Stay3096

The front door of your apartment didn’t just open; it practically groaned under the weight of Christopher surrendering to gravity.

For three months, you had loved a ghost. You had loved a voice through FaceTime at 4:00 AM, a frantic text sent from a studio which was across the sea, a blurry selfie of a tired smile in a recording studio. But when the lock clicked and the heavy wooden door swung inward, the idol persona vanished. He dropped his duffel bag onto the hardwood with a dull thud, not even bothering to kick off his sneakers before his eyes found yours.

"Come here," he breathed. His voice was raw, a low gravelly thing scraped raw from flights and rehearsals.

You didn't even have time to cross the kitchen before he closed the distance. Chan didn’t just hug you; he consumed you. His large, calloused hands hooked under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off your feet until your legs automatically wrapped around his waist. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling so deeply against your skin it felt like he was trying to memorize your scent all over again. He smelled like airport air, expensive cologne, and the distinct, comforting warmth that was just him.

"Three years," he muttered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear as he swayed you slightly, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged sighs. "Three years of this, and I still feel like I’m dying every time I have to leave you.... God, you’re so warm." he snuggles closer

"You're late," you whispered, though your fingers were already tangled deep in his messy, unstyled curls, pressing him closer.

"Traffic was hell, baby," he mumbled, a soft laugh vibrating against your collarbone. He set you down slowly, though his hands stayed firmly anchored to your hips, his thumbs rubbing small, possessive circles through the fabric of your shirt. His dimples finally peeked out, shadowed by a faint, attractive hint of stubble. "But I am entirely yours for the next forty-eight hours. No phones. No managers. Just you."

Before you could answer, his eyes scanned the living room, noticing the baskets of laundry you’d piled up and the slight clutter on the coffee table. You’d been working overtime too, trying to clear your own schedule so you could match his.

"Tell you what," Chan said, a mischievous glint cutting through the exhaustion in his dark eyes. "We do a quick reset. We clear the space, clear our heads, and then..." He leaned down, his lips brushing yours so lightly it was agonizing. "...we don't leave the house until Monday..except the date tonight, i made reservations..." you nodded kissing his cheek a unsaid 'thenks baby' in return.

The next hour was a whirlwind of domestic chaos. Chan refused to let you be more than three feet away from him. When you went to fold the laundry, he took the other side of the sheets, turning it into a game of tug-of-war until you were both laughing so hard your chest ached. When you reached up to dust the top of the bookshelf, two large hands suddenly clamped around your waist, lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing.

"Chan! Put me down, I'm going to drop the cloth!" you gasped, your fingers gripping his broad shoulders for balance.

"Nah, you're doing great up there, sweetheart. Keep going," he teased, looking up at you with a cheeky, upturned grin, his bicep flexing hard against your thigh to keep you steady. He kissed your waist line through your sweatpants before finally sliding you back down his front, letting every inch of his body friction against yours on the way down.

By the time the apartment was spotless, a light sweat had broken out over your skin, your hair tied up in a messy, loose bun. Chan was leaning against the kitchen counter, his oversized black hoodie pushed up to his elbows, revealing the thick veins and pale skin of his forearms. He was watching you, his gaze heavy and unblinking.

"I need a shower," you muttered, wiping a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "I'm gross."

"Me too," Chan said instantly.

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the bathroom. "The shower is barely big enough for one person, Chris. Go use the guest one."

You walked into the bathroom, turning on the faucet and letting the steam slowly fill the small, tiled space. You peeled off your clothes, stepping into the spraying warmth, sighing as the tension of the last few weeks began to melt off your shoulders.

You’d barely finished rinsing your face when the bathroom door clicked open. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, you saw his tall, broad silhouette strip down without a shred of hesitation. The door slid open, a blast of cooler air hitting your skin before Chan stepped inside, immediately closing the space between you.

The shower was small. With Chan’s massive chest and broad shoulders inside, the world shrank until there was nothing but the sound of rushing water and his heat.

"I told you to use the other one," you complained weakly, though you didn't step back.

"Save water, love. It's the right thing to do," he murmured in that thick, sleepy Australian drawl he only used when he was completely relaxed. He took the bottle of shampoo from the ledge, pouring it into his palms before reaching out. His large hands slid into your wet hair, his thumbs massaging your scalp with an agonizingly perfect pressure.

You let your head drop back against his chest with a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut. "Okay, fine. You can stay."

"Thought so," he whispered. His hands moved down from your hair, his soapy fingers tracing the column of your neck, sliding over your shoulders. But as his hands moved lower, the domestic sweetness in the air began to shift. The water slicked his dark hair back, exposing the sharp, lethal line of his jawline. His gaze darkened, dropping to your lips.

"You know," Chan murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, thicker. He stepped closer, his wet chest pressing firmly against your back, pinning you gently against the warm, tiled wall. His hands gripped your hips, his thumbs digging in just enough to make you gasp. "I spent three hours on the plane thinking about how good it was going to feel to have you against these tiles."

A shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the water. You turned around in his grip, your front now pressed against his, your eyes locking onto his. "Oh yeah? Is that all you thought about, Chris?"

Chan leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot against your mouth. "No. I thought about how loud you’re gonna be when I finally get inside you. I thought about how much I missed hearing my name slip out of your mouth when you can't take it anymore."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands sliding down his wet chest, your fingers intentionally grazing lower, mapping the hard lines of his abdomen until you felt him twitch against your thigh. He was already rock hard, his heat pressing insistently through the rushing water.

"You talk a big game for someone who looks like he’s about to pass out from exhaustion," you teased, your voice dropping into a low, challenging purr. You arched your hips slightly, deliberately rubbing against him, watching his pupils dilate instantly. "Are you sure you can handle me right now?"

A dark, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. His grip on your hips tightened until it almost bruised, lifting you slightly so you had to look up at him. "Don't fucking test me, sweetheart. I might be tired, but I’ve got more than enough energy to ruin you for the rest of the weekend. You think you can handle me when I'm like this? When I’ve been starving for you for months?"

"Prove it then," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs, your teeth catching your lower lip as you looked at him through wet eyelashes. "Stop talking and do something about it."

Chan let out a low, guttural growl, his forehead leaning against yours as he ground his hips into yours, making you whimper. "Not yet," he growled, his voice pure sin. "I’m gonna make you wait. I’m gonna make you beg for it tonight until your voice is as raw as mine. Now, please help me wash my back, beautiful, before I lose my mind and break my promise."

--

The cool bedroom air hit your damp skin, a stark contrast to the thick, humid fog you’d left behind in the bathroom. True to his word, Chan had kept his hands to himself after that agonizing shower—mostly. He’d given your hips one last, heavy squeeze under the rushing water before turning you around so you coulf wash his back, his low, rumbling chuckles vibrating against your palms every time you intentionally slid your hands a little too low.

Now, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, lazy shadows across the bedroom floor. You stood in front of the vanity mirror, the soft fabric of your outfit draped over the bed behind you. “A proper night out, sweetheart,” he’d murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your wet shoulder before vanishing into his own closet. “Somewhere we can actually sit down, order a nice bottle of wine, and I can look at you without a clock ticking down.”

You chose a dress you knew he loved but rarely got to see you in. It was an elegant, emerald-green silk slip dress that hugged your curves in all the right places, stopping at your mid thighs. The back was entirely open, held together only by a delicate satin lace that required a frustrating amount of patience to tie by yourself.

As you stood there, trying to tie the strap behind, you caught sight of Chan’s reflection in the mirror.

He was leaning against the doorframe, already half-dressed in a pair of sharp, tailored black slacks. His satin ruby dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the thick veins of his forearms, a ring on his index finger, a silver watch on his wrist and glasses resting on his nose. He was holding a glass of water, but he hadn't taken a sip in minutes. He was just... staring.

His dark eyes traveled down the line of your spine, tracking the smooth expanse of your bare back where the green silk V-ed out. Chan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He mentally scolded himself, clenching his jaw as his eyes wandered lower, lingering on the way the silk clung to the curve of your hips. Get a grip, Christopher, he told himself fiercely. You promised her a nice dinner. Don't ruin it before you even make it to the restaurent.

But God, he loved you. It hit him in waves sometimes—not just a flutter in his chest, but a heavy, grounding certainty that settled deep in his bones. Looking at you right now, framed by the warm bedroom light, he didn't see a girlfriend of three years. He saw his future. He saw the woman he wanted to come home to when the stadium lights finally went dark for good. He was absolutely, unconditionally sure he wanted to marry only you.

"Need some help, baby?" his voice broke the quiet, his Australian accent thick and lazy as he set his glass down.

"Please," you sighed, dropping your arms. "This is actively trying to kill me."

Chan walked over, his footsteps soft against the rug. He didn't immediately touch the string. Instead, he leaned down, his warm breath fanning across your shoulder blades just a second before his lips pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between your shoulder blades. A helpless shiver ran through you.

"You look beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his hands finally coming up to gather the delicate satin lace. His fingers were large and calloused, but he handled the thread with an incredible, practiced gentleness. He slowly tied the back of the dress, his knuckles occasionally brushing against your bare skin, sending tiny electric shocks straight down your spine. he dropped another soft kiss—one on your shoulder, one at the base of your neck, another right in the center of your back.

When he finished, he stepped around to face you. His eyes were dark, full of an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"Now for the hard part," you murmured, pointing toward the edge of the bed where your heels were sitting. They were a pair of black, strappy stilettos with long satin ribbons meant to wrap around your ankles.

Without a word, Chan smiled—that soft, dimpled expression that always melted you completely—and knelt down on one knee on the floor right in front of you.

"Chris, you don't have to do that," you protested softly, but he caught your ankle, his thumb rubbing the sensitive skin just above your heel.

"Shh. Let me," he whispered, looking up at you through his eyelashes.

You placed your hand on his broad shoulder for balance as he gently guided your foot into the shoe. He took his time, his large fingers carefully wrapping the thin ribbons around your ankle, crisscrossing them perfectly up your lower calf before tying them into a secure bow. He repeated the process with the other foot, his movements almost reverent. Before he stood up, he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the top of your foot, his eyes locking onto yours with a look of pure devotion.

"There," he murmured, standing up and dusting off his slacks. He looked down at you, his hands instantly finding your waist, pulling you an inch closer. "Perfect."

You reached up, fixing the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his jawline. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Bang."

He laughed, a rich, rumbling sound, and leaned down to press a deep, slow kiss to your lips—one that tasted like a promise.

But just as he pulled away, a sudden, blinding flash of light illuminated the bedroom window, followed less than two seconds later by a deafening clap of thunder that literally shook the floorboards. Within moments, the sky completely opened up, a torrential downpour slamming against the glass so loudly it sounded like pebbles thrown against the pane.

Chan blinked, turning his head toward the window, then looked back down at your stunning dress and your perfectly laced heels.

"Well," he muttered, a wry, amused smile spreading across his face as the wind howled outside. "I reckun our reservations and plans are officially ruined."

The howling wind outside slammed sheets of water against the glass, but inside the apartment, the atmosphere had shifted into something entirely separate from the storm.

Chan looked from the window back to you, a soft, helpless laugh huffing from his lips as he took in the sight of you. You were still standing there in your stunning emerald silk dress and wrapped stilettos, looking like an absolute goddess with nowhere to go.

"Well, sweetheart," he murmured, his hands sliding down to your hips, his thumbs catching the hem of your dress just enough to lift it an inch. "I'm not letting this outfit go to waste. Change of plans."

Before you could ask what he meant, Chan hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly off your feet. You let out a gasped laugh, your hands instantly flying to his broad shoulders for balance as he carried you out of the bedroom and straight into the kitchen. He didn't set you down on the floor; instead, he hoisted you right up onto the smooth, marble kitchen counter. Your heels clicked against the edge, your legs dangling as he stepped between your knees, effectively trapping you.

"Stay right here," he commanded softly, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that always made your stomach do a flip.

You watched, completely mesmerized, as Chan went to work. He completely transformed the room. He turned off the harsh overhead kitchen lights, leaving only the soft under-cabinet lighting. Then, he wandered around the apartment, gathering every single scented candle you owned. He lined them up along the counter and the dining table, striking a match until the space was bathed in a flickering, amber glow. The shadows danced over the sharp lines of his jaw and his tailored black slacks.

"Since I can't take you to a restaurant, I guess I'll just have to be your personal chef," he teased, walking back over to you and leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. He smelled like vanilla candles and pure sin.

He pulled ingredients out of the fridge, deciding on a quick pasta dish you both loved. As he chopped garlic and heated the pan, he refused to actually leave your side. Every single time he passed the counter, he stole a kiss. It started out playful, but it didn't stay that way. He’d lean in, his lips brushing yours, his tongue casually tracing your bottom lip just enough to make you whimper before he pulled back with a smirk.

"Chris, you're going to burn the food if you keep doing that," you breathlessy complained.

"Let it burn," he muttered, stepping right back into your space. He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding up your thigh, his calloused thumb smoothing over the skin right above your knee. "Besides, I'm just tasting the appetizer."

You flushed, a heavy heat pooling in your lower stomach at his subtle dirty talk. To distract yourself from the way his hand was slowly wandering higher up your leg, you slid off the counter for a moment. "If you're cooking, I'm making drinks. You're lucky you're dating a professional."

Chan chuckled, watching you walk over to the bar cart. Before you had met him —back during your university days—you had worked as a bartender to pay the rent. You grabbed the shaker, the alcohol, and the bitters, your hands moving with an effortless, practiced rhythm. You mixed up two custom cocktails, keeping the alcohol content perfectly manageable since you both wanted to actually remember the night.

When you handed him his glass, his eyes darkened with pure appreciation. He took a sip, humming in approval. "God, you're amazing. Seriously, what did I do to deserve you?"

He didn't let you go back to the counter. Instead, he pulled you against his chest, his back to the stove while he stirred the sauce with one hand and kept his other arm wrapped securely around your waist. The warmth of the stove combined with the heat of his body was intoxicating.

As you stood there, the flickering candlelight caught the slight dip of your collarbone and the soft curve of your side. You subconsciously shifted, trying to pull the silk dress tighter. Like anyone, you had your little insecurities—things you picked apart when you looked in the mirror too long.

But Chan noticed everything. He always did.

Feeling you tense, he set the wooden spoon down. He turned you around completely, his hands mapping the exact spots you tried to hide. He bent down, pressing his warm lips to the soft curve of your hip, then up to the slight dip of your waist, kissing every single inch of your skin with a fierce, worshipful reverence.

"Stop hiding," he whispered against your skin, his voice rough and thick. "You are so beautiful. Every single part of you. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes just for one second."

He pulled you back up, his hands tangling in your hair as he kissed you deeply, a quiet sigh escaping him. He rested his forehead against yours, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence.

"It's crazy, isn't it?" Chan murmured softly, a sudden, gentle giggle bubbling up from his chest. He looked down at you, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. "How unexpected all of this was. If you told me four years ago that we'd be here..."

"What, you didn't think we'd make it?" you teased, tracing the collar of his shirt.

"No, I mean—we were such idiots," he laughed, shaking his head at the memory. "We were literally best friends since child hood who only spoke on calls scared to face each other. I was so completely gone for you, but I was too terrified to say anything......remember how we used to talk to each other? Trying so hard to sound 'just like friends' while my heart was practically beating out of my chest every time you looked at me."

He giggled again, the sound rich and warm. "Man, we were so stupid. All those wasted months because we were both too scared to confess."

His laughter faded, replaced by a gaze so intense it made your knees feel weak. The playful boy vanished, leaving only the man who loved you entirely. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours with a slow, heavy finality.

"But I’m glad we got here," Chan whispered, his thumbs wiping a stray tear of happiness from your cheek. "Because now that I have you... I want no one else. Forever. It's only ever gonna be you, sweetheart."

The sheer intensity of his words left you breathless. You reached up, cupping his jawline, and pulled him down into a deep, lingering kiss that tasted like a silent promise. When you finally broke away, your cheeks were flushed against the warm candlelight.

"If you don't stop looking at me like that, we're never going to actually eat," you teased softly, playfully swatting his chest.

Chan let out a breathless laugh, stepping back just enough to let you move around the kitchen. The menu had completely evolved from just a simple pasta dish into an absolute feast. Together, you turned cooking into a coordinated dance. You rolled out dough to make a heart-shaped pizza—Chan insisting on crimping the edges perfectly—while a golden, seasoned chicken roasted in the oven alongside a crisp, fresh salad you tossed together.

By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled incredible. You carried the plates over to the candlelit dining table, the heavy rain outside providing a soothing backdrop to your makeshift indoor date.

As you ate, the conversation flowed effortlessly, moving from lighthearted banter into the deep, heavy layers of life and the future. Chan reached across the table, his fingers tangling with yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

"I want to grow old with you," he murmured, his dark eyes reflecting the tiny flames of the candles. "I want the quiet mornings, the wrinkly skin, all of it."

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest. "I want that too. And... I want a kid. Eventually."

Chan’s face instantly softened, a massive, genuine smile breaking across his features, making his dimples dip incredibly deep.

"I’d love a daughter," you admitted softly, feeling a bit shy but completely safe sharing it with him. "But honestly, it doesn't matter to me. As long as the kid is healthy."

"A little girl who looks just like you?" Chan breathed, his gaze turning incredibly fond. "God, I'd be wrapped around her finger. But you're right. Just healthy." He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute certainty. "I want to marry you first. I want to roam the world with you, make a million memories, and establish our own rules. Like, if we ever have a huge fight—because we're human, we will—we promise to sort it out before we ever go to bed. No sleeping angry."

"Deal," you whispered, your heart swelling.

"And we need a bigger place," he continued excitedly, his inner producer and planner taking over. "We'll design it together. A massive bar for you, a studio space for me, and a huge backyard." He smiled, leaning over to lovingly serve another portion of pasta onto your plate.

As the dinner wound down and the plates were cleared, you still wanted something sweet. You walked over to the freezer and scooped a generous portion of vanilla ice cream into a small bowl. Instead of heading back to your own seat, you walked over to Chan, pulling him back into his chair by his shoulders.

Without asking, you turned and sank right onto his lap facing him, your emerald silk dress pooling over his tailored black slacks. Chan didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second; his large hands immediately found your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh gently as you settled against him.

"Sharing?" he grinned, his voice a low rumble against your lips.

"Maybe," you murmured, taking a bite of the cold ice cream before offering him some. As you pulled the spoon away, a tiny bit of ice cream lingered on your bottom lip. Chan leaned in instantly, his tongue darting out to lick the sweet cream right off your lips, his lips lingering for a soft, teasing pressure that made your stomach drop.

His hands wandered a little higher on your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, anchoring you tightly to his lap. You took another bite, but the combination of his warmth, the alcohol from the cocktails, and the sheer tension in the air made your hands a little unsteady. A drop of the rapidly melting ice cream escaped the spoon, trailing down your chin and slipping right down the column of your neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of your green dress.

You both knew how gravity worked. You both knew food didn't just magically spill like that unless a certain someone was plotting something entirely deliberate.

Chan caught it instantly. A dark, wicked grin spread across his face, his eyes darkening into pure, unadulterated hunger.

"Oh, you are a menace," he growled softly, the teasing Australian lilt completely vanishing into something raw and dominant.

He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Chan leaned forward, his large hand gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head back. He pressed his lips to the base of your throat, his warm tongue sliding upward, licking the melted ice cream off your sensitive skin. A sharp, gasping whimper left your lips as he followed the path with a sequence of open-mouthed, bruising kisses, his teeth gently nipping at the junction where your neck met your shoulder.

The cold sweetness of the ice cream was completely eradicated by the scorching heat of his mouth.

Realizing you were entirely finished with desert, you blindly reached back and set the bowl away on the table behind you. You let your head fall back completely against his broad shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as his hands tightened on your thighs, his breath hot and demanding against your skin

Without a word, he hooked both hands under your knees, lifting you effortlessly along with himself off the dining chair, your legs wrapping around his waist. You gasped, both hands flying to his shoulders as he carried you through the candlelit living room toward the hallway.

"Chan—the ice cream—" you protested weakly, laughter bubbling in your throat... this was trouble, a likeable trouble.

"I'll get it later," he growled against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Right now, I'm starving for something else."

He pushed the bedroom door open, and the soft lamplight spilled across the rumpled sheets. He didn't put you down. Instead, he pressed you against the doorjamb, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so deep and hungry that your toes curled inside your heels. His tongue slid along your bottom lip, then swept inside, tasting the lingering sweetness of vanilla and chocolate. You melted into him, your fingers threading into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

He carried you to the bed, but before laying you down, he paused, letting you slide down his body until your feet touched the floor. His hands roamed your back, the bare skin of your backless dress heating under his palms. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze, and then leaned in to press your lips to the side of his neck.

Soft at first—a barely-there brush of your mouth. Then you parted your lips, grazing your teeth over his pulse point, and sucked gently. Chan's breath hitched, his fingers digging into your hips. You lingered there, tasting the salt of his skin, knowing you had to be careful. His fans would notice. They always noticed everything—a hickey on his neck during a live broadcast would send the internet into a frenzy. So you pulled back, leaving only a faint pink mark, barely visible unless you were looking for it.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark and knowing. "Tease," he murmured, but there was nothing but approval in his voice.

His hand found the thin satin lace-up at the back of your dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, the bow unraveled, and the fabric loosened around your chest. He didn't rush. He slid the straps down your shoulders, the emerald silk pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your strapless stick-on bra, black lace panties, and heels.

He stepped back just long enough to shrug off his black button-up, his fingers working the buttons with practiced ease. The shirt fell open, revealing the defined lines of his chest and his toned abs. You didn't wait. You stepped forward, your hands sliding up his abdomen, feeling the ridges of muscle flex under your touch. You pressed your lips to his sternum, then lower, kissing a path down his stomach. Your tongue darted out, licking a stripe across his abs, tasting the faint salt and heat of his skin. You sucked gently at the hollow beside his navel, and he groaned, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head.

"Fuck, baby," he breathed, his fingers tangling in your hair. "You're gonna make me lose it."

You looked up at him, a wicked smile on your lips, and continued your journey lower, your mouth trailing over the waistband of his slacks. But he stopped you, gripping your chin and tilting your face up.

"Not yet," he said, his voice roughened with want. "I want to taste you first."

His gaze dropped to your chest, where the stick-on bra held your breasts in place. A knowing grin spread across his face. "No straps," he observed, his thumb brushing the edge of the adhesive cup. "Clever."

He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours—a silent question that he never needed to ask out loud. You nodded, a soft "yes" escaping your lips.

He pulled the bra away in one smooth motion, the adhesive releasing with a quiet peel. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already peaked from the cool air and the heat of his stare. He didn't look away. He leaned in, his tongue flicking over one nipple, then drawing it into his mouth, sucking gently. You gasped, your back arching, and your hands flew to his shoulders for balance.

His other hand slid down your stomach, past the waistband of your panties, and between your legs. He groaned against your skin as his fingers found you—soaked, slick, ready.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "I haven't even done anything yet, and you're already dripping. Is that all for me?"

You bit your lip, nodding, your breath coming in shallow pants.

"Good girl." He pressed a finger inside you, slow, then a second, curling them just right. At the same time, his mouth returned to your nipple, sucking and teasing with his tongue. The dual sensation sent a shock through your body. Your hands fisted in his hair, your hips grinding against his hand, moaning his name like a prayer.

"Chan—please—"

"Please what, baby?" He pumped his fingers faster, his thumb circling your clit with expert pressure. "You feel so fucking good wrapped around my fingers. Tell me what you need."

You couldn't form words. The pleasure was building too fast, a coil tightening low in your belly. Your thighs trembled, your moans turning into broken cries.

"That's it," he praised, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my hand."

And you did. Without warning, the orgasm crashed over you, your body convulsing as you cried out his name. He didn't stop moving his fingers, guiding you through every wave, drinking in the sight of you undone.

When the last tremor faded, he pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his lips. He licked them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "Delicious."

Then he gently pushed you fully onto the bed, spreading your legs open, and buried his face between them. His tongue swept through your folds, lapping up your release, his nose pressing against your clit. A strangled moan tore from your throat as he devoured you, his tongue dipping inside you, then dragging back up to suck gently on your clit. He worked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, prolonging the aftershocks until you were a panting, writhing mess.

Only when your hips stopped bucking did he lift his head. He reached over to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer, and retrieved a foil packet. With a grin, he tore the wrapper open with his teeth, spat it aside, and rolled the condom down his length. Even after all these months, the sight of him—thick, veined, impossibly hard—made your breath catch. He was huge, and no matter how many times you'd had him, it always surprised you. The way he filled you, stretched you, like he was made to fit inside you.

He hauled your legs onto his shoulders, leaning forward until the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He didn't push in—not yet. He held still, teasing, letting you feel the pressure, the promise.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice soft but dominant.

You nodded, and he thrust forward.

Slow. Deep. Inch by inch he sank into you, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored the grip of your walls. You felt the familiar stretch, the slight burn that melted into pure pleasure. He paused when he was fully seated, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispered. "Every single time."

He began to move—long, languid strokes that hit so deep you could feel him in your throat. One hand held your calf, his lips pressing kisses to your shin, then your ankle, reverent and tender even as he fucked you. His other hand roamed your body, fingers tracing your waist, then sliding up to tease your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

A glance down and you saw it—a faint bulge in your lower belly, where his dick pressed against your insides from the inside. The sight sent a rush of heat through you. You arched your back, a moan spilling from your lips.

"Look at that," he breathed, his thumb pressing lightly on the bulge. "Look how deep I am inside you. You take me so fucking well, baby."

His pace quickened, but still controlled, each thrust deliberate. Your hands clawed at the sheets, your moans growing louder, more desperate.

"Faster," you begged, your voice cracking. "Please, Chan—faster—"

He obeyed. He pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips into the air before slamming back into you. The new angle was brutal—deeper, harder, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. His hand gripped your hip, the other pressed flat on the small of your back, forcing you to arch impossibly deeper.

"This what you wanted?" he growled, his voice low and filthy. "You wanted me to fuck you like this? To take you apart until you can't think, can't breathe?"

"Yes—angh..yes—fuck—chrisss"

He leaned over your back, his mouth at your ear, his thrusts pounding into you. "I can feel you clenching around me. You're close, aren't you? I want you to come. Come on my dick."

You were already there. The rough pace, his dirty talk, the overwhelming fullness—it sent you spiraling. You screamed his name as your orgasm crashed, your body trembling violently around him.

He didn't stop. He rode you through it, his own breathing ragged, until he pulled out with a shudder. He yanked the condom off, stroked himself twice, and came with a guttural groan, spilling into the latex. Then he collapsed beside you, chest heaving.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. Your body ached in the best way. Chan pushed himself up first, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

"Stay there. I'll be right back."

He disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the water run. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and gently cleaned between your legs, his touch tender. Then he wiped himself down, disposed of the condom, and slid back into bed.

He pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. His hand found the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles where you'd arched hardest.

"Your back's gonna be sore tomorrow," he murmured into your hair.

You hummed, nuzzling into his neck. Your lips found his, a soft, lazy kiss.

He smiled against your mouth. "I love you so much."

You kissed the tip of his nose. "I love you too."

The marks on your neck were dark now, blooming like violets under your skin. He traced one with his fingertip, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest.

"Sorry about those."

"I'm not," you whispered, your eyes already heavy.

He pulled the blanket over both of you, his hand never stopping its soothing massage on your back. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek—it pulled you under.

Within minutes, you were both asleep, tangled together in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

--

You woke up slowly, the soft morning light filtering through the cracks of the blinds. As you shifted beneath the heavy duvet, a dull, deep ache resonated through your lower back and thighs—a sweet, lingering reminder of exactly how Chan had kept his promise to ruin you. You sat up slowly, clutching the soft blanket tightly against your chest to keep yourself covered.

A soft chuckle sounded from the side of the bed, and you turned your head to see Chan walking into the room. He had already showered, his messy curls damp, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. In his hands, he carried a tray loaded with a fresh breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a mug of coffee made exactly the way you liked it.

"Morning, beautiful," he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and raspy from sleep. He set the tray down carefully across your lap, then climbed onto the mattress behind you.

As you reached for the coffee, taking a grateful sip, Chan shifted closer. His large, warm hands slid beneath the blanket, finding the bare skin of your lower back. His calloused thumbs began to work in slow, firm circles, expertly massaging the tight, sore muscles of your spine. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, leaning back into his solid chest.

"Sore?" he whispered, a hint of a smug, satisfied grin in his voice.

"Shut up," you muttered playfully, though you didn't pull away from his touch.

Chan just laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated right against your back. He leaned over your shoulder, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head before gently reaching up to brush a few stray tangled hairs away from your face. He watched you eat with a quiet, peaceful intensity, as if he still couldn't quite believe he had you all to himself for a little while longer.

You turned your head slightly, catching his eye, and leaned in to press a sweet, lingering kiss right against his dimpled cheek.

Chan’s smile broke wide and brilliant, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with pure, unadulterated affection. He wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as the quiet morning carried on, the rest of the world completely forgotten.

The End.

felix should have warned you before introducing you to his group. instead, he had only grinned the entire drive over, one hand lazily drumming against the steering wheel while saying things like “just don’t let chan scare you off.” as if that could have prepared you for what would happen.

but you understood the second you walked in. the room shifted around him. conversations paused when he spoke. people looked at him before making decisions. even sitting back against the couch with one arm slung over the backrest, chan carried himself like he owned the place and everyone inside it.

and apparently, everyone let him.

your first impression of him settled quickly: arrogant. controlling. the kind of man who expected obedience simply because he existed.

his first impression of you formed just as fast. too observant.

he noticed the way your eyes tracked everything, the way you watched interactions instead of trying to force yourself into them. most people met him and got nervous. eager to please. careful with their words.

you didn’t. worse, you looked at him like something didn't sit right.

felix introduced you with an easy grin, entirely unaware of the tension that sparked the moment chan’s gaze landed on you.

chan leaned back slightly, eyes dragging over you once before he gave a curt nod. “heard a lot about you.” you smiled politely but your tone sounded anything but. “ditto.”

a few people in the room choked on their drinks. felix looked between the two of you like he’d just realised he accidentally lit a match near gasoline.

chan's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. and that was the beginning of it.

after that, it became a pattern, predictable in the most irritating way possible. every time you showed up, chan noticed immediately.

it didn’t matter if he was mid-conversation, or across the room pretending not to pay attention, the second you walked in, his focus shifted. like some invisible thread pulled tight between you.

you noticed it too. the way his eyes found you first. always. and somehow, every single interaction between the two of you turned into a fight.

“we’re ordering from rossi’s,” chan announced one night from the kitchen, barely glancing up from his phone. “rossi’s is awful,” you said immediately.

a silence fell over the room. han muttered, “oh, here we go.” chan looked up slowly. “awful?”

“their pasta tastes microwaved.”

“it’s italian. one of the only italian places around here."

“that doesn’t automatically make it good.”

he stared at you for a second too long before scoffing softly. “you always this difficult?”

you leaned against the counter. “you always this bossy?”

his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile.

that should’ve warned you. because after that, he started seeking you out. deliberately.

if you sat somewhere, suddenly chan needed that exact spot. if you disagreed with something, he’d argue just to keep you talking longer. if someone else interrupted your banter, he looked annoyed by it.

and the worst part? you kept engaging. every single time.

“move,” he told you one evening when you stole his usual seat on the couch. you looked up from your drink. “there are six other places to sit.”

“that’s my spot.”

you scoffed, “sounds made up.” the room went quiet again. felix was already grinning into his drink.

chan stepped closer, towering over the couch while you refused to move even an inch. “you enjoy testing me.”

“you enjoy acting like a fucking dictator.”

“someone has to keep order around here.”

you snorted. “order? how dramatic."

his eyes narrowed. yours sparkled with amusement.

and there it was again, that awful little pull between irritation and entertainment that neither of you seemed capable of escaping.

because no matter how much chan acted annoyed by you, he kept looking for reasons to provoke you. he’d throw comments your way from across the room just to watch you snap back.

he learned exactly what got reactions out of you. the fastest way to make you glare. the quickest way to make you roll your eyes. the comments that made your lips twitch because you were trying not to laugh.

and god, he loved when you laughed. especially if it was usually at his expense.

“you know,” you said one night after he interrupted somebody for the fifth time, “normal people let others finish speaking.”

“normal people have useful things to say.”

you groaned in annoyance, “see? this is exactly why i can’t stand you.”

“funny." he drawled, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his drink, “why do you keep talking to me then?"

your stomach flipped annoyingly hard at that. because he was right. you looked away before anyone noticed the heat crawling into your face.

but later that night, while everyone else talked around him, you caught chan watching you from the other side of the room, completely focused, making it feel far more dangerous than the arguing ever had.

chan realised something was wrong the first time you followed him without actually being there.

he was at the studio, headphones hanging around his neck while he stared blankly at the unfinished track glowing on the monitor in front of him. one hand tapped impatiently against the desk. the bass loop repeated. and repeated. and repeated.

all because his brain kept replaying something stupid you’d said three nights ago. “you always act like you’re in charge even when nobody asked you to be.”

he could still hear the smugness in your voice. could still picture the look on your face when you’d said it.

“for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, dragging both hands over his face. it was ridiculous. you were ridiculous. annoying. argumentative. impossible.

so why the hell was he thinking about you while trying to work? even worse, why did the thought of you make his chest tighten strangely?

he shoved the feeling away immediately. hatred. obviously. that had to be what this was.

except hatred usually didn’t make his pulse jump every time his phone lit up with a message in the group chat, secretly hoping it was you.

hatred shouldn't make his cock hard. and it definitely shouldn't make his thoughts slip to you when he was jerking off.

hatred shouldn’t have made him notice your absence the second he walked into felix’s apartment friday night.

he asked about you before he could stop himself. felix looked up so fast it was almost suspicious. “damn,” he said slowly. “you didn’t even say hi first.”

chan frowned immediately. “i was just asking.” felix smirked at that, “sure you were.”

he ignored the grin spreading across felix’s face and scanned the room again anyway. you weren’t there. and suddenly, the night felt off. quieter, less entertaining. he hated that most of all.

and once he noticed it, he couldn’t stop noticing it. every room he entered, his eyes searched for you automatically. every conversation felt slightly duller when you weren’t interrupting him halfway through it. every joke landed flatter when it wasn’t making you roll your eyes.

it got worse after that. at the gym, he caught himself thinking about the way you looked at him whenever you argued, so... unimpressed. like you enjoyed challenging him just as much as he enjoyed provoking you.

this was the first time he felt the pressing need to jerk off. to the thought of you.

he rushed home from the gym, cock already half-hard in his pants. had been for the past hour. even an ice-cold shower did nothing.

he dropped his gym back to the floor, making his way to his room immediately, dropping onto his bed. he ran his hands over his face, grabbing his hair.

"fuck you." he said into the empty room before grabbing his hard on through his shorts, squeezing it.

he didn't want to do it, jerking off to you. his pride, his ego, screamed at him to stop. to not do this with you on his mind. he grabbed his phone, unlocking it with one hand while his other slipped into his pants.

porn should do it. watching any other chick, hearing her moans instead of your fucking laugh in his mind. porn used to be his remedy when his mind wouldn't shut up about you. but right now it did nothing. he only saw you. only heard you.

he groaned in frustration, closing the tab on his phone, forcing his hand to stop working his cock. it twitched desperately in his fist, demanding more.

he wanted to text you. to tell you to stop invading his thoughts. tell you how much he hated you. for being so fucking mouthy. for making it impossible for him to jerk off properly. to demand you to do something about it. but he knew you'd only mock him for it.

his thumb moved on its own as it opened his photo gallery. he didn't notice what he was searching for until he found pictures of the last time you hung out with the group.

he loved the shirt you were wearing back then. loved how it made your tits look. fuck. suddenly he was thinking about your tits, wondering what they'd feel like in his hands. he imagined you arching your back, leaning into the touch as he grabbed them, squeezed them, pinched your nipples until you were whimpering.

his hand started moving on his cock again without him realising. his mind was too far gone. he thought about swirling his tongue around your nipples, sucking on them, wondering what your moans would sound like.

but he didn't only want to suck your nipples. he wanted to suck the soft flesh surrounding them. sucking, biting until it left a mark. right on your precious tit. he'd cover you in them, leaving marks all over you. fuck, you'd look so beautiful when he was done with you.

he noticed his fist jerking his cock only when he groaned involuntarily, his eyes fixated on the screen, on the picture of you. he wanted you. needed you. so bad it made his balls tighten.

he felt his orgasm approaching. fuck no, he couldn't cum to the thought of you. no matter how many times he thought of you while jerking off, he always managed to distract himself enough, think of anything but you when he found his release.

but right now he couldn't stop. couldn't stop imagining leaving his marks on you. he wanted to spank you until your butt cheeks were all red and covered in his handprints. finally making you realise who was in fucking charge.

the thought of you surrendering to him, to having his way with you, finally made him come undone. he gave his cock a few more strokes, tearing his gaze away from his phone, head thrown back against the pillow. and he blew his fucking load to the thought of you, whispering your name into the dark room.

after that, chan started gravitating towards you unconsciously. if you were in the kitchen, suddenly he needed a drink. if you were outside, he somehow ended up outside too. if you sat on the couch, he’d lean against the wall closest to you without even realising it. and then there was the hugging thing.

god, he hated the hugging thing. you hugged everyone. felix. the other members. friends arriving. friends leaving. everyone except him.

the first time he noticed it, irritation flared so fast it startled him. the second time, it became impossible not to watch.

you’d grin at somebody, arms wrapping around them casually while chan stood nearby pretending not to care. pretending not to notice. pretending he didn’t immediately wonder what it would feel like if you touched him like that. if your tits pressed against him. your scent surrounding him.

it got even worse when someone else made you laugh. especially men.

one night, seungmin had you nearly doubled over at the kitchen counter, laughing so hard you grabbed his arm for balance.

chan felt something ugly twist in his chest. before he even realised what he was doing, he crossed the room. “what’s so funny?” he asked flatly.

your laughter faded slightly as you looked up at him.“nothing you’d enjoy.”

“try me.”

"you don’t have a sense of humor.”

seungmin laughed awkwardly before quickly excusing himself the second chan looked at him.

coward.

you narrowed your eyes immediately. “did you just scare him off?”

“if he got scared that easily, that’s his problem.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“then stop talking to me.” he said quietly, stepping closer.

the words settled heavily between you. your expression flickered for half a second. and christ, that was another problem entirely.

because lately, every time you looked at him, he forgot for a moment that this was supposed to be hatred at all.

a few days later, a heavy summer storm hit the city. and it had gotten bad fast.

rain hammered against the streets hard enough to blur the city lights, thunder rumbling low and heavy overhead while you hurried towards the studio building with your jacket pulled uselessly over your head. you and felix had made plans to go out for dinner after the studio tonight.

by the time security let you upstairs after recognising you as “one of felix’s people,” you were completely soaked. your shoes squeaked against the floor as you pushed open the studio door with an exhausted sigh already forming, only for it to die immediately when you saw who was inside.

chan sat alone in the swivel chair in front of the mixing desk, one arm resting against the armrest while music played quietly through the speakers.

of course. you sighed dramatically. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

he glanced over his shoulder lazily. “nice to see you too.”

“where’s felix?”

“not here, obviously.”

you rolled your eyes, already pulling your phone out.“helpful as always.”

“i try.” but when chan turned fully in the chair, whatever sarcastic response he’d been about to make stopped short.

his eyes dragged over you slowly. rainwater clung to your clothes, your shirt damp enough to stick to your skin, droplets still sliding down your neck and disappearing beneath the fabric. his dick twitched. for once, chan looked genuinely speechless.

your stomach flipped annoyingly at the expression on his face. “take a picture,” you muttered.

his jaw tightened immediately, like he’d just been caught doing something illegal. before he could answer, your phone buzzed.

felix: « storm’s too bad. roads are fucked. can’t make it tonight sorry 😭»

you stared at the message in disbelief. “you’re joking.”

“what?”

“felix bailed.”

chan snorted softly. “smartest thing he’s done all week.”

and then the power cut out. the room dropped into darkness instantly. you jumped hard enough to knock your knee against the couch beside you. “shit—”

a laugh echoed through the dark. “you scared of a little darkness?”

“absolutely not.”

“you literally jumped just now.”

a flashlight flicked on a second later, illuminating the room dimly from below as chan leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too entertained by your suffering. the lighting made him look unfairly attractive. which only irritated you further.

“what, no candles around?” you asked dryly. “could make this whole thing a little cosier.”

his brows lifted. “this is a fucking studio.”

“and?”

“not exactly a place that calls for romance.”

you snorted. “pity. you probably bang a lot of chicks here considering you’re basically married to the studio. could’ve at least provided them with ambiance.”

chan barked out a laugh at that. an actual laugh. "trust me,” he said, eyes glinting in the flashlight glow, “i don’t need romance for that.”

“oh, i’m sure your personality alone does all the heavy lifting.”

“you saying i’m charming?”

“i’m saying you’re bossy. probably sucking up to people if you want something.”

he shook his head slowly, still staring at you in that intense way that always made your heartbeat feel uneven.

outside, thunder cracked loudly enough to rattle the windows. you crossed your arms instinctively, suppressing a shiver.

unfortunately, chan noticed immediately. his eyes narrowed slightly as another tremor ran through you. “you’re freezing.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re shaking.”

“wow,” you deadpanned, “your observational skills are incredible.”

he rolled his eyes before reaching behind him blindly, grabbing a black sweater from the couch and tossing it towards you.

it hit your chest. you looked down at it suspiciously. then back at him. “…you own sweaters? wow. didn't expect that with you always running around in your stupid tank tops." you loved the stupid tank tops.

“hilarious.”

you held the sweater between two fingers. “this thing probably reeks of ego.”

“put the fucking hoodie on.”

you snorted softly, still not moving. “i think i’d rather suffer.”

“christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “stop being so fucking stubborn.”

“make me.” the words slipped out too naturally. too easily. and the second they did, the room changed.

chan went still. the flashlight from his phone cast shadows across his face as his eyes locked onto yours with dangerous intensity.

your pulse skipped. his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. slowly. oh, he knew exactly how to make you less stubborn.

“careful,” he said quietly. your breath caught despite yourself.

but instead of backing down, you tilted your head slightly. “or what?”

his eyes darkened slightly at that. the storm outside seemed louder suddenly, rain hammering against the windows while the studio sat in near darkness around you.

chan leaned back slowly in the chair, one hand still holding his phone loosely against his thigh. “you really don’t know when to stop talking.”

you clutched the sweater against your chest. “you say that like you aren’t the one constantly starting arguments with me.”

“because you make it easy.”

“or maybe you’re obsessed with hearing yourself speak.”

he laughed quietly under his breath. “see?” he murmured. “there it is.”

“what?”

“that mouth.”

heat crept annoyingly up your neck. you tried to ignore it. “you mean the one that hurts your feelings every other day?” you said sweetly.

“please.” his gaze dragged over you again, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. “if anything, i think you enjoy getting my attention.”

you scoffed immediately. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you came here soaked out of your mind during a storm.”

“to see felix.”

“sure.”

“god, your ego is exhausting.”

“and yet you ended up alone with me.”

the words landed heavier than they should have. you hated that your heartbeat reacted instantly. and chan noticed, your flushed face making him way more aroused than it should.

his eyes narrowed slightly, like he was studying every tiny shift in your expression.

“you know what your problem is?” you said, mostly to regain control of the conversation.

“enlighten me.”

“you think everybody wants you.”

one corner of his mouth pulled upward. “you saying you don’t?”

your breath caught for half a second. just enough. his expression changed immediately the moment he noticed. to satisfaction? or interest? something far more dangerous underneath both.

“wow,” he said softly. “that almost sounded convincing.” you glared at him. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re nervous.”

“i’m cold.”

“right.” his voice dipped lower on the word. you hated the way it affected you. hated the way the flashlight glow caught against his jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on you like he was trying to peel apart every reaction you had.

outside, thunder cracked again. you instinctively stepped closer to him. not close enough to touch. but close enough for him to notice.

a mistake. because chan's gaze dropped briefly to your bare legs before lifting back to your face.

“put the fucking sweater on,” he said quietly this time. “why? worried about me?”

his eyes held yours. “more than i should be.”

the room went painfully still after that. your pulse stumbled hard enough to make you angry.

you ended up leaving the studio an hour later once the rain calmed enough to be manageable again. not before chan practically shoved the sweater at you a second time after catching you trying to hand it back. “put it the fuck on,” he said flatly.

“wow. so caring.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

you rolled your eyes, but you still wore it out into the storm. and annoyingly enough, by the time you got home, you realised it smelled exactly like him.

cedar wood and clean laundry. you hated that.

hated it even more when you caught yourself pulling the sleeves over your hands and burying your face into the fabric for half a second while kicking your shoes off near the door.

“oh, this is bad,” you muttered to yourself immediately. because now your apartment smelled faintly like chan too.

meanwhile, back at the studio, chan sat alone in the chair staring at his phone like it had personally offended him. the power had returned twenty minutes ago. music played softly through the speakers again. but he hadn’t gotten any work done since you left.

his mind kept replaying the way you looked wearing his sweater. sleeves hanging past your hands.

your hair still slightly damp from the rain.

fuck.

he scrubbed a hand over his face aggressively. this was getting ridiculous. you were annoying. stubborn. mouthy. constantly arguing with him.

he did not fucking care whether you got home safe. so why was he still staring at your contact like a man possessed? his thumb hovered over the keyboard. stopped. started again. stopped.

don’t text her. seriously. don’t. you’d never let him live it down.

he tossed the phone onto the desk. picked it back up thirty seconds later. “for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

before he could overthink it again, his fingers moved.

chan: « got home okay? »

he stared at the message the second it sent, immediate regret settling in. what the hell was wrong with him? his phone buzzed less than a minute later. and despite himself, his heart kicked hard against his ribs.

« no actually. died halfway there. »

his mouth twitched instantly. god. there it was again. that stupid rush every time you answered him.

« tragic. hope my hoodie survived though. »

you snorted softly to yourself while curling further into your couch.

« barely. still reeks of your fucking ego. »

he leaned back in the chair, smiling before he could stop himself, like an idiot.

« you still wearing it? »

your eyes narrowed at the message.

« why? you miss it? »

three dots appeared almost immediately. disappeared. appeared again. you stared at your screen way too intently.

« maybe i just don’t trust you with my clothes. »

heat crept into your face annoyingly fast.

« relax. i’m not trying to steal your precious hoodie. »

« already did. »

your stomach flipped. you hated how much you liked this version of him. because somehow, over text, the banter felt even more entertaining. like all his attention narrowed directly onto you. you bit your lip before typing back.

« you this annoying with everyone or am i special? »

this time, his reply took longer. far longer. chan stared at the message for a while, jaw tightening slightly because the answer came too easily.

you’re the only person who talks back.

you’re the only one i think about this much.

you’re the only one who gets under my skin.

instead, he typed:

« don’t let it get to your head. »

a couple days later, you found yourself back at the studio again. mostly because felix had begged you to bring him lunch after claiming he was “seconds away from starving to death.” dramatic.

you sat cross-legged on the couch while felix inhaled noodles beside you, rambling about some artist they'd been working with while music played quietly through the speakers.

you were halfway through making fun of him for nearly setting the break room microwave on fire earlier when the studio door opened.

and immediately, your attention shifted. chan walked in wearing all black, headphones hanging around his neck, one hand pushing through his hair tiredly before his eyes landed on you.

his expression barely changed. but his heartbeat did. fast enough to irritate him instantly. because there you were again, sitting comfortably in his space like you belonged there now. laughing, talking, wearing that exact expression that always made him want to argue with you just to keep your attention on him longer.

“look who decided to show up,” you said casually.

“look who keeps invading my studio.”

felix looked between the two of you with immediate interest.

chan dropped into the chair across from you before his eyes narrowed slightly. “did you bring my hoodie?” you blinked innocently. “no.” his brows lifted. “no?”

“that’s what i said.”

“you keeping it now?”

you snorted softly. “maybe i like it.”

his gaze flickered over you slowly. "should i be worried?”

“depends,” you said lightly. “you emotionally attached to it?”

“not usually.”

felix looked absolutely delighted. “jesus christ,” he whispered to himself.

you ignored him. mostly because chan was still staring at you with that infuriatingly focused expression that made you feel overly aware of yourself.

“i can go get it right now if you’re gonna be dramatic about it,” you said.

the smart response would’ve been no. he knew that. he should’ve said: don’t bother. it’s just a hoodie. bring it whenever.

instead, his mouth betrayed him. “go ahead.”

you stared at him for a second before laughing in disbelief. “you are such a fucking pain in the ass.”

“you took my hoodie.”

“you told me to wear it!"

“didn’t say permanently.”

you narrowed your eyes at him while felix openly watched the exchange like live entertainment. “see?” you muttered. “this is exactly what i mean. you always need things your way.”

“and you always pretend you don’t like giving me a hard time.”

“i could think of a million things i'd rather do.”

“sure.” god, that smug look on his face made you want to throw something at him.

instead, you leaned back against the couch dramatically. “well, too bad. i’m not going home right now just because you snapped your fingers.”

his jaw twitched slightly. “fine,” he said after a second. “i’ll pick it up tonight after the studio.”

your heart stumbled instantly, hard enough to genuinely piss you off. because suddenly all you could think about was chan standing inside your apartment. wearing that look, talking to you in that low voice, being alone with you again.

you forced yourself to stay casual. “fine.” but the word came out thinner than you intended.

his eyes stayed on you for one extra second too long before the corner of his mouth tilted upward slightly, satisfied. like he’d already figured out exactly what that idea did to you too.

a little after eight, your phone buzzed. you stared at the notification longer than necessary.

« address. »

your thumbs hovered over the keyboard while your heartbeat steadily picked up speed. this was a bad idea. letting chan into your apartment, alone, at night, after whatever the hell had been happening between you lately, felt objectively stupid.

his hoodie sat freshly washed and perfectly folded on your desk like evidence of a problem you refused to acknowledge. you should’ve just brought it to the studio earlier.

after another minute of overthinking, you sent him your address anyway. the three dots appeared almost immediately.

« be there in thirty. »

your stomach flipped. “this is so fucking stupid,” you muttered to yourself. and yet you still fixed your hair before he arrived. fucking pathetic.

exactly thirty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. of course he was punctual. you had no idea why the smallest thing about him annoyed you this much.

you grabbed the hoodie quickly before opening the door just enough to shove it towards him immediately. “here. now leave.”

chan looked down at the folded sweater in your hands before slowly lifting his eyes back to your face. “cute welcome.”

“you came for the hoodie. here it is."

instead of taking it right away, he leaned one arm against the doorframe casually. his gaze stayed fixed on you while he finally took the sweater from your hands. and then he noticed it. the scent. your detergent.

his fingers tightened slightly around the fabric. fuck. he hated how much he liked it. hated the immediate thought that crossed his mind.

you narrowed your eyes. “why are you looking at it like that?”

“nothing.”

“you’re literally glaring at your own hoodie.”

“i’m thinking.”

“dangerous hobby for someone like you.”

his mouth twitched. there it was again. that tiny almost-smile that only ever seemed to appear around you. “you washed it.”

“obviously.”

“didn’t think you had it in you.”

you scoffed immediately. “god, you’re annoying.”

“you say that every time you see me.”

“because it remains true every time i see you.”

he laughed quietly under his breath before his eyes drifted past you briefly into your apartment. “you gonna make me stand out here all night?”

“that was actually the plan.”

“rude.”

“you'll survive.” but despite the sarcasm, you stepped aside anyway.

the second chan walked past you, the atmosphere shifted. you shut the door quickly behind him before you could overthink the fact that you were now alone with him again.

his eyes landed on you again almost immediately. “you nervous?” he asked suddenly. you blinked. “what?”

“you keep fidgeting.” you immediately stopped moving out of spite. “you’re imagining things.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

he hummed softly, unconvinced. “interesting.”

“what is?”

“you only get defensive when i’m right.”

“and you only talk this much when you want attention.” his brows lifted slightly. "you think i want your attention?”

you laughed once in disbelief. “please. you practically orbit around me at this point.”

that hit harder than intended. you could tell immediately by the way his expression shifted.

chan stepped closer slowly, enough to make your pulse spike.

“careful,” he said quietly. “you’re sounding very confident for someone whose heart is racing right now.”

your breath caught. “you’re insufferable.”

“you already said that.”

“because you keep proving it.”

“then tell me why,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “you still let me in?"

the tension snapped tighter instantly.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you said, though your voice came out weaker than intended. “you came here for a hoodie.”

“right.” the way he said it made heat spread low in your stomach. because suddenly it very much did not feel like this was about the hoodie anymore.

the room felt unbearably small now. every sarcastic comment, every lingering glance, every argument between you two over the past weeks suddenly sat heavy in the air between you.

chan stayed close. close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw every time you opened your mouth again. which, naturally, only made you want to push him further.

“you know,” you said lightly, even though your pulse was completely betraying you now, “for someone who supposedly can’t stand me, you spend an awful lot of time in my personal space.”

his eyes narrowed. “you think this is me trying to be close to you?”

“i think you’re obsessed with annoying me.”

a humourless laugh left him. “trust me,” he murmured, “if i wanted to annoy you, you’d know.”

your stomach tightened hard at the tone of his voice. but you still crossed your arms stubbornly. “wow. terrifying.”

chan couldn't help but stare at your arms crossed over your tits. those goddamn tits. “you should be scared.”

“of what?”

his gaze locked onto yours completely. “of how much i’m trying not to lose my patience with you right now.”

the words hit like a physical thing, your breath catching slightly. his expression darkened. “there it is,” he said quietly. you swallowed once. “there’s what?”

“that look.”

“what look?”

“the one you get when you stop pretending you hate this.”

heat flooded your face instantly. “you’re delusional.”

“am i?” he stepped even closer. your back nearly brushed the edge of the counter behind you now. every instinct screamed at you to move. you didn’t. because despite the tension winding painfully tight in your chest, despite how impossible he was, you wanted him close.

“you talk too much,” chan muttered suddenly, eyes fixed on your mouth now instead of your eyes.

you scoffed softly, though it came out shakier than intended. “yet you’re always listening.”

“that’s the problem.” your heartbeat stumbled at his low voice. “do you have any idea,” he said slowly, “how fucking badly i want to shut that smart mouth of yours?”

silence crashed between you. your breath came shallow now. because suddenly all the tension between you two finally had a name. and judging by the way chan looked at you, he’d stopped trying to deny it entirely.

you should’ve stepped away. should’ve said something sarcastic. something sharp. something safe.

instead, your eyes flicked briefly to his lips before you whispered, far too softly: “what’s keeping you then?”

that was it. whatever restraint chan had left snapped instantly. his hand caught your jaw almost desperately before he crashed his mouth against yours. like he’d been holding himself back for weeks and finally lost the fight.

the kiss was all heat and frustration and ruined patience. you kissed him back immediately, fingers gripping the front of his shirt as his other hand braced against the counter beside you.

and god, chan kissed exactly how he argued: intense and demanding. like he tried to be in control even in the heat of the moment.

a quiet sound caught in his throat when you pulled him closer, like he couldn’t quite believe this was finally happening either.

his forehead pressed briefly against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe, both of you visibly affected now. and then the idiot actually muttered: “still think i’m annoying?”

you let out a breathless laugh despite yourself. “the most annoying."

his mouth curved against yours again. “yeah,” he murmured, already kissing you again, “but you kiss me anyway?"

you snorted against his lips. "just trying to see whether your ego is justified."

a dark chuckle escaped chan's throat, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, his erection pressing against your lower belly.

"think you can impress me with a hard cock?" chan's hands twitched at that. he wanted to smack that smug expression of your face so badly. wanted to make you shut that goddamn mouth of yours.

instead, he inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "watch it." he said through gritted teeth, trying to hold onto his last bit of self control.

"or what?" you replied confidently, looking up at him, smiling way too sweetly. chan's breaths came out heavier, his hips grinding against you instinctively.

"or i will show you exactly what this cock is capable of doing to you. and spoiler alert, you're not gonna like it."

you snorted at that. actually snorted, right in his face. "yeah? think you're gonna break me, channie?" the soft nickname on your lips were his complete undoing. his cock twitched, you felt it through the fabric. he placed his hands on the counter on either side of you, pulling back but caging you in. he could no longer be this close to you, he had to get his cock away from you. because he was about to snap.

"you have no idea what you're doing to me." he spoke, voice rough. a smug expression crossed your face, you leaned forward, breath hot against his ear as you whispered, "what if i know exactly what i'm doing to you?"

his hand shot up, grabbing your hair so hard it hurt, tilting your head back. you couldn't help yourself but moan out, legs clenching together. chan smirked, grip tightening in your hair, "you fucking like that? being manhandled? where's your fucking smugness now?"

you stared at him, hating how your body betrayed you. "fuck you, chan." you muttered. but that only encouraged him. he knew he had you.

"that the only comeback you can think of?" he mocked, his other hand now grabbing your jaw, holding your head in place. he pressed his body against you again. "c'mon, put that smart mouth to work. i dare you."

but you remained silent, breaths coming out in puffs as you tried to calm your racing heart. "where did your attitude go, hm?" he asked, pushing his leg between yours. he pressed his thigh against your core, making your breath hitch, looking at you with mocking eyes.

"you asked me if i think i can break you? yes, i can. tell me to stop and i will leave right through that door. but if you say yes to this, i will make sure you forget your own fucking name."

he waited. patiently. for any answer. for a simple yes or no. you blinked up at him, mind racing, until you finally nodded your head confidently. "is that a yes?" he asked, tone still mocking. "use your fucking words." his tone was commanding as ever. but he needed to hear it, needed your verbal consent.

"yes—" you choked out. and after that, all hell broke loose.

a low sound escaped chan's throat, his grip on your hair tightening, yanking your away from the counter and towards the couch. it hurt, the way he was handling you. he pushed you towards the sofa, finally letting go of your hair. "undress." he said, standing tall in front of you, arms crossed as he watched you. "i'm not gonna ask again."

your fingers trembled slightly as you started undressing yourself, eyes never leaving his. "for fuck's sake." chan muttered, clearly impatient. he smacked your hands away, basically ripping your clothes away. his hands roamed over your body, feeling your warm skin against his fingertips. you felt better than he could have ever imagined. he groaned, his mouth suddenly back on yours. the kiss was laced with desperation as his hands grabbed your tits, squeezing them through your bra before taking it off with skilled fingers. "fucking perfect." he muttered more to himself than you.

he pinched your nipples hard, needing to know how you react to it. you hissed, biting your lip, gaining a smirk from chan.

he pushed you down on the couch, standing tall in front of you. his thumb traced over your lower lip. "open." he grabbed your hair, tilting your head back. "tongue out." your jaw clenched slightly, not wanting to obey him, wanting to challenge him. but when his grip in your hair tightened painfully, you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. chan leaned forward, spitting into your mouth before sliding two fingers along your tongue. he moved them further into your mouth, his cock twitching in his pants.

"i'm gonna show you how to put that smart mouth of yours to good use, yeah?" he muttered as he started sliding his fingers in and out of you. you wrapped your lips around them, looking up at him. he pulled your hair harder, tilting your head further, retrieving his fingers from between your lips and smacking your cheek hard. "fucking answer when i'm talking to you."

your breath caught in your throat, eyes watering the slightest bit. "well right now, you're all big words and no fucking action." your snappy response earned you another slap against your cheek, coating it with your saliva that was still on his fingers.

"you fucking bitch." chan just shook his head, unable to believe that you still had the audacity to talk back. he yanked your hair. hard. moving you to lie on your back, head on the armrest of the couch. he pulled you further until your head was hanging over the edge.

he was already working on his pants, pulling them down, freeing his cock, right over your face. he gave it a few strokes, watching you. he didn't waste another second, tapping it against your lips. you smelled him, the saltiness of his precum coating his tip.

he didn't push in, not yet. he smeared his precum over your lips. "tap my thigh three times in a row if it gets too much. understand?" he asked, growing more impatient by the minute. you nodded. fucking nodded. "words, sweetheart." he said through gritted teeth.

"i understand." you said.

"good girl."

"don't fucking call me that. i'm not your good girl."

chan only grinned at that. "you'd rather i keep insulting you?"

"i'd rather you finally put that cock to use." you snapped back. he smacked your tit, making you flinch. "yeah, i fucking should. shut that goddamn mouth of yours for once."

and with that, he pushed his cock past your lips, his hips snapping involuntarily, shoving his length down your throat. "fuck—" he cursed loudly, watching your throat, how it took shape of his length. "holy—"

you immediately gagged around him, not having expected him to just shove his entire length in with no further warning.

and he fucking kept it there, making you choke, cutting off your air supply. you tapped his thigh three times, and he immediately pulled back, realising that he got caught in the moment. you immediately took a deep breath, coughing.

"you want to be treated like a fucking whore, then fucking take it like one."

"you're a fucking asshole, bang chan, you know that?"

a dark chuckle erupted from somewhere deep inside him. "yet you still take my fucking cock like you're my own personal slut." and before you could say anything, he rammed his cock back into your mouth, deep down your throat.

his hips moved in quick little thrusts, fucking your mouth till you couldn't breathe, pulling back to let you get some oxygen before repeating his movements. his hand reached for your throat, squeezing it, feeling the pressure of his own hand around his cock buried deep down.

you choked. hard. your body started jolting until he finally pulled out, a long strip of saliva still connecting your mouth to his cock.

"you're trying to fucking choke me to death?" your voice sounded hoarse, your throat so raw it hurt to talk. chan just grinned down at you, his fingers smearing your own saliva all over your pretty lips. you caught his finger, biting it.

"fuck! you bitch!" chan called in surprise, withdrawing his hand, connecting it to your cheek with a hard smack. and of all possible things you could have done, you fucking moaned at his action. "you're un-fucking-believable." chan muttered through gritted teeth.

"on your hands and knees." he ordered, voice way too calm for the storm inside him. you snorted. "don't fucking boss me around like that."

chan was losing his patience. he grabbed you, handled your body with a strength that left you breathless as he flipped you over on your stomach. "don't make me tie you the fuck up."

you snorted again. fuck, it drove him wild. he wanted to punish you for fucking breathing. "be my guest. i don't own any ropes."

a slow, wicked grin spread on chan's face. "oh, trust me. i can get very creative." and with that, his hands left you and you heard him wander off. you turned your head to the side, watching him waltz around your apartment like he fucking owned the place.

"what the fuck are you doing?" you snapped, already shuffling to get up.

"if you dare move even a fucking inch, i'm gonna spank your ass till it's burning red." your breath hitched at his words. but that still didn't stop you from rising to your feet and following him. who did he even think he was?

you found him in your bedroom, picking up a belt that was stored neatly in one of your drawers. he looked ridiculous. going through your stuff, half naked, his stupid cock still glistening with your saliva.

you stood there, butt naked, crossing your arms over your chest. "stop fucking going through my stuff."

"why? hiding something you don't want me to find?"

you snorted, "no. just don't like fucking assholes going through my things."

he walked past your bed, opening the drawer of your nightstand. "oh my god! you have no fucking respect!"

you knew what he would find. and you couldn't care less. he held up your pink vibrator a few seconds later, grinning like he found a precious treasure. "cute." he muttered.

"oh wow, blame a girl for owning a goddamn vibrator."

chan turned around, standing in front of you, vibrator in one hand, belt in the other. "you get yourself off with this thing?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"yes." you replied confidently but couldn't suppress the soft flush spreading from your neck to your face. chan grin only widened. his eyes travelled past you, landing on a light scarf hanging over the back of your desk chair. "perfect." he muttered, walking past you to grab it. "remember how i told you not to fucking move?"

you rolled your eyes, "remember how i told you not to boss me around?"

chan came up behind you. you could feel the heat radiating from his body. he threw the vibrator and the scarf on the bed. your eyes followed the items. "you know, that scarf is actually my favourite, if you ruin it—"

"don't care." he cut you off, grabbing your wrists, yanking them behind your back harshly. he tied the belt around them, making you gasp.

"and the only thing i plan on ruining," he moved his hands up your arms, fingertips ghosting over the skin, giving you goosebumps. "is you."

his lips connected to your shoulders, leaving a few kisses till he reached your neck. his arms snaked around you from behind, pulling you flush against him, his cock hard against your butt. he bit your neck hard, making you hiss, before sucking the flesh, making sure to leave a fucking mark.

he pulled back slightly, watching the skin change colour, grinning in satisfaction, before repeating it a little further up. your ass ground against his cock, making him suck your skin harder.

"fuck, you like getting marked like a fucking whore?" he whispered against your skin, his hands squeezing your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you moan. "chan—"

you moaning his name like that was his complete undoing. he needed more. needed more of you moaning his name, screaming it.

he grabbed the small vibrator from the bed, turning it on and guiding it over your hardened nipples. you pressed yourself harder against him, soft moans now constantly leaving your lips. he started grinding his hard cock against you, moving the vibrator down to your cunt, running it over your clit lazily. you arched your back, your hips starting to move against the toy. "chan, please—" you couldn't suppress the soft whimper, no idea where the sudden needy tone came from. but it made him lose his mind.

he threw you on your bed, yanking your ass up before you could even gather yourself, your hands still tied tightly behind your back.

he started wrapping your scarf around your thighs in figure 8s, tying them together. once he was done, he took a step back, admiring the view. you turned your head to the side, pressed against the mattress, ass in the air. you tried to get a glimpse of him. he stood there, swallowing hard, just... watching you.

"you're a fucking weirdo, bang chan."

his eyes didn't move away from your bare core, "shut up or i will gag you." he said as his eyes finally met yours. he moved closer to the bed, leaning forward, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of your face. "if anything gets too much, you use the word 'red' and i will stop immediately, okay?" you blinked at him a few times. the fact that he still ...cared, despite the hatred, despite you riling him up constantly, made something warm settle in your chest. "okay."

his hand started caressing your butt cheeks, way too softly. the serious expression on his face was replaced by a smirk. and then he smacked you. hard. you couldn't move, hands tied together, thighs tied together. all you could do was flinch.

"you should learn to fucking listen. if i tell you not to move, you don't fucking move." another smack. you opened your mouth, wanting to protest. he cut you off with another deliberate slap. "don't you fucking dare talking back right now." he said, making you grin. fucking grin.

"god—" he shook his head, his next smack making you wince from the sting. and then his finger just entered you with no fucking warning. you moaned out loud in surprise, moving back against his touch.

chan let out a dark chuckle. "you're so fucking desperate, it's pathetic." he said, his finger moving in and out of you with ease. "so fucking wet."

his free hand slapped your ass again, so hard it left a handprint. he added a second finger, curling them inside you, making you moan involuntarily. "fuck, chan—"

his cock twitched at you moaning his name again. fuck, that did things to him. "again." he muttered, teeth clenched, trying to keep any bit of self-control. "moan my fucking name again." he pumped his fingers faster, curling them at just the right spot, his name leaving your lips in soft moans, driving him insane.

he dropped to his knees, pulling his fingers out of you and burying his face into your cunt. "fuck!" you cried out, body jolting forwards. he grabbed your hips harshly, holding you in place as he fed on you like a man starved.

"tastes so fucking good." he groaned against you, his tongue swirling around your clit a couple of times before licking up to your entrance, pushing inside you. he reached for the vibrator again, turning it on, bringing it to your clit, while his tongue moved in and out of your hole.

you ground your cunt against him, moaning shamelessly as you felt your orgasm build up. "chan—" you moaned and he knew. he wanted to deny you the orgasm, wanted to edge you, to make you feel as desperate as you always made him feel. but he couldn't. not when you were moaning so sweetly. not when your cunt was grinding against his face so desperately.

your legs started trembling and he threw the vibrator away. it scattered on the floor somewhere as chan grabbed your hips harder, fingers digging into you so hard, they'd leave bruises. he held you in place, burying his face deeper inside you.

"just fucking come on my face already." he murmured into you, big hands moving to your ass, squeezing the cheeks harshly.

you tried to hold back your orgasm, not wanting him to feel even the slightest amount of pride for making you come. and he noticed. noticed the way you tried to hold back.

"for fuck's sake!" he groaned, pushing two fingers back inside you, curling them right where you needed them, making you cry out.

"stop being so fucking stubborn." his fingers pumped into you relentlessly, hitting your g-spot again and again, making you see stars, head spinning. until you finally could no longer hold back. with one last flick of his tongue over your clit, you came undone. he guided you through your orgasm and you could feel his fucking grin against your cunt.

"that's it." he murmured, clearly satisfied with himself. "just shut the fuck up." you snapped. bad idea. he smacked your cunt so hard, it made you lose balance, collapsing onto the mattress. with your legs and hands still tied, you couldn't lift yourself up, legs still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm.

chan just chuckled darkly behind you, giving his cock a few pumps, watching you being completely at his mercy. he's been dreaming about this, fantasising about it. his eyes wander over your body, spotting every goddamn mark he left. bites, hickeys, fingerprints. he loved it. but he needed more.

he reached forward, grabbing your hair and yanking you back. his breath was hot against your ear, his cock pressing against your ass. "i'm gonna fuck you now, yeah? fill that pretty little cunt. mark you properly."

he gave you a few seconds to protest, but you didn't. you were still catching your breath, body still trembling. he let go of your hair, starting to undress himself. you didn't want to look. you knew he was handsome as fuck, didn't need a proof of that. but you couldn't help turning your head, watching him over your shoulder. fuck.

"stop staring." he said, not even looking up as he neatly placed his clothes over the chair at your desk. your eyes traced his toned body, all the way to his perfect ass. goddamnit.

"don't fucking flatter yourself." you snorted, but your words lacked any bite. chan ignored it, standing behind you, cock fucking throbbing and all. "ass up." he ordered. you struggled against the restraints, trying to move back onto your knees.

"fucking pathetic." chan murmured as he gripped your hips and pulled you up. his hands sprawled over your butt cheeks, squeezing them. you hissed. they still hurt from earlier.

chan just watched you for a while, with you getting impatient. "stop staring." you repeated the words he just threw at you, grinning to yourself. his hands flinched against your butt cheeks, ready to smack the shit out of you, but he took a deep breath instead.

he spit down on his cock, using one hand to spread his saliva over it, before pushing inside you with no further warning. "fuck!" you cried out, jolting forwards. "godfuckingdamnit chan!"

you were so fucking wet, he just slid right in, all the way. he gritted his teeth, trying not to think too much about how fucking good you actually feel. trying not to think about how he actually, finally, has his cock buried inside your fucking cunt. trying not to think about— fuck. his cock twitched inside you, realising how your walls are clamping down on him.

it pissed him off. how good you felt. how warm you were. how fucking wet. how much he wanted you, even though he finally had you.

he grabbed your hair, wrapping it around his hand, yanking you back forcefully, his cock buried to the hilt. he yanked until you were pressed against his chest. "i'm not gonna last long if you keep clenching your fucking walls around me."

your soft moans turned into a snort. "who's pathetic now? you haven't even fucked me properly, channie."

he lost it at the sweet nickname on your lips. his free hand smacked your ass. hard. grabbing your hips. the grip in your hair tightened as he started moving. his hips snapping brutally, each thrust into your sensitive cunt making you whimper.

"you drive me fucking insane." he murmured against your neck before biting down hard, making you cry out in surprise. he groaned against your skin, keeping a steady rhythm. you cried out his name again, and again, making his head spin.

he let go of your hair, forcing you to fall onto the mattress, grabbing your hips, fucking deeper into you. his pace brutal and intense. until your legs could no longer hold you up. they shook so violently, you collapsed onto the mattress.

but he didn't stop. he adjusted to the changed angle within seconds, pushing your hips further down, hips slamming against you, fucking you into the mattress. he moved one hand between your shoulder blades, the other staying on your hip, almost his entire weight holding you down.

"chan—" everything was overwhelming and the familiar knot started tightening in your stomach. his cock rubbed against that sweet spot deep inside you, making your walls clench violently around him as you came hard.

chan cursed under his breath, your orgasm triggering his own. his thrusts become sloppy, desperate to fill your cunt with his load. desperate to fucking breed you.

with a guttural groan, he stilled deep inside you. his arms shook slightly as he emptied himself into you. you felt it, his thick load warm inside you. "fuck, that's it." he murmured almost inaudible, his hips doing small micro thrusts.

he removed his hands from you, placing them on the mattress beside you. but he didn't pull out. not yet. he reached for the belt around your hands, undoing it, freeing you.

you were both breathless, panting heavily. chan's hand reached for your face, swiping some loose strands away. "you okay?"

your body was sore. you were hyper aware of every mark he left on you, your skin burning. but you nodded. the intensity of both your orgasms was enough to make up for the soreness.

he pulled out slowly, sitting back, watching you. your legs were still tied together, looking absolutely perfect to him.

when his cum started dripping out of you, his eyes widened, addicted to the view. "fuck," he groaned, fingers catching the thick liquid, smearing it over your cunt. when more started dripping out, he groaned.

he collected every drop, pushing two fingers inside you. "chan?!" you called out in surprise, but his name died on your lips, turning into a moan. his mind was fucking gone, as he started fucking his cum right back into you with his fingers.

"fucking appreciate the load i gave you." he said, voice dark. he smacked your ass, fingers pumping in and out of you, pushing his cum back inside.

"don't lose a single fucking drop or i'll have to fill you up again."

and right then, fucking his seed back into your cunt, having you whimper at his touch, moan his name with a broken voice, one thing became perfectly clear to him. that he didn't want this to be a one time thing. already too obsessed with the way your body reacts to his.

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Escape from Oxford.

The cobbled streets of Oxford were slick with rain, the moonlight fractured by the twisting alleys. The prison guards rattling over over the iron bars. Inside, Sherlock Holmes sat with his wrists bound in his cell,his sharp eyes scanning the shadows,calculating, waiting.

Then chaos. A figure dropped from the rooftops, landing with a thud as he took down one guard. Then the other guard rampaged from across the prison floor, and James Moriarty grinned down through the bars at Sherlock. Dressed as a gods damm chamber maid.

"Miss me?…Now get dressed”

Before Sherlock could reply, James flung a maids outfit at Sherlock. How delightful. Then flung a smoke bomb at the guards coming their way. The night erupted into coughing, swearing, and flailing truncheons. James yanked open the lock with a twisted bit of wire “Honestly, they should really upgrade these” and hauled Sherlock out.

“You're insane,"Sherlock hissed as they sprinted into the maze of alleyways. Behind them, whistles shrieked.

"Obviously," James laughed, shoving Sherlock sideways as a guard lunged for them. He drove his elbow into the man’s ribs. “But insane keeps you alive! for now”

They ducked into a cellar, breath ragged. The sound of boots thundered past outside.

Sherlock glared. "You do realize every constable in England will now hunting us?"

James wiped blood from his split lip, grinning. “Then we’d better find somewhere they won’t look.”

Sherlock hesitated. "Not with Mycroft then."

"Obviously not Mycroft," James scoffed. “you got any bright ideas holmes?”

James notices sherlocks unease as he leans against the damp wall, catching his breath as he studies Sherlock’s tense expression. The flicker of hesitation in his friend’s eyes is unusual,Sherlock Holmes never hesitates.

"Alright, out with it," James says, flicking a loose button from his stolen maid’s uniform at Sherlock’s forehead. "You’ve got that look,the one you get right before you say something dangerously clever or stupidly noble. Which is it this time?"

Sherlock exhales sharply, then meets his gaze.

"There’s... somewhere.. and..someone..."

James arches an eyebrow. "Not a lover, surely. Unless you’ve been keeping far more interesting company than I thought."

Sherlock’s jaw tightens. "My…sister."

James blinks. Then laughs. "What? Since when do you have a—" He stops abruptly, registering the seriousness in Sherlock’s face. "...You’re serious."

"She lives with our aunt. Outskirts of London. If anyone can hide us without Mycroft’s interference, or anyone’s for that matter,it’s her."

James tilts his head, intrigued. "And why haven’t you mentioned this mysterious sibling before?"

Sherlock’s gaze darkens. "Because she’s worse than I am."

James grins, wild and delighted. "Now that sounds promising." The wheels of the stolen carriage creak as they bump along the darkened streets of London back roads and then the country roads. The moon casting eerie shadows through the trees. James sits at the seat opposite Sherlock, as he guides the horses,tossing a stolen apple in the air and catching it with a smug grin.

“So,” he muses, “tell me more about this sister of yours. ‘Worse than you,’ was it? That’s quite the claim.”

Sherlock scowls right back at him, his fingers drumming restlessly against the reigns. “She’s clever. Too clever. And utterly unrestrained.”

James takes a dramatic bite of the apple, juice dripping down his chin. “Delightful. I like her already.”

“You won’t,” Sherlock mutters. Almost protective, as if he knew he would.

Suddenly, the carriage lurches violently as a gunshot rings out,the horses scream. James lunges forward, grabbing Sherlock’s arm as the entire vehicle tips sideways, crashing into the ditch beside the road. Dust and splintered wood fill the air. Through the wreckage, James sees them: two mounted constables, pistols drawn.

James coughing, half buried under the collapsed carriage door. “Ah. Seems they’ve caught up."

Sherlock,yanking James free with a grunt. “Brilliant deduction."

The constables dismount, boots crunching on gravel as they approach. James wipes blood from his temple, grin sharpening.

James began whispering, fever bright “Give them one of your speeches, Holmes. Distract them."

Sherlock deadpanned “They have guns."

James was already reaching for a broken spoke from the wheel. “So do we. Just—less shooty, more stabby—"

Before he could finish, a WHISTLE cuts through the night,not police, but lilting, mocking. From the trees above, a figure drops onto the nearest constable’s shoulders, kneeing him squarely in the face. The man collapses like a puppet with cut strings.

James began blinking at the newcomer. “…Or stabby is optional, apparently we are kicking them now.”

The second constable then spins, pistol raised,only for the stranger to kick it from his grip, then plant a boot in his stomach, sending him wheezing into the mud. Silence.

“Honestly, Sherlock. Couldn’t even outrun these idiots?"

The figure steps into the moonlight, her wild dark hair, eyes glinting like a blade catching light. She twirls the stolen pistol before tucking it into her belt. Sherlock spun round to James, dusting off his clothes. “James Moriarty… meet my sister.. y/n”

She was smiling sweetly at James. “Oh good. You brought me a present."

James, who was still sprawled in the dirt, grins back like a man who’s just found fireworks in a library.

“I adore her."

Sherlock reached his hand out to James. Before pinching the bridge of his own nose. “You would." James takes Sherlock’s hand, pulling himself up with a wince. His gaze darts between the two siblings, taking in the likeness, the differences. Sherlock may be intense, but this woman—James couldn’t look away. Sherlock wipes mud from his sleeve, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "How the hell did you find us? Aunt's house is miles from here."

She steps over the unconscious constable, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger with a smirk. "News spreads fast, brother dear. I heard of your misfortune”—her eyes flicker to James—"and I was already on my way to London. Imagine my shock when I learned there’d been a prison break. Surely,I thought, not my brilliant brother? He’d never be so reckless."

Sherlock scoffs.

She continues, kicking aside a discarded truncheon. "And yet... here you are. Leaving your usual sloppy crumb trail—torn coat snagged on a fence, footprints in the stable muck, that ridiculous maid’s costume—”

James gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "Excuse you, that costume was a tactical masterpiece."

She sizes him up, lips curling. "Oh, was it? Because from where I was watching, you tripped over your own petticoats twice."

James grins, undeterred. "Admit it—you were impressed."

"By your ability to nearly strangle yourself with a bonnet string? Mildly."

Sherlock exhales sharply, cutting in. "Enough. We need to move."

His sister rolls her eyes. "Always so dramatic. Come on then." She gestures toward the trees to where there was a carriage hiding behind the trees. Sherlock opens his mouth. “how did you know…” but she silences him with a sharp flick of her finger against his forehead,like scolding a wayward child.

"How did I know you’d come crawling my way?" She smirks, pivoting toward the waiting carriage. "Oh, Sherlock. You couldn’t go to Mycroft with this mess could you?. So who else?" She spreads her arms, mock bowing. "Your ever charming, ever underappreciated sister."

James claps his hands together, delighted. "I’m adopting her."

Sherlock drags a hand down his face. "God help me”

She flings open the carriage door with a flourish. "Hurry up, unless you’d prefer another chat with the constables?". James vaults in first, sprawling across the seat like a satisfied cat.

The carriage door slams shut behind them as they settle into the plush seats. Sherlock glares at his sister from across the compartment while James lounges, examining the interior with amusement. Sherlock,leaning forward, voice low. “you surely couldn’t have known I’d come looking for your aid and you are very well prepared for someone just visiting”

Y/n began adjusting her gloves casually. “I was Anticipating trouble, I must always come prepared. You’ve always had a flair for trouble—just never this theatrical. I’m guessing this is down to your new company..?”

James straightens, meeting her gaze with a smirk. "Guilty as charged. I’ve always preferred making an entrance."

She arches an elegant eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "An entrance indeed. I can see why my brother finds your company so… entertaining. And who might you be, then?"

Sherlock interjects, a note of caution in his voice. "This is James Moriarty, a… friend."

Something in her expression sharpens. A surprise. James raises a hand in greeting. "Pleasure."

Her gaze flicks between them, skeptical. "A friend?" Her words are laced with disbelief. "I must say, I never would have expected my brother to be capable of making any kind of friend."

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose, a look of pained embarrassment crossing his face. "Thank you, dear sister, for that heartfelt vote of confidence."

She laughs, genuine humour lighting in her eyes. "I call it as I see it, brother. Never were the most social sort." Her gaze finds James again, sizing him up. "But you seem to have found an equally intriguing companion."

James leans back, folding his arms behind his head. A lazy grin on his face, “I like to think I have a certain charm." Sherlock can’t help but roll his eyes. Sherlock sighs, rubbing his temples. "Yes, well his 'charm' is the reason we're currently wanted fugitives with no foreseeable way out of this mess."

James scoffs. "Oh please, don't act like you weren't already knee deep in trouble before I showed up."

Y/N smirks, crossing her arms. "So—what’s the plan now, geniuses? Because unless you fancy spending the next decade in shackles, I suggest we move quickly”

James snaps his fingers, grinning. "First,we ditch this carriage before they track it. then make our way to.. your aunts yes?… Second—" He leans forward, mischief glittering in his eyes. "—tell me, darling,how good are you at forgery?"

Sherlock groans. "No. Absolutely not."

Y/N tilts her head, intrigued. "Depends. What exactly are we forging?"

James' grin widens. "Oh, just some diplomatic papers. Maybe a pardon or two. Nothing too illegal."

Sherlock glares at him. "Nothing too illegal,you realize that's an oxymoron, yes?"

James waves a dismissive hand. "Semantics."

Y/N leans in, matching James' energy perfectly. "I like him. He’s fun."

Sherlock looks heavenward, muttering, "Gods”

James winks at her. "See? She gets it."

Sherlock exhales sharply. "I hate both of you."

Y/N pats his knee, sweetly condescending. "Aw, don’t be like that brother dear”.

James flops dramatically against the carriage seat, clutching his chest. "You wound me, Holmes. After I broke you out in such style—"

"Style?" Sherlock hisses, gesturing at James' torn petticoat still tangled around one boot. "You nearly got us both hanged because you insisted on escaping dressed as a scullery maid."

James grins, utterly unrepentant. "And yet, here we are. Alive, uncaptured, and about to be very cozy at your dear aunt's” His eyes flick to Y/N with theatrical wistfulness. "Tell me, do you keep port in the cellar? I do adore a good vintage after a daring escape."

Y/n props her chin on her hand, studying James like he's a fascinatingly reckless specimen. "Oh, we have better than port. She's got a 1792 cognac hidden behind the false wall in the library."

James gasps, clutching the carriage door like a swooning maiden. "Marry me.”

Sherlock chokes on air. Y/N laughs,bright, unguarded and James feels something dangerous twist behind his ribs. Outside, the distant clatter of hoofbeats echoes. The game isn't over yet. But oh, what fun they'll have. The carriage lurches to halt, pulling into the dirt driveway of a secluded country estate. The house stands dark against the night, the only light spilling from a downstairs window.

Y/N opens the door, stepping out into the chill air. James follows, stretching like a satisfied cat after a long nap. Sherlock is the last to emerge, eyes narrowing at the building. "You haven't told aunt we're coming, I assume?"

Y/N scoffs, twirling the stolen constable’s keys around her finger. "Of course not. Do I look like an amateur? And with the recent events, I didn’t fully expect this either brother” She strides toward the house without hesitation. "Besides.. Aunt's off gallivanting in Vienna. Won’t be back for weeks."

James whistles low, nudging Sherlock as they follow. "You do realize your sister is terrifyingly competent, yes?"

Sherlock exhales through his nose. "Unfortunately."

Y/N flings open the front door with a flourish, revealing the darkened foyer. "Welcome to your temporary hideout, gentlemen." She smirks, gesturing grandly.

James clasps his hands together as he walked the halls.

Sherlock slumped in the armchair. “I need a drink."

Y/N grins, tossing him a knowing look, then to her new acquaintance James. "Cognac’s in the library. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone."

James gasps, clutching his chest. "You’re leaving?”

She winks. "Only to fetch supplies. Play nice, boys."

Sherlock watches her vanish into the night, then turns to James. "You’re grinning”

James sighs dreamily. "She threatened me with arson and promised me fine liquor. I think I’m in love."

Sherlock shoves past him toward the library. "You’re insufferable."

James skips after him, undeterred. "And yet—" He slings an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. "—here we are!"

Sherlock shrugs him off with a glare. "Against my better judgment."

James laughs, already halfway to the false wall in the library. "Oh, come now—where’s your sense of adventure?"

Sherlock deadpans. "It died. In a ditch. Outside Oxford."

James uncorks the cognac with his teeth. "To resurrection, then." Sherlock scowls but accepts the offered glass. The cognac is rich, sweet fire on the tongue. James hums appreciatively, swirling his tumbler.

Sherlock watches him from the armchair, still nursing his own drink with a pinched expression. "You're enjoying this far too much."

James plops onto the rug, sprawling amidst the stacks of dusty books. "Can you blame me?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, just watches the amber liquid in his glass with hooded eyes. The silence settles, the only sounds the crackling fireplace and the distant hoot of an owl.

James breaks it. "May I pose a question?"

Sherlock's gaze flicks up, wary. "As if I could stop you."

James grins, propping his head on an elbow. "I'm curious about dear little Y/N."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, piques your curiosity about my sister?".James feigns innocence, swirling his drink. "Oh, just wondering how such a charming creature could come from such a stoic line."

Sherlock groans, rubbing his temples. "Don't even entertain ideas."

James bats his lashes, all faux-offended. "Who? Me? I have nothing but the purest intentions."

Sherlock scoffs. "Of course. You're a paragon of virtue." James gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I am wounded, Holmes. Deeply wounded."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, taking a generous sip of his cognac. "You'll manage."

James leans back on his elbows, a sly grin spreading across his face. "She's quite the firecracker, your sister is."

Sherlock tenses, narrowing his eyes. "Where are you going with this?"

James shrugs casually, his expression too smug to be nonchalant. "Oh, nowhere. Just appreciating her… spirited nature."

Sherlock rises from the chair, setting his glass aside. "James," he warns, voice lowered. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."

James holds up his hands, all faux-innocence again. "Can't a man admire a strong, intelligent woman without suspicion?"

Sherlock advances, looming over James. "Not when it's my sister."

James doesn't budge, looking up at Sherlock with an infuriating smirk. "Ooo Holmes you are protective. is this why you’ve never mentioned her?”

Sherlock stiffens, caught between irritation and resignation. "Of course, I'm protective. She's my sister!"

James sighs dramatically, flopping back onto the rug with a grin. "Fine, fine. I’ll behave."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You’ve never behaved a day in your life."

James winks. "True. But for you? I’ll pretend."

Sherlock exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something before following with "please James.." before turning away—just as the front door swings open again. Y/N strides in, arms laden with said provisions. There was bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and James squints—is that a second pistol tucked into her belt?

Y/n tosses the bag onto the table with a thud. "Supplies," she announces, then pauses, catching James’s stare.

He’s not hiding it well. Not quite blank, not quite neutral,something warmer flickers in his gaze as he looks her up and down: wild hair still dusted with night air, coat lined with hidden weapons, that sharp little smile playing on her lips like she knows exactly what he's thinking.

Y/n smirks. "See something you like?"

James grins lazily. "Possibly several somethings."

Sherlock gives James a glare.

Y/n steps closer to James, seating herself beside him on a chair,"You’re trouble aren’t you?”

“Trouble is subjective.” He says watching Sherlock from corner of eyes “And sometimes very rewarding”. Sherlock finally snaps. "James," Sherlock snaps, exasperated. "Stop trying to flirt with my sister."

Y/N chuckles, clearly amused by her brother's irritation. "What's the problem, Sherlock? nervous she might actually like me?”

Sherlock glares at her. "More like im worried for you, she’s a reckless lunatic." He turns to James. "And you. Have you no self preservation at all? You're flirting with my sister for one and someone who could cut you to shreds without batting an eyelash."

James raises an eyebrow, unaffected by Sherlock's concern. He grins like a Cheshire Cat. “and what a way to go”

Y/N laughs again, pouring herself a glass of wine. "Oh, please. Don't mind my brother. He's just jealous anyone might prefer me over his brooding brilliance."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, slouching back in his chair. "Jealous of your blatant disregard for consequences, more like."

Y/N smirks. "As if you're the picture of consequence management, brother dear."

Sherlock grumbles something about "pot calling the kettle black" as he refills his glass. James, thoroughly enjoying the banter, jumps in. "Ah, the Holmes siblings, the epitome of maturity and well adjusted behavior. we just need Mycroft now”

Sherlock winces as if the mere mention of Mycroft physically pains him. "God forbid. He'd have this place fortified with security measures for the royal family within the hour."

Y/N stifles a laugh. "And we all know how much you adore his overbearing paranoia."

Sherlock grimaces, taking a large gulp of his drink. "He's a pest."

Y/N hums, swirling her glass. "A pest who loves you dearly."

Sherlock mumbles something under his breath, something that sounded vaguely like "the sentiment is not returned"

Y/N smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Well, yes. You do have a way of showing your siblings your endearing affections, brother."

The words hang there—lightly spoken, but with an undercurrent of something sharper. Cold. Familiar. Then Y/N rolls her eyes at her brother's stubbornness. "we know how you loathe expressing affection."

Sherlock glares at her. "I express affection. In my own way."

Y/N raises an eyebrow. "If you call ignoring our existence and making sarcastic remarks 'affection', then yes, you're positively overflowing with it." The words hang in the air. Sherlock's eyes flicker with something, not just guilt but something quieter. "I wrote to you when I could."

Y/N sets her glass aside, standing up. "Yes, when you could find time between the danger and the endless self destruction it seems."

Sherlock's jaw tightens. "That's hardly fair."

She doesn't look at him. "Fair? Hardly. But this is a conversation for another time, I…am going to bed” Y/N exits, leaving Sherlock to his brooding. James, ever observant, eyes Sherlock cautiously.

Sherlock notices the look. "Not a single word."

James raises his hands in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Silence hangs between them until James breaks it with a sly grin. "But… I have a question."

Sherlock gives him a sidelong glance. "Of course, you do."

James leans forward, voice low. "Why didn't you visit her, or mention her?"

Sherlock's grip tightens on his glass. "That's none of your business."

James smirks, but there's a rare softness beneath it. "Come now, Holmes.—I think we’ve moved beyond 'none of your business'."

Sherlock stares into the fire, jaw working silently for a moment.

"...She reminds me," he says finally, quiet."Of home before everything fell apart."

He doesn’t say more.But James understood anyway,the guilt in every unanswered letter,the fear in facing someone who knew him deeper. Just her brother. James exhales slowly, his usual mischief fading into something quieter. He swirls his cognac, watching the liquid catch the firelight.

"...I get it," he says finally, voice uncharacteristically soft. Not pressing too much.

Sherlock glances at him, brow furrowed.

James shrugs, half smiling, nudging Sherlock’s boot with his own. "Besides. She's clearly the superior Holmes. It's only natural to be intimidated."

Sherlock scowls, but there's no real bite to it. "Shut up, Moriarty." Sherlock meets his gaze, and something passes between them,an understanding, maybe even gratitude, buried beneath layers of stubbornness and pride. Then James grins, sharp and familiar, breaking the moment. "Well, if you won't drink to reconciliation, drink to surviving another day. That, at least, is worth celebrating."

Sherlock sighs, but clinks his glass against James'.Outside, the wind rattles the old house. But for now, they drink. The fire burns low. The night stretches on.

And tomorrow? Well. Tomorrow's trouble will have to wait.

—————-

A is for Afterparty

Because Hayden can’t stand watching other guys look at you all night — not when you’re dressed like that, not when you’re throwing him glances like you know exactly what you’re doing. He plays it cool through the dinner, the drinks, the laughter — but the second you’re alone, you learn what the real afterparty is. Spoiler: it’s on his lap. On the floor. In the backseat. Wherever he can fuck that smug little smile off your face.

You made it through the charity event without getting fingered under the table. Barely. The second you step inside the house, you kick off your heels, toss your purse, and turn to find Hayden shutting the door slowly, jaw clenched. “You had fun tonight?” he asks. Voice calm. Too calm. You lean against the wall, smirking. “Mmm. The senator’s assistant asked for my number.” He stalks over. “Did he.” “He said red looks good on me.” “That little dress?” He gestures down at the fabric that barely covers your thighs. “That’s not red. That’s fuck me now.” You open your mouth to tease him again — but he already has you pinned to the wall, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other lifting your dress up over your hips. “Don’t act like you weren’t begging for this,” he growls, fingers sliding between your legs. “You sat on my lap during dinner with no panties, baby. You think I didn’t notice?” You’re already moaning when he flips you around, yanks the dress down, and sinks to his knees behind you. His mouth finds you instantly — licking, sucking, biting the inside of your thigh as your knees shake. “Afterparty starts now,” he mutters against your pussy. “And no one else is invited.” You're not sure if he fucks you with his mouth or fingers first — all you know is you're ruined before he even unzips his pants. And when he finally does? He fucks you so deep against the wall you forget the senator’s assistant even existed.

B is for Breeding

Because Hayden doesn’t just want to fuck you — he wants to fill you. Stuff you full until your pussy’s dripping with him, legs shaking, mind blank. He likes watching it leak out. Likes pressing it back in with his fingers, whispering about how you’re gonna keep it all in like a good girl. It’s not about babies. It’s about claiming you. Again. And again. And again.

You’re lying on your back in his bed, legs still trembling from your last orgasm, thighs pushed open wide by his hands. The air smells like sweat and sex, the sheets ruined beneath you. You try to catch your breath, but Hayden’s still hovering between your legs — sweaty, flushed, and hard again. “Hayden,” you gasp, barely able to lift your head. But he’s already stroking himself at the sight of you — used, wrecked, and wide open for him. “You know what I want,” he murmurs, rubbing the tip of his cock against your entrance, smearing his last release all over your folds. “I’m still—full,” you whimper. “I don’t give a fuck,” he growls. “You’re taking it again.” He slides in slow — painfully slow — just to make you feel it. You claw at the sheets as he stretches you open, groaning as he sinks all the way in. “You’re gonna take every drop I give you,” he pants into your ear. “You want me to breed this pussy, baby? Fill you so deep you feel me for days?” You nod desperately, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “That’s my girl,” he grits out, thrusting harder now, hips slamming into yours. “You look so fucking pretty stuffed full of me.” And when he comes inside you again, moaning your name like a prayer — he doesn’t pull out. He presses down on your lower belly, grinning darkly. “Mine,” he whispers. “All fucking mine.”

C is for Control

Because Hayden doesn’t need to raise his voice, or tie you up, or say much at all — his control is effortless. It’s in the way he looks at you over his glass of whiskey. In the way he pats his thigh without a word and you go. The way his palm just rests on the back of your neck during dinner and your breath stutters. You can mouth off all you want — but when he says “enough,” your knees go weak. He's a man who doesn’t ask twice. He doesn’t need to.

You’re bratty tonight — deliberately so. Leaning over the kitchen island in nothing but his dress shirt, teasing him with a wink, acting like you don’t see the warning in his eyes. “You gonna punish me for being mouthy?” you purr, dragging a finger along your inner thigh. “Or just sit there like a boring old man?” His jaw ticks once. The ice in his glass clinks. Then — calm, slow — he stands, loosens his belt, and crooks his finger. “Come here.” The room goes still. Your smirk fades a little. You go. He sits on the leather couch, legs spread, and pulls you between them. One hand on your hip, the other gently at the back of your neck. Not rough — just heavy. Controlling. “You like mouthing off, don’t you?” he murmurs, sliding the shirt off your shoulder. “You want me to lose it. Bend you over and fuck you stupid.” You nod, panting. He hums, almost bored. “No.” Your eyes widen. “No?” “I’m not giving you what you want,” he says, dragging a finger slowly up your thigh, “I’m giving you what you need.” And then he pulls you over his lap, lifts the shirt, and starts spanking you — slow, firm, perfectly timed. Not punishment. Correction. “You’ll behave when I say so,” he growls, watching your ass jiggle under his palm. “You wanna act like a brat? Fine. But remember who’s in control.” And god help you, you moan — because he is.

D is for Dick

Because Hayden’s dick is legendary — thick, heavy, veiny, with that flushed velvet tip that makes your mouth water every time he pulls it out. He’s the kind of man who unzips his pants and suddenly the room goes quiet — your bratty attitude disappears the second you see it. He doesn’t need toys. Doesn’t need to prove anything. That cock alone could split you in two — and sometimes? He does.

You’re lying across the bed, fresh from a shower, hair wet and towel slipping off your thigh when he walks in — shirtless, gray sweatpants low on his hips. You glance at the obvious bulge and grin wickedly. “Aroused already?” you tease. “Don’t you need Viagra to get hard at this age?” Hayden stops in his tracks. Raises a brow. Then — quiet, dangerous — “Say that again.” You laugh. “Vi—” He’s on you in seconds, grabbing your ankle and dragging you down the bed, towel flying off. You shriek, laughing, but he’s not laughing back. “You wanna act cute?” he mutters, kneeling on the bed and tugging down his sweats. Your smirk disappears when his cock springs free — thick, heavy, resting against his stomach, flushed at the tip and already leaking. “Still think I need help?” he growls. You swallow. “No, sir.” “Didn’t think so.” He strokes it slowly while looking at you — daring you to keep mouthing off. Then he grabs your jaw, taps the head of his cock against your lips. “Open.” You do. And he slides it into your mouth, groaning as you take more… and more… until your throat clenches and your eyes start to water. “Yeah,” he pants, holding your head in place. “Let’s see you laugh with my cock in your throat.” You don’t. You gag. You whimper. And he just grins. “Still hard. No pills needed.”

E is for Edge

Because Hayden lives for the way you beg when you’re close — the desperate little gasps, the trembling thighs, the filthy promises spilling out of your mouth just to get him to let you finish. But he doesn’t always. Sometimes he keeps you right on the edge — teasing you with his fingers, his mouth, his cock — until your body’s shaking and you’re crying from the need. That’s where he likes you. Right there. On the edge. His edge.

You’re on your back, wrists pinned above your head, legs spread wide. He’s between them, fully dressed, tongue flicking lazy circles over your clit. Then stopping. Then starting again. Then stopping. You’re soaked. Aching. Practically sobbing. “Please,” you whimper. “Please, Hayden—let me cum.” But he just smiles against your thigh, dragging a finger through the mess he’s made between your legs. “Not yet.” You buck your hips but his grip is iron, keeping you in place. “You’ve been teasing me all day,” he murmurs. “Touching me under the table. Whispering that filthy little line about getting me hard. Now you want mercy?” He slides two fingers in, curling just right, his lips latching onto your clit— and then he stops. Again. Your whole body trembles. “Hayden—!” “You’ll cum when I say so,” he growls, finally pushing in deep. “Not when you beg. Not when you cry.” And god help you— you love it. He brings you to the edge four times. And when he finally lets you cum? You scream. You cry. You fall apart on his cock — shaking, wrecked, gone. And all he does is hold your face and whisper, “Good fucking girl.”

F is for Fame

Because everyone knows him — and now they know who he’s fucking, too.

The SUV door shuts, and the flashes come instantly — like a thousand little suns exploding outside the tinted windows. You don’t even flinch. You’re already straddling him. Dress pushed up to your hips. No panties. Skin hot against his slacks. Hayden’s hand slides around your waist like it’s second nature, fingers pressing into your bare ass as you settle onto his lap. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but his voice is thick, amused — and turned on beyond belief. You grind against him slowly, deliberately, biting your lip while the photographers shout his name outside. He slides his other hand between your legs, fingers parting you lazily, like you have all the time in the world. “You started this,” you whisper in his ear. His breath hitches when he finds how wet you are. “Smile, sweetheart,” he murmurs darkly, curling two fingers inside you so perfectly you jerk in his lap. “They’re watching.” You bury your face in his neck, panting softly, trying to muffle the noises threatening to escape. He’s slow and cruel about it — pressing his fingers deep, curling them just right, dragging your orgasm out until you’re trembling above him. Outside, someone yells. A flash goes off right against the window. You clench around him and gasp. Inside the SUV, the world goes silent — just the sound of his fingers fucking you, your slick breathless moans, and his low growl against your throat. Later, TMZ will zoom in on the photo of his hand clamped tight around your waist. Your flushed face in the shadows. The shape of your thighs on his lap. The internet will lose its goddamn mind. And Hayden? He’ll just light a cigarette and say, “She’s legal. Stay mad.”

G is for Garden

Because Hayden’s farm isn’t just where he keeps horses and tractors — it’s where he drags you into the grass, pulls your dress up over your hips, and fucks you like the wild thing you are. Dirt under your nails, sweat on your skin, his hands roaming like he owns every inch of you — because here, he does.

The sun’s hot on your back as you work in the garden — planting, pulling weeds, the smell of fresh earth thick in the air. You’re wearing that red sundress Hayden loves, the one that barely covers your thighs. He’s watching you from the porch, sipping a glass of bourbon, that lazy smirk curling his lips. When you turn, he’s already there — hands on your waist, pulling you close. “Come here,” he says quietly. You don’t need to be told twice. He bends you over the garden bed, the rough wood biting into your hips. His hands slide under your dress, fingers tracing over your bare skin. “God, you’re dirty,” he growls, thumb brushing over your clit through your panties. You laugh breathlessly. “That’s the idea.” He yanks your panties aside, then plunges two fingers inside you, curling slow. “Fucking gorgeous,” he mutters. Then he pulls out, unzips his pants, and presses the head of his cock against your dripping entrance. Without warning, he pushes in hard — rough and deep. You gasp, gripping the dirt beneath you. He fucks you right there, hands tangled in your hair, breathing hot on your neck. The world narrows to the dirt and his cock filling you completely. When you come, loud and shuddering, he pulls out and kisses your sweaty, flushed skin. “Welcome to my garden,” he says, voice low and satisfied.

H is for Hands

Because Hayden’s hands do everything — from making you choke on his fingers in the bedroom to holding your hand tight when you walk the streets, with flashing cameras trying to catch a glimpse of your connection. Those same hands that knead dough with gentle care in his kitchen turn possessive and commanding when it’s just you two.

You’re walking through the crowded city streets, paparazzi snapping photos from every angle, but all you feel is the steady warmth of Hayden’s hand wrapped around yours. His fingers lace with yours like no one else matters — like you’re his whole world. They catch your hands on camera again — the way he squeezes yours when you get too close to the crowd, protective but tender. Later, back at the house, Hayden’s in the kitchen, shirt rolled up, kneading bread dough with those same hands. The way he works the dough — slow, firm, deliberate — reminds you of how he touches you. Every fold and press full of intent. Then, in the bedroom, those hands get a different kind of workout. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, gently at first, then deeper, making you choke a little. Your breath hitches, but you don’t pull away — because the look in his eyes tells you he’s in control. “Swallow,” he commands softly. You obey, your throat tightening around his fingers, your body trembling with need. When he pulls his fingers out, he wraps his hand around yours and presses a kiss to your knuckles, his touch both possessive and protective. It’s Hayden’s hands that keep you grounded in public and lose you in private. Those hands are yours — marked on your skin, your mouth, your heart. And every time you see them — strong, rough, tender and veiny — you know exactly who you belong to.

I is for Imagination

Because Hayden’s imagination never rests. Every time his eyes land on you, it’s like a spark ignites behind them — already dreaming, already craving, already planning the next way to make you shiver and moan beneath him.

He imagines your skin under his fingertips, soft and warm, every inch begging to be explored. He pictures the way you gasp when he trails kisses down your neck, the way your fingers twist in his hair when he goes slow and deep. Sometimes, when you’re just sitting across the room, unaware, he catches himself watching you and his mind drifts — picturing your body arching beneath him, the way your hips move when you take him in, the sounds you make when you’re lost in pleasure. He loves imagining your reactions to his touch — the subtle twitch of your lips, the flush that blooms on your cheeks, the way your breath hitches when he finds just the right spot to nibble or suck. But what he loves most is the way you surrender to him. The moments when you let go of control, trusting him to take you further than you’ve ever been. Hayden’s imagination runs wild with every possible way to make that happen: slow teasing that drives you crazy, then sudden, hard thrusts that leave you gasping for air. Whispered commands mixed with moans that echo through the room. Sometimes he imagines the little things too — you biting your lip when he kisses your collarbone, the way your fingers grip the sheets, or the soft sighs you can’t help but release when he strokes your hair afterward. His imagination is endless. It’s a private world where every fantasy about you turns real — where every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise becomes a burning reality. And no matter how many times he pictures it, it’s never enough. Because with you, Hayden’s imagination is always hungry for more.

J is for Jerk-off

Because even halfway across the world on set, Hayden’s mind—and his hand—never stop craving you.

It’s been a brutal day of shooting under harsh lights and endless takes. His body aches, his mind races, but what really keeps him going is the buzz in his pocket—a message waiting to be opened. When he finally slides into his hotel room, shutting the door behind him, his phone lights up with a new text. He grins like a devil as he unlocks it, revealing a photo you just sent—half-naked, dripping in lace and promise. The way the delicate fabric hugs your curves, teasing just enough to leave him desperate, breath catching in his throat. Hayden’s fingers twitch, already undoing buttons on his shirt, his mind flooding with dirty thoughts about you. He sinks down on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, the other slipping under his own waistband. His eyes never leave the screen as he strokes himself slowly, savoring the image of you—how you’d feel beneath his hands, how your moans would sound when he’s inside you. Every flick, every curl of his fingers is a silent promise. That when this shoot is over, he’ll take his time making up for every lonely moment. With a low growl, he leans back, breathing ragged, already imagining your soft voice begging, his name dripping from your lips. Because no matter the miles, no matter the cameras or the crew—Hayden only jerks off to one thing. You.

K is for Kinky

Because your younger, fearless self is always pushing boundaries, and Hayden? Hayden’s not just on board — he’s the captain of this kinky adventure.

He comes home from filming, tired but with that spark in his eye. In his hand? A small, velvety package. Plushy handcuffs. Soft enough to feel gentle on your skin, but a promise of delicious restraint. You catch the glint of mischief when he steps through the door, dropping his bag and closing it quietly. “Thought I’d bring a little fun back home,” he says low, voice thick with heat, already pulling you into his arms. Your heart races. You know this is just the beginning. Later, in the dim glow of the bedroom, Hayden’s got you sprawled out on the bed, cuffs clicking softly around your wrists. His fingers trail over your bare skin, mapping every inch like he’s claiming territory. His lips find your neck, teeth grazing just enough to leave you breathless, while his hands explore—playful, possessive, commanding. He leans in, whispering, “You like testing limits, baby? Let’s see how far we can go.” And oh, you go wild—he’s a master at turning control into pleasure, mixing firm holds with tender touches, his voice a seductive growl in your ear. Each restrained movement makes your skin tingle, every whispered command sending waves of heat through you. Hayden’s hands and mouth are everywhere—tracing, teasing, worshipping—while you’re completely at his mercy, trusting him to take you higher. That night, the plushy cuffs become more than a toy—they’re a symbol. Of how your daring spirit and his seasoned touch combine into something explosively, deliciously unforgettable. Because with Hayden, kinky isn’t just an experiment. It’s a promise. A promise that he’ll always surprise you. And always, always own you.

L is for Loving

Because Hayden may be a man in his 40s, but with you, he’s a goofy, hopeless teen in love. He adores you endlessly — always bringing flowers, planning dates, and showing up for you in every way. His love is fierce, constant, and utterly heart-melting.

He’s standing in the kitchen, holding a slightly crooked bouquet of wildflowers—picked fresh from the farmer’s market that morning. You catch him staring at you like you’re the only person in the room, and something in his eyes softens, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer, voice shy but full of warmth. “Thought you’d like these.” You take the flowers, but your attention stays on him—on how his smile is almost boyish, how he fidgets with the stems as if he’s nervous to give you something so simple yet so sincere. Later, he pulls you into a slow dance in the living room, no music playing, just the quiet hum of the house around you. His hands rest gently on your waist, and he leans his forehead against yours, breathing in your scent like it’s a favorite song. “I don’t say it enough,” he murmurs, “but I love you. More than I thought possible.” And you believe him—because his every look, every touch, every silly, tender gesture tells the story of a man utterly, hopelessly in love. With you.

M is for Mouth

Because Hayden worships your mouth — the way it wraps around every word, every kiss, every inch of him. He swears you were born to ruin him with just your lips. And when you’re on your knees for him, dripping and hungry? He’s done for.

He leans back on the couch, legs spread, one arm lazily draped over the cushion as he watches you kneel between them. His shirt’s halfway unbuttoned, the soft trail of his happy trail teasing you with every shallow breath he takes. You look up at him, lips already slick with need, and he just smirks. That lazy, cocky, devastating grin that makes your thighs clench. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice deep and low, “so pretty when you’re about to beg for it.” Your mouth wraps around him slowly, lips plush and glistening. Hayden’s jaw tightens, hand moving to your hair, not guiding—just grounding himself. You work him over with sinful ease, and he can’t look away. The way your lips stretch, the wet sounds, the heat of your mouth? He’s mesmerized. When he finishes, it’s with a low, broken groan, your name like a prayer on his tongue. And when you pull back, mouth shining, lips swollen and dripping with the evidence of how deeply he adores you—Hayden stares like he’s never seen anything more obscene or beautiful. “Jesus,” he mutters, thumb swiping across your bottom lip. “Looks better than any damn lip gloss I’ve ever seen.” You lick his thumb clean, and his groan says it all. You're not just in his mouth. You’re in his head. Ruined him. Fully.

N is for Noisy

Because Hayden’s never quiet in bed. He moans like he means it, groans like he’s falling apart, and talks through gritted teeth about how good you feel. He doesn’t hold anything back — and you love every filthy sound that spills from his lips.

The room is dim, bathed in the golden wash of sunset pouring through the windows. His shirt is somewhere on the floor. Your legs are wrapped around his hips, his body heavy on yours, skin slick and flushed with heat. And he is loud. Every breath he takes is ragged, every moan low and rough in your ear as he rocks into you. His forehead brushes against yours, sweat beading along his temple, and his mouth just won’t stop — not that you want it to. “God, you feel incredible,” he pants, voice hoarse and deep. “So warm... so tight… baby, you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” His hand slips under your thigh, pulling you impossibly closer, hitting just right. You whimper — and that only makes him louder. “Yeah,” he groans, hips stuttering, “that’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. Let me hear you.” You moan, and his head drops to your shoulder with a growl. “Christ,” he gasps, “you take me so good. I could stay buried in you forever.” He’s unraveling, voice rough and desperate, murmuring curses under his breath between every thrust — not out of anger, but out of sheer awe. And when he finally loses it — hips jerking, breath hitching — it’s with a broken moan that sounds like your name and a prayer wrapped into one. Loud. Honest. Completely undone. Just how you like him.

O is for Obedient

Because he loves when you listen. Loves when that bratty mouth quiets, when your eyes go soft and you do exactly what he tells you — not out of fear, but pure, aching want. You like pleasing him. And Hayden? He never lets that loyalty go unrewarded.

He’s slouched on the couch, legs spread wide, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette lazily burning in the other. The room is low-lit, all shadows and smoke, and he’s watching you like a king watching his favorite plaything. “C’mere,” he says, voice low and rough. You come. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even shift — just tilts his chin, eyes raking over your body with heat. “Take it off,” he murmurs, gesturing toward your panties. “Now.” You obey without hesitation, heart pounding, pulse fluttering in your throat. He smirks. “Good girl.” You hear the soft clink of ice in his glass as he takes another sip, never breaking eye contact. “Sit on the rug. Right there.” He points. “Back against the couch. Legs apart. Let me see you.” You move as told, cheeks hot, breath shaky. The moment your legs part, his jaw ticks, the hand with the cigarette hovering mid-air. “Touch yourself,” he says simply. “Look at me while you do.” You obey again — because how could you not? With the way he sounds, the way he watches, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s the one about to fall apart. “That’s it,” he growls. “So desperate for me. Look how pretty you are when you listen.” And when you whimper his name, close and needy, he leans forward, stubbing the cigarette out. “Now I’ll show you what good girls get.”

P is for Porn

Because the world sees him as poised. Charming. Polished. That perfect gentleman with soft-spoken interviews and warm smiles. But you know what the cameras don’t catch—what his fans will never see.

You know the folder tucked away on his laptop, disguised under some boring filename, packed with videos that no one else will ever touch. Clips where he’s not posing for Hollywood, but watching you fall apart under his tongue. Where he rewatches every time you break for him, breathless and begging. Because he needs it—needs you—to get off when he's thousands of miles away in another country, pretending to be someone else. The camera clicks on with a soft beep. Hayden doesn’t say a word as he sets it down on the desk—angled just right to catch everything. He’s already shirtless, jeans unzipped and hanging low on his hips, but his focus is all on you. “Legs up,” he murmurs, voice low, gentle, and so fucking hungry. You’re already wet when he kneels, spreading you open like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s waited all day for. His mouth is on you fast—messy, greedy, like he’s starving for it—and you hear yourself moan loud enough to make the lens shudder on the desk. His fingers dig into your thighs as he devours you, moaning back against you, humming like it turns him on more than anything in the world. Your hands tangle in his hair. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking. Only then does he reach for the camera, stops the recording with a quiet tap, and glances up with his lips still glistening. “Now I’ve got something to watch while I’m gone,” he breathes, eyes dark and full of need. “I need to hear you come, even when I’m halfway across the world. I need to fuck my fist to the sound of you falling apart.”

Q is for Queen

Because no matter how filthy he gets—how deep he fucks you, how hard he spanks you, how wet he makes the sheets—he still treats you like you belong on a throne. He doesn’t see you as some girl he can bend over and forget about. He sees you as his.

His girl. His baby. His perfect, delicate obsession.

And he’ll ruin you with love just as much as he does with lust.

You can’t feel your legs. He’s left you shaking—body boneless on the bed, skin kissed raw, pussy still twitching from the last orgasm he pulled out of you with his mouth. And even though your hair’s a mess, your makeup smudged, your thighs a soaked disaster—Hayden is looking at you like you just descended from the fucking heavens. “Stay just like that,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent. He’s already cleaned himself up, sweat glistening on his chest as he walks barefoot to the bathroom. You expect him to bring you a towel. Instead, he returns with warm water, a soft cloth, and hands so gentle it almost makes you cry. He cleans between your legs carefully, kissing the inside of your thigh when you twitch. He smooths his palm down your stomach and whispers, “No one touches you like this but me.” After, he wraps you in one of his big sweaters, carries you to the kitchen like you’re porcelain, and sets you on his lap while he feeds you chocolate with his fingers. “You know you’re my weakness, right?” he says, mouth brushing your temple. “My girl. My fucking queen.” You smile sleepily, lips still swollen, and tilt your head back to kiss him. And when he pulls you closer, you already know: you’ll never need a crown. You already have him.

R is for Ride

Because nothing drives Hayden crazier than watching you ride — whether it's the wild, untamed grace of you on horseback, thighs clenched and skirt blowing in the wind, or the way you ride him like you're the one in control — knowing damn well you're not. That red country dress you wear around his farm in Canada? It's a weapon. And Hayden? He’s the only man who gets to see what’s underneath it when the sun dips low and the porch light goes off.

The late afternoon light spilled gold over the field as you trotted past the white fence, your red sundress fluttering around your thighs. Hayden stood by the gate, arms folded, sunglasses on, chewing his lip like he wasn’t undressing you with his eyes. The second you swung down from the saddle, he was there — warm hand gripping your waist, mouth close to your ear. "I like watching you ride that horse," he murmured, voice dark and heavy. "But I’d rather watch you ride me." Your pulse jumped. "Oh yeah?" You didn’t even make it to the house. Minutes later, you were straddling him in the barn loft, the sweet scent of hay mixing with your moans as you bounced on his cock, hands braced against his chest. "Fuck—look at you," he grunted, eyes glued to where your tits spilled out of the dress. "That’s it, baby. Show me how bad you want it." You rode him hard, rolling your hips until the sound of skin slapping skin echoed around the beams. He dug his fingers into your ass, guiding you faster, groaning your name like a prayer. "Hayden," you gasped, nails dragging down his chest. "You gonna come for me, cowgirl?" he panted, sweat glistening on his throat. "You gonna come riding me like that?" You nodded, thighs trembling. "Then do it. Fuckin’ take what you need."

S is for Spanking

Because sometimes you push him on purpose. Roll your eyes. Act like a brat. Flirt with other guys just to see his jaw clench and that vein in his neck start to twitch.

You want to be punished. You need it.

And he knows it, too.

Because he doesn’t let it slide. Ever. He’ll drag you upstairs by the wrist, sit you across his lap, and spank you until your thighs shake and your cheeks are burning—not just from his hand, but from the way he praises you between every slap.

“You think I didn’t notice?” Hayden’s voice is low, controlled. Dangerous. His hand is splayed across your lower back, holding you in place over his lap like you weigh nothing. “Laughing with that little prick like I wasn’t standing right there.” You try to speak, but the sharp crack of his palm against your ass knocks the words from your mouth. “Count,” he says. “One,” you gasp, voice already shaky. Another slap, harder this time. Then again. And again. And again. You lose count by five. He leans in close, breath hot against your ear. “You love this, don’t you? Acting like a brat just so I’ll bend you over and remind you who you belong to.” Your body is trembling—pain turning sweet, then desperate. And when his fingers slide between your legs and find you soaked, he groans. “Of course you’re wet,” he mutters, almost proud. “You don’t need a cock to come. Just my hand and that filthy little brain of yours.” He slips two fingers inside you while his other hand keeps spanking—slow, rhythmic, relentless. By the time you come, you’re crying and moaning into the sheets. And Hayden? He just presses a kiss to the back of your neck and whispers, “Next time, I’ll use my belt.”

T is for Tits

Because Hayden is obsessed with your tits — plain and simple. Not in a passing glance or casual grope way — no, in the full-on, worship-you-like-a-religion kind of way. He doesn’t just love them, he needs them: big, soft, plush handfuls he can bury his face in, squeeze until you whimper, and mark up until you're covered in his signature hickeys. Your breasts are his playground — the first place his mouth goes when you’re undressing, the last place he kisses before he lets you fall asleep.

You just finished zipping up your weekend bag when he came up behind you, arms snaking around your waist. "Did you remember the charger?" you asked over your shoulder. "No," he muttered distractedly, already sliding his hands up your shirt. "But I remembered these." "Hayden—" you laugh, even though your body’s already arching into him, "we're gonna be late." "Let them wait." His voice drops, husky, before he lifts your shirt straight over your head. “You know what I’m hungry for.” You gasp when his mouth latches onto one breast, tongue swirling around your nipple before he gently bites it, sending a jolt down your spine. "Fuck," you whisper. His hands are greedy — squeezing, kneading, tugging you close like your tits belong in his palms permanently. His thumbs flick over your nipples, hardening them instantly, and then he’s on the other one, sucking until you can feel the hickey forming. "You’re not gonna wear a bikini without me marking what’s mine," he growls, pulling back to admire the angry red bloom across your skin. You pant, dizzy, clutching at his shoulders. "You’re a menace." He smirks, trailing a line of kisses down your cleavage. "Nah. I’m just a man in love with the best goddamn tits I’ve ever seen." You don’t argue. You just let him worship you.

V is for Voice

Because Hayden’s voice is heaven in bed—deep, husky, and thick with promise. But it’s also medicine in hard times: a balm for your racing mind, a tether when panic threatens to pull you under.

When the world feels like too much, his voice wraps around you like a warm blanket, steady and sure. When you can’t find sleep, it becomes a lullaby, soft and patient, carrying you gently into dreams.

His words aren’t just sounds—they’re safety. They’re home.

You lay awake, tangled in the sheets, heart pounding too fast to find rest. The shadows creep around the room, and the silence only makes your thoughts louder. Hayden notices without a word. He shifts beside you, his hand sliding over your hip, warm and steady. “Can’t sleep again?” His voice is low, a velvet rumble against the quiet. You nod, biting your lip. He breathes out a soft laugh. “Alright. Let me help.” He begins to talk—slowly, gently, like he’s painting pictures with words. About the farm in Canada where you’ll wake to endless green fields and the quiet hum of nature. About the house you’ll build together, cozy and full of laughter. “I want to marry you,” he says, voice thick with something deeper than just love. “Have kids running around, grow old with you. Hold your hand when we’re too tired to do anything but watch the stars.” His fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, anchoring you. “You’re my home, you know?” he whispers. “And when you’re scared or restless, I want to be the one who brings you peace.” The tension in your chest eases, your breathing slows. His voice, steady and true, pulls you toward sleep like a tide you don’t want to fight. “Goodnight, my girl,” he murmurs. And for the first time tonight, you believe it—believe in him, in the future, in the quiet promise of forever.

W is for Wrapped

Because Hayden loves to wrap you up—his big, muscular body curling around yours like a shield. The scent of his cologne, mixed with cigarette smoke and strong black coffee, fills the air, grounding you in his presence.

He’s not just a hugger—he’s a big hugger. The kind that makes you feel like you’re the only person that matters in the world. His arms pull you close, warm and possessive, tightening with every heartbeat.

But those embraces aren’t always soft. Sometimes, when you’re both naked and tangled in the sheets, his hold becomes something more—fierce, urgent, impossibly sexy. He wraps you so tight that you can barely breathe, his body pressing into yours as he makes love, claiming every inch like a vow.

To be wrapped in Hayden’s arms is to be held safe and utterly consumed at the same time.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. You’re bare against the cool sheets, heart pounding from the way he’s been looking at you all evening—hungry, possessive, impossible to resist. Hayden steps closer, his cologne and cigarette smoke wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Without a word, he pulls you into his arms—big, strong, completely enveloping. You sigh into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath calloused skin. His fingers trace lazy patterns down your back, while his other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips. But then the warmth shifts—his grip tightens, muscles coiling beneath your skin. His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing softly before biting just enough to make you gasp. He whispers, low and rough, “You’re mine. Always.” And as he folds you into him, pressing you down onto the bed, the world falls away. Wrapped up in Hayden’s body, you’re safe. Owned. Loved. And utterly, deliciously lost.

X is for X-Rated

Because everything with Hayden is explicit, raw, and unfiltered. No holding back, no shame—just filthy, taboo moments that push every limit. He’s not here to play it safe or keep things polite. When he’s with you, desire spills over boundaries and rules, and every touch or word carries a dangerous, delicious charge.

He loves to watch you lose control, to hear your breath hitch as he whispers the dirtiest things—words that make your skin flush and your pulse race. His hands are never gentle; they claim, mark, and explore like he’s reminding you exactly who owns you. With Hayden, every moment feels like a private show where the only rule is how far you dare to go.

Tonight, the house is quiet except for the heavy sound of your breathing. Hayden’s voice drips low and dark as he presses you against the wall, hands gripping your hips tightly. “I want you loud,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “I want you begging in front of me—no shame, no holding back.” You shiver, heart pounding as his fingers trace a rough path beneath your shirt, slipping beneath your bra to cup your breast with possessive force. His other hand slides lower, fingers teasing the edge of your jeans. You’re already trembling, caught between want and nervous excitement. He leans in, mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck, voice thick with promise. “Let me hear you,” he demands, voice rough with need. You obey, gasping and moaning, every sound raw and exposed. Hayden smiles against your skin, a dark, satisfied grin that tells you this is just the beginning. With him, the world blurs—no rules, no limits. Just the fierce, beautiful madness of being completely, unapologetically x-rated.

Y is for Yours

Because Hayden makes it crystal clear: you belong to him. No matter the rumors, the whispers about your age difference, or the controversies that swirl around you both, he never shies away from claiming you.

In every damn interview, every public appearance, Hayden proudly talks about you like you’re the most precious, irreplaceable thing in his life. His voice carries a mix of pride and possessiveness that leaves no room for doubt. You’re his—his choice, his love, and he’s not afraid to show it to the world. He wears his devotion like armor, challenging anyone who questions it. Because to him, there’s nothing shameful in loving you. Instead, there’s only the fierce joy of having you by his side—now and forever. The cameras flash, the room buzzes with questions, but Hayden’s gaze is steady, locked on the reporter who dares to ask about his relationship. “Yes,” he says, voice calm but unwavering, “she’s mine. Completely.” A smirk tugs at his lips. “I don’t care what anyone thinks about our age difference. Love isn’t about numbers; it’s about connection. And what we have? It’s real, it’s strong, and it’s exactly what I want.” The room falls silent for a moment before applause breaks out—not from everyone, but enough to make Hayden’s chest swell with quiet satisfaction. Later, when he’s alone with you, he pulls you close, voice low and tender. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. “And I’ll say it as many times as I have to.” Wrapped in his arms, you feel the weight and warmth of his claim—the undeniable truth that no matter what, you are his.

Z is for Zipper

Because Hayden knows exactly how the slow slide of a zipper drives you wild. He’s a master teaser, loving the way you crave him—impatient, desperate—but he always makes you wait, savoring every second of your maddening anticipation.

The party was loud, a blur of laughter and clinking glasses, but Hayden’s focus was only on you. The two of you slipped away to his private study, the door clicking shut behind you like the start of something dangerous. He stepped close, the scent of his cologne mixing with cigarette smoke wrapping around you like a warm vice. His fingers traced the edge of your dress zipper, slow and deliberate, making you shiver. You reached up, desperate to pull his hands away, to free yourself, but he tightened his grip, silencing you with a dark smile. “Patience,” he murmured, voice thick and teasing. Your breath hitched as his fingers inched down the zipper, just barely exposing the curve of your bare back. Every millimeter was a delicious torture, the heat building in your belly until it felt like you might combust. Hayden’s eyes burned with control, watching every flicker of frustration in your gaze. “You want it fast,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, “but I’m the one who decides when.” You groaned softly, pressed back against him, craving the release only he could give. His hands paused just before the zipper’s end, leaving you aching and desperate. Finally, with a slow, commanding pull, he freed you—letting the dress fall, exposing your skin to his hungry eyes. He captured your mouth in a kiss deep and fierce, his body pressing against yours. “Now,” he said with a growl, “you’re mine.”

Hope you all enjoyed reading it!

After being pressured once or twice (try two hundred times) to elaborate, he eventually had to retire the old answer. It sounded heartfelt once, but by now everyone said that to stay out of hot water. Now they want him to be original, to be controversial, to stir drama. They want him to get into the nitty gritty of what exactly he likes about someone's insides, if you'll pardon the terrible phrasing.

Now, his go-to answer is a solid, "I like who I like. I don't really have an ideal type."

Sure, it's a non-answer, and it kind of shines a cagey light on the subject, making it awkward for any follow-up questions. But he likes it that way. It keeps the heat off him while letting everyone else wonder and speculate. And really, that's the whole point. His type is nobody's business but his own.

When he's alone, when there's no one to impress or cater to, the question will sneak back. Not the question exactly—it's the answer that haunts him. He tries to imagine it: someone patient, someone understanding, someone... not him, basically (not that he isn't those things, but he definitely does have to make an effort sometimes). Someone who can handle all the ongoing chaos of his life without wanting to run screaming in the other direction. It's what he's supposed to want and what would make sense.

But when he tries to picture them—really picture them—there's nothing there. A blurry figure, he supposes.

Want to know what is there, though?

Your face.

He's not particularly bothered by this fact—your face is quite nice.

However, it confuses him a little.

For one thing: you're impatient. You look up the endings of movies before they're even halfway done, and he still doesn't understand why because you also don't understand why. You start eating before your food has fully cooled down, and then you have the audacity to complain about a burnt tongue.

For another thing: you interrupt perfectly normal conversations because someone says a word that reminds you of a song, and suddenly you're singing it and you won't stop until you get to a lyric you can't remember. The same thing occurs with pop culture quotes, and Chan really has a difficult time keeping up with those, especially when you and Felix start rebounding off each other.

And you're not... always understanding.

You don't fill in the gaps for him or assume the best possible interpretation just to keep things comfortable for everyone. If anything, you tend to assume the opposite first, not out of malice but out of some part of you that likes to chronically overthink and be realistic.

It makes things harder.

And sometimes, if he's being honest, it irks him.

You don't let him get away with things other people would let slide. You don't accept "I'm fine" when it's clearly not true, and worse, you don't let him redirect the conversation when it starts drifting into territory he doesn't feel like navigating.

There was a night—there are a lot of nights, but this one comes back to him often—where he'd shown up to your scheduled catch-up already worn thin. He hadn't said much at first, which isn't unusual, and you hadn't pushed immediately, which is. You'd let him settle, let his silence stretch out between you while you leaned against the side of your car, tracing absent patterns into the condensation on your drink while telling a story about a coworker.

It had almost worked.

He'd almost managed to sit there and let his quiet do what it usually does with everyone else.

And then, out of nowhere, you'd glanced over at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Are you here with me?"

He hadn't even looked up. "Huh?"

"Well, I'm talking to you and you're nodding, but I could probably replace you with a cardboard cutout and get the same results."

"That's harsh," he'd muttered, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.

"It's true," you'd shot back, entirely unmoved. Then, after a beat, quieter but no less direct, "What's wrong."

It was just a statement, dressed as a question that implied he didn't get to avoid it.

"I'm fine," he'd said automatically, because he's quite good at those two words.

You'd stared at him with a patience that felt almost ironic coming from you, considering how quickly you lose interest in anything that doesn't immediately hold your attention. (Maybe that should have been an early sign to him, that you never seemed to get tired of things that involved him.)

"You're not. You know, you could just say you don't feel like talking about it," you'd added after a second, shifting your weight, your voice losing a bit of its edge. "That's allowed. I'd respect that. I just don't like being lied to."

You don't always understand why he makes the choices he does, and you don't pretend to, but you're not unreasonable. You don't demand more than he can give. You just expect him to be honest about where the line is, instead of pretending it isn't there at all.

"I'm just tired," he'd admitted finally, the words coming out guilty.

You'd watched him for a second, as if weighing them, deciding whether they were enough.

Then you'd nodded once. "Okay. Let's call it then. You should go home and sleep."

"But I just got here," Chan had nearly whined, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he finally glanced up at you. "And we've had this scheduled for so long."

By the time he'd made it to you that night, the hangout had already been pushed back twice. Once because he'd run late at the studio, again because something else had come up that he couldn't get out of.

And then he'd gotten there—

—and he'd been too tired to be any good to you.

He couldn't just go home.

"We've been here for nearly forty minutes," you'd corrected, and it wasn't all that gentle. "You've just been zoning out for most of it."

He'd shifted his weight, jaw tightening just slightly, not in anger but in something closer to frustration—at himself, mostly, though it didn't feel that clear in the moment. It had just felt... off. The whole night had felt off in a way he hadn't wanted, not after how much he'd been looking forward to it.

"I don't want to go home," he'd said after a second.

"Why?" you'd asked.

The answer should have been simple.

Because he'd made the time.

Because it had taken effort to get here.

Because it felt like a waste to leave now.

All of those things were true.

But none of them were what came to mind first.

He'd glanced at you, then away again, as he searched for something that sounded reasonable enough to say out loud.

"I just—" he'd started, then stopped, exhaling softly. "We barely see each other as it is."

"That's not really the point," you'd said, though your voice had lost some of its earlier firmness. "Seeing each other doesn't count if you're not actually... here for it."

"I am here," he'd insisted, a little more quickly this time, as if saying it fast enough might make it true.

"You're here physically," you'd corrected, just as quick. "Mentally? Questionable."

He'd just sort of shook his head, not sure how he was supposed to argue when you were definitely in the right.

"You don't have to be 'on' all the time," you'd continued. "If you're tired, you're tired. That's fine."

"That's not really fair to you."

"Why not?"

"Because you wanted to hang out," he'd said, and there was something more in it now, something that edged closer to frustration again because he'd also really wanted to hang out.

You'd tilted your head slightly at that, studying him for a second longer than usual.

"I did want to hang out," you'd said slowly. "I still do. Just not at the expense of you being miserable."

"I'm not miserable."

"You look miserable."

He'd exhaled again, longer this time, shoulders dropping just a fraction as the argument circled back to the same place it had been sitting from the start.

You weren't going to budge on this, he could tell. You don't budge on most things, you stubborn thing.

It was decided, after that, that you would take a raincheck (which then later turned into another raincheck before he'd finally gotten a whole day to just dedicate to hanging with you).

He'd been happy to get an extra few hours of sleep that night, and his body thanked you the next morning, but the rest of him hadn't quite followed suit. You'd made a reasonable call, one he would've encouraged anyone else to make in your position. He'd been tired. He hadn't been present. There wasn't anything to argue there.

And yet he found himself thinking about it... and thinking about it... and thinking about it some more.

You hadn't bent to meet him where he was, hadn't adjusted your expectations to accommodate the version of him he'd shown up as that night. You'd taken one look at it and said, no, this isn't good enough—for either of us.

That's the part that he ruminates on most.

Because it isn't just that you'd noticed—people notice things about him all the time. His job is to be noticed. People comment on how tired he looks, tell him to rest, suggest he take care of himself in ways that are easy to ignore because they follow it up by asking him to work more.

You'd asked him to leave, to give something up in the moment for the sake of something better later, even if that meant disappointing himself right then and there. You hadn't let him settle for half-present. You hadn't let him offer you something incomplete and call it enough.

And, more than that, you hadn't let him convince himself it was enough.

It's irritating, when he thinks about it too long.

There's a part of him that still resists it, that bristles slightly at the memory of being told what to do, of having the decision taken out of his hands even when he knows, logically, that it hadn't been about control. It had been about care. About achievable standards. About the quiet understanding that what he needed and what he wanted weren't always the same thing—and that, sometimes, someone else had to be the one to hold that line when he wouldn't.

He's not used to that.

He's used to managing himself, to pushing through, to deciding what he can and can't handle without much interference from anyone else. He's used to people accommodating him, adjusting around him, accepting whatever version of him he has to offer at any given moment.

You don't do that.

You never have.

And that should be a problem. A big one.

It should clash with everything he's told himself he should want—someone easy, someone understanding in the way that means they don't push too hard, someone who doesn't make things more complicated than they need to be.

You don't fit neatly into the version of an "ideal" he's been repeating for years. You don't sound perfect when he reduces you to traits and qualities and hypotheticals: someone who calls him out, someone who doesn't let things slide, someone who makes him stop when he'd rather keep going.

And yet when he tries to picture the alternative, when he tries to imagine someone softer in those moments, someone who would've let him stay, let him sit there half-engaged and call it time well spent just because it was easier and it was what he said he had to offer, it doesn't sit right.

All the traits he thought mattered, all the things he's been repeating for years because they sounded right... they don't hold up against something that already exists.

Because he's not comparing you to anything.

He's comparing everything else to you.

And nothing really comes close.

He could sit here and build the perfect person from the ground up. He's done it before: picked out every trait, every quality, every detail down to the last eyelash that should, in theory, make someone exactly right for him or for anyone subjectively. And he'll even tack on the face and body of a celebrity crush to sweeten the pot...

And still... it wouldn't be you.

Which is strange.

Strange that something imperfect, something a little messy, something that doesn't follow any of the rules he set for himself somehow feels more right than something designed to be flawless. Strange that all those small habits, all those little things that should make him pause, are the very things he can't imagine being without.

He can picture perfect.

He just doesn't want it.

Not when it means losing you.

The answer he's been giving all this time circles back: he doesn't have an ideal type. He just likes who he likes.

And who he likes is you.

He almost laughs at himself for not seeing it sooner.

It definitely explains a whole lot.

You're halfway through a story when he tunes back in, something about a café and a barista and a misunderstanding that you'd already told him about a month ago.

Not that he says anything.

He just watches you, elbow resting against the table, head tilted slightly as you talk. You're animated about it, hands moving a little wildly as you explain. It's yet another cute habit of yours to add to his long list of nonnegotiables.

He's a bit betrayed by his heart and mind for figuring this all out right now. It would have been far more convenient earlier this morning, or last night, or any time before now—he could have rehearsed, given himself a pep talk, even brought flowers.

God, he hadn't even bought your coffee for you! And he seriously can't remember if he held the door open for you when you entered. Did he walk on the correct side of the pavement as you came down the block?

You set your drink down and stick him with a certain look. "What?"

He blinks out of his mini panic, half expecting you to get on his case about being half-present again. "What?"

"You're staring."

"Not sure where you expect me to look when you're talking if not at you," he says slowly, almost defensively, though there's a little twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrays him.

"No, no, you've just got a funny wrinkle between your eyebrows," you say, reaching over the table to dig a thumb into the spot you're talking about. "You only get that when you're a little upset... What's wrong—oh, have I already told this story? I have, haven't I? I'm boring you. Why didn't you say anything?"

Chan blinks at you, a little caught off guard by your flurry of words, but the twitch in his mouth spreads into a soft, almost embarrassed smile. He reaches up slowly, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently pulling your hand down from his face. He doesn't let go, just lets it rest lightly on the table, cradled in his own, deciding he'd test some waters.

"You're not boring me," he assures, choosing not to say anything about the repeat story. "I didn't know I get a wrinkle when I'm upset. You sure it's not just proof of my aging?"

You wave him off with your other hand, keeping the one in his perfectly nestled there (which is a good sign). "You're not getting old," you say firmly. "Stop talking like that."

"I've gone completely grey," he says, pointing up at his dyed hair.

You laugh, and he's pretty proud of himself for thinking of that on the fly, even if that joke is technically recycled from Seungmin.

You settle back in your chair after a moment, still holding his hand lightly.

"Are you... sure you're not upset about something?" you ask, studying him.

He gives a small, wry shrug, trying to keep it light. "Upset? Me? Nah... I'm fine."

Before you even say anything, he knows you'll call him out on it. He should really learn that 'fine' is a trigger word.

"Chan."

There's a certain tone about it that only you're capable of. He recalls the many instances where he'd shivered over it, immediately caving in. Honestly, how hadn't he realized sooner?

"...I was just thinking," he starts, already feeling the mistake as the words leave his mouth.

"A dangerous pastime," you sing, quoting Beauty and the Beast.

"I know," he sings along in stride, channeling his best Gaston.

"What have you been thinking about?" you ask, and your attention drops to his hand, your fingers starting to play idly with the rings he's wearing, turning one slightly, then another. And, unfortunately, that derails him, so he doesn't get a chance to steer the conversation to safer waters. At his silence, you glance up, a little grin already forming as you jokingly ask, "About me?"

You're clearly waiting for him to deny it to get him to talk about what he was actually thinking about.

But he just... looks at you.

"Oh," you say, quieter now.

Your hand stops moving completely, but you don't pull away.

"What about me?"

He's not sure why you sound nervous. If he's thinking about you—and clearly he is, it's all that's been on his mind today—why would it be anything but good?

His thumb brushes lightly against the side of your hand, almost absent, but grounding enough to keep him from overthinking himself into silence again.

"...Everything, I think," he admits.

"Everything." You laugh it off quietly, the answer clearly not what you were expecting. "Why was that so deep so suddenly?"

Because it is that deep.

"Sorry, sorry," he chuckles. "I think I just had an epiphany."

"...about me," you finish, blinking in confusion.

"About myself, actually," he corrects.

"You're losing me," you say. "Is this about you or me?"

"Both?" He sheepishly grins, tilting and ducking his head. His ears are starting to burn.

You stare at him for a second like you're trying to decide whether he's being serious or if this is some elaborate bit you're not in on, and he does feel a little bad that he's confusing you with his hesitation.

"It's—" He stops, presses his lips together briefly, then tries again. "It's about me realizing something. And the thing I realized just... happens to be about you."

"Is it..." you search for a word, frown growing, "bad?"

"Bad?" he repeats immediately at the inconceivable word. "Why would it be bad?"

You swallow. "I mean... have you realized I'm annoying? You realized you find me intolerable, didn't you?"

He smiles, shaking his head. Jumping to conclusions, as always. Intolerable, pfft, after so long knowing each other?

"I don't think I've ever been more certain of the opposite actually," he says, watching you and your reaction carefully.

You don't look convinced, and he feels a little sad because this shouldn't even be a question.

"I was thinking about how I've been answering a question wrong for years," he says, still choosing to beat around the rosebush.

Your expression shifts, confusion again overtaking whatever else had been there before. 

"What question?"

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, glancing down at your hand for half a second before looking back up.

"My ideal type."

"That you don't have," you supply, because you do know that much, at least.

"Right," he says.

"Okay," you say slowly, drawing the word out as you sit back just slightly in your chair, though you don't pull your hand away. "And why—exactly—were you thinking about that while I was talking about a barista?"

"Good question," he admits.

"Chan."

"Sorry, I'm a little nervous," he chuckles.

"You're nervous?" you ask, brows knitting. "You're freaking me out a little."

"Well, watch me freak you out some more," he says, heart jumping out of his chest. "I like you. A lot."

"..."

You don't say anything right away.

Which, for you, is basically like screaming.

Your grip on his hand loosens just slightly—not enough to let go, just enough that he notices.

"Chan," you say finally, and his name sounds different in your mouth right now. "What?"

"For a while," he continues, not sure what else to say in response.

"...For a while," you repeat slowly.

"Yeah. Just thought you should know..."

Like he's pointing out that your shoe is untied. Can you tell he hasn't done this before?

You stare at him long enough that he starts to feel it in his shoulders, like a weird muscle tension. Your silence really is never a good sign, but your grip on his hand tightens again, and that's the first thing that tells him he's probably misreading your silence.

"As in..." you start, then stop and retry. "You like me. Like—like me."

"Yes," he says immediately, because that is now old news. "I do... is that okay?"

"'Is that okay'..." you mutter to yourself, perhaps mocking him a little. "Bahng Chahn essentially tells me I'm his ideal type, an answer that has eluded millions and millions of fans and stumped interviewers, and he asks if that's okay."

Chan blinks at you, caught somewhere between embarrassed and a little amused. You're trying to make him sweat, that much is clear. And it's working, unfortunately.

"Would you like to change your question are you going to stick with that?" you ask, one corner of your mouth pulling up with a smirk.

See, nothing can ever be easy with you.

"I'd like to change my question," he says.

"I'm listening."

Despite how much he wants to shrink back and continue skirting around this, he knows you'd like a straightforward approach. He just needs to man up and do it. Fighting.

“Would you go out with me?” he blurts, biting his bottom lip and bracing for some sort of mental or emotional (or, knowing you, even physical) impact.

Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth where he’s still biting his lip, then back up to his eyes. He tries to read your mind, something he's tried on multiple occasions with little success, and the only thing he's able to think in that moment is: how have I never noticed how pretty those eyes are until this moment?

"Okay," you say rather simply, knocking him out of yet another stupor. "I'll go out with you."

"Just like that?" he asks, stunned.

"Were you hoping for a different answer?" You tilt your head.

"No!" His hand grips yours, tugging it to his half of the table. "No, that was the ideal answer. Just... I know we've been friends for a while, and it's a big deal to change that to something romantic?"

"True." You nod, agreeing with him. "It is a big deal. But the fact that I have known you for so long is exactly why I know you’re not asking this lightly."

His throat moves as he swallows, your certainty somehow making him more nervous instead of less.

“And?” he prompts carefully, because he can feel there’s more.

“And,” you continue, “if we’re being honest, I’ve been waiting for you to figure yourself out for a while.”

That makes him freeze.

“...What?”

You raise a brow at him. “Don’t look so shocked.”

“I— I am shocked,” he admits, voice a little unsteady now, because now he's trying to re-evaluate every interaction you’ve ever had. "I'd only just realized it myself."

He sneakily looked at his watch. Yeah, he only figured it out maybe half an hour ago.

“...Are you really surprised I figured it out before you?” you ask.

“...No,” he admits after a beat, and there’s something mildly resigned in it. “You’re not... you’re not easy to hide things from.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

He huffs a small laugh, but it doesn’t fully hide how overwhelmed he still is, sitting there with your hand in his and the entire conversation feeling a bit out of his breadth.

“You always notice things before I do,” he adds. “It’s kind of your thing. I think you’ve probably known what I want or need before I even do, most of the time.”

"It probably helps that I was actually looking for the signs," you say.

He stares at you, blinking, and he sees the corner of your mouth lift, just slightly.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle either, Chan," you admit.

“...Wait,” he says slowly. “You..."

"Let's just say, I've never been confused about my type," you say. And now it's your cheeks and ears that are turning a lovely shade of red.

“So,” he says, mind reeling, “just so I’m understanding this correctly...”

You sigh. “Channie.”

“No, no,” he insists, though there’s a smile creeping in now that he’s not trying to suppress. “I just want to make sure I’m not hallucinating the last five minutes of my life.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull your hand away or interrupt him again.

He takes that as permission to continue.

“You’ve known how you feel,” he says, pointing vaguely between you, reconstructing a timeline in his head, “and you’ve known how I feel. And you’ve just... been sitting on that information.”

"I can't do everything for you," you chuckle.

“I feel like I should be more embarrassed,” he confesses, his free hand coming up to hide his face.

“You probably should be,” you say, laughing as you pull his hand away.

“Thanks.”

He realizes fully, then, that this is what he must have been trying to describe all those times he gave vague answers about not having an ideal type. It was not avoidance. It was misdirection, because he had been looking in entirely the wrong direction for something that was never hypothetical to begin with.

There is a strange kind of relief in that, threaded through with a lingering disbelief that it took him this long to recognize something that had been sitting in front of him the entire time.

THE FIRST THING YOU BECAME AWARE OF WAS THE SILENCE. not the absence of sound–no, that would have been too simple, too clean. this was a silence with texture, thick and velvety as mourning cloth, pressing against your eardrums like the weight of water at impossible depths. it had presence, it had intent. the stillness wrapped around you, and held you the way grief holds the living; gentle, relentless, impossible to escape.

then came the cold.

it started at your shoulder, a point of pressure so familiar it bypassed your confusion entirely and spoke directly to something older, something buried beneath years of practiced composure and carefully constructed walls. the cold seeped through the fabric of your blouse—was it always this thin?—and settled into your epidermis like a brand, like a benediction, like the memory of a hand that once knew the geography of your anatomy better than you knew it yourself.

and then the voice.

“y/n.”

your name, spoken the way only one person had ever spoken it. it sounded like a prayer, a secret, and the answer to a question you never expected to inquire yet again.

you would have known that voice in the wreckage of the world. you would have known it at the bottom of the ocean, in the heart of a fire, at the moment of your death. you had known it at the moment of your death, you realized dimly, though the thought slid off your consciousness like water off wax—slick, fleeting, impossible to grasp.

it was the voice that once whispered terrible, beautiful poetry into your hair at three in the morning, when the rest of the world slept and you two were the only people alive. it was the voice that laughed—that bright, breathless sound like sunrise breaking over the ocean. every time you pulled him away from his producing dungeon by the earlobe, scolding him for forgetting to eat again. it was the voice that promised you forever in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers, and you had believed him because how could you not? how could you not believe in forever when he looked at you like you had invented the concept just for him?

your eyes opened.

the world was grey. not the grey of depression, not the grey of rainy days or old photographs. this was a grey that existed between things—between light and shadow, between life and whatever came after, between the person you were five minutes ago and the person you were now. it was the grey of liminal spaces, of train stations at midnight, of hotel rooms in cities you would never visit again. it was the grey of almost and not quite and still waiting.

you were lying on cold asphalt. the surface was rough against your back, gritty with the debris of a thousand passing tires. the smell that filled your nostrils was an unholy cocktail of burnt rubber, gasoline, and something else… something metallic and sweet that your mind refused to categorize.

copper. iron. the building blocks of ichor. the taste of it lingered at the back of your throat, coppery and wrong, and you wondered vaguely if this was what dying tasted like.

above you, a figure stood silhouetted against lights that flashed and swirled; blue and red, blue and red, the colors of emergency, of urgency, of too late. the lights washed over him in rhythmic pulse, painting him in colors that seemed out of this world, and yet—

and yet, it was him.

…it was… him.

chan stood over you like a fallen angel, like a prayer answered in the worst possible way, like every dream you ever had and every nightmare you couldn;t admit to wanting. his face was exactly as you remembered it: the soft, kind curve of his cheeks that made him look younger than his years, the worried downturn of his lips that appeared every time you so much as stubbed your toe, those deep, expressive eyes that once held your entire universe in their dark depths and refused to let go.

however, something was wrong.

something was deeply, fundamentally wrong, and it took you a long, suspended moment to understand what it was.

his skin. it was perfect; flawless, unblemished, the same neutral winter tone you used to trace with your fingertips for hours, memorizing every mole, every freckle, every tint imperfection that made him him–yet it glowed. not with the healthy radiance of life, not with the flush of exertion or emotion, but with an ethereal, internal light. the light of things that existed beyond the veil. the lights of moon, deep sea creatures, and concepts that were never meant to take human form.

and his eyes.

his eyes were the most… peculiar.

they were still his eyes… the shape, the set, the way they focused on you with that familiar devastating intensity. however, the color had drained away, replaced by something vest, something endless. they were voids now, his eyes, starless, hollow, and deep as the space between galaxies, and when you looked into them you felt yourself falling, falling, falling into an infinity that had no bottom, no top, and no sides, just the terrible, beautiful forever of oblivion.

he reached down and pulled you to your feet.

his hand was cold… so cold, impossibly cold, the cold of winter graves and forgotten attics and the dark side of the moon—but it was real. present. in this grey, shifting world where nothing felt quite anchored, his grip was the one constant thing. the only thing you could trust.

you looked down.

your car was gone—no, not exactly gone. that was the wrong word. your car was there, but it no longer looked like a car.

it was a sculpture of violence, a testament to physics, momentum, and the terrible fragility of human engineering. metal had been folded like origami paper, wrapped around a lamppost that stood utterly unimpressed by the destruction it had wrought. glass sparkled across the road in a million crystalline fragments, each one catching the flashing lights and throwing them back like tiny, cruel stars.

the driver's side door was... somewhere else. you spotted it twenty feet away, torn from its hinges and lying crumpled against a parked car. the steering wheel had been pushed through what used to be the dashboard. and there, still partially inside, still strapped into the seat by a seatbelt that had done its job even when everything else failed—

there was a figure, covered by a sheet.

white, pristine, untouched by the blood that pooled beneath the wreckage in a dark, spreading stain that seemed to grow even as you watched. the sheet had been placed with care, with reverence, with the particular gentleness of people who did this for a living and had learned that the dead deserved dignity even when the living couldn't give it to them.

you looked at it. you looked at it for a long, long time. the sheet rose and fell with nothing—no breath, no movement, no life. just the terrible stillness of something that would never move again.

and somewhere in the deep, survival part of your brain that had kept you alive for twenty-seven years, a switch flipped. a door closed. an understanding settled into your bones like cold water filling a grave.

oh, you thought, with a strange, distant clarity that felt almost peaceful. oh, that's me.

you turned back to him—to the man who wore your lost love's face like a mask, like a mercy, like the cruelest joke the universe could possibly play.

"chan?" you heard yourself ask, and your voice sounded wrong, thin and echoey, like it was traveling from very far away, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

he tilted his head.

it was such a small gesture, such a him gesture—the slight cant to the left, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way his lips parted as if he was about to speak—that your heart (did your heart still beat? you don’t know. you couldn't really feel it anymore) clenched in your chest with a pain that was almost physical.

“i beg your pardon?”

his voice was his. it was his. the same timber, the same resonance, the same quality that used to make you close your eyes and just listen when he spoke, drinking in the sound of him like water in a desert. however, there was something layered beneath it now, an echo that hadn't been there before, a vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once rather than from a single throat. it was the voice of something ancient, something eternal, something that had existed long before humans walked the earth and would exist long after they were gone.

“for i am death, miss y/l/n.”

his introduction hung in the grey air between you, heavy as headstones, final as a closed casket.

“y/n y/l/n, you have met the end of life,” he paused, and something flickered in those moonless eyes; something that might have been gentleness, if gentleness could exist in a being of finality, “time, 14:43 pm.”

you stared at him.

the words bounced off your understanding like coins off frozen ground–pinging, skittering, refusing to find purchase. you knew what they meant. you weren't stupid, you had a brain, you could process language. you knew what each word signified, individually, as a sentence.

however, the meaning of them, the weight, the implication, refused to settle. it was like trying to pour water into a cup that was already full. there was simply no room left in your consciousness for this information.

“what are you saying?” a huff of disbelief slithered through your lips, thin, and reedy. “this isn’t funny, chan.”

for a heartbeat—or whatever passed for a heartbeat in this place, something shifted in his expression.

it was there and gone so fast you might have imagined it, a crack in the perfect, still mask of his features, a glimpse of something raw and wounded beneath the surface of divine indifference. his eyes flickered for just a moment, the void replaced by something warm, brown, and achingly familiar.

and then it was gone, sealed over like ice forming on a lake.

or maybe… you were just being delusional. maybe this was your brain’s last desperate attempt to find comfort in the face of the incomprehensible, projecting familiarity on a stranger who happened to share the same exact features with your past lover.

maybe you wanted so badly for him to still be present that you were seeing thing that weren’t real.

“...please come along with me, miss y/l/n.”

he extended his hand towards you. it was the hand that had pulled you into countless embraces, that had brushed strands from your face when you were sick, that had gripped yours so tightly during horror movies. it looked the same. the same long fingers, the same slight calluses from years of producing music.

a laugh bubbled up in your throat.

it wasn't a happy sound. it wasn't even a sad sound, really. it was the sound of a mind pushed past its breaking point, of a soul that had encountered something so fundamentally absurd that laughter was the only possible response. you laughed, and the sound echoed in the grey space around you, bouncing off buildings you couldn't see and returning to you distorted, wrong, like a funhouse mirror version of itself.

this was a dream. it had to be a dream. a hallucination brought on by the impact, by the blood loss, by the chemicals your dying brain was releasing in its final moments. any second now, you would wake up in a hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and worried nurses, and this would all be a story you told people at parties.

i saw my dead ex-boyfriend as the grim reaper when i died. can you believe it? god forbid a girl to die in peace.

to prove it—to prove that none of this was real, that you were still alive, that the universe hadn't actually become this cruel, you turned away from him, declining his hand, and started walking toward the crowd of onlookers gathered at the edge of the wreckage.

a man in a heavy coat ran straight through you.

there was no impact. no resistance. just a fleeting sensation of cold, like stepping through a curtain of ice water, and then he was on the other side, stumbling to a halt, his face pale as he stared at the wreckage with the particular horror of someone who had just realized they were witnessing something they would never be able to unsee.

he pulled out his phone with trembling hands and started filming. of course he did. everyone filmed everything these days. your death would probably be on the internet within the hour, viewed by strangers who would scroll past it with the same detachment they used for everything else.

you turned, slowly, and looked at the scene properly for the first time.

the flashing lights weren't just ambiance; they belonged to real vehicles, solid vehicles, fire trucks and police cars and an ambulance that had arrived too late. officers in crisp uniforms were redirecting traffic, their faces professionally blank, their movements efficient and practiced. paramedics stood in a small cluster near the wreckage, their postures slack with the particular exhaustion of people who had done everything they could and watched it amount to nothing.

one of them, a young woman with tired eyes and hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, was talking to a police officer, shaking her head. you drifted closer, drawn by some invisible current, and heard fragments of her report.

"...died on impact. nothing we could have done. the steering column... massive internal injuries... probably didn't feel anything."

probably didn’t feel anything.

you wanted to laugh again, or cry, or scream. you had felt everything. you had felt the headlights blinding you through the windshield, the screech of tires that wasn't yours, the terrible suspended moment of knowing what was about to happen and being utterly powerless to stop it. you had felt the impact, the shattering, the brief, bright flare of pain that was almost beautiful in its intensity before everything went grey and quiet.

however, you hadn't felt this. this floating, this weightlessness, this strange detachment from the body that was yours only minutes ago. this was new. this was different. this was what came after.

the paramedic walked away, and you followed her gaze to the wreckage, to the sheet-covered form still strapped into the driver's seat.

no one was rushing to help. no one was prying open the door, cutting through the metal, trying to reach the person inside. there was no point. the person inside was gone. the person inside was you, and you were standing ten feet away, watching yourself be dead.

you exhaled a long, slow breath.

and instead of grief, instead of horror, instead of any of the emotions you were supposed to feel at the moment of your own death, a strange, profound relief washed over you.

it started in your chest—a warmth, a loosening, a release of tension you hadn't even known you'd been carrying. it spread outward, through your arms and legs, up into your face, until every part of you felt lighter, freer, easier than you had in years.

you were tired.

god, you were so tired.

you were tired of the life that you had to continue. you were tired of the career you had to pursue. you were tired of the impossible deadlines, the passive-aggressive emails, the endless meetings that could have been emails, the emails that could have been a single text message. you were tired of coming home to an empty apartment at 11 p.m., too exhausted to cook, too drained to do anything but fall into bed and do it all over again the next day.

you were tired of the silence.

the silence of a bed meant for two that only held one. the silence of a dinner table set for one, eaten alone, cleaned up alone. the silence of weekends stretching out before you like an endless grey desert, with no one to fill them, no one to share them, no one to make them mean anything.

you were tired of being alone.

and now… now you weren't alone anymore, were you? now there was someone here, someone who looked at you with eyes that might be empty but still saw you, still focused on you, still made you feel, for the first time in five years, like you existed in the same universe as another person.

death, it seemed, was a vacation you never knew you needed.

you turned back to him.

to death. to the being who wore your lost love's face like a second skin, like a gift, like a punishment.

“…okay," you said, and your voice was calm now, steady, the voice of someone who had made peace with something they couldn't change. "okay."

something flickered beneath that stone-cold demeanor. it was there and gone so fast you couldn't name it, couldn't categorize it, could only feel its passing like the brush of a ghost's fingers against your consciousness. surprise, maybe. curiosity. interest in a soul that didn't fight, didn't bargain, didn't scream.

he glanced down at his hand, and you watched as a pocket watch materialized in his palm—silver, antique, etched with symbols you didn't recognize but somehow understood. the hands didn't point to hours or minutes. they pointed to something else entirely, something beyond the reach of mortal timekeeping.

he looked back at you, and for a moment… just a moment… his expression softened into something gentle, almost human.

“it’s time,” he announced, the words fell into the silence like stones into deep water, sending ripples through the grey.

he offered his hand once again.

this time, you took it.

his fingers closed around yours, cold, solid, and real, and in the space between one breath and the next, the world dissolved.

THE TRANSITION WAS SEAMLESS… one moment you were standing on a rain-slicked street, surrounded by the wreckage of your mortal life and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles that could no longer touch you; a tableau of tragedy you had already cited, akin to an actor watching the final scene of a play they had once starred in. the next moment, your feet found purchase on polished, grimy floor tiles, and the world reformed itself around you like water settling after a stone had been dropped into it.

you were in a train station—at least, you thought it was just an ordinary train station. the architecture was right, the high, arched ceilings ribbed with iron, the long platforms stretching into darkness like fingers reaching for something just beyond sight, the tracks gleaming dully in the low light, twin silver ribbons leading nowhere and everywhere.

this was like no train station you had ever seen. the ceiling vanished into shadow so complete it felt solid, a weight of darkness pressing down from above like the lid of a closed casket. you could stare into it for hours, for days, for eternities, and never find its end. the tiles underfoot were white, or had been once; now they were veined with cracks, stained with the grime of decades, of centuries, of something that predated time itself. here and there, tiles were missing entirely, revealing only more darkness beneath.

the air was cool and still, carrying the faint, mineral scent of places underground; the breath of caves, of catacombs, of all the places where light feared to tread. it was the smell of buried things, of secrets kept, of journeys that had no return ticket.

and the silence… it was different from the silence of the accident site. the silence of the crime scene had been thick, muffled, the silence of shock and aftermath–a blanket thrown over chaos. the silence here was active. it hummed with a frequency just below hearing, a vibration you felt in your teeth, in your bones, in the place where your soul used to anchor to your body. it breathed in slow, patient rhythms, the breath of something vast and ancient that had been waiting here for longer than mountains. it listened. you could feel its attention on you, curious and detached, like a curator examining an art.

in the center of the platform, sitting motionless on the tracks, was a train.

it was old—no, ancient might be the right word. the kind of ancient that spoke of craftsmanship that no longer existed, of an era when things were built to last forever because forever was understood to be a real and present concept, a destination rather than a word. the metal was dark, polished to a deep gleam that caught the light and held it hostage, refusing to let go. the windows were tall and arched, filled with glass that was slightly rippled, slightly imperfect. along the sides, brass fixtures glowed with a warm, muted light, their surfaces worn smooth fingers that had touched them across centuries.

and at the front, a single lantern burned with a flame that never flickered, never wavered, never died; a flame that had been burning since before your ancestors first walked upright, that would still be burning when the last star in the universe guttered into darkness.

it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen… and the most terrifying.

beauty and terror, you were learning, were not opposites. they were two sides of the same coin, two faces of the same god. to truly see one was to glimpse the other, standing just behind it, waiting to be acknowledged.

“this way,” death led you towards a small booth at the edge of the platform. it resembled the kind of ticket booth you might find in an european train station, the kind with a curved window and a little ledge for setting down your fare, the kind that had once been staffed by an old man with spectacles and patient eyes. however, there was no one inside. there was just a slot, dark and waiting, and above it, words covered into the wood with a permanence that felt like law:

PRESENT YOUR TICKET

you looked down at your hand.

a ticket lay across your palm.

you hadn't felt it appear. you hadn’t seen it materialize. but there it was, as real as anything in this unreal place–a small rectangle of heavy cream paper, the kind that felt expensive between your fingers, the kind that had been made to last. text ran across it in elegant, flowing script:

PLATFORM 9

DESTINATION: █████

VALID FOR: ONE SOUL

NON-REFUNDABLE

beneath the text, in smaller letters, was your name. your full name, the one your mother had given you, the one that appeared on your birth certificate, your driver’s license, and the headstone that would soon be carved in your memory.

you stared at it for a long moment.

then, without quite knowing why, you stepped forward and slid the ticket into the slot.

for a heartbeat, nothing happened. the ticket disappeared into the darkness of the booth, and you were left standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you had just made a terrible mistake.

then a soft click chimed from somewhere deep in the mechanism. a small barrier beside the booth, a wooden turnstile, old and ornate, swung open, inviting you through.

you had been approved. you wouldn’t be a wandering spirit, trapped between worlds, unable to move forward or back. you had a destination. you had a place. you had, for the first time since waking up from a bloodbath, a purpose.

you stepped through the turnstile and onto the platform proper. the train had waited long for your arrival.

death walked beside you, his presence a constant coolness at your shoulder. he didn't speak, didn’t guide, didn’t direct. he simply was, a shadow that accompanied you without demanding anything, without expecting anything, without asking for anything in return, and you didn’t mind. you were, instead, grateful.

the doors of the train slid open as you approached, noiseless and smooth, revealing a corridor of warm wood and soft velvet. you stepped inside, and the door closed behind you with a gentle hiss.

the interior looked even more pleasing than the exterior.

you stood in the corridor, taking in the details that your eyes had skimmed over in that first moment of entrance. each compartment was a small room unto itself, with seats of deep burgundy velvet arranged around small tables of polished mahogany. lamps glowed on the walls, casting long shadows that danced and swayed with the movement of the train—although the train itself wasn’t moving yet.

death stood beside you, waiting.

after a moment, he gestured towards one of the compartments, “you may choose any seat. they’re all reserved for you.”

you moved into the nearest compartment, sliding into a seat by the window. the velvet was soft against your back, cooler than you expected yet not that uncomfortable, like sitting on a cloud that had been left in the shade. it yielded to your weight perfectly, cradling you in a way that felt almost intentional, as if the seat itself had been waiting for you, had been shaped specifically for your soul.

death sat across from you.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. your gaze remained on him, drinking him in. the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way arms were crossed above his chest, the particular set of his mouth that used to mean he was deep into his thinking. and he reciprocated yours, watching you with those dark, dark eyes that held nothing of the warmth they had once carried.

the silence between you was torture. you searched his face like a diver searching for air, desperate for some sign, some crack in the façade, some flicker of the man who had once held you through panic attacks and whispered that everything would be okay. you looked for the crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the adorable dimples when he smiled. for the way his lips used to be pressed against yours in the rain, in the studio, in the hospital when there were no words left to say. for the softness that would bloom across his features when he looked at you, like flowers opening to the sun.

and there was… nothing.

nothing but that quiet, detached curiosity, like a false god examining a mortal prayer they do not intend to answer. like a scholar studying an interesting specimen. like a cat watching a bird through a window—mildly engaged, fundamentally unmoved.

this was not the silence of comfort, because there was nothing comfortable about this. about being trapped in an endless train ride with the face of your dead lover and the hollow eyes of something you had never known you feared until this moment. the train hummed beneath you, a low, constant vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the world outside the windows was only darkness, only void, only the absence of everything you had ever known.

he didn't recognize you. you figured it out in a harsh way, the way you figure out that a limb is broken when you try to use it and the pain tells you everything you need to know. there was no recognition in his gaze. no familiarity. no emotion at all, beyond that mild, academic interest. you were a soul. one of billions. one in a trillion. a face in an endless crowd of faces, all of them eventually forgotten, all of them eventually reduced to the same grey nothing.

it was the silence of a love that existed solely on one side now, a bridge that had collapsed halfway, leaving you stranded on the edge with nothing but memory to hold onto. you could still see the other side, still remember what it looked like, still feel the phantom weight of footsteps that would never cross again.

but he was gone... the man you had loved—still loved, would always love, could not stop loving no matter how many years passed, he had been gone for three years and seemed to remain that way. succumbed to his illness, to the terminal disease that had eaten him slowly from the inside while you sat helplessly by his bedside, holding his hand, pretending you couldn’t feel it growing colder. you had kissed him one last time. you had accompanied him the whole time in his death bed. you had watched the light leave his eyes. you had stood at his grave and promised to move on, to live, to carry him with you without letting his absence destroy you.

and you had failed. you had failed so completely. you had just been too stubborn to accept it until now.

and this… this ancient being sitting across from you was making things far worse.

he tilted his head.

it was such a small gesture, such a him gesture—the slight cant to the left, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way his lips parted as if he was about to speak. it was a ghost of the person he used to be, a muscle memory that had survived the transformation, a remnant of humanity that even the gods hadn't been able to erase completely.

it sent a knife through your heart.

"you're quiet," he observed. his voice was soft, curious, the voice of someone examining an interesting specimen. "most souls talk. they ask questions. they bargain. they beg. they weep. they try to run. you just... sit there. staring at me.”

"you look like someone i used to know," you replied almost instantly, and your voice was steady, surprisingly steady, even though you felt like you were crumbling inside, even though every word felt like glass in your throat.

"ah." he nodded, as if this explained something, as if this was a phenomenon he encountered regularly. "…that happens. the form death takes… it's drawn from the soul death is guiding. whatever face will bring the most comfort, the most peace. sometimes it's a parent. sometimes a child. sometimes a beloved pet." a pause. "sometimes, i'm told, it's a lover.”

you flinched. the word lover, spoken in his voice—chan's voice, applied to someone else, to some hypothetical soul who wasn't you, who had never been you, who would never matter the way you had mattered to the man in the hospital bed.

“you’re not him,” you declared, the words landing like a verdict.

“…no,” he said simply, his expression devoid of any of the things a human might have felt in that moment… or so you thought. however, there was something in the way he held himself, something in the almost-imperceptible pause before he spoke again, that made you wonder if the emptiness ran as deep as it appeared. if perhaps, beneath that void, something was listening. something was watching. something was waiting for you to say more.

“i am… the end of life,” he continued, his voice touched by something that might have been gentleness, might have been curiosity, might have been the faintest echo of the humanity he had lost, “your… temporary friend, if you must.”

temporary friend.

the words lodged in your chest like shards of glass.

because he wasn't your friend—he didn't feel like a friend. he was a stranger wearing your lover's face, a specter dressed in the skin of your most precious memories, a void disguised as the man who had once held your heart in his hands and promised to keep it safe forever. every familiar line of him was a lie. every gesture that echoed the past was an accident, a coincidence, a trick of the light. the being sitting across from you had never held you in the dark. had never whispered that everything would be okay. had never traced idle patterns on your skin while the world slept.

but he was also all you had, at this exact moment.

in this place between places, on this train to the end of forever, he was the only presence that felt real. the only voice that spoke. the only eyes that looked at you and saw something, even if that something was just another soul to be guided, another name on an endless list, another brief flicker of consciousness on its way to oblivion. he was a stranger, yes. a void wearing a familiar shape. but he was here, and you were here, and in the absence of everything else you had ever known, that had to be enough.

"temporary friend," you repeated, testing the weight of the words on your tongue. "that's what you are? to all of them? to all the souls you guide?"

"to all of them," he confirmed. "for the journey, at least. some want to talk. some want silence..." he paused, and something shifted in those eyes—something that might have been the faintest stirring of interest. "i don't know what you want.”

i want you to be him, you thought. i want you to remember. i want you to hold me the way you used to hold me, to look at me the way you used to look at me, to love me the way you promised you would love me forever.

of course, you didn’t say any of that.

because what would be the point?

"i don't know what i want either," you admitted, and the honesty of it surprised you. "i thought i did. i thought i wanted to live. i thought i wanted to go back, to keep fighting, to keep existing in that world that was slowly killing me. but when i saw my body, along all those people standing around doing nothing—"

you shook your head. "i felt relieved. i felt free. for the first time in three years, i felt like i could breathe."

his silence was loud, boisterous, and terrifying. his stare sent shivers cascading down your spine, forcing you to avert your gaze to the ground.

"…three years," he repeated. "that's how long you've been waiting."

it wasn't a question, but you answered anyway.

"that's how long since he died. since chan died." you looked at him, at the face that was and wasn't his, at the eyes that held nothing of the love you remembered. "since i lost the only person who ever made me feel like i mattered."

the words hung in the air between you, heavy as stones dropped into deep water. you watched them sink, watched them disappear into the vast emptiness of his gaze, and wondered if they would reach anything at all. if there was anything to reach, beneath that void, beneath that eternal stillness.

before death could open his mouth, before he could offer whatever response he might have offered; comfort, perhaps, or curiosity, or that strange, detached interest that was the closest thing to warmth he seemed capable of, the train began to move.

it was not the gentle lurch you had expected.

it was a shudder, deep and resonant, like the waking of some ancient beast from slumber deeper than time. a sound rolled through the carriage, low and vibrational, the kind of sound you felt in your bones before you heard it with your ears—a subsonic thrum that seemed to bypass hearing entirely and speak directly to something primal, something buried in the oldest part of your brain. the floor trembled beneath your feet. the lights flickered once, twice, and then steadied, their glow somehow dimmer than before, as if the train itself had drawn on their strength to fuel its awakening.

and through the window, the world began to change.

you turned, instinctively, drawn by the movement, by the shift in light, by something deeper and older than conscious thought. your reflection stared back at you for a moment; pale, hollow-eyed, a ghost even to yourself, and then it dissolved, replaced by something else entirely.

the memories.

they came not as images, not as scenes played out on a screen, but as presences. as if the walls of the train had become transparent, as if you were looking not at a window but at a door into your own past, your own heart, your own self. they pressed against you from all sides, not visually but viscerally, flooding the compartment with the weight of everything you had been.

the first memory was simple. small. almost insignificant.

a kitchen, bathed in afternoon light so golden it seemed liquid, pouring through the windows like honey. your mother's hands, dusted with flour, shaping dough into imperfect circles on a worn wooden counter. your father's laughter from somewhere off-screen, the distant drone of a football match on television, the smell of something baking: bread, maybe, or cookies, that particular warmth that meant home. you were small—seven, maybe eight, sitting at the kitchen table with crayons spread before you like treasure, coloring a picture of a house with a rainbow arched above it like a promise.

you remembered this.

you remembered the way the sun felt on your arms. the way your mother hummed while she worked, some old song you didn't know the name of. the way your father would come in at halftime and kiss the top of your head, his lips warm against your hair, and say, "that's beautiful, sweetheart. the best one yet."

you had been loved.

so deeply, so completely, so unquestioningly loved that you had taken it for granted, had assumed it would always be there, had never once considered that love was a thing that could be lost.

the memory shifted, dissolved, reformed.

now you were older–eleven, maybe twelve, standing on a stage in a school auditorium. the lights were hot against your face, too bright to see the audience, but you could hear them. the rustle of programs, the coughs and whispers, the expectant silence that fell just before you opened your mouth to sing. your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird throwing itself against its cage.

you sang.

your voice, high and clear and pure, filled the space. you didn't remember the song… something from a musical, maybe, something you had practiced for weeks until the notes lived in your bones. however, you remembered the feeling. the way your heart soared with every note, lighter than air, lighter than anything you had felt since. the way the music seemed to flow through you rather than from you, as if you were just a vessel, just a channel for something larger than yourself, something ancient and eternal that had been using human throats to sing since before words existed.

when you finished, the applause was like thunder. like rain after drought. like proof that you existed, that you mattered, that you had touched something in them that they couldn't touch themselves.

you had been good at this, once. you had been alive.

more memories came, faster now, a cascade of moments that built the architecture of your life like bricks in a wall. your first boyfriend, awkward and sweet, holding your hand at the movies with palms so sweaty you couldn't tell where his ended and yours began. your first heartbreak, curled on your bedroom floor while your mother brought you tea and didn't ask questions, just sat with you in the silence until the worst of it passed. graduation, your cap tilted at a jaunty angle, your friends' arms around your shoulders, the future stretching out before you like an unwritten book. university, the nervous excitement of moving into dorms, the terror and thrill of being on your own for the first time, the slow realization that you were becoming someone new.

and then—

him.

the memory slowed, lingered, breathed.

a lecture hall, the projectors, the drone of a professor's voice. you were taking notes, or trying to, your attention wandering to the window, to the grey sky beyond, to anything other than the lecture you had heard a hundred times before. your pen moved automatically, scratching out words your brain wasn't processing.

a shadow fell across your desk.

"mind if i sit here?"

you looked up, and there he was.

bang chan.

twenty years old, with eyes that held depths you couldn't yet fathom and a smile that seemed to suggest he knew something you didn't, something wonderful, something that was about to change your life in ways you couldn't yet imagine.

"it's free," you said, and gestured to the empty seat beside you.

he sat, and the world shifted on its axis.

you watched the memory unfold like a story you had told yourself a thousand times, in the dark, when sleep wouldn't come. late nights in the studio, you at the microphone, him at the mixing board, both of you so absorbed in the music that hours passed like minutes, that time became meaningless, that the only thing that existed was the sound you were building together. the first time he played you something he had produced; a track built around your voice, your melody, your soul, and the way your heart had stopped when you realized what it meant. what he was telling you without words.

the first time he kissed you.

under fairy lights he had strung up in the studio, "for ambiance," he said, but you had known. his lips were tentative at first, sweet, questioning—and then, when you didn't pull away, when you leaned into him instead, they became something else. something certain. something forever. the world outside ceased to exist. there was only his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, the quiet sound he made against your lips that sounded like coming home.

two years.

two years of laughter, arguments, and making up. two years of learning each other's bodies, each other's minds, each other's souls. two years of building a future together, brick by brick, dream by dream, until the architecture of your life was so intertwined with his that you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

and then—

the hospital room.

you knew what was coming. you had lived it once, and you had just finished telling him about it, just finished spilling the story of your grief into the void of his attention. but knowing didn't prepare you. knowing didn't protect you. knowing just meant you had time to brace yourself before the blow fell.

the machines. the tubes. the antiseptic smell that clung to everything, that would cling to your memories forever, that would haunt you in unexpected moments for the rest of your life.

and chan in the bed, so thin, so pale, so wrong. the man who had glowed with life, who had burned so bright you sometimes had to look away, was reduced to this—a skeleton draped in skin, a ghost before his time.

you watched yourself walk into that room, your face blotchy from crying, your hands trembling at your sides. you watched his eyes light up when he saw you, as if your presence could somehow override the reality of his situation, could somehow make everything okay. as if love alone could cheat death.

"hey," he whispered. "you came."

"of course i came." your memory-self's voice cracked, broke, reformed. "i'll always come. i'll always be here."

his hand, reaching for yours. his fingers, cold against your skin—that particular cold you now recognized, that cold you now knew belonged to the dead and the dying and the in-between.

"promise me something."

"anything."

"don't stop singing."

you blinked at the memory; you, at the confusion on your face, at the tears streaming down your cheeks like rivers that would never run dry.

"promise me." his grip tightened, desperate despite its weakness. "when i'm gone—don't stop. the world needs your voice. i need your voice. even if i can't hear it anymore, i'll know. i'll know somehow. i'll be listening."

"i promise."

the words echoed in the train compartment, overlapping with your memory-self's voice, creating a dissonance that hurt to hear, that cut through you like glass.

"i promise. i won't stop singing. i promise."

and then—

the flat line.

the sound of it. you had long forgotten the sound of it; that endless, horrible tone that signified the end of everything–the man that you loved most, he was everything. it went on and on, a needle through your eardrums, a knife through your heart.

“chan…? chan, no… please…”

your voice, high, thin, and desperate, similar to a child’s voice, a voice that did’;t understand why the world kept turning when it had just ended.

“chan… chris.. christopher, please wake up.”

you watched yourself grab his hand, his cold, still hand, and press it so your cheek as if warmth could be forced back into him by sheer force of will. as if love could resurrect. as if promises meant anything at all in the face of this.

“CHRISTOPHER, PLEASE–DOCTOR! ANYONE PLEASE!”

the scream went on and on, even after the nurses came, even after the hands pulled you away, even after you had no air left to fuel it. It went on in your memory, in your bones, in the part of you that would never stop screaming, not really, not ever.

“GOD, WHY?! BABY, PLEASE! WAKE UP! I CAN’T LOSE YOU!”

the sheet, being drawn up, over his face, over the face of the man you loved, the man who had promised you forever, the man who had left you alone in a world that didn't care, that kept spinning, kept turning, kept existing as if nothing had changed.

the memory held on that image. the sheet. the stillness. the terrible, absolute finality of it. the way his hand had looked, lying on the bed beside him, no longer reaching for anything.

and then it dissolved.

you were left staring at your own reflection in the train window, your face wet with tears you hadn't realized you were crying, your body shaking with sobs you hadn't noticed escaping.

across from you, death was silent.

you didn't turn to look at him. you couldn't. if you turned, if you saw his face—your beloved chan's face, wearing that empty expression, those pale eyes, that terrible, beautiful indifference, you would break. you would shatter into a thousand pieces and never be able to put yourself back together. the shards of you would scatter across this impossible train, across this journey to the end of everything, and there would be no one left to gather them. not even him. especially not him.

so you stared at your reflection, at the ghost you had become, and you let yourself feel it. all of it. the grief you had been carrying for three years like a stone in your chest, heavy and smooth and worn by constant handling. the loneliness that had become your only companion, that slept in your bed beside you, that sat across from you at dinner tables meant for two. the exhaustion of waking up every morning to a world that expected you to keep living when half of you had already died. the desperate, aching need for something you could never have again, for a hand you would never hold, for a voice you would never hear—except here, except now, except in this cruel parody of return.

the confession came out before you could stop it, raw, ugly and true.

"i didn't keep my promise."

the words fell into the silence like bodies into graves. you watched them land in your reflection's eyes, watched the ghost of you absorb their weight.

"i tried." a laugh escaped you, bitter and broken. "god, i tried. for a few months after, i sang every day. i have tried auditions after auditions, training after training. i sang until my throat was raw, until i had no voice left, until the sound that came out of me was nothing but scraping and air."

your hands were trembling. you watched them tremble in the reflection, watched the ghost of you fall apart in slow motion.

"but it hurt too much. every time i opened my mouth to sing, i heard his voice in my head… telling me i was good, telling me the world needed to hear me, telling me he loved me. and i couldn't—" your voice cracked, splintered, bled. "i couldn't carry that weight. i couldn't carry him anymore. so i stopped."

the silence that followed was boisterous.

"i stopped singing," you whispered. a tear slid down your reflection’s cheek. you watched it fall, watched it catch the dim light of the train, watched it disappear into the collar of your shirt. "i stopped everything. i went to work, i came home, i slept, i did it all again. i’ve tried so hard to forget him.”

the words hung in the air between you like smoke from a fire that had finally burned itself out.

you had said it. after three years of carrying this secret, this shame, this failure, you had finally spoken it aloud. you had broken the promise. you had let him down. you had taken the one thing he had asked of you—the only thing he had ever asked of you—and you had abandoned it because you were too weak, too broken, too human to bear the weight of it.

across from you, death was motionless.

for a long, terrible moment, he simply looked at you with those grey eyes, and you braced yourself for whatever came next. judgment, perhaps. disappointment. that quiet, detached curiosity that seemed to be his default state, observing your pain like a scientist observing a specimen.

but none of those things came.

instead, he moved.

it was slow, deliberate, as if he was giving you time to pull away, time to refuse, time to build your walls back up before he could reach you. he rose from his seat across from you and crossed the small space between you in two silent steps. then, without a word, without asking permission, without any of the things a human might have done in this moment, he lowered himself onto the velvet seat beside you.

and he took your hand.

his fingers were wintry, akin to the cold of winter graves and forgotten attics and the space between stars. however, they wrapped around yours with a gentleness that stole your breath. not the grip of someone trying to hold on. not the clutch of someone afraid you might disappear. just... presence. just here. just a hand, holding yours, in the darkness.

then softly, so softly, you almost didn’t hear it over the pounding of your own grief in your ears, “...i’m sorry.”

the words landed like snowflakes on warm skin—there and gone, melting into nothing, but leaving behind a trace of cold that you felt all the way down to your bones.

i’m sorry. two words from a being who had existed for eternity, who had guided countless souls to their final destinations, who had worn a thousand faces and would wear a thousand more. two words that meant nothing and everything, that should have been empty yet somehow weren't.

you gazed up at him, at this stranger wearing your lover's face, at these ashen eyes that held no memory of you but somehow, impossibly, seemed to see you. really see you. not as another soul to be processed, another name on an endless list, but as something more. something that had caught his attention. something that made him, for the first time in perhaps millennia, feel something other than the endless, weightless drift of eternity.

"what are you sorry for?" you whispered.

“you have been alone, you have been hurting… i’m sorry for everything you have lost, for everything you are still losing. consider this as my act of…”

he trailed off, his brow slightly furrowing in that achingly familiar way; the same expression chan used to wear when he was searching for the right word, the right note, the right way to say something that mattered. the silence stretched between you, fragile as spun glass, and you found yourself holding your breath, waiting for something you couldn’t name.

“kindness,” he finished finally, and the word seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised you,. his lips parted slightly, as if he was testing the weight of it, the shape of it in his mouth. “perhaps, of all the ways to lose a person, death is the kindness.”

the words sank into you like anchors finding the ocean floor, disturbing depths you hadn't known existed.

death was kind.

this cold, empty, eternal thing was offering you kindness. not because he had to. not because it was his duty. but because he wanted to. because something in you, something in your grief, something in the way you had loved and lost and kept loving anyway, had seemed to reach him in a way nothing else ever had.

“...i understand,” you swallowed, the words scraped past the thickness in your throat, past the tears you were still crying, past the part of you that wanted to scream, the part that simply wanted to rest, the part that wanted to end everything, “i suppose that’s how life works–nothing lasts forever.”

nothing lasts forever.

the admission hung in the air between you, heavy as a funeral shroud, cold as the hand that still held yours. you had heard them before, of course—spoken at funerals, printed in sympathy cards, murmured by well-meaning friends who didn't know what else to say. but you had never truly felt them until now. never understood them in your bones, in the marrow of you, in the place where grief lived like a second heart.

not love. not grief. not even life itself.

not even the man who had promised you forever in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers.

death went silent. he didn’t speak, didn’t offer comfort, wisdom, or any of the things a human might have said in this moment… no platitudes about moving on, no gentle reminders that grief was the price of love, no assurances that time would heal what had been broken. perhaps he knew, better than anyone, that such words were hollow. perhaps he had said them so many times across so many millennia that they had lost all meaning, worn smooth as river stones by endless repetition.

or perhaps, you thought as you watched his face shift through expressions you couldn't quite name, he simply ran out of words.

instead, his thumb began to move.

slow, rhythmic circles against the skin of your hand, tracing patterns that seemed to mean something even if you couldn't understand them. the motion was unconscious, you realized—he wasn't looking at what he was doing, wasn't thinking about it, wasn't even aware that he had started. it was simply... happening. flowing from him like water from a spring, like breath from lungs, like something his body remembered even if his mind did not.

it was such a small thing. such a human thing. the kind of absent-minded gesture someone made when they were lost in thought, when words failed them, when they didn't know how to say what they were feeling. the kind of thing chan used to do when you were curled up together on the couch, watching movies, existing in the same space without needing to fill it with sound.

your throat tightened.

of course, he had led an endless amount of souls, including you, to the afterlife… he must be used to comforting the living, the dying, the in-between. this was routine for him. another day, another soul, another brief moment of connection before moving on to the next. the thumb circling your hand meant nothing. it was just muscle memory. just habit. just the accumulated weight of millennia of practice.

and yet.

and yet it felt like something. it felt like care. like presence. like… warmth.

the tears came again, silent and hot, tracing warm paths down your cold cheeks.

you didn't know why you were still crying. you had cried so much already—enough tears to fill oceans, to drown in, to lose yourself in. but they kept coming, kept falling, kept being, and through it all, his thumb never stopped its slow, steady rhythm against your skin.

circle. circle. circle. a heartbeat made of motion. a promise made of touch. the only constant in a world that had dissolved into chaos and memory and the wreckage of everything you had ever loved.

minutes passed. or hours. or moments. time didn't matter here, didn't exist here, didn't mean anything in this place between places. the train continued its endless journey through darkness, and the memories continued their slow dance beyond the window, and you continued to cry, and he continued to hold your hand and trace those impossible circles against your skin.

you watched them with a kind of detached wonder, seeing yourself from the outside for the first time, understanding things about your own story that had never been clear before.

the years after chan's death. the grey apartment. the empty bed. the job that drained you, the nights that stretched on forever, the slow erosion of everything that had made you you. you watched yourself fade, day by day, month by month, year by year, until there was almost nothing left.

and then the accident. the headlights. the impact. the end.

you should have felt sad, watching it. you should have felt regret, or fear, or longing for the life you had left behind. you should have wept for the woman who had died alone on a rain-slicked street, for all the things she would never do, all the people she would never meet, all the possibilities that died with her.

but instead, all you felt was peace.

a deep, quiet peace that settled into your bones and made you feel, for the first time in three years, like you could finally rest. like the struggle was over. like you had been released from something that had been holding you captive, something you hadn't even known was a prison until the door swung open.

the tears were still on your cheeks, but they were old tears now. cooling. drying. the last remnants of a grief that had finally, finally run its course.

you took a breath. then another. then you reached up with your free hand and forcibly wiped the tears away with the back of it, smearing them across your skin like the last traces of a storm that had finally passed.

"i'm ready," the words came out steady, settling into the space between you like stones finding their resting place at the bottom of the river, finally still, after so long tumbling in the current.

the words came out steady. calm. certain in a way you hadn't been certain of anything in years.

his thumb stilled against your hand for just a moment–a pause, a question, a silent check, before resuming its slow, steady rhythm, “ready?”

"to go. to wherever i'm going." you turned from the window to face him, and for the first time, you didn't flinch at the sight of his face. didn't feel that sharp stab of grief at seeing chan's features on a stranger. "i've been running from this for so long. from death, from loss, from feeling. but i'm not running anymore."

it was still strange. it would probably always be strange. however, the pain had softened, somehow, during this impossible journey. blunted by time and tears and the simple presence of this ancient being who had sat with you in the dark and held your hand while you fell apart.

christopher chahn bahng was gone. he had been gone for three years, and no amount of wishing, no amount of crying, no amount of broken promises would bring him back. yet this entity, this death, this guide, this ‘temporary friend’, had given you something you hadn't known you needed.

permission to stop.

permission to let go.

permission to finally, after all this time, be ready.

death nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes—not the understanding of someone who had lived through what you had lived through, but the understanding of a ancient god who had witnessed it a million times. who had seen every variation of grief, every shade of loss, every possible way a soul could approach the end. the angry ones and the peaceful ones. the ones who fought until their last breath and the ones who surrendered with grace. the ones who clung to memories like lifelines and the ones who let go so completely they seemed to disappear before they'd even left.

you were neither, and you were both. you were something in between: a soul who had held on too long and was only now learning how to release.

"…it is time, then," he said. his voice was gentle, almost tender—the voice of someone delivering news they wished they didn't have to deliver, "the journey is almost over. beyond this train, beyond these memories, there is something waiting for you. i cannot tell you what it is. i cannot tell you what you will find. every soul experiences it differently, and the only thing i know for certain is that i do not know."

he paused, and something flickered in those soulless eyes.

"but i can tell you this: you will not be alone. whatever comes next, you will face it with everything you have ever been, everyone you have ever loved, every moment that has ever mattered. they are part of you now. they will always be part of you."

your heart, that phantom organ that still somehow managed to beat in your chest, swelled with something that felt almost like hope.

"will i see him again?" you whispered. "chan? will i—"

death's expression softened. it was the first truly soft thing you had seen on his face since this journey began.

"i cannot promise you… that. i do not know what waits beyond this threshold. but i can promise you this: if he is there… he will be waiting. and if he is not—" he reached out and took your hand again, his cold fingers wrapping around yours. "you will carry him with you. and that will be enough. it will have to be enough."

you nodded, swallowing against the thickness in your throat.

"okay," you breathed. "okay.”

his lips curved into something that might have been a smile, if smiles could exist on the face of death, despite crooked, “you’re braver than most. most souls fight until the very last moment. they scream. they bargain. they beg for more time, for second chances, for anything that might let them go back. but you…”

he shook his head, something like wonder in his voice; as if, after millennia of guiding souls, you had still managed to surprise him, “you just… accepted it.”

“maybe i’m just tired.”

"maybe." the edges of his lips twitched slightly, that same feigned simper. "or maybe you've already done all the fighting you needed to do. maybe this is just... rest."

you liked that. rest. not an ending, not a finality, just... rest. the kind of rest you had been craving for three years, the kind you had never been able to find in that grey apartment with its empty bed and its crushing silence. the kind that had eluded you no matter how many hours you slept, no matter how many days you spent pretending to be fine.

"thank you… death.”

"for what?"

"for being kind. for listening. for—" you gestured vaguely at him, at the train, at everything. "for wearing his face. it made this easier. and harder. but mostly easier, i think. it felt like he was here with me, one last time."

something shifted in his expression. too fast to name, too quick to understand. but you felt it. you felt him, beneath the mask, beneath the centuries of solitude and duty and emptiness. you felt something reaching for you, something that wanted to hold on, something that was fighting against its own nature to be present with you in this moment.

"can i ask you for something?" the words came out before you could stop them, before you could think about whether they were appropriate or fair or kind.

"anything."

you hesitated. the train was slowing now, the memories fading from the windows, a soft light beginning to glow in the distance—warm and golden and somehow inviting, like a home you had never seen but somehow recognized. you were running out of time.

"can you…" you stopped. swallowed. started again. "can you hold me? just for a moment? i know you're not him–i just... i want to be held one last time. by someone who looks like him."

he was quiet for a long moment, and you braced yourself for refusal. for the gentle explanation that this wasn't appropriate, wasn't allowed, wasn't what death was supposed to do. for the polite but firm rejection that would send you into the light alone, still hungry for a touch you would never feel again.

however, instead, he moved.

slowly. carefully. giving you every chance to change your mind, to pull away, to take back the request. his arms lifted, opened, offered—a question more than an answer, an invitation more than an assumption. his haunting eyes held yours, asking permission, waiting for consent, refusing to assume anything.

you rose up from your own seat, moving forward to the spot beside him. the train hummed softly around you, the memories flickered beyond the window, and the light grew steadily brighter—yet none of it mattered. none of it existed. there was only him, and his open arms, and the moment stretching between you like a held breath.

you leaned into death himself.

when his arms finally closed around you, they were hesitant at first, as if he had forgotten how. the cold seeped through your clothes, through your skin, through to the bone—yet beneath that chill was something steady. something present. he held you with a gentleness that made your heart ache with recognition, that reminded your body of what it felt like to be held by someone who loved you.

it was slightly different from his.

his hugs had been warm, full-bodied, all-encompassing. he had held you like you were the most precious thing in the universe, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. he had pressed his face into your hair and breathed you in, and you had felt, in those moments, like nothing could ever hurt you. like the world outside could burn and you would still be safe, still be loved, still be home.

yet it still felt safe.

in death’s arms, encased in his cold, cradled in his careful tenderness, you found safety for the first time in three years. the first time since chan's fingers had slackened in your grip. the first time since that endless, terrible tone had sliced through the hospital room and carved everything away.

"thank you," you whispered into his chest. the words were muffled, swallowed by the fabric of his black coat, by the cold, by the sheer impossibility of this moment.

his arms tightened. just slightly. just enough to let you know he had heard, he understood, he was here. "…you're welcome."

you stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the train slowing around you, the light growing brighter beyond the windows. you didn't want to let go. you didn't want this moment to end. but you knew… you knew… that all moments ended eventually. that was the nature of moments. that was the nature of everything. even this. even him. even the impossible, fleeting connection between a soul and the being who guided it into whatever came next.

"your ‘temporary friend’," you murmured, remembering his words from earlier. the phrase had stuck with you, lodged itself somewhere in your chest. "that's what you said you were."

this entity who had existed since before time had a name, who had guided more souls than there were stars in the sky. the light from beyond the windows caught his features, softening them, gilding the sharp edges of his cheekbones, warming the cold planes of his face. it made him look almost human. almost like chan. almost like someone you could keep.

in another life, perhaps. in another world.

"i think," you said slowly, "that you're the best ‘temporary friend’ i've ever had."

his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to respond, wanted to offer some words in return.

however, before he could, before the moment could stretch any further, the train came to a halt.

it was not the gentle stop of a train arriving at a station. it was a cessation, a stillness, an absolute end of movement. one moment the world was sliding past in a blur of light and memory; the next, everything was perfectly, utterly still.

THE LIGHT OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS WAS NOW SOFT, pearlescent, beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. through the glass, you could see a platform, not the abandoned, grimy platform from before, but something else. something more. it was bathed in that same soft light, and at the end of it, you could see…

a gate.

it was wrought iron, old and beautiful, covered in flowers that seemed to bloom even as you watched. beyond it, you could see a garden—the most beautiful garden you had ever imagined, with colors that didn't exist in the living world and light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

the afterlife.

your final destination.

death rose from the seat beside you, and the motion drew your eyes to his face one last time. then his hand was there, waiting. you took it confidently, letting him pull you gently to your feet. frost enveloped your fingers, yet beneath it was something solid, something steady, something that made you feel, even now, even at the end, like you weren't alone. he led you forward, through the train, down the corridor, towards the door that would open onto forever.

the doors slid open silently, revealing the platform beyond.

you stepped out together, hand in hand, and the light washed over you like warm water, like a blessing, like coming home after a long, hard journey. it was beautiful. it was peaceful. it was everything you had hoped for and more.

death stopped at the edge of the platform, just before the gate. his hand released yours, and you turned to face him, to say goodbye, to thank him one last time for everything he had done—for the kindness, for the patience, for holding you while you fell apart. the words were gathering in your throat, lining up like soldiers ready to march: thank you, i'll never forget you, i hope you find peace too–

however, before you could speak, before you could form the words that were gathering in your throat, he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.

this was not the careful, hesitant embrace from before. this was not the gentle holding of a being learning to touch for the first time. this one was desperate. this one was fierce. this one held you like he was drowning and you were air, like he had been waiting for this moment for longer than you could imagine, like letting you go would kill him in a way that even death couldn't survive.

you froze, confused, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides.

"death—" you started, your voice muffled against his chest. but before you could finish, before you could ask what was happening, before you could process any of the emotions flooding through you—

he kissed you.

his lips pressed against yours; cold as starlight, cold as the space between heartbeats, cold as everything he had ever been—yet they were familiar. they fit against yours the way they had always fit, the way they had fit in the studio under fairy lights three years ago, the way they had fit in the hospital room when there were no words left to say, when all that remained was touch, tears, and the desperate need to hold on just a little longer.

and without thinking, without understanding, without knowing why…

you reciprocated his kiss.

your arms came up around him, pulling him closer, holding him the way you used to hold chan, the way you had held him a thousand times in a thousand different moments. your lips moved against his like they had never stopped, like the three years of silence and grief had never happened, like you were still the person you had been before everything fell apart.

but it was him.

somewhere in the back of your mind, in the depths of your soul, you knew. you had always known. the way he held you, the way he kissed you, the way his presence made you feel seen in a way that nothing else ever had—it had always been him.

and this broke you.

because you were kissing chan. you were kissing chan one last time, and you hadn't known, hadn't realized, hadn't understood until this moment what you had been missing, what you had lost, what you had been given back for just a handful of heartbeats. three years of emptiness, three years of searching for him in every face, in every crowd, in every quiet moment when the world went still.

and he had been here all along. he had been holding you. he had been guiding you home.

tears streamed down your face, hot and endless, mixing with the cold of his lips, with the salt of three years of grief finally released. they fell between you, onto your joined mouths, onto the hands that clutched at each other like lifelines. he held you close until there were no space left, chest to chest, heart to heart, his hands familiar on your waist.

when you finally broke apart, when you finally pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes were no longer moonless grey.

they were brown.

they were his brown… warm, genuine, and full of a love so vast it seemed to confine everything. they were the eyes that had held you together when everything else was falling apart, the eyes that haunted you in your dreams. they were the eyes you had searched for in every stranger's face, the eyes you had been so afraid you would never see again.

"chan," you breathed, and the word was a prayer, a question, a desperate hope. "chan, it's you. it's really you."

he smiled, that smile, the one that creased his cheeks with dimples, the one that had made you fall in love with him, the one you had dreamed about for three years, and nodded slowly.

"but you said–you…" you couldn't form the words, couldn't process the betrayal, couldn't understand why he had let you suffer, why he had let you grieve, why he had let you believe he was a stranger.

"i know." his hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek, wiping away tears that wouldn't stop falling. "i know what i said. i know what you believed. and i'm sorry–i'm so, so sorry… i had to. i had to guide you. i had to be here for you, just for a little while, because if i had shown you who i really was from the beginning, you would never have been able to let go."

"let go?" you shook your head, confusion and grief and desperate love all tangled together in your chest, a knot so tight you didn't think it would ever come undone. "let go of what? let go of you? i've been letting go of you for three years, chan. i've been trying so hard to forget you, to move on, to live, and i couldn't! i couldn't do any of it because you were everywhere, in everything, and now you're here, and you're telling me—"

"i'm telling you goodbye."

the words landed like a blade between your ribs.

the world stopped. the light behind you dimmed. the train, the platform, the gate—all of it faded into background noise, into static, into nothing at all. there was only him, and his brown eyes full of love, and the words that had just carved themselves into your heart.

"what?"

"goodbye." his voice was soft, so soft, but it held the weight of eternity. "this is it, baby. this is the end. and i…" his voice cracked, and he had to pause, had to gather himself, had to find the strength to continue. "i have to let you go."

"no." you grabbed his arms, held onto him with a desperation that surprised you both. "no, you can't. you can't do this. you can't come back to me just to leave again. you can't—"

"i have to." tears were falling from his eyes now—not the clear tears of before, but something darker, something that looked almost like ink, trailing black paths down his pale cheeks. "i'm death, y/n. i have a duty, a purpose, a function. i can't leave the train. i can't cross through that gate. but you…" he looked past her, at the garden beyond, at the light, the peace, and the judgement that was waiting. "you can. you will. and you'll be happy there. you'll be at peace. you'll finally rest."

"i don't want to rest." the words came out fierce, desperate, angry. "i want you. i've always wanted you. i waited for you for three years, chan. i died waiting for you. and now you're telling me—"

"i'm telling you that i love you." his voice was steady now, certain, the voice of someone who had made peace with something impossible. "i'm telling you that i've loved you since the moment i saw you, and i'll love you until the end of everything. i'm telling you that i will wait for you–not just in this life, but in every life. when your soul is ready to be reborn, when you return to the world in a new body with a new identity and a new face, i will be here. waiting. and when your time comes again—whenever that may be, however long it takes… i will be the one who comes for you. i will be the one who guides you home."

"you can't promise that."

"i can." he beamed through his tears—black tears, ink tears, the tears of a being who had existed for eternity and was feeling, for the first time, what it meant to lose something. “some connections are too strong to be broken by death, time or the whims of gods. you and i…" he paused, and his eyes held yours with an intensity that took your breath away. "you and i are bound, y/n. we have been since the moment we met, and we will be until the end of everything. that's not something they can take away. that's not something anyone can take away."

he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead; a kiss so gentle, so tender, so full of love that it felt like a benediction.

"goodbye, my love," he whispered against your skin. "i'm more than grateful to see you one last time, to send you off one last time. i will wait for you. always."

he stepped back, out of your arms, out of your reach, and walked toward the train with a slowness that felt like torture.

each step was a slow death. each movement of his body away from you was another wound, another cut, another piece of your heart carved out and left to bleed on the platform.

you tried to follow.

you tried.

your legs moved before your mind could catch up, before you could think, before you could process what was happening. you took a step toward him, then another, your hand reaching out, reaching for him, reaching for chan—

and stopped.

not because you chose to. not because you changed your mind. but because something stopped you.

an invisible barrier, warm and soft but utterly impassable, rose between you and the platform. between you and the train. between you and him.

"CHAN!" you screamed, and the sound tore from your throat like something living, like something dying, like something that would never stop echoing. you slammed your fists aggressively against the invisible barrier, desperate, "chan, please! don't do this! don't leave me again!"

he stopped at the door of the train and turned to look at you one last time.

his face was wet with those raven tears, those tears that spoke of a grief too deep for words. but he was smiling—that smile, the one you had fallen in love with, the one you would carry with you through every life, every death, every rebirth.

"you're a cruel man, christopher chahn bahng!" you screamed, using his full name, the name only you had ever used, the name that held all your love and all your anger and all your desperate, impossible hope. "how can you do this to me? how can you bring me back to you just to let me go again?"

his smile dropped, just slightly, just enough to let you know that he heard you, that he understood, that he loved you even in this, especially in this.

"i’m sorry… i love you, y/n, " he called, his voice carrying across the impossible distance between you. "i always have. i always will."

the train doors began to close.

you pressed against the invisible barrier, your hands flat against nothing, your body straining toward him even though you knew… you knew… you couldn't reach him.

"i love you so much," you called out, and your voice broke on the last word, dissolved into sobs, into tears, into the thousand pieces of your heart that were scattering across the space between you. "i love you so much, chan. i never stopped. i never stopped."

through the closing doors, through the gap that was getting smaller and smaller, you saw him.

those onyx tears, streaming down his cheeks like ink, like grief, like love made visible. that smile, still there, still his, still holding all the warmth and love that had sustained you through three years of darkness.

and then, as the doors sealed shut, as the train began to move in reverse, sliding away from the platform, away from you, away into the darkness from which it had come—he blew you a kiss.

the doors closed.

the train began to move, not forward, towards some unknown destination, but in reverse, sliding away from the platform, away from the gate, away from you.

you slid down against the invisible barrier, your knees crashing against the cold floor with a force you couldn't feel—because what was physical pain compared to this? what were bruises and breaks compared to the sight of him disappearing, of him leaving again, of him choosing to go when every fiber of your being was screaming at him to stay?

your heart shattered even more. you would die the second time due to this.

then, ludicrously, it pieced itself back together… only to shatter again, and again, and again, an endless cycle of breaking, and mending and breaking, each wave of grief more brutal than the last.

through the windows of the train, you could see him.

standing in one of the compartments, his hand pressed to the glass. his eyes remained on yours as the train began to move faster, locked onto yours with an intensity that burned through the distance, through the darkness, through the impossible space between you.

his lips were moving. words you couldn't hear, couldn't catch, couldn't hold onto… but somehow, you were able to comprehend.

i love you. forgive me.

the train slid further into darkness, and his hand stayed pressed to the glass, as if he could reach through it, as if he could touch you one last time, as if he could bridge the impossible distance with nothing but will, want, and love.

his abnormal, inky tears… you could see them even from here, even through the gathering dark, even as the train carried him away from you. rivers of night, pouring from the eyes of the only person you had ever truly loved.

the train was smaller now, a shrinking shape in the endless void, a light growing dimmer with each passing second.

you pressed your hand against the barrier, matching his gesture, reaching for him even though you knew you couldn't touch, couldn't hold, couldn't keep.

and then it was gone.

behind you, the gates to the afterlife blazed with light—warm, welcoming, patient. the garden beyond called to you with its color, its peace, and its promise of rest. yet you couldn’t move towards it. not yet. not while the last image of him still burned behind your eyes… his hand on the glass, his lips that you would kiss a thousand times, his tears falling like the universe itself was mourning with him.

i'll wait for you.

and somewhere, in the darkness between worlds, on a train that ran forever through the spaces between life and death, someone was waiting for you.

would always wait for you.

for as many lifetimes as it took.

i will wait.

© lynsbng 2026 — ‘once upon a broken heart’ event.

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