Rain

You pulled into the lot at 11:48 pm, the engine of your car giving one final, pathetic shudder before falling silent. The heavy metal shutter of the garage was halfway closed, cutting the interior light into a sharp, slanted rectangle on the asphalt.

Just as you killed the ignition, the heavy thud of boots echoed near the entrance of the garage. Chan stepped out, squinting at you, his lips twitching upward when he realized who it was. He left the shutters open and signaled you to pull in.

You’d been here three times in the last two months alone. Once for a brake pad squeal that probably didn't exist, another for an oil change you could have done yourself, and now this. but who could blame you? he's hot and he doesn't overcharge you.

Each visit was kept professional enough, a formal exchange of "Yes, mr. bang" and "No, thank you, ma'am" that served as a flimsy curtain over the heat building between you.

You liked the way he looked at you and you liked the way he played along, keeping the professionalism intact while his eyes tracked the movement of your hips every time you stepped out of the driver's seat.

“My car has a bit of a temper,” you say, leaning back against the door with a slow, stretch that pulls your shirt tight across your chest. You watch his gaze dip, tracking the movement, before his eyes snapped back to yours again.

You’ve played this game for months - the truth is, you don't give a damn about the engine, you just want to see if he’ll finally stop calling you 'ma'am' and start calling you something else.

“Temper, huh?” Chan , a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he steps into your space “Well, let’s see what’s got you so worked up.” He gestures for you to pop the hood, and as you pull the lever, he leans over the engine bay. The movement pulls his work shirt tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining against the muscle of his back.

“knew that sound wasn’t right,” he mutters, poking a finger toward a ruptured vacuum hose. He winces, the expression tightening his jaw as he realizes the rubber has completely perished, leaving the engine gasping for air.

He doesn't look at you, but you can see the muscle in his cheek twitching. He’s focused now, sliding right back into work as he reaches for a wrench, his knuckles rapping against the metal with a heavy thud.

You don't move from your spot, leaning your hip against the fender and watching the way his biceps bunch and ripple under that gosh darn tank top.

He’s working with a slow, methodical precision, his large hands moving with a surprising lightness as he detaches the faulty part, and you make sure to let out a soft, appreciative hum.

“Done,” he says after a few minutes of working. He wipes his hands on a rag, his eyes finally locking onto yours.

He lets the rag drop onto the engine block with a dull thud, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before he clears his throat. “That’ll be eighty bucks for the part and the labor. Plus a little extra for the midnight call out fee.”

You let out a soft, teasing tsk, shifting your weight so your hip brushes against the warm metal of the car. “Eighty? For a little piece of rubber? You’re getting greedy, Mr. Bang.” You tilt your head, “I might have to find a more affordable shop.”

“You could try,” he chuckles, shrugging “But I don’t think anyone else in this city is gonna give you the kind of... personal attention I do.” He's moving closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the garage lights, casting you in a heavy, suffocating shadow.

You don't back down. Instead, you reach out and trail a finger along his arm. “Maybe we can... negotiate the price. I’m not sure I have eighty on me right now...”

you did have eighty on you. probably.

“Well, I am a businessman, sweetheart, Why don’t you show me exactly how you plan on convincing me?”

and that was all you needed to hear.

you let your gaze drop to the heavy buckle of his belt, then slowly sank to your knees. You keep your eyes locked on his, watching the way his breath hitches and his posture stiffens.

Your fingers find the button of jeans, popping it open n' sliding the zipper down, revealing the tight stretch of his boxers. He’s already half-hard, a heavy, pulsing weight straining against the fabric.

you press your palm flat against the length of him, circling the head with your thumb, teasing the bead of moisture leaking through the cotton.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Chan grunts, his voice cracking. He lets out a low, jagged moan that vibrates through the air, his head tilting back as his hips give a reflexive, involuntary twitch toward your hand.

You reach inside, hooking your fingers into the waistband and pulling him free. He springs out, thick and pulsing, the skin flushed a deep, hungry red.

You wrap your fingers around the base and pump him twice, in a slow, firm motion that draws a long, satisfied sigh from his throat.

Then you take him.

The moment your lips slide over the crown, he lets out a choked sound, his hips jerking forward. “Now we’re talkin’,” he rasps, the words barely coherent.

You take your sweet time swirling your tongue around the ridge, savoring the salt and the heat, before sliding your mouth down the length of him. You use your hand to pump the base while your mouth creates a vacuum, sucking him deep until he’s hitting the back of your throat.

Chan’s hands make theirway to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands and guiding your rhythm. He lets out a jagged sound, his hips starting to roll in a slow, desperate search for friction. “God, you’re… you’re fuckin’ killing me,” he rasps, the words breaking.

You don't let up. You use your palm to cup his heavy balls, squeezing lightly as you suck the length of him, your lips creating a tight, wet seal that has his eyes rolling back.

His breath becomes a series of short, sharp hitches. his chest heaving as he looks down at you, his expression one of pure, concentrated hunger. “Right there… juuuust like that,”

And then fingers tighten in your hair, not giving you a warning as he rams deep into your throat, forcing a muffled gasp from your lungs.

Your eyes water as he bottoms out, his thick head hitting the back of your throat with a heavy, blunt force that makes you gag. You choke, a wet, strangled sound echoing in the quiet garage, but you don't pull away. Instead, you lean into it, your throat stretching and molding around his girth, taking every single inch of him.

and that does it for him. his eyes are squeezed shut, “I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he groans, a jagged, desperate sound that vibrates through his entire frame.

Then his body stiffens, a violent shudder racking his broad shoulders as he lets out a loud, shaking moan. You feel the first hot, thick surge hit the back of your tongue, a heavy pulse of heat that fills your mouth. your tongue swirling around the head to milk every last drop out of him, listening to the sound of his ragged, uneven breathing.

His large hand slides from your hair to the nape of your neck, fingers curling tight as he hauls you upward. You stumble into him, breathless and flushed, and he crashes his lips against yours.

It’s messy, a starving kind of kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to claim every inch of you, before he abruptly breaks away.

He doesn’t give you a second to even catch your breath, because with a sudden, powerful movement, he spins you around.

“Changed my mind,” he rasps, “I think I need a lil’ more convincing.”

And you feel him.

Hard.

He’s already hard again.

It’s impossible, really, but the thick, pulsing length of him is jamming right into the cleft of your backside. You can feel the dampness of your own arousal soaking into your panties, the slickness leaking out and gluing the fabric to your skin.

he reaches down, pulling down your pants down in one go, “Look at that” he's hooking two fingers into the side of your underwear and ripping them aside with a satisfying snap. “Dripping for me already. You’re a mess, sweetheart.”

You let out a shaky, breathy laugh, arching your back to press yourself firmer against his thigh. “Maybe you just… work too fast, Mr. Bang,” you tease, “I can’t keep up with you.”

“Oh, you’ll keep up,” he rasps, his hand sliding forward to find your clit, rubbing it in a heavy, circular motion that makes your knees buckle.

his hands plant onto your hips, fingers digging into your skin with a bruising intensity that anchors you in place. there is no slow buildup, he simply lines himself up and sinks into your wet cunt in one heavy, devastating shove.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, strangled wheeze. You’re stretched wide, your walls stretching as he bottoms out, filling every single corner of you until you feel like you might actually split. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, your forehead slapping against the metal of the hood as your vision goes white.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice a distorted wreck. He stays buried for a second, letting you feel the sheer, throbbing scale of him. “takin' it like a champ”

Then he starts moving.

He sets a harsh, punishing pace from the get-go, each thrust a heavy t that echoes through the space around you. You’re being hammered into the hood, your breath coming in jagged, sobbing gasps.

“Please—” you manage to choke out, your fingers clawing at the paint, leaving streaks that you'd probably crash out over later.

“Please what, baby? Tell me,” he rasps, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder all while he drives deeper, “Tell me how it feels to have me stretch you out like this.”

“It’s — too much — oh god!” You let out a loud, uncontrolled moan that bounces off the high ceilings of the garage, the sound echoing through the empty lot outside.

Chan’s eyes darken at the sound of your voice carrying, and without missing a beat, he shifts his grip. One of his palms slides from your hip and clamps firmly over your mouth, sealing your cries against his skin in a little "Mmph—!"

He leans in, his chest crushing on your shoulder blades, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Shh,” he rasps, “You're being way too loud, sweetheart. Someone might hear just how much you like being used like a little toy on your own car.”

The mere suggestion of an audience makes your insides seize, tightening around him in a sudden, involuntary spasm, your walls clamping down on him. The sensation is so intense it draws a sharp hiss of air from his lungs, his hips momentarily locking as he feels you literally trying to swallow him whole.

“Oh, you like that,?” he breaths, his voice dropping to a whisper. palm still pressed firm to keep your whimpers trapped. “The thought of someone walking in and seeing you bent over your hood, taking every inch of me while you can’t even make a sound. You’re a little exhibitionist, aren’t you, baby?”

His hand slides from your mouth, the sudden rush of air making you gasp, his fingers wraping around the column of your throat instead.

He’s hitting a rhythm that has your vision swimming. Every slam is a thunderclap in your lower belly, sending sparks shooting up your spine. You can feel the tension coiling in your gut, a tight, humming coil that’s seconds away from snapping.

“I’m— I’m gonna—” you sob, your voice breaking into a high, thin wail. You arch your back, trying to push back against him, “Chan, please— m'cumming”

“Yeah? You’re gonna break for me?” he rasps, his voice a ruined shred of its former self. “Do it. Fuck, just do it, baby. I’m right there— I’m right there with you.”

A loud, shattered moan of his name rips from your throat, vibrating through your entire frame as the first wave of your orgasm crashes over you.

At the exact same moment, Chan lets out a groan, his body locking into a rigid line. He rams into you one last time, his hips stuttering to a dead stop as he floods you, the hot, heavy pulses of his release hitting your cervix in thick bursts.

For a long minute, the only sound in the garage is the synchronized, ragged gasping. You stay slumped over the hood, your muscles twitching in the afterglow, feeling the slow, steady drip of combined fluids sliding down your thighs and onto the floor.

Chan slowly pulls back, the wet, suctioning sound of his exit echoing in the silence. He stays close, his chest still heaving against your back, as he looks down at the glistening mess leaking out of both of you, painting a silver trail across your skin. He lets out a low, impressed whistle.

“thirty percent off, hm?" he's back to pushing in slow, agonizingly deep rolls that grind him against your sensitive walls.

“fourty,” you command.

“One more round n’ I’ll make it sixty”

a/n: okay listen skz in uniform raise your hand if you agree

Or maybe, it was because you just needed a reason.

A reason for him to really see you.

So here you were, heart hammering against your ribs, standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of the mall’s tattoo and piercing shop, flipping through the jewelry catalog with sweaty palms.

The bell above the door chimed behind you.

You didn’t even have to look to know it was him.

“Appointment for…?” a low, disinterested voice called out from behind the counter.

You turned.

And froze.

Hyunjin

In black latex gloves, a tight black tee clinging to his lean frame, one eyebrow arched lazily as he tilted his head at you. His hair was tied up, messy strands falling over his forehead, and the silver hoops in his ears gleamed under the neon lights.

Your tongue felt stupid in your mouth.

“I–uh. Piercing. Nipple piercing,” you blurted.

Smooth. So smooth.

For a second, something flashed behind his eyes.

Recognition. Amusement.

Something darker.

“Right,” he said, voice dangerously soft. “Follow me.”

You barely registered the fact that you were moving until you found yourself in the small, sterile room at the back of the shop, the door clicking shut behind you.

“Shirt off,” Hyunjin said, reaching for the tray of sterilized needles like it was just another Tuesday.

You hesitated — and his eyes finally met yours, a flicker of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

The teasing lilt in his voice made your skin prickle.

God. You had no idea what you’d just gotten yourself into.

You swallowed hard, fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt.

Hyunjin just stood there — arms crossed, body loose, but his stare sharp as a blade. Watching. Waiting.

You peeled your top over your head, dropping it onto the chair beside you.

The chill of the room kissed your skin, pebbling your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra.

Hyunjin’s gaze dropped — deliberate, unapologetic — and stayed there for a beat too long before dragging back up to your face.

A slow smirk ghosted across his lips.

“Lie down,” he said, voice a rough command. Not a request.

Your thighs squeezed together on instinct.

God, this was dangerous.

This was so much more than you thought it would be.

You moved to the padded chair in the middle of the room, lying back, heart hammering against your ribs so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

Hyunjin pulled on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap, stepping into your space, and your breath caught when he reached for you without hesitation.

“Arms at your sides,” he murmured, fingers brushing your skin as he adjusted you how he wanted.

He was careful. Professional. But it didn’t matter.

The heat of his touch seared into you, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

When his knuckles grazed the underside of your breast, you swore you saw his jaw tighten.

Like he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted you to think.

“You’re gonna feel my hands on you,” he said, tone low, clinical — but there was an edge there. A warning.

“I need you to stay still for me.”

God, the way he said it.

For me.

You nodded, throat dry, and he rewarded you with a quiet hum of approval — a sound so soft it shouldn’t have made your stomach drop the way it did.

Then his hands were on you again — pushing the cup of your bra up, exposing your breast, baring it completely to the cool air.

You gasped, heat flooding your cheeks.

Hyunjin’s gaze locked onto your chest, dark and heavy.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just looked.

Looked like he had every right to.

You shifted, thighs rubbing together — and his eyes snapped up to yours immediately.

There was no mistaking it now.

The tension crackling between you.

The hunger barely masked behind his carefully blank face.

“Stay still,” he repeated, voice dipping lower, rougher, like gravel over velvet.

Commanding. Final.

Like you belonged to him in that moment.

You swallowed a whimper.

Your hips pressed harder against the chair without you meaning to.

Hyunjin noticed.

Of course he noticed.

One corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, more like a promise.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured, so quietly you almost missed it.

As he leaned down — so close you could feel his breath on your chest — he lined up the needle, his gloved fingers firm and unyielding around your breast.

“You’re mine for the next five minutes,” Hyunjin said under his breath, just before the sharp sting of the needle pierced your skin.

“And you’re going to take it like a good girl, aren’t you?”

You nearly moaned.

Nearly.

Instead, you bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

And Hyunjin — Hyunjin smiled.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Like this was only the beginning.

The piercing was fast. Brutal.

A sharp, searing pain that bloomed into a hot, throbbing ache.

You gritted your teeth, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Hyunjin’s hands were still on you, still steadying you through it, still warm even through the barrier of his gloves.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice dangerously low, as he slid the jewelry into place with careful fingers.

You sucked in a sharp breath as his thumb grazed the swollen, sensitive skin — and this time, he definitely smirked.

“You’re sensitive,” he commented casually, but his tone was anything but.

It dripped.

Thick with dark amusement. With knowledge.

Your cheeks flamed.

You could barely think straight.

When he was finished, he leaned back, surveying his work — or maybe surveying you, the way your body trembled slightly under his gaze.

The way your chest rose and fell too fast.

“You’ll need to come back in two weeks for a check-up,” he said smoothly, peeling off his gloves with a soft snap.

“You think you can behave until then?”

You stared at him, breathing hard, too dizzy to speak.

Hyunjin chuckled low in his throat — the sound was pure sin — and scribbled something on a card before sliding it into your hand.

His fingers brushed yours deliberately.

“My number,” he said. “In case you have… concerns.”

The way he said it — voice rough, dark, loaded — made it sound like he wanted you to have concerns.

Made it sound like he wanted you to call him, desperate and needy, late at night.

You clutched the card like a lifeline and bolted out of the shop, heart slamming against your ribs.

⸻

A Few Days Later — At School

You thought you could forget about it. About him.

You thought the memory would fade, like a fever dream.

But Hyunjin found you again.

Of course he did.

You were at your locker, shoving books into your bag, when you felt it — the heavy, suffocating weight of his gaze.

You turned — and there he was, leaning lazily against the opposite wall.

Casual. Sin incarnate in ripped jeans and a leather jacket.

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked at you.

Like he could see right through your clothes.

Like he could still feel you beneath his hands.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up — chest tightening, thighs clenching, heat flaring between your legs so fast it made your head spin.

Hyunjin’s lips twitched.

He knew.

He knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Slowly — painfully slowly — he pushed off the wall and sauntered past you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

His voice brushed your ear, so low you barely caught it:

“Miss me?”

And then he was gone.

Leaving you breathless, trembling, burning.

—-

Two Weeks Later — The Check-Up Appointment

You were shaking by the time you walked into the piercing shop.

Not from fear.

From anticipation.

From the way your body still remembered the weight of his hands, the rough velvet of his voice.

From the way he looked at you in the hallway like he could still taste you.

The bell above the door chimed, and he was already there — sitting on the counter, scrolling through his phone, looking devastating in ripped black jeans and a snug black tee.

He looked up — and smirked.

Slow. Sinister.

“You came,” Hyunjin said simply, hopping down from the counter.

The way he said it made your knees weak.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Just nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Back room,” he ordered, jerking his chin toward the hallway.

“Strip to the waist.”

You should have been used to this by now.

You weren’t.

Not when it was him.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Like you were already spread out under him, whimpering.

You slipped off your jacket and top with trembling hands, laying down on the same chair, bare from the waist up except for your bra.

Waiting.

Hyunjin shut the door behind him with a soft click that sounded so much louder in the charged silence.

He pulled on gloves with a snap, walking over to you, towering above you.

“You healed well,” he murmured, tugging the cup of your bra down again, baring your breast without ceremony.

“You took care of yourself like a good girl, didn’t you?”

Your body jolted.

Your thighs squeezed together helplessly.

He leaned closer, inspecting the piercing, face so close you could feel his breath.

His gloved fingers ghosted around the sensitive area, not quite touching, just… hovering.

“You’re still sensitive,” he said, almost to himself. “You feel it here, don’t you?”

He pressed just beside the piercing, where the skin was still tender.

You gasped, hips bucking without meaning to.

Seeking more.

Seeking him.

Hyunjin’s gaze flicked up to your face — dark, dangerous, hungry.

“You want more,” he said softly.

Not a question. A fact.

You whimpered.

“Ask me,” he said. “Beg for it.”

You blinked up at him, lips trembling.

“Hyunjin, please…” you whispered.

He smiled.

Predatory. Patient.

Like a wolf circling a trembling rabbit.

“Please what?” he coaxed, voice a rasp. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me exactly what you want.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shame and need warring inside you — but when his thumb finally brushed over the pierced nipple, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to your core, you broke.

“Please touch me,” you gasped. “Please—need you to make me feel good, please—”

The groan he let out was low, guttural, primal.

Like he’d been holding himself back for weeks.

“Good girl,” he murmured, finally, finally dropping all pretense of professionalism.

He pushed your bra down completely, baring both breasts to the air.

His gloved hands were everywhere now — rough, greedy, possessive — cupping, squeezing, thumbing over your swollen, needy peaks.

You cried out, arching into him shamelessly, and he caught your jaw with one hand, forcing you to look up at him.

“So predictable,” Hyunjin growled, mouth just inches from yours. “You came back to me. You begged for me.”

You whimpered, nodding frantically.

You would’ve agreed to anything he said.

He finally — finally — crushed his mouth to yours, devouring you like he’d been starving.

His hands didn’t stop moving — tweaking your nipples, tugging at the jewelry, making you gasp and sob into his mouth with each teasing flick.

“You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?” he hissed against your lips, grinding his thigh up between your legs.

“You touch yourself thinking about my hands on you?”

You sobbed out a desperate, broken little “yes,” grinding down on his thigh helplessly.

So needy. So wet.

The denim against your soaked panties was almost too much — and he knew it.

Of course he knew it.

“You’re gonna come for me,” Hyunjin growled, voice pure filth, hand sliding down to pin your hips to his thigh.

“Just like this. So fucking pretty. So desperate. All because of me.”

And you did.

Shaking, sobbing, body wracked with pleasure so intense it left you trembling in his arms.

Hyunjin held you through it, murmuring low praises against your neck, hands firm and possessive on your waist.

Your body was still trembling when Hyunjin pulled back slightly, surveying you like he wasn’t finished — like he’d barely even started.

“You’re not done, are you?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

“You’re gonna give me another one, sweetheart.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips swollen from his kisses, shirtless and panting in the middle of the piercing room.

Hyunjin’s gloves were gone now — peeled off and tossed aside like he couldn’t stand anything between you anymore.

His bare hands were rough and hot as they skimmed down your trembling thighs, spreading them wide enough that the cool air kissed the soaked fabric of your panties.

“So wet for me,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.”

You whimpered helplessly, hips lifting toward his touch, chasing it like a shameless thing.

You didn’t even care anymore.

You needed him.

Hyunjin smirked — and then he dropped to his knees between your legs.

Without warning, he leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate stripe over the wetness darkening the crotch of your panties.

You choked on a gasp, hips jerking.

Hyunjin just laughed — low, dark, possessive.

“You taste good even through the fabric,” he rasped, nuzzling against you like he couldn’t get enough.

“Bet you taste even better when I really get in there.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs slowly, savoring it, groaning under his breath when your bare, glistening core was finally exposed to him.

He didn’t give you time to be shy.

Didn’t give you a second to think.

Hyunjin grabbed your thighs, pinned them wide open around his shoulders, and buried his face between your legs like a man starved.

The first pass of his tongue over your dripping folds was devastating — hot, thick, greedy.

You sobbed, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling helplessly, and he growled against your cunt like he loved it.

“That’s it,” he muttered against your skin, tongue teasing your clit with slow, devastating circles.

“Ride my face, pretty girl. I wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

You whimpered, grinding against his mouth without even meaning to, and he fucking moaned — the vibration shooting straight through your core.

He licked you like he owned you — slow, deep, messy — alternating between filthy, open-mouthed kisses and sharp, teasing flicks of his tongue against your swollen clit.

Every time you gasped or cried out, Hyunjin tightened his grip on your thighs, holding you still, forcing you to take it.

He didn’t rush.

He wanted to wreck you slowly.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he growled against you, voice rough and full of hunger.

“You gonna cum again for me, sweetheart? Gonna soak my tongue like a good little slut?”

You were already teetering on the edge — sobbing his name, grinding down on his mouth like you needed him to breathe.

Your body tensed, trembling.

And when Hyunjin sucked your clit into his mouth — hard, greedy, ruthless — you shattered.

You screamed his name, thighs clamping around his head, cumming so hard it blanked your mind.

Hyunjin didn’t stop.

He kept licking you through it, milking every last drop of pleasure from you, groaning against your cunt like it was the best meal he’d ever had.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was shiny with you, lips swollen, eyes dark and wild.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking down at you like he owned you now.

And maybe he did.

“No one else gets to do that to you anymore but me,” he said simply, voice wrecked and rough. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Good,” Hyunjin murmured, leaning down to press one more filthy kiss against your trembling thigh.

“Because next time, baby…”

He smiled — a slow, dangerous smile that promised ruin.

“Next time, I’m not stopping until you’re crying on my cock.”

—-

The days after the piercing shop incident were pure torture.

You couldn’t focus.

You couldn’t think.

Every brush of fabric against your skin, every stolen memory of Hyunjin’s mouth between your legs, sent you spiraling.

And he knew it.

Of course he knew it.

He texted you. Constantly.

Hyunjin: Still sore, sweetheart?

Hyunjin: Thinking about my tongue?

Hyunjin: Be good. Or I’ll make you beg harder next time.

Each message made it worse.

Each cocky little taunt twisted the ache inside you tighter.

And then, a few days later — finally —

Hyunjin: Come over tonight.

Hyunjin: Another check-up.

Hyunjin: Wear something easy to take off.

He attached his address. No extra explanation.

Just pure, unshakable command.

You showed up at his apartment that night, heart hammering out of your chest, legs trembling inside your thin, stupidly short skirt.

The city lights were a blur behind you, the apartment windows wide and high and open, letting the night seep inside.

Hyunjin opened the door already looking like a sin you couldn’t say no to — shirtless, hair messy, low-slung sweatpants clinging to his hips like he’d just rolled out of bed thinking about ruining you.

You barely got inside before he was on you.

Pinning you against the door, caging you in with his arms.

He didn’t kiss you yet.

He just looked at you.

Hungry. Dangerous.

“You wore a skirt for me,” Hyunjin murmured, voice rough with approval. “Good girl.”

You shivered, feeling your panties stick to you — already soaked from the anticipation, from the way he looked at you like he could devour you alive.

Hyunjin ran a finger along the hem of your skirt, teasing.

“So eager,” he purred. “You want me to check how well you’re healing?”

You nodded, breathless.

You’d agree to anything right now.

He smiled — slow, wicked — and tugged your top over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him.

His fingers were gentle as he peeled your bra down, baring your pierced nipple to the cool air.

He cupped your breast in his palm, thumb brushing over the jewelry — not enough pressure, just enough to tease.

“Perfect,” he said, almost to himself.

“You’re still sensitive, though. Aren’t you?”

You whimpered, body arching helplessly into his hand.

He chuckled darkly.

“You need me to take care of you again?” he asked softly.

“You need my mouth, sweetheart?”

“Please,” you whispered, eyes wide, desperate.

Hyunjin caught your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look up at him.

“You’re gonna ask so pretty when I’m buried between your thighs again,” he said. “But not yet.”

He grabbed you suddenly, lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing.

You gasped, clinging to him instinctively, and he carried you through the apartment — dropping you onto his massive bed, sprawled and panting.

Hyunjin climbed up after you, slow and predatory, pushing your skirt up to your waist, baring your soaked panties to his greedy gaze.

“You’re dripping through them,” he murmured, smirking. “Such a needy little thing.”

He leaned down — and bit the inside of your thigh, hard enough to make you yelp.

He soothed the sting with a slow, filthy lick.

And then he pulled your panties aside, exposing you completely, and settled between your legs like he was home.

His mouth was on you again — but this time it was worse.

Better.

Hyunjin was slow.

Meticulous.

Every flick of his tongue was designed to drive you mad.

He teased your clit with the tip of his tongue, feather-light flicks that made you sob.

He fucked you lazily with his tongue, slipping inside you with filthy, wet sounds that made your cheeks burn.

He sucked your clit between his lips and hummed like he was enjoying a meal.

And every time you got close — every time you trembled and gasped and bucked your hips — he pulled back.

“You don’t cum until I say,” Hyunjin said, voice low and brutal.

“You hold it, sweetheart. You hold it like a good fucking girl.”

You nodded frantically, tears pricking at your eyes.

It was torture.

It was bliss.

It was everything.

He kept you right there — teetering, shaking, ruined — until you were whimpering his name like a prayer.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Hyunjin, please, please—”

He pulled back, licking his lips, face shiny with you.

He looked like the devil himself.

“You’re ready now,” he said softly. “You’re ready to be fucked.”

He stood, dragging his sweatpants down, cock springing free — flushed, leaking, massive.

Your mouth watered.

Hyunjin chuckled darkly.

“Next time, baby,” he said, stroking himself slowly.

“Next time, you get the real thing. And you’re gonna take every fucking inch.”

He knelt over you, slipping two fingers inside you — thick, relentless — fucking you with slow, punishing strokes as you writhed and sobbed under him.

“You’re gonna think about me every time you sit down tomorrow,” he growled, curling his fingers just right, making you scream.

“You’re gonna feel me for days.”

And when you finally came — gushing around his fingers, soaking the bed — Hyunjin kissed you hard, stealing your broken little cries into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough of your ruin.

He held you through it, fingers still deep inside you, still working you through the aftershocks.

Still owning you.

This was only the beginning.

You barely had time to catch your breath.

Hyunjin didn’t even give you a chance.

Didn’t give you a choice.

He yanked you up by the wrist — rough, urgent — dragging you across the room until you were standing right in front of his floor-to-ceiling window.

The city lights burned behind the glass.

A million strangers.

A million chances to be seen.

You shivered, but not from fear.

Not from shame.

From the way Hyunjin stood behind you, towering, chest heaving, starving for you.

“Hands on the glass,” he ordered, voice low and dangerous.

You obeyed instantly, palms flattening against the cold window.

The coolness bit into your overheated skin, making you gasp.

Hyunjin pressed up behind you, one hand sliding around your waist, the other fisting in your hair — pulling your head back so you were arched, vulnerable, at his mercy.

“You want the city to see you, sweetheart?” he growled into your ear, grinding his cock against your bare ass.

“You want them to see how pretty you are when you’re getting ruined?”

You whimpered, helpless.

You couldn’t speak — could only nod, desperate, dizzy.

He laughed — low and dark — and then he shoved inside you in one brutal, devastating thrust.

You screamed, forehead dropping to the glass, the stretch burning, overwhelming, perfect.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin groaned, voice wrecked. “So tight. So fucking good.”

He didn’t move yet — just stayed buried deep inside you, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other still fisted in your hair, holding you in place.

“You belong to me now,” he said, dragging his cock out slow, torturous — then slamming back in so hard the window rattled. “You understand that, sweetheart?”

You sobbed, nodding frantically, nails scratching uselessly at the glass.

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t nearly enough.

Hyunjin started fucking you in earnest then — hard, brutal strokes that had you gasping, crying out, pressed against the window like a ragdoll.

Every time he bottomed out, his hips slammed into your ass with a sharp smack that echoed in the room.

Every thrust forced a broken little cry from your lips, your breath fogging up the glass.

“You’re so fucking loud,” he rasped, tightening his grip in your hair.

“Bet the whole city can hear you begging for my cock.”

You tried to answer, tried to say yes, but all that came out was a desperate, high-pitched whimper.

Hyunjin chuckled — dark and delighted — and leaned in to bite the side of your neck, hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’re gonna cum all over my cock, sweetheart,” he growled against your skin.

“Make a mess all over the fucking window.”

You were so close — so fucking close — your legs trembling, the glass slick with your sweat and breath and need.

Hyunjin’s hand slid from your stomach to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, just claiming — and the added pressure made your vision blur, made your orgasm rise like a tidal wave.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, voice pure sin. “Cum for me. Show them who fucking owns you.”

You shattered with a scream — a white-hot explosion that ripped through you, wracking your body with violent, helpless spasms.

Your walls clenched around him, milking him, dragging a deep, broken groan from his chest.

Hyunjin cursed, pulling out just in time to jerk himself to completion across the small of your back — hot, filthy, claiming.

You collapsed against the window, boneless, gasping for breath.

Your body still trembling from the aftershocks.

Hyunjin gathered you up in his arms immediately, whispering low praises against your hair as he carried you back to the bed.

He wiped you clean with gentle hands, tucked you under his blankets, kissed your forehead like you were something precious.

And you were.

To him, you always had been.

—

The world blurred for a while after that.

You didn’t know how long you lay there, wrapped up in Hyunjin’s arms, the faint sounds of the city humming behind the glass.

All you knew was him.

The warmth of his skin.

The slow, steady thud of his heart.

The way his fingers traced lazy patterns over your back like he didn’t ever want to stop touching you.

At some point, you stirred — stretching slightly, shifting under the heavy weight of his arm draped possessively across your waist.

Hyunjin groaned sleepily behind you, voice rough and gravelly.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You smiled, cheek smushed against the pillow.

“Nowhere,” you mumbled. “Just getting comfortable.”

He pulled you tighter against him immediately, caging you against his chest.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, quieter this time.

You shivered — not from the cold — and melted into him completely.

For a while, you just stayed like that — tangled up in each other, the heat from your bodies filling the quiet space between breaths.

But then you shifted your hips just a little too much — and you felt him.

Hard again, pressing insistently against the curve of your ass, thick and hot and aching.

You turned your head, looking back at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“You’re hard again?” you whispered, teasing.

Hyunjin smirked lazily, hair falling into his eyes.

“Can you blame me?” he murmured, grinding against you slowly, just enough to make your breath hitch. “You’re warm, you’re naked, and you feel so fucking good.”

He slipped a hand between your legs, cupping your still-sensitive core, groaning softly when he felt how wet you still were.

“You’re soaked again, baby,” he rasped, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”

You whimpered, hips rocking against his hand, desperate for more.

Hyunjin chuckled — low and dark — and nudged your thighs apart with his knee.

He slid his cock between your folds — not pushing in fully, just nestling it there, thick and hot against your dripping entrance.

The stretch made you gasp, even though he wasn’t moving yet.

Just filling you.

Just being there.

“You’re gonna hold me,” he murmured, voice thick with sleepy lust. “Nice and deep, baby. Just like that.”

You nodded, too blissed out to even think, letting him guide you.

Hyunjin kissed your temple, murmuring soft praises against your skin as he settled inside you — not fucking, just cockwarming — slow and deep and intimate.

“Feel so fucking good,” he whispered. “Could stay inside you forever.”

You whimpered, clenching around him involuntarily, and he hissed through his teeth.

“Behave,” he warned, voice rough. “Or I’ll have to fuck you again.”

You giggled — breathless, drunk on him — and snuggled deeper into his chest.

For a long time, you just stayed like that — him buried inside you, your bodies tangled together, your hearts beating in perfect rhythm.

And then, when your breathing evened out, when you were just starting to drift —

Hyunjin shifted slightly, sliding his hand down your stomach, between your legs again.

“One more,” he whispered, voice like velvet. “Let me taste you again, angel. Please.”

You couldn’t have said no even if you wanted to.

He pulled out slowly — making you whimper at the emptiness — and flipped you onto your back, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.

This time was different.

Slower.

Softer.

Hyunjin licked you like he was savoring dessert — slow, tender strokes that had you gasping and trembling almost immediately.

He whispered sweet nothings against your skin, praising every shiver, every moan, every helpless little cry.

When you came this time, it wasn’t explosive.

It was deep — a slow, rolling wave of pleasure that left you boneless, panting, clinging to him like you’d drown without him.

Hyunjin kissed your trembling thighs, your stomach, your breasts — working his way up your body until he was hovering over you again, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, kissing your nose, your cheeks, your eyelids.

“You’re mine.”

You smiled sleepily up at him, heart swelling so full it hurt.

And then — almost shyly, almost like he was afraid you might say no —

“Hey,” Hyunjin murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

“Can I… take you out tomorrow?”

You blinked, dazed and dizzy and completely wrecked by him in every way possible.

“You want to… date me?” you breathed.

He laughed softly, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Pretty sure I already do,” he said, grinning. “Just wanna make it official. Take you somewhere nice. Show you off.”

You nodded, tears prickling at your eyes for some inexplicable reason.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’d like that.”

Hyunjin kissed you then — slow, deep, honest.

And when he finally pulled back, his smile was so blinding you could barely breathe.

“Good,” he whispered against your lips. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Listen babes, dom hyunjin??? Chefs kiss!! 💋

You stepped into the elevator with your friends, and Hyunjin was right behind you. His hand grazed your back as you shuffled forward to make room, and he leaned in close, voice low near your ear.

“You wore this on purpose, didn’t you?”

You didn’t look at him. “Wore what?”

“This,” he whispered, eyes dropping to the way your shirt curved along your body. “You knew we’d run into each other.”

You smirked. “You’re the one who invited me.”

“And you’re the one who didn’t say no.”

The elevator jolted slightly as it started its ascent, the air thick with unspoken tension. One of your friends called your name, trying to show you something on her phone, but you barely processed it. Hyunjin was behind you—right behind you—and you could feel the heat radiating off him like a second skin.

His hand brushed your lower back again, lingering this time.

“Do you want him?” he asked, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear.

Your head tilted slightly. “Who?”

“That guy. The one who picked you up earlier from the office.”

You let out a soft laugh, not even trying to hide the taunt in your tone. “Are you jealous?”

Hyunjin’s hand slid lower. Just enough to make you press your thighs together.

“Answer the question,” he said, voice sharp.

You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” he lied. “I just think it’s pathetic. Showing off for someone who doesn’t even know how to touch you right.”

Your breath hitched. The elevator doors slid open.

But for a second, neither of you moved.

Your friend tugged your wrist, breaking the moment, and you stepped out of the elevator with a shaky exhale. Hyunjin followed, his presence looming behind you like a stormcloud.

The hall was already half-full when you walked in. Music pulsed low from a speaker in the corner, and conversations buzzed around the room. You tried to focus on the people greeting you, the drinks being passed around, the laughter—but it was impossible to forget the way Hyunjin’s eyes stayed glued to you, even from across the room.

He hadn’t stopped looking. Not once.

You could feel it. That heat, that pressure, like he was touching you without even moving. And god, it was messing with your head.

You grabbed a drink from a passing waiter and sipped slowly, trying to steady yourself.

But Hyunjin came up beside you like gravity, pulling you right back under.

“You’re ignoring me now?” he said, voice smooth but dark at the edges.

You glanced at him, feigning boredom. “I’m just trying to have fun.”

His eyes flicked to the drink in your hand. “That why you keep running?”

“I’m not running.”

He leaned in, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. “Then why haven’t you looked at me since we got here?”

You stayed still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Because you’re being dramatic.”

Hyunjin let out a low, humorless laugh. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

Your lips curled. “And what am I doing?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

His hand brushed yours lightly—deliberately—as he reached for a second drink. His fingers barely grazed your skin, but it sent a jolt up your arm like he’d grabbed your wrist and pinned you against the wall.

You swallowed hard.

He smirked. Like he knew.

“Keep playing games,” he murmured, stepping back. “Let’s see how long you last.”

And just like that, he melted into the crowd again, leaving you breathless and burning.

⸻

You didn’t last long.

Maybe it was the music, or the alcohol finally hitting, or the way Hyunjin always seemed to be exactly where your eyes landed. Maybe it was the unbearable heat crawling beneath your skin from pretending you didn’t want him all damn night.

You needed space.

Your friend had wandered off, distracted by some conversation you didn’t care to follow. So you slipped away, fingers grazing the edge of your glass as you made your way towards one of the private ensuite bathrooms.

The moment the door shut behind you, relief hit. The noise of the party dulled.

But you weren’t alone for long.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who had followed.

Hyunjin’s presence was unmistakable. The click of the door. The silence that followed.

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the mirror.

“Neither could you,” he said. “You left just when it was getting interesting.”

You turned, slowly, and there he was—leaning against the doorframe, his tie loose around his neck like temptation incarnate. That same cocky glint in his eye, but softer now, like he was toying with something delicate. Dangerous.

“This is a work event,” you reminded him. Yourself.

He smirked. “Then you probably shouldn’t have looked at me like that in the conference room this morning.”

“You were the one staring.”

“You wore that damn skirt.”

You rolled your eyes, but your breath caught when he stepped forward—just enough for you to feel the heat of him.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, voice low. “Tell me and I’ll walk away.”

You could’ve. You should’ve.

But instead, you looked up at him—his lips parted, eyes dark, breathing just a little too hard—and didn’t say a thing.

And that was all he needed.

He kissed you like it was inevitable.

There was nothing soft about it. It was all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up frustration from stolen glances and snide remarks and pretending you didn’t feel the way you did.

You shoved him back into the wall with a gasp, fingers curling into his jacket. He gripped your hips like he’d waited forever to do it.

Maybe he had.

Maybe you had too.

You were the one to break the kiss.

Barely.

It took everything in you to pull away, your lips tingling, breath uneven, heart hammering so loudly you swore he could hear it.

“You don’t get to do that,” you breathed, stumbling back a step, your fingers trembling as you wiped your lips. “You can’t just kiss me like that—”

“Can’t I?” he murmured, his eyes still locked on your mouth like he was starving.

Your back hit the sink counter, the cool porcelain a jarring contrast to the heat in your veins. “This isn’t happening,” you whispered, almost to yourself, trying to calm the tremor in your voice. “We’re at a work event, Hyunjin.”

He chuckled under his breath, low and dangerous. “So? It’s not like they’ll come looking for us in the bathroom.” His body moved closer, boxing you in.

“I’m serious,” you snapped, hands flat against his chest, though you didn’t push him away. “We need boundaries. This can’t happen”

He cocked his head. “Then why aren’t you pushing me?”

You froze.

His hands slid down to your hips. “Why are you still letting me touch you, hmm?” His lips brushed your ear. “Why are your thighs clenched right now like you’re trying to hold something in?”

“Hyun—”

“I can prove it,” he whispered, voice like velvet, sinfully soft. “I can prove you want this just as much as I do.”

Before you could answer, you heard it—footsteps. Voices, too close for comfort, echoing just outside the door.

Your breath hitched.

And in that moment of panic, he seized his chance.

He turned you swiftly, pressing you back against the tiled wall with a quiet thud. One of his hands slipped beneath your dress, hiking it up as his other pinned your wrists above your head.

“You’re soaked,” he hissed, fingers ghosting over your panties. “You’re going to tell me that’s not for me?”

Your gasp came sharp, stifled, your head knocking softly against the wall as his fingers pressed against the thin lace between your legs.

“Hyunjin—” It was supposed to be a warning. It sounded like a plea.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, mouth dragging down the column of your neck, teeth grazing the pulse hammering in your throat. “Your body’s begging me. Why are you still pretending?”

You wriggled in his hold, but it wasn’t to escape. You hated how right he was. How your knees were already buckling and your core pulsed under his barely-there touch. “We’ll get caught,” you tried, voice cracked. “You need to stop—”

“But you don’t want me to.”

He let your wrists go just long enough to shove your panties aside, sliding two fingers through your slick folds with practiced ease. The hiss he let out was pure, filthy satisfaction.

“Fuck—look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping, and I’ve barely touched you.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he circled your clit, slow and teasing, dragging out your agony. You hated how your hips tilted toward him, like your body had a mind of its own.

The voices outside the door got louder. Someone laughed, and you jolted.

Hyunjin didn’t stop.

In fact, he smirked.

“You’re scared they’ll hear,” he murmured. “But I bet that turns you on, doesn’t it? Knowing I’ve got you pinned and desperate with just my fingers—while anyone could walk in.”

His fingers pushed inside you, and your breath caught so sharply you almost choked on it.

“Oh my god—” You slapped a hand over your own mouth, eyes wide with panic and pleasure as he fucked you slow, deep, deliberate. “Hyunjin, please—”

“You want me to stop?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“That’s what I thought.” His thumb found your clit again, pressure devastating, rhythm perfect.

Your legs were shaking now, thighs trembling against his hips as he whispered filth into your ear, all while the risk of getting caught grew louder outside that thin bathroom door.

“You’re gonna cum for me just like this, baby,” he whispered. “Then you’re going to look me in the eye and admit you’ve wanted this for months.”

You barely managed to stifle the sound that tore out of your throat as Hyunjin curled his fingers just right—deep, deliberate, fucking devastating. The squelch of your soaked cunt echoed in the tight, tiled space, and you clamped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide in alarm.

Then came the knock.

“Is someone in there?”

Your blood ran cold. That voice. It was your friend.

Hyunjin froze—only for a breath.

Then he smirked.

“Occupied,” he answered smoothly, no hint of guilt, no shame in his voice.

“Have you seen y/n anywhere?” your friend asked casually, her voice muffled through the door. “She kind of disappeared on me.”

You locked eyes with Hyunjin, shaking your head frantically, lips pressed together to keep from whimpering.

He raised a brow—then sank to his knees.

No. No. No—

You slapped your hand harder over your mouth as he shoved your skirt higher around your waist, lips finding the inside of your thigh as he stared up at you like a man possessed. You mouthed his name, warning him, begging him, cursing him all at once.

But Hyunjin only grinned against your skin.

“She’s around,” he called through the door, deceptively calm, eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe try outside?”

Your friend hummed. “Alright. Thanks.”

Footsteps.

They faded.

But you couldn’t breathe.

Because at the exact moment the footsteps disappeared, Hyunjin dove in.

His tongue licked a slow, obscene stripe up your folds before closing around your clit, moaning low like you were his favorite fucking meal. His fingers stayed buried, fucking you through the heat building far too fast, while his mouth claimed you with such ruthless focus it made your knees buckle.

You almost sobbed behind your hand.

He didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down—groaning into you, sucking greedily, alternating between messy circles and tight flicks that made your whole body jerk.

You were going to cum.

And he knew it.

He curled his fingers again and whispered against your pussy, “Say it. You want this just as bad as I do. Say it, baby.”

But you were too far gone.

And he knew that, too.

You tried. God, you tried so hard not to fall apart. But Hyunjin didn’t give you a fucking chance.

He never once broke eye contact as his tongue moved with expert cruelty—slow and deep, then fast and dizzying, as if he needed your orgasm on his tongue, like it was the only thing that could satisfy him. Your hand gripped his hair like a lifeline, the other still clamped over your mouth, muffling the guttural, trembling sounds escaping you.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmured, breath hot and wet against your cunt as he slipped his fingers in deeper. “I feel how close you are. Just give it to me, baby…”

He knew you would.

He wanted to ruin you.

And fuck, you let him.

Your legs trembled violently, and before you could stop it, your hips jerked forward—grinding shamelessly against his mouth like you were starved for it, like he was the only thing that could ever make you feel this full, this high, this completely fucking gone.

The orgasm hit you like a damn explosion.

White-hot. All-consuming.

You gasped so loudly your own hand wasn’t enough to muffle it. Your thighs clenched around his face as your whole body spasmed, and Hyunjin groaned like he was the one cumming, his mouth never leaving you, tongue relentless as he coaxed out every last wave of your release.

He didn’t stop until you were literally sliding down the wall, boneless and wrecked, your mind somewhere between heaven and hell.

Only then did he rise, slow and smug, licking his lips like a fucking devil.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then finally your lips—letting you taste yourself on him.

You were too dazed to respond. Too wrecked to fight.

And Hyunjin… he looked like he was just getting started.

You tried—God, you tried to push him away, even if your limbs barely responded. Even if your body, traitorous and trembling, leaned into his every touch.

“Hyunjin, s-stop,” you breathed, but it sounded more like a plea than a command. “We can’t—”

He caught your wrists mid-protest and raised a brow, lips brushing your jaw with a dark promise. “No?” he said lowly, “You were begging for it a second ago.”

And then he turned you around—swift, decisive—and bent you over the sink before your gasp could leave your throat.

Your hands slapped against the cold porcelain, the mirror catching your dazed reflection. Your mouth hung open, your lipstick smeared, your eyes wide with something feral. You barely recognized yourself.

“Look at you,” Hyunjin growled behind you. “Still dripping for me even after coming on my fingers. Still pretending you don’t want this.”

He dragged your panties down with zero patience, letting them fall around your thighs before hiking your dress over your hips. You squirmed instinctively, shame crashing over you—but it only made him groan.

“Stop pretending,” he hissed, lining himself up behind you. “I feel how much you want this.”

You whined as the head of his cock nudged your entrance, your mind screaming for control but your body melting for him.

You gripped the edges of the sink as he pressed in—slow, thick, unforgiving—stretching you open inch by inch until you felt full in a way that made you ache. He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, one hand sliding around your throat as he whispered into your ear:

“You should’ve set those boundaries before I had my fingers buried in you.”

Then he snapped his hips.

You cried out.

Hyunjin didn’t let up—not when you clenched around him, not when your knees buckled, not when your whimper twisted into a moan that you barely managed to bite down. His thrusts were rough, precise, punishing.

“I should ruin you,” he breathed, “right here. Make it so you can’t even walk out of this room without everyone knowing what we did.”

Your reflection was flushed and falling apart, lips parted around a silent cry, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. You hated how good it felt. You hated how you didn’t want him to stop.

And he knew it.

You barely held yourself up, your hands slipping on the sink, breath fogging up the mirror as Hyunjin rutted into you like a man possessed. Your legs trembled with every drag of his cock inside you, slick and obscene. He kept one hand fisted in your hair and the other tight on your waist, grinding his hips into you like he didn’t care who was outside—

Knock knock knock.

You both froze.

“Hyunjin?” your friend’s voice called again from the other side of the door. “Someone said they saw her come in here… is she with you?”

You didn’t even have time to react—Hyunjin didn’t stop. If anything, his thrusts got slower. Deeper. Cruel.

“Yeah,” he answered, perfectly calm, the words steady even as he fucked you through them. “Occupied.”

“Is she with you?” she asked again, a little more curious now.

Hyunjin’s lips brushed the shell of your ear as he fucked into you harder, more deliberately, making you arch and writhe and bite your hand to keep from screaming. Your friend was right there. Right there.

“She’s not feeling well,” he said, voice dipped in that honeyed charm, breathless but convincing. “I’m helping her.”

You nearly sobbed at the irony. Helping you? You were barely able to stand.

Your friend hesitated behind the door. “O-oh. Okay. Just—hurry. People are starting to ask.”

“Got it,” he called back—then slammed into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. You made a choked noise, and he chuckled darkly against your shoulder.

“You like this way too much,” he whispered. “Look at yourself. Trying to stay quiet while I fuck you full.”

Your knuckles turned white from how hard you gripped the sink. Tears slipped free. You wanted to say stop—but your walls kept fluttering around him, gripping him like you never wanted him to leave.

And Hyunjin knew it.

“You’re dripping down my cock,” he murmured. “Don’t lie to yourself again.”

You whimpered, utterly ruined, unable to hold anything back anymore.

Hyunjin’s breath stuttered against your neck as his pace grew erratic, needy—his cock pulsing deep inside you with every thrust. He grabbed your hips harder, like he was trying to keep himself grounded, but you could feel him unraveling behind you, barely holding on.

You felt it too—the crash coming fast.

“Fuck—‘m gonna—” his voice broke, groaning through gritted teeth. “Gonna cum inside you, baby, I have to—I can’t pull out—”

You nodded, dizzy, boneless, body screaming yes even when your mouth couldn’t form the word.

Just when you thought your friend had walked away, the hall quiet again, you lost control—your orgasm hitting like a violent wave. You clamped around him, gasping his name out loud—

“Hyunjin—!”

That’s all it took.

With a low growl, he buried himself fully, hips flush against your ass as he spilled deep inside you. His hands trembled on your body as he held you close, both of you shaking, your moans echoing around the tiled walls like a secret you couldn’t keep.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your breath fogged up the mirror again. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

Then, as your legs threatened to give out completely, Hyunjin helped you stand. You both scrambled to fix your clothes, clean what you could, and make yourselves at least look normal. You smoothed down your dress. He ran a hand through his hair. Your heart was still pounding.

You reached for the door.

Cracked it open.

And there she was.

Your friend. Standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed. Lips curled into the smuggest smirk.

“Feeling better?” she asked sweetly.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Hyunjin appeared behind you, cool as ever.

“Yeah,” he said before you could speak. “She’s all good now.”

You wished the floor would open and swallow you whole.

“Well, well, well,” she said, her tone sing-song and a little too smug. “Took you long enough. Was the bathroom line that long?”

You froze. She smirked.

“You’re glowing, babe. Real suspicious behavior.”

You tried to laugh it off. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I will,” she said, linking arms with you like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Just as soon as you stop walking like your knees forgot how to work.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as she giggled and dragged you back toward your table.

The rest of your friends were already chatting, none the wiser. You sank into your seat, praying the heat in your face would die down before he showed up. But of course, the universe had other plans.

Hyunjin arrived two minutes later—cool, composed, not a single hair out of place. Like he hadn’t just bent you over a sink and fucked the life out of you. Like he didn’t still have your body trembling under the table.

Your friend caught the way your eyes flicked up the moment he sat across from you. She leaned over just enough for you to hear, voice low and gleeful.

“Damn. You’ve got guts.” She whispered. You elbowed her under the table.

“I’m just saying,” she whispered again. “Bathroom breaks don’t usually come with afterglow.”

You hissed her name, and she snickered, reaching for her drink.

Hyunjin, across the table, tilted his head and met your gaze. He raised a brow. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted his glass to his lips and took a slow sip, the corner of his mouth curling up like he could hear every word.

You sank a little lower in your seat.

Your friend didn’t look at him—didn’t have to.

“You’re gonna be real quiet all night now, huh?” she said just loud enough for you to hear. “Wonder why.”

Hyunjin finally looked away, joining the table chatter like nothing happened.

But under the table, your thighs pressed together, heartbeat in your throat, and the ache between your legs still whispered his name.

========================================

Authors note: Hyunjin is nasty 😫 my mind is nastier🫠 its a deadly combo. I dont have much words, just enjoy this 😫❤️

If you loved it, REBLOG, comment and drop a like!!!

“You really want me to teach you how to kiss,” he said flatly, his voice dipped in disbelief. “Like, actually kiss. Lips. Tongue. That whole deal.”

“Yes.” You hesitated. “I just… I don’t wanna screw it up. He’s cute, and I’m nervous, and if I freeze or, I dunno, bite his nose or something—”

Seungmin snorted. “Bite his nose?”

“I panic!”

He sighed, sitting up, arms resting over his knees. For a moment, he just looked at you—long enough that you started to regret even asking. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “This is so weird.”

“I know,” you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “You don’t have to—”

“—But I will,” he cut in.

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not gonna let you bomb your first kiss on some random guy who probably wears too much cologne and says ‘vibe check’ unironically.”

A soft laugh escaped you, but your chest was tight. This was Seungmin. Your ride or die. And now you were asking him to kiss you like you were… anyone else.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Seungmin shifted, sliding off the bed to sit in front of you. It was quiet—too quiet—until he cleared his throat and gave you the most serious look you’d ever seen on his face.

“I’m not gonna make this a thing,” he said, like a warning. “We’re not making it weird, alright?”

“Right. Not weird. Totally educational.”

He raised a brow. “Kissing 101 with Professor Kim.”

You laughed nervously, and he didn’t. He was watching you again, eyes flicking down to your mouth for just a second—barely long enough to catch.

“Okay, first—breathe.” His voice had dropped an octave. “You’re tense.”

“I’m literally about to kiss you, of course I’m tense!”

“Fair,” he murmured. Then he leaned in, slow and deliberate. “So I’m gonna go in—just a little. You don’t have to do anything yet. Just follow my lead.”

Your heart was in your throat as he tilted his head, his hand coming up to cup your jaw gently. His touch was careful. Measured. You could feel the heat of him, the scent of his cologne—clean, warm, familiar.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, so soft you barely heard it.

And then… his lips brushed yours.

It wasn’t a kiss—not fully. Just a featherlight press. Testing. Patient.

He pulled back the tiniest bit, eyes scanning your face.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, breath shaky.

This time, he closed the distance fully. His mouth met yours, firmer now, and you felt his fingers flex slightly at your jaw. The kiss was slow, almost too slow—each second stretched like he was making sure you absorbed every movement, every shift of his lips against yours.

When your mouth parted slightly, unsure, he made a soft sound in his throat and tilted your face a little more.

“Good,” he whispered against you. “Relax your lips—don’t overthink. Just feel it.”

You mirrored him instinctively, letting your lips follow the rhythm he set—soft, exploratory, unhurried.

Your hands had somehow found their way to his hoodie, clutching it lightly. You didn’t even realize until he broke the kiss, just a few centimeters away, his breath brushing your lips.

“That,” he said, voice husky and quiet, “was your first real kiss.”

You blinked, dazed, still holding onto him.

He let his hand fall away and cleared his throat like he was resetting his entire soul.

“Next lesson’s gonna be about tongue,” he added, glancing away like he wasn’t dying inside. “If you don’t chicken out.”

But neither of you moved.

Neither of you said the part out loud—that something had shifted, cracked open just a little.

But it hung there.

Between you.

Heavy and undeniable.

⸻

You didn’t talk about it.

Not that night, not the next morning, not even after he left your place with a dumb excuse like “I have to go reorganize my playlists.” You both pretended it hadn’t happened—even though it definitely had. Even though your lips still tingled, and every time you touched your face, you could feel the ghost of Seungmin’s mouth there.

It was just a kiss.

Just a favor.

Just a lesson.

Totally normal best friend behavior.

Right?

The next few days were… weird.

Seungmin was still Seungmin—still teasing you, still stealing your fries, still sending you TikToks at 3AM. But there was something different now. Like something was sitting between you, invisible but very present. A pause too long. A glance that lingered. A laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

And maybe you were overthinking it.

Or maybe he was doing the exact same thing.

But neither of you brought it up.

You tried. Once. Sort of.

You’d both been hanging out in your room again, him scrolling through his phone while you fidgeted with the edge of your hoodie. You opened your mouth to say something—you didn’t know what—and then he looked at you and said, “You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The face you make when you’re about to overthink yourself into an aneurysm.”

So you shut your mouth.

And the moment passed.

But it didn’t go away.

It settled—simmering quietly under the surface, waiting.

And then—a few days later—you snapped.

It was late. Too late to be texting anyone but Seungmin. You stared at your phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard for a solid minute before you typed:

you up

His response was instant.

Always. What’s up, panic princess?

You chewed your lip. Then:

I want lesson two

You sent it before you could back out.

The typing dots popped up. Disappeared. Popped up again.

And then—

You’re joking

You rolled your eyes.

Dead serious

This time, the dots stayed.

…be at your place in 10

Your heart plummeted. Spiked. Did a triple backflip. You suddenly regretted everything.

You barely had time to throw on something semi-decent before your doorbell buzzed.

And when you opened the door, Seungmin just stood there, hoodie up, face unreadable.

“You really wanna do this?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed. Nodded.

His jaw tightened—just for a split second.

“Alright,” he said, stepping inside. “Lesson Two. Let’s make it count.”

And for the first time since you’d known him, he sounded nervous.

“Sit.”

Seungmin’s voice was steady, but his hands were shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t trust what they’d do if he let them hang free.

You sat down on your bed, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. You tucked your legs under you, back straight, trying to look composed even though your stomach was doing somersaults.

Seungmin stayed standing for a second too long. Like he was deciding whether to bolt or go through with it. And then, with a quiet sigh, he moved to sit in front of you again—closer this time. Too close.

He rubbed his hands together like he was warming up for a test. “Okay. So, Lesson Two.”

You nodded, unsure if you were breathing right.

“We’re covering tongue today,” he said flatly, like he was announcing the weather. “Pacing. Pressure. How to read the other person. And, y’know… not slobber all over them.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Great. Just what I needed. Anti-slobber tactics.”

But he didn’t laugh this time.

His eyes met yours, and something in his expression flickered—like he was feeling it, too, whether he wanted to or not.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Because once we do this… it’s gonna be hard to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

You paused. Swallowed. “I trust you.”

That got him. You saw it in the way he blinked—once, slow. Like your words knocked the wind out of him.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

Then, slowly—so slowly—he leaned in again.

You expected it to be like last time. Soft. Easy.

It wasn’t.

This kiss was different the second it started. Still gentle—but deeper. More sure. His mouth moved against yours with that same maddening control, but this time, there was a thread of tension under it. Strained. Taut. Like he was holding back something.

You felt it when his hand came up again, cupping your cheek with a featherlight touch. His thumb brushed along your jaw as he shifted closer, chest almost brushing yours.

“Open your mouth a little,” he murmured against your lips. “Let me lead, yeah?”

You did as he said, nerves buzzing like live wires.

And then you felt it—his tongue, tentative at first, just a soft flick against yours. Testing. Inviting. He pulled back slightly, giving you space to follow, and when you did, he let out the quietest sound—half a hum, half a sigh—like he hadn’t expected you to match him so easily.

“Good,” he breathed. “You’re a fast learner.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue gliding slowly against yours—exploring, guiding, teaching. You weren’t just kissing—you were listening to him through every movement, mirroring the way he tilted his head, the way he used just the barest hint of pressure, never too much, never too fast.

It was intoxicating.

He broke the kiss gently, but didn’t move away. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little harder now.

“That’s how you kiss with tongue,” he said, voice husky, still close enough to taste his breath. “Controlled. Intentional. Not messy. You listen to the other person.”

You nodded slowly, dazed. “Got it.”

You were still breathless when he pulled away.

Seungmin’s hand lingered against your jaw for just a second longer than necessary, before he finally dropped it like it burned him. He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted back a bit—not far, just enough to pretend like there was still space between you.

“That’s, uh…” His voice cracked slightly. He tried again. “That’s pretty much it for Lesson Two.”

You could feel your heart pounding. Your lips were still tingling. And somewhere deep in your stomach, something uncoiled. Something bold.

You stared at him for a beat, and he avoided your gaze, blinking down at the floor like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room.

And then, softly:

“Can I try?”

He looked up fast.

“What?”

You wet your lips. “Can I try it again? Initiate this time. I want to see if I learned anything. I mean… if that’s okay.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—panic? surprise? hope? He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing.

“I—uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly thrown off his axis. “Yeah. I mean. Sure. Yeah. That’s—you can. It’s just a lesson. It’s fine.”

But he didn’t sound fine.

His usual sarcasm was gone, replaced with something unsure, guarded. You could tell—Seungmin was fighting a war in his own head. Trying to stay still. Neutral. Unaffected.

You leaned in slowly, giving him the same caution he’d given you. Testing.

His eyes flickered down to your lips—and this time, they stayed there.

When your mouth brushed his, he inhaled sharply, his body going rigid. But he didn’t stop you.

You kissed him—soft, slow, learning the curve of his mouth, the way he responded when you tilted your head a little, when you brushed your tongue lightly against his.

You felt it—him—tense under your touch. Like he was holding back everything in him not to grab your waist, not to pull you in closer, not to deepen it like he wanted to.

Because this was a lesson, right?

Not a real kiss.

Except it felt real.

Too real.

And when you pulled back, just a little—just enough to breathe—his eyes were still closed, lips parted like he didn’t want it to end.

You whispered, “How’d I do?”

He exhaled shakily. “Dangerously well.”

Your heart skipped.

And then, he opened his eyes, looking right at you.

“This was a mistake,” he said, barely above a whisper.

But he didn’t move away.

Neither did you.

Because even if he said it was a mistake—he wasn’t stopping it.

⸻

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Lips glossed. Heart pounding. Breath shaky—but this time, not from nerves.

You were thinking about him.

Not your date.

Not the guy waiting for you in the living room with his too-white sneakers and perfectly tousled hair.

You were thinking about Seungmin.

Again.

You shoved the thought away.

This isn’t about him. This is about me. About confidence. About finally doing this.

So you walked out, smile practiced, and let yourself fall into the rhythm of the evening—small talk, laughter, the occasional graze of a hand that should’ve made your stomach flip but… didn’t.

You kept waiting for the click. That moment where your heart would stutter, where your skin would buzz like it had in Seungmin’s room. But it never came.

Still, when the night started winding down, he leaned in, eyes warm and expectant.

And you didn’t pull back.

You let him kiss you.

His lips were soft. His hand found your waist. He moved like he knew what he was doing.

But the second his tongue brushed yours—

Nothing.

No butterflies. No sparks. No breath stolen from your lungs.

Just… static.

You tried to match him. Tried to remember what Seungmin taught you. The rhythm. The pressure. The way he’d murmured “Good. Relax your lips.”

You tried to feel anything.

But it felt like going through the motions of a dance you didn’t want to be performing.

The guy pulled back, smiling. “You’re a really good kisser.”

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”

You smiled too, because you were supposed to. Because this was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it?

But inside, your brain was in freefall.

Why didn’t it feel the same?

Why did it feel like I was kissing a stranger when I was trying to recreate something that came from someone I’ve known forever?

You excused yourself shortly after.

And the moment the door shut behind you, you leaned back against it, heart racing for all the wrong reasons.

Because now you knew the truth.

You’d kissed someone else.

But all you could think about was Seungmin.

The way he’d held your face.

The way his breath hitched when you kissed him back.

The way your name had sounded on his lips when he whispered, “Dangerously well.”

And worst of all?

You realized it wasn’t just a lesson.

Not for you.

⸻

You were curled up on the couch, pretending to scroll on your phone while Seungmin half-watched something on TV. Just like old times. Normal. Comfortable.

Except it wasn’t.

Because every time your eyes flicked to his profile, every time you caught a glimpse of his fingers drumming against the couch cushion or the way his lips parted slightly in thought, your chest tightened.

You were trying to be chill. So chill.

But your brain was still stuck on that kiss from two nights ago—and the complete lack of anything it made you feel.

And the one that still haunted you every time you closed your eyes.

Seungmin glanced over suddenly, like he’d caught you staring.

“So,” he said casually, “how’d the date go?”

You stiffened.

He smirked. “You’re making that face again.”

You tried to shrug it off. “It was… fine.”

“Fine?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not very convincing. You kissed him, right?”

You looked away, heat rushing up your neck. “Yeah.”

“And?”

You didn’t mean to say it.

But it came out before you could stop yourself.

“It wasn’t the same.”

The smirk disappeared. His face stilled. “What?”

You swallowed. “I mean—it was fine, technically. Good, even. But it felt… off. Like I was doing everything right and still nothing clicked. Like I was kissing him but thinking about—”

You cut yourself off.

Shit.

Silence.

Seungmin just stared at you. Eyes unreadable. Chest rising and falling with something you couldn’t name.

You panicked. Backpedaled. “Can I—can I show you?”

His brows furrowed. “Show me what?”

“How I kissed him. I just—I want to compare, I guess. See if I’m crazy or if it really was that different.”

His whole body went still. You could feel the tension suddenly pulsing off him like heat.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

And then—quietly—“Okay.”

You moved closer. Slowly. Carefully.

Your heart was thudding so hard it hurt.

You leaned in—soft, hesitant—and kissed him. The way you had the guy on the date.

No passion. Just technical. Controlled.

And still—even like this—your body betrayed you.

Because the second your lips met Seungmin’s again, everything tilted.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath hitched. Your lips parted without thinking, already chasing more, instinct pulling you in like gravity.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. But then—he kissed you back.

Just a little.

Just enough to shatter your nerves.

Because the moment your mouths slid together, it was everything.

Warmth.

Electricity.

The pressure you didn’t know you were holding finally releasing.

You gasped against his mouth, overwhelmed by how different it was. How real. How right.

And that’s when it hit you.

The problem hadn’t been the guy.

It was the connection.

And the only one you wanted it with…

Was him.

You pulled back, breathless, lips parted, eyes wide.

Seungmin stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Because now you both knew.

This wasn’t about lessons anymore.

And maybe it never was.

⸻

The silence was deafening.

You were still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, the ghost of the kiss hanging between you like a spark that refused to go out. And Seungmin?

He wasn’t moving.

His jaw was clenched so tight, you could see the tension rippling under his skin. His eyes were locked on yours, dark, stormy, confused as hell. Like he was trying to convince himself this hadn’t just happened. That this wasn’t real.

But it was.

And every second you sat there, not saying a word, the weight of it got heavier.

You could feel it in the way his fingers twitched against his knee. In the way his lips stayed parted like he was still tasting you. In the way his chest rose and fell—too fast, too uneven.

Your breath caught.

You could practically see the war happening behind his eyes.

And then—

He lost.

Without a word, without warning, he reached for you.

His hand slid around the back of your neck and he pulled you in—hard, needy, like he’d been holding back for weeks and couldn’t anymore.

His mouth crashed into yours, nothing like the slow, calculated kisses from before.

This one was different.

Feverish. Starved. Real.

His lips were hot and rough against yours, his tongue sweeping in deep, hungry, taking what he wanted without hesitation. He kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been dying to. Like he’d thought about this—wanted this—dreamed of this every second since Lesson Two.

His hands weren’t teaching anymore.

They were claiming.

One curled at the base of your neck, the other gripping your waist, dragging you closer, like distance itself was offensive. Your body melted against him without question, instinct kicking in, your hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt as your mouths moved together, in sync, like your bodies had always known each other better than your minds did.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.

It was because he had to.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

You could feel his heart pounding through his chest.

And when he spoke, his voice was hoarse, rough, wrecked.

“That—” he rasped, eyes still closed, “—was not a lesson.”

You nodded, unable to speak. Still dazed. Still burning.

“No more pretending,” he said.

You didn’t even argue.

Because you didn’t want to pretend anymore, either.

⸻

You didn’t talk about it.

Not the kiss.

Not the way Seungmin kissed you like he was on the edge of burning alive.

Not the way you kissed him back like you wanted to be the one to set him on fire.

The next morning, he was already in his kitchen when you came down, acting like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t dragged you into him and kissed you senseless on the couch just hours earlier.

“Want toast?” he asked, like his hands hadn’t been on your waist. On your neck. Like his tongue hadn’t been in your mouth.

You blinked. “Sure.”

He nodded. “Cool.”

And that was it.

He didn’t look at you. Not really. Not for longer than a half-second at a time. But his jaw kept clenching. His fingers were tapping the counter like a metronome ticking faster than the silence could fill.

You pretended you didn’t notice.

You pretended the toast was the most interesting thing in the room.

But you could feel it—his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t looking. Heavy. Hot. Confused.

Days passed like that. Tiptoeing. Dancing around the moment like it wasn’t still echoing in every glance, every brush of your arms when you walked too close.

And then—finally—he cracked.

You came over after he texted you and found him in his room, pacing.

“Can we talk?” he asked, voice tight.

You nodded. Heart pounding.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“That kiss… it shouldn’t have happened.”

Your throat tightened. “Oh.”

“It just—it got out of hand. That was my bad. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “We’re best friends. You’re—you’re not supposed to be…”

His eyes finally lifted to yours.

And froze.

You’d been sitting cross-legged on his bed, shorts too short, one of his hoodies swallowing your frame. It should’ve been harmless. Should’ve.

But it wasn’t.

Not to him.

You weren’t doing anything. Just breathing. Just being.

But in that moment, Seungmin saw you differently. Felt you differently.

And something inside him snapped.

He stepped closer.

“You’re not supposed to be…” he repeated, voice lower now. Tighter. “So fucking hot.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

He clenched his fists like he was holding himself back with everything he had. “You’re my best friend. You’re not supposed to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you whispered.

He stared at you—eyes dark, full of conflict, full of want.

“Like you want me to ruin you.”

Your stomach flipped. Heat bloomed low in your belly.

“I don’t want to want this,” he said, each word shaking loose from his throat like it hurt to admit. “But fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His eyes dropped lower. “About that kiss. About your lips. About the sounds you ma—”

“Seungmin—”

He stepped closer again. “I can’t unsee it. I keep trying to look at you like before. Like just my best friend.”

His voice cracked.

“But all I see now is someone I want to devour.”

You were quiet for a moment.

Seungmin stood in front of you—shoulders tense, chest heaving, eyes blown wide with everything he didn’t want to feel but couldn’t escape.

He’d just said it. All of it.

Every word you’d been too afraid to speak out loud.

And that power? That admission?

It made something in you shift.

You reached for him—slow, deliberate—and placed your hand gently on his chest. Felt the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I’m not trying to ruin us,” you said softly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

His jaw flexed. “Then don’t do this.”

“But I haven’t even done anything,” you whispered.

And you watched him break again.

His eyes shut tight like he was trying to will away the image of you sitting there, loose-limbed and unbothered, voice soft and sinful. Like you weren’t right there, fingertips now trailing slowly down the center of his chest.

“Seungmin,” you said, voice lilting, teasing. “You think I want you to ruin me?”

He opened his eyes—barely.

“Maybe I just wanted to know if it was you feeling it too.”

He swallowed hard, backing up half a step, like distance would protect him.

It wouldn’t.

You followed. Just enough.

“You kissed me first,” you reminded him. “And you kissed me like you meant it.”

“Don’t,” he warned, voice a low growl now.

“Why?” you asked, cocking your head. “Because I liked it?”

His breath hitched. You saw it.

“Because I’ve been replaying it in my head every night since?” You leaned in slightly, just enough for your breath to graze his throat. “Because the date kiss was nothing compared to you?”

“Stop,” he hissed, but his hands had curled into fists at his sides. White-knuckled.

You smiled—just the slightest twitch of your lips.

“You don’t get to say all that and expect me to sit here like it didn’t fuck me up, too.”

Then—because you couldn’t help yourself—you reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead, fingers lingering.

“I’m not going to kiss you again,” you whispered. “Not yet.”

Seungmin exhaled, a sound that was half frustration, half relief, all pain.

“But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to.”

You stepped back. Just one step.

Watched him chase the space you left behind with his eyes, like he hated the distance and needed it all at once.

“Go back to calling me your best friend if you want,” you said softly, voice like a promise and a threat. “But you and I both know it’s not that simple anymore.”

And with that, you turned.

Left him standing there.

⸻

Seungmin was spiraling.

He didn’t show it, of course. On the outside, he was calm, composed—maybe a little quieter than usual. But nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the way he couldn’t look at you for more than three seconds without losing his grip on reality.

You were ruining him, and you didn’t even seem to realize it.

Or maybe you did.

You had come to his place to stay the weekend like you usually did, nothing out of the ordinary.

You wore his hoodie again that morning. That stupid, oversized hoodie that always used to mean safe and familiar and best friend.

But now?

Now it was just soft fabric stretched over bare legs he couldn’t stop fucking looking at.

You’d bend to grab something off the floor and he’d have to look away so fast his neck cracked.

He found you in the kitchen that afternoon humming to yourself, licking a little bit of jam off your thumb.

And he had to leave the room.

Just left, no explanation.

Because his brain? His brain didn’t see his best friend anymore.

His brain saw you on your knees in that hoodie with nothing underneath, lips slick and inviting, waiting for him to cross the damn line again.

He barely spoke to you that whole day. You noticed.

That night, you cornered him.

“You’re being weird,” you said, standing in the doorway of his room, arms crossed. “You won’t even look at me.”

“I’m not—” He sighed. “I’m trying to keep my distance.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re dangerous now,” he muttered, finally meeting your gaze.

And the look you gave him?

Sweet. Curious. So fucking inviting.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” you said softly. “I just… I liked what happened. I liked what you said.”

“That’s the problem.”

Your head tilted.

He groaned, rubbing a hand through his hair like he was seconds away from combusting.

“I used to see you as this untouchable little idiot who couldn’t even flirt without blushing,” he muttered.

You smirked. “And now?”

“Now I look at you and all I can think about is pinning you down and making you forget every single lesson we practiced.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t expect that.

“Seungmin—”

“I dreamt about you last night,” he said, voice suddenly low. Raw. “And I woke up hard as hell and so fucking pissed off because it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

You stared.

He took a step toward you.

“You think it’s funny to tease me like this?” he said, eyes flashing. “Walking around in my clothes, whispering shit to my face, telling me you think about the kiss, then pulling away like you’re not doing anything wrong?”

Your lips parted.

“I’m trying so hard to hold it together, but you’re not helping.”

And then you smiled. Innocent. Sweet.

“I could help.”

That was it.

His self-control?

Gone.

Seungmin grabbed the doorframe over your head, caging you in without even touching you.

His voice was a warning and a plea all at once. “If you’re gonna keep playing with fire…”

You looked up at him, unblinking. “Then what?”

His jaw tightened.

“Then don’t blame me when I finally burn us both.”

—

Sunday night…

It was late.

Too late.

The apartment was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the fridge and the patter of rain outside. You’d both been watching a movie on his laptop in his bedroom, your backs against the headboard, but Seungmin was stiff beside you, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen like it owed him money.

You didn’t say anything.

Not until you shifted—just enough that your bare thigh brushed his.

You felt him freeze.

“Still trying to keep your distance?” you asked, voice low, teasing.

His jaw flexed. “Don’t start.”

You turned your head, smiling, chin resting on the back of the couch. “What if I want to?”

He didn’t answer.

So you leaned in.

Slowly. Carefully. Eyes never leaving his face.

You were close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath, see the way his lashes trembled when your hand ghosted over his wrist.

“Hey, I’m not trying to ruin anything,” you whispered.

“Then stop playing with me.”

“I’m not playing.”

You moved your hand again—this time over his chest, fingers tracing the edge of his collarbone through the soft cotton of his shirt.

Seungmin exhaled sharply.

Your touch dropped lower.

And that was it.

He snapped.

One second you were teasing him, and the next?

You were flat on your back, Seungmin hovering over you, hands on either side of your head, eyes wild with something dark and deep and so far from platonic it made your pulse skyrocket.

“You really want to know what happens if I stop holding back?”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in—so close your noses brushed. “Because I don’t think you understand what you’re asking for.”

You stared up at him, completely still, heart hammering against your ribs.

“I do,” you whispered.

His lips twitched—something between a smirk and a snarl. “No, you don’t.”

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

Nothing gentle. Nothing careful.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This wasn’t even a mistake.

This was everything he’d been dying to do wrapped in heat and teeth and hunger. His mouth crashed into yours like it had been waiting for permission for years. And now that he had it?

He wasn’t stopping.

Your fingers clawed at his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that vibrated through you, dark and needy and possessive.

He shifted, pressing his body against yours, and fuck—he was hard. So hard. You felt it grind against your core, slow and deliberate, and you gasped, breaking the kiss for air.

But Seungmin wasn’t done.

His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he growled. “How hard it’s been trying not to touch you, not to taste you—”

You whimpered, and he groaned, rolling his hips against yours again.

“Is this what you wanted?” he rasped. “Me like this?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Seungmin—yes.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“You’re not just gonna be my best friend anymore,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be mine.”

His thumb was still pressed against your bottom lip, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling.

That broke something in him.

He kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, but with the kind of hunger that made your head spin. His tongue slipped past your lips, exploring you like he was learning, memorizing, branding every inch.

You moaned into him, and he felt it—groaned back, like the sound lit something inside him.

His hands slid down your body, pausing at the hem of the hoodie—his hoodie, still hanging off you like a sin. He pulled it up just enough to touch your waist, thumbs skimming your bare skin.

“You wore this just to mess with me, didn’t you?” he murmured against your lips. “Knew what it would do to me?”

You blinked up at him, breathless. “Maybe.”

He huffed a laugh, low and dangerous.

“Yeah. That tracks.”

His hands moved to your thighs, spreading them with a quiet urgency. You felt the weight of his hips press between them, and your whole body arched at the contact.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “you feel too good.”

His lips returned to your neck, dragging down to your collarbone, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. A claim.

You gasped, nails digging into his back, and he growled against your skin.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying to be good.”

“But you don’t want to be good right now,” you whispered, daring.

“No,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Right now I just want to be bad.”

Then—his hand dipped under the hoodie again, sliding over your stomach, up—up—until his fingers brushed the curve of your breast.

You shivered.

“Can I?” he whispered.

You nodded, too breathless to speak.

He slipped his hand beneath your bra, groaning the moment he felt your skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, slow and deliberate, watching the way you reacted—how your hips lifted, how your lips parted.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmured, eyes flicking down. “God, I barely touched you.”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathy whimper.

He smirked, then leaned down to kiss the swell of your chest, open-mouthed and filthy.

“I want to take my time,” he said, every word pressing into your skin. “Want to learn every part of you. What makes you squirm. What makes you beg.”

You were already there. Already trembling.

His hips ground into yours, slow, delicious friction making your brain go blank.

And then—his voice again. Low. Rough.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered. “Let me be the one who teaches you everything.”

You nodded again, breathless, desperate, eyes wide and wild.

“Seungmin, please.”

His forehead dropped to yours, breathing heavy. “Then don’t stop me now.”

And just like that, his mouth was on you again—kissing, tasting, claiming—

Ready to show you exactly how long he’s wanted this.

Exactly how much he’d held back.

And how there was no going back now.

His lips were on your neck again, tongue dragging slow, reverent patterns while his hands mapped your body like he was memorizing it cell by cell.

You were panting now, arching into him, needing more.

“Still with me?” he murmured against your skin, voice thick and low.

You nodded—barely. “Please.”

That word. That voice.

He kissed you again—this time softer, slower, almost reverent. “Okay, baby. Let me take care of you.”

His fingers dipped beneath your panties—finally—and when he felt how wet you already were, he groaned.

“Fuck. All this for me?”

You whimpered, cheeks flushed, thighs already trembling from just his touch.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured. “So soft. So ready.”

His fingers moved gently at first—testing the waters, dragging through your folds with aching precision, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Relax,” he whispered. “Just feel me.”

He circled your clit with maddening patience, lips never leaving your neck, and your hips bucked instinctively.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “There you go.”

Then—a finger. Slowly easing inside you. You gasped, back arching, and he kissed your cheek.

“Just one for now,” he soothed. “Gotta get you ready.”

His voice—soothing, tender—was at complete odds with the way his hand was working you open. He curled his finger just right and you moaned, gripping his wrist.

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

You could barely speak, but you nodded, breath caught in your throat.

He added another.

And another.

Soon you were writhing, panting, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world. He kissed your lips—slow, deep, filthy—while his fingers fucked you open.

“I want you to remember this,” he breathed. “Every second. Every touch.”

You were soaked now, hips moving against his hand, whimpering his name over and over like a prayer.

And when he pulled his fingers out, you whined at the loss—until you saw the way he licked them clean, eyes locked on yours.

“You taste so good,” he said. “Can’t wait to fuck you and have it all over my cock.”

You shivered.

He reached for his sweats, pulling them down, and your breath caught when he revealed himself.

Thick. Hard. Heavy.

Bigger than you expected.

He noticed your reaction and chuckled, a low, sinful sound.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised. “I’m gonna take my time.”

He lined himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance, and waited.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Seungmin—please.”

And with one slow, careful thrust, he pushed into you.

Your whole world snapped.

He filled you, inch by inch, your walls stretching around him, and you gasped—full. So full.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck.

“You’re so tight,” he growled. “So fucking perfect.”

He stayed still, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, whispering praise into your skin.

And when you finally moved your hips—giving him the okay—he started to thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Each stroke dragging against your most sensitive spot, each one pulling little moans from your lips.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered. “Taking me so well.”

Your hands clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist as he rocked into you, slowly building a rhythm that had your toes curling.

But then—you rolled your hips.

And Seungmin snapped.

“Shit,” he cursed. “You want it harder?”

You nodded, desperate.

He grabbed your thighs, spreading you wider, and slammed into you.

You cried out, stars dancing in your vision as he fucked you—properly fucked you—his grip bruising, his breath ragged.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “Me ruining you? Making sure no one else gets to touch you like this?”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “Only you—only you.”

He lost it.

His pace turned brutal, hips snapping into yours with every thrust, and all you could do was take it.

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles until your body clenched.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you did—with a cry of his name, your whole body trembling as you shattered beneath him.

He fucked you through it, chasing his own high, moaning your name like it was salvation.

And when he came—deep inside you, hips pressed hard to yours—you felt it.

All of it.

The heat. The weight. The absolute claim.

You got it.

Let’s take it home—soft, sweet, utterly wrecked but in the best way possible. No more pretending. No more lines.

Just Seungmin and you, tangled in sheets and breath and something dangerously close to love.

⸻

The room was quiet.

The only sound was your breathing—slow, heavy, uneven. The aftershocks still rolled through you in waves, little shivers making your muscles twitch as Seungmin collapsed onto his forearms above you, chest heaving.

You stayed like that for a moment.

Still joined.

Still trembling.

Still barely believing what just happened.

And then his forehead dropped to yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice raw. “Did I hurt you?”

Your fingers found his hair, soft and messy and damp with sweat. “No,” you whispered back. “You were perfect.”

He sighed—relief, guilt, and something else all tangled up in one sound.

“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he murmured. “Not tonight. I just—once you started touching me like that I—” He broke off, lips brushing your cheek. “I lost it.”

You smiled, turning your head to catch his mouth in a gentle kiss. “I wanted it.”

His eyes flicked open—wide, dark, and full of something he was too scared to name. “Yeah?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his jaw. “I wanted you.”

His whole body softened.

He kissed you again—slow, warm, with none of the hunger from earlier, just something quiet and vulnerable. When he pulled out, he moved carefully, like you were something precious, something fragile.

And maybe you were.

He cleaned you up without a word, stealing one of his old shirts from the floor and tugging it over your head with the softest smile you’d ever seen on him.

Then he climbed back into bed, pulling you into his arms, tucking you right under his chin like it was instinct. Like you’d always belonged there.

Your fingers traced lazy lines across his chest, your legs tangled with his under the sheets.

It was comfortable.

Safe.

But it was new, too. Raw. And real.

You could feel the way his fingers kept twitching where they rested on your hip, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold you like this now. Like maybe he was still scared he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross.

So you whispered, “Seungmin?”

“Yeah?”

You looked up at him. “We’re not pretending this didn’t happen, right?”

He stilled.

Then—slowly—his lips curved.

“No,” he said softly. “We’re not.”

“Good,” you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “But I need you to know something.”

Your heart jumped. “What?”

“That wasn’t just sex for me,” he said. “That wasn’t just… helping a friend. That was me giving you everything I’ve been holding back.”

You swallowed hard.

“And I don’t want it to be a one-time thing,” he added. “Not if you don’t.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I don’t.”

He exhaled—shaky, like you’d just lifted a thousand-pound weight off his chest.

“Then I guess we’re not just best friends anymore,” he said with a grin.

You smiled. “Guess not.”

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer until your head was on his chest, your body curled perfectly into his.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And you did.

For the first time in forever, you fell asleep with a full heart—warm, safe, his—wrapped up in the arms of the boy who taught you how to kiss, and ended up showing you what love feels like instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: That was a lot of kissing 😍 also i think its cute how seungmin was her first everything!

You grunted in response, collapsing into one of the barstools like you’d been dramatically wronged by the concept of morning itself.

Chan chuckled, already reaching for a mug. “Coffee?”

“You’re my favorite person in the world,” you mumbled, cheek squished against the counter.

“I know,” he said with a grin, setting the coffee down in front of you with that same quiet care he always gave you. “Drink up. You’ve got a shoot today, yeah?”

“Mmm.” You barely nodded. “No energy.”

“You say that every morning. And then you post ten stories looking like a literal angel.”

“Because I am an angel. Just a tired one.”

He shook his head fondly, walking around the counter and tugging lightly at the hood you had up. “You could’ve worn your own clothes to bed, you know.”

“But yours smell better.”

That earned you a half-smirk and a soft pat on the head. “Fair.”

It had been four years since you moved in. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement; a few weeks to get your life together after cutting ties with your parents, turned into an unshakable routine. A shared home. A rhythm. Chan never pushed, never questioned your decision to stay, not even after he offered to set you up in your own place. A luxury penthouse. Any neighborhood, any view. All you had to do was ask.

But why would you leave? You had everything here. Your safe place. Your comfort. Your best friend who treated you like you hung the moon.

Chan made sure you never lifted a finger unless you wanted to. New car? Done. Spa weekend? Booked. Your favorite snacks flown in from another country? He’d find a way. And when the world got too loud, too cruel, too exhausting—he was there, holding space for you, letting you just be.

You never had to earn his affection. It was freely given, infinite and warm. And never once did you see the sharp edges of his temper directed your way. He could be terrifying when provoked; intense, commanding, even explosive in his rare moments of fury, but with you, it was different. Always gentle. Always soft.

“You want me to drive you today?” he asked casually, taking a sip of his shake.

You blinked at him over your coffee mug. “Don’t you have meetings?”

“Pushed ‘em.”

“You didn’t have to—”

He raised an eyebrow.

You shut up.

Because of course he did. That was just Chan. No matter how much you insisted he didn’t need to baby you, he always would. And deep down, you didn’t really want him to stop.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Anytime baby girl.”

<><><>

The next morning, you danced around the kitchen like you always did on pure instinct, pulling open drawers, prepping ingredients, making enough breakfast for two without even asking. Chan tried to stop you every time. He could afford a chef. He had one on call. But you never listened. This was your thing.

“You know I can make my own eggs,” he said from behind you.

“No, you can’t,” you replied easily, tossing a glance over your shoulder. “You burn eggs. It’s a weird talent.”

“That happened once.”

“Mmhmm.”

He didn’t argue after that, just leaned against the counter and watched you move. You weren’t dressed yet, still in that hoodie he liked seeing on you more than he’d admit, hair messy, face bare. Comfortable. Real. This was what his mornings had become: you humming under your breath, feeding him like it was your mission in life, and making the house feel like a home instead of a museum of expensive things.

Chan didn’t need much. He didn’t ask for much. But you noticed everything. The way his shoulders tightened after late-night calls with his team. How his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed. How even on his best days, he carried this quiet heaviness like something he couldn’t shake.

So you filled in the spaces.

You did his laundry, folding each item with absurd care. You stocked his favorite snacks, kept his vitamins in a tiny container by the sink, laid out his hoodies when you knew he’d had a long day and just wanted something soft. You never said you were doing it for him, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw it. Felt it. And maybe that was why he never asked you to leave.

Because you were his peace.

You set a plate down in front of him with a satisfied little sigh, then went back for your own. “Eat, you’ve got stuff to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted you with his fork.

He had just taken his first bite when your phone lit up on the counter beside him. His eyes flicked toward it casually, and something about the name flashing across the screen made his brow twitch.

He didn’t say anything, but you noticed. Of course you did.

You reached for the phone and stared at the name.

Eli.

You hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. Not since you blocked his number and told him to stay the hell out of your life.

Your stomach turned.

You didn’t answer. Just locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it didn’t matter.

Chan watched you closely, chewing slower. “You good?”

“Yeah.” You gave him a quick smile. “Just a ghost.”

His jaw tensed.

He didn’t push you. Not yet. But you could feel the shift in the air—like something had cracked just slightly. Like the bubble you and Chan had built so carefully around yourselves had caught a whisper of the outside world trying to crawl back in.

You didn’t mean to flinch when Chan spoke.

“You gonna block him again?”

It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way his voice sounded when he asked it. Flat. Too calm. Like the kind of calm that only came before a storm.

You kept your back to him, rinsing the last plate and placing it carefully in the drying rack. “Yeah. I mean, I already had him blocked. He must’ve used a new number.”

Silence.

Then, “Persistent.”

You dried your hands slowly, pretending the slight tremble wasn’t real. “He’s not important.”

“He used to be.”

That one hit harder than you expected. You turned to face him, brows pulling together slightly. “You mad at me?”

His expression didn’t shift much, but his jaw moved—tight, clenched.

“No,” he said almost instantly, voice lower. “Never at you.”

But there was something in his eyes.

You didn’t see it often, well atleast not directed at you. Not ever, actually. You’d seen Chan angry before. In business meetings, in defense of someone he loved, once even on the phone with a producer who had crossed the line. But never like this. Not standing in front of you. Not burning behind his stare like that.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

So you just nodded, like that made it all okay, and turned back to finish wiping the counter. Your hands moved on autopilot, scrubbing the same spot twice.

And then, quieter—deadly quiet—you heard him speak again behind you.

“Don’t answer him again.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course.

But Chan wasn’t done.

“Ever,” he said, voice dropping further. “Or I swear to God—”

He cut himself off.

You looked at him then, really looked. His fingers were white-knuckled around the counter’s edge. His breathing had slowed into something controlled. Too controlled.

And even then, even now, your first instinct wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion.

It was to calm him down.

Without a word, you stepped closer and reached for him. Your arms circled his waist like it was nothing—like you hadn’t just seen a glimpse of something primal behind his usually warm eyes. You laid your cheek against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I promise.”

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t even breathe.

Then you felt it—his shoulders sinking, that tension leaking out like someone had pulled the plug. His arms came around you, pulling you in, hands splaying wide across your back like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

“I just—” His voice cracked slightly. “I can’t stand the thought of him near you again. Not after everything.”

“I know.” You pressed your lips to his chest, right where his heart thudded. “He won’t get near me. Not while I have you.”

That was the truth. You didn’t even think about it anymore—how natural it felt to belong here, in his arms, in his home. How much of your life revolved around this man, this space, this rhythm. You didn’t care about penthouses or privacy. You didn’t need freedom when you had this.

Because Chan was your home. And more than that—you were his.

“Don’t forget your water bottle,” you called out, tossing it across the living room.

Chan caught it one-handed like the athlete he always pretended he wasn’t, but the smug grin that followed gave him away. “You just wanna keep me hydrated so I live long enough to keep spoiling you.”

You gave him a look. “Duh.”

He laughed, slinging the strap of his gym bag over one shoulder. He’d been dragging his feet all morning—pretending he was gonna leave, then circling back to ask dumb things like “Do we have any more peanut butter?” or “Should I shave today or keep the scruff?”

Now he was hovering by the front door, sneakers half on, clearly stalling again.

“You gonna go, or do I have to call the trainer myself and tell him you’re scared of cardio?”

“Rude,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. Just eyed you for a moment.

You were back in the kitchen, wiping the counter down for the second time that morning. Another instinct. Another way to make sure his space felt good, clean, safe. You didn’t think about it—you just did it. You always had.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly.

You looked up. He wasn’t asking like earlier. This time, his voice was softer. Less fury, more concern.

You rolled your eyes with a little smile. “Chan. I blocked him. It’s done.”

He nodded. “Still wanna know how he got a new number. Motherfucker’s like a roach.”

You laughed. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours and saw your name in my contacts. Thought you’d forgotten about him.”

Chan’s expression darkened just slightly.

“I didn’t forget. Told him what I’d do if he reached out again.” He didn’t say it like a threat. It was a statement. Calm. Dead serious.

You blinked. “Wait—you talked to him?”

Chan shrugged, casual as hell. “Last time he called you. I answered instead.”

Your eyes widened. “When was this?!”

“Few years ago,” he said, grabbing his keys off the hook. “Told him to disappear. Guess he forgot.”

You stood there, towel in hand, heart thumping for no good reason. Not scared. Not upset. Just… a little stunned.

“Chan.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You were already going through enough.” He looked at you like it was the easiest decision in the world. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”

You tossed the towel at him. “You terrifying, overgrown guard dog.”

He dodged it and smirked. “Someone’s gotta scare the vermin away.”

You walked over and poked him in the chest. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“So lucky,” he drawled, catching your finger and tugging you just slightly closer.

There it was again—that quiet intensity. Not romantic. Not lustful. Just… full. You filled his world, and he didn’t know how to hide it anymore.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and easy like always. “Go train, old man.”

Chan huffed a laugh and finally turned to leave, but before he stepped out, he paused and said over his shoulder:

“If he texts again, you tell me. No matter what.”

“I will,” you promised.

Because you knew he meant it. And maybe that was why the idea of Eli crawling back didn’t scare you anymore.

Not when you had Chan.

<><><>

That evening started like any other movie night. You padded into the private cinema room wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies—soft, warm, and swallowed in the scent of him—because you always did. His cologne clung to the cotton, familiar and comforting, and it made you feel closer to him. Closer than you probably should have.

He was already sunk deep into one of the reclining chairs, phone in hand, a bowl of snacks resting lazily on his lap. He looked up and smiled when you walked in, like nothing made him happier than just seeing you. Like you were all he needed to end the day right.

You curled up beside him without a word, folding into the crook of his side like you belonged there. His arm lifted automatically, welcoming you into his warmth. It wasn’t weird. This was just what you two did.

But it felt different tonight.

You weren’t sure if it was the way his hand dropped to your bare thigh beneath the blanket, fingers drawing mindless shapes against your skin—or the way your own hand somehow found his chest, fingers brushing softly, tracing the shape of his collarbone like you had every right.

You didn’t mean to kiss him.

Not on the mouth, of course. That’d be crazy.

But you’d always been touchy with him, hadn’t you? Just little things. Kisses to his shoulder when he carried you to bed, to his jaw when he bought you something ridiculously expensive just because he felt like it. So why should tonight be different?

Your lips pressed gently to the curve of his bicep, then again, just higher. He tensed slightly beneath you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t stop you.

Instead, his fingers slipped up under the hem of the hoodie, splaying across the small of your back—warm, possessive.

You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten until you were practically on his lap. The movie blurred in the background, completely irrelevant.

You pressed another kiss to his shoulder. Then another, slow and deliberate. He turned his head toward you, breathing heavier now, eyes hooded.

“Baby,” he said softly.

You froze. “What?”

His hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging you back just enough to look in your eyes. His thumb brushed your cheek like he couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your heart skipped. But you smiled, trying to play it off. “I was just thanking you. You’re comfy.”

“I’m serious.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “You keep doing stuff like this and one day, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

That hit you like a match to gasoline. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy the air had become between you.

But still… you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let you go.

<><><>

You were already in a good mood when he came home, but the shopping bags in his hand? That turned it into ecstasy.

“Wait—are those from Dior?” you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as he placed them casually on the marble kitchen island like he’d just come back from buying groceries.

Chan didn’t even look fazed. “Got bored waiting for a meeting to end, so I stopped by the boutique. Thought you’d like some of this.”

“Some?” you echoed, your voice high-pitched as you tore into the first bag, a squeal leaving your lips when you found a silky black slip dress folded like a secret inside tissue paper. “Channie, are you kidding?”

“Do I ever kid?” he smirked, walking past you, casually undoing his watch and setting it beside the sink. “Try it on. The others too.”

There were others.

Gucci. Prada. Cartier.

And you? You were living. Floating. Glowing. Letting him spoil you was second nature by now, but nights like this reminded you—he didn’t just give you luxury. He wrapped you in it.

“You’re such a menace,” you muttered, eyes sparkling as you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re gonna ruin me for everyone else.”

He glanced down at you with that lazy smile, the kind that curled slow and deep. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

You wore the Dior slip dress that same night to the rooftop party Chan reluctantly agreed to attend with you. It fit like it had been painted on, soft and glossy, barely brushing your mid-thigh, your legs on full display in the matching Louboutin's he also got you.

“Baby,” he said when you walked out of your room, one brow raised, voice a little tight. “You’re not serious.”

You twirled for him with a smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He stared. Stared like he was trying to burn it into memory. “Do not disappear from my sight tonight.”

<><><>

You were tipsy. Not sloppy—just glowy, warm in the chest, your limbs loose and fluid with every bass-thumping beat. The rooftop was packed, the skyline glittering behind you like a movie set, and your dress—courtesy of Chan’s impromptu Dior shopping spree—sparkled just as hard.

He’d barely looked at you when he handed it over earlier that night, like it wasn’t several thousand dollars of backless silk. “Wear it if you want,” he’d said casually, as if it were groceries.

You’d worn it.

Now you were dancing. And not just dancing—moving like you had something to prove. Letting your hips roll too slow. Letting a stranger rest his hands too low. Your smile too wide. Your laugh too sweet.

You felt Chan’s eyes on you before you even turned.

He was stalking through the crowd like something out of a damn K-drama, black button-down unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up, eyes locked on you. You barely had a second to giggle before his hand was wrapping tight around your wrist.

“Outside. Now.”

You squeaked. “Channie, I’m just—”

“I said now.”

Oh. He was pissed.

You let him pull you off the floor, across the rooftop to a shadowed corner near the stairs where the music was distant and no one could hear him grinding his teeth.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, dropping your wrist only to press both hands to his hips like he had to physically restrain himself from pacing. “You don’t let strangers touch you like that. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I looked hot,” you said, crossing your arms—half-defensive, half-drunk. “And it was just a dance.”

He turned to you slowly, brows raised. “Just a dance? Do you see yourself right now?”

You did. You looked like luxury and trouble. And maybe you leaned into that just a little more.

“So what if I had a little fun?” you said sweetly, stepping into his space. “You dragged me out just to scold me like some angry boyfriend?”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he ground out, jaw ticking.

“No. But you act like it.”

That shut him up.

He stared at you, unreadable. Furious, maybe. Or barely hanging on.

So naturally, you kept going.

You twirled around, your dress fluttering around your thighs, swaying again just a little too close, dragging your hands slowly up his chest—pure mischief. “You shouldn’t buy me pretty things if you don’t want people to stare, Channie.”

His hand caught your wrist again—tighter this time.

“You’re really pushing it tonight.”

“I know.” You smiled up at him. “You’ll still let me go home with you though, right?”

His nostrils flared. “You live with me.”

“Exactly.” You beamed. “Now can we go back to the party? Or are you gonna keep playing possessive best friend in the dark?”

You barely had time to blink before he spun you, gently but firmly pinning you to the railing behind you, just inches from his chest. He leaned in close, voice low and dangerous in your ear.

“You don’t want to see what real possessive looks like, baby.”

Your stomach dropped—heat rushing everywhere.

But he stepped back a second later like nothing happened, casually running a hand through his hair.

“Go ahead,” he said, shrugging like his entire body hadn’t just radiated barely-contained rage. “Go dance. But if another guy touches you—don’t expect me to be this nice.”

And then he walked off, leaving you pressed to the railing with your heart pounding, legs weak, and absolutely no idea what game you were playing anymore.

You caught up to him at the bar again—he’d tried to disappear into the crowd, tried to drown his irritation in another glass of whiskey, but you were too far gone and way too stubborn to let him off the hook that easy.

“Chan,” you whined, grabbing his arm and tugging like a bratty little siren, “you ruined my dance.”

“I saved your ass,” he muttered, not even looking at you.

“You owe me.”

He glanced over finally, eyes sharp but dark under the club lights. “Don’t push it.”

You smiled sweetly. Fake as hell. “Just one dance.”

“No.”

You dragged him anyway.

He let you.

Let you guide him right into the dim VIP corner—where the bass was deeper, the lights darker, and the crowd less concerned with what anyone else was doing.

The second the music shifted—low and filthy—you turned, pressed your back to his chest, and rolled your hips into him like you’d done it a thousand times.

Chan froze.

Dead silent.

You were smiling to yourself, just drunk enough to be shameless, just bratty enough to know you were pushing every single one of his buttons.

You grabbed his hands and placed them on your waist, forcing him to hold you as your ass moved in slow, hypnotic circles, rubbing right against him in time with the beat.

“Don’t you dare let go,” you teased over your shoulder.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.

You dipped lower, grinding harder, and heard the way his breath hitched behind you.

He wasn’t dancing. Not really.

He was just… enduring.

And you were loving every second of it.

Your fingers slid up his forearm, dragging along the veins you knew always popped when he was tense. You leaned back into him, head brushing his shoulder as your hips kept moving, smooth and slow and deliberate.

“Thought you didn’t want weirdos touching me, Channie,” you said, faux-innocent, breathless from the rhythm. “So dance with me.”

“You call this dancing?” he growled into your ear.

You arched your back, hands in your hair now, dress hiking up just enough to flash more thigh than he’d probably ever seen on you.

“Mmm, yeah,” you moaned softly, throwing it back again—slow, deep, filthy.

He cursed under his breath.

His fingers flexed around your waist, digging in just a little tighter. You were dizzy with music, heat, and alcohol—but fully aware of the way he was breathing now. Shaky. Unsteady.

You had him.

He wasn’t just watching you anymore—he was feeling you.

Everything about the moment was screaming wrong—you were best friends, and this wasn’t how best friends danced—but still, he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step away.

Didn’t tell you to quit.

He just held on tighter… and let you work.

When the bass dropped again. Darker now. Slower and even dirtier. You didn’t hesitate.

One arm reached back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck while your other hand guided his—down your stomach, over your hips, until both his palms were molded around you like you were made for him.

You leaned back into him, ass pressing right up where he’d been trying not to feel you—where the thin fabric of your dress was the only thing separating you from him—and you moved.

Dragged. Rolled. Grinded.

Like you didn’t care how many red lines you were crossing.

“Y/N—” he warned, voice raw, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “Behave.”

You didn’t.

You let his hands roam further, teasing his fingers up toward your waist—up your ribs—then dragging one dangerously close to the underside of your breast.

He flinched like you’d shocked him, like your skin was on fire.

And maybe it was.

You turned your head, brushing your lips across his jaw, not quite kissing, just lingering.

“You’re not stopping me,” you whispered.

He growled.

Actually growled.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers sinking into your sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality—like your body grinding against him, soft and sinful, wasn’t about to unravel every last thread of his control.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he grit out.

“So stop me,” you whispered, shifting your hips again—slow and deliberate—dragging yourself up his thigh like a stripclub fantasy gone rogue.

One of your hands slid down to his again, guiding it back to your waist, but lower this time—so low his fingers brushed the curve of your ass and you swore you felt his whole body tense behind you.

You smirked.

Chan didn’t find it funny. He was seething.

His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it brush against your temple, and his voice when it came was low, strained, and barely human:

“Y/N, if you don’t stop…”

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know what would happen if you didn’t. And neither did you.

You just kept moving.

The second your ass arched back again—grinding slow, sultry, shameless—Chan’s grip locked on your waist like a vice.

“Enough.”

You didn’t get the chance to blink before he spun you around, one hand wrapping around your wrist, the other coming to the small of your back, steering you through the crowd like he didn’t give a damn who saw.

You giggled.

He didn’t.

Not even close.

“Chan, where’re we goin’?” you asked, voice slurring just enough to make it sound like a song.

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“Home.”

One word. Clipped and dangerous. And fuck, he was walking like a man on the edge—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, muscles rippling with every step while you were practically tripping over your heels trying to keep up, your drunk giggles only making him grip you tighter.

Like your laughter was gasoline on a flame.

“You’re mad,” you teased, leaning your weight into him like deadweight.

“I’m furious.”

That made you giggle harder.

He didn’t stop until he’d yanked the passenger side door open and dropped you in the seat like you weighed nothing. Slammed the door. Rounded the car with the same heat in his steps. He slid into the driver’s side, slammed that door, and his knuckles went white around the steering wheel.

You turned to him with a cheeky smile, tugging on his sleeve.

“You’re not really mad.”

He didn’t even look at you.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

“Why? You afraid I’ll fall into your lap again?”

He finally looked at you—and that look?

Could’ve melted diamonds.

“You think this is funny?”

The laugh you gave him was light, teasing. “A little.”

Chan shifted, arm coming up to rest behind your seat, so he was fully turned toward you. His voice dropped—low, firm, the kind of tone he only used when you were being a real pain in the ass.

“You don’t get it, do you? You almost made me cross a line in there.”

You blinked, still a little tipsy, still smiling. “What line?”

His eyes burned into yours.

“The one where I stop being your best friend and start being the guy who ruins you.”

That wiped the smile right off your lips.

You sat back in the seat, heart kicking, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle over your skin like static.

Chan turned away, facing forward again.

“You’re gonna sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow. And you’re gonna listen, for once. Because you don’t get to keep pushing me like this and acting like it’s cute.”

Silence.

“Maybe I spoilt you too much,” he muttered, shifting into gear. “Cos clearly, you don’t like to fuckin’ listen.”

And just like that, he drove off—leaving the music, the crowd, and the heat of temptation burning behind you.

<><><>

Your head was pounding.

Throbbing, actually.

Like someone had taken a bass speaker and shoved it directly into your brain. You groaned as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling in confusion.

…This wasn’t your bed.

Wait. Yes, it was.

But why were you in his shirt? And why did you have glitter on your thighs?

Oh no.

You sat up slowly, spotting the water and ibuprofen on your nightstand—placed there no doubt by one incredibly annoyed but still annoyingly sweet man. The man whose footsteps you now heard approaching from the hallway.

You flinched at the sound. He was stomping.

“Someone’s heavy-footed this morning,” you muttered.

Chan stepped into the doorway with a blank stare and a mug in his hand. The look on his face? That one he reserved for when you did something so wildly irritating he couldn’t even find the words yet.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

You offered him a sheepish smile. “…Did I do something?”

He just stared.

“Chan?”

He placed the mug on your nightstand with a bit too much force.

“You don’t remember?”

You blinked up at him with your most innocent expression. “I mean… I remember the party? The rooftop? I think I danced a little?”

“A little,” he repeated, deadpan. “You grinded on me. In the corner. Like it was a fucking stripclub. Like we weren’t best friends. Like I wasn’t five seconds from hauling you over my shoulder and taking you home.”

Your cheeks flushed hot. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

You cleared your throat, unable to stop the sheepish grin creeping in. “Did I look good though?”

Chan’s face did something strange. Like he short-circuited. “Are you—? What?”

“I mean,” you teased, poking at him now because why not, “was I sexy? Did I make your heart race? Or was it just embarrassing and sad?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Just answer the question.”

Chan ran a hand over his face like he was praying for patience. “That’s not the point.”

“But did you like it?”

Silence. His stare burned holes into you.

You leaned back against the headboard with a slow smirk, hugging your knees to your chest. “You’re mad and flustered. That’s a good sign.”

Chan tilted his head, voice low.

“Do you really wanna know how it felt?”

You nodded way too fast. “I do.”

He leaned down, eyes locked on yours, one hand braced beside your head on the headboard.

“It felt like temptation.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t blink. “It felt like you knew exactly what you were doing, and you wanted to see just how far you could push me. And it felt like if I hadn’t dragged you out of there, I’d be doing things to you we couldn’t take back.”

You stared up at him, mouth parting in surprise.

Then you whispered, “…Shit.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Shit.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“…Still kinda flattered though.”

Chan groaned and pulled away, heading for the door again.

“You’re not allowed to drink for at least a month. Minimum.”

“Chan, don’t be like that—”

“A month.” he repeated, disappearing down the hall.

You flopped back into your pillows, heart still racing. A grin slowly crept over your lips.

Damn. Maybe you did get carried away.

<><><>

You were in the zone. Like, completely tuned out, bopping your head to the music in your ears as you folded Chan’s fresh laundry on his bed. Your hips swayed with every beat; every little spin you gave the shirt in your hands before laying it down neatly beside the others.

Your little frilly shorts fluttered with every movement, riding higher each time you reached or twisted or bent. But you didn’t notice. You were too busy humming along to your playlist and tossing socks into a neat pile.

The door had been left cracked open.

And Chan had come home earlier than you realized.

He paused when he saw you from the hallway—his girl, his best friend, in his bedroom, dressed in that matching little cotton set that barely counted as clothing. The fabric on your shorts stretched and hugged the soft curve of your ass as you bent over to tuck the edges of his sheets into place, clearly trying to finish making the bed for him.

His lips parted slightly. A breath caught in his throat.

He was supposed to head to his studio.

But then you wiggled your hips to the beat—innocent, playful—and Chan’s thoughts scattered like smoke.

Something possessed him.

Next thing you knew, you felt a presence behind you.

A firm, warm grip closed around your ass, fingers spreading possessively over the curve.

You jumped, yanking a single AirPod out with a startled gasp, only to spin around and find Chan.

Standing behind you. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

“Oh—fuck,” he blurted, jerking his hand back like it burned him. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t even think—”

You blinked up at him, heart thudding. But honestly? Not because you were mad.

Your lips curved, and you shrugged softly. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”

Chan’s whole brain short-circuited.

You didn’t… mind?

You weren’t mad?

That was all it took. His hand—that same hand—dropped right back down to where it had just been, like it had a mind of its own. It found your ass again, slow and deliberate this time, fingers pressing in like he needed to confirm how soft it felt.

You didn’t move. You just looked up at him, blinking innocently.

“Just finishing up,” you said, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Like his hand wasn’t full of your ass.

Chan stared at you like he’d never seen you before. His throat worked around a swallow.

Then—fuck it—he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you in a hug. Except… his hands didn’t settle at your waist like they always did.

No. One hand stayed exactly where it had been—on your jiggly ass—while the other pressed into the small of your back, pulling you close.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered into your hair.

You tilted your head. “What’d I do?”

“You exist in those shorts,” he gritted out. “That’s what you did.”

You smiled against his chest, your cheek warming against the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Guess I should wear them more often then.”

Chan exhaled shakily. You could feel the way his fingers twitched against your ass.

Yeah… this tension? This was no longer accidental.

“I mean…” you hummed into his chest, arms looping lazily around his torso, “you did kinda sneak up on me. Could’ve warned me first.”

“You were too cute to interrupt,” he mumbled. His voice was gravel-soft, barely there. “You were doin’ that little dance again.”

You pulled back just enough to raise your brows. “You were watching me?”

He looked guilty. Just for a second. Then shrugged, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he should play it cool or apologize.

“You were in my room, playing house in my shorts, dancing to music like nobody was watching. What was I supposed to do?”

Your smirk deepened. “Not grab my ass?”

“I panicked.”

You burst into a soft laugh, resting your head back against his chest again. The moment felt too warm, too familiar, too… dangerously close to something else.

“I didn’t know you liked them this much,” you teased, wiggling your hips just a little. Just enough to make his hands twitch.

Chan exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he muttered, one hand dragging lightly up your spine.

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes wide, soft with curiosity. “Good?”

“Respectful,” he clarified. “You’re my best friend.”

You blinked. “And best friends don’t touch ass?”

“They shouldn’t,” he bit out, and that was the first real crack in his voice. “But you’ve been pushing it lately, baby. You’ve been testing me.”

Your chest fluttered at the way he said baby. So casually, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Have I?”

Chan’s hand slid lower. Not enough to be scandalous, just enough to let you feel that he wasn’t kidding anymore. His palm was warm and heavy, anchoring you to him like he was suddenly realizing he didn’t want to let go.

“You’re not as innocent as you act,” he muttered.

You gave him your best doe-eyed look. “I never said I was.”

That was when he lost it a little.

One of his hands slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he leaned in like he was thinking about kissing you—but didn’t. His lips barely ghosted yours.

Not a kiss. Not quite.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

You did. You absolutely did. But you didn’t say a word.

You just smiled.

“Laundry’s done,” you whispered, pulling back with one last squeeze around his waist. “You’re welcome.”

And then you walked out of his room like you didn’t just flip his entire world upside down in cotton shorts and a matching button-up.

<><><>

That night, you were wide awake.

The house was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant rustle of trees outside, and your pulse drumming hard against the pillow.

It’d been hours since you left Chan’s room. Hours since you’d walked out of there trying to act like your skin wasn’t still tingling where his hands had been. Like your heart hadn’t stuttered when his lips brushed yours without ever truly kissing you.

You should’ve let it go.

But the problem was, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then… tapped.

You: You up?

The read receipt appeared too fast.

Chan: Always. What’s wrong?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.Then:

You: Nothing. Just thinking about earlier.

Chan: Which part?

You smiled. Bit your bottom lip. That was bait, and he knew it.

You fed him a little more.

You: You touching me like that in your room.

Another instant reply.

Chan: I shouldn’t have. I got carried away.

You: I didn’t mind.

A pause. Longer this time. You imagined him lying in bed with that furrow between his brows, one hand behind his head, trying to figure out if you were just being bratty again—or if you meant it.

Chan: I could tell.

You laughed quietly to yourself, propping your phone against your knee, thumbs ready to wreck your whole friendship.

You: You’re really gonna act like you didn’t like it?

Chan: Is that what you want me to say? That I liked having my hand on my best friend’s ass?

You: I mean… you did keep it there for a long time.

Chan: You looked really good like that.

You sat up a little straighter, nerves flickering through your chest like sparks.

You: Like how?

Chan: Bent over my bed in those shorts. You know what you were doing.

You: I was folding your laundry.

Chan: While dancing. In those tiny ass shorts.

You: You liked that?

The dots blinked.

Stopped.

Started again.

Chan: Too much.

You took a shaky breath.

This felt reckless. You were under the same roof. Just down the hall. Separated by a hallway and years of pretending your friendship was innocent.

Your fingers moved again.

You: If I came to your room right now…

No reply.

Not yet. You could almost hear his breathing. Almost feel how still he was on the other side of the house.

Then finally:

Chan: Don’t. If you come in here like that, I won’t let you leave untouched.

You stared at the message. Bit your lip and tucked yourself a little deeper into your sheets, thighs brushing, breath catching.

Your fingers trembled when you typed again.

You: Untouched where?

You saw the typing bubble appear immediately.

Chan: Everywhere.

You: Be specific.

Chan: You want me to tell you how I’d touch you, best friend?

That sent a chill up your spine. Something about the way he called you that. Not sweet. Not teasing. Dangerous.

You: Yeah. I do.

Chan: I’d start with those legs you’re always stretching across my lap. I’d make you open them wider for me.

You: Keep going.

Chan: I’d touch you over those tiny little shorts you love wearing around me like you don’t know they drive me fucking crazy.

Your mouth went dry. Your hand slipped beneath the covers, not to touch—just to feel. To let your own heat rise in the quiet dark.

You: I knew they drove you crazy.

Chan: Of course you did. You’re a brat. You do it on purpose.

You: You like when I act like a brat.

Chan: I like shutting you up when you get too mouthy.

Your stomach flipped. God, this felt wrong. You were just supposed to be folding laundry and going to bed like normal.

Instead—

You: If I was in your bed right now, what would you do to me?

Another pause.

You waited. You could feel the shift. Could practically hear the internal war going on behind his silence. How much he was willing to say. How far he was willing to go.

Then:

Chan: I’d drag you under me. Pin your wrists. Tell you to stop squirming but know damn well you wouldn’t. I’d make you beg me to touch you properly.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Face flushed. Legs pressed tight under the blanket.

You weren’t sure who you were anymore. You weren’t just his best friend. Not right now. You were something else entirely.

You: Would you let me touch you too?

Chan: Not unless you asked real nice.

You: Please, Channie.

That one made him pause. You could feel it. Like the air had been sucked from the room.

Then:

Chan: You’re really playing with fire tonight, baby.

You: You’re the one who said you wanted to touch me.

Chan: And now I wanna do a lot more than that.

You: Yeah? Like what?

Chan: Like make you mine.

Your breath hitched. You blinked at that message for a long, long time. Because it didn’t feel like flirtation anymore. It didn’t feel like a joke.

You: But I’m already yours… aren’t I?

This time, there was no pause.

Chan: Fuck yes, you are.

Your heart was thudding. Your body humming. But your fingers moved with more confidence now. There was something intoxicating about knowing exactly how to push him.

Something dangerous.

You: I remembered the party.

The typing bubble popped up immediately.

Chan: What about it?

You: How you grabbed me like you wanted to throw me over your shoulder.

Chan: You were asking for it.

You: And then you let me grind on you like that? In public?

Chan: Correction. You made me stand there and take it.

You: Mm. I remember how hard you got through those dress pants.

You bit your lip. Your thighs squeezed again.

Then added: You were so thick and heavy against me, Channie. I still feel it.

A full minute passed. He didn’t respond. You almost thought you’d pushed him too far.

Then—

Chan: Keep talking like that and I’ll be in your room in under sixty seconds.

Your breath caught. You smiled to yourself, devilish.

You weren’t done yet.

You: You didn’t even stop me when I dragged your hands over my body. You wanted to feel me, didn’t you? Even when you told me to behave, you kept touching.

Chan: God, you’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the nearest couch right there.

Your mouth dropped open slightly. But you were thriving in this game now. Riding that high. And you hadn’t even touched yourself yet—just lying there soaked and giggly like you’d been corrupted through a screen.

You: You could’ve. I wouldn’t have stopped you.

Chan: Say that again.

You hesitated. Then: I wanted you to touch me at the party. I wanted you to pull me into that corner and make a mess out of me. Is that so bad?

Chan: Baby, if you knew what you were saying right now…

You: I do.

Chan: And I want you to say what you wanted. Out loud. To me.

Your fingers stalled. You swallowed.

Then typed: I wanted to feel your hard dick against me again. I wanted you to grip my hips and hold me still and tell me I was yours. I wanted your voice in my ear, telling me not to run.

Chan didn’t respond for two whole minutes.

You were about to text again when—

Chan: I’m coming up. Don’t move.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You barely had time to throw your phone down before you heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Then—your bedroom door creaked open.

And there he was.

Hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, chest rising like he’d sprinted the last few steps. His eyes landed on you—bare-legged under your little blanket, looking like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

But oh, this wasn’t about cookies.

He shut the door with his foot. Click.

“You’re seriously playing with fire, you know that?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “What, just texting my best friend?”

Chan’s laugh was dry—no humor. Only disbelief.

Then his hands were on his hips, like he needed to physically restrain himself from pouncing. His eyes travelled down your body, slow and possessive, before he stepped closer to the bed.

“You said some wild shit just now, baby.”

“I meant every word.”

He tilted his head, smirking. But his voice dropped a little darker. “You wanted to feel me? Hm?”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip.

“Say it again,” he said, close enough now to tug the blanket down from your waist.

“I wanted to feel you,” you whispered.

He leaned in. “Where, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitched. “Against me.”

“Where else?”

You swallowed. “Inside me.”

That was it. That was fucking it.

In a blink, he was crawling over the bed, pinning you back with one hand on your waist and the other sliding under your thigh to pull you open for him.

“Guess what, baby?” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw as you shivered beneath him.

“You’re about to.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Chan’s weight settled over you, his body a solid, grounding force that made the room feel smaller, hotter, like the air itself was pressing against your skin. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough to feel the heat of his breath but not quite touching. It was torture. It was deliberate.

“Chan,” you whispered, voice trembling with something you couldn’t name. Anticipation. Need. Fear of what this moment meant for the two of you.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there was a storm behind them. You could see it—the way his restraint was fraying, the way his fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, like he was fighting himself as much as he was holding onto you.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, like he was giving you one last chance to back out. One last chance to keep things the way they’d always been.

But you didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not after the texts, the dancing, the way his hands felt like they belonged on your body.

You nodded, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. “I’m sure.”

That was all he needed.

His lips crashed into yours, and it was like the world tilted. It wasn’t soft or tentative—not like the almost-kiss in his room earlier. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for you and only just realized it. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, your body arching into his like it had a mind of its own.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands finding his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. You tugged lightly, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. His tongue brushed against yours, and you felt it everywhere, like a current running through your veins.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, breathless, and tugged him closer. “Good.”

He growled low in his throat, and then his hands were everywhere—sliding under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach, your ribs, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. He was teasing you, and you hated it as much as you loved it.

“Chan,” you whined, squirming beneath him, trying to guide his hand higher.

He smirked knowingly. “What, baby? Use your words.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Touch me.”

“Where?” His voice was a low rumble, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hipbone, maddeningly close but not quite enough.

“Everywhere,” you breathed, echoing his text from earlier.

That did it.

His hand slid up, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that made you gasp. His other hand yanked your thigh higher, hooking it over his hip as he pressed himself closer, letting you feel every inch of him—hard, heavy, and so real it made your head spin.

“You wanted this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your ear. “You wanted me to lose it, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” you gasped, arching into his touch as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and possessive against your bare skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of awe and something darker—something that made your heart race even faster. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath hitched. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because you’re you,” he interrupted, voice rough. “You’re my best friend. My safe place. I didn’t want to fuck this up.”

You reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You’re not fucking anything up, Channie.”

His eyes softened, but only for a moment. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into it. His hands roamed—over your sides, your thighs, tugging your shorts down just enough to feel the bare skin of your hips.

You tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling back to yank it over his head. The sight of him—bare-chested, muscles flexing, eyes dark with want—made your mouth go dry. You’d seen him shirtless a thousand times, but this was different. This was yours.

“Like what you see?” he teased, catching the way you were staring.

You didn’t even bother hiding it. “Always have.”

He froze for a second, like your words hit him harder than he expected. Then he was on you again, kissing you like he was trying to make up for lost time, his hands slipping under your shirt to tug it off completely. The cool air hit your skin, but his touch was fire, burning away any chill.

His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to murmur, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” before continuing lower, kissing the curve of your chest.

You gasped when his mouth found your skin, warm and deliberate, his hands holding you in place as he took his time exploring you. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a confession—like he was saying all the things he’d held back for years.

“Chan,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed lower, his breath hot against your stomach.

He looked up at you, eyes dark but soft. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t you dare,” you said, voice shaking but certain.

He grinned—slow, wicked—and then his hands were on your shorts, tugging them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. You were bare beneath him now, vulnerable in a way you’d never been before, but there was no fear. Only trust. Only him.

His hands slid up your thighs, parting them gently, and he leaned down to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was savoring it. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips.

“Then die happy,” you shot back, and he laughed—a real, warm laugh that made your heart ache.

But then his touch turned serious again, his fingers brushing against you in a way that made your breath catch, your body arching toward him instinctively. He watched you, eyes locked on yours, gauging every reaction, every little sound you made.

“Channie,” you gasped, when his fingers pressed just right, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you.

“Shh,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. He always had.

His touch was patient, reverent, but there was an edge to it—like he was holding himself back, trying not to lose control completely. You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled slightly, the way his breath hitched when you moaned softly under him.

“More,” you whispered, tugging him closer, needing him closer.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His fingers worked you with a rhythm that made your head spin, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to ground yourself. But it was too much and not enough all at once, and you could feel the heat building, coiling tight in your core.

“Channie, please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“You,” you managed, voice breaking. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to kick off his sweatpants, and then he was back, settling between your thighs, his body warm and solid against yours. He kissed you again, deep and slow, and you felt him—hard, heavy, pressing against you in a way that made your entire body hum with anticipation.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, one last time, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

You nodded, pulling him closer, your lips brushing his. “I’ve always been sure.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for years, and then he was there—sliding into you, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none. Only heat, only fullness, only him.

You gasped softly, your hands finding his back, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. He moved slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but it wasn’t long before you were urging him faster, harder, your hips meeting his with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “You feel so good.”

“So do you,” you whispered, and you meant it—every word, every touch, every moment.

The world outside didn’t exist anymore. It was just you and him, the heat of his skin, the way his hands gripped your hips, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer. You were his, and he was yours, and for the first time, that truth didn’t scare you.

It felt right.

The tension built, higher and higher, until you were trembling beneath him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. He could feel it too—you could tell by the way his movements grew less controlled, more desperate, his lips finding yours again as he pushed you both closer to the edge.

“Chan,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the wave crashed over you, your body shuddering beneath him.

He groaned, low and deep, following you over the edge moments later, his body tensing, his arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let go.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just held each other, the world quiet except for the sound of your racing hearts.

Then he kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft now, almost shy.

You nodded, your cheek pressed against his skin. “More than okay.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can go back to pretending after that.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Then don’t.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I won’t.”

<><><>

The next morning was different.

Not awkward or weird. Just… new.

You woke up tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, letting the reality of it sink in. You weren’t just best friends anymore. You were something more, something unspoken but undeniable.

He stirred behind you, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Morning, baby girl.”

You smiled, rolling over to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Morning Channie,” you whispered back, reaching up to trace his jaw.

He caught your hand, kissing your palm. “You’re not gonna start teasing me already, are you?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

He groaned, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a lazy, sleepy kiss that made your toes curl. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you shot back, snuggling into his chest.

He didn’t argue. Just held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You didn’t talk about what this meant—not yet. There’d be time for that later. Time to figure out how to navigate this new thing between you, how to balance being best friends with being… more.

But for now, you were content to just be. To lie there in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

Because you were completely his. And that was enough.

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

Authors note: Hiiiiiii! How’s it going guys? I have been soooo busy lately like i need my life backkkkk 😩😩😩 i’m so sorry that i have bot responded to my dms, but its all for a good cause. So tell me how did you like this fic? Its a little on the long side with an almost 10k wordcount but i was hoping that could make up for lost time… this one has been sitting in my drafts for months so i released it because i know i owe yall some content. Sooooo enjoy this while i get the next entry for NAUGHTY DORM CHRONICLES READYYYY ❤️🤭🤩

You hated parties.

You hated parties because they were loud, because spaces with that many bodies on top of each other were too suffocating, because men always tried to hit on you with boozy breath and wandering eyes.

Now you hated parties because they made your boyfriend want to stick his tongue down other girls’ throats.

Jaehyun had managed to destroy nine months within three minutes – that’s the length of time you’d convinced yourself you’d spent standing there, unable to avert your gaze from the horror unfolding in front of you. Three whole minutes that he hadn’t even noticed your presence, too preoccupied. Too focused on kissing this random girl like he had something to claim, as if you weren’t enough. And worst of all, he hadn’t even cared enough to bring it somewhere private. They were in a corner of the living room, tucked away but not hidden. It had only taken a little bit of squeezing between partygoers and quick apologies to make your way to them. 

They had gathered a crowd, too. A few spectators, voices meant to be whispers – drunk people can’t seem to mind their own volume. 

“Yo, is that Y/N?” 

“Nah, I just saw her getting a drink.” 

“Shit…she’s gonna be so pissed.”

At least the alcohol hadn’t made them completely brainless. You were, in fact, pissed. There was the unmistakable heartbreak too, but you weren’t going to let anyone see that. Instead, you blinked back your tears and cleared your throat to make sure the words didn’t get stuck. Each step you took towards him made it more real, until you were close enough that you knew he could hear you over the raging music.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, far from an actual question. Your voice still broke on the last word, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed. As soon as he registers that it’s your voice, his girlfriend, Jaehyun tries to push the girl away, feigning disgust. It’s almost pathetic in a way, his little act. 

“Shit, Y/N,” he curses. “I didn’t mean to – fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just – ”

He stumbles on his words as if his mouth wasn’t working perfectly fine just seconds before. When he tries to inch towards you, you step back, refusing to allow him the comfort. 

“You’re fucked, Jaehyun,” you say flatly. That’s as much of your energy as you would give him, at least for now. He’d embarrassed you enough by kissing another woman in the middle of a party; you decided against escalating your humiliation by shouting at him and causing a scene. You turn on your heels and begin pushing through bodies again, away from him, and you can tell he’s following. You can hear your name, barely reaching your ears but definitely there. 

Once you make it out of the most concentrated pool of people, he staggers soon after and latches onto your wrist. The same fingertips that used to run across your skin so gently now felt like betrayal and poison. 

“Let me go,” you snap. His grip loosens slightly, but he still holds you there, determined to defend himself. 

“I fucked up, I know, but please just hear me out,” he begs, as if he has the right to. His excuses are the last thing you want to hear right now, and you know that’s all they would be. Stupid excuses for a stupid “mistake,” and it makes you sick to even think about listening to him explain why and how he ended up making out with another woman in the corner of a party he asked you to go with him to.

“No! Fuck you, seriously,” you spit, words laced with venom you prayed would hurt him even a fraction of the way he hurt you. 

And perhaps they did, or at the very least stunned him, because he drops your arm entirely. Now, you take the final steps towards the door, reaching for the handle. He tries to follow you again, unsatisfied, unrelenting. “And if you follow me out this door, I promise you I’ll never speak to you again.”

That stops him in his tracks. Maybe gives him some hope that if he just lets you cool off for the night, you’ll let him explain in the morning. Regardless of how he perceives it, you lunge at the opportunity to escape, finally making it out the door and into the crisp night air. It hits your skin viciously, your skirt and halter top offering little protection from its bite. You’re cold, heartbroken, and, worst of all, not even nearly drunk enough to mask it. 

Without the vivaciousness of the party, you can only see Jaehyun kissing her in your mind, can only hear the hushed whispers of the onlookers, replaying on a torturous loop. You’d only made it down the steps of the house before the tears began to fall. Now you let them, assuming you were away from prying eyes. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed someone standing right next to the door while you and Jaehyun had your little spat. A certain someone who would get far too much enjoyment out of such a scene. You had been followed once more, but this time not by your stupid cheating ex boyfriend, but by his equally as stupid “rival.” It was still a mystery to you why they hated each other, and at this point, you didn’t care at all to find out.

“Those were some harsh words,” he chuckles, and you don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice. The same way you don’t need to turn around to know he’s smirking. You hurriedly wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup; the last thing you need is him to see you crying, another thing for him to derive sick pleasure in. You wouldn’t dare grant him that.

Because it was an unspoken relationship rule that an enemy of your partner is an enemy of your own. So, for no real reason other than the fact that Jaehyun hated him, you hated Bang Chan. 

“Fuck off, Chan,” you snarl, quickening your pace. It doesn’t matter, since he catches up to you in a few short strides. “Why the hell did you even follow me out here?”

He steps in rhythm with you, making it clear he had no intentions of leaving. Not until he got what he wanted, whatever that may be. The satisfaction of seeing you broken? The chance to remind you how shitty Jaehyun is and how great he is? You aren’t sure, but you keep walking anyway.

“I just didn’t expect to hear you say such things to your boyfriend,” he answers. His emphasis of “boyfriend” makes you both angry and repulsed, then bitter and devastated. Nine months of your life gone in minutes, and now you had the displeasure of dealing with Chan on top of it.

You scoff and finally stop, turning to face him for the first time. His eyes twinkle with something devious, and it infuriates you. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”

“Oh?” he draws his head back in shock. He’s silent for a moment, and you fold your arms across your chest, glaring at him in a way he finds cute more than intimidating. “I’m surprised you two lasted this long, actually. Figured it was about time for Jaehyun to do what he does best.”

You blink at him incredulously, his careless words cutting deep. There’s no reason anything he says should bother you, but there’s something about it that stings. And Chan notices, too, watching your entire face shift from rage to sorrow. Your features soften in a way he’d never seen before – you’d only ever looked at him with hatred and annoyance – and it deflates him. 

“I don’t know why you two don’t get along. Seems like you should be best friends – you’re both fucked up,” you retort quickly, though it comes out as a strained whisper. 

Chan hates being grouped with him, especially in your mind where Jaehyun now seems to be synonymous with evil. He never expected to be giving you of all people an apology, but he figures he needs to. For his own consciousness, of course. Definitely not because he felt an odd pang in his chest when you looked at him with something other than disdain for once.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. Are you alright?” he asks cautiously. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see someone roll their eyes, but when you do, he swears he feels ten times lighter. Your hostility he could navigate, but your sadness was uncharted territory; he was glad to be back to familiarity. And since you hadn’t walked away from him yet, he takes the chance to dig deeper. “What did he do?”

“Like I’d want to talk to you about it. Just give it a few hours, you’ll hear about it from someone, I’m sure,” you shrug, trying to pretend that you’re unbothered. That you don’t care that you’ll likely be the talk of campus, the woeful ex-girlfriend people will look at in that pitiful way they look at small, broken things. 

As much as you hate Chan, you’re grateful he isn’t looking at you like you’re small or broken. He’s looking at you the same as always, like you’re a challenge, a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. Maybe that’s why you decided to keep standing there, holding more of a conversation with him than you’d likely ever had before.

“Probably. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me, what happened?” he asks again.

He doesn’t say it with demand or snark. It sounds almost unsettlingly genuine. It sounds like someone that isn’t Chan, or at least the Chan you’re familiar with. You hesitate, conjuring up another smart remark, but you let it die in your throat. 

“He fucking cheated on me. He was making out with some girl in front of everyone. Can you believe that?” you chuckle sarcastically, forgetting who exactly is standing before you. “Nevermind…I’m sure you can believe it. God, I’m so stupid.” 

“No, you’re not stupid,” he says adamantly. “He’s stupid. An even bigger idiot than I thought, actually.”

It angers him more than it should that you’re degrading yourself over Jaehyun’s horrible decisions, and he has a fleeting thought of going back and telling him off for it. And as the thought passes, he can’t understand why. He knows you hate him. He knows you have likely been fed lies and half-truths by Jaehyun for months. He knows he shouldn’t care about any of this. He can’t seem to figure out why he does. 

“I just can’t get that image out of my head. It’s making me sick,” you mumble, and it replays all over again. The ear-splitting music, the crowd, his lips on hers, that look on his face when he saw you. All your emotions bubble back up to the surface and come out as a loud groan, though internally you just want to scream until your throat is raw. “I wish I could make him feel even half of what I feel right now.”

The idea that pops up sounds ridiculous in his head and likely even more so said aloud, but his mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Well, maybe you could,” he trails. 

“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m actually a good person,” you sneer. “I would never cheat.” 

He laughs dryly and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, awaiting an explanation. “Believe me, I know you’re just a perfect princess,” he mocks, and you’re certain if you roll your eyes any harder they’ll get stuck like that. “But who said anything about cheating? Besides, you’re not together anymore,” he reminds. “And there’s only one thing I can think of that would drive him just as mad.”

You’re intrigued now, though doubtful there’s anything that could reflect the same level of hurt you currently felt. Anything rational, at least. Still, you wanted to hear whatever silly idea Chan had, if not for your own amusement. 

“Which is what?” you question.

“Being with me,” he answers, too quickly, too plainly, as if it was something entirely normal and not an absolutely insane statement. When your eyes widen, he continues, waving his hands urgently to indicate you had gotten the wrong impression. “Okay, not for real, Jesus. Like faking it, you know? Just for him to see and lose his mind.” 

That was quite possibly the last thing you expected, and you’re forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. You wait for him to join in, to tell you he was joking just to fuck with you. That would have been the Chan thing to do. Instead, he stares at you, a half-smile playing on his lips. 

“Yeah, okay, you’re insane,” you scoff. 

“Is it that insane?” he says smugly, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Think about it, imagine how pissed he’d be seeing us together.”

For a moment, you can’t help but realize how attractive he actually is. It’s not that you hadn’t noticed before – you had perfectly functional eyes – but now being single and also inches away from him, it was an unavoidable fact. It made you almost begin to consider his idea. Almost.

“Yes, it’s insane! Just because I gave you five minutes of my time on a shitty night doesn’t mean I want to talk to you ever again, let alone pretend to date you.”

“Oh, Princess Y/N gave me five minutes of her precious time, thank you so much,” he quips, and this time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Whatever, I gave you a guy’s perspective on how to get back at him. You’re not gonna get any better revenge than that.”

“And what do you get from it?” you ask, certain there must be some mutually beneficial aspect beneath it. There’s no way he would suggest something so outlandish without thinking of his own gain, and you know that’s true when he grins wickedly.

“Just the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realizes he lost his girl to the one person he hates more than anything.”

You aren’t sure why you hadn’t grasped that from the beginning. All Chan wanted, as always, was to get under Jaehyun’s skin, to take something of his, to win. The idea is still crazy, and far more theatrical than you’d usually approve of, but you’re a lover scorned.

Then, you think back to the unspoken rule, the sole reason and origin of your hatred for Chan. Jaehyun hadn’t even followed relationship rule number fucking one: don’t cheat on your girlfriend. So, you figured you could break some rules and allow some theatrics.

“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll fake date you or whatever,” you huff, trying to ignore his triumphant smirk. “But nothing weird, alright? And once it’s all over, we go back to hating each other.”

He throws his hands up like it’s offensive you’d even insinuated it. “Believe me, that’ll be no problem,” he agrees.

“Good,” you say simply, a forced tight-lipped smile on your face.

“Good,” he repeats.

The silence that falls over you two is uncomfortable, only disrupted by the sound of the wind lifting leaves along the sidewalk and the faint thumping of music. You can still see the house down the road, and it makes you wonder if Jaehyun is still inside and if he went right back to her. Suddenly, you feel the need to get home and cry in the shower with your carefully-curated sad music playlist. 

 “Well…I’m gonna go back to my dorm now,” you finally speak, shifting on your feet awkwardly.

“I’ll walk you,” he offers without a second thought. 

You can’t help the way you exhale a little too harshly. Truthfully, you just wanted a short walk on your own to process all of the nights’ events, including the proposal you’d just accepted. And you had already spent more time than you’d like with Chan for one night (although you know you’ll have to spend much more now).

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think we need to start the whole fake dating thing right now,” you reject bluntly. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, trying to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s just trying to do a nice thing, the right thing, but you have a way of getting under his skin. The next few weeks are surely going to be a challenge. “It’s not for that, Y/N,” he sighs. “It’s late and dark out. Just let me make sure you get home safe, please?”

The roads are lit only by streetlights and the moon shining above, and you shiver from both the chilly air and the thought of making the walk to your dorm alone. You’d expected to be going home with Jaehyun, definitely not on your own in the middle of the night. 

“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. “But can we just walk in silence? Not really in the mood to talk anymore.”

You deliberately exclude that you feel like if you keep talking, you’re going to break. You’d kept a relatively strong front – far stronger than you thought you’d be after being cheated on – but it was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was all the adrenaline that kept your emotions contained, because now everything was slowing down and soaking in. 

“Sure,” he nods, following closely behind when you turn and begin taking steps forward. Your dorm is ten minutes away, and you walk side by side, arms occasionally brushing against each others. You only make it about two minutes in before he stops, shrugging off his jacket. Then, he holds his hand out, gesturing to it when you stare dumbly. 

“Here,” he offers. “You’re freezing.”

There’s no denying that he’s right, but that didn’t mean you were going to wear his jacket. You could survive a few more minutes of the cold, even though your skin was covered with goosebumps that hadn’t gone away since you’d first left Jaehyun at the door. “I’m not wearing your jacket, Chan,” you shove his hand back. 

Before you can start walking again, he drapes it around your shoulders, ignoring the glares you send his way. 

“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” he groans. “You’re literally shaking, but God forbid you wear my jacket.”

You click your tongue and pull your arms through the sleeves anyway, mumbling a grudging “thank you.” The newfound warmth was a great comfort, and you’re so wrapped up in it you don’t notice the way he steals short glances over at you. His eyes drag down your body, drinking in how his jacket sits on your shoulders like it belongs there. How the sleeves fall past your wrists and the hem lines your thighs, still mostly exposed from your skirt length of choice. How you look good wearing something of his.

And then he curses himself for even thinking it, tearing his eyes away even though he really doesn’t want to. He clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, trying to ground himself, and you look over wordlessly. Any words you were going to say get caught in your throat when you notice how muscular his arms are now that they’re no longer covered. 

Still, neither of you speak again, both thinking silent thoughts that you’d never let the other know. Once you arrive at your dorm building, he walks you all the way to your door despite your protests, muttering something about you being stubborn yet again. 

“Thank you for walking me home,” you force out, gratitude sounding like exasperation. Your back is pressed against the door, hand wrapped around the handle. All you want is to throw yourself in bed and sob and sleep at this point, but Chan’s presence keeps you in the hallway.

He nods, combing a hand through his hair, wondering when it became so difficult to think of the right words to say to you. “Try not to think about him too much tonight, alright?” he sighs. “I know that’s hard, but just try to get some sleep or something.”

Such gentle advice sounds odd coming from his mouth, and he waits for your sarcastic reply. Counts on it, actually. 

It doesn’t come. Instead, you smile at him weakly, telling yourself you simply don’t have the mental capacity to go back and forth with him anymore. Not that you were actually hating him a little less. 

“I’ll try,” you assure. “Oh, yeah. Here.” 

You pull off his jacket, the one that had begun to feel a little too comfortable, and fold it over your arms towards him. 

“Keep it. You can wear it around or whatever,” he suggests indifferently. It would make your fake relationship more believable, but beyond that, it would appeal to that small part of him that enjoyed seeing you in it. 

Fuck, what had gotten into him?

“I won’t,” you sass, bringing the jacket back to your chest anyways. 

He runs his tongue along his teeth, chuckling. “Of course you won’t. So stubborn.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop being that,” he shoots back.

Seemingly, you’d met your match. Someone who could keep up with your quick retorts, your mouthiness. And it came in the form of a man your ex boyfriend hated, a man you hated. You weren’t sure why that made it all the more exciting for you. 

His gaze lingered, a curious glint in his eyes. He was trying to piece you together bit by bit, but you were a more difficult puzzle than most. 

“Have a good night, Chan,” you say, finally turning the handle. When the door swings open, he finds himself looking around unintentionally, another opportunity to figure you out. He can see a few plushies on your bed, posters lined on the walls, and framed photos he can’t quite make out. There’s probably some of you and Jaehyun, and he hopes those are long gone by the next time he ends up at your dorm.

You slip inside hastily, and he realizes he’d been too engrossed in examining your room to respond. The door comes to a close in front of him.

“Yeah, you too,” he breathes out when you can’t hear, standing there just a few moments longer.

Once inside, you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps padding away, and when you do, you crack. The pictures of you and Jaehyun sit on your bedside dresser, mocking you, and you slam them down against the wood. You’re partially inclined to throw them against the wall and hope they shatter, but you don’t particularly feel like cleaning up glass shards through tears. 

At least you let the teddy bear he gifted you stay on your bed, unharmed. An innocent soul caught in the crossfire, a child of divorce even. 

“Fuck Jaehyun, fuck parties, and fuck this whole night,” you curse, though it comes out in choked sobs. And fuck Chan, your brain wants to say, but you bite it back. He had walked you home, given you his jacket…and become your fake boyfriend (soon to be, anyways) within the span of thirty minutes. Still, he was annoying, arrogant, impossible-to-deal-with Chan.

 As much as every fiber of your being yearned for the soft comfort of your bed, you trudge to your bathroom and start the shower, making sure to put on your playlist while the water warms. Because if you were going to be heartbroken, you were at least going to be heartbroken while listening to Cigarettes After Sex.

After thirty minutes of crying and scrubbing your body of any traces of Jaehyun, you finally step out and decide to check your phone for the first time since everything had completely unraveled. Apparently getting cheated on was all you needed to reduce your screen time, so maybe that was a positive?

Naturally, there’s a few texts from people you could hardly consider friends but would now act like you were with feigned sympathy, full nosiness. Among them, however, is a text from a number you hadn’t saved.

y/n? 

who’s this?

I’d say the guy you hate the most but i think someone else might’ve taken that spot

Chan. It was almost impressive that he managed to sound annoying even through texts.

ha. and how’d you get my number…?

I asked someone for it. you think they’ll take the bait?

they’ll probably just think you’re a freak who goes for recently heartbroken girls.

Nah. that’s not really my type.

oh yeah? what’s your type then?

You watch as the typing bubble pops up and disappears a few moments later, and then nothing. Minutes pass and you assume he’s leaving you on read, and that’s fine. It’s late, anyway, and after such a thorough cleansing and crying session, you’re exhausted.

So it’s no surprise when your phone buzzes again just as you manage to get comfortable in bed. 

Just because that’s not my type doesn’t mean i have a type

“Liar,” you mumble to yourself. Whatever, it’s not like you care who or what he’s into. In fact, you’re glad he didn’t answer. Who knows what kind of weird things he’d come up with, if not just to irritate you. 

okay, boring

What about you then? what’s your type?

You’re torn between giving him a genuine answer or something along the lines of “basically the antithesis of you.” Then, you realize you can probably do both at once, since you don’t consider Chan to align with any of your dating criteria.

i like someone who’s warm, attentive, and can make me laugh. someone who notices the little things, too

Yeah, definitely not Chan. But then again….

That can’t be right. i mean, you ended up with jaehyun

Also not Jaehyun. That was something you could admit now, but it was different coming from someone else. Like you were the only one who couldn’t see the flaws, the incompatibility. You feel stupid all over again, trying to ignore the way your throat began to tighten once more.

i’m going to sleep.

Hahaha Aw man. i was having fun.

goodnight, chan.

Goodnight princess

The nickname might’ve been a term of endearment from anyone else, but from Chan, it was a thinly veiled taunt. You save his contact with a very fitting eyeroll emoji just to spite him, finally drifting off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep soon after. 

“What an asshole,” Jihyo hisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you know I would have ripped into him.”

With all the craziness of the night, you hadn’t even thought to text any of your friends. It was one of the rare times none of them could make it out with you, and now you were being inundated with questions over lunch.

You wave her off, poking at your plate idly. “It’s fine, I promise,” you sigh. 

“Has he texted you today?” Mina asks, glancing down at your phone on the table. You look down too, half-expecting to see another flurry of messages from Jaehyun – he’d already sent about twenty since the morning, all going unanswered. 

“Yes,” you groan, unlocking your phone and passing it to the two girls for them to read the same desperate pleas you’d been spammed with. They scroll through, mouths slightly agape. “Should I answer? I’m worried he’s gonna end up showing up at my dorm if I don’t.”

“Here, let me answer,” Jihyo says, and you reach over and snatch the phone out of her hands before she can type. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve whatever insults she’d send his way, but that you worried any response would entice him at this point. 

To satisfy her, you finally text him back, telling him to leave you alone and that you would let him know when you were ready to talk. You truly had no idea when that would be, but any more silence from your end would inevitably have him tracking you down on campus. 

Then, you remembered the other half of the night, the part where you agreed to fake date the same man your friends had heard you complain about more than once. There was no way you were going to keep that from them, nor would you be able to, but you weren’t even sure how to approach the subject. 

Hey, by the way, I’m pretending to date that guy I hate. For the revenge plot of course.

“There’s actually something else that happened last night,” you begin, studying their reactions. They wait expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity. “Chan heard us arguing and we…talked a little.”

“Yeah, well, that sounds like Chan. He basically feeds off of Jaehyun’s misery,” Jihyo chuckles.

Mina catches onto the end of your sentence, the words you had said just a little too quickly and quietly. Intentionally so. “What do you mean you talked? You can’t stand him.”

Now, both girls are staring at you, disbelief etched on their faces. You and Chan had never talked. You insulted, glared, and mocked. Talking? They weren’t even sure you two were capable of holding a conversation without spitting names at each other.

“It’s stupid…” you trail. “He had this idea, and…I don’t know, I guess I just agreed to it because I was so angry and emotional.”

You’re stalling, obviously, and they’re growing more impatient with each delayed sentence.

“He suggested we pretend to be together to get back at Jaehyun.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Jihyo laughs, a full-body laugh that has tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Mina just blinks at you, unamused. “Y/N! You can’t make me laugh like that while I’m eating, you know,” Jihyo scolds, still releasing occasional giggles.

“You’re not joking,” Mina says flatly. “Are you?”

Realization strikes both their faces when you don’t answer, swirling your straw around absentmindedly. Next comes their looks of disapproval. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan. But what did you expect? You had just thrown into question a fact they knew more concretely than grass being green or the sky being blue: you hate Chan. So did your need for revenge trump your hatred, or was your hatred truly never that deep after all? They suspected the latter – they always did, especially when you would go on about how insufferable he was while eyeing him from across a room.

“Like what? Like you’re crazy? Because clearly, you’re crazy,” Jihyo whisper-shouts.

“And with Chan of all people, seriously?” Mina adds. 

Okay, neither of them were wrong, but they’d also never been cheated on to understand all the complex thoughts and feelings you’re experiencing right now. And yes, with Chan, because the plan simply wouldn’t work with anyone else (nor would anyone else be stupid enough to go along with it). It just had to be your ex boyfriend’s worst enemy.

“I know it’s crazy and you know I’d never agree to something like this, but – ” 

“ – but she just couldn’t resist me,” someone interjects from behind you. Then, he throws himself next to you, leaning back against the table on his elbows.

You aren’t sure how long he’s been there or how much he heard, though you guess not much since one of them definitely would have warned you. Either way, add his stupidly good timing to the list of things that piss you off about him. 

He hadn’t texted you in the morning –  not that he was supposed to, or that you expected him to –  and it almost made you wonder if the whole night was a fever dream. Evidently not, seeing as he was sitting a few inches away with a wide grin plastered on his dumb face.

“Are you stalking me across campus?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He huffs out a hollow laugh. “You wish. You guys sit in the same spot almost every day.”

Is he right? Yes. Does it make sense for him to know that? Not really. Unless he’d been paying more attention to you than you thought, which also didn’t make sense. 

“Okay, so you’re not stalking me,” you conclude. “Just watching me.”

“Why does it have to be you? There’s two other lovely ladies here.” 

“Ew,” Mina says.

“Don’t be gross,” Jihyo adds.

Now it’s your turn to laugh, though Chan is unamused. You want to poke him further, to find out why he knows the specific time and place your friends typically eat lunch, but you decide to save it for another time. Especially since those two are sitting right across from you and would hang onto every stupid thing he says, pestering you about it later. 

Chan spins forward, now facing Jihyo and Mina. “Do you girls mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?”

“I mind,” you scoff, but he ignores you entirely.

The two girls look at each other suspiciously, knowingly. Then, Mina shakes her head, basically sending you off to your demise (another uncomfortable walk with Chan  – two in less than twenty-four hours has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment). “Sure,” she shrugs. “We were just finishing up, anyways.”

Were you, though? The conversation hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down until he arrived. 

With the approval of your friends, not yours, he clasps his hand around yours and stands up, trying to bring you with him. You can’t move, you can’t function at all with his hand holding your own, and once it hits you, you yank it away from him. 

And then you stand anyway, as if your body was betraying you and doing everything your brain said not to. 

“I hope you don’t plan on hurting her, too,” Jihyo cautions, an unspoken threat behind her words. 

Her intentions are sweet, but you can’t help but feel the need to chide her for making it seem like you two are actually together.

“I’m not going to cheat on her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he jeers, picking up your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, you’re the only fake girlfriend in my life.” 

He must think he’s so funny, putting on a show in front of your friends, but you’re not laughing. However, Mina and Jihyo are. Snickering under their breath, actually, and probably going to gush all about this odd interaction after you leave. 

The three of you exchange goodbyes, Chan already walking away from the table. You have to take larger strides to catch up to him, and when you do, you reach for your bag, trying to pry it from his arm. 

“Is it going to kill you if you let me be nice and carry your stuff?” he huffs, readjusting the strap. 

“It might,” you glare, but you can tell he’s not budging, so you resign. You wait for him to speak, to offer an explanation. Instead, he scans your face like he’s looking for something beneath the surface. “Is there a reason you took me from my friends just now?” 

“Are you okay?” he asks, answering your question with…a question? So. Annoying. 

But it sounds sincere coming from him, unlike how everyone else had asked you since last night. You can tell the difference now between girls who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with Jaehyun, guys who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with you, the complete randoms who asked just to be in the know, and now…this. Someone who genuinely wanted to know if you were okay, nothing more, nothing less, no underlying motives. 

“I’m alright,” you shrug, “just numb, I think.”

He swallows hard, then nods. And suddenly the Chan you recognize is back. “Well, you look good for someone who just got cheated on.”

Maybe the compliment would have felt good if he hadn’t tacked on the last part. You had enough reminders throughout the day, so much so that your phone had been on DND for hours. And the reminders came in other forms, too, like your lonely walk to your first class in the morning, the one Jaehyun would always accompany you on. Or the song that came on shuffle that you two had once added to a shared playlist (which you now had sole custody of). 

“Do you know how to give an actual compliment?” you snap, already knowing the answer. Chan would probably drop dead before he complimented you. 

“So you’d rather I just say you look good?” he questions.

Yes, yes you most certainly would. But there was no way in hell you would tell him that and make him think his words actually mean something to you. You can just picture his smug look of satisfaction already. 

So you lie through your teeth.

“No.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, carefully mulling over what he says next. “You do though. Look good, I mean,” he states matter-of-factly. And to your surprise, he doesn’t drop dead afterwards. 

What should you say in return? Thank you? No, that implies you’re appreciative, grateful he complimented you, which you aren’t. You look good too? Absolutely not, unless you want to have him use that against you for the foreseeable future. Ew, don’t say those things? You’re not even sure you can feign disgust like that. 

You end up not saying anything at all, but your face says a lot. Too much. It heats up and your cheeks dust with red, a far worse response than any of the others you’d contemplated. 

“Aw, you’re blushing,” Chan teases, bumping against your shoulder lightly. “Getting all shy on me, where’s that smart mouth?” 

“Shut up,” you grumble, and then you realize you’ve been following him blindly for the past minutes. You see that he’s led you to the heart of campus, the vast field of green where couples, friends, and classmates alike all congregate. He heads straight for a bench, pulling you down next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“When’s your next class?” 

You don’t answer.

“You took me away from my friends to bring me here?” And then you look around, convincing yourself everyone’s eyes are on you. “People are staring.” 

He looks over at you, your bag now acting as a barrier between your bodies, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“Yeah, well, newsflash, princess. We’re doing this so they do get the wrong idea,” he reminds, tucking your bag by his side. With the new space, he hooks his arms around your thighs and shifts you towards him, pulling your legs onto the bench and draping them over his lap.

“Chan!” you hiss, trying to move, but he holds you there. 

If you thought people were staring before, they must be drilling holes through you now. Realistically, you’re just being dramatic  – everyone is too entrenched in their own problems, their own conversations, their own world to really notice you. But you know people will talk, because that’s what people do, especially when it involves two individuals who are quite well-known on campus. 

“Relax. The more obvious we make this, the quicker people will see, the quicker Jaehyun will see. And then it can all be over, right?” he explains, and you huff in response. You sit there like that long enough that it becomes comfortable, his fingers tapping idly on your leg while he scrolls on his phone. At the same time, you trace mindless shapes onto the bench, pretending you weren’t melting into him slowly. 

No.

Being like this with Chan shouldn’t feel this normal, and you refuse to accept that it does. So, naturally, you have to say something to ruin it. Almost like an innate reflex.

“I should’ve just stepped out in a revenge dress, but nooo, I had to agree to your stupidity,” you mumble. He laughs, and then his face contorts to something more serious.

“You have a revenge dress?”

He says it hopefully, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. 

“If I do,” you begin, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “you’ll never get to see it.”

His entire body deflates, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself off of him. You had a class across campus to get to and also needed a serious mental debrief to process the last twenty minutes. He hands over your bag, lifting off the bench as well. “Do you want me to like, walk you to your classes and stuff?” 

“Nope,” you decline easily. “Unless you’re willing to walk me to my 8:30 on Tuesdays.” 

It’s supposed to be a joke, and he must know it because he scoffs, shaking his head like you’d just said the most egregious thing ever. You laugh and start in the direction of your class, the feeling of his body so close to yours still lingering.

The weekend comes and goes quickly, with you swearing off any more parties for the time being despite Mina and Jihyo’s pleas. They both mention something about alcohol and loud music being the perfect remedy for a break up. But you already only really went to parties to appease your friends (and Jaehyun, previously), who dubbed them an “essential part of the college experience.” Now, you had the perfect excuse not to. Even Chan texts you to ask if you’ll be going out, though he doesn’t have nearly the same level of disappointment as your friends when you say no.

Instead, you spend your days clearing your camera roll of pictures of your cheating ex boyfriend and boxing up all the things of his you no longer wanted to have in your possession. Maybe you could get Chan to burn it all for you (except for the teddy bear, of course). 

And then Tuesday morning rolls around and there’s an incessant knocking on your door, which is not only irritating but unusual, given the time. You’re in the middle of getting dressed when you answer, top half still in a tank top, bottom half in jeans. 

This person is about to feel all your morning wrath, until you blink a few times and register that it’s Chan of all people.

“What the hell?” 

“8:30, right?” he confirms, leaning against the doorframe. 

You fold your arms across your chest, resisting his charm as best as you can. “That was a joke,” you groan, opening the door wider. “I’m not done getting ready and it’s gonna look weird if you’re waiting outside.”

He steps inside happily, immediately noticing the now barren space on your dresser. You had gotten rid of the pictures, good. He also recognizes his jacket draped along the back of your chair in a way he knows you’ve worn it, or at least moved it recently. It hangs off a little unevenly, one of the sleeves wrinkled in on itself. 

“Yeah, because it’ll look so much better if we come out of your dorm together at eight in the morning,” he chuckles while you walk into the bathroom to change shirts in peace.

“Don’t even think like that,” you shout. Then, you walk out, throwing the tank top at him (which he catches, unfortunately), feeling emboldened. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you.”

The smirk on your face is wiped away immediately when he grabs your wrist as you bend down to reach your bag. “Yeah? Do you know that?” he whispers. His whole demeanor shifts, gaze intense, grip strong but not painful. You attempt to force out a stammered reply, but admittedly, you’re flustered. Your own body is a traitor, clearly. 

Thankfully, he releases your wrist and breaks the tension with a devilish laugh. “You’re so easy to fuck with,” he says, sounding completely like his usual irksome self. 

Now that you had a glimpse of a different, enticing side of Chan, you craved more and hated yourself for it. After all, you had just said you would never fuck him. And you wouldn’t. 

But can’t a girl just think about it?

You grabbed your bag successfully this time and slipped on a pair of shoes, heading out the door with him right behind. 

“So why did you do this, exactly?” you question, still fighting off sleep yourself. 

“When I commit to something, I go hard,” he explains, though it sounds like a double entendre. “So if we’re going to fake date, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had.”

How wonderful. You thought you were agreeing to get revenge against Jaehyun, not to fuel Chan’s ego. Maybe you’d need another fake boyfriend down the line just to knock him from the top spot.

“Well, good thing we probably won’t need to keep this up for very long. I’ve already had people text me asking what’s going on between us,” you click your tongue. “No Jaehyun though.”

“Poor guy’s probably losing his mind thinking his fuck-up made you realize you had repressed feelings for me all along.”

“Oh, I had feelings for you?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That’s how my story goes, anyways.”

When you make it outside, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you just a little bit closer. And now that you understand there’s no reasoning with him, you let him. It’s too early to argue, anyways, but you still roll your eyes where he can’t see. 

“God, you’re insufferable. Can’t even give me some dignity in our fake love story,” you sneer. 

“Okay, fine, I had feelings for you,” he relents, and for a second, it sounds like a fact, not a fabrication. “That sound better?”

You hum in approval, satisfied with the change. Whether he would actually follow through with it, you weren’t sure. 

“So, are you gonna stay cooped up in your dorm this weekend, or are you going out?” Chan wonders, seemingly forgetting why you didn’t want to go to another party in the first place. They were kind of ruined for you at the moment, especially when you never really enjoyed them to begin with. 

“I’m put off of parties for a while,” you wave your hands. “And I need to study, anyway.” 

He squeezes your shoulder, displeased with your answer. “C’mon, Y/N, don’t let him ruin your fun,” he urges.

It was too late for that, though; all “fun” had been sucked out the moment you caught your boyfriend sucking face, and you knew he would probably be there, too. Just because he was playing the regretful, devastated ex in your texts didn’t mean he was depriving himself of his favorite pastime. You wouldn’t even be surprised if one of his “please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I miss you so much” texts had come while he was balls-deep in another woman.

“I’ll have plenty of fun in the library, thank you,” you shoot back.

“Oh? In public? Wow, princess, I didn’t know you were into stuff like that,” he grins, and you shove his arm off of you, staring at him in disgust.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking freak!”

“I’m the freak? You’re the one that’s going to – ”

“Chan. Stop talking.”

“Okay, okay,” he throws his hands up defensively. “But just so you know, I don’t judge, and if you want some company…”

Fuck this smug bastard, and more importantly, fuck the way he was starting to get into your head. 

The rest of the walk is relatively normal, at least in the sense there’s no more talk about public sex, and you reach your class promptly at 8:28. 

“Well, have a good day,” he says a little awkwardly. “Let me know when you’re planning on grabbing lunch?”

“Unlikely,” you scoff, leaving him open-mouthed as you head inside.

So how you end up with Mina, Jihyo, and Chan at your usual lunch spot, you’re not sure. 

“You guys missed it. Then she goes ‘fuck you, Jaehyun!’ and he looked terrified,” Chan laughs, and your friends join in, loving the cheater lashings. 

“He did not look terrified,” you correct. 

“She’s being modest. Even I felt a little intimidated,” he draws in a sharp breath, “but it was kinda hot, too.”

You’re not sure where that came from, and you kick his foot under the table where Mina and Jihyo can’t see. In return, he places his hand on your thigh, squeezing. 

“You guys sure you’re faking this?” Jihyo questions, her chin resting on her hand while her eyes flicker between the two of you. Like she would be able to figure you out if she just looked hard enough. Impossible, considering you couldn’t even figure out what was going on at this point. He was still annoying, painfully so, but he was also alluring, and the heat between your legs was starting to do most of the thinking.

“Yes,” you and Chan say simultaneously, almost rehearsed. 

“Right,” Mina nods, drawing out the word. “As long as you believe that.”

His hand moves now, rubbing along your thigh softly, and you have to grit your teeth to not snap at him. “I do believe it, because it’s true,” you say harshly (but not convincingly). “I’d rather drink a jean jacket through a fucking straw than actually date him.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his wandering hand; in fact, it only pushes him further, now sliding lower until his fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh. You shift awkwardly, keeping your eyes locked on your friends. You wouldn’t let him see that he was undoing you. 

“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but a jean jacket through a straw is insane,” he smirks, finding enjoyment in your fidgeting. 

“Then I guess it does a good job of conveying how much I can’t stand you.”

This time, you do snap your head towards him, eyes shooting daggers into him. They gave a silent warning, a threat he didn’t quite think you truly meant. After all, your body had a different message with the way your thighs clenched and shoulders stiffened. 

“So sweet, isn’t she?” Chan smiles sarcastically, drawing his hand back. And you’re grateful – at least, that’s what you tell yourself, ignoring the small voice that said you wanted more. He reads something on his phone before typing quickly and rising from his seat. 

“Anyway, thanks for the invite Y/N, but Minho’s locked himself out of the apartment, so I’ve gotta swing by before class,” he sighs dramatically.

“I absolutely didn’t invite you.”

“Sure you didn’t,” he winks, already gone before you can argue. 

Once he’s out of earshot, Jihyo groans, covering her face with her hands. “God, I think if I’m subjected to that level of sexual tension again, I’ll actually pass away,” she huffs, muffled. 

Bad time to take a sip of your drink. 

“Sexual tension?!” you repeat, nearly choking, completely stunned by her words. 

“We weren’t sure of it when you were with Jaehyun, but now it practically radiates through the air whenever you’re around each other. It’s suffocating,” Mina agrees, only adding to your embarrassment. Your face is heating up quickly, and it makes it hard to deny their accusations. 

“Can you just hate-fuck and get it over with? Maybe you’ll find out you actually do get along in some ways,” Jihyo adds, exasperated. 

You laugh dryly. “Oh my god, do you guys hear yourselves? I’m not having sex with Chan, that’s disgusting.”

“Well then can you two at least not make lunch feel like the build-up of a porno?”

Needless to say you would be informing him he could not join you and your friends for lunch anymore, lest you get lectured again on your “radiating” sexual tension. 

By the time Friday comes, things have quieted. Chan listens when you tell him Mina and Jihyo requested your lunches stay reserved for the three of you (it’s not quite true, but the best excuse you could come up with without mentioning that your friends think you two want to fuck each other). So, you don’t see him much, aside from the couple of times he shows up outside your classes.

His texts, however, are frequent. They’ve developed into something expected, a normal part of your days. You talk about mundane things like grades and annoying lab partners. You talk about personal things like favorite songs and future goals. Each conversation is still filled with sarcastic quips and quick insults, but they don’t hold the same edge they once did. It felt more like comfort – like if you kept up the hatred act, you could protect yourself from what it was becoming.

And at the same time, the texts from Jaehyun had resumed because, although he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he had heard that you and Chan were seen together. On multiple occasions. He had even shown up at your dorm finally (the week of freedom you’d had was far longer than you’d expected), and you had slammed the door in his face, telling him it wasn’t any of his business who you hung out with anymore. 

After that encounter, you were grateful for some peace – which was becoming rare in your life – throwing yourself nose-deep in your notebook. With your headphones on and such intense focus, you don’t notice anyone else’s presence.

Until someone makes their presence impossible to ignore. 

“Hey, princess,” Chan greets, a cup of coffee in hand. He slips into the seat in front of you, placing the cup down and sliding it over. You have to pull your headphones back to hear him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

He shrugs. “You said you were studying, I thought I would bring you some coffee to help your brain.”

He says it so calmly, and you have to fight against the way your heart swells at the simple act of service. Though really, it wasn’t so simple, because this was Chan showing up to the library unannounced on a Friday night, when he would usually be far away from anything academic. For you.

“Well, thanks, because I feel like my brain has basically disintegrated,” you complain, taking a sip. It was your favorite, too – he must’ve asked Mina or Jihyo for your order. “Did you skip out on the party?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. Kinda just wanted to chill tonight. I thought a library date might be fun,” he muses.

You scoff, watching his lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Date?” 

Chan blinks at you like you’ve wounded him, although you know it’s all part of his (perfected) act to get into your head. 

“You wouldn’t call it that?” he says, disappointedly, leaning his head against the palm of his hand. 

“No, I’d call it me studying for hours and losing my mind and you showing up uninvited.”

He points behind him with his thumb, turning halfway in his seat, an empty threat. “So, should I leave then?” he challenges.

This is probably the part where you should say yes. You should demand it, actually. But he had brought you coffee, liquid gold for your overloaded brain, and the chances of him listening to your request were slim to none regardless. 

“It’s fine,” you concede, hoping it sounded indifferent. You even shift your focus back to your laptop to play up the act, writing down “notes” that don’t quite make sense. Chan accepts this, tapping his fingers on the table obnoxiously, purposely so. After a few minutes, he straightens in his chair, leaning forward against the table.

“I must say,” he whispers, “I’m a little disappointed to find you actually studying. You had my hopes up the other day.”

It takes you a moment to recall that conversation, and once you do, the realization spreads across your face in red hues. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” you frown.

And there may have been something seriously wrong with you for enjoying it.

“Maybe. But I think you like it. You were basically writhing when I touched you at lunch.”

Now you know you definitely should have told him to leave. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, in that way that could drive you crazy if you let it (which you weren’t). 

“No, I wasn’t,” you argue weakly.

He finds your denial cute, truly, since he remembers your body’s responsiveness so vividly. It was essentially engrained in his mind, spinning it in circles. He could elicit that reaction from just touching your clothed thigh, and it made him feel powerful. And curious.

“Oh, you weren’t?” he chuckles. “So if I come sit next to you now, that’d be fine? And if I touch you like that again, you wouldn’t start to melt under my fingers?”

“I did not melt under your fingers.”

“But you would have,” he says confidently. He drops his voice to a whisper again. “If your friends weren’t there, and I kept going, you would have.”

You’re staring at each other now, wondering who will break first, though his eyes shine with excitement and yours narrow with annoyance. Or rather, desire that you try to disguise as annoyance. 

“You think too highly of yourself,” you snort, scribbling gibberish into the margin of your notebook. 

He releases a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to think it,” he corrects. “You’ve shown me.”

You snap now, slamming your laptop shut a little too aggressively. Because you refused to allow him to continue talking with so much confidence, like he knew what you were thinking better than you did.

“I’m sorry, did you forget the part where none of this is real? All of your little touches and stupid remarks have nothing to do with what we agreed on.”

But your boldness only encourages him, biting his lip subconsciously. “No, they don’t. That’s just for my enjoyment. Like I said, you’re easy to fuck with.”

“That's why you decided to come see me in the library on a Friday night instead of going out? To ‘fuck with me?’” you say pointedly, to emphasize how unreasonable it sounded. 

“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave.”

“I asked a question.”

Chan drags his hand along his face, suddenly far less arrogant. For once, he looked like he was struggling to conjure up a smart response. And he was. But you were refusing to back down, finally having a sense of control. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you glare at him. “Really, I don’t. I just wanted to see you.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t be dumb.”

Because there was no way he meant it. Or maybe you had misheard him entirely. But his whole demeanor had changed, and you no longer recognized the Chan that sat before you without his smugness.

“Right. If I tease you, I’m ‘insufferable,’” he recites, “if I’m honest with you, I’m dumb. Tell me, princess, what can I do then?”

You swallow harshly, trying to ignore what his words entailed. Honest. He said that he wanted to see you and he meant it. The air around you had shifted now, thicker, heavier, falling on your chest in a way that almost made your voice get caught in your throat.

“Are you fucking with me again?” you grimace, waiting for him to laugh in your face. To snap back into the version of him you’re familiar with.

But he doesn’t laugh. “You tell me. Am I?”

“You can’t do that!” you groan, exasperated. “You can’t say these things and then act all cryptic after.”

You cross your arms across your chest, and he relents. “Okay. Yes, I wanted to see you. Is that bad?”

“Yes.”

Yes, it was bad. Very bad, actually. Because you were supposed to hate him, and you thought he hated you. Because none of this was supposed to be real, and once you’d gotten vengeance against your shitty ex boyfriend (however dramatic it may be), things would go on like nothing had ever happened.

But is that what you wanted? It should be. It had to be. 

“Huh. I guess I don’t care,” he breathes. “Do you?”

He awaits your answer, though he already knows what it will be. You had become easy for him to read now; he had studied you like you were his favorite subject. The unsolved puzzle he had finally pieced together. 

And though you try to force yourself to lie and say yes, you simply cannot. All your resolve has vanished since he made such an unexpected confession, leaving you dazed.

“No,” you mumble, and your breath hitches. 

His smirk returns, though it’s different now. Less of an attempt to get under your skin, more of an acknowledgement that one day he’ll get to touch every inch of it. 

“Didn’t think so,” he reaches across the table, trailing his fingers along your hand. You snatch it back, ignoring his snickers. 

He would be the death of you, you were certain. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking that it may not be such a terrible way to go out.

Neither of you are sure how to proceed after that night in the library, an obvious tension lingering between the two of you. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to address it, but you were growing exhausted with pretending that it had never happened. 

It seemed like Chan was perfectly content with that, however. He hadn’t even mentioned it once, continuing to text you and show up outside your dorm and classes like it was all still part of a plan. And maybe it was. Maybe he was a great liar, but that didn’t explain the rift that had settled between you two. If he had lied that night, why could he hardly meet your eyes now?

You didn’t ask, because you feared the answer – both possibilities. Though when you turned to Mina and Jihyo for advice, they were adamant. They were convinced they were right all along, that there was a budding romance beneath the hatred. So, it was quite hard to get any sort of unbiased guidance from them. This was something you’d have to navigate on your own.

And by navigate, you meant continuing to avoid it. Hopefully Chan would crack before you did.

After almost two weeks of letting the unspoken words nearly suffocate you, you had begun to believe you really would have to forget it had ever happened. If he wanted to speak on it, he would. Nevermind that he could say the same thing about you; it was him that had started it, so he had to be the one to acknowledge it. It was only fair.

Your phone rings in the middle of the afternoon, during your thirty minute interval between classes. It’s Chan, which isn’t the surprising part (he had learned your entire schedule by now). 

“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he says only a few seconds after you pick up. 

You roll your eyes, hardly registering his proposal. “A ‘hello’ might be nice.”

“Hi,” he utters. “Let me take you to dinner.”

If you agree too easily, he’ll know you had been waiting for him to say something like this. And with how straightforwardly he had asked (or stated, rather), he clearly expected your agreement. You could make him grovel just a little bit. 

“You wanna see me again?” you quip, the most you’d allude to the library incident. 

But Chan could match your attitude ten times over, so he has a quick retort. “I just figured if we go to dinner you could post a picture on your story, really commit to the bit,” he explains flatly, and then laughs when you’re silent. “What? You wanted me to say I want to see you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You said you wouldn’t,” he reminds. “Remember?”

If he could see you, he would undoubtedly point out how flustered you were, then follow it up with a dumb joke about how the offer was always open. And you would have to hold back from taking him up on it. 

“Really doing a good job of making me want to say yes,” you chide.

“Please let me take you to dinner. I’ve been thinking about our library date, and I wanna take you on a real one.”

You huff loud enough for him to hear over the phone. “That wasn’t a date,” you correct. “And I’m busy tonight.”

A lie, but he didn’t need to know that yet. There’s shuffling on his end, and then his voice comes out sharply. 

“Busy with what?”

“That’s really none of your concern,” you can’t help but grin at your own mischief. “But if you must know, I’m seeing someone tonight.”

“Y/N,” he growls, and it’s hot. You try to imagine the look on his face (why couldn’t he have FaceTimed you?), and it makes you weak. 

“So, what time are you picking me up?” you ask, voice syrupy sweet despite your antics. Like honey masking poison. 

He exhales loudly, and you can hear all the unease release from his body. If he was going to be so wound up about you even potentially seeing someone else, why had he taken so long to address your ever-present tension?

Maybe he was just as confused as you. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “I’ll be there at seven.”

He hangs up before you can hound him about the first half, not even sparing a second to confirm the time. No, you don’t know what you do to him, but it was inevitable that you would find out. And he would make sure that you understood to the fullest extent. 

It’s difficult for you to decide on an outfit for dinner with Chan, one, because you’re still tossing with the idea internally and two, because you aren’t sure what’s an “appropriate” amount of dressed-up. If you look too good, he’ll think you’re trying too hard to impress him, and you’ll never hear the end of that.

Though, you had already agreed to going to dinner with him, so you probably wouldn’t hear the end of that, either.

Mina and Jihyo choose an outfit over FaceTime (and so kindly remind you to “at least make him wear a condom”), one that teeters right in the middle of simple and dressy, and you’ve fixed your hair at least a dozen times by the time he’s knocking on your door.

When you open it, he stares at you, and then tears his eyes away to roam all over your body. He draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Wow,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful.”

The compliment comes with no snarky follow-up, and he doesn’t even tease you when you feel your face heating up. He takes your hand and holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you; you would have never taken him for such a gentleman.

He doesn’t tell you which restaurant he’s picked, but the drive isn’t long before you arrive and are seated, his hand finding its way back to yours while you walk through the aisles.

As you sit there scanning the menu, you can’t help but realize you’re at fucking dinner with Bang Christopher Chan. And he’s staring at you like you wouldn’t notice.

“What?” you question, and he drops his head, chuckling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just can’t believe how much things have changed.”

“You’re still annoying, don’t get it twisted.”

“Yeah, well, you still agreed to get dinner with me,” he shrugs.

He thinks he’s won with that, turning his attention to the menu. But even if he’s right, you aren’t letting him shame you so easily. “You would’ve begged me if I didn’t,” you smirk.

His eyes snap back to yours, the mischievous glint forcing him to fight back the more impure thoughts. “You know, that mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”

“Yeah? By who?”

“Careful, Y/N,” he warns, words coming out through clenched teeth. 

You flash him an exaggerated smile, thanking the waitress when she returns with your drinks, and Chan curses himself for being turned on by how quickly you switch from a temptress to the sweetest angel. He stumbles over his words while giving his order, and you giggle softly without even knowing you’re the cause of it. 

Considering Chan had brought you to dinner, you felt confident enough to bring up the subject of what the hell was going on between you two. Specifically the Friday night you’d left unaddressed. “So, is it finally time we talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“This,” you motion between the two of you.

He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “We’re having dinner,” he replies coyly.

You figure admonishing him for his feigned ignorance won’t bring you closer to an answer, so instead you push further. 

“But why?”

“I told you, you can post it on your story or whatever. I’m sure Jaehyun still stalks your socials.”

You’d seen quite a few random spam names in your story viewers, so you knew it to be true, but you also knew that couldn’t be his reasoning. 

“You also told me you wanted to take me on a ‘real date,’” you mention, and he throws his head back against the booth.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just have a nice dinner and worry about the semantics later?”

Obviously, the answer was a resounding no, which he should have expected since he understood your stubbornness better than anyone. “Oh, for you to pretend it never happened and leave me wondering for weeks? Sure thing, Chan,” you sneer.

You probably should have excluded the part where you admitted you’d still been thinking about that night, because he latches onto it and uses it to evade answering any more questions.

“I really get in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he grins.

“Or maybe I get in yours,” you shoot back. “What did you say? Something about ‘I don’t know what I do to you’?”

He rubs his jaw, exhaling through his nose loudly. Because you really didn’t know what you do to him.

“Princess, you don’t get into my head. You’ve never fucking left it.”

Your food is brought over moments later, right on cue, leaving you sitting idly, stunned. Chan pretends not to notice, already moving past his previous admission. 

“God, I am starving,” he groans. He takes a bite of his meal, and then blinks at you when you haven’t even slightly shifted. “What’s wrong? You wanna take that picture for your story now?” 

If you heard the word “story” one more time, you were convinced you’d actually implode. And you’d take him with you, just to annoy him in the afterlife. 

“Don’t do that,” you hiss. “Don’t act clueless.”

“Well sorry for trying to be a believable fake boyfriend.”

Nothing about this felt fake anymore, and when he says it, it feels like a harsh reminder. That vicious awakening from the middle of a good dream, pulled to the surface of reality when you’re in such a deep slumber. 

“That’s all you are, right? My fake boyfriend? So why do you say and do all these things that make it feel so real?” you demand. 

Your meals are all but forgotten now, and the booths around you are probably getting more of your argument than any of you would like. You swear you can see the lady in the booth to your right staring at you and then leaning over to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Hopefully she’d give her some advice to never get involved with idiotic men like Chan. 

He rubs his temples, growing more exhausted by the minute. “I’m trying to figure that out. I came up with a stupid plan, and somewhere along the way the lines got blurred.”

“You blurred them!” you whisper-shout, eyes widening in disbelief.

“You let me,” he says simply, and you can’t deny it. Though he’s still far more culpable for your current situation. “Listen, we can talk about it more on the way home, yeah?”

It’s his cop-out, and you should know this, yet you relent anyway. You aren’t surprised when he refuses to discuss it further in the car, either, and when he tries to put his hand on your thigh, you push it away. 

He deserves that, but it still makes him sulk internally. If he couldn’t offer you answers, you wouldn’t offer him any more of yourself. At least, you’d try your best not to (easy to say, harder to do). 

When he drops you off, you hardly give him a goodbye, so he knows he’s fucked up. His chest tightens at the thought of not being able to make it right. Of letting you go without telling you everything he’s been thinking for the last month. 

He isn’t even sure you’ll give him another chance, but he figures he needs to sort his mind out before he faces you again, for both of your sakes. 

The texts slow and then stop altogether, and you don’t see him at all for another week. Maybe you had pushed him enough that he had been scared off (still, he could at least fake break up with you). Though you had never taken Chan for someone who could be scared of anything, especially with his constant arrogance. 

“That’s just how men are. They run when shit gets too real,” Jihyo says, fixing her top. 

The three of you were currently getting ready in your dorm, because the minute you had texted the groupchat stating that you were desperate for a night out, they were basically busting your door down. And you couldn’t blame them, because you were never the one to initiate, but right now, it seems like the only distraction you have left. 

“I think he’s just a little confused,” Mina adds with more eloquence. “I mean, do you even know what you want?”

“Yes,” you grin. “I want to go out, have a good time, and forget about all of this.”

Mina rolls her eyes at your avoidance, and Jihyo clutches her heart dramatically. “My Y/N is so back, I could cry right now.”

You know very well that a party is not the magical cure for all your problems – in fact, it’s the indirect cause of nearly all of them – but your other option was to spend another weekend in your dorm preparing an internal monologue about Chan’s cowardice. So, yes, you were going to a party. 

“You know they’re both probably going to be there, right?” Mina advises. Both of the banes of your existence, though for drastically different reasons. 

“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I won’t even notice that they’re there”

Between the three of you, there’s not a soul that believes your lie, but nobody questions it. 

Though perhaps they should have, because maybe it would have made you reconsider before you ended up in your current situation. Which was searching through a sea of bodies for one particular person, even if you weren’t sure what you would do if you found him. 

Mina notices, too, watching as your eyes sweep all along the room while nodding every once in a while, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. You really hadn’t caught a single word she’d said for the past three minutes. 

And although there were plenty of people there, you were confident you’d be able to spot Chan out of a crowd. But so far, there was no sign of him, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed. 

Unfortunately, however, you had spotted Jaehyun. In the back of the room, looking completely untouched, sipping on a drink with his friends on one side and a girl on the other. But he looked disinterested, not paying her any mind, nodding along indifferently. He looked like you, searching for someone amidst the chaos.

“Y/N!” Mina barks, and you turn to her immediately. “Are you even listening at all?”

“Uh, yeah,” you lie. 

She throws her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Really? So what do you think, should I go over there and talk to him?”

She points to the left of you, but there’s at least five guys in the general vicinity she could be referring to. Of course, you’d know who she meant if you hadn’t been so checked out while looking for Chan.

“Um, who?” you ask carefully, and she groans, frustrated. “I’m sorry! I think I need another drink. To clear my head.”

You take off for the kitchen before she can argue, the counters covered in discarded solo cups and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Tempting. Instead, you open the fridge, pulling out one of the remaining unopened cans. 

When you turn around, you’re stuck in place, a firm chest blocking you from walking away. You’re about to complain, to remind whoever it is that there’s a thing called personal space, but one look up has the words refusing to come out. It’s Jaehyun, of course. 

“Y/N,” he falters, studying your face as if he’d forgotten your features. 

Your heart races, not from anything other than the discomfort of confronting someone who you once thought the world of.

“Leave me alone, Jaehyun,” you spit, and he steps back, granting you some space and the freedom to walk away if you so choose. But you don’t, not yet. 

He takes note of your stillness, encouraging him to speak again. “I will,” he nods. “But you haven’t given me a chance to explain, and I need you to know how much I regret what I did.”

“Yeah, well, good for you.”

He sighs, and a quiet moment passes between you, one that makes you picture him kissing that girl all over again. 

“Are you with him?” he asks, under his breath. You stare at him with feigned confusion, lips pressed in a taut line. This time, he speaks louder, intentionally. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N, please. Are you with Chan?”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t. But I owe you an explanation, and if you’re with Chan…” he trails, and it sends you over the edge. You tell yourself your anger rises up solely because of Jaehyun, but it’s undeniable that half of it comes from all you’d bottled up during the days without Chan around.

“Then what? Then it doesn’t matter? You cheating on me just gets justified because I’m with Chan?” you snap, voice increasing in volume with each word. “Guess what, Jaehyun, your fuck-up is to blame for all of it.”

Even with the thumping music, your voice carries throughout the room, and a few people glance over, intrigued. Someone pushes through the crowd, entering the kitchen right as Jaehyun opens his mouth to argue back.

“Is everything okay over here?”

Both of you look over, though you don’t need to to recognize the voice. It had become your favorite, even when it was teasing you or whispering innuendos just to unnerve you. 

“Chan,” you whisper, and he heads straight for you, ignoring Jaehyun’s unwavering glare. 

In a few quick steps, he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him like he hadn’t ignored you for a week. “Hey, baby. Are you alright?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Baby. That was a new one. He had called you princess more times than you could count, but it had started as a taunt and never really felt like anything more than that. Baby, however, had your heart pounding and mind racing. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you swallow, finding more interest in the ground now. For a second, you forget all about Jaehyun in front of you, and it reminds you that Chan’s actions are probably directly correlated. After all, the original plan was to get back at Jaehyun, and what better moment than right now? The final act to your months-long play.

“So you two are together,” Jaehyun concludes, frowning.

“Don’t look so upset,” Chan grins wickedly. “I’ll treat her better than you ever could.”

Try not to take his words seriously, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. This is all for show. But as always, he makes them sound real, adding a layer of intensity you can’t ignore. 

“You’re not good enough for her.”

You’re about to chime in, to remind him he has no say in what or who is good enough for you, and that it was rich hearing that from him of all people.  

“And you were?” Chan laughs humorlessly. “C’mon, baby, let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He squeezes your shoulder, looking down at you, waiting for your agreement. And as you glance between him and Jaehyun, something takes over you entirely. You pull his face towards yours, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. When he closes the final inches, your eyes flutter closed, his lips crashing onto yours.

It’s quick, soft, restrained, and not at all like what you expected (or wanted) kissing Chan to be, but it serves its purpose. 

Jaehyun stands there, wordlessly, the most satisfying look of outrage plastered on his face. Chan sees it, too, a small chuckle leaving his parted lips. He’ll probably burn the image in his mind to remember it whenever he needs a pick-me-up. 

And while you’re a blend of emotions between the kiss, facing Jaehyun, and Chan’s declaration, you keep yourself together for now, yanking Chan’s hand to lead him away. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You maneuver through bodies, making it to a noticeably more empty section of the house before you finally release his hand. If you’re lucky, he’ll go back to ignoring you, and you won’t have to discuss whatever just unfolded.

Unfortunately, you haven’t had much luck recently.

“Bold move there, baby,” he quips.

There it was again. Only this time, Jaehyun’s not around, so there’s no explaining away the pet name. Does that make it better or worse? You aren’t sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble, “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”

Your night out had been ruined, and you swore you’d be done with parties for good. At least in your dorm you could save yourself from running face to face with anyone who either cheated on you or refused to share their feelings. 

“I’ll take you home,” Chan states, not offers. 

“I’m not getting in a car with you. You’ve been drinking.” 

It was an assumption, but a reasonable one. Though clearly incorrect, because he quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head immediately. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, actually,” he refutes, now pulling his keys out of his pocket and swinging them around his finger. 

So much for that excuse. 

“Whatever.”

He takes this as your reluctant surrender, now grabbing your hand and leading you to his car which was only a little ways down the street. And despite the kiss, you still had nothing to say to him –  or rather, way too much to say to him, and no desire to say it if he wouldn’t talk first. So a thick silence falls between you, leaving you with just the lingering feeling of his lips on yours.

“Quiet today,” he comments, stealing a glance you don’t return. You keep your head pressed against the window, a dull headache already forming from the night’s events and the alcohol. 

“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble. 

His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I know,” he mutters. 

“And I think I hate you again.”

“Well, the ‘again’ gives me some hope,” the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Means I had you on my side for a little, at least.”

“You did. Until you wouldn’t talk to me and ran like a coward,” you insult, watching his shoulders drop and smile fade as fast as it had come. You almost regret saying it. Because all your insults before had been quick, meaningless jabs that he could brush off. This one came with intent, a bitterness that wouldn’t be forgotten seconds later. 

“Yeah, I deserve that,” he sighs. “We’ll talk soon, okay? When you’re not tipsy and overwhelmed.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say flatly, still not lifting your head from the glass. 

He reaches across the console for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I mean it this time. Because I’ve been going crazy without you. And that kiss just sealed the deal.”

“Please,” you scoff, forced. “It was hardly a kiss.” Hardly. Your minimization of it wasn’t wrong in a literal sense; it was short-lived, lacking the passion you knew you both had within. But regardless, it had completely hijacked your brain, so clearly it wasn’t hardly anything. 

“I know. That’s the problem. I need more.”

Now, you turn towards him, trying to decipher his expression. It’s unreadable for once, devoid of that familiar smirk. You want to tell him if he needs more to take it, that he can have everything he wants if he just says the words. But those words don’t come, not tonight, and you close your eyes against the window once more.

Before you leave for your dorm, he reaches for your hand again, pulling it to his lips. 

“Soon, I promise.”

You nod, trying to believe him, though you wonder if it would hurt less if you don’t. 

You didn’t particularly like loose ends.

That’s why after weeks of dangling a fake relationship in Jaehyun’s face and the culmination of it all at the party the night prior, you decided to confront him fully and at least hear what he had to say before you closed the chapter for good. You didn’t owe that to him, certainly not, but you felt like you owed it to yourself. An explanation for why he did it to quell the thoughts that had never completely gone away. Which he also said he owed you, anyways. 

And perhaps this was all amplified by the fact that most of the day had passed and there was no text, no call, no anything from Chan. He had only said “soon,” not “tomorrow,” but still. Some form of acknowledgement would be enough to placate you, but he hadn’t even spared you that.

So, with a final layer of lipgloss, you considered your makeup complete and mentally prepared yourself for the impending doom. You looked irresistible at least, everything Jaehyun could never have again. 

But nothing could ever go to plan (once again, luck hadn’t exactly been on your side), so you aren’t shocked when a knock on your door disrupts your evening. 

“Hi, princess,” Chan grins when you swing it open. Then, his eyes trail down your body, tugging his lip between his teeth subconsciously. “You look good.”

Well fuck. Why did he have to show up now? A text in advance might have saved you from unintentionally double-booking yourself, or maybe you’re at fault for assuming Chan was ghosting you again today.

“Thanks,” you smile half-heartedly, heading back to your mirror to look yourself over once more. It’s far too awkward to face Chan knowing you’re about to go see your ex, especially when you and Chan had almost established…something. Something real, beyond the pseudo-relationship. 

He senses that you’re withholding something, watching you suspiciously. “Going out?” he questions, and you curse under your breath. Bracing for the storm.

“Something like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His tone is already accusatory and you hadn’t even dropped the bomb yet, so you really had to prepare yourself for his reaction. At best, he would storm out and you could deal with it later, after you had dealt with Jaehyun. At worst, you’d have a full-blown argument in your dorm right before the other inevitable argument you’d have with Jaehyun. 

“I’m going over to Jaehyun’s,” you say softly, guilt washing over you when his face drops instantly. But you didn’t need to feel guilty – you were allowed to seek closure, especially when Chan hadn’t yet granted you transparency. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you were making the right choice.

Chan’s blood runs cold, and he waits for you to laugh in his face, to tell him how dumb he looks when he’s angry. Something snarky, something annoying. Something. Anything. He doesn’t care, as long as it means you aren’t currently getting dolled up to go see your cheating fuck of an ex boyfriend.

Instead, you say nothing, shifting on your feet uncomfortably.

“Y/N, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m just hearing him out,” you say flatly. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“No, it’s not a crime, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re looking like that to go ‘hear him out?’”

You look down at yourself, a lacy bodysuit and skirt adorning your body – not to appeal to him, not at all, but to remind him what he had lost. Was it a little melodramatic? Maybe. Were you allowed to be melodramatic when confronting someone who had made you question if you weren’t enough? Definitely.

“Yes! What’s wrong with that?!” 

“Everything is wrong with that!”

“Oh my god, Chan, you got what you wanted,” you throw your hands up in frustration, “I’m sure you’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw us kiss last night.”

“You think his face is what I was thinking about after we kissed, Y/N?” he asks incredulously. “I was thinking about you, only you, and how right it felt.”

Was this his confession? It was beginning to feel like it. If only it hadn’t come at such a horrible time and in such a horrible way, maybe you would be happier. Now, the words sucked the air out of your lungs, leaving you speechless and uncertain. 

“So fuck what I wanted back then. What I want right now is for you to realize you deserve better than someone who broke your heart and your trust in the worst way possible,” he finishes, holding himself back from pulling you into his arms and screaming that it’s him. He’s the one who will give you everything you deserve; he’ll make it his life’s purpose to do so.

“I’m just hearing him out,” you repeat again, emphatically, though no matter how true it was or how believable you made it sound, Chan refuses to accept it. 

“Right,” he scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you two all over each other in the corner of every party again.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already heading for the door, unable to take another second of seeing your face and knowing you won’t be his. 

“Hope it works out, Y/N.”

The door rattles as he slams it shut, and the room feels colder, emptier. And not just because of Chan’s physical absence, but because of what it entails. The same man who you hated - and who you swore hated you - had made you feel more seen and valued in not even two months than Jaehyun had in nine. He had put more effort into a fake relationship than Jaehyun had put in a real one. You were letting that go for some semblance of closure from someone who broke you.

Previously, you had tried to convince yourself your feelings had never become real. That of course your heart would beat a little faster when Chan would remember things about you, that of course you would like the way pet names fell from his lips, that of course you couldn’t stop thinking about him in every single way possible, from pure to downright filthy. This all made sense, of course, because he was the hot guy you were faking a relationship with. It had nothing to do with Chan, and everything to do with your body and mind being too receptive of what you’d been deprived of before.

But you simply couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. And that’s why, for once, you knew what you needed to do. You type out another message to Jaehyun, deliberating each word carefully. It would be the last you’d ever give him, at least in this capacity, where he still felt like he had a small chance at getting you back.

actually, i’m not coming over. i thought about it, and nothing you say can make me forget what you did…i didn’t deserve that, jaehyun.

i know what i deserve now.

i hope you learn from this and treat the next girl better. 

His texts come in quick succession, frantic pleas and apologies and then the angry ones regarding Chan. You don’t answer him or even give him the solace of knowing you’d read them. Instead, you turn your phone on DND and throw it behind you, hoping it’ll get lost in your bed sheets. 

And though you’ve done the right thing, there’s still the unavoidable grief over something that once was. The only person you want comfort from right now is Chan, but you know you should give yourself the space to reflect and process properly. He probably wants some time away from you, anyways. 

So you don’t call or text him. You avoid all the spots you know he frequents. You make yourself as nonexistent to him as possible. And worst of all, he doesn’t even come searching. 

There’s no way for you to know how badly he wants to see your name pop up at the top of his screen, or how he waits for you outside the library on days he knows you usually study. You don’t know that he stayed up late that first night, hoping you’d call him. Each notification made his heart jump, and after the eighth one that wasn’t from you, he finally turned his phone off completely. 

He didn’t want space, nor time. He wanted you. And beyond that, he wanted you to know you deserved more - that he would give you more. But he can’t fault you for any of this; he can only blame himself for not telling you sooner. 

When a week goes by and it’s still silence on your end, he figures you’d forgiven Jaehyun and taken him back. And that’s just something he’d have to live with. 

The days pass by slowly, monotonously, and though you argue with Mina and Jihyo that it’s healing, they complain that you’re just wallowing in needless despair (“Girl, get your man,” had been the phrase of the week). 

And you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to face him after the way you’d left things. There was a gnawing worry that he wouldn’t answer your calls or texts, so you don’t even try. No, you decide you’ll just have to show up at his apartment, and yes at nine o’clock at night, because you couldn’t put it off any longer. The yearning was almost consuming you. 

Though Chan had been to your dorm multiple times, you had never been to his apartment; it was way less convenient to go off-campus where he lived. You had to get Chan’s address from his roommate, Minho, who you had already known from a shared class last semester. And he had also texted you a few times begging you to do something about Chan’s moping, because it was “making his life miserable.” 

While it was off-campus, it wasn’t far, and your determination was enough to ward off the apprehension of walking alone at night (though Chan would definitely not be pleased). Still, you kept Jihyo on the phone for the whole fifteen minutes, slight reassurance for both of you. 

You can barely bring yourself to knock when you arrive, feeling much less composed now that you were actually there, separated from Chan by only a door and thin walls. Your fist meets the wood without you fully realizing it, and it swings open with ferocity moments later. 

“Hi,” you choke out, all of your composure gone when he’s standing before you.

“Y/N?” he asks, blinking in awe to confirm that you’re real. He’d started to accept that your presence in his life was a thing of the past, a treasured memory he’d hold onto. “What are you – Jesus, it’s so dark out. Come on, get inside.”

He reaches for your arm and drags you inside, leading you all the way to his room; Minho’s home, and Chan doesn’t quite want him to hear the moment the girl he’s been losing his mind over ends things for good. Is “end things” even the right term, since there had never been a defined “thing” in the first place? 

His room is not much different from any other college student’s room, with books and papers sprawled on the desk and empty energy drink cans filling the trashcan. But it’s his, and that makes your heart swell a little. 

“I can’t believe you walked all the way here this late,” he scolds. He gestures for you to take a seat on his bed, and when he sits in his chair across from you, you deflate a little at the distance.

“I had to see you,” you whisper.

He clicks his tongue, trying not to melt at your words. Because to him, you’re with Jaehyun, and there’s probably some other rational explanation for why you’d shown up at his apartment at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what it could be, but it exists, surely. “You know if you had texted me I would’ve been there in minutes,” he asserts.

“Actually, I didn’t know that,” you correct, folding your arms over your chest, “considering the way you stormed out last time we saw each other.” Which may have been justified, but still. 

“Can you blame me? You told me you were going to see your ex boyfriend who cheated on you, by the way. And then you didn’t even bother to call or text, so what was I supposed to think?”

“You could’ve called or texted me!” 

“I thought you went back to him!” 

He stands, chest rising and falling heavily, and he looks so distraught your anger fades. “I didn’t,” you say, softer now. “I didn’t even see him that night. We haven’t even spoken since. Or I guess that’s not totally true, he’s spammed me and I’ve ignored him.”

His eyes soften, and he crosses those few feet to sit beside you, mattress dipping under the added weight. “Why?”

There’s a million ways to answer that question, and you aren’t sure which is the right one. So you go with what flows naturally, not giving it a second thought.

“Because I realized I need more too,” you confess. “No more pretending, no more lies.”

Though your chest feels lighter with the confession, the room feels smaller and your throat tighter because Chan doesn’t speak, or move, you don’t even think he blinks. He doesn’t mean to stare at you like this, but you’ve left him stunned with words he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and he worries if he speaks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. 

You start to rise from the bed, fighting back tears of rejection and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come  – ” 

His hand latches around your wrist, gently yet firmly, and you fall back to the bed with a quiet gasp.

“I haven’t been pretending. Not for a while now,” he breathes, and now you’re the silent one. “You’re right, I was a coward. I’ve wanted you so badly and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along the skin faintly, confirmation that you and this moment are very real. “I should’ve told you everything. How much I think about you, how much I hate it when you’re not here.”

There’s hardly any space between you now, foreheads nearly touching, breaths intertwining. 

“How I can’t get that kiss out of my head,” he exhales. “How selfish I feel for wanting more.” 

You shake your head. “You’re not selfish,” you whisper, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. 

“I am, because I want you all to myself.”

“Then you have me,” you say simply, as though such a claim wouldn’t change everything. You’ve had me without even knowing. 

He can’t hold back anymore – he’s done enough of that over the past month – because those words are his absolute undoing. 

“Can I kiss you right this time?” His eyes drop to your lips, awaiting, begging for your permission. 

You nod eagerly, and that’s all it takes for him to place his hand along your jaw and draw your face towards his. His lips melt into your own, this time with all the passion you’d both held back before. 

And while the kiss starts soft, tender, moving against each other with the carefulness of a blooming love, it quickly plunges into desperate desire. Your fingers thread through his hair, delicately at first, until you tug at the roots and he groans into your mouth.

That sound. That devilish, sinful sound. It causes the heat within your core to grow tenfold, and you kiss him more fervently now, tongues swirling together. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, then drops his head to your neck.

And when your head tilts instinctively, offering him more skin to mark as his, he can’t help but smirk because he loves having this effect on you. He’d realized it that day at lunch, when he couldn’t do anything but skim your thigh under the table. But you were offering, so who was he not to take? He nips at the skin and runs his tongue along each spot afterwards, soothing, claiming. 

“Mine,” he mumbles against your neck, and then he kisses his way back up to your lips, mouth hovering over your own.

“Chan,” you rasp, “I want you.”

His lips crash against yours once more, because he can’t help himself when you’ve just said you want him so desperately. “Yeah? You want me, baby?” he asks, breathless.

You shiver when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles along your waist. “Yes,” you sigh, and then louder, “yes, God, I want you.”

He grips your waist, only sheer will keeping him from ripping off your clothes and fucking you right then and there. Because he wants to savor every last moment of this, but some small part of him is going feral – not a devil on his shoulder, but his throbbing cock trying to push through the seams of his boxers. So actually not a small part, because he’s big, you can see the imprint in his sweatpants.

 “Are you sure?” he questions. “Because if you want me, that’s it. There’s no more Jaehyun, no more anyone else.” 

Was he genuinely asking, or just trying to make you fall apart? You can’t tell, but you’re so needy, you answer regardless. 

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His hands hook under your shirt while he guides you onto his lap, and you raise your arms for him to pull it off while you settle against him. He pauses, drinking in the sight – you haven’t even taken your bra off yet – and then his palms find your breasts, massaging through the fabric.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, thumbs flicking over your covered nipples. The moan it elicits is so delicious that he does it again, and then again, cock twitching in his sweatpants.

“You only think that ‘cause I’m shirtless,” you quip, toying with the hem of his like you needed to make things even.

“No,” he says firmly. “Always thought you were the prettiest fucking girl ever.” He reaches behind his neck, yanking his tank top up and over his head, and you swear your breathing stops momentarily. This is what he’d hidden behind t-shirts and hoodies (and that jacket you still hadn’t given back to him), and honestly, how dare he?

But you can’t focus on that a moment longer, because he dips his head down to press his lips against the tops of your breasts hungrily, dragging wet kisses all the way to your sternum. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats, fingers unclasping your bra and tugging the straps down. 

His mouth is on you again before it even hits the ground, like he’ll keel over and die if he isn’t tasting you, and right now, he really thinks he might. So, for survival, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, tongue swirling around it, then flicking. 

Each careful movement of his tongue causes your breath to hitch, hips rutting against him for any sort of friction, and he moans against you. His hands grip your waist, stilling your movements, and as a punishment – if you could call it that – he bites gently and tugs the sensitive bud between his teeth.

“Chan,” you moan, and when you feel the curl of that signature smirk, you become emboldened. “Who knew your mouth could actually be useful?”

Because although you definitely didn’t hate him now, you could at least reflect on that history, if not just to drive him a little wild. And hopefully he’d fuck you just a little bit harder. 

He growls then, his hand sweeping along your side to squeeze your other breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm. And when you least expect it, his hand comes down, slapping your breast with enough force to make you gasp.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss that smart mouth of yours. Always thought it was so hot the way you’d act like you actually hated me,” he chuckles, now massaging the skin.

“I did hate you,” you rasp. You aren’t even sure if that’s true anymore, because you can’t think. His cock pressing into you has your mind in a frenzy. One where your only thoughts are of having him inside you, stretching you open, filling you up. 

When he lifts his head from your breasts, his eyes are dark, lidded, and boring right through you. Daring you to say it again. To lie and see where it gets you.

“You sure?” he whispers, tauntingly. “Because I always saw that look in your eyes.” His fingers dip lower, slipping into your panties, and he laughs when you shudder. “Deep down, you wanted to know all the filthy things I could do to this gorgeous body.”

Maybe you did. It matters little what you wanted back then, because you could only think of what you wanted right now, and his fingers were drifting dangerously close to it. But he was playing with you, not bringing them any further, waiting for your admission. 

“You flatter yourself,” you whisper. The wrong answer, clearly, because he pulls his fingers away, gripping your chin now. Forcing you to look at him, because he knows you won’t be able to keep up the act if he’s staring at you so intensely. 

“Say it’s not true then,” he orders.

You should be able to say it. You should be able to look him in the eyes and tell him he was once everything you wanted no part of. But he starts peppering open-mouthed kisses along your neck again, unfairly, and your voice betrays you. “It’s not true,” you mumble weakly.

Your fingers fly to his hair and tangle at the strands, but he won’t let you off that easily. Of course not. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers. 

“No,” he growls. “Say it like you mean it.” 

His commands only add to the ache between your legs, and you accept that you can’t win. Your silence tells him everything, and he releases, hand patting your cheek like he pitied you. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, satisfied.

Your breathing becomes ragged when his hand trails down again, and this time you’re sure that he’ll relent and give you what your body was craving. Or maybe that was just you trying to convince yourself. 

“You never hated me. You hated that you knew I was better than your boyfriend,” he smirks, slipping his fingers into your jeans. They drag down, slowly, finally stopping right at your core. “You hated that you wanted to know what it would feel like if I touched you here,” he taunts, rubbing your pussy through the soaked fabric of your panties. 

“Shit, you’re this wet for me?” he groans, fingers gliding up and down, pressing harder when they pause at your clit. “I guess I was right, then.”

Any other time you would have been able to throw something sarcastic right back at him, but not now, not when he was teasing you like this. It was the closest he’d gotten to touching you where you so desperately needed him, and your hips buck unwittingly again. “Please, Chan. Need you,” you moan.

“Yeah, I know baby,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you everything I’ve been dreaming about doing to you.”

And then you’re pushed off of him and onto the bed, hitting the sheets with a quiet squeal. The same fingers that had been rubbing your clothed pussy now hurriedly unbutton your jeans, and you lift off the bed slightly to help him drag them down along with your panties.

Once you’re completely naked before him, his movements lull, now taking in every inch of exposed skin. 

You feel like you’re drowning under his eyes, because the last person to see you like this had betrayed you, had touched someone that wasn’t you. This was the reality of infidelity – the insecurity, the nagging, cruel insecurity that seeped into places it shouldn’t. Because Chan would never.

And he sees it, too. The way you begin to falter and drift elsewhere. Your head turning against the pillow, refusing to face him.

“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your jaw, pulling your face back towards him. “Where’d you go, baby? Don’t hide from me, please.”

You swallow harshly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not hiding. Just…worried I’m not enough,” you mumble, and the words break him. He hated Jaehyun before, but he despises him now, because he made you  – who he considered the most beautiful girl to ever grace the earth, even when you were calling him an idiot – feel less than. And that’s something Chan would spend the rest of his life undoing if he had to.

His thumb strokes your skin now, trying to wipe away the remnants of anyone’s touch that wasn’t his. “No, stop that. You’re more than enough. You’re perfect,” he says. 

Your cheeks heat up from the affirmations, and he kisses you to cement them. But it's short, subdued, as he moves further down, lips grazing your neck, your chest, then your navel. He sinks lower, hovering right above your cunt, spreading your legs apart. 

“So perfect for me,” he breathes, and you can feel the air hitting against you. “You’re mine now. You won’t have to worry about anyone else ever again.” 

The words can barely sink in before his tongue is on you, licking a slow, tantalizing stripe between your folds. It’s so sudden that your hips lift off the bed, and his hands come quick, wrapping around your thigh and pinning you down. He swipes his tongue again, and then he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, devouring what had been kept from him for too long.

“Fuck, Chan, please,” you moan, grabbing at his hair for something to ground you. He groans into you, both from your fingers tugging and the sound of you moaning his name like that. 

“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard, tugging, releasing. Then, he swirls his tongue, creating a pattern that has your back arching, threatening to come undone. 

You’d thought about this. Lonely nights in your dorm, touching yourself at the thought of how he would look between your legs, about how his tongue would feel against you. But there was no way to anticipate this. He lapped at your pussy like he was starved and you were the only meal he’d get again. He’d like that, truthfully.

Your body is trembling by the time he draws his head back, and the lack of his warm tongue causes you to whine. “Patience, princess,” he coos. 

Before you can beg him to touch you again, he spits directly onto your cunt, letting his fingers spread it as if your slick wasn’t enough. And the action is so erotic, so filthy that your thighs clench involuntarily and he has to hold them open.

Two fingers push inside you, and his tongue is back, flicking your clit with urgency. He pumps them languidly, curling them against your g-spot and then pulling back until you’re almost empty. His name leaves your mouth through choked cries and it only drives him further, because he needs you to unravel just like this. His tongue circles your clit in rhythm with his fingers, hitting your sweet spot with each pump, and his pace quickens when he can tell you’re close. 

“Chan, please don’t stop!” you pant. “Fuck, I’m so close.” 

It’s all too much - his fingers, his tongue, the lewd noises of them bringing you to the edge. “Go on, baby, give it to me,” he coaxes. “Come on my tongue for me, just like that.”

With his permission (which was much more of a plea), you let go, throwing your head back against the pillow. Your whole body comes alive with the intensity of your orgasm, ripping through you in currents while he continues lapping at your pussy lazily. It’s only when he pulls his fingers out for the final time and sucks them clean that you come down, chest heaving. 

“My mouth sure is useful, huh?” he teases, laughing when you roll your eyes. 

His laughter is cut short when you sit up on your knees and tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, head lowering. Your intentions are clear, but he grips your shoulder, halting your movements. 

“No, no, princess, it’s okay,” he huffs, using his last bit of self-restraint. He can’t believe he’s turning down head from you, but right now, being buried inside you is his priority. 

You can’t believe it either, blinking up at him sweetly, eyes wide with confusion. “But I wanna return the favor,” you pout.

Jesus, were you an angel from above or a succubus from the depths of hell, he wonders?

“Fuck, I know, baby,” he groans. “But I need to be inside you, right now.”

He sounds so desperate that you feel like you’re in control now, and you reach for his cock through his sweatpants. Wrapping your fingers around it, stroking softly. “You wanna fuck me, Channie?” you purr. 

“Yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist – all your control, gone. “You want it too, don’t you baby?” He stands, ridding himself of his sweats and boxers at once. His cock springs free, precum beading on the tip, and he cages you against the bed. “Or can you not take it? Hm? Is one all this pretty pussy can give me?”

The flip switches in you instantly, arms slithering around his neck, yanking him to you. His lips crash onto yours, all teeth and tongue, both of you at your neediest. When your hand slips down to stroke him, thumb spreading precum along his length, he lets out a low guttural sound into your mouth. 

“Baby, shit, you’re killing me,” he rasps.

“Can you die inside me, at least?” 

That he could do. Happily. Willingly. He reaches over you, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside. And though you shouldn’t, you bring your hand to his wrist, stopping him. 

“I’m on the pill, if that helps,” you whisper. “I need to feel you, nothing else.” Your words are sinful but your eyes are so sweet, looking up at him like you’d break if he denied you. 

“Fuck, princess, you’re trouble,” he groans, shoving the drawer closed and bringing his hand to your cheek instead. He swipes away a few strands of hair that had fallen, trying to soak in every inch of your perfect face. 

“You love it,” you giggle.

“God, yes I do.”

He grasps his cock and fists it a few short times, then guides it along your pussy. Your slick coats his shaft immediately, slow drags making your head spin. And when he slaps the tip against your clit, you know he’s doing it just for that. To drive you crazy, to hear your whines, to see you writhing for it. For him. Would it be appropriate to call him a smug bastard again?

“Stop teasing,” you beg, your voice a strained whisper.

“But you’re so cute like this,” he says. “What’d you say again? ‘Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you?’”

You buck your hips against him, a poor retaliation, and he laughs, positioning himself at your entrance. “Well look at you now, princess.”

He presses into you just the smallest bit, enough for the tip to slip inside, still teasing when all you wanted was for him to plunge inside you and fuck you senseless. That small amount of pressure is gone in an instant, leaving you empty once more. 

“Chan,” you whimper. “Please just fuck me, I can’t take it.”

You might cry if he keeps this up, still sensitive from your last orgasm but so desperate for another. And while he wouldn’t mind driving you to that point, his cock is painfully hard. Even he’s at his limit. 

“Oh, baby, you’re gonna take it,” he taunts, thrusting forward in one swift motion. He bottoms out and stays there, immobile, reveling in your cunt stretching around him. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”

“Would feel more amazing if you would move,” you hiss, and he actually listens. His hips snap against you with a purpose, slow and deep, watching every inch sink further. 

Each thrust reaches that sweet spot that has your back arching and nails digging into him. You can already feel the fire building inside you again, clenching around him in a way that has him wondering if you’re a dream. “Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, hips bucking faster now. Less restraining and savoring, more adhering to his primal urge to fill you up entirely.

“Funny. Jaehyun said the same thing,” you pant. You aren’t sure where the confidence comes from, especially when he’s the one pounding into you; maybe he’s fucking the attitude back into you. But you know it’ll get you into trouble, the good kind of trouble, the kind where Chan wrecks you mercilessly. 

And oh, he does. He thrusts wilder, rougher, almost carelessly, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room. 

“Yeah? Well he fucking lied, baby,” he growls. “Because you feel that?” His hand presses down on your stomach. “That’s all me. My cock you’re squeezing like a fucking vice.”

His hand slides down, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit. The added sensation brings you closer to the edge, and he’s nearly there as well. “Chan, oh my god,” you moan, nails dragging along his bicep. 

“You’re so tight,” he grunts. “Did he ever fuck you right?” He won’t even say the name, because it holds no meaning now. You’re his, and he’ll fuck you enough times that you won’t remember anyone else. 

Your walls clench harder around him, his thumb circling relentlessly. “No,” you cry. “Not like you. Not like this.” That answer satisfies him, and he pulls back all the way just to slam into you harder.

“I didn’t think so,” he muses. He leans down, nipping at your neck. “Forget about him. All you need to remember is me and my cock ruining you like this.” 

You’d already forgotten, only able to think about how Chan was the one currently fucking into you like he had something to prove. You’re so close to release, strangled cries of his name escaping your lips while your thighs clench around him. “Ah, Chan, I’m gonna come!” you whimper.

“Fuck, me too, baby,” he grunts. “You want me to fill you up? Leave your pussy leaking with my cum?”

His words are your final propulsion, and he emphasizes them with each rut of his hips. Your back arches off the bed, face contorting in pure euphoria, and Chan commits the image to memory. It matters little that he knows he’ll see it many, many more times; he wants to watch you ride every single high until the end of time. 

Your orgasm washes over you, setting every inch of your body aflame, and you want more. More of him. All of him. “Yes! Please fill me up, please,” you beg, voice breaking from the overstimulation. 

He can’t deny you, doesn’t want to deny you, and he couldn’t anyways. You’ve basically sucked him in, legs keeping him held in place. He thrusts into you one final time, a low groan emitting from someplace deep within, hips jerking erratically as thick, white strings of cum spurt inside of you.

When you’ve milked every last drop from him, he pulls out from your spent heat and falls to the bed dramatically, limbs flopping as if he’s dead. And maybe he is, because that was definitely heaven. 

You lay there side by side, chests rising and falling in sync, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation for what just happened. How you ended up like this, his cum dripping from you, your scratches welting along his back, when just months ago you couldn’t stand each other. Supposedly. 

Then comes a knock on the door, and you both are struck with the realization that you’d forgotten Minho was home, in another room, hearing everything. Or rather, Chan had forgotten, and you’d never known. Never even considered it. 

“Are you two done in there?” he calls from outside. You lift your head and look at Chan with wide eyes, and he shrugs like he’s just as clueless.

“Uh, yeah,” Chan shouts back. You bury yourself under the sheets, expecting the door to swing open. Thankfully, it doesn’t. But the alternative might be worse.

“Y/N, when I asked you for help, I didn’t mean by moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors in my apartment.”

Minho’s footsteps pad away from the door, and you pull back the sheets, horrified. “Was I really that loud?!” you exclaim. He hadn’t said anything about your volume or even tried to quiet you, and you were far too consumed to notice. 

“A little…” Chan rubs his neck sheepishly.

You wish you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, because how would you ever face Minho again? And their poor neighbors, no less. The walk of shame was going to be unbearable. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing!” you groan. 

He shakes his head vehemently and kisses your forehead, a small reassurance. “No! No, baby, it was so hot,” he coos. And then it hits him. “Wait. Minho asked you for help?”

“I guess you were going crazy without me,” you smirk. This time he groans, and you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me now.”

“Like I’d ever want to,” he whispers. 

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

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

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

Good luck finding someone else!

shit

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

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

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

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

Heard about your roomie bailing. Absolute bullshit.

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

You'd vibe.

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

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

Fine. Give him my number.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

And then there was the day you came home early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she must've left early.

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

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

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

was he always this muscular?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wasn’t freaking out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home-y. Right. who even says that?

Stupid stupid stupid.

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

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

'Probably. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.'

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

You look and feel ridiculous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had to pee.”

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

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

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

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

“So it is about the towel thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face burns. "No—that's not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, "Uh. Yeah. Sure."

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

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

You clear your throat. "Thai’s good."

~

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

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

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

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

~

Movie nights become a thing.

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

Then the Wi-Fi cuts out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

forgot my towel. mind grabbing it?

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

type back,

Seriously?

he answers immediately

dead serious. i’m vulnerable here.

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

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

Your throat goes dry. “Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

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

too much for your first movie night.

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A peak wouldn't hurt...

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh god.

Your stomach drops, then tightens all at once.

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

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

you did not expect this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They pause outside your door.

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

You slump against the door, exhaling shakily.

Holy shit.

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

you home early?

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

Just got back

You hit send before you can second guess it.

Cool. Dinner soon?

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

Gonna shower first.

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

Can I join?

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

jk. don’t use up all the hot water.

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

You're deeply fucked.

~

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

Onlychans? really?

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

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

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

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

You slam the laptop shut.

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

You open the laptop again.

It’s Curiosity. That’s all.

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

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

Then, sure enough, it spiraled.

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

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

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

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

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

You tap the notification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

slave4u: how bout you come and give me that tip

sweetheartonline: gone broke just for you </3

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

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

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

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

~

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

You try to act normal, you really do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this feels too domestic for your liking.

“Morning,” you mumble, not turning around.

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

The spatula clatters against the pan. too domestic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug, "It’s just errands."

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it feels like he's your boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

he snickers, "Debatable."

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

You nod, "Yeah. Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitches audibly.

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

You don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can take it. You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝙱𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙻𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎. 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚜.

Say it, and I’m yours.

Thoughts have a way of popping into your head whenever they damn please, which is why they don’t count towards your tally of sins. If they counted, no one would be able to pass by the gates of heaven, let alone earn a residency permit. 

To emerge victorious from your battle with guilt, that was how you justified obsessively touching yourself to Chris. At ungodly hours of the night. Sometimes first thing in the morning. 

But it should not matter, should it? A fantasy was just a fantasy. Nobody could be chastised for it because it just popped into your head whenever it damn pleased. So what if it involved an inmate? So what if it involved a patient? The star of your steamy daydreams was nobody’s goddamn business as long as you didn’t act on it.

But you did. 

When you crossed that forbidden line, Hippocrates wasn’t the only man you had broken your promise to, and your loveless imprisonment didn’t make the facts any less true. You had still cheated on your husband. With an inmate. A patient.

And it tasted so fucking delicious that you would do it all over again. 

Say it, and I’m yours.

How could you not? Nobody had ever asked to be yours before. 

Nobody but Chris.

A bunch of stale words that didn’t mean much, but when he whispered them into your ear, they meant everything, possessing you to do things you wouldn’t even do to get out of death row. Barely a taste, and you were already addicted. Just one touch, and it was like you were the one convicted. Seventeen counts of soulslaughter for each lick on your most neglected corners with ferocious lupine abandon.

Yes, you had counted it.

You knew there was nothing absolvable about it. You knew goddamn well it was a mistake that should never be repeated. Then why did the mere thought of his skin on yours incite an uncontainable fire inside you? 

Why did you keep catching yourself trying to make it happen again? 

The ulterior motive was hidden under such innocent layers that it was invisible to the eye that wasn’t looking for it. Just painting your nails black because he mentioned he loved the color one time. Just putting on jewelry because he “joked” you’d be matching if you wore silver. Just wearing stilettos because he said in passing they would look “fucking fantastic” on you. Just picking certain dresses because they were long enough to wear at work but short enough to make him stare at your legs and drool… You knew he liked it. He fucking loved those little treats you were feeding him, whether he was being a good boy or not. You knew they were driving him crazy, and nothing got you wetter than enticing him to the point of torture. Watching him sweat, cheeks flushed, thickly gulping, spacing out imagining god knows what with those gorgeous lips parted, licking them, biting them, baiting you into kissing them… But not like a coy, flustered lamb. 

Outrageously brazen like a werewolf in rut.

He wouldn’t even blink as he stripped you bare just with his gaze, devouring you whole, his eyes all hooded. He wouldn’t even pretend the touches he stole from you were an accident. Fuck, he didn’t even feel the need to hide the strain in his pants anymore, spreading his legs wide open as the perfect frame for the mouthwatering exhibition. You know, for you to… admire. 

With that size, it was damn near impossible not to imagine a belly bulge when he buried himself into you to the hilt. 

The days he felt particularly adventurous were the best. He would make sure to find an excuse to gently press himself against you like he was showing homework. If you listened close enough, you could almost hear the crazed monologue inside his head.

Look at what you do to me. Do you like it, huh? Do you fucking enjoy torturing me? Is this big enough for you? Does it make you salivate? Does it make you wanna sit on it? Would you suck it off? Can I cum on your face? Can I cum in your mouth? Can I cum in your pussy? Can I cum in your ass? Can I slather your entire body with my cum? Can I lick it off of you all night long? Will you have my children? Please? Please? PLEASE?!!!

He wouldn’t even dare have any hopes, but maybe, just maybe, you would decide to reward him, who knows? Maybe you would take some responsibility for his misery. One day. Just one of these days. And you were going to.

Because Chris never got his own hands dirty. 

He would push it to the limit, but then back off, leaving you to seethe in your fiery avidity, and it was getting a little harder each day to keep your dignity. All these seduction games you played, but he still wasn’t doing… that. 

And he knew you’d turn up the heat until he fucking snapped.

Less and less subtle every day. No longer coincidental brushes of your arm on his, but deliberate presses. No longer heaving tired sighs, but letting slip tiny moans under the guise of fatigue. Sexier scents, bolder colors, tighter clothes, all strategically revealing. All for the wolf who riddled your mind with fatally dangerous thoughts. All for the siren who sang the forgotten songs of your womanhood. All for the man who made you feel wanted, desired, lusted after in the most barbaric sense possible, and you welcomed it. You encouraged it. You not only craved it, but wanted it to get so much worse. You wanted to see him on his knees. You wanted to hear him beg. You wanted to taste his desperation. You wanted him to mindlessly devote himself to you. You wanted Chris.

It was all for the devil you had sold your soul to on a whim. 

All for him…

Chris had been losing sleep over you for quite some time already, but this time it was different. This time, he didn’t have to use his imagination at all. He still couldn’t believe it wasn’t a fever dream, but he knew what you tasted like now. What you smelled like, what you felt like, what you sounded like, and all he wanted to do was drown all his senses in you. 

You. 

You. 

You. 

You. 

You. 

“Chris…”

The best part of the day. Falling asleep cumming to the visions of his angel. 

He soaked his palm and imagined how he would stretch your tightness inch by inch,  lazily stroking his length. God, he just knew you were the perfect fit. Maybe you would struggle to take him at first, but no matter; he had nowhere to be other than inside you. He would be so so gentle as you took your sweet time. He would let you adjust. He would let you breathe. Kiss you wet. Caress you open. He would make love to you if that was how you liked it, of course, but… 

What if under your layers of grace lay a nasty little freak that came out only for him? 

What if you were down to fuck because he would love to drill you into the nearest surface and call you names only he was allowed to while pulling your hair. Fuck, it would take his entire self-control not to cream you if he heard you beg. Fuck, he might just draw his last breath if he fucked the smartest woman he knew dumb. Fuck, he might be the one turning into a needy, clingy sub if you wrapped your fingers around his neck and ordered him to get on his knees. Oh, fuck…

Fuck.

FUCK!!!

He closed his fist tighter and picked up his pace. 

Either keep me inside you forever or just kill me already. 

The way you reacted to him… So eager. So intense. Ain’t no fucking way you weren’t just as touch-starved as him, amazed by the maddening levels of gratification a simple wet touch could give you. It felt good, didn’t it? It felt great to melt in his mouth. It felt fucking incredible to be selfishly pleasured for once, and he got to be the first one to show you that. He got to be the first one to open the gates of hell for you. He got to be the first one to discover your flavor, and he would do anything to acquire the exclusive rights to your taste.

As far as Chris was concerned, you had lost your virginity to him, and the only way to make it right was to give you his last name. As any gentleman should.

You were perfect for each other, and he was born ready to dedicate his life to serving you. Learn all your hotspots. Study the angle of your arched back. Carve the bible of your pleasure into his brain so he could induce a climax on command. Satiate you in ways you didn’t even know were possible. Anytime you want. Any way you want. Anything you want as long as he gets to absorb you under his skin.

His strokes suddenly turned much faster.

Do you want me as bad as I want you?  

And faster.

Do you think of me when you touch yourself, too? 

And faster.

Nothing I’ve ever felt was this true.

“Touch me, Chris.”

God, I love you. I fucking LOVE YOU!!!

Chris had lost count of how many times he came to the thought of you in his bed, in bathroom stalls, in the shower, wherever and whenever he got a minute to himself. Up until that moment in his life, he had ejaculated in different holes of different people just for the fuck of it.

But not once, never once, was he riddled with the venom of jealousy when the clarity hit. 

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, throwing an arm over his forehead. If it weren’t for a certain waste of oxygen, his reality would be a lot different. That jerkoff was the only thing standing in the way of your love, but it was at least not an un-get-rid-of-able nuisance. The chink in the armor of lowlifes like your husband was always the same. 

But Chris wasn’t about to just sit around and wait for the happy ending credits to roll.

As the sole possessor of the newly-found kryptonite between your legs, he had every intention to abuse it until he turned you into a fiend. Until you were numb to the feeling. Until you begged him to stop. You know what, maybe not. Maybe he would conveniently forget how to stop; he hadn’t decided yet. He was too busy obsessing over finding excuses to taste you again. 

As much as you were obsessing over getting him hungry enough to jump you on sight.

You weren’t even doing it willingly anymore—every second your mind was idle, Chris was popping into your head to star in extremely X-rated scenarios. At the gym. By the sea. In a fucking alley. Naked, sweaty, panting down your neck, moaning into your ear, addicted to your taste. It was impossible to stop these red-hot visions once they started playing, and OF COURSE a certain somebody would notice the way you were wriggling in your place for no reason at all, fanning yourself in a room that was 12 degrees Celsius.

The hearts in his eyes were so comically large that it was an enigma how Chris still had 20/20 vision. Well, complete tunnel vision on you, but still…

Of course he would get cocky when his girl enjoyed the view this much. Of course he would put his body more on display for you every chance he got. Of course he would let you admire his figure when he carried huge supply boxes on delivery days, fixed stuff around the office, or walked around topless when “the room got too hot” at 12 degrees Celsius.

The jury was still out on whether that last one was premium quality porn or pure fucking torture.

Listen, it was for your viewing pleasure, okay? You didn’t need to know how he produced his live show for you. So what if he was occasionally messing with the thermostat? He just needed an excuse to shed a few layers, and that was it. It was never his intention to get you to do things—he loved you too much to disrespect your modesty with cheap, underhanded means. 

But the days you took off your lab coat were lucky ones. Who wouldn’t enjoy the accidental curly fries, right?

That afternoon, at the fifth minute of watching you press your legs together like you were itching, Chris finally pierced the thick silence encapsulating the room.

“You okay?”

You turned to him, staring daggers as if he said something egregiously offensive, because as far as you were concerned, he had.

Okay? OKAY?!

No, you weren’t okay—you were wet. Soaking wet. Fucking dripping, so much so that you had to change your underwear twice a day lately, HOW was that even possible? You had never felt anything like this for anyone, and it was getting embarrassing that your body was reacting to Chris as if it had just gone through spring awakening. 

“Yes. Why?” you returned his question as nonchalantly as possible. 

“Nothing,” he responded with an annoying grin. “You just look a bit… antsy.”

Antsy, huh? Antsy.

Yes, I’m fucking antsy. I’m antsy because of you. Do it again. Don’t make me say it, just fucking do it again. Put me on this desk again. Kneel between my legs again. Put my pussy in your mouth. Kiss my clit. Lick it good. Suck on it until you make me seize. I’m gonna DIE if I can’t find out what it feels like to cum in your mouth!!!

You kept your silence, but you might as well have yelled all of it at Chris’ face. Your pupils were blown so wide that if anyone saw you right now, they would think you were high out of your ass, which… well, wouldn’t be entirely false considering you stared at Chris the whole day. The intense heat you were exuding was as scorching as a desert afternoon during peak summer. The sighs you were heaving were becoming sharper, taking a turn from yearning for something to homicidally irritated. 

But his absolute favorite sign telling him that you were writhing in frustration, merely a light breeze away from falling apart in his hands, was your scent. 

It had sweetened again, just like it did every time you got wet, inducing this weird urge in him to drizzle you on a stack of pancakes. Or a pile of waffles. Or his throbbing cock, whichever tickled your fancy.

Chris knew you wanted him, so desperately that he could mold you into any shape he wanted right now should he so wished. He loved you too much, but he could smell it in the air that you wanted him to disrespect your modesty using cheap, underhanded means or otherwise. The bottom line was, you wanted him. 

Almost as desperately as he wanted you.

“Tsk, but you’re working too hard,” he swiveled his chair towards you and pulled yours closer to him. “If something happens to you, who’s gonna take care of us?”

ME. He meant, Who’s gonna take care of ME? Who’s gonna kiss ME? Who’s gonna love ME?

Out of nowhere, he gently reached for your bare legs and rested them on his lap under your curious gaze. He wasn’t necessarily doing anything obscene, just undoing the straps of your shoes with unrushed movements, but it somehow felt full-on pornographic when he was doing it. 

“Just look how tense you are,” he pressed his thumbs on the soles of your bare feet, drawing firm circles on your pressure points.

It could very well be because he knew human anatomy, or because he practiced wizardry, but in any case, the neural wiring of those points seemed to be faulty. Chris was doing one hell of a job massaging you, but instead of relaxing, you were getting tenser. The tension was draining from your feet, but it was pooling between your legs instead.

You were imagining each one of those circles on your clit, masterfully performed by his tongue because how could you fucking not?

“Oh, wow, you’re… You’re really good at this,” you tried your hardest to keep your cool and not completely melt into your chair, then jokingly asked. “How much do you charge for weekly appointments?”

First of all, rude.

Weekly? He was offering you comatose pampering all day everyday, and you only wanted it weekly? 

Were you allergic to pleasure, by any chance?

“For you, free of charge. Obviously,” he replied rather seriously. “I wanna do things for you, not to you. You don’t owe me anything in return.”

The kick in your chest was so hard that he must have heard it. As the burning sensation on your cheeks was intensifying, the tingles between your legs were multiplying. How could they not? Nobody had ever asked for nothing from you in return. 

Nobody but Chris.

“I just want to…” he heaved a deep, deep sigh with a straight face, “make you feel good.” 

That was a lie.

Well, not entirely. Of course he wanted to make you feel good, but that wasn’t just what he wanted. At that moment, he didn’t want to fuck you, either. He didn’t want to have sex with you. He didn’t want to make love to you. 

He wanted to crawl into your ribcage, hug your heart to sleep, and give you the most brutal orgasm of your life just with a kiss on it. He wanted you to want him. He wanted you to crave him. He wanted you to get anxious when you couldn’t touch him. He wanted to worship you till the end of his days.

He lifted his head up and locked eyes with you, and all of a sudden, something shifted. Seeing you watch him with bated breath like that, awaiting his every move, thickly swallowing, lips parted… Chris lost all control of the steering wheel of his willpower, and something within him violently snapped.

Remember the thing you’d been goading him into with your black nail polish, the cute dresses, the silver jewelry, and the fucking stilettos? 

That.

Forty hours. You owed him forty hours. And in his universe, one second passed in a hundred years.

Time turned viscous all of a sudden.

Stilettos on the floor, bare legs on his lap, tense feet in his hands, his eyes locked with yours… You were too scared to breathe. You were too scared to blink, but not because of some imminent danger. You were scared the slightest flinch would make Chris come to his senses, and he’d back off. 

And you couldn’t have that. 

You had been waiting too long for this. You had been working too hard for this, and if this moment didn’t go the way you had pictured it to be, you were going to make it go that way because even a woman of your poise had her fucking limits.

Look into my eyes. Hear what they are saying to you. Come closer. Kiss me again. Touch me again. Feel me again, but feel me like a starved man.

Guilt? What guilt?

Chris was too scared to move, just staring at you with his breathing slowed way down. He knew that there was no turning back from this. The second he moved, he was going to be at the mercy of his suffocating longing for you, which was no mercy at all. It had been looking for the tiniest crack to infiltrate his mind and declare a coup. This was it. This was that moment. 

The only thing that could stop his sanity from capsizing would be your explicit command to back off, and if you didn’t give that order right fucking now… If you didn’t give that… If you…

Five seconds, you weren’t giving it. 

Ten seconds, you weren’t giving it. 

The ship was sinking fast, and you were just watching it!

On the thirtieth second, Chris Bang from Crown Street no longer held the reins of his free will. He closed his eyes and embraced the fact that his fate was to drown in the waters of you. 

What an honorable way to die…

He meant every word when he said he wanted to be the floor you walked on. Because then you would have to feel him at all times. Because then he could kiss each of your steps to thank you for gracing him with your touch.

And he was finally going to know what that would feel like.

He turned his gaze to your foot in his hands, his face expressionless, and slowly brought it to his lips. His eyes fluttered close like he was going under as he placed feather-like kisses on each of your toes, extremely softly like he was trying not to spook a gazelle. The kisses alone were more than enough to quicken your pulse, but when he wrapped his lips around your toes and started sucking on them…

“Fucking flawless…” he uttered barely above a whisper.

Your gasp came out stuttered. Your breathing got a lot heavier. You couldn’t help how your eyes rolled back feeling his tongue on your skin again, and something was poking your other foot resting so close to Chris’ crotch. 

The gentle sucks turned into wet kisses on your ankles. Then up your legs. He was gradually making his way to his preferred deathbed that was your thighs, but you still weren’t stopping him.

From this moment on, the arrow was out of the bow, and he was not going to accept any responsibility for the things he was about to do to you.

“I know you want it, and you know that I know,” he pulled your chair even closer towards himself. “Why are you playing games with me, angel?”

Your entire body was covered in goosebumps. A name. A bespoke name for you. A loving one. Something nobody had ever given you before.

Nobody but Chris.

“Do you really want to hear it? Is that what this is?” he asked, his eyes half-closed like he was drunk as he spoke into your lips. “Is this why you are dragging me through your hell, angel?”

You had long lost the ability to talk. You were just staring at him, loving the way he was quietly spiraling, but he still wasn’t touching you. His hands hovered over your skin, your lips, your cheeks, your arms… They eventually landed on your knees like two autumn leaves barely alive, almost weightless. His breath hitched in his throat when he started sliding them up your thighs, the sheer feeling of your soft, warm skin driving him to the absolute limit of his insanity. 

The way he was struggling to keep his greed on a leash was like watching a wolf go into heat in a glass cage.

He silently got on his knees before you, then looked up. The anticipation that dripped from your eyes, your lips slightly parted, your body all tensed up begging for its release, inviting him, enticing him to come be one with you… His gaze never once leaving yours, he licked his lips, hooked a finger behind your underwear, and started dragging it down. Unrushed. Languid. But terrifyingly dangerous.

Like a mute starved man.

“Just let me fucking die between your legs,” was the last thing you heard before Chris buried his head into your cunt, sending your soul booking it towards the emergency exit out of your body. 

FUCK, your taste… 

Just one drop of you dissolving on his tongue, and he was already losing it. So intense. So sweet. So juicy. So so so fucking juicy… You reminded him of the fresh peaches of his hometown that he missed so much. You reminded him of the pure sandy beaches where he could make love to you all night.

You reminded him of a possibility where he could spend the rest of his life with you.

His tongue still hard at work, he freed his rock hard cock from its tight confines and let it hang to leak, never once touching it. Then he wrapped his arms tighter around your thighs to lock you in place, licking you deeper and deeper and deeper.

What better music to his ears than the moans of the woman he’d die for in a heartbeat?

Oh, how he wanted this to be real. Waking up next to you every morning. Having breakfast in bed. Breakfast under the kitchen table. Breakfast in your car while you’re driving. Oh, he’d be the happiest man. And he’d make you the happiest woman. At the very least, a very fucked out one. 

But you’d always smile at him the same nevertheless.

“Put your leg on the desk. There you go,” he instructed you in between his obscenely loud slurps. “Now watch me.”

“Faster. Faster!” you urged him, terrified you’d get interrupted again, then held his face in place to ride his mouth as fast as you could. “Yes. Ooh, yes, don’t stop. Don’t— YES, like that. Keep doing that. That. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop! CHRIS!!!”

Chris. You called him Chris.

And as he made your toes curl hard to the point of spasm, Chris came untouched to the taste of the woman he’d die for in a heartbeat.

You knew a thing or two about addiction, and this was exactly how it started forming. Intense pleasure, explosive release, leaving a dense fog of satiation and euphoria in its wake. Every morning, the first thing Chris did as soon as he saw you was have a second breakfast, and his portions were getting bigger every day. 

Of course it would go from compulsion to a survival need lightning fast. 

“God, I love these cute dresses you wear for me,” he mumbled in the middle of munching.

“Sh–Shut up!”

“Make me,” he smiled, licking a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. “Put something in my mouth so I can’t talk.”

No lie there—they were for him. He just loved embarrassing you with it for the severe cuteness aggression, watching you try to defend yourself in that state, eyes out of focus, slightly drooling, unable to form one coherent sentence. It somehow made you taste even sweeter to him.

But strangely enough, that was all he would do.

He couldn’t even bring himself to finger you, let alone fuck you, as if you were an untouched virgin. He didn’t feel deserving. Not yet. Maybe that was why he kept overdoing it with the eating because he had to get his fill so his dick wouldn’t get any ideas. 

Like… really overdoing it.

He tested his limits and pushed it as far as he could, and you didn’t even notice it. First, it was three times a week. Then it became every day. Then twice a day. And now he wanted your pussy in his mouth almost by the hour like he was fiending for heroin. Not even asking for it, just crawling between your legs and helping himself like this was his own house. 

Because it was. You tasted like cinnamon cookies to him. You smelled like home. 

It comforted him so much.

“One more. Just one more. For me.”

“M–My dress… Gonna… Gonna stain…”