped to his knees, hooked my leg over his shoulder, and... god, Minho, his mouth on me. Licking slow circles around my clit, sucking it gently while his fingers slipped inside, curling against that spot that makes everything tighten. The wetness, the heat—it built so slow, like a fire you can't control, until I came undone, shaking against him. And when he finally fucked me, it was deep, rhythmic, his body pressing mine into the mattress, every thrust hitting just right. That mix of tenderness and force... that's what makes hetero sex addictive."

Minho had gone quiet, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity you’d seen before, but only when he was dissecting a problem at work or eyeing a guy across the room. His fingers, which had been tracing absent patterns on your ankle, stilled. He shifted slightly under your legs, and you felt the subtle tension in his thighs.

"Sounds... vivid," he said, his voice a low rumble, almost thoughtful. He took a slow sip of his wine, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "But I don't get it. With guys, it's all about the edge—the control, the friction. No... softness or mystery. What's the appeal of that? Of... women?"

You laughed, nudging his side with your foot. "You'd have to try it to know, Mr. Gay-and-Proud. But you've never even looked at a girl that way. Vaginas probably terrify you."

He didn’t laugh back. Instead, his gaze lingered on you, curious, almost analytical.

"Never have," he admitted, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "But now... I'm wondering. Seriously."

His hand moved up your calf, just a fraction, his palm warm against your skin. It wasn’t sexual—not yet—but there was a spark in it, a question. "What if we... explored? Just to satisfy the curiosity. No expectations, no labels. Show me why it's 'addictive'."

Your breath caught. Was this a joke? His eyes were serious, that sharp jawline set in determination, but there was uncertainty flickering there too—the way his brows furrowed slightly, like he was second-guessing his own words. Your heart pounded, a mix of thrill and nerves. You’d always found him attractive in that objective way: tall, lean-muscled from the gym, with tousled dark hair and a smirk that could disarm anyone. But he was gay. This shouldn’t be happening. Yet the idea ignited something in you, reckless and hot.

"You're sure? This could be weird."

"I'm curious," he repeated, his voice steadier now, though his hand trembled just a bit as it rested on your knee. "But only if you want to. Teach me."

You didn’t rush, instead you nodded, and he stood first, offering a hand to pull you up. His palm was calloused from weights, warm and firm, and as you both walked to his bedroom, the hallway seemed longer than usual, each step building this electric tension. The room was dimly lit by a bedside lamp, the sheets rumpled from where he’d napped earlier, carrying a faint scent of his cologne—woody and masculine. He closed the door softly, and you stood there, facing each other, the air humming with unspoken questions.

"Start slow," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You stepped closer, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. His skin was smooth-shaven, warm under your fingers, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched you, his breath shallow. You leaned in, brushing your lips against his tentatively. He hesitated, his mouth firm but unresponsive at first, like he was processing the sensation. Then, slowly, he kissed back, his lips parting yours with a gentle pressure. It wasn’t passionate yet; it was curious, his tongue flicking out to taste you, a soft hum escaping him as if he was analyzing the difference.

His hands found your waist, gripping lightly through your shirt, and you pressed closer, feeling the solid wall of his chest. "What does that feel like?" he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. There was genuine wonder there, mixed with a flicker of doubt.

"Like I like it," you whispered, sliding your hands under his shirt, tracing the ridges of his abs. His skin was hot, taut over muscle, and you felt him tense—not in rejection, but in surprise. He wasn’t hard yet; you could tell from the way your bodies brushed. He was gay, after all—this wasn’t instinctual for him. You had to earn it, draw him in with patience.

You guided his hands to the hem of your shirt, encouraging him to lift it off. He did, slowly, his eyes widening as he exposed your bra, the lace cups hugging your breasts.

"Soft," he said, almost to himself, his fingers brushing the curve tentatively.

He cupped one, thumb grazing the nipple through the fabric, and you arched into him with a soft moan. That sound seemed to intrigue him; his touch grew firmer, pinching lightly, watching your face for reactions. "Does that... feel good?"

"Yes," you breathed, reaching behind to unhook your bra, letting it fall. His gaze dropped, curious and appraising, like he was seeing a woman's body for the first time in this light. He touched you again—bare now—his palms rough against your sensitive skin, rolling your nipples between his fingers. The sensation shot straight between your legs, making you wetter, but you held back, letting him explore at his pace.

He leaned down, hesitantly pressing his lips to your collarbone, then lower, trailing kisses that were more experimental than heated. When his mouth closed over your nipple, it was gentle—a flick of his tongue, then a suck that made you gasp. He paused, looking up. "Too much?"

"Perfect," you encouraged, threading your fingers through his hair. He grew bolder, alternating between licks and nips, his free hand sliding down your side to your shorts. But he stopped there, fingers hovering at the waistband, uncertainty clouding his eyes again. "I don't... know what to expect," he admitted, voice husky but vulnerable.

"Trust me," you said, guiding his hand lower. He slipped under the fabric, fingers brushing your panties, feeling the damp heat through the lace. His breath hitched—a mix of surprise and intrigue.

"You're wet," he murmured, almost in awe, pressing gently against your folds. The pressure sent a jolt through you, but he was slow, rubbing in tentative circles, learning the shape of you.

You moaned softly, rocking against his hand, and that seemed to spark something. He pushed your shorts down, kneeling as you stepped out of them, his face level with your core. His eyes darkened, curiosity winning over doubt.

"Show me," he said, voice low.

You spread your legs slightly, pulling your panties aside. He stared, transfixed, then leaned in, inhaling your musky scent, getting aroused. His tongue darted out experimentally, a light lick along your slit that made you shudder.

"Salty... sweet," he whispered, tasting again, slower this time. His uncertainty shone through in the way he paused between licks, but each one grew more confident as your breaths turned ragged. He found your clit, circling it with his tongue, sucking gently while his fingers probed—sliding one inside you, feeling the slick tightness.

"Oh god, Minho," you whimpered, your hands gripping his shoulders. He hummed in response, the vibration intensifying everything, but he wasn’t fully there yet—his body responding, but not overwhelming him. You could feel him half-hard against his jeans as he pressed closer, but it was the curiosity driving him, the puzzle of your reactions.

After what felt like an eternity of building pleasure—his mouth devouring you now, fingers curling deep—you came with a cry, clenching around him, your juices coating his lips. He pulled back, licking them clean, his eyes wide with a mix of satisfaction and lingering question.

"Now your turn," you said, dropping to your knees, hands on his belt. He hesitated, standing still as you undid it, pulling down his jeans and boxers. His cock was semi-erect—thick, veined, but not fully aroused. "It's okay," you assured him, wrapping your hand around it, stroking slowly. He groaned softly, his hips twitching, but his eyes held that uncertainty. "Feels... different," he admitted, watching you.

You took him in your mouth, slow and teasing—tongue swirling the tip, tasting the salt of his pre-cum. He hardened gradually under your touch, his breaths deepening, hands fisting in your hair. "Fuck," he muttered, curiosity turning to heat as he grew fully erect, throbbing against your lips.

When he couldn't take it anymore, his hands gripped your arms with a surprising firmness, pulling you up from your knees. Your mouths crashed together in a fierce kiss, his tongue delving deep, tasting the remnants of himself on your lips mingled with your own lingering flavor. It was messy, urgent—the tension that had been simmering finally snapping like a taut wire. His body was alive now, every muscle coiled with that newfound heat, his cock fully hard and straining against your thigh as you both stumbled toward the bed.

He broke the kiss just long enough to grab a condom from the nightstand drawer, his fingers fumbling slightly in his haste, a remnant of that earlier uncertainty. But his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust, as he tore the packet open and rolled it on with steady, deliberate strokes.

"I want to feel it," he growled, his voice low and rough, pushing you back onto the bed with a gentle but insistent shove. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast that made you shiver. He hovered over you, positioning himself between your spread thighs, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance. He sank into you inch by inch—slow, so agonizingly slow—his face a mask of wonder as your warmth enveloped him.

"Fuck... so tight, so... different," he breathed, his brows furrowing in concentration, hips rocking forward tentatively. The stretch was delicious, filling you completely, every ridge of him sliding against your inner walls, slick from your earlier orgasm.

You both started gentle, your bodies finding a rhythm—his thrusts shallow at first, exploratory, like he was mapping how you clenched around him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and whispered, "Like this—slow and deep at first. Feel how I respond."

He nodded, sweat beading on his forehead, his hands bracing on either side of your head as he sank in fully, bottoming out with a groan that vibrated through his chest into yours.

But as the pleasure built, that curiosity in him ignited into something feral. His pace quickened, thrusts turning harder, more insistent, his top energy surging forward like a dam breaking.

"Teach me more," he demanded between breaths, his voice husky, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your core tighten.

"Okay," you gasped, pushing at his chest until he pulled out—reluctantly, with a frustrated growl. "Flip over—missionary's basic, but let's try doggy. It'll hit deeper." You turned onto your hands and knees, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. He hesitated for a split second, his hands running over your ass appreciatively, squeezing the flesh before aligning himself again. When he thrust in, it was with a sharp snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in one go.

"Oh god, yes," you moaned, the angle letting him stroke that sensitive spot inside you perfectly.

Minho's control slipped then, he went feral, gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks, his fingers digging into your skin as he pounded into you senselessly. The room filled with the wet slap of your bodies, his balls smacking against your clit with each brutal thrust.

"Fuck, this... this is insane," he panted, his voice breaking as he leaned over you, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose your neck. He bit down lightly, sucking a mark there while his other hand reached around to rub your clit in frantic circles.

You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, your breasts swaying with the force of it. "Harder—don't hold back," you begged, and he obliged, fucking you with a raw, animalistic fervor you’d never expected from him. His cock dragged against your walls, thick and unrelenting, building that coil in your belly tighter and tighter. Sweat dripped from his body onto yours, your scents mingling—musky, aroused, intoxicating.

"Another one," he grunted, pulling out suddenly and flipping you onto your back again, his strength surprising you. "Show me how to make you ride me." You straddled him eagerly, guiding his cock back inside as you sank down, taking him deep. His hands roamed your body, gripping your thighs, then your breasts, pinching your nipples as you rocked your hips in slow circles at first, grinding your clit against his pelvis.

But he wasn’t content to let you lead for long. With a feral snarl, he bucked up into you, his abs flexing as he took over, thrusting upward with powerful, erratic strokes that made you bounce on him.

"Like this?" he asked, but it was rhetorical—his eyes were wild now, lost in the sensation, one hand clamping on your ass to guide your movements faster, harder. You leaned forward, your hands on his chest, nails scraping down his skin, leaving red trails that made him hiss in pleasure.

The tension peaked, your pussy clenching around him rhythmically, milking him as another orgasm ripped through you, waves of ecstasy making your vision blur.

"Minho—fuck, I'm coming," you cried, your body shaking uncontrollably. That pushed him over the edge; he went utterly senseless, hips slamming up into you with a few final, brutal thrusts before he came with a shuddering roar, his cock pulsing deep inside, filling the condom as his body tensed and released.

You both collapsed together, him still buried in you, your breaths ragged and synced. His arms wrapped around you possessively, that feral edge softening into something tender, but the air still hummed with the aftershocks of what you’d unleashed. Curiosity had turned into chaos, and you knew you’d both crave more.

—••

The days after that night felt like walking on a live wire—every glance, every casual touch between you carried an undercurrent that hadn’t been there before. Minho didn’t pull away like you’d half-expected him to. No awkward "that was a one-time thing" speech, no sudden distance. If anything, he leaned in closer. His texts came faster, his teasing sharper, laced with something new: heat.

You both didn't talk about it outright at first. You just... existed in the aftermath. Movie nights where his arm draped over your shoulders felt heavier, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm that made your skin prickle. Late-night calls where his voice dropped lower when he asked about your day, lingering on details like he was memorizing them. And the way he’d look at you sometimes—dark eyes flicking over your lips, your throat, the curve of your hips—felt like he was seeing you for the first time.

It built slowly, that realization in him. You could feel it in the way his breath hitched when you stretched in front of him, shirt riding up just enough to show skin. Or when you’d catch him staring at your mouth while you talked, like he was replaying the memory of it wrapped around him. He was still Minho, still the same sharp, confident guy who’d never once questioned his identity, but cracks were forming in the certainty he’d carried for years.

One evening, about two weeks later, you were both back on his couch. Rain hammered the windows, the room dim except for the glow of the TV you weren't really watching. You’d kicked off your shoes, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old hoodies that swallowed you whole. He sat closer than usual, thigh pressed to yours, beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

"You've been quiet," you said, nudging him with your elbow.

He huffed a laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Thinking."

"About?"

He set the bottle down, turned to face you fully. His gaze was intense, unguarded in a way you’d rarely seen. "About how I can't stop thinking about that night. About you." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I thought it was just curiosity. One and done. But it's not. It's... more. And it's fucking with my head because I was sure—sure—I was gay. Full stop. No room for anything else."

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs. "And now?"

"Now I look at you and my dick gets hard. I hear your laugh and it hits different. I smell your shampoo on my pillow and I want to bury my face in your neck while I—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. "I don't know what label fits anymore. Bi? Pan? Something else? All I know is I want you. Badly. And not just once."

The admission hung between you, raw and vulnerable. This was Minho laying his confusion bare because the pull was stronger than his old certainties.

You reached out, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp line of it. "You don't have to have it all figured out tonight. But if you want to explore... I'm here."

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the brown. "I want to explore. Everything." He leaned in slow, giving you time to pull back if you wanted. You didn't.

The kiss started tentatively, your lips brushing, testing you like he was still learning the shape of this desire. But when you parted your mouth, inviting him deeper, something in him snapped. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted. The kiss turned hungry, tongues sliding, teeth grazing your bottom lip hard enough to sting. He groaned into your mouth, low and wrecked, like the taste of you was unraveling him.

You both didn't rush to the bedroom. You stayed on the couch, making out like teenagers discovering fire. His hands roamed under the hoodie; palms hot on your bare back, tracing your spine, cupping your breasts through your bra. When he thumbed your nipples, rolling them slow and firm, you arched into him with a whimper. He broke the kiss to watch your face, fascinated, like every reaction was new data.

"Still wet for me?" he murmured, voice gravel-rough.

"Always," you breathed.

He slid a hand down, cupping you over your leggings. The pressure made you grind against his palm instinctively. "Fuck. I love how you feel. So soft... so ready." There was wonder in his tone, mixed with that feral edge from before. He rubbed slow circles over your clit through the fabric, watching your hips buck. "Tell me what you want."

"Touch me properly," you begged. "Fingers. Mouth. All of it."

He didn’t hesitate. He tugged your leggings and panties down in one go, spreading your thighs wide on the couch. The cool air hit your soaked folds, making you shiver. Minho stared, transfixed, his breathing ragged. "You're dripping," he said, almost reverent. Two fingers slid through your slickness, coating them, then pushed inside; slow, deep, curling just right. You moaned, loud and shamelessly.

He watched his fingers disappear into you, then leaned down, tongue flicking out to taste. One long, slow lick from entrance to clit had you jolting.

"Still tastes like heaven," he muttered against you, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking hard, insistently. His fingers pumped steadily, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. You tangled your hands in his hair, grinding against his face, chasing the edge.

When you came, it was explosive; your back arching off the cushions, thighs clamping around his head as you cried his name. He didn't stop, lapping through the aftershocks until you were trembling, oversensitive.

He pulled back, chin glistening, eyes wild. "I need to be inside you. Now."

You both stumbled to the bedroom, clothes shedding in a trail. Naked, he pushed you onto the bed, slid a condom on in record time. But this time, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. He flipped you onto your stomach, yanked your hips up, and thrust in deep—one hard, claiming stroke that made you both groan.

"Like this?" he growled, setting a punishing rhythm. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you back onto his cock with every snap of his hips. The angle was brutal, hitting that spot over and over until stars burst behind your eyes.

"Yes—fuck, Minho—harder."

He went feral again, but different now—possessive, like he was staking a claim on this new part of himself. One hand slid around to rub your clit, the other fisted your hair, arching your back so he could lean down and bite your shoulder. "You feel so fucking good," he panted. "Tight. Wet. Mine."

You pushed back, meeting every thrust, the slap of skin loud and filthy. "Come inside me—want to feel you lose it."

He roared when he came, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep as he filled the condom, body shaking against yours. You followed seconds later, clenching around him so hard he cursed under his breath.

You collapsed, sweaty and spent. He didn't pull out right away; instead, he wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your neck in soft, almost reverent kisses.

"Still figuring it out," he whispered after a long silence. "But I know one thing—I want this. You. Whatever label ends up fitting... I'm in."

You turned in his arms, kissing him slow and deep. "Then we're figuring it out together."

And in the quiet after, with his heartbeat steady against your back, you felt the shift settle—not just in him, but between you. His bisexual awakening wasn't a lightning bolt; it was a slow burn that had finally caught flame. And neither of you was letting it go out.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Happy New Year guys ❤️ I’m just dropping this here as proof of life lol. I deleted the app over the holidays because i wasn’t really feeling connected anymore and also because i didn’t want distractions writing my novel (which is finished by the way 🤩) I won’t be releasing that till mid year though, because its going through all the processes… DON’T WORRY GUYS, I HIRED A REAL LIFE EDITOR, I LEARNED FROM MY MISTAKES LOL! I cant wait to show you guys my book 😭😭❤️❤️❤️. It ain’t fanfic by the way.

Anywho! Whenever the urge comes to write some skz smut, I’ll definitely come make a post 😉🥰

Comment if you wanna be added to the taglist just in case. I love you!

You were close, closer than they probably realized and you didn't hesitate. Grabbing bags of takeout from a local spot (fried chicken, tteokbokki, and plenty of sides) plus a couple bottles of soju and beer, you drove over in the rental car, the winding roads lined with tangerine orchards now bare in the late December chill.

The cabin was a cozy, modern rental nestled in the hills with big windows overlooking the sea—though tonight, dark clouds were rolling in fast. When you knocked, the door flew open to reveal a grinning Han Jisung, his cheeks flushed from the day's filming.

"You came! And with food? You're the best!" He pulled you inside, and the rest of the boys erupted in cheers from the living room. Chan waved from the couch, Minho smirked from where he lounged against the wall, Changbin pumped his fist in the air, Hyunjin called out your name dramatically, Felix's deep voice boomed a happy "Mate!". Seungmin clapped politely with a teasing grin, and Jeongin bounced over to help with the bags.

They'd just finished shooting episodes for SKZ CODE "Holiday House" as Chan explained while everyone dug into the food spread out on the low table. The staff had packed up and headed to their own accommodations hours ago, leaving the eight of them to unwind. You fit right in, as always; their longtime friend who'd been around since pre-debut days, close enough for inside jokes but not part of the idol chaos full-time. The takeout disappeared quickly, washed down with drinks, laughter echoing as they recounted funny moments from the shoot: Minho's deadpan reactions to games, Changbin's over-the-top energy and Jeongin's accidental chaos.

As the night deepened, the weather turned. Wind howled outside, and fat snowflakes began swirling against the windows—a rare snowstorm for Jeju, turning the island into a white blur.

"Looks like we're snowed in," Chan said with a laugh, topping off everyone's glasses. The fire in the hearth crackled, making the cabin feel even more isolated and intimate. Someone, probably Jisung, suggested truth or dare to pass the time, and the game started innocently enough with everyone sitting in a loose circle on the plush rugs and cushions, empty bottles and wrappers pushed aside.

At first, it was silly truths: embarrassing stories from trainee days, crushes they'd had, favorite foods. Dares were tame; Changbin had to rap in a high-pitched voice, Hyunjin dramatically recited poetry to a houseplant, Felix did his best impression of Minho's cat-like glare. But as the soju flowed and everyone got buzzed, the vibe shifted. Their usual playful flirting ramped up to Jisung leaning into Minho with exaggerated winks, Changbin flexing and teasing Hyunjin about his "pretty boy" status, Seungmin sarcastically complimenting Jeongin's "maknae charm" while ruffling his hair like he wasn't a maknae himself. The alcohol loosened tongues, and the dares got flirtier: kisses on cheeks, lap-sitting, whispered "secrets" that had everyone howling.

Then Minho, ever the instigator, leaned back with that sharp grin and declared, "Truths are boring. From now on, it's dares only—or drink."

No one argued; the energy in the room was electric, the storm outside raging harder, blanketing everything in white and trapping you all in this warm bubble.

The dares escalated quickly after that. You watched, amused and a little tipsy yourself, as they pushed boundaries in their chaotic, affectionate way, until it was your turn again. You'd been playing menace all night, daring them to things that made half the group chug their drinks to opt out. Now, with the buzz humming in your veins and a wicked idea sparking, you looked around the circle at their flushed faces, eyes bright with a reckless challenge.

“Alright, boys. I dare all of you, as a group, to take turns eating my pussy. Right here. Or chug if you’re too scared.”

The room froze. Jaws dropped, eyes widened. Jisung choked on his drink, sputtering. “What the—wait, you’re serious?”

Felix’s freckles stood out against his reddening cheeks, his mouth agape.

Hyunjin laughed nervously, “Come on, that’s… we’ve been friends forever, this is insane.”

Changbin rubbed his neck, glancing around. “No way, right? That’s crossing a line.”

Seungmin shook his head, mumbling, “B-but friends don’t… do that.”

Jeongin looked mortified, hiding his face.

Even Chan, the steady leader, blinked in shock. “Whoa, hold up. You sure about this? We’ve never…”

Minho just watched, a slow smile creeping up.

You laughed, egging them on, not expecting a single one to bite. It was a power play, a way to make them all drink and declare you the winner. “What, all these big bad idols scared of a little dare? Come on, we’ve shared dorms, secrets—hell, I’ve seen half of you in your underwear during sleepovers. But fine, chug away. Cowards.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the wind howling outside. They shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances. No one moved for a drink. Then Minho chuckled, low and dangerous, setting his bottle down.

“Fuck it. I’m no coward.” He crawled forward on hands and knees, his gaze locked on yours, predatory.

The others gasped “Minho, what?!” from Jisung, a wide-eyed stare from Felix. But Minho didn’t hesitate, kneeling between your legs.

“You asked for it, you menace. Spread ’em.”

Your heart pounded, shock mirroring theirs. You hadn’t thought anyone would actually… but the challenge in his eyes sparked something filthy in you. The room watched, breath held, as Minho’s hands slid up your thighs, hooking into the waistband of your leggings.

“Lift your hips,” he murmured, voice husky. You did, dazed, and he tugged them down slowly, exposing your panties inch by inch. The cool air hit your skin, making you shiver. He peeled the leggings off completely, tossing them aside, then traced a finger along the damp cotton.

“Already wet? Dirty girl.” With a grin, he slipped your panties down, baring your pussy to the room. The boys stared, some shifting in their seats, pants tenting subtly.

Minho dove in without preamble, but he didn’t rush; his tongue flat and hot, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. “Taste so fucking good,” he growled against you, the vibration making you gasp.

He was relentless, a menace like you: sucking your clit hard, then teasing with flicks, his hands spreading you wider. You felt exposed, electric, the years of platonic tension shattering as pleasure coiled tight. The others watched hungrily—Jisung biting his lip, hand palming himself; Hyunjin whispering to Felix, who flushed deeper; Chan adjusting his jeans, eyes dark.

You moaned, fingers tangling in Minho’s hair, but he pulled back after a minute, smirking, your arousal glistening on his chin. “Who’s next? Don’t make her wait.”

Chan was the next to move. He stood in one fluid motion, his long fingers hooking under the hem of your sweater. “Up,” he ordered, his voice rough.

You let him pull you to your feet, let him guide you to the couch where he sat, legs spread, his dark eyes burning into you. “Sit on my face,” he said, not a request, not a question. A command.

The others crowded around, watching, their breaths shallow, their eyes glued to you as you straddled Chan’s chest, your knees on either side of his head. His hands gripped your thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he looked up at you, his lips curved in a smirk. “You sure about this?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted forward, the heat of his breath ghosting over your exposed skin. The cool air hit your bare glistening pussy, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Chan’s mouth when he dragged his tongue up your slit, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring you.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He hummed against you, the vibration making your hips jerk. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, before he sucked it between his lips, his cheeks hollowing. The sounds you made were obscene, whimpers and moans and his name, spilled from your lips like a prayer. His fingers joined the assault, two of them sliding inside you with a curl that had your back arching, your thighs trembling. He fucked you with his fingers while his tongue worked your clit, relentless, until you were riding his face, your hips rolling in desperate, needy circles.

“Chan—fuck—” Your orgasm crashed over you, sudden and brutal, your body locking up as pleasure tore through you. He didn’t stop, licking you through it, his tongue softening as your tremors subsided.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glossy with you, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his smirk knowing. “Next.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before hands were on you, lifting you, turning you. Hyunjin was there, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief as he pushed you onto your back on the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. He didn’t waste time. His mouth was on you before you could even process the shift, his tongue flat and hot as he dragged it from your entrance to your clit, over and over, like he was memorizing the taste of you.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. His fingers joined his mouth, stretching you, filling you, his thumb pressing down on your clit as he fucked you with his tongue. The others watched, their breaths ragged, their cocks straining against their pants. Hyunjin was good, too good, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing your clit just enough to make you whine.

“Hyunjin—please—” Your fingers clawed at the couch cushions, your hips lifting off the seat as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking rapidly. The second orgasm hit you harder, your vision whiting out as you came with a broken cry, your thighs clamping around his head.

He pulled back with a satisfied groan, licking his lips. “Fuck, you taste amazing.”

You were boneless, trembling, but the game wasn’t over. Hands hauled you up, turned you, bent you over the arm of the couch. Seungmin’s voice was a dark whisper in your ear. “My turn.”

His touch was different; softer, almost reverent, as his fingers traced the curve of your soft ass before dipping between your thighs. You were dripping, your arousal slick on your skin, and when he knelt behind you, his breath hot against your pussy, you could feel his smirk.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his thumbs spreading you open. “All swollen and needy.” Then his tongue was on you, long and slow strokes that had you moaning into the couch. He took his time, savoring you, his fingers teasing your entrance before sliding inside, his palm pressing against your clit as he fucked you with his tongue. The angle was perfect, his mouth sealing over your clit as his fingers hit that spot inside you, and you came with a sob, your body shuddering, your fingers gripping the couch so hard your knuckles turned white.

Seungmin pulled back with a groan, his lips glistening. “God, I could do this all night.”

But the others were impatient. Jisung was next, his usual playfulness replaced by a hunger that made your stomach clench. He didn’t even bother with the couch. He dropped to his knees right there on the floor, his hands on your hips as he pulled you to the edge of the seat, your legs over his shoulders. His mouth was everywhere—licking, sucking, his tongue spearing into you before dragging up to circle your clit. He was relentless, his fingers pumping into you as his tongue worked you over, his free hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise.

“Jisung—fuck—” Your voice was raw, your body coiled tight as another orgasm built, crashing over you as he sucked your clit between his lips, his fingers curling inside you. You came with a cry, your back arching, your hands fisting in his hair.

He pulled back, panting, his face flushed, his lips swollen. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “That was—”

“Come here.” Changbin’s voice was rough, his hand wrapping around your wrist as he tugged you toward him. He didn’t bother to be gentle. He spun you around, pushing you onto your knees on the couch, your ass in the air. His hands were on your hips, his mouth hot against your pussy before you could even process the shift.

Changbin was rough; his tongue thrusting into you, his teeth grazing your clit, his fingers stretching you as he fucked you with his mouth. The sounds he made—groans and growls, like he was starving—sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His fingers crooked inside you, hitting that spot over and over as his tongue lashed your clit, and you came with a broken moan, your body trembling, your fingers clawing at the couch cushions.

When he pulled back, his breath was ragged, his eyes dark. “Fuck, I need more.”

Felix was already there, his hands replacing Changbin’s on your hips, his mouth taking over. Where Changbin had been rough, Felix was slow; his tongue dragging through your folds, his lips sealing over your clit as he sucked gently, his fingers sliding inside you with a slow, deliberate curl. The contrast had you whimpering, your body oversensitive, every flick of his tongue sending sparks through you. He took his time, worshipping you with his mouth until you were trembling, your orgasm building slow and deep, crashing over you as he sucked your clit, his fingers pressing just right inside you.

You collapsed onto the couch, boneless, your skin slick with sweat, your breath coming in ragged gasps. But the night was far from over. Chan was there again, his hand tangling in your hair as he pulled you up, his mouth crashing onto yours. You could taste yourself on his lips, could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh

Jeongin finally came last, nudged forward by encouraging murmurs. “Hyung… I don’t know if I—” But his eyes were glued to your pussy, and he knelt, hands shaky on your thighs. “We’ve known noona since I was a kid, basically. This is crazy, but… I want it.” His tongue was tentative at first, wide sweeps that grew confident, lapping hungrily as he found his rhythm. “Tastes amazing,” he mumbled, blushing furiously. His fingers gripped your ass, squeezing as he buried deeper, tongue thrusting in exploratory pumps.

His hands were warm, reverent, sliding up your body to push the sweater and bralette up fully, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He cupped them, thumbs circling your nipples as he leaned in, breath ghosting over your aching cunt. His tongue delved in deep, broad and reassuring, lapping up every drop with hungry groans. He sucked your clit rhythmically, then slipped two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly against that spot that made you see white.

“That’s it noona, feel me—cum for me, yeah? All over my mouth.” He pumped them steadily, scissoring and thrusting while his tongue flicked relentlessly. The build was overwhelming, your body tensing as the others watched, stroking themselves to the sight. Pleasure crashed over you like the storm outside, your release gushing onto Jeongin’s tongue, his fingers milking every pulse as he hummed approvingly, lapping it all up greedily.

He pulled back slowly, lips shiny, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Wow...”

Minho licked his lips slowly, voice rough. “Your dare’s done… but I don't think the boys are.”

He glanced around the circle, then back at you. You were still trembling from the last wave of overstimulation, thighs slick and shaking, when Minho’s words hung heavy in the heated air.

“Question is,” he said, crawling forward again, “who gets to fuck you first?”

Eight cocks strained against fabric or were already freed, heavy and leaking, the room thick with the scent of arousal and the crackle of the fire. No one spoke for a second; the only sound was your ragged breathing and the storm battering the windows.

Then Chan—steady, commanding Chan—stood up, shrugging off his hoodie in one motion. His chest was broad, skin flushed, cock curving thick, long and hard against his stomach. He didn’t ask. He simply stepped forward, knelt between your spread legs, and dragged the blunt head of his dick through your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess they’d all made of you.

“Me,” he said, voice low, eyes locked on yours. “I’m taking her first.”

No one argued. They knew the hierarchy even in chaos.

Chan pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust—stretching you open around his girth until your back arched off the cushions and a broken cry tore from your throat. He bottomed out with a guttural groan, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, pulling back only to slam in again, deeper, harder. The wet sound of him fucking into you echoed obscenely, your pussy still swollen and sensitive from eight mouths. Every drag of his cock lit you up from the inside.

Minho moved behind you, sliding in to cradle your upper body against his chest. He tilted your head back with a fist in your hair and claimed your mouth in a filthy kiss, tongue stroking yours, swallowing every moan Chan punched out of you. His free hand pinched and rolled your nipples until you were whining into his mouth.

Chan set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. “Look at them,” he growled against your ear when Minho finally let you breathe. “Look how hard they are watching me ruin this pretty pussy.”

You forced your eyes open. The sight nearly undid you.

Changbin was stroking himself slowly and tightly, veins standing out on his forearm. Hyunjin had two fingers in his mouth, sucking them wet before sliding them down to tease his own hole, eyes glassy. Jisung was on his knees, jerking off fast and desperate, pre-cum dripping onto the rug. Felix’s deep voice rumbled filthy praise in his deep Australian accent as he palmed his thick length. Seungmin watched with that cool, mocking smirk, lazily twisting his hand over the head of his unbelievably long cock. Jeongin—sweet Innie—was flushed crimson, stroking himself with shy, frantic motions, lips parted.

Chan angled his hips and hit that spot inside you that made your vision white out. “Time to come, baby girl” he ordered, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles. “Show them how good you take it.”

At his command, you shattered clenching hard around him, a fresh gush of wetness soaking his thighs as you screamed into Minho’s shoulder. Chan fucked you through it, pace stuttering, then buried himself deep and came with a low, prolonged groan, pulsing hot inside you.

He pulled out slowly, watching his cum start to leak from your stretched hole, and smirked. “Can you keep going baby?.”

You nodded, whimpering at the thought of the rest of them fucking you dumb in the name of this reckless dare.

Minho didn’t wait for an invitation. He flipped you onto your hands and knees in one smooth motion, chest pressed to your back, cock already nudging at your entrance and sliding easily through the mess Chan left. He sank in to the hilt in one thrust, the new angle making you sob.

“Greedy little thing,” he rasped against your neck, teeth grazing skin. “Already full of cum and still sucking me in.”

He fucked you rough and fast, hips snapping, one hand wrapped around your throat lightly, while the other rubbed messy circles over your clit. Every thrust pushed Chan’s cum deeper, then dragged it back out in filthy strings that dripped down your thighs.

Changbin crawled in front of you, cock flushed dark and heavy. “Open,” he grunted.

You did, and he fed himself into your mouth, his cock thick and salty, stretching your jaw. You moaned around him as Minho pounded into you from behind, the vibration making Changbin curse and fist your hair into a makeshift ponytail.

They found a rhythm—Minho driving into your pussy, Changbin fucking your throat—until you were nothing but sensation, drooling and clenching and trembling between them.

One by one, they took you apart.

Hyunjin laid beneath you, sliding in slow and deep while Jisung pressed in from behind—your first double penetration, both of them moving in tandem until you were sobbing from overstimulation and pleasure.

Felix lifted you effortlessly, bouncing you on his cock while you rode him reverse, Jeongin stepping in to fill your mouth again.

Seungmin last, and the most patient, pulled you down onto the plush rug and fucked you gentle and deep on the floor with your legs wrapped tightly around him, whispering how pretty you were, how good you felt, until he came with a soft cry and a shudder.

By the end, you were wrecked. You lay boneless on the rug, chest heaving, skin sticky with layers of cum—yours and theirs—drying in streaks across your thighs, stomach, breasts. your pussy swollen and gaping slightly, leaking a filthy mix of eight loads that pooled beneath you on the plush fabric. Your voice was gone, reduced to hoarse whimpers, every nerve raw and singing.

They hovered close, stroking your hair, your arms, murmuring gentle praise while someone fetched warm, damp towels. But Chan hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch the entire time. He’d watched everything, how each of the boys took you after he did, with his eyes dark, jaw tight, and hand occasionally palming himself.

Now, as the others began to settle into aftercare mode, he finally stood. Quiet, deliberate steps brought him to you. The room stilled again; they all felt the shift.

He knelt between your legs without a word, hands gentle on your knees as he parted them wider. You really were a mess, your pussy glistening and puffy, with their cum still slowly oozing out, and he looked at it like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Then he lowered his head.

The first slow lick had you gasping, oversensitive and trembling. Chan didn’t dive in greedily; he cleaned you with careful, reverent strokes of his tongue, lapping up the thick mix of the others’ releases, swallowing it down like it was nothing, like it was an honor. He traced every fold, dipped inside to scoop out more, sucked softly at your entrance until you were clean and shining with only his spit.

A low groan rippled through the room. Minho’s hand tightened on his own thigh, cock already twitching back to life. Hyunjin bit his lip, eyes hooded. Changbin muttered a rough “fuck,” shifting closer. Even Jeongin, flushed and spent, couldn’t look away.

Chan hummed softly against you, the vibration gentle, soothing. He wasn’t trying to get you off—he was taking care of you, easing the ache, tasting every drop of evidence that you’d been thoroughly claimed by his members. His tongue circled your clit in lazy, feather-light patterns, never pressing too hard, just enough to keep you floating in warm sparks.

You whimpered his name, fingers threading weakly into his hair. “Chan… please…”

He lifted his head, lips wet and swollen, eyes searching yours. “You’re too sensitive, baby girl. I don’t want to hurt you.”

But your hips rolled toward him instinctively, needy despite the exhaustion. “Please. Need you inside me. Just you.”

Something tender and fierce flashed across his face. He glanced once at the others who were watching with rapt attention, all half-hard again, and then back to you. With infinite care, he gathered you up, lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing, and carried you back to the couch. He sat back against the cushions, settling you over him, your thighs trembling as they straddled his hips.

He guided himself to your still slick entrance and let you sink down slowly, inch by inch. The stretch was perfect, gentle, deep; he filled you without the brutal force of the first round when he took you, letting every raw nerve ending light up in soft, electric bliss. You clung to his shoulders, burying your face in his neck, breathing him in as he bottomed out with a shaky exhale.

Then he moved; slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, grinding up into you, hands steady on your waist. Each thrust dragged the head of his cock over that spot inside you with devastating precision, building a different kind of heat: warm, deep, intimate. You felt every ridge of him, every pulse, as he fucked you like he had all the time in the world.

The others watched in silence, the room thick with tension again. Minho’s breathing grew heavier, his hand drifting back to his cock without thinking. Jisung’s eyes were glued to where Chan disappeared inside you over and over. Hyunjin whispered something filthy under his breath.

Chan’s lips brushed your ear, voice soft but steady. “You’re so beautiful like this. Took all of us so well… and still feel perfect around me.”

You moaned, nails digging into his back as the pleasure coiled tighter, sweeter than before. He kept that slow, deep rhythm, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, the other guiding your hips. When you started to shake, he locked eyes over your shoulder—directly with Minho—and thrust up harder once, twice, grinding against your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispered, gaze never leaving Minho’s. “One more time. Let them see how pretty you fall apart for me again.”

The intensity of it—the quiet command, the shared look, the way Chan claimed this final moment—sent you over. You came with a broken cry, clenching hard around him, waves of pleasure so deep they felt endless. Your hand flung out blindly, searching, and found Minho’s—fingers intertwining desperately as you shuddered and sobbed through it, grounding yourself on both of them.

“Fuck—” Minho cursed loudly, voice ragged, grip tightening on your hand like he was the one coming undone.

Chan followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling with a soft, trembling moan against your neck.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then the others closed in—hands gentle again, towels and water and quiet murmurs—wrapping you in warmth as the fire crackled low.

Minho pressed a kiss to your temple, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Best dare ever.”

You hummed, utterly spent, drifting in the tangle of eight bodies curled protectively around you and Chan on the wide couch.

The storm had quieted outside. Inside, the night still held its breath… but for now, you were safe, spent, and tomorrow you would all worry about the consequences.

✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧❀✧

Authors note: HIIIIIII SEXY PEOPLE!!! How was Christmas? 🤶 Mine was lit! I’m so happy rn, and i wanna say a big thank you to all of you following my blog, i checked earlier and we are almost literally at 5K!! That is absolutely crazy 🤯

Somehow now i feel like i need to be back on here as much as before and supply you guys fics or at-least fulfill requests, but damn your girl is so busy 😭 and it doesn’t help that i turned off my notifications from tumblr… but next year i am going to be doing things differently!

This is gonna be my last fic for the year, so i want to use this medium to say a BIG THANK YOU to all of you who stayed with me, and all of you who keep showing me and my little fics love 💕 I love you and appreciate you guys so much! Its been a great year!!

The new tag-list is still open so drop a comment if you want me to add you to it! ❤️🫶🏽

Happy New Year in advance Stay! Love ya!!

You had a key to his place, tucked into your wallet like a lucky charm, and he had one to yours, a cozy, slightly cluttered apartment with its mismatched furniture and endless stacks of vinyl records. Sleepovers were routine: crashing on each other’s couches after movie marathons or bad days, no questions asked, no boundaries crossed. It was easy, effortless, the way best friends should be.

Chan himself was a walking contradiction, or at least that’s how you saw him in those quiet, introspective moments when you let your mind wander. He was undeniably sexy; broad shoulders that filled out his shirts just right, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and those dimples that flashed when he laughed, pulling you in like a secret. His hair was always a bit tousled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and his eyes held this quiet intensity that made people stare. You’d seen it happen countless times: heads turning in coffee shops, lingering glances at parties. He attracted everyone; men, women, anyone with a pulse, but from what you’d observed, it was always the handsome boys who caught his eye. You’d been around for a few of those fleeting encounters, overhearing snippets of conversation or catching him mid-laugh with some charming guy at a bar.

His closest friend besides you was Han, unapologetically gay and head-over-heels for his boyfriend Minho, and the way Chan fit into their world so naturally only confirmed what you’d assumed. He was gay, through and through, always too kind, too attentive, too green a flag to be anything else. Straight men didn’t carry themselves with that effortless grace, that quiet confidence that never veered into arrogance.

You never pried into his love life, though. It wasn’t your place. But yours? Oh, you rambled endlessly about your dates, your flings, the highs and lows of it all, assuming he was your gay bestie, the perfect sounding board. He listened with that patient smile, offering advice that was always spot-on, never judgmental.

“Sounds like he wasn’t worth your time,” he’d say, or “You deserve someone who makes you feel alive.”

And you’d nod, feeling seen, even if a tiny part of you wondered why he never shared his own stories. Not that it mattered. But you weren’t blind though, In the privacy of your thoughts, you’d admit he was one of the sexiest men you’d ever laid eyes on, a fact that simmered low in your mind like background heat, never boiling over into anything more.

Lately, though, things had shifted just a touch. It had been two months since Chan had shown up unannounced at your place, his sneakers kicked off by the door, raiding your fridge like he owned it. You hadn’t thought much of it, life got busy, runs turned into routines, and you both had your own orbits. But in that quiet space, your curiosity had turned inward. Your girlfriends had been on you about it for weeks:

“Girl, you need to try some toys. You’ve never made yourself cum? That’s criminal.” You’d laughed it off at first, but the seed was planted. You’d never been one for self-exploration like that, relationships had always been about the other person, the chase, the connection. But alone in your apartment, with the city lights flickering through your windows, the idea took root. What would it feel like to chase your own pleasure, to unravel without an audience?

You’d ordered a vibrator discreetly, a sleek little thing that arrived in plain packaging, and tucked it away until the moment felt right. Tonight was that moment. The air in your bedroom was thick with anticipation, the silk robe you’d slipped into earlier now feeling like a second skin, soft and teasing against your body. You dimmed the lights, letting the glow from your laptop screen cast shadows across the room. You put on some Hentai; it was your guilty pleasure, the exaggerated animations pulling you in faster than anything else, stirring that heat low in your belly. You hit play, the sounds filling the space: soft gasps, exaggerated pleas, the kind of fantasy that made your pulse quicken.

Settling back against the pillows, you untied the robe slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric peel open like an invitation. Cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hips. You bit your lip, a mix of nerves and excitement twisting inside you as you reached for the vibrator. It hummed to life in your hand, a low vibration that sent a shiver up your arm.

You didn’t know the first thing about this… your friends’ advice echoed vaguely: start slow, find what feels good. But as you pressed it against yourself, tentative at first, then with more intent, frustration crept in. It wasn’t clicking, not the way you’d hoped. The rhythm felt off, your mind wandering despite the hentai playing out on screen, those illustrated bodies twisting in ecstasy that seemed so far from your grasp. You shifted, spreading your legs wider, arching your back slightly as you tried to focus, to build some momentum. Your breaths came shorter, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you chased that elusive spark, the tension coiling tighter but never quite snapping.

Unbeknownst to you, your phone sat silent on the nightstand, set to Do Not Disturb, oblivious to the barrage of calls lighting up the screen. Chan had been trying to reach you, at first casually, then with growing worry when you didn’t pick up. He was out on his evening run, sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his chest, earbuds blasting a playlist to match his steady pace. But concern gnawed at him, pulling him off course. Your building was just two blocks away, after all. It was nothing to swing by, use his key, check in. That’s what friends did.

The door clicked open quietly as he let himself in, kicking off his shoes out of habit, his breathing still a little ragged from the run.

“Hey, it’s me,” he called out softly, not wanting to startle you if you were home. But the apartment felt still, the only sound a faint, muffled hum from down the hall.

He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios—were you okay? Had something happened? He moved toward your bedroom, the door slightly ajar, and pushed it open without a second thought.

And there you were.

Time seemed to fracture in that instant, the world narrowing to the sliver of space between you and the doorway. Chan froze, his hand still on the knob, his wide frame silhouetted against the hallway light like some unintended intruder in a dream you hadn’t meant to share. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the sweat from his run glistening on his skin, making the thin fabric of his tank top cling in ways that accentuated the hard lines of his muscles, the kind of detail your mind latched onto even as heat flooded your cheeks. You didn’t move, couldn’t, your body splayed open on the bed, robe fallen away like forgotten silk, the vibrator still humming faintly in your hand, its vibration a traitorous echo in the sudden silence.

His eyes; those dark, intense eyes that you’d always thought held secrets, widened just a fraction, a flicker of shock rippling across his features before he schooled them into something unreadable. But you saw it, that raw, unguarded moment: the way his gaze dipped involuntarily, tracing the curve of your exposed breast, the arch of your hip, the vulnerability of your spread thighs. It wasn’t leering, nor crude, but there was hunger there, a spark that ignited low in your gut despite the mortification clawing at you. He’d seen you like this; intimate, frustrated, chasing something alone and the air thickened with it, charged like the calm before a storm.

Chan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tore his eyes away, fixing them on the floor, the wall, anywhere but you.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it, laced with an edge that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t disgust; no, it was something deeper, more tangled; regret for barging in, maybe, or surprise at the heat that mirrored your own. His hand flexed on the door, knuckles whitening, as if debating whether to bolt or step closer.

You could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his body leaned forward just a touch, betraying the pull he fought against. He’d always been so composed, your steady best friend, the one who listened to your rambles about lovers without a hint of jealousy or want. But now, in this suspended breath, you wondered if you’d misread him all along. Was that flush creeping up his neck from the run, or something else?

You shifted then, finally, pulling the robe closed with trembling fingers, the vibrator silenced with a click that echoed too loudly. Your heart hammered, a mix of embarrassment and an unexpected thrill…had he really just seen you like that? And why did the thought of his eyes on you make your skin tingle, heat pooling anew despite the interruption?

“Chan,” you breathed, your voice a whisper that broke the spell, pulling his gaze back to yours. There was no judgment in it, only a quiet storm brewing, questions unspoken hanging between you like smoke.

He took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck, his dimples absent, replaced by a tight line of his mouth.

“I… I called. You didn’t answer. I got worried.” His words tumbled out, excuses wrapped in concern, but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking down for the briefest second before snapping away. The room felt smaller, the distance between you electric, as if one wrong move could bridge it in ways neither of you had anticipated.

Your face burned hotter than you thought possible, a wildfire spreading from your cheeks down your neck as you clutched the edges of your silk robe, pulling it tighter around yourself like it could shield you from the raw exposure humming in the air. You tried to speak, anything to break the suffocating silence, but the words tangled in your throat, coming out in fractured stutters.

“I—I didn’t… Ch-Chan, I’m s-sorry, you weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, and you curled inward, drawing your knees up to your chest on the bed, hugging them as if they could anchor you against the embarrassment crashing over you in waves.

But beneath the mortification, something darker and unexpected stirred. Your body, still thrumming from the interrupted attempt, reacted to him in a way the hentai never could. Watching Chan’s face; those chaotic emotions flickering across his usually steady features, shock giving way to something raw and unguarded, lifted a veil you hadn’t even known was there.

For years you’d slotted him neatly into the role of gay best friend, safe and sexless in your mind. Yet now, seeing the flush on his skin, the way his eyes darkened as they briefly met yours before darting away, you looked at him anew. He wasn’t just handsome; he was magnetic, potent, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, making you shift uncomfortably against the sheets.

Chan cleared his throat, the sound rough, and took a half-step back toward the door. “I—I should go,” he said quickly, ever the green flag, trying to salvage the moment with kindness. “Pretend I was never here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, wait—” The words burst out of you before you could stop them, desperate and unfiltered. “I was… I was trying to do it for the first time. Like, really trying. And it… it wasn’t working.” You buried your face against your knees for a second, the confession hanging heavy in the air, making your skin prickle with fresh shame.

Why had you said that? But you couldn’t take it back now, so you forced yourself to look up, voice smaller. “It just… wasn’t working at all.”

He froze mid-turn, his hand still on the doorknob, mouth parting as if to speak but no words coming. Slowly, he let go of the door and faced you fully again, his gaze dropping to where you sat huddled on the bed, robe clutched tight, looking small and undone. Silence stretched between you, thick and electric, until something shifted in his expression; hesitation warring with concern, and beneath it, that same unreadable heat you’d glimpsed earlier.

Then he did the unthinkable.

His voice came low, tentative, almost swallowed by the quiet room, but it hit you like a spark to dry tinder.

“Can I… can I see what you’re doing wrong?” The words were careful, edged with disbelief as if he couldn’t believe he’d said them aloud. His face was flushed deep red, ears burning, but he didn’t look away this time. He took one small, deliberate step into the room, lingering just inside the threshold, body tense like he was giving you every chance to shut this down.

Your breath caught. Your mind screamed that this was insane—your best friend, the one you’d assumed was gay, asking to watch you touch yourself? But your body betrayed you utterly. A sharp, involuntary pulse throbbed between your legs at the mere suggestion, foreign and dizzying, like a door you hadn’t known existed had swung wide open. You should say no. You should laugh it off, tell him to leave. Instead, you found your grip on the robe loosening, your knees uncurling just slightly as a strange, hazy obedience took over.

Chan noticed. His shoulders eased a fraction, the tension in his stance softening as he watched you visibly relax, or at least stop fighting the pull. His eyes, dark and intent, stayed fixed on you, no longer fleeing.

Emboldened by the shift in the air, by the way he looked at you now, like you were something he’d been denying himself for longer than you could fathom, you let the robe fall open again, slower this time. Not all at once, but enough to bare the smooth plane of your lower body, thighs parting shyly as you reached for the vibrator on the sheets.

A subconscious performance crept in, your movements languid, almost teasing, as if testing the waters of this new, charged space between you. You switched it on, the low hum filling the room again, and pressed it where you had before, repeating the same frustrated motions—circling, pressing, chasing that elusive rhythm—your breath hitching softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He watched, unmoving at first, but you saw the way his chest rose faster, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. The room felt smaller, warmer, every second stretching into eternity.

Then his voice cut through, deeper than you’d ever heard it, gravel-rough and commanding in a way that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Stop.”

You froze, the vibrator still buzzing against you, eyes wide as they locked on his.

“Try with your fingers first,” he said, the words low and steady despite the flush still staining his cheeks. And then—God—he took another step closer, closing some of the distance between the door and your bed, his gaze never leaving your body.

Your heart raced in a dizzying cocktail of confusion, shock, and an arousal so potent it bordered on delirium, as if you’d stumbled into a dream where boundaries blurred and desires you hadn’t named came alive. Without a second thought, you obeyed his command, setting the vibrator aside entirely, its hum silenced like an afterthought. Your fingers trembling but eager, slid down your body, parting your thighs wider under his unwavering gaze.

Chan’s eyes locked onto the intimate dance of your hand, tracing every tentative stroke along the slick folds of your pussy, circling the sensitive swell of your clit with a hesitancy born of inexperience. Self-consciousness burned in your chest, making you hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin, every shallow breath that escaped your lips, but it only fueled the fire. This felt like devouring the forbidden fruit; sweet, sinful, and utterly intoxicating, your best friend watching you unravel, peeling back layers you’d kept hidden even from yourself.

The first moan slipped out unbidden, a soft, breathy sound that hung in the air like a confession. It was involuntary, pulled from you as your fingers found a fleeting rhythm, and the effect on Chan was electric. His eyes darkened further, a spark igniting behind them as if that single noise had shattered whatever restraint he’d been clinging to. It was like he awoke, the composed facade cracking to reveal something primal beneath. He leaned forward slightly, his voice emerging soft yet laced with an undeniable dominance that sent shivers cascading down your spine.

“That’s it,” he murmured, the words a gentle command. “Slow down a little—feel it, don’t rush.”

He edged closer then, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat at the foot of the bed, his presence a magnetic pull that drew you in without conscious effort. You shifted toward him, your body moving on instinct, knees parting further as if inviting him into this sacred space. Your eyes stayed glued to his face, those sharp features softened by arousal, dimples hidden behind a focused intensity as he watched you intently, your fingers rolling and pinching your clit under his guidance.

“Circle it lighter,” he directed, his tone steady but deepening, “build it up. You’re doing so good—look at how wet you are already.” It felt better, undeniably, his words weaving through your mind like threads of silk, heightening every sensation, coaxing sparks of pleasure that had eluded you before. But still, it wasn’t quite enough; the edge remained just out of reach, a frustrating tease that left you whimpering softly, hips twitching in search of more.

Chan’s breath hitched audibly, his gaze dropping to where your fingers worked, and when you dared to glance down, you saw the unmistakable tent straining against his gym shorts, massive and insistent, a visual testament to the effect you were having on him. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you, your core clenching in response. His voice turned huskier then, thick with arousal that mirrored your own, rough around the edges like velvet dragged over gravel.

“Let me help,” he whispered, the words hanging heavy, a question wrapped in inevitability.

Before you could process, before doubt could creep in, his hand reached out, long fingers, warm and sure, brushing yours aside with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. The moment he touched you, every nerve in your body ignited, a electric jolt that arched your back and drew a gasp from your throat. It was forbidden, this shift from spectator to participant, your assumed-gay best friend now exploring you with an intimacy that shattered all your preconceptions. But God, it was hot… so achingly good, his skin against yours sending ripples of pleasure outward like waves from a stone dropped in still water.

He took over slowly, deliberately, his touch a masterclass in restraint and tease. First, he traced the outer edges of your folds with the pads of his fingers, gathering the leaking juices that betrayed your arousal, spreading them with languid strokes that made you slicker, needier.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble close enough to feel his breath fan across your thigh.

“You’re so responsive, listen to how your body wants this.” He circled your clit then, not directly at first, but around it, building pressure in widening spirals that had your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained now, filling the room as he rubbed with just the right firmness, alternating between feather-light flicks that teased the sensitive bud and firmer presses that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He played with you like he knew your body better than you did, dipping lower to collect more of your essence, slicking his fingers before returning to your clit, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger with a precision that drew out whimpers you couldn’t contain.

“Shh, breathe through it,” he coached, his free hand resting on your inner thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his other hand drove you higher. “Let it build, I’m right here, I’ve got you.” The tension coiled tighter, your body trembling under his ministrations, moans escalating into desperate pleas as he stimulated every inch, rubbing your folds open, playing with the pooling juices until you were drenched, the wet sounds mingling with your cries. It was exquisite torture, the slow burn of his touch unraveling you thread by thread, making you forget the shock, the confusion, lost in the haze of how right it felt.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, when the pleasure hovered on the brink, intoxicating but not quite tipping over, his movements shifted. A single long finger, slick from your arousal, pressed at your entrance, teasing the soaked heat before sinking in slowly, inch by deliberate inch. The stretch was perfect, filling you in a way your own fingers never could, curling just so to brush against that spot inside that made your vision blur and a loud, keening moan tear from your lips.

“Chan—” His name tore from your lips in a broken cry as that single long finger fully seated inside you, your walls fluttering and clenching greedily around the intrusion. The raw and desperate sound of it, seemed to hit him like a physical blow.

“Holy fuck!” A low, ragged curse escaped him, something filthy and reverent under his breath, his jaw clenching so tight you could see the muscle jump. You felt the tremor in his hand, the way he held himself perfectly still for a heartbeat, as if one wrong move would unravel whatever thin thread of control he was clinging to.

But you were already too far gone to care about restraint. The emptiness you’d chased for so long was suddenly filled, stretched, owned by him, and it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” you whimpered shamelessly, hips rocking up to meet the slow, deliberate pump of his finger. “More—Chan, please, I need more.”

His eyes snapped to yours, dark and blazing, and the intensity of his stare sent goosebumps racing across your skin. He looked wrecked, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, silently pleading for something you couldn’t yet name. Without a word, he slid a second finger alongside the first, the added thickness making you gasp as he stretched you open further, curling them just right to drag against that devastating spot inside. Your hand flew to his forearm, nails digging into the flexed muscle there for anchor as he picked up the pace, thrusting deeper, faster, the wet sounds of your arousal obscene in the quiet room.

You were climbing, spiraling, so close and then, cruelly, he slowed. His fingers stilled, then withdrew entirely, leaving you empty and aching. A broken whine escaped you, hips chasing his hand on instinct.

“Do exactly what I did,” he said, voice low and rough, though it shook at the edges. “Finish yourself. Show me you can.”

It was like he’d yanked you both back from the edge, reminding both you and himself why this had started: to help you, not to lose control. You wanted to protest, to pull him back, but the command in his tone rooted itself in you. Whimpering, you obeyed, one hand sliding down to pump two fingers into your soaked heat the way he had; slow at first, then deeper and curling while the other returned to your clit, rubbing in those firm, perfect circles he’d shown you.

He didn’t move away. He stayed right there, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his eyes never leaving your face, your body.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice velvet and gravel. “Just like that—fuck, you’re so beautiful. Keep going, let it build. You’re so close, I can feel it.”

And this time, you got it right. The pleasure coiled tight and hot, then snapped, your orgasm crashing over you in relentless waves that bowed your back and tore his name from your throat again and again. Your forehead fell against his shoulder as you shuddered through it, breath coming in ragged gasps, his low praises—“Good girl, just like that, let it take you”—vibrating against your skin.

When the aftershocks finally ebbed, you stayed there, face tucked into the curve of his neck, inhaling the salt-sweat scent of him. That’s when you felt it, really felt it… the massive, straining bulge pressing against his gym shorts, the damp spot darkening the fabric where he’d leaked through. He was huge, impossibly so, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat through your spent body.

Without thinking, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his.

Chan froze for half a second, a sharp curse spilling against your mouth—“Fuck”—before he surged forward, kissing you back twice as hard, twice as hungry. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made you moan into him. The kiss turned filthy fast; teeth and desperation, years of unspoken something igniting all at once. He kept swearing under his breath between kisses, the words muffled against your lips, turning you on all over again.

Your hand drifted down, cupping the thick length of him through the fabric. He jolted like he’d been shocked, fingers wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist to still you.

“You don’t have to,” he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t want us to do anything stupid or anything you’ll regret.”

You looked up at him, chest heaving, and asked the only question that mattered.

“Do you want me, Channie?”

Something fractured behind his eyes. The dam broke.

He kissed you again hard, swallowing the soft laugh that escaped you as you added, breathlessly, “Let’s worry about the questions later.”

The words hung between you like a match struck in the dark and Chan’s restraint snapped with an audible groan. He crushed his mouth to yours again, the kiss no longer exploratory but devouring, years of quiet tension pouring out in the slant of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. You tasted salt and heat and something uniquely him, and it made you dizzy. His hands; those careful, talented hands, slid up your thighs, pushing the silk robe fully open until it pooled beneath you like spilled ink, leaving you bare to the cool air and to him.

He pulled back only far enough to look at you, eyes dark with want, chest heaving. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice shredded, “and I will. Anytime.” But his thumb was already tracing the inside of your knee, a silent plea for the opposite.

You answered by arching into him, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his tank top. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took.

Chan surged forward, guiding you back against the pillows with a gentleness that contrasted the urgency in his kiss. He peeled his tank top off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside, and the sight of him; broad shoulders, defined chest glistening with the remnants of his run, the cut of muscle disappearing into low-slung shorts, stole what little breath you had left. You reached for him, palms skating over warm skin, feeling the tremor that ran through him at your touch.

He settled between your thighs, the heavy weight of his arousal pressing against you through the thin barrier of his shorts. A slow roll of his hips dragged the length of him along your slick folds, and you both moaned at the contact. His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged.

“You feel—” He broke off with a curse as you lifted your hips to meet him again, chasing the friction.

Impatient now, you tugged at the waistband of his shorts. He helped you, rising just enough to shove them down and kick them off, and then he was bare against you, hot skin on skin, the thick, leaking length of him sliding along your stomach as he lowered himself again. You wrapped your hand around him instinctively, marveling at the size, the velvet heat, the way he jerked and swore into your neck when your fingers tightened experimentally.

“Later,” he growled against your throat, nipping the skin there. “I need to be inside you now.”

He reached between you, guiding himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging through your wetness in a slow, deliberate press. You gasped at the stretch, it was much much more than his fingers, fuller and perfect… and your nails dug into his shoulders. He stilled instantly, letting you adjust, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Breathe,” he whispered, voice trembling with the effort of holding back. “I’ve got you.”

When you rocked up against him, taking him deeper, he exhaled shakily and pushed forward in one smooth glide until he was seated fully inside you. The sensation was overwhelming, yet intimate in a way that went beyond bodies, like every unspoken moment between you had led to this. He stayed buried for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing each other in.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first; long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside you, drawing soft cries from your throat. His hand slipped between you again, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, circling in time with his thrusts. The rhythm built gradually, unhurried but relentless, pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He obliged, pace quickening, the slap of skin on skin mingling with your shared gasps and moans. His mouth found yours again, swallowing every sound you made, kissing you like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Chan—” you whimpered against his lips, feeling the edge approaching fast. “I’m—”

“I know,” he panted, voice rough and reverent. “Let go. I’m right here.”

The coil snapped, and you came undone around him; walls pulsing, back arching, his name a broken prayer on your tongue. He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, spilling inside you in hot pulses that left you both trembling.

For a long minute, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, arms braced on either side of your head, breathing hard against your neck. Eventually he softened, slipping out gently, but he didn’t go far, just shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into his chest. You curled into him instinctively, ear over his racing heart, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

The room was quiet except for your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. Questions lingered in the air; about assumptions, about labels, about what this meant, but for now they stayed unspoken. You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone instead, feeling his arms tighten around you.

Later, you’d talk. Later, you’d untangle everything.

But tonight, there was only the warmth of his body against yours, the lingering ache of pleasure, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

——

Morning light filtered softly through the half-drawn blinds, painting pale gold stripes across the tangled sheets and the bare skin of Chan’s back. You’d been awake for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling, then at him, then back at the ceiling again, as if the plaster might offer some explanation for how everything had shifted overnight. His arm was still slung heavily across your waist, his body curled behind yours, and you could feel him still thick, half-hard even in sleep, nestled warm and heavy between your thighs where he’d stayed most of the night. Every small shift sent a quiet, delicious ache through you, a reminder that last night had been real. Mind-blowing, earth-tilting, assumption-shattering real.

You turned your head carefully on the pillow to look at him. He was beautiful like this…peaceful, unguarded, lips slightly parted as he breathed out the softest little snore. Those full lips you’d kissed a hundred times last night in the dark, now soft and inviting in daylight. You couldn’t stop yourself. You leaned in and brushed your mouth against his, feather-light, just once.

He stirred immediately, a quiet hum in his throat. His eyes fluttered open, confusion flickering for half a second before recognition flooded in. A slow, sleepy smile curved his mouth as he registered you, and then his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep, and kissed you properly, lazy but deep, like he’d been dreaming about doing exactly this. Your brain short-circuited all over again, warmth pooling low in your belly as his tongue teased yours, slow and unhurried. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little harder, foreheads still touching.

He searched your face, the smile fading into something softer, more careful. “Hey… you okay?” His thumb stroked along your cheek. “No regrets?”

You shook your head without hesitation, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “None. Not even a little.”

Relief flashed across his features, and he pressed another quick kiss to your lips, like he couldn’t help himself. Then you took a breath, the question that had been circling your mind all morning finally spilling out.

“Channie… I thought you were gay.” You bit your lip, half-laughing at how ridiculous it sounded now. “Did I, like… break you?”

He blinked once, twice, then burst into genuine deep laughter, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his dimples appear. He rolled onto his back, dragging a hand over his face, still chuckling.

“Why would you even think that?”

You propped yourself up on an elbow, suddenly feeling a little sheepish.

“I mean… Han and Minho are literally your closest friends besides me, and they’re together. You’re always hanging out with them. And I’ve never once seen you with a girl. Ever. You never talk about hooking up with anyone, never bring anyone around, never even mention crushes. Every gender on the planet throws themselves at you, and you just… smile and move on. It added up in my head.”

He turned his head to look at you, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “That’s pure coincidence, babe.” The pet name slipped out so naturally it made your heart skip. “I’ve had girls over. Plenty. Parties, hookups, whatever. Just never anything serious enough to turn into conversation. I didn’t think you needed the play-by-play.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And Han and Minho?”

“I love those idiots,” he said fondly. “And I don’t give a damn who they date. My little sister’s pan, actually she came out years ago. So yeah, I’m an ally. Always have been. Doesn’t mean I’m in the community myself.”

You groaned, dropping your face into the pillow beside him. “I feel so stupid.”

He laughed again, softer this time, and tugged you until you were half-draped over his chest. “You’re not stupid. You just never asked.” His fingers threaded through your hair, soothing. “And honestly? I kind of liked that you didn’t. You’d come over all flustered about some guy who ghosted you or whatever, and you’d ramble for an hour, and I’d just sit there thinking how cute you were when you got worked up. I never wanted to interrupt that.”

You lifted your head, cheeks warm. “So all this time…”

“All this time,” he confirmed, eyes steady on yours, “I’ve been into girls. Into you, if we’re being honest. But every time I got close to someone, they’d get weird about how much time I spent with you. How I’d drop everything if you needed me. Apparently that’s a red flag.” He shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “So I stopped trying for anything serious. Friends-with-benefits, one-night stands—easy, no strings. I didn’t mind. I had you anyway.”

The words settled between you, heavy and sweet. You’d been the reason without even knowing it.

You leaned down and kissed him again, softer this time, pouring everything you couldn’t quite say into it. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, that familiar heat flickering back to life.

“So,” you whispered against his lips, “now that we’ve cleared that up… what do we do about it?”

Chan’s smile turned slow and devastating. He rolled you gently beneath him, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he murmured, and kissed you until talking was no longer an option.

🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶

Authors note: MERRY CHRISTMAS FINE SHYTS!!! 😍🤩❤️🎄🎄

You didn’t think I was gonna let the year end without dropping something in December, did you? 🌝 I do have one more lined up before the end of the year still so stay tuned! Drop a comment too if you wanna be added to the new taglist! And to my new followers… ✨Hiiiii ✨ I promise I’m not always this tardy with uploads but my first book is finished yaaay!! Its going through the editors right now before i publish! I’m actually so excited about it! Anywho, if you made it to this point, follow me and check out my masterlist for more of these!!

New taglist

He didn't talk much. His tricks did the talking: silk scarves turned into birds, water became a snowstorm in a jar, and mirrors showed impossible places. But when he needed a volunteer (someone who “still believes in impossible things”), his eyes scanned the crowd and stopped.

On you.

You felt it immediately. His eyes were dark, and they held yours for a few seconds—long enough for everything else to disappear. Then he gave a small, lopsided smile and beckoned with a gloved finger.

His assistant, a woman in a red jacket, was at your row before you could even think. “He chose you,” she whispered, sounding amused. You walked down the aisle without meaning to.

Up close, he smelled like cedar smoke and something nice (vanilla, or maybe trouble). He took your hand like it was normal, turned your palm up, and traced a slow circle with his thumb.

“Close your eyes,” he said, so only you could hear.

You did.

When you opened them, a single white rose was in your hand. Its edges were the same violet color as the spotlight. The audience clapped loudly, but you barely noticed. Hyunjin bowed, looking only at you, and the rose felt like it was breathing in your hand.

After the show, the assistant found you. “He wants to thank you,” she said, leading you behind the tent to a small silver trailer lit by fairy lights. Hyunjin was there, without his coat, sleeves rolled up. Without the stage makeup, he looked younger and almost nervous.

“I don’t usually do that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pick someone specific, I mean. It felt wrong not to.”

You laughed, surprised at how easy it was. “So the rose was real?”

“Everything I do is real,” he answered, too seriously. Then he caught himself and grinned. “At least while it’s happening.”

That was the start.

You came back every night the circus was in town—ten nights in total. You told yourself it was for the show, but you always sat in the same spot. And every night, he found you. Sometimes the trick was small (a coin behind your ear outside the tent). Sometimes it was huge: one night, he made the whole audience vanish, leaving just the two of you under the big top while paper stars floated down.

Between shows, he taught you card tricks behind the trailers, his fingers guiding yours until the queen of hearts always landed in your palm. He never rushed. He just let the nights pass until, after the last show, he looked at you across a messy table with coffee cups and candles and said, quietly, “The troupe leaves tomorrow. Want to get dinner before we go?”

You said yes instantly.

He took you to a small, cozy Italian place where the circus people went to feel normal. No magic, no audience. Just you two sharing wine and telling stories. He told you about learning magic from his grandma and running away at seventeen. You told him about being too quiet and how watching him made the world feel bigger.

At some point, his knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there.

When he walked you back to your apartment, the summer night was warm and noisy with crickets. He stopped at your door, hands in his pockets like he was holding himself back.

“I don’t want this to stop when the tents are taken down,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to,” you replied, feeling bolder than usual.

He kissed you then… slow and gentle, like he was afraid you’d disappear. His mouth tasted like wine and churros. When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“Come to the last show tomorrow,” he whispered. “After, I’ll show you something no one else gets to see.”

The final performance was wild and exciting. He did every impressive trick he had: fire that spelled your name in the air, mirrors that showed the future. For the final bow, he ignored the script. He walked straight to the edge of the ring, held out his hand, and waited.

The audience cheered when you stepped into the spotlight with him. He spun you once, his coat flying out, then dipped you low. When he brought you up, he found your ear.

“Meet me at the trailer when they take the tent down,” he said, his breath warm. “I’ll be waiting.”

Hours later, the circus felt half-empty. The canvas was down, and the lights were going out. His silver trailer was still lit. The door was slightly open.

Inside, the space was much bigger than it looked (of course). Velvet curtains, a low couch, and candles floating in the air. He had changed into a black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up. He looked less like a magician and more like someone who had been waiting for this moment forever.

He didn't speak. He just took your hand and led you to the middle of the room where a single silk scarf hung in the air, twisting.

“I want to show you real magic,” he said quietly. “The kind that only works when you trust someone completely.”

His fingers brushed your wrist, asking permission. You nodded.

He started gently (one scarf looped around your left wrist, loose). Then another on your right. He didn't tie them, just held and guided your arms up until your hands were above your head, scarves hanging down like light. He stepped close enough for you to feel his warmth.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered.

It wasn't.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding to your lower back to pull you close. The scarves tightened just a little (a soft, constant hold). When his mouth moved to your throat, you felt his teeth gently graze your skin and you shivered.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere: tracing your shirt, brushing the skin above your waistband, then pulling back. Teasing. Learning. Every time you tried to press closer, the scarves held you still, and he smiled against your collarbone like he loved having that control.

“Hyunjin,” you breathed, not knowing what you were asking for.

“I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I know.”

He finally let the scarves fall, pooling on the floor and walked you backward until your knees hit the couch. When you sat down, he kneeled between your legs without stopping the kiss. His fingers unbuttoned your shirt one by one, his mouth tracing the new skin revealed as if he was memorizing a secret map.

You pulled at his shirt, wanting to feel him. When it was off, you touched the defined lines of his chest and the small scars on his hands from years of practice. He shuddered when your nails lightly ran down his back.

Time slowed down. There was no rush (just the slow, deliberate release of all the wanting). When he finally slid your skirt up your thighs, his palms were warm and purposeful. When your hands went for the button of his pants, he breathed your name like a relief.

He stopped, his forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

In the candlelight, his eyes were deep. “I’ve been falling for you since the first night,” he said. “Every trick after that was just me trying to keep you watching.”

You kissed him to stop him from talking, because you might cry, and you had better uses for your mouth right now.

Later… much later, with the candles low and the scarves forgotten, he traced circles on your bare back.

“The troupe is going north tomorrow,” he said. “Come with me.”

You turned to look at him, messy and full of emotion.

“Only if you promise to keep making impossible things happen,” you said.

He smiled, a mix of slow, sexy, and gentle.

“Darling,” he murmured, pulling you on top of him, “we’re just starting.”

The candles had almost burned out. The trailer was quiet except for the couch creaking and Hyunjin’s slow breathing.

He kneeled between your thighs, shirt off, his skin shining in the light. His hands were on your knees, thumbs drawing slow, deliberate lines inside your legs. Each touch sent a rush of heat through you.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice quiet and respectful. “I’ve imagined this so many times, and still… you mess me up.”

He leaned in and kissed you just above your knee, lingering, his tongue tracing the fold there. Another kiss higher. Each one slower than the last. When he reached your inner thigh, he paused, his breath making you shiver.

“Hyunjin,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair.

He hummed, the sound making you clench. “Let me take my time,” he whispered against you. “I’ve waited months to worship you properly.”

His hands moved up, sliding your skirt until it was bunched high on your hips. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your underwear; the black lace pair you wore tonight for him, and slowly pulled them down your legs, never looking away from your eyes. When they were gone, he pushed your thighs wider, settling between them like it was his spot.

The first touch of his mouth was light: just the flat of his tongue tracing you from the bottom to the clit in one slow stroke. Your hips jumped; his hands gently held you in place.

“Stay still for me, love,” he breathed. “Let me have you.”

Then he focused on you completely.

It wasn't fast or selfish (it was like devotion). Long, slow licks that made your toes curl. The soft pull of his lips around your clit, then the wet heat of his tongue circling, teasing, never quite satisfying. Every time you got close, he pulled back, kissing your thigh, nipping the sensitive skin until you were shaking, begging softly.

When he finally slid two fingers inside you and curved them just right, you cried out. He groaned against you, a deep, rough sound.

“You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice wrecked. “Can you hear how much you want this? How much you want me?”

You couldn't answer. He worked his fingers again, his mouth covering your clit, and the world went bright for a moment. He wouldn't let you come yet. He drew it out until tears stung your eyes, until your legs trembled around his shoulders, and your hands gripped his hair hard.

Only then did he move up, kissing a wet trail over your stomach, between your breasts, pausing at your throat. He took off the rest of your clothes like unwrapping something precious. When you were fully naked, he sat back on his heels just to look.

His gaze was dark and hungry, but soft. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, and he meant it deeply.

You reached for him, fumbling with the button of his pants. He helped, pulling them down with his underwear in one quick motion. When he was naked, you both paused.

He was hard, flushed, and already slick. You wrapped your hand around him, and he gasped, his hips pushing into your touch. You stroked him slowly, thumb circling the tip, watching the pleasure on his face.

“I need to be inside you,” he said, his voice desperate. “Need to feel you around me. Please.”

You guided him to your entrance. He pushed in slowly (painfully slowly), his eyes glued to yours, watching every reaction as he filled you completely. When he was all the way in, he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“Damn,” he whispered. “You feel like… like the first real thing I’ve ever touched.”

He started to move—a deep, grinding rock of his hips. It dragged the head of his cock over all your sensitive spots. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if he couldn't believe you were there.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The position made you both moan.

“Like that,” you gasped. “Don’t stop.”

He didn't. He kept that slow, amazing rhythm until sweat dotted his temples and your nails left marks on his back. Every time you got close, he slowed even more, kissing you deep and dirty until you were sobbing into his mouth.

Only when you were shaking and clinging did he finally let go.

He shifted up onto his knees, hooking your legs over his forearms, opening you up completely. Then he moved fast and deep, strokes that took the air from your lungs. His eyes never left yours.

“Come for me,” he said, his voice cracking. “I have you. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hit you like a huge wave (long, shattering, intense). You gripped him tightly, your back arching off the couch, his name a broken sound on your lips.

He followed moments later, collapsing onto you with a low, primal sound, his body shaking as he came inside you. He caught himself on his elbows so he wouldn't crush you, burying his face in your neck.

For a long time, there was only breathing, his soft lips on your collarbone, and your fingers running through his damp hair.

Eventually, he lifted his head. His eyes were wide and overwhelmed.

“I’m in love with you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like salt, sex, and the future.

Outside, the circus was gone. Inside the silver trailer, two hearts beat together in a perfect rhythm, and the night was just beginning.

Hyunjin stayed inside you for a long time, not wanting to pull away. When he finally slipped out, the small separation made you both shiver. He kissed your temple, then moved just enough to reach a small cabinet. A moment later, he was back with a warm, wet cloth and a bottle of water.

He cleaned you gently with slow, respectful strokes that made you twitch with sensitivity. Every time you tried to take the cloth, he swatted your hand away.

“Let me,” he murmured, using the same tone he used on stage when he asked for trust. “I want to take care of you.”

When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside and grabbed a heavy, soft blanket from the back of the couch. He wrapped it around both of you, pulling you onto his chest so your head rested over his heart. His fingers immediately found your hair, smoothing out the tangles with the same patience he’d used to undress you.

You were silent for a minute, listening to the steady thump beneath your ear.

“I can hear you thinking,” he said, his voice low and amused.

“I’m just… trying to believe this is real,” you admitted.

He let out a soft laugh. “I’m the magician, and even I don’t have a trick good enough to fake this.”

You looked up at him. His face was flushed, lips swollen, and his hair was perfectly messy. Candlelight highlighted his cheekbones.

“Tell me something true,” you whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never let anyone inside this trailer before tonight. Not like this. Not ever.”

Your heart did a flip.

“Another one,” you said.

He brushed his thumb across your lower lip. “I used to practice that rose trick for hours, telling myself it was just skill. But every time I made it appear, I pictured giving it to someone who would look at me the way you did tonight. Like I was… enough. Just Hyunjin. Not the Enchanter.”

You kissed the center of his palm. “You’ve always been enough.”

His eyes looked watery again. He swallowed hard, then tucked your head back under his chin like he couldn’t handle your direct gaze.

“Your turn,” he said, his voice rough.

You thought for a moment. “When you picked me that first night, I wasn’t scared. I should have been, but I wasn’t. Because it felt like you already knew me.”

He made a small, choked sound and held you tighter.

Minutes passed, maybe hours. The candles went out one by one until only a single flame was left, flickering between you and the dark.

Eventually, he spoke again, softer. “I have to leave at dawn. The show keeps moving.”

You felt a deep ache in your chest. “I know.”

“Come with me,” he said, the same words as before, but this time they sounded like a promise.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “I have an apartment lease. A job. A cactus named Kevin who will probably die.”

He smiled, small, crooked, and completely charming. “Bring Kevin. We’ll get him a little traveling pot. And I make good money doing private shows during the off-season. Enough for two. Enough for more, someday.”

You searched his face for doubt and found none.

“I’m terrified,” you admitted.

“Me too,” he said instantly. “But I’m more terrified of waking up tomorrow and watching you vanish like one of my tricks.”

You kissed him then; slow and gentle, tasting the salt of tears you hadn't noticed.

“Okay,” you whispered against his mouth. “Yes. Take me with you.”

The last candle finally went out, plunging the trailer into darkness. You felt his grin more than you saw it.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, echoing the first night.

When you opened them, dawn was creeping through the small window in soft pink and gold, and Hyunjin was watching you like you were the greatest magic he’d ever created.

Outside, the long and exciting road waited. 

Inside, his arms were already home.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors notes: Hi guys! I hope you enjoyed it? Requests can still come in for sure, and i just wanted to let you know that i am working on something for December, since i missed Kinktober 🥲 I will be doing an advent calendar type of event 😅😅 idk?

Anyways, Taglist is open! Drop a comment if you want me to add you ❤️❤️

New taglist

The clip racked up twelve million views in a week.
Your war became official.

Four years later, you were the reason Hi-Hat Entertainment wasn’t a graveyard. Your last single had dominated the charts for nine straight weeks. Juniors burst into tears when you walked past.

And still, the universe hated you.

“Joint stage with Stray Kids,” your manager chirped one morning. “3RACHA producing. Full-group perfor—”
You didn’t hear the rest. Blood rushed in your ears like a fire alarm.


Of course it was them.
Of course it was him.

The day you walked into JYP’s main practice room, seven-eighths of Stray Kids lost their damn minds. Chan practically tackled you in a hug. Changbin slapped your back so hard your soul rattled. Hyunjin and Felix squeezed you like you were made of spun sugar. Han pretended to faint. Lee Know actually smiled—Lee Know—and Jeongin kept bowing like you were royalty.

And then there was the remaining eighth.

Seungmin leaned against the mirror, arms folded, black hair falling into his eyes, wearing that infuriating half-smirk that made you want to commit felonies.


“Took you long enough, princess,” he drawled. “Some of us have lives.”

You didn’t spare him a glance.
“Morning, sunbaes,” you sang, syrupy sweet. “So good to see seven of you. Who’s the extra?”

Felix wheezed. Chan pinched the bridge of his nose like he’d aged ten years in a second.

Seungmin’s smirk sharpened. “Cute. Did you rehearse that on the way over, or does the attitude come naturally?”

“Did yours come with the contract, or did JYP throw it in as a bonus?”

Changbin muttered, “Here we go.”

The track 3RACHA cooked up was disgusting—in the best way. Dark, sexy, dangerous. You fell in love in eight bars.

You spent five hours in the booth. You rewrote half the second verse, stacked harmonies that made Chan’s eyes go glassy, argued with Changbin about ad-libs until you were both laughing. Every time you opened your mouth, seven heads swivelled like you were gospel.
The eighth one pretended his phone was the most interesting thing in the universe.

At one point Chan asked softly, “What made you do this, y/n? Really?”

You thought about debt collectors banging on doors, about forging your trainee contract at sixteen because your tiny label was drowning and you were the only idiot willing to jump in after it.

“I was born for it,” you said simply. “Some of us breathe music. Others just breathe.”

From the back came the inevitable: “Modest as ever.”

You didn’t turn around. “Some of us mistake breathing for having a personality, Seungmin. We can’t all be blessed.”

Hyunjin had to leave the room because he was laughing too hard.

Rehearsals were hell disguised as cardio.

The choreography was filthy—sharp isolations, body rolls, a lift where Lee Know’s hands slid so low on your waist you almost lost count. You nailed every single one.


Seungmin watched like he was praying you’d fall on your face.
You never did.

But the tension was a living thing. He ‘accidentally’ stepped on your foot during formation changes. You ‘accidentally’ elbowed him in the ribs when the choreographer’s back was turned. The others exchanged looks like they were watching a tennis match between two people who wanted to murder each other with their mouths.

One afternoon the room emptied for break, leaving just the two of you to run your duet part. Your verse curled around his low harmony like smoke. When the track cut, silence fell hard.

You stretched against the mirror, and his reflection appeared behind yours.

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “High note’s sharp again, princess. Some of us like staying in tune.”

Every hair on your body stood up.

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Personal space is a foreign concept to you, huh?”

He didn’t move. “You’re welcome.”

You spun, shoved a finger into his chest. “Open that mouth one more time near my ear and I’ll break it.”

His eyes darkened, something feral flashing through them. He smiled, slow and sharp. “Promises, promises.”

You left before you did something stupid.
Like lick him.

Fitting day arrived. You stepped out in the final stage outfit—black leather bralette, low-rise cargos that sat criminal on your hips, chains dripping from your waist. The stylist whistled. You felt like sin in human form.

You walked out to show the choreographer.
The room went funeral-quiet.

Felix actually moaned. “Y/n, you’re trying to kill us.”

Changbin nodded slowly. “That lift is gonna end careers.”

Seungmin’s gaze dragged over you like he was memorizing every inch, then flicked away. “Try not to flash the front row,” he said, sounding bored.

You smiled, all teeth. “Only if you try not to stare so hard your eyes fall out.”

Chan sighed. “I’m begging you two to just fuck and get it over with.”

Dead silence. Then Han yelled, “HYUNG!” and everyone lost it.

—

Performance day came and you slaughtered it.

The stage was dark, strobing red, bass so deep it vibrated in your bones. When the final beat hit and you arched back against Seungmin’s chest—his hand splayed possessive and low on your stomach—the crowd roared like the world was ending.

You were high on it, laughing, breathless, high-fiving everyone backstage. Seungmin just walked off to get water like he hadn’t had his hands all over you for three straight minutes.

Then Yeonjun appeared, sunshine smile and all. “Y/N! Holy shit, that was insane.”

You bowed, grinning. “Oppa, thank you! I was so nervous—”

“Please,” he laughed, nudging your arm. “You owned that stage.”

You laughed louder than necessary and touched his arm exactly once.

When you glanced over, Seungmin stared, jaw clenched, water bottle crumpled in his fist.
Interesting.

The after-party took over an empty vocal room—lights dim, someone’s phone blasting a playlist. Maroon 5’s “Lips on You” leaked through the speakers like liquid sex.

You sat on the couch scrolling through Twitter reactions when Seungmin dropped down beside you—too close.

“Enjoying your little fanclub with Yeonjun-hyung?” he asked, voice velvet and venom.

You didn’t look up. “Enjoying pretending you’re not jealous?”

He scoffed. “Jealous. Right. Because I care who you flirt with.”

You finally turned. He was closer than you’d realized—knee pressed to yours, eyes black and dangerous. The bass thrummed through the floor into your spine.

“You’ve been a dick to me for four years,” you said quietly. “One nice senior would’ve just been decent. You picked war. And now you’re mad someone else is?”

His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “You think I’m jealous because another guy looked at you?”

“I think,” you leaned in until your lips almost brushed his ear, “you’ve wanted to ruin my career since the day I talked back to you on that radio show. And you hate that you want it.”

His breath hitched—just barely, but you caught it.

You pulled back. His pupils were blown wide.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Say you’re jealous.”

His hand snapped out, fingers locking around your wrist. “You first.”

“First what?”

“Admit you’ve been soaked every time I opened my mouth for the last month.”

Your stomach dropped straight between your legs.

You yanked free and stood. “I’m leaving.”

He followed you into the hallway like a storm cloud.

The corridor was empty, red exit signs flickering. You made it three steps before he caged you against the wall, palms flat beside your head.

“Say it,” he repeated, voice rough. “Tell me you hate me because it’s easier than admitting you want me to fuck you until you forget your own name.”

Your knee jerked up. He caught your thigh, hooked it over his hip. The movement ground you together—he was hard, hot, huge against your stomach.

“Seungmin—”

“Liar,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’ve been shaking every time I touched you for weeks.”

You fisted his shirt and yanked him closer. “You’re delusional.”

“Then why is your pulse racing right now?”

Because he was right, the bastard.

His hand slid up your thigh, under the hem of the hoodie you’d stolen from the dressing room—his hoodie, because apparently you were a masochist who liked torture.

His fingers traced the edge of your panties. “Say it,” he murmured, thumb brushing the damp spot already there. “Say you want me and I’ll give you everything you’re too proud to beg for.”

Your pride and your body declared civil war.
Your body won.

“I hate you,” you hissed.

“I know,” he said, and kissed you like he was trying to start a riot.

It wasn’t gentle. It was four years of venom poured into teeth and tongue. You bit his lower lip hard—he groaned, shoved you harder against the wall, ground his hips so you felt exactly how much he wanted this.

You shoved him back just enough to reverse you—slammed him into the wall instead, fisted his hair, slotted your thigh between his legs.

“You’re jealous,” you panted against his mouth. “Admit it.”

He laughed, ragged. “Fine. I’m jealous. So fucking jealous I wanted to drag you off that stage when he touched you. Happy now?”

You kissed him slower, filthier, tasting blood and want.

“Now admit you’ve been mine since the day you opened that smart mouth on live radio,” he whispered.

You rested your forehead against his.
The lie sat on your tongue like poison.

“I hate you,” you said, soft.

He smiled, victorious. “Liar.”

You kissed him before he could gloat.

His hands were everywhere—under your hoodie, palming your breasts, thumb flicking over your nipple until you whimpered into his mouth. You dragged his shirt up, nails raking down his abs. He hissed and bucked against you.

“Off,” you snarled against his jaw. “Now.”

He yanked the hoodie over your head and tossed it aside. You stood in nothing but the leather bralette and panties. His eyes went feral.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, mouth descending on your neck, sucking bruises into your skin like he was branding you.

You arched, fingers tangled in his hair. “Mark me and I’ll kill you.”

“Please do,” he breathed, teeth scraping your collarbone. “I want everyone to know who made you scream.”

You shoved him down the hallway until you stumbled into an empty storage room—dark, cramped, perfect.

You pushed him onto a stack of practice mats and straddled him, grinding down hard. He groaned, hands gripping your hips like he was scared you’d vanish.

“Still hate me?” he taunted, voice wrecked.

“Shut up,” you snapped, and kissed him again.

You reached between you and palmed him through his sweats. He was so hard it had to hurt. He thrust into your hand with a broken sound.

“Tell me you want this,” he growled against your throat.

“I want to ride you until you forget how to be a smartass,” you said, and bit his earlobe.

He flipped you so fast your head spun—mats soft under your back, him looming over you, eyes black with hunger.

“Then do it,” he said, dragging your panties down your legs. “Show me how much you hate me.”

You hooked your legs around his waist and dragged him down. He shoved his sweats down just enough, lined up, and pushed in—one slow, relentless slide that made your vision white out.

You both moaned, loud and shameless.

He stilled, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. “Still hate me?” he whispered.

You clenched around him deliberately. His breath stuttered.

“Move,” you ordered.

He did—hard, deep, punishing. Every thrust slammed the mats against the wall. You met him stroke for stroke, nails digging into his back, teeth at his throat.

“Say it,” he panted against your lips. “Say you’re mine.”

You flipped you again—because you could—and sank down on him hard enough that he shouted.

“I’m not saying shit,” you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, torturous circle.

He sat up, wrapped your hair around his fist, yanked your head back. “Liar,” he growled, and thrust up so brutally you saw stars.

The coil snapped. You came with his name in your mouth like a curse, clenching around him so tight he followed seconds later—hips stuttering, spilling inside you with a broken groan.

You stayed like that, panting, tangled, ruined.

After a minute he brushed damp hair from your face, voice soft for the first time in four years.
“Still hate me?”

You laughed, breathless. “Give me five minutes. I’ll regroup.”

He kissed you slow and filthy.
“Take ten,” he murmured against your lips. “Round two starts when you can walk again.”

You bit his lip, hard.
“Challenge accepted.”

The air in the storage room was thick with sweat, sex, and the faint metallic tang of the chains still dangling from your belt on the floor. Your heartbeat finally slowed, but every time Seungmin shifted (because he was still inside you, the smug bastard), your body clenched like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you were done.

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, breath ragged against your collarbone. For a long minute, neither of you moved. The only sounds were the muffled thump of the playlist still leaking from the vocal room down the hall and the wet slide when he finally, slowly, pulled out.

You hissed at the loss.
He laughed, low and wrecked. “Sensitive.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, but there was no venom left in it.

He collapsed beside you on the mats, one arm flung over his eyes, chest still heaving. You stared at the ceiling and tried to remember how to be a person who wasn’t currently leaking Kim Seungmin down your thighs.

He spoke first, voice hoarse. “So… that happened.”

You snorted. “Understatement of the century.”

Silence stretched again. Then his fingers found yours in the dark and threaded them together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You let him. God help you, you let him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You turned your head. His eyes were soft in a way you’d never seen—like the sharp edges had melted off just for you. It was terrifying.

“I’m sticky, sore, and I think I have mat-burn on my ass,” you said. “Define okay.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “I can work with that.”

He sat up, found his discarded T-shirt, and—without asking—used it to clean you up with careful swipes between your legs. Gentle. Reverent, even. You watched him like he was a glitch in the matrix.

When he finished, he balled the shirt and tossed it into the corner like evidence. Then he flopped back down, tugged you into his side, and pulled you half on top of him so your cheek rested over his heart.

You should have protested. You should have kicked him in the shin and marched out with whatever was left of your pride.
Instead you listened to his heartbeat slow under your ear and felt something inside you crack wide open.

“Hey,” he said after a minute, fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare back. “For the record… I never actually hated you.”

You lifted your head. “You literally called my debut single ‘organized screaming’ on a V Live.”

He winced. “I was twenty and stupid and you looked unfairly hot in that music video. I panicked.”

You stared at him. “That’s your excuse?”

“Pretty much.” He brushed your hair from your face. “I thought if I was mean enough, I’d stop wanting to bend you over the nearest surface every time you opened that mouth.”

You barked a laugh. “How’d that work out for you?”

He grinned, sharp and fond. “I’m currently on the floor of a storage room with zero regrets.”

You dropped your head back to his chest so he wouldn’t see the stupid smile trying to crawl onto your face.

Another long quiet settled. His fingers kept moving—down your spine, over the curve of your waist, like he was memorizing you.

Eventually he spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “I was jealous tonight. Not just of Yeonjun-hyung. Of everyone. Every fan that gets to look at you like you hung the moon. Every staff member who smiles at you. Every second you’re not looking at me.”

Your throat went tight.

You swallowed hard. “I’ve been looking at you for four years, asshole. You just never looked back the right way.”

His arms tightened around you like he was scared you’d vanish. “I’m looking now,” he said against your temple. “And I’m not stopping.”

You closed your eyes. The fight drained out of you all at once.

“Good,” you muttered into his skin. “Because if you go back to being a dick tomorrow, I’ll leak the security footage of you begging on your knees in here.”

He laughed so hard the mats shook. “Please do. I’ll frame it.”

You pinched his side. He yelped, then rolled you so you were under him again, wrists pinned gently beside your head.

“Round two?” he asked, already half-hard against your thigh.

You pretended to think about it. “Only if you say ‘please, noona’ first.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re obsessed with me. We’re a match made in hell.”

He leaned down until your noses brushed. “Say it back.”

You knew what he wanted. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he felt it.

You exhaled, shaky. “I’ve been yours for longer than I’ll ever admit out loud.”

His whole face softened. He kissed you—slow, deep, filthy, tender—like he was sealing a vow.

When he pulled back, his voice was rough. “I’m gonna write you so many songs you’ll never be free of me.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Good. I plan on ruining every single one of your comebacks with my name in the credits.”

He groaned and dropped his face into your neck. “Marry me.”

“Slow down, psycho. Let me walk again first.”

He bit your shoulder in retaliation. You squealed, then moaned when he soothed it with his tongue.

—

You never made it back to the party.

At some point, you both decided to go to his place. When you got into his building, Seungmin picked you up and threw you over his shoulders, then carried you through the back corridors to the private elevator like you weighed nothing.

Felix took one look at you when the doors opened on their floor—you in Seungmin’s arms wearing only his hoodie, both of you covered in bite marks—and just sighed.

“Finally,” he said, and walked away.

Seungmin kicked the door to his room shut behind you, tossed you on the bed, and crawled over you like a promise.

“Still hate me?” he whispered against your lips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him down.

“Give me five minutes,” you breathed. “I’ll regroup.”

He smiled—slow, sharp, and utterly ruined for anyone else.

“Take ten,” he said. “We’ve got all night.”

And for once, you didn’t argue.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Hi guys! 1 request down, a million more to go lol 😅 I hope you liked it @vernorica123 ❤️❤️

I’m making a new taglist, let me know in the comments if you want to be added.

New taglist

Seungmin came in without a sound, the way he always did—like he was trying not to disturb the air itself. He was still in his practice sweats, hair damp at the ends, skin flushed from the shower. He didn’t look at Hyunjin. He never did anymore, not really. Just a flick of eyes, a quick inventory: oh, you’re here, then onward to the fridge.

Hyunjin watched the line of Seungmin’s shoulders, the way he moved like nothing in the world could touch him. Like he didn’t need anything. Anyone.

Seungmin pulled out a yogurt, peeled the foil lid with his teeth, and leaned against the counter opposite Hyunjin. The silence stretched, thick and familiar. It used to be comfortable, this silence. They’d sit like this for hours back when they were trainees, knees knocking under the table, trading earbuds and stupid jokes and secrets neither of them would ever say out loud again.

Now it just felt like a wall.

Hyunjin took a slow sip of water. “You were sharp today,” he said, voice low. “That high note in the bridge. Clean.”

Seungmin hummed, noncommittal. Spooned yogurt into his mouth. Didn’t look up.

Hyunjin’s chest tightened. He hated this. Hated how every word felt like pulling teeth. Hated how Seungmin could just stand there and make him feel like he was screaming into a void.

He tried again. “You and Chan-hyung looked good together. The choreo’s coming along.”

Seungmin nodded. “He’s easy to sync with.”

Easy. That word sat wrong in Hyunjin’s mouth. Like Seungmin was talking about a dance partner, not the way he used to talk about them. The way he used to lean into Hyunjin’s space during breaks, forehead pressed to his shoulder, laughing into his neck when Hyunjin teased him about his pitchy ad-libs. The way he’d fall asleep on Hyunjin’s bunk after long nights, fingers curled loosely around Hyunjin’s wrist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now Seungmin gave that closeness to everyone else. To Felix, who he’d cook for at 3 a.m. To Changbin, who he’d bicker with like an old married couple. To Jeongin, who got the softest version of Seungmin’s smile—the one that used to be Hyunjin’s.

Hyunjin didn’t know when it had shifted. One day they were attached at the hip, the next Seungmin was drifting, quiet and untouchable, and Hyunjin was left holding the pieces of something he couldn’t name.

He set the water bottle down. “Hey.”

Seungmin glanced up then, finally. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “What?”

“Do you…” Hyunjin’s throat clicked. “Do you ever miss it? Us, I mean. Like before.”

Seungmin blinked. The spoon stilled halfway to his mouth. For a second, something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe. Or recognition. Then it was gone.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice flat.

Hyunjin laughed, but it came out brittle. “Nothing. Forget it.”

He hopped off the counter, brushing past Seungmin on his way to the hallway. Their shoulders didn’t even touch.

-

The next few weeks were a slow bleed.

Hyunjin tried not to watch. Tried not to notice how Seungmin’s hand lingered on Changbin’s back when he laughed too hard. How he’d fall into step beside Jeongin without a word, like they’d always belonged there. How he’d look at Hyunjin sometimes—like he was trying to figure something out—but never long enough to say it.

Hyunjin started staying late in the practice room alone. He’d run the choreo until his legs shook, until the mirrors blurred and his reflection looked like a stranger. He told himself it was for the comeback. Told himself it didn’t matter that Seungmin never stayed to watch anymore.

One night, he found Seungmin in the vocal booth instead.

It was past midnight. The building was empty except for the hum of the AC and the faint glow of the booth light. Seungmin was recording ad-libs, headphones on, eyes closed. His voice was soft, raw—nothing like the polished takes he gave the producers. This was just him, singing like no one was listening.

Hyunjin stood in the doorway, unseen. He shouldn’t have been there. But he couldn’t move.

Seungmin hit a note that cracked, just slightly, and swore under his breath. Restarted the track. Tried again. His fingers drummed against his thigh, restless. He looked tired. Smaller than usual.

Hyunjin’s heart did something complicated.

He stepped inside.

Seungmin startled, pulling the headphones down. “Hyunjin-ah. What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t leave.” Hyunjin leaned against the soundboard. “You?”

“Same.” Seungmin hesitated. “I keep messing up the run.”

“You’re not,” Hyunjin said quietly. “It sounds good. Better than good.”

Seungmin looked at him then—really looked. Not the quick flick of eyes, but something slower. Searching.

Hyunjin’s pulse thudded in his ears. “I miss you,” he said before he could stop himself. The words hung there, naked.

Seungmin’s lips parted. He didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what I did,” Hyunjin continued, voice cracking. “But you just… stopped. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Seungmin’s fingers curled around the headphones. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t know,” Seungmin cut in, sharp. Then softer: “I don’t know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was heavy, yes, but not empty. Like the air before a storm.

Hyunjin took a step closer. “I used to know exactly where I stood with you. Now I feel like I’m always guessing.”

Seungmin looked down at the floor. “I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “The… feelings thing. I never know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Hyunjin’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Just don’t disappear on me.”

Seungmin’s head snapped up. His eyes were wide, startled. Like he hadn’t realized he’d been disappearing at all.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, and it sounded like it hurt.

Hyunjin believed him.

-

The changes started small. A brush of fingers when they passed in the hallway. Seungmin lingering after practice to hand Hyunjin a water bottle without being asked. A quiet “you okay?” when Hyunjin zoned out during dinner.

Hyunjin hoarded these moments like secrets. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask for more. Just let them settle under his skin, warm and tentative.

One night, they ended up on the JYPE roof. It was raining, soft and steady, the kind that made the city lights blur. They sat under the overhang, shoulders almost touching.

Seungmin spoke first. “I used to think if I didn’t say it, it wouldn’t matter. The… caring. Like if I kept it inside, it wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Hyunjin turned to look at him. Seungmin’s profile was sharp against the glow of the streetlights, raindrops catching in his lashes.

“But it hurt you,” Seungmin finished, voice barely audible.

Hyunjin’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words were simple. But they cracked something open in Hyunjin’s chest.

He reached out, slow enough that Seungmin could pull away. When he didn’t, Hyunjin threaded their fingers together. Seungmin’s hand was cold, but he didn’t let go.

They sat like that for a long time. The rain softened. The space between them shrank, inch by inch, until Hyunjin’s head rested against Seungmin’s shoulder.

Seungmin’s thumb brushed over Hyunjin’s knuckles, tentative. Then again, surer.

Neither of them said anything else.

-

The growing shift was gradual, like dawn creeping in.

Seungmin started seeking him out. Not in big ways; just a glance across the practice room that lingered. A hand on Hyunjin’s lower back when he passed too close. A quiet “come eat with me” when the others were loud and chaotic.

Hyunjin felt it in his bones. The way Seungmin’s eyes softened when he thought Hyunjin wasn’t looking. The way he’d lean into Hyunjin’s space now, not away.

One night, after a particularly brutal schedule, they collapsed onto Hyunjin’s bed fully clothed. The others were out celebrating the end of promotions. The dorm was theirs.

Seungmin was half-asleep, face mashed into Hyunjin’s pillow. Hyunjin traced the shell of his ear with a fingertip, barely there.

Seungmin stirred. “Tickles.”

“Sorry.” Hyunjin didn’t stop.

Seungmin turned his head, eyes slitted open. “You’re warm.”

“You’re hogging the blanket.”

Seungmin shifted closer, until their legs tangled. His breath fanned across Hyunjin’s collarbone. “Better?”

Hyunjin’s heart was a wild thing. “Yeah.”

They stayed like that, breathing in tandem. Hyunjin could feel the moment Seungmin fully relaxed; the way his body went pliant, the way his fingers curled loosely around Hyunjin’s shirt.

“Hey,” Seungmin mumbled into his neck. “I missed you too.”

Hyunjin closed his eyes. “Good.”

-

The first kiss wasn’t planned.

They were in the practice room again, just the two of them. The mirrors were fogged from hours of work. Seungmin was stretching, one leg up on the barre, when Hyunjin came up behind him.

“Spine straight,” Hyunjin murmured, hands settling on Seungmin’s hips to adjust his form.

Seungmin went still.

Hyunjin’s thumbs pressed into the dip of his waist, just above the waistband of his sweats. Seungmin’s breath hitched.

Slowly, Hyunjin leaned in. Not to kiss, just to breathe him in. Seungmin smelled like sweat and the citrus body wash he’d been using since trainee days.

Seungmin turned his head. Their noses brushed.

“Hyunjin,” he said, barely a sound.

Hyunjin waited.

Then Seungmin closed the distance.

It was soft at first. Hesitant. Just the press of lips, a question. Hyunjin answered by tilting his head, deepening it just enough to feel the give of Seungmin’s mouth. Seungmin made a small noise—surprised, maybe—and Hyunjin pulled back an inch.

“Okay?” he whispered.

Seungmin nodded, eyes dark. Then he kissed Hyunjin again, harder this time. His hands came up to fist in Hyunjin’s shirt, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned.

It wasn’t explosive. Not yet. Just the slow unraveling of something that had been wound tight for too long.

When they pulled apart, foreheads still touching, Seungmin laughed—soft, breathless.

“What?” Hyunjin asked.

“I’m bad at this,” Seungmin said. “The… everything.”

“You’re doing fine.”

Seungmin’s fingers tightened in Hyunjin’s shirt. “I want to be better. For you.”

Hyunjin kissed him again, slower this time. “We’ve got time.”

-

They had time, sure… But the want grew teeth.

It began with touches that lingered too long. Hands sliding under shirts during movie nights when the others weren’t looking. Seungmin’s mouth on Hyunjin’s throat in the dark of the van, muffled by the hum of the engine. Hyunjin’s fingers digging into Seungmin’s thighs under the dinner table, just to watch his ears go red.

They didn’t talk about it. Not yet. Just let it build, layer by layer, until the air between them crackled.

One night, The dorm was empty again, the kind of empty that rang in your ears. The others had stumbled out hours ago, drunk on soju and adrenaline, leaving the hallway lights flickering like they were too tired to stay on. Hyunjin found Seungmin in the bathroom, door cracked, steam billowing out in thick curls. The mirror was fogged opaque. Seungmin stood under the spray, head tipped back, water sluicing down the sharp cut of his collarbones, over the flat plane of his stomach, catching in the faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath the line of his hips.

Hyunjin’s mouth went dry. He pushed the door wider.

Seungmin didn’t flinch. Just opened his eyes, slow, and looked at him. Water clung to his lashes. His cock was half-hard already, flushed dark against his thigh, twitching when Hyunjin’s gaze dragged down and lingered.

“Lock the door,” Seungmin said, voice low, rough from the steam.

Hyunjin did. The click sounded too loud.

Seungmin turned the shower off. Water dripped from his hair, his chin, the tip of his nose. He didn’t reach for a towel. Just stepped out, bare feet slapping wet tile, and stopped a breath away from Hyunjin. Close enough that Hyunjin could smell the citrus soap on his skin, the faint salt of sweat underneath.

Hyunjin’s hands moved first. Fisted in Seungmin’s wet hair, yanked his head back, and crushed their mouths together. Seungmin groaned into it, teeth scraping Hyunjin’s lower lip, tongue sliding hot and slick. He tasted like water and want.

Seungmin’s hands were everywhere—under Hyunjin’s shirt, nails raking down his spine hard enough to sting, then lower, shoving into the waistband of his sweats to palm his ass, spreading him open like he was already planning where to put his mouth. Hyunjin shuddered, hips jerking forward, grinding against Seungmin’s bare thigh.

“Off,” Seungmin muttered against his jaw, tugging at Hyunjin’s clothes. “All of it.”

Hyunjin stripped fast—shirt over his head, sweats kicked aside, boxers snagging on his cock before he shoved them down. His dick slapped up against his stomach, leaking at the tip, flushed angry red. Seungmin’s eyes went dark, pupils blown wide.

“Counter,” Seungmin said, voice wrecked.

Hyunjin backed up until the edge bit into his thighs. Seungmin followed, pushing him down hard enough that the marble bruised. Then he dropped to his knees.

Hyunjin’s breath punched out of him.

Seungmin didn’t tease. Just wrapped one hand around the base of Hyunjin’s cock, thumb smearing through the slick at the head, and took him down in one slow, filthy slide. Hyunjin’s hips bucked involuntarily, cock hitting the back of Seungmin’s throat. Seungmin gagged—once, wet and obscene—then swallowed around him, throat working, nose pressed to Hyunjin’s pelvis.

“Fuck—Seungmin—”

Seungmin pulled off with a wet pop, spit stringing from his lips to the head of Hyunjin’s dick. He licked it up, slow, eyes locked on Hyunjin’s. Then he dove back in, cheeks hollowing, hand twisting at the base in time with the bob of his head. The sounds were disgusting—sloppy, wet, the kind that echoed off tile and made Hyunjin’s face burn even as his balls drew up tight.

Seungmin’s other hand slid between Hyunjin’s legs, fingers slick with spit, circling his hole. Not pushing in—just pressing, teasing, until Hyunjin was whining, thighs trembling.

“Inside,” Hyunjin gasped. “Please—”

Seungmin pulled off again, lips swollen and shiny. “Lube?”

“Drawer—fuck, hurry—”

Seungmin lunged for the cabinet under the sink, came back with a half-empty bottle of lube and a condom. He slicked two fingers fast, eyes never leaving Hyunjin’s face, then pushed Hyunjin’s knees up to his chest. The position left him obscene—spread open, hole clenching on nothing, cock leaking onto his stomach.

Seungmin’s first finger breached him slow, knuckle by knuckle, until Hyunjin was panting, forehead pressed to Seungmin’s shoulder. The second finger scissored in beside it, curling, searching—then there, brushing his prostate with a filthy stroke that made Hyunjin’s back arch off the counter, a broken moan ripping out of him.

Seungmin fucked him open with his fingers, slow and relentless, adding a third when Hyunjin started pushing back, greedy. The stretch burned, perfect, Seungmin’s knuckles dragging against his rim every time he pulled out. Spit and lube dripped down Hyunjin’s crack, pooling on the counter beneath him.

“Ready,” Hyunjin slurred, barely coherent. “Need you—”

Seungmin rolled the condom on with shaking hands, slicked himself up until he was glistening. Then he lined up, the blunt head of his cock nudging Hyunjin’s hole, and pushed in.

One long, slow slide. No pause. Just the thick drag of Seungmin’s dick splitting him open, filling him up until Hyunjin’s breath hitched on a sob. Seungmin bottomed out, balls pressed tight to Hyunjin’s ass, and held there, forehead dropped to Hyunjin’s, both of them trembling.

“Move,” Hyunjin whispered. “Please—”

Seungmin pulled out slow, then snapped his hips forward, hard enough that the counter creaked. Hyunjin’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of Seungmin’s back, urging him deeper. Seungmin set a brutal pace—wet slaps of skin on skin, the obscene squelch of lube, Hyunjin’s cock trapped between them, smearing precome over both their stomachs.

Seungmin’s hand wrapped around Hyunjin’s throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath his jaw. “Look at me,” he growled.

Hyunjin’s eyes fluttered open. Seungmin’s face was flushed, lips bitten red, eyes wild. He looked ruined.

“Love you,” Seungmin said, voice cracking on the words. “Fuck, I love you—”

Hyunjin came untouched, cock pulsing between them, stripes of come splattering up Seungmin’s chest. His hole clenched hard around Seungmin’s dick, milking him, and Seungmin followed with a choked groan, hips stuttering, buried deep as he filled the condom.

They stayed locked together, breathing ragged, sweat cooling on their skin. Seungmin pulled out slow, tied off the condom, then dropped to his knees again. Hyunjin was still spread open, hole fluttering, come and lube leaking out in a slow drip.

Seungmin leaned in and licked—a long, filthy stripe from Hyunjin’s balls to his rim, tongue pushing inside to taste the mess they’d made. Hyunjin whimpered, oversensitive, hips jerking.

“Too much—”

Seungmin just hummed, sucked his own come off Hyunjin’s thigh, then stood and kissed him, slow and deep, sharing the taste.

Later, in Hyunjin’s bed, they were tangled under the sheets, sticky and sated. Seungmin’s fingers traced the bruises on Hyunjin’s hips, the bite marks on his shoulder.

“Still bad at feelings,” Seungmin murmured into his neck.

Hyunjin laughed, hoarse. “You’re doing fine.”

—

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Seungmin’s voice came out small, cracked open. “I thought I’d ruined it. Us. Forever.”

Hyunjin’s arm shifted, letting him see Seungmin’s face. His eyes were glassy, lashes clumped with leftover tears or sweat (Hyunjin couldn’t tell). He looked younger like this. Stripped down to the bone.

“You didn’t,” Hyunjin said. His throat felt raw. “You just… went quiet. And I didn’t know how to follow.”

Seungmin’s fingers stilled. “I get scared,” he whispered. “When it’s big. When it’s you. I think if I don’t say it, I can’t lose it. But then I lose it anyway.”

Hyunjin turned onto his side, wincing at the ache in his thighs, the tender pull where Seungmin had stretched him open. He cupped Seungmin’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere. Even when you’re an asshole.”

Seungmin huffed a wet laugh. “I’m always an asshole.”

“Not to me. Not anymore.”

Seungmin’s eyes searched his, like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, something in his face crumpled—not broken, just open. He pressed his forehead to Hyunjin’s, nose to nose.

“I used to watch you,” he said. “In the practice room. When you thought no one was looking. You’d dance like the music was inside your bones, and I’d think—that’s mine. That laugh. That stupid dramatic hair flip. All of it. And then I’d panic and look away.”

Hyunjin’s chest ached. “I was right there.”

“I know.” Seungmin’s voice cracked again. “I’m sorry I made you chase ghosts.”

Hyunjin kissed him—soft, slow, nothing like the bruising desperation from before. Just lips and breath and the quiet click of teeth. Seungmin melted into it, fingers curling into Hyunjin’s hair like he was anchoring himself.

When they pulled apart, Seungmin’s eyes were wet. “I love you so much it scares me,” he said. “Like I’m going to mess it up just by breathing wrong.”

“You won’t,” Hyunjin said. “We’ll mess up together. That’s the deal.”

Seungmin laughed, shaky. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.” Hyunjin tugged him closer, until Seungmin was half-draped over his chest, leg thrown over his hip. The ache between Hyunjin’s legs throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a reminder of how thoroughly Seungmin had taken him apart. He welcomed it.

Seungmin’s hand slid down, fingers tracing the bite mark on Hyunjin’s collarbone. “I left marks,” he said, almost wonderingly.

“Yeah.” Hyunjin tilted his head, baring his throat. “Do it again tomorrow.”

Seungmin’s breath hitched. He leaned in, lips brushing the bruise, then lower, mouthing over Hyunjin’s nipple until it pebbled under his tongue. Hyunjin arched, fingers threading through Seungmin’s damp hair.

“Not tonight,” Seungmin murmured against his skin. “You’re wrecked.”

“You wrecked me,” Hyunjin corrected, voice fond. “Own it.”

Seungmin smiled, the kind that used to be rare and was now just his. He settled back against Hyunjin’s chest, ear over his heart. “I will. Every day.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of the weight of almost-lost things, of the slow stitch of something new. Hyunjin felt Seungmin’s heartbeat sync with his, steady and sure.

“Hey,” Seungmin said after a while, voice sleepy. “Remember when we used to share earbuds on the bus? You’d fall asleep on my shoulder and drool.”

Hyunjin groaned. “I did not drool.”

“You did. Like a puppy.” Seungmin’s fingers laced with his. “I miss that.”

“We can do it again,” Hyunjin said. “Anytime.”

Seungmin was quiet for a beat. Then: “I want to be loud about it. The loving you part. I want to be bad at hiding it.”

Hyunjin’s eyes stung. He pressed a kiss to Seungmin’s temple. “Then don’t hide. I’ll be loud back.”

Seungmin huffed a laugh into his neck. “Sap.”

“Your sap.”

They fell asleep like that; limbs tangled, skin cooling, the faint ache of sex settling into something softer. Something permanent.

In the morning, Seungmin would wake first. He’d watch Hyunjin sleep, trace the marks he’d left, and feel the terrifying, exhilarating weight of mine. He’d kiss Hyunjin awake, slow and lazy, and whisper I love you against his mouth like a promise he was finally ready to keep.

And Hyunjin would smile, sleepy and sated, and pull him closer.

They had time. But they also had this; raw, filthy, and theirs.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS FOR WEEKS!! 😩❤️ I think i should start posting my BL smut on ao3, it barely get any reads here and theres so much more i wanna explore with the ships 🤭 Should i make an AO3???

Your windows faced each other across the narrow gap between the houses, the ledges so close you could almost reach out and touch his if you leaned far enough. It was a detail you’d noticed years ago, back when innocence still colored everything. Now, at twenty-something, with your best friend off at college most weekends and you left to your own devices in the quiet suburb, that proximity felt charged and almost forbidden.

Your fingers trailed lazily down your stomach as you settled back against the pillows, the familiar ache building low in your core. Nights like this were your ritual; sex was your obsession, a constant hum in your veins that demanded release. You’d started the OnlyFans on a whim, faceless and anonymous, your body the star as you performed for strangers behind the safety of a screen. The camera propped on your nightstand captured everything below your neck: the curve of your breasts heaving with each breath, the slick glide of your hand between your thighs. Curtains drawn, always. You weren’t taking risks.

But tonight, as you arched into your touch, a faint sound pricked at your awareness; a soft creak from across the way, like a window easing open. You froze for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to the draped fabric separating you from the outside world. Nothing. Just the wind, probably. Seungmin’s light was off; you’d checked earlier, peeking through a sliver in your curtains like you sometimes did. He was home alone tonight, his sister had mentioned it in passing, off on some trip with her boyfriend. The thought of him there, so close, sent a forbidden thrill racing through you.

You resumed your rhythm, slower now, teasing yourself as the chat on your stream pinged with tips and pleas. Your moans were soft, muffled by the pillow you bit into, but your mind wandered. What if he heard? What if those sharp ears of his picked up the faint vibrations through the thin walls or the open air between your windows? He’d been acting strange lately; lingering glances when you bumped into him in the driveway, a flush creeping up his neck when you teased him about his “mysterious” room preferences. He suspected something; you could feel it in the way his eyes darted to your window sometimes, quick and guilty, before he looked away.

The tension coiled tighter as you imagined him on the other side, awake in the dark, listening. Wondering. Your fingers circled faster, chasing the edge, but you held back, savoring the burn. The night stretched on, heavy with unspoken possibilities, the space between your rooms shrinking with every ragged breath you took.

Seungmin stood in the dark, one palm flat against the cool glass of his window, the other braced on the sill. The night air slipped through the narrow gap he’d opened, carrying the faint rustle of leaves and something else: soft, rhythmic, unmistakable. Your window was a rectangle of heavy curtain, backlit by the amber haze of your lamp, and the sounds leaked out like smoke under a door. A breathy hitch. The creak of bedsprings. A low, swallowed moan that made his stomach flip.

He hadn’t been asleep. He never really was when you were home.

Years ago, when his sister had begged for the room facing her best friend and neighbors room,he’d dug in his heels without thinking. The truth was simpler than he ever admitted: it was your window. The way the houses sat, the ledges almost kissing, meant that from his bed he could see the glow of your light bleeding through the fabric, could track the silhouette of your shadow when you moved. He told himself it was about the tree line, the quiet street, anything but the girl next door who’d grown into someone he couldn’t look away from. His sister called him stubborn. He agreed regardless.

Now, that stubbornness had him standing here, pulse hammering in his throat, every nerve tuned to the cadence of your pleasure. He shouldn’t listen. He knew that. But the sounds were right there, inches away, slipping through the crack in your curtains and the one in his resolve. He leaned closer, forehead almost touching the glass, breath fogging it in small, frantic puffs. The curtain twitched—barely—and his heart stuttered. Was that your shadow? The slope of a shoulder, the arch of a spine?

He imagined you on your back, knees drawn up, fingers slick and busy. The thought burned behind his eyes, guilt and hunger braided so tight he couldn’t tell them apart. He’d caught the way you looked at him sometimes, quick and knowing, like you sensed the weight of his stare when you thought he wasn’t watching. Once, you’d leaned out your window to call goodnight to his sister, hair tousled, lips swollen from biting them, and he’d nearly dropped the guitar in his lap.

Another sound, sharper and needier, and his hand tightened on the sill until the wood bit into his skin. He could reach across if he tried. One long stretch and his fingertips would brush your ledge, the paint worn smooth from years of elbows and chins. He pictured it: knuckles grazing the curtain, parting it just enough to see the curve of your thigh, the glint of sweat on your collarbone. The camera—he’d glimpsed the red light once, months ago, when your curtain gapped for a heartbeat. Faceless OnlyFans, you’d said in passing, laughing it off. He hadn’t asked questions. He hadn’t needed to.

His own breath sounded too loud in the quiet. He pressed closer, the tip of his nose brushing the screen, eyes fixed on that sliver of light. The space between your rooms had never felt smaller. One push of the window, one reckless lean, and he’d be close enough to taste the air you exhaled. The thought lodged in his chest, hot and dangerous.

He didn’t move. Not yet. But he listened, every sound a thread pulling him tighter, until the night itself seemed to hold its breath with him.

—

A week later…

The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering blues and golds of the late-night movie neither of you were really watching. Your best friend’s parents were halfway across the country, the house too quiet without their footsteps overhead, and the three of you had migrated to the sectional like a pile of sleepy cats under the single thick duvet. She’d claimed the left corner, you the right, and Seungmin, because someone had to, was wedged in the middle, spine straight, remote balanced on his knee like a shield.

You wore the oversized lavender hoodie you’d stolen from her closet years ago, soft as a cloud and long enough to swallow your thighs. Nothing else. The cotton brushed your skin with every shift, the hem teasing the tops of your legs, and the sudden drop in temperature had turned your nipples into tight, aching points that pressed against the fabric with shameless clarity. You hadn’t thought about it when you’d crawled under the blanket; you rarely did.

Seungmin noticed immediately.

He tried not to. God, he tried. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but the movie might as well have been static. Every time you laughed, your head tipping back, breasts bouncing softly under the hoodie, his gaze snapped to the movement before he could stop it. The duvet rose and fell with your breathing, the swell of your chest impossible to ignore. He swallowed hard, fingers curling into the blanket.

Then your legs moved.

It was nothing, really. You were half-sprawled, chasing warmth, and without thinking you hooked one bare thigh over his under the duvet. The weight of it settled heavy and warm across his leg, the hem of your hoodie riding just high enough that the curve of your hip brushed his sweatpants. Your tiny thong—lace, he realized with a jolt—did nothing to hide the heat of your skin. The contact was casual, lazy, but it short-circuited every rational thought in his head.

Your best friend kept talking, some running commentary about the plot twist neither of you cared about, her voice a distant hum. You hummed back, shifting again, and the motion dragged your thigh higher. Seungmin’s breath stalled. The duvet tented slightly where your legs tangled with his, and he prayed the dim light hid the flush crawling up his neck.

His hands were fists now, knuckles white against the blanket. He could feel the exact line where your skin met his pants, the faint tickle of your hoodie’s hem against his wrist. One small shift and his fingers would graze the bare skin of your thigh. Another and he’d know the texture of that lace, the heat between your legs. The thought made his mouth dry.

You laughed again, softer this time, and leaned forward to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. The hoodie stretched tight across your chest, nipples stark against the fabric, and Seungmin’s eyes betrayed him, darting down, then away, then back again. Your breasts swayed with the motion, full and free, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Under the blanket, your toes curled against his calf, an absent little wiggle that sent a spark straight to his groin. He shifted minutely, trying to ease the pressure building in his sweats, but the movement only pressed your thigh more firmly against him. You didn’t seem to notice. You were still chattering with your friend, voice sleepy and warm, completely unaware that every word vibrated through him like a touch.

Seungmin’s pulse thundered in his ears. His right hand twitched, hovering an inch above the blanket, above the slope of your hip. He could drop it. Just let it rest there, casual, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t spent nights in his room imagining this exact heat under his palm. His fingers flexed, then curled again. He stayed perfectly, painfully still.

But the blanket shifted with your next breath, and the back of his knuckles brushed the bare skin of your outer thigh—soft, electric, accidental. The contact lasted half a second, but it burned. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. Just kept talking, legs still draped over his like it was nothing.

To you, maybe it wasn’t, but to him, it was everything. Seungmin’s knuckles grazed your thigh (barely a touch, gone in a blink), and every nerve snapped awake. You felt the shift in him before you saw it: the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed like he was chewing on something sharp. You’d caught him staring earlier, eyes flicking to the stiff peaks of your nipples every time you moved, but you’d pretended not to notice. Now the air under the blanket crackled.

His hand dropped.

Not a slide, just a deliberate, quiet fall. His palm flat on the soft inside of your thigh, fingers splayed wide, claiming the space like it had always been his. The contact was warm, shockingly steady, and it sent a shiver racing up your spine so hard your breath hitched mid-sentence.

“…and then she just—wait, you okay?” your best friend asked, head tilting.

You coughed, too loud, too fake. “Swallowed wrong,” you managed, voice thin. Under the duvet your nipples tightened further, aching against the hoodie’s soft nap, and you felt the throb between your legs answer in kind.

Seungmin’s eyes stayed locked on the television, face a perfect mask of boredom. But his hand moved. A slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along the crease where thigh met hip, then higher. Your leg was still slung over his, knee bent, and the way you’d crossed it had opened you wide (his fingers were already dangerously close to the damp lace of your thong). Another inch and he’d feel how soaked you were.

You tried to shift, instinctive, to close the gap or create one (you weren’t sure). His grip turned firm, thumb pressing into the tender inner flesh, holding you open. A silent order: stay.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. You swallowed a whimper and forced words out, answering whatever your best friend had just asked about the movie. Something about the villain’s motive. You had no idea. All you knew was the slow, maddening glide of Seungmin’s fingertips tracing higher, feather-light, until the edge of his pinky brushed the lace covering your cunt. The contact was barely there, a tease, but your hips jerked involuntarily.

Your hoodie had ridden higher; the hem now kissed the crease where thigh met hip, cool air teasing the damp lace of your thong before his hand chased it away. The lace itself was soaked, clinging to your folds, and when his finger finally slipped beneath it the fabric peeled away with a faint, wet sound. Skin met slick skin, and the contrast was dizzying: the velvet heat of you against the rougher texture of his fingertips, still carrying the ghost of guitar strings.

He traced you once, twice, parting your folds with the precision of someone who’d memorized the path in the dark. The pad of his middle finger found your clit unerringly, swollen and hypersensitive, and the first direct press sent a bolt of pleasure so sharp your vision flickered at the edges. You felt the throb echo in your nipples, now diamond-hard, rubbing against the hoodie’s nap with every ragged inhale. The fabric was soft, yes, but the friction was maddening (each breath dragged the knit across the tender peaks until they burned).

Seungmin’s hand tightened, thumb digging into the plush give of your inner thigh, holding you splayed. His pinky brushed the seam of your entrance, collecting wetness, spreading it upward in a slow, glistening glide. The sound was unmistakable now: a faint, rhythmic slickness, masked only by the movie’s swelling soundtrack and your best friend’s oblivious chatter. You tasted blood where you’d bitten your lip, copper bright on your tongue.

“…so do you think he’s actually the twist villain or—”

You nodded, throat dry, the word yes scraping out like gravel. Under the blanket, Seungmin’s finger circled your clit again (firmer, faster), then dipped lower to press just inside you. Not deep, just the tip, but the stretch was electric, your walls fluttering greedily around the intrusion. You felt the pulse in your cunt match the frantic beat in your throat, heat pooling low and heavy, threatening to spill.

Your best friend shifted, the duvet tugging, and for one heart-stopping second cool air rushed in (goosebumps racing across your exposed hip). Seungmin didn’t flinch. His hand stayed buried between your legs, finger crooking gently, thumb sweeping up to nudge your clit in the same breath. The dual sensation (stretch and pressure) made your spine arch off the couch cushions before you caught yourself.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked again, brow creasing. “You’re breathing weird.”

Seungmin’s eyes stayed locked on the screen, reflection of exploding spaceships dancing in his pupils, but his finger slid deeper (one slow, deliberate push until the second knuckle breached you). Your cunt clenched hard, a fresh rush of wetness coating his skin. You felt it trickle, warm and shameless, down the crease of your thigh.

“I’m—” Your voice cracked like thin ice. His thumb pressed your clit in a tight, steady circle, and the pleasure crested so suddenly you had to cough to cover the moan that tore free. The sound came out choked, desperate. “Just—need water.”

Your best friend hummed, already turning back to the movie. Under the duvet, Seungmin’s finger curled, stroking the spot inside you that made your toes curl against his calf. His palm was soaked now, the heat of it searing, and still he didn’t look at you. Not once.

But you felt every second of his attention branded between your legs.

The movie’s score swelled, all thumping bass and synthetic strings, loud enough to swallow the wet sounds under the duvet. Your best friend’s voice floated over it, lazy and amused. “Okay, but if the hero dies here, I’m throwing the remote at the screen.”

You opened your mouth to answer, anything, but Seungmin chose that second to sink his finger deeper, curling it hard against the spot that made your vision white-out. A broken “Mmm—” slipped out instead of words.

She turned. “You say something?”

Seungmin’s thumb swept your clit in a slow, deliberate circle, eyes still fixed on the TV like he was studying the CGI explosions. His voice came low, casual, pitched for only the two of you beneath the blanket’s hush. “She said she’s thirsty.”

The word thirsty rolled off his tongue like a taunt, rough at the edges. Your cunt clenched around his finger at the sound, a fresh gush of slick coating his palm. He felt it; his lips twitched, barely.

Your best friend snorted. “There’s water right there, dummy.” She nudged the bottle on the coffee table with her foot, attention already drifting back.

You reached for it with a trembling hand, hoodie sleeve sliding down your wrist. The motion shifted your hips; Seungmin’s finger slid out to the tip, then pushed back in with a second one, stretching you open in one slick glide. The bottle slipped from your grip, clattering softly. Cold water splashed your thigh, shocking against the heat of his hand.

“Shit—sorry,” you gasped.

Seungmin’s voice again, velvet-rough, under the pretense of helping. “Careful. You’re making a mess.”

His fingers twisted inside you, scissoring gently, spreading your wetness up to your clit and back down. The mess he meant wasn’t the water. Your thighs shook; the duvet trembled with it.

Your best friend glanced over. “You’re really red. And sweating. You sure you’re not—”

“I’m fine,” you blurted, too loud. Seungmin’s thumb pressed your clit hard, a warning. You swallowed a moan and it came out a whimper. “Just—cramp. Leg cramp.”

He leaned in, fake-stretching, the movement driving his fingers deeper. His breath ghosted your ear, words barely a whisper against the shell. “Liar. You’re soaked.”

Your spine bowed. You bit the sleeve of your hoodie to muffle the sound, tasting cotton and your own frantic pulse.

Your best friend frowned, paused the movie. The sudden silence was deafening. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?”

Seungmin didn’t miss a beat. He withdrew his fingers to the tips, then slid them home again, slow and filthy, the wet sound swallowed by the duvet’s folds. His voice stayed level, almost bored. “She gets nightmares sometimes. Probably just tense.”

Your best friend’s eyes narrowed. “Nightmares? In a superhero movie?”

You nodded frantically, voice cracking. “Y-yeah. The—the explosion scene—”

Seungmin’s fingers curled, kept stroking. His next words were a breath against your hair, for your ears only. “Tell her you need the bathroom. Or I won’t stop until you come right here.”

Your best friend hit play again, muttering, “Weirdo,” but the suspicion lingered.

Seungmin’s thumb circled your clit once, twice, then pressed flat and held. The pressure coiled, unbearable. You felt the orgasm rising, a wave you couldn’t outrun.

“Bathroom,” you choked out, shoving the duvet off in a rush of cool air. “Be right back.”

You stumbled up, thighs slick, hoodie barely covering the wet patch on your thong. Seungmin’s hand slipped free with a soft, obscene sound, fingers glistening in the TV glow before he tucked them under the blanket like nothing happened.

Your best friend didn’t notice. But as you fled down the hall, legs shaking, you heard him murmur to the screen, “Run all you want. I’m coming to get you.”

-

Seungmin’s pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment you’d bolted from the couch, thighs trembling, hoodie barely hiding the wet patch on your thong. The duvet still held the ghost of your heat against his leg, the slick of your arousal cooling on his fingers. He tucked them under the blanket, casual, like he wasn’t burning alive.

His sister’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. She lit up, already scrambling out from under the duvet. “It’s him,” she sing-songed, voice syrupy. “Gonna take this in my room. Tell her I’m with my man when she comes back, ‘kay? Finish the movie.”

She didn’t wait for an answer—just padded down the hall, door clicking shut behind her. The second her footsteps faded, the house went tomb-quiet except for the movie’s low drone and the blood roaring in his ears.

Finish the movie.

Yeah. Right.

He was moving before the thought finished forming. The blanket hit the floor. Remote clattered. He didn’t care. The hallway stretched too long, the bathroom door a beacon at the end. His cock throbbed, aching against his sweats, the memory of your soaked cunt clenching around his fingers replaying on a loop.

He didn’t knock.

The handle turned smooth under his palm. You were already there—back against the wall, hoodie rucked up, one breast spilling free into your desperate grip. Your other hand shoved your thong aside, fingers plunging in and out with wet, frantic sounds. Your eyes snapped to his, wide and startled, lips parted on a gasp.

You jolted, heart slamming against your ribs. Seungmin stood framed in the dim light, eyes black and unreadable. The bulge in his sweatpants was obscene (thick, straining, the head outlined against the gray cotton like it was trying to punch through). He turned the lock. The click echoed.

“Seungmin, what are you—”

He crossed the space in one stride, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. The cold porcelain of the sink bit into your ass as he set you on the counter, spreading your knees wide with rough palms. The ruined thong stretched, then snapped with a sharp rip—he tore it clean off and tossed the scrap aside.

“Been listening to you for months,” he said, voice gravel-rough, dropping to his knees. “Time you learned what it feels like when I shut you up.”

His mouth closed over your cunt without warning; hot, wet and merciless. Tongue flattening against your clit in one long, filthy lick that tore a broken cry from your throat. You fisted his hair, hips bucking, but he pinned your thighs open wider, nose buried in your slick folds as he devoured you. The sounds were obscene: wet suction, your own ragged moans bouncing off tile, the faint slap of his tongue fucking into you.

“Fuck—Seungmin—” Your head thunked back against the mirror, breast still clutched in one hand, the other yanking his hair hard enough to sting. He growled into you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. You ground against his face, shameless, chasing the pressure, the heat, the more.

“Please—please, I wanna cum—”

He pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny, chin dripping. Before you could whine, he surged up, mouth crashing into yours. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, legs wrapping his waist. His hands fumbled between you, shoving sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy against your thigh, burning hot, the tip already slick with precome.

“Feel that?” he rasped against your lips, dragging the thick head through your folds, nudging your clit until your hips jerked.

You whimpered, trying to angle him inside, but he held your hips still, teasing, sliding through your wetness without breaching.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice shaking with restraint. “Tell me who you’re wet for.”

“You—fuck, you—”

He snapped his hips forward, sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your eyes rolled back, a strangled cry ripping free as he stretched you open, thick and pulsing, bottoming out with a groan that vibrated through your chest. Your walls fluttered around him, already close, the sudden fullness shoving you toward the edge.

“Quiet,” he hissed, one hand clamping over your mouth as he pulled back and slammed in again, the sink rattling under you. “Unless you want her to hear how good I wreck you.”

His hand stayed clamped over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as he pulled back and slammed in again, the sink groaning under the force. Your spine arched off the mirror, legs locked around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back. The bathroom was a haze of steam from the shower you’d never turned on, the air thick with the slap of skin and your muffled cries.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled, yanking the hoodie up and over your head in one rough motion. It caught on your arms before he ripped it free, tossing it to the floor. Your breasts bounced heavy, nipples stiff and glistening from your own saliva earlier. He didn’t waste time, mouth latching onto one, teeth scraping the peak before he sucked hard, tongue flicking in time with the brutal rhythm of his hips.

Each thrust punched the air from your lungs, cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. The counter’s edge bit into your ass, cold against the heat of his body, and you clawed at his shoulders, nails raking red lines down his neck.

“Harder,” you gasped against his palm, voice cracking. “Fuck me like you’ve been jerking off to the sound of me coming through the window—”

His eyes flashed, dark and feral. He released your mouth only to grip both tits, shoving them together, sucking one nipple then the other until they throbbed purple. “You have no idea,” he snarled, hips snapping faster, the wet schlick of your cunt swallowing him obscene in the quiet. “Every night—fuck—heard you moaning when you thought I couldn’t. Been craving this pussy for months.”

You keened, head thrashing. “Then take it—ruin me so I can’t stream without thinking of your cock splitting me open—”

He groaned, the sound guttural, and spun you suddenly—hands under your thighs, lifting you off the counter just long enough to flip you around. Your chest hit the mirror, breasts smearing fog across the glass, and he kicked your legs wider. One hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back as he drove in from behind, the new angle deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Look at yourself,” he rasped, forcing your gaze to the reflection—your mouth open, tits bouncing, his handprints red on your hips. “Look how fucking wrecked you are for your best friend’s little brother.”

You sobbed, pushing back to meet him. “Love it—love how you use me—gonna come so hard on your dick while she’s ten feet away—”

The danger lit you up like a fuse. You could hear her muffled voice down the hall, laughing into her phone, oblivious. Seungmin’s thrusts turned punishing, the sink rattling, your knees slipping on the counter. He reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles.

“Come,” he ordered, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Come now—I need to paint this pretty stomach—”

The command snapped you in half. Your orgasm crashed through you, cunt clamping down so hard he cursed, hips stuttering. You wailed into the mirror, the sound barely muffled by his hand slamming back over your mouth. Your whole body shook, thighs trembling, slick gushing down your legs as wave after wave tore you apart.

He pulled out with a wet pop just as you crested, spinning you again. One stroke, two—his fist flying over his cock—and he came with a choked groan, thick ropes of cum striping your stomach, your breasts, dripping down to your navel. The heat of it branded you, marking you in long, messy pulses.

You sagged against the mirror, chest heaving, his spend cooling on your skin. He leaned in, forehead to yours, both of you panting.

“Next time,” he whispered, voice raw, “I’m coming in your mouth while you’re live. Let them all hear who you belong to.”

The bathroom was still thick with steam and the scent of sex when you finally came down, chest heaving, cum cooling in sticky stripes across your stomach and breasts. You reached blindly for the box of tissues on the counter, legs wobbling, but Seungmin caught your wrist.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, amused, still rough from growling your name. “Wipes aren’t gonna cut it. You’ll smell like me for days.”

Before you could protest, he scooped you up again—effortless, like you weighed nothing—and stepped into the shower. The cold tile shocked your back for a second until he twisted the knob. Hot water cascaded over both of you, washing his release down your skin in pale rivulets. He followed you in, sweatpants kicked off somewhere on the floor, cock half-hard and glistening.

You laughed, breathless and giddy, as the water soaked your hair. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely right,” he murmured, pumping body wash into his palm. The scent—something clean and citrusy—filled the stall as he lathered his hands. Then he was on you again, slower this time. Worshipful.

His soapy palms glided over your shoulders, down your arms, thumbs tracing the curve of your waist. He turned you gently, pressing you to the tile, and washed your back in long, reverent strokes, lips brushing the nape of your neck. You sighed, melting under the attention, head tipping back against his shoulder.

“Missed this body,” he whispered, hands sliding around to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked again under the suds. “Missed how you fit against me.”

You turned in his arms, water streaming between you, and kissed him—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. Tongues sliding, teeth nipping, hands roaming. He backed you against the wall, one thigh nudging between yours, and you felt him harden fully against your belly.

“Already?” you teased, nipping his bottom lip.

“Always,” he groaned, lifting you just enough to notch himself at your entrance. The angle was perfect… your legs wrapped his waist, water sluicing down your joined bodies as he sank in slow, inch by inch, eyes locked on yours.

This wasn’t the frantic fuck from before. This was worship; deep, deliberate thrusts, his mouth never leaving yours, swallowing every moan. He rolled his hips in a slow grind, one hand braced beside your head, the other kneading your ass, pulling you onto him with every stroke.

You came first; quiet, shuddering, clenching around him with a broken whimper into his mouth. He followed seconds later, buried to the hilt, pulsing hot inside you with a low, reverent “fuck” against your lips.

After, he washed you again gently, kissing every spot his hands touched like he was memorizing you. When the water started to cool, he turned it off, wrapped you in a towel, and pressed one last kiss to your swollen lips.

“Go,” he murmured, smirking. “Act normal.”

You dressed in the steamy haze, your oversized hoodie, no panties because yours were a lost cause. Your legs still trembled, but you forced a lazy smile, padding down the hall like nothing had happened.

His sister was sprawled on her bed, phone propped up, mid-laugh with her boyfriend on speaker. She waved you in. “Finally! Thought you fell in. Movie’s still on if you want—”

“Think I’m gonna crash,” you said, voice steady by some miracle. “Long day.”

She bought it. Didn’t even glance up.

Back in the bathroom, Seungmin crouched to retrieve the shredded lace of your thong from the floor. He twirled it around one finger, then tucked it into his pocket with a wicked little wink at his reflection.

Trophy secured.

He slipped out, silent, door clicking shut behind him.

And somewhere down the hall, you lay on your best friend’s spare mattress, thighs still tingling, and you smiled into the dark.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Hi again! 🤭🤭 I was ovulating and i didn’t wanna let that filthy delulu go to waste 😫 KSM needs to send me an NDA fast so he can get out of my system 🫦🤭

Anyway! Hiii, since the comments are now open, you can ask to join the new tag list! And for the doubters THIS IS NOT AI THIS IS LERIEXOXO! 🥰

You, on the other hand, were the polar opposite: unapologetically sexy, with a confidence that turned heads wherever you went. Curves in all the right places, a wardrobe that hugged your body just enough to tease, and a love for skinship that bordered on obsessive. You were always the one initiating hugs that lingered a second too long, draping your legs over his during movie nights, or playfully smacking his arm while laughing at his jokes. Physical touch was your love language, and Jeongin never complained; in fact, he’d lean into it, his cheeks flushing pink as he’d mumble something about how “clingy” you were, but his eyes would sparkle with that hidden mischief.

Lately, though, things had shifted. Jeongin had been hitting the gym hard, trading his slim, boyish frame for something more defined like broad shoulders, toned arms, and abs that peeked out when his shirt rode up. You’d noticed, alright. How could you not? You’d tease him relentlessly about it: “Damn, Innie, when did you get so hot? Flex for me, come on!” He’d roll his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but you’d catch the way his gaze would flick to your lips, or how he’d shift uncomfortably in his seat, like he was fighting back a retort that was anything but innocent.

It was mid-winter when his heater crapped out, turning his apartment into an icebox overnight.

“Y/n, please,” he’d begged over the phone, his voice shivering as much as he probably was. “The repair guy’s booked solid for a week. Can I crash at yours? I’ll sleep on the couch, promise.” You laughed, already picturing him bundled up in your spare blankets.

“Couch? Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve shared beds before on trips. Come over, loser.”

He showed up that evening with a duffel bag, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, looking every bit the adorable puppy he pretended to be. But as you pulled him into a tight hug at the door, your hands sliding up his back, you felt the new firmness of his muscles under his sweater.

“Whoa, someone’s been working out,” you purred teasingly, giving his bicep a squeeze.

He chuckled softly, but his arms wrapped around you a little tighter than usual, his breath warm against your neck. “Shut up, Y/N. You’re just saying that to make me blush.”

The first couple of days were easy… cozy, even. You’d cook dinner together, him chopping veggies while you “accidentally” brushed against him every time you reached for a spice. Movie marathons on the couch turned into you curling up against his side, your head on his shoulder, fingers tracing idle patterns on his thigh. He’d tense up at first, then relax, his hand eventually finding its way to your waist, pulling you closer under the pretence of sharing the blanket.

“You’re so warm,” he’d murmur, his voice low and innocent, but you’d feel the subtle press of his body against yours, the way his fingers lingered on your hip.

By day three, the tension was simmering. You’d catch him watching you as you changed into your pyjamas in the bathroom, the door cracked just enough for a glimpse… innocent mistake, right? Or when you’d stretch in the morning, your tank top riding up to expose your midriff, and his eyes would darken for a split second before he looked away, clearing his throat.

“You okay, Innie?” you’d ask with a smirk, sauntering over to ruffle his hair.

“Yeah, just… cold,” he’d lie, but you’d notice the way he adjusted his sweatpants, hiding what you suspected was a growing problem.

Sharing the bed wasn’t new, but in the dead of winter, with the heat cranked up in your room, it felt different. The first night, he’d crashed almost immediately, his soft snores filling the space as you scrolled through TikTok on your phone, the blue light casting shadows on the walls. But tonight, day four, the air felt thicker. You’d both climbed under the covers after a long day, him in loose sweatpants and a t-shirt, you in your flimsy pyjama shorts and a cropped top that barely covered anything, that was your usual sleepwear, because why not? It was comfortable, and besides, Jeongin was your best friend. No big deal.

He’d fallen asleep quickly again, his breathing evening out as he lay on his side facing you. You were on your back at first, but eventually rolled onto your side away from him, phone in hand, mindlessly swiping through videos. The room was dim, lit only by the glow from your screen and the faint moonlight slipping through the curtains. Outside, snow fell softly, muffling the world, making everything feel intimate, isolated.

Then it started. A soft whimper escaped his lips… barely audible at first, like a sigh in his sleep. You paused your scrolling, ear perking up. Another one, this time accompanied by a subtle shift in the bed. He was moving closer, chasing your warmth in the cool sheets. Your heart skipped a beat as his body pressed against yours from behind, his chest molding to your back. His arm draped over your waist tentatively at first, then tightened, pulling you flush against him.

You froze, phone still in hand, the TikTok video looping forgotten. His breath was hot on the back of your neck, ragged now, interspersed with those little whimpers that sounded way too needy to be innocent dreams. And then… oh god.

You felt it; his cock, thick and unmistakably curved, pressing insistently against your ass through the thin fabric of your shorts and his sweats. It was hard, throbbing subtly with each hitch in his breathing, the shape of it so prominent you could almost trace it with your mind.

Heat flooded your core, a mix of surprise and arousal making your skin tingle. You didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe too loudly, but your body betrayed you, arching just slightly into him. That’s when it got worse. His hips bucked forward in a slow, unconscious grind, humping against you with a rhythm that screamed wet dream. His whimpers grew louder, muffled against your shoulder as he nuzzled closer, his free hand sliding up to grip your hip, fingers digging in possessively.

“Y/n…” he murmured in his sleep, voice husky and desperate, sending a shiver straight down your spine. His cock slid along the curve of your ass with each thrust, the friction electric even through the layers. Your shorts rode up, the loose fabric doing nothing to hide how wet you were getting, your thighs pressing together instinctively. Part of you wanted to wake him, to tease him about this “innocent” side of his finally slipping, but another part (the touchy, clingy, horny part) wanted to see how far this would go.

His humping grew more insistent, his thick length grinding right between your cheeks now, the curve of it hitting just right to make you bite your lip to stifle a moan. His arms locked around you like a vice, trapping you in his heat, his perverted subconscious taking what it craved. The room felt stifling, the air thick with the scent of arousal, yours and his mingling. You could feel every inch of him, the way he twitched against you, precum probably soaking through his pants by now.

Finally, you couldn’t take it. You shifted, pressing back deliberately, grinding your ass against his cock with a slow roll of your hips. His whimper turned into a groan, louder this time, and his eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep and lust.

“Y/n… what—fuck,” he rasped, realizing what was happening but not pulling away. Instead, his hand slid under your top, palm hot against your bare skin, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“You were humping me in your sleep, Innie,” you whispered, voice breathy as you turned your head to look at him over your shoulder. His face was flushed, lips parted, that innocent mask shattered. “Dreaming about me?”

He didn’t deny it. His hips bucked again, deliberate this time, his cock throbbing against you. “Maybe,” he admitted, voice low and perverted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Your hand reached back, fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, lips crashing into his in a messy, heated kiss. Tongues tangled immediately, all the built-up tension exploding. His hand roamed freely now, squeezing your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped into his mouth. You ground back harder, feeling the full girth of him; thick, curved and perfect for hitting spots that made your toes curl just thinking about it.

He broke the kiss, trailing bites down your neck, his other hand dipping into your shorts, fingers finding your slick folds. “So wet already,” he growled, no trace of innocence left. “Teasing me all week, being so touchy… you wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” you moaned, arching into his touch as he circled your clit, slow and torturous. “Fuck, Innie, you’re so hard… so big.”

He chuckled darkly, thrusting against your hand as you palmed him through his sweats. “All for you. Been wanting to bend you over since you started teasing me about my muscles.” His fingers plunged inside you, two at once, curling to hit that spot that made you see stars. You cried out, grinding down on his hand while he humped your ass relentlessly.

The bed creaked under your movements, the room filled with wet sounds… his fingers pumping in and out, your moans, his grunts. He pulled his fingers out abruptly, making you whine, only to yank your shorts down your thighs. His sweats followed, his thick cock springing free, hot and heavy against your bare skin. The curve of it nestled perfectly between your cheeks as he rutted against you, precum smearing everywhere.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded, voice rough. You did, lifting one thigh as he positioned himself, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. He pushed in slow, inch by thick inch, stretching you deliciously. “Fuck, so tight… feels like you were made for this.”

You gasped, clutching the sheets as he bottomed out, the curve hitting your g-spot on the first thrust. He didn’t hold back, pounding into you from behind, arms wrapped around your waist like in his dream. Skin slapped against skin, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene in the quiet room. His hand found your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts, while the other pinched your nipples, twisting just hard enough to make you scream.

“Cum for me, Y/n,” he panted, hips snapping faster, chasing his own release. “Wanna feel you clench around my cock.”

It hit you like a wave, the orgasm crashing over you, vision blurring as you pulsed around him. He followed seconds later, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside, hot and thick.

You both collapsed, panting, his arms still around you. “Best wet dream ever,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder with a grin.

You laughed breathlessly, turning to face him. “Round two?”

His eyes darkened again, that perverted spark back. “Always."

---

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You stirred first, the ache between your legs a delicious reminder of last night’s frenzy. Jeongin’s arm was still slung possessively over your waist, his bare chest pressed against your back, skin warm and slightly sticky from sweat and cum. He’d pulled out eventually, after round two turned into three, but not before filling you up again, whispering filthy promises in your ear about how he’d been fantasizing about this for months. His “innocent” facade had crumbled completely, revealing the pervert underneath who loved edging you until you begged, then fucking you senseless.

You shifted slightly, feeling his morning wood twitch against your ass… thick, curved, and already half-hard, like it hadn’t gotten enough. A smirk tugged at your lips as you pressed back teasingly, grinding just enough to elicit a low groan from him. His eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, but that mischievous spark ignited instantly when he realized where he was… and who he was with.

“Morning, perv,” you murmured, your voice husky from all the moaning you’d done. You reached back, fingers tracing the defined lines of his abs, dipping lower to wrap around his cock. He was fully hard now, throbbing in your hand, the curve making it perfect for stroking from this angle. Precum beaded at the tip, slicking your palm as you pumped him slowly.

Jeongin chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. No more shy maknae vibes… he nuzzled into your neck, teeth grazing your skin before biting down gently. “Says the one who’s already stroking me like you can’t get enough.”

His hand slid up your thigh, parting your legs effortlessly. You were still naked from the waist down, your pussy sore but slick again, betraying how turned on you were. His fingers found your folds, dipping in to feel the mix of your juices and his cum from last night. “Fuck, you’re still so wet… or is this from now?”

You gasped as he pushed two fingers inside, curling them to hit that spot he now knew so well. “Both,” you admitted, arching into his touch. Your free hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer for a lazy, open-mouthed kiss. Tongues slid together, tasting remnants of each other; salty, sweet and utterly debauched. He hummed into your mouth, thrusting his fingers deeper while you jerked him off faster, thumb circling the sensitive head.

He broke the kiss, eyes dark and hungry as he flipped you onto your back, hovering over you. The sheets pooled around his waist, exposing his toned body, those gym sessions had really paid off, his muscles flexing as he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand.

“Tease me all you want, Y/n, but I know you love it when I take control.” His free hand trailed down, spreading your legs wider, his cock nudging your entrance. He didn’t push in yet, just rubbed the curved length along your slit, coating himself in your wetness.

“Please, Innie,” you whined, your clingy side in full force as you wrapped your legs around his hips, trying to pull him closer. Skinship was your thing, but now it was amplified, every touch electric, every press of his body against yours making you crave more.

He grinned, that perverted glint in his eye as he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Beg for it, baby. Tell me how bad you want this thick cock stretching you again.” His hips rolled, the head catching on your clit, making you buck up with a moan.

“Fuck me, Jeongin—hard, like last night. I need it,” you pleaded, nails digging into his back. Satisfied, he thrust in all at once, bottoming out with a groan. The curve hit your g-spot perfectly, stars bursting behind your eyes. He set a brutal pace, pounding into you, the bed frame creaking in protest. His hand released your wrists to squeeze your breast, pinching the nipple until it hardened, then soothing it with his tongue.

You were a mess beneath him, your moans spilling out, legs trembling as he fucked you deeper, his balls slapping against your ass with each snap of his hips. “So fucking tight… gonna cum inside you again, mark you as mine,” he growled, his innocent image long gone. One hand slipped between you, rubbing your clit in tight circles, pushing you toward the edge.

“Cum with me,” you gasped, clenching around him as the orgasm built, hot and intense. He nodded, thrusts erratic now, chasing his release. It hit you both at once—you crying out his name, pulsing around his cock, milking him dry as he spilled deep inside, hot ropes filling you up.

He collapsed on top of you, both panting, his weight comforting rather than crushing. After a moment, he rolled off, pulling you into his side with a satisfied sigh. “Best morning ever,” he murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.

You snuggled closer, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “Round four after breakfast?”

He laughed, but his hand squeezed your ass possessively. “Deal.” The week was just getting started, and with his heater still broken, neither of you were in a rush for it to end.

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Authors note; Happy New Month guys!!! I know I said the requests will be opened in November... but not yet! I don't think my DMs are safe to be opened yet after the death threats I got last month over the whole AI thing. maybe I'll address that later when I can but for now let's just enjoy this short Innie smut.

Important note: I know I'm trolling on my bio but please please, this was NOT written with AI, okay? I read and heard all you guys have been saying the past few weeks and I took corrections, I also will not be using any AI editors for any of my work anymore. I'm sorry guys. LOVE YOU!!!