The miscommunication in Heated Rivalry is because they're living in different romance types to begin with:
Shane: In some sort of Austen-esque existence where hjs ill-advised flirtation with a notorious rake goes too far. Scandalised by the intimate use of first names he flees, concerned what society and his goodly parents will think, his reputation at stake. He tries to find a proper marriage prospect but alas his heart is lost to the rake! But he finally follows his heart and invites Ilya into his home too (and accepts first name usage!)
Ilya: Smoldering in mirrors and out of windows and getting emotionally wuthered screaming Shane's name on a moor. My man is byronically going through it gothic style
Hello, I miss you and hope you are doing well. Do you have any book recs that are similar to your writing style. I just need more of it and I keep rereading all your works <33
Hiiii honey :) i hope you’re doing well too, im so sorry it’s taken literally forever to get back to you but! i have to say i have almost no idea of how my writing style sounds i feel like i almost don’t know what i have written after it’s out there lmao
what i can tell you is that there are some books and writers that i feel very inspired by! here are a few
* Ali Smith (I have recommended How to be Both to every person i’ve ever met but honestly all her books are good)
* Eve Babitz (Eve’s Hollywood in particular is such a great book with a bit of everything)
* Mary Oliver
* Joan Didion
* Fernanda Melchor (we don’t sound alike at all i don’t think but she’s just THAT good i couldn’t not include her here)
* Noël Coward (I learned everything there is about being funny from him, Present Laughter in particular)
Honestly i fluctuate a lot between styles and genres and i’m always trying to find something new so it’s hard to recommend things i but maybe you’ll find a couple new favourites in there somewhere hehe :)
synopsis: jisung is obsessed. you’re so perfect, so pretty—how could anyone blame him? he’s so certain that you’ve been used before, that you’ve been taken care of. that being said, you can only imagine the surprise he was in once he’s found out no one’s ever showed you what bliss feels like.
pairing: perv!sung x inexperienced f!reader
genre: smut, college au
contains: jisung being kinda gross + incredibly horny, soft dom!jisung, lots of kissing, biting, oral fixation, tit play, oral sex (f!receiving), pet names (baby, jagi, rockstar), coming untouched
word count: 6.3k
now playing: southbound - artemis
[a/n]: i LOVE this fic sm you don’t even understaaaand. alsooo i got a request a few days ago for dom!jisung, and i know this isn’t hard dom ji BUT that is coming soon, and i hope this is enough to satiate you while i get it done !! enjoy :D
jisung doesn’t remember the last the he’s listed so intently to someone talk.
honestly, jisung’s never really been one to actively listen, but fuck- there was just something about the way your lips move around each spoken word that makes it so ungodly difficult to pay attention to anything else.
it doesn’t help that he’s had his eyes on you for longer than he could remember. ever since the first day you strolled into to his music theory class at the start of the semester, jisung has been, for lack of better words,dying to get his hands on you.
there’s just this… itch whenever he’s around you. it’s bone deep, too far below the skin to be satisfied easily. you’re just so perfect— kind, funny without even trying. and don’t even get him started on how good you are in the recording studio. jisung didn’t even know he could get turned on from watching someone mix a beat. but hey, they say college is where you learn things, right?
and trust, jisung has learned a lot.
for example: jisung has learned that he’s a dirty fucking perv.
an example of the example: there have been numerous times when you’ve been ranting about how bullshit your biased professor is—how he never grades your work fairly no matter how hard you work on it—and jisung will sit there wondering if your as expressive in bed as you are here.
he hopes you are. god, he would lose his mind…
speaking of you in bed, jisung has thought of you with his hand down his pants more often than anyone would constitute as normal. but honestly, can you even blame him?
you laugh at his jokes with a smile that makes his chest tight, and you somehow manage to smell like vanilla and something sweeter every single time you lean over his shoulder to look at his laptop screen.
it's honestly a miracle he hasn't combusted yet.
well, he has. many times, actually. but you get what he means.
but today? today is different.
today you're sitting cross-legged on his bed (his bed, jesus christ), textbook open in your lap as you complain about your latest assignment, and jisung is trying his absolute hardest to focus on his own textbook.
try as he might, all he can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance between you two. how easy it would be to kiss you, to make you let out pretty little noises, to force his cock down your throat and—
“hey ji,” you say suddenly, snapping him out of his daze. he sends a quick thank you to whatever higher being there may be that you hadn’t caught his staring. “can i talk to you about something?”
jisung looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor with a grin as if he hadn’t just been picturing the 69 different ways (pun intended) he could get you to take him. “sure.”
he watches as you take a deep breath, clearly debating on following through on whatever subject was on your mind. when another second ticked by without a response he arched a brow, fixing you with a look in hopes it would push you to hurry up.
you see it and promptly stick your tongue out at him. you both smile. you let out another exhale.
"i, uh…" you start, and jisung notices the way your cheeks flush slightly. "i went on a date last night. it was nothing like, crazy, yknow? just something a friend of mind set up."
oh.
jisung's stomach drops.
awesome.
"oh yeah?" he manages, keeping his voice in a careful neutral even though he feels like he's been kicked in the chest by some fuckass kangaroo. “and how’d that go?"
does he actually care? hell no. is he trying to be a good friend? sure, keyword there being trying.
you fidget with the corner of your textbook. "it was… fine, i guess? he was nice enough. we got dinner, talked for a bit." you pause, and jisung watches as your blush deepens. "and then we, you know… went back to his place."
jisung's grip on his pen tightens. he's not sure he wants to hear this, but he can't exactly tell you to stop now.
"and?" he prompts, hating how strained his voice sounds.
you let out a frustrated sigh. "and it was… underwhelming? like, really underwhelming." you're not looking at him now, focused instead on picking at a loose thread on his comforter. "we fooled around a bit, and he seemed really into it, but i just… i don't know. i didn't feel much of anything."
"what do you mean?" he's not sure if the relief flooding through him makes him a terrible person or not. his vote is no.
"i mean…" you trail off, clearly embarrassed. "he tried, like, touching me and stuff. it just felt… weird? not bad, just- nothing special, i guess. and then when things got more intense, i just kind of laid there thinking about my grocery list."
despite everything, jisung lets out a laugh. it’s short, cut off by the glare you shot his way.
"and the worst part," you continue, voice getting quieter, "is that he finished and then just… rolled over and fell asleep. didn't even care if i, you know…" you let make a vague gesture with your hand to make up for your lack of words.
"if you came?" jisung supplies, watching you nod a moment later.
"yeah. that." you finally look up at him. "is it supposed to be like that? because if so, i really don't get what all the hype is about."
jisung feels something twist in his chest—something between anger at the asshole who couldn't be bothered to take care of you and a dangerous, selfish hope. "no," he says, and his voice comes out a little sharper than he intended. "it's definitely not supposed to be like that."
"really?" you raise a brow, tone unamused and doubtful.
"really," jisung confirms, and before he can stop himself, he adds, "if a guy can't even make sure you finish, he doesn't deserve to touch you in the first place."
you laugh, but it's a hollow sound. "i mean, i don't know if i'd even know the difference." you shrug, trying to play it off casually even though jisung can see the genuine frustration in your eyes. "it's not like i've ever… y’know. gotten off before."
a beat passes.
jisung blinks. "wait, what?"
"yeah," you say, picking at the thread again. "not from someone else, not from myself. nothing."
"but—" jisung stops himself, trying to process this information. "didn't you have a boyfriend in high school?"
"yeah, for like a year and a half," you confirm. "but that doesn't mean i came. we fooled around, sure, but it never really… went anywhere for me."
jisung feels like his brain is short-circuiting. you—perfect, beautiful you—have never experienced an orgasm? it seems almost criminal.
"i think maybe i'm just not built for it," you continue, voice small. "like, maybe i'm just… glitched or something. everyone talks about how amazing it is, but i just don't get it."
"you're not glitched," jisung says immediately, more forceful than necessary. you look up at him, surprised. "trust me, you're not. you just… haven't been with anyone who knows what they're doing."
"maybe," you say, though you don't sound convinced.
jisung swallows hard.
his heart is pounding, and he knows what he's about to say is probably crossing a line, but he can't seem to stop himself. "if you want a second opinion…" he starts, trying to keep his tone light even though his hands are shaking slightly. "i volunteer as tribute."
the silence that follows is deafening.
you stare at him, eyes wide, and jisung immediately wants to take it back—except he doesn't. not really.
“i-“ you start before choking on your own words. you blink at him a few times, trying to gauge how serious he’s being. “what?”
jisung realizes what hes just said and immediately feels his face heat up.
he holds up his hands in a gesture that's somewhere between defensive and pleading. "i mean- say we’re working in hypotheticals here, yeah?" he says quickly, voice pitching slightly higher than normal. "just, you know, theoretically speaking. if you wanted to figure out what works for you."
you're still staring at him, and jisung can't tell if you're about to laugh in his face or leave. probably both. definitely both.
"i just mean, you said you don't know what you like, right? so maybe—hypothetically—it would help to, i don’t know- explore that?? with someone you trust. who wouldn't be weird about it."
he pauses, then adds, "or weirder than i'm already being right now."
you let out a breath that might've be a laugh, and some of the tension in jisung's shoulders eases. at least you're not running for the door.
"okay," you say slowly, and jisung's heart jumps into his throat. "hypothetically speaking… what would that even look like?"
blood rushes to his dick so fast that he genuinely feel faint for a solid second or two.
this is happening. this is actually happening.
"well, uh," he clears his throat. "i guess first we'd need to figure out what you like. what feels good to you."
"i don't know what i like," you point out. "that's kind of the whole problem here."
"right, but like-" jisung stands, taking a gamble by moving from the floor to sit with you on the bed. he takes the edge, but still manages to get close enough that his knee almost touches yours. he has half the thought of cheering when you don’t immediately jolt away. "there has to be something. like, when you think about… that stuff. what do you think about?"
your blush deepens as you look away. jisung wants to grab you by the cheeks and shove his tongue down your throat.
"i don't know. i guess i don't really think about it much."
"okay, but when you do," jisung presses, far too eager "what's the first thing that comes to mind? is it like… hands? mouths? something else?"
"i- i guess mouths? that’s a stupid way to put it, jisung." your eyes dart over to him for all of two seconds before flicking away again. “i like being kissed. and when people leave marks.”
jisung’s going to bust in his sweats.
he nods slowly, stashing away the information for it’s inevitable later use. "okay. that's good. that's a start." he pauses before asking "what about where? where would you wanna be kissed?"
your head tilts to the side slightly as you debate. it takes a minute for you to make up your mind, a minute that jisung’s spends memorizing the curve of your lips.
“my thighs. i like my neck and my tits, too, but my thighs.”
ok. scratch what he said before. he’s actually going to pass out, wake up for two seconds to jerk off, and then pass out again from how intense it’ll be.
“fuck” he breaths out with a laugh—half breathless humor, half utter strain. jisung raises a hand to run down his face, looking away from you to try and save himself even a little bit.
"okay," he says once he's collected himself enough to form coherent words. "okay, so, hypothetically, if we were doing this, i'd start there. with your thighs." he looks back at you, trying his best to gauge your reaction. "would that be… okay?"
jisung watches the way your eyes skim over him and highly considers throwing himself off the roof of his dorm when your gaze catches on the tent in his sweat pants.
“i like it more when people work their way down.” you meet his eye again and he feels his dick twitch to attention.
jisung's mouth goes dry. the casual way you say it—like you're discussing the weather and not actively trying to kill him—makes his head spin.
"work my way down," he repeats li. "from your neck?"
“my mouth.” you correct.
it takes a few seconds for jisung’s brain to catch up to what you were saying. when ir finally registered, jisung let out a heavy breath.
“y-you want me to kiss you?”
"i mean… yeah?" you say, and there's a hint of uncertainty in your voice. "isn't that where you're supposed to start?"
jisung lets out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. "yeah, no, you're right. i just-" he stops himself, looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "i just need to know you're actually okay with this. like, seriously okay. because once i start, i don't know if i'll be able to stop."
despite everything making up your current situation, you can’t help the laugh that pushes itself from your lips.
“jesus, sung- please don’t tell me you learned that from a bad porno.”
jisung's face flushes, but he can't help the grin that tugs at his lips. "fuck off," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. "i'm trying to be respectful here."
"i know," you say, and your expression softens. "and i appreciate it. but i'm serious, jisung. i want this. hypothetically, of course.”
jisung doesn't waste another second.
he closes the distance between you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other braces against the mattress beside your hip. his thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and for a moment he just looks at you—really looks at you—trying to memorize every detail of your face before he gets what he's been craving for so long.
"tell me to stop if you need to," he murmurs, knowing damn well he won't be able to give this up. not now. not when you're looking at him like that.
he closes the gap completely, pressing his lips to yours.
and god, you're even better than he imagined.
and trust, he's imagined this—fuck, has he imagined this. a thousand times, maybe more. but none of his fantasies come close to the real thing. your mouth is soft and warm, and the little sound you make when he deepens the kiss goes straight to his cock.
you make that sound again—that small, needy noise in the back of your throat—and jisung responds on instinct, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle.
his tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when you open for him, he can't help the groan that escapes. he groans—actually groans—into your mouth, and he'd be embarrassed if he could think straight.
but he can't. because this is intoxicating. you’re intoxicating.
the way you taste, sweet and perfect. the way his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair like they were made to be there. the way his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there's barely any space left between your bodies and he can feel your heartbeat against his chest.
you've been kissed before, he knows that,but jisung wants to make you forget every single one of those losers you’d had before him. wants this to be the one you remember.
he puts everything into it, every press of his lips deliberate, purposeful, trying to learn exactly what makes you melt against him.
he knows he’s reached some sort of heaven when he feels you starting to go pliant in his hands.
jisung pulls back just enough to catch his breath, resting his forehead against yours. his eyes are dark, blown wide. he can feel how swollen his lips are already.
"fuck," he breathes, voice absolutely wrecked. "you taste so good." he doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s kissing you again, harder than before.
leave it to jisung to get turned on by how sweet your spit tastes.
his hand tightens in your hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp—and takes full advantage of how your lips part, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes him dizzy with want.
you grab onto his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, and jisung feels like he might actually lose his mind.
everything about this is overwhelming in the best possible way—the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way you respond when his thumb strokes the sensitive skin at your nape, the little sounds you make as you kiss him back just as eagerly. he wants to catalog every single detail, burn it into his memory so it’s humanly impossible to forget.
his hand on your waist starts to wander, sliding down to your hip and squeezing. it isn’t a rough gesture, more so just to ground himself, to remind himself that this is all real. that this isn’t just another one of his twisted dreams.
he breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.
"tell me if this is okay," he murmurs against your skin. he gets a strange high from the way your quickens pulse under his lips.
"it's okay," you manage, voice breathier than usual. "it's really okay."
jisung makes a satisfied sound deep in his throat, then goes back to kissing you properly. this time he forces himself to slow down, to be more deliberate.
he takes his time exploring your mouth, learning the way you respond to him—the way you whimper when he sucks on your bottom lip, the way you smile against his mouth when he does something you particularly like.
"you're so fucking cute," he mumbles, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes are soft, a little to innocent for the way he’s currently handling you. "been wanting to do this for so long."
"yeah?"
"fuck yeah," he responds with a laugh that’s only slightly crazed.
you never get the chance to ask exactly how long he's wanted this, how many nights he's fallen asleep thinking about it—about you. and honestly? you aren’t even sure you’d want that answer. it feels to heavy, too weighted with significance.
minutes pass. you’re not sure how many, neither is jisung. all you know is that he kisses you until your lips feel bruised under his and his head is spinning from lack of oxygen.
his hands roam more carefully now—not respectful, but not outright pushy. there’s enough intent in each brush that you can feel the restrained want in every touch. he palms your hip, traces the curve of your waist, thumbs at the silver of skin where your shirt has ridden up.
when he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.
his hair is a mess from where you've been running your fingers through it. when he catches sight of your lips—red and swollen from his kisses—he has to physically restrain himself from crashing back into you again
"we should…" he starts, then stops. he swallows hard. "we should probably slow down."
you blink at him, still a little dazed. "why?"
"because if we don't, i'm gonna fucking come in my pants," jisung admits with a breathless laugh. it's embarrassing but true—he's already painfully hard, and every little sound, every shift, brings him closer to that edge.
the way you're looking at him makes his chest tight. at the same time though, he's acutely aware of how you're still pressed against him, addicted to the heat radiating off your body.
"what if i don't want you to slow down?" you ask, and the boldness in your voice very nearly enough to do him in on the spot.
"don't say shit like that unless you mean it."
"i do," you say, and then you're leaning in and kissing him again.
this time, jisung doesn't hold back. he kisses you like he's trying to devour you, one hand sliding up your back to press you closer while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave marks. you can probably feel how hard he is, pressed against your thigh, and the knowledge that you know how badly he wants you makes his head spin.
you shift slightly, and jisung groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward before he can stop himself. "fuck," he gasps, breaking the kiss. "you're gonna kill me."
"good," you manage, then kiss him again before he can respond.
jisung lets out a breathless laugh against your lips before shifting his weight, gently pushing you back until you're lying on the bed with him hovering over you.
the new position makes everything feel more intense—the way he's pressed between your thighs in a way that lets you feel how hard he is, the way his weight settles over you, the way you're looking up at him like he's the only thing in the world that matters.
"hi," he says, grinning down at you despite how wrecked he feels.
"hi," you echo, and the smile you give him back makes his heart stutter.
and then his lips are on yours yet again .
his mouth moves against yours with an ease that surprises him—like he's already learned exactly what makes you gasp and whimper. when he nips at your bottom lip, you arch up against him, and jisung makes a choked sound in response, barely holding himself together.
"you're so responsive," he murmurs against your mouth. "so fucking perfect. just how i thought you'd be."
his hand slides up your side, thumbing just under the curve of your breast, and jisung realizes with startling clarity that he needs more. needs to feel your skin against his, needs to map every inch of your body with his hands and mouth.
as if reading his mind, you reach up and push at his shoulder, urging him downward. "you said you'd work your way down, remember?"
jisung's breath catches and for a moment he just stares at you. a slow grin spreads across his face—the kind he knows is absolutely devastating.
"yeah," he says, voice rough. "yeah, i did say that, didn't i?"
he leans down to kiss you one more time, slow and deep, savoring it. promptly after, he starts trailing his lips along your jaw, taking his time. he presses open-mouth kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, committing the taste of your skin to memory.
when he gets to the spot just below your ear, he pauses for only a moment before taking the skin there between his teeth, sucking a mark into the sensitive patch.
you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair enough for jisung to make a satisfied sound. "gonna mark you up so good," he murmurs against your neck, lips hot as they brush against your skin. "want everyone to know you're mine."
the possessiveness in his own voice should probably alarm him, but he's too far gone to care.
you tilt your head to give him better access, and jisung takes full advantage, working his way down your neck with single-minded focus. this is all he's been dreaming about—getting to worship you like this, getting to make you feel good.
he sucks another mark just above your collarbone, then soothes it with his tongue. the whimper you make goes straight to his cock. jisung smiles against your skin.
"you sound so pretty," he says, voice muffled against your neck. "wanna hear what other sounds you make, jagi"
his hand comes up to rest on your ribs, thumb brushing against the underside of your breast. when you arch into the touch jisung can’t help his groan, pressing his hips down against yours just because he can.
the friction makes you both gasp.
"fuck," comes his his, the word hot on your skin as he continues his path downward.
jisung kisses along your collarbone, then down to the neckline of your shirt. he pauses there, looking up at you with eyes that are wide and begging. "can i?"
instead of granting him with a verbal answer, you reach down and grab the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift motion.
jisung's eyes go wide, gaze immediately dropping to your chest.
over the span of five seconds, jisungs mouth goes from being as dry as a desert to his throat bobbing as he swallows down his own spit.
"holy shit.." he whispers, voice dripping with reverence. his hands come up to cup your breasts over your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric. "you're so fucking... fuck, baby- your perfect"
you squirm under the attention, and jisung only takes it as encouragement. he leans down to press his face between to the swell of your breasts, a groan rolling soft in the back of his throat before kissing down to your sternum. his hands stay on you, kneading mindlessly and without much care.
jisung thinks he might actually be in heaven.
and then you’re thread your fingers through his hair again pushing, deliberately, purposefully, until his face is buried in your chest.
jisung groans loud this time, breath coming out hot against your skin. "so eager," he murmurs in pure appreciation, a hand sliding around to your back to find the clasp of your bra. "what a rockstar- i fucking love it."
you arch to help him and jisung makes quick work of the clasp, tossing the fabric across the room without a second thought.
for a moment, jisung just stares.
his eyes are wide with hunger as they trace over your newly exposed skin. he's imagined this so many times, but nothing compares to actually seeing you like this.
then he's leaning down, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses across your chest, hands coming up to cup your breasts properly now that that last barrier is gone.
"so fucking perfect," he breathes against your skin, thumbs circling your nipples in a way that makes you arch up into his touch.
"god, i could live between your tits," jisung breathes out, voice rough rough around the edges while his hands continue to knead at you. "been thinking about this for months—how they'd feel in my hands, how they'd look covered in my cum, how fucking perfect they'd look bouncin’ in my face while you ride me." he groans, burying his face between them again like he can't help himself. "never gonna take my hands off of ya, jagi. can’t do it…"
then he takes one nipple into his mouth, and the cry you let out nearly makes him come on the spot.
jisung circles the sensitive bud with his tongue before sucking hard enough to make you writhe beneath him. his other hand works your other breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger in a rhythm that matches his mouth.
he gets so lost in it that he almost forgets he isn’t dreaming. the only thing that snaps him back is the sound of his name on your lips.
"jisung," you gasp, and he hums in response, the vibration making you shudder beneath him.
he switches sides, giving your other breast the same devoted attention.
jisung can feel himself getting harder with every passing second, can feel how wet you must be through the fabric still between you. your thighs squeeze around his hips, and jisung grinds down against you in response, unable to help himself.
but the friction isn't enough—not for either of you—and when you roll your hips in a search for more, jisung breaks away from your chest with a sharp inhale.
his forehead drops to rest against your sternum as he tries to catch his breath and regain some semblance of control.
"you're driving me insane," he mutters, voice strained. his hands slide down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. he looks up at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, barely holding himself together. "can i take these off?"
"please," you breathe, and jisung doesn't need to be told twice.
he sits back on his heels, making quick work of your pants and underwear in one smooth motion.
the cool air hits your heated skin, and jisung's hands are immediately there, warm and grounding as they run up your thighs. he takes a moment to just look at you—all of you—spread out on his bed, and he thinks he might actually die from want.
"fuck," he says, voice raw. he drags a thumb through your folds "look at you. so wet already."
the embarrassment that flashes across your face makes jisung's chest tighten. he immediately leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your knee. "don't," he says gently, meaning it. "don't be embarrassed. this is so fucking hot. you're so fucking hot."
his hands massage your thighs, slowly pushing them apart, and blacks out when you just let him.
the sight of you all vulnerable and trusting, turned on and willing, is almost too much. he settles between your legs, and the reality that he's finally here, that this is actually happening, sends a sick thrill through him.
"i'm gonna make you feel so good," jisung promises, his breath ghosting over your inner thigh, pressing a lingering kiss there. he means it with everything in him. "gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name."
he continues with pressing kisses to yout thigh, taking his sweet time even though every instinct is screaming at him to rush. every press of his lips against your skin makes his own arousal spike higher, and by the time he reaches the crease where your thigh meets your hip, jisung's hands are shaking.
"jisung," you whimper, and the sound goes straight to his cock.
"i know, baby," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your hip bone. "just wanna savor this. been dreamin’ bout having you like this."
he presses one more kiss to your hip bone, and then—finally, finally—jisung lets himself taste you properly.
his tongue slides through your folds in one long, slow lick, and the taste of you combined with the way your back arches off the bed, pussy pressing to his face, makes him moan.
"oh my god," you gasp, hands flying down to tangle in his hair.
jisung moans again, the sound vibrating through your core. "taste so fucking good," he mumbles, addicted. then he goes back to work with the single minded focus of making good on his promise.
he eats you out like it's his sole purpose in life—because right now, it is.
jisung’s been starving for this, and now that he finally has you, jisung loses himself completely.
his tongue circles your clit before he sucks it between his lips, and the way you respond? the sounds you make? the way your hips rock up against his face? it’s better than anything he's ever imagined.
and believe him, he’s imagined.
jisung's hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he works you over, trying to memorize every sound, every reaction. when he slides one finger inside you, slow and careful, you cry out, fingers tightening almost painfully in his hair.
"that okay?" he asks, pulling back just enough to speak.
when your eyes meet his you’re met with the sight of his face glistening with you, lips swollen and chin shiny. you have to swallow down a whine before you can mutter a small “fuck, yes, please-“
jisung grins—he can't help it—then goes back to sucking on your clit while his finger pumps in and out of you. the dual sensation is overwhelming for the both of you, albeit for wildly different reasons. for you, it’s the way he uses his tongue so fucking well, the wet, warm heat pressing flat against your clit so you can grind against his face to chase your own stimulation. for him? it’s how fucking sweet you are, how your walls flutter when he hits that spot that’s always just a little too far for you to reach on your own.
"jisung," you gasp. "i think- i think i'm—"
"yeah?" he purrs, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that leaves you breathless and seeing stars. "gonna come for me, rockstar? gonna come all over my fingers?"
the words combined with the relentless pleasure seem to push you right to the edge. when jisung takes your clit between his lips again, sucking hard, you fall apart, and jisung thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful.
your orgasm crashes over you in waves, waves jisung does his best to help work you through. his own pleasure spikes high as he watches you come undone.
your whole body seems to tense, thighs clamping around his head as you shake with aftershocks of it. he can hear you making noise—probably too much noise considering dorm walls are comically thin—but he fucking loves it, wants to hear it again and again.
jisung gentles his movements as you come down, not stopping until you're pushing at his head because it's too much, too sensitive.
he presses one last kiss to your swollen clit before sitting up, looking just as wrecked as you do. his hair a mess, lips swollen and wet, and he’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon. because fuck, that was the hottest thing he's ever done. sue him.
"holy shit," you breathe, and jisung feels a surge of satisfaction at how completely undone you look.
jisung crawls back up your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts, before finally reaching your mouth. he kisses you deep, tongue sliding against yours in attempt to get you to taste yourself too.
"good?" he asks when he pulls back, and there's something vulnerable in the question. he needs to know you felt as good as he thinks you did, that he didn't disappoint you.
"so good," you assure him, reaching up to cup his face. "that was… i've never-"
"i know," he says softly, pressing a kiss to your palm. pride blooms warm in his chest. "first time for everything, right?"
you nod, still a little dazed, and jisung smiles. it's different from his earlier grins—softer, more genuine.
it’s only when he shifts his weight in discomfort that you realize how there’s still a devilish tent in his sweats. he catches the way your eyes drop, and immediately try and brush it off.
"don't worry bout me," he manages, even though his voice is strained and every nerve in his body is screaming for more.
"what about you?" you ask, and then your hand is on him, palming him through the fabric. jisung hisses, hips jerking forward into your touch before he can stop himself.
"i want to," you insist when he doesn’t reply, squeezing gently, and jisung nearly blacks out.
"baby- baby, fuck—" jisung whines, his hand shooting down to wrap around your wrist. he pushes your hand away as his head falls forward, sucking in heavy breaths between his teeth. he can feel the wet patch spreading across the front of his sweats, the aftermath of what just happened.
"i already- i already came, baby-"
you blink, processing his words. "you… already?"
jisung lets out a breathless laugh, cheeks flushing pink as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. he's embarrassed but also not because holy shit it was the most ‘worth it’ thing he’s ever done in his life.
"couldn't help it," he mumbles against your skin, words muffled. "you tasted so fucking good, and the sounds you were making?? fuck jagi, i didn't stand a chance."
your hands slowly raise to thread through the strands of his hair as if it wasn’t mussed up enough, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. jisung practically purrs at the touch.
"that's really hot, actually," you admit.
jisung lifts his head to look at you, searching your expression for any sign of disappointment or disgust. but all he sees is warmth, and something tender that makes his heart skip. "yeah?"
"yeah," you confirm, pulling him down for a slow, deep kiss. when you break apart, you're both smiling, and jisung feels something settle in his chest. it feels a lot like contentment.
"we should probably clean up," jisung murmurs after a moment, though he makes no move to actually get up. he's too comfortable like this, wrapped around you, feeling your heartbeat slowly return to normal beneath him.
"probably," you agree, but you don't move either.
jisung chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "give me like, five minutes. then i'll get us a towel."
"five minutes," you repeat, fingers still playing with his hair in that way that makes him want to fall asleep right here.
but after a moment, reality starts creeping back in. jisung shifts, wincing slightly at the uncomfortable dampness in his boxers. "okay, actually i really need to change like, right now."
you laugh he reluctantly pulls away, watching as he stands on slightly shaky legs. you watch him with hooded eyes as he strips off his ruined sweats and boxers, tossing them into his laundry basket before grabbing a clean pair of sweatpants from his drawer.
"here," he says, pulling out one of his oversized hoodies and tossing it to you. "you can wear this if you want."
you slip it on while jisung grabs a damp towel from his bathroom.
he comes back to find you sitting up, his hoodie falling to your mid-thigh, and he has to take a moment to breathe and not pounce on you like a wild animal and fuck you right then and there.
"c'mere," he says softly, sitting beside you. he gently cleans you up, his touch careful and intimate in a different way than before. when he's done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls you back against him.
"soooo, that was..."
"yeah," jisung agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "it really was."
WARNINGS: smut, loss of virginity, size kink, pain kink, pet names, creampie, multiple orgasms, swearing, teasing, praise, mentions of alcohol, handjob, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it up pls)
SUMMARY: a harmless night in- wine, teasing, and stupid game- turns dangerous when chan stops joking first. one dare pulls you closer than you've ever been, and suddenly you can't hide how badly you want him- or how much he already knew. now you're sitting on his lap, his voice in your ear, and friendship feels like the last lie you're both still pretending to believe
MORE UNDER THE CUT!
the living room smelled like takeout and cheap wine. you and chan were both sprawled out on the couch, knees almost touching, the coffee table covered in empty sushi boxes and the remains of a half finished bottle of red.
“okay that was like- once” chan defended himself, waving his chopsticks like a dramatic lawyer in the courtroom.
you burst out laughing again. the image of chan confidently stepping into the centre of the living room earlier that week, saying “fucking finally, I fixed the footwork. watch me.” he wiggled his eyebrows, grinning like the idiot he Is, only to go too slow, then too fast, and then-
rip
he had frozen mid-crouch, staring at you with the world’s most defeated expression while the universe punished him for showing off. you had been wheezing on the carpet for a good minute.
“yeah once” you giggled, wiping a tear from your cheek “tell yourself that buddy”.
chan groaned dramatically and threw his head back against the couch cushion.
“okay, new topic. ‘m not liking this one” chan said rolling his eyes, but the grin on his face didn’t go unnoticed. It never did.
“ugh you’re such a buzzkill channie” you teased, letting your head fall back against the couch. your cheeks were hot from the wine, eyelids drooping a little, and the blanket wasn’t helping with the sudden heat crawling up your neck.
chan stretched put his legs, brushing your foot with his in that familiar way he always did when he got comfortable.
except for tonight, the touch felt..
different.
warmer.
“buzzkill huh?” he said quietly, a smug little tilt forming at the corner of his mouth.
“mhm” you hummed “certified”
“oh please,” he scoffed, shifting closer on the couch. “you wouldn’t survive a day without me keeping you entertained.”
you snorted. “entertained by your suffering? absolutely.”
chan pressed a hand over his heart like you’d stabbed him. “wow. incredible. I open my home to you-“
“we signed the lease together, dramatic boy”
“-and all I get in return is mockery.”
“you love it.” you said softly.
his eyes flickered to yours for a second too long. then he smiled- small, a little shy, the kind he only ever gave you.
“yeah,” he said, voice low. “maybe I do.”
and the room suddenly felt hotter than before, the wine in your throat thicker, the taste sweeter, your heart beating louder.
minutes passed by. You stretched, nudging your shoulder against his, and he didn’t move away- he barely even noticed, or maybe he was choosing not to.
then, without warning, chan sat up straighter.
“truth or dare?” he blurted out.
you froze, caught off guard. “..what?”
“truth or dare” he repeated, leaning back with that cocky tilt of his head. “your choice”
you blinked at him, trying to play it cool. “..are you drunk?”
“maybe a little,” he said with a grin. “maybe... I just wanna se how brave you really are.”
“we are not 12 anymore, chan” you giggled, pink covering your cheeks.
“scared?” he mummured with a smirk, “don’t go shy on me now, y/n”
you hesitated, heart thudding a little faster than it should. “fine, I pick truth.” you finally said, though the tiniest part of you wanted to say dare.
chans smirk widened. “too easy,” he leans forward, eyes sharp but teasing, voice low “have you ever fantasized about a teacher?”
you choked on your sip of wine, laughing before you could even process it.
“you know the answer to this!” you exclaimed, cheeks heating as you waved your hands at him.
he didn’t miss a beat. he leaned closer, gaze teasing, voice dropping just a little lower.
“oh, I do know,” he said, smirk widening. “but I want to hear it from you.”
you laughed again, trying to push the tension off, but your stomach twisted in anticipation.
“channie…” you started, shaking your head.
“mm?” he murmured, letting the word linger, letting the look in his eyes do all the talking.
you both laughed, the sound light and teasing… but the air between you felt charged, electric, like something was about to snap.
“okay your turn” you smirk mischievously. “truth or dare?” you lean on your elbows.
chan’s dark eyes locked on yours immediately. “truth,” he said, low and confident, like he owned the moment.
you leaned forward, letting the corner of your lips twitch into a small, dangerous smile.
“okay…” you murmured, voice quiet but sharp, “what’s the first thing you’d do if I let you… right now?”
chan froze for a heartbeat, just enough to make your stomach tighten. His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, but his gaze didn’t waver.
“you’d let me?” he murmured, voice rough, teasing but with an edge you couldn’t ignore.
“and you think you’re ready for that?”
your breath hitched just slightly. the room felt smaller, hotter, every sound amplified.
“I—maybe,” you admitted, voice low. “depends on what you’d do.”
chan leaned closer, elbows on his knees, his face inches from yours. his smirk was slow, dangerous, the kind that promised trouble.
“mm… then I’d make sure you’d never forget it,” he said, letting the words linger between you like a challenge.
the tension coiled tighter, electric, teasing—but you knew this game had just turned serious.
chan’s eyes were still locked on you, the air thick between you.
he leaned back slightly, spreading his knees just a bit wider on the couch, confidence dripping from the movement.
“my turn, right?” he murmured.
you nodded once, heart pounding.
he tilted his head, studying you for a long moment that made your stomach twist.
then, with that slow, knowing smirk.
“alright, y/n… I dare you to come sit on my lap.”
you blinked. “on your lap?”
“mhm.” his voice dropped, dark and steady.
“right here.” he tapped the space directly on his thigh, not an inch between your bodies, close enough that your thighs would touch, close enough to feel his breath.
but he knew exactly what he was doing.
the tension shot through your spine instantly.
“you can do it,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your lips for barely a second. “can’t you?”
your chest tightened. “chan—”
“it’s just a dare,” he said softly, the smirk back. “unless you’re scared?”
the room felt like it was holding its breath.
your pulse hammered against your throat.
chan watched you like he was tracking every thought in your head-every hesitation, every flicker in your eyes.
you swallowed, pushing the blanket off your legs as you slowly rose from the couch.
chan didn’t move.
didn’t blink.
he just leaned back slightly, hands resting loosely on his thighs, like he was inviting you in without saying a single word.
your knees wobbled. it was stupid, you’d known him for years. you’d lived with him. you’d seen him at 3am wandering the kitchen half-asleep with mismatched socks.
but this wasn’t the chan you were used to.
this was the one who knew exactly what he was doing to you.
you stepped closer, your knee brushing his.
something in his jaw flexed.
“closer,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through you.
your breath caught.
you shifted again, stepping into the space between his legs.
your thighs grazed the denim stretching across his.
you weren’t sitting on him, but you were close enough that your body felt like it was leaning into his gravity.
chan’s hands lifted slowly — not touching you, but hovering, like he was resisting the urge.
his voice dipped lower.
“you’re shaking.”
“you’re-” you swallowed, trying to breathe normally “-you’re being intense on purpose.”
he smirked.
“maybe I am.”
your chest tightened. “that’s cheating.”
“baby,” he murmured, eyes dragging over your face, “this whole game is cheating.”
you didn’t even realize you were leaning in until he did, his gaze sharpening as you swayed a little closer.
he tilted his head up, looking at you from beneath his lashes.
“still scared?” he whispered.
“no,” you said, barely audible.
“good,” he murmured, sitting up straighter, closing that last inch between you without touching.
because the tension alone was enough to undo you.
“I like you better like this.”
“…like what?” you whispered.
he smiled — slow, dangerous, sure of himself.
“brave.”
you stood between his knees, breath shallow, heart pounding so hard you swore he could hear it.
chan tilted his chin up just slightly, looking at you like he was dissecting every twitch in your expression.
he still wasn’t touching you, and somehow, that made everything worse.
“brave, huh?” you said quietly, trying to sound steady.
he hummed low. “mhm.”
he leaned in- just enough that his breath ghosted your collarbone.
you felt your knees go soft.
“and nervous,” he added, voice barely there.
“but you’re trying not to show it.”
“i’m not nervous,” you whispered, though it came out thin.
chan’s smirk grew slow and dangerous.
“sweetheart… you came all the way over here, and you still won’t look at me.”
your stomach twisted.
against your will, your gaze dropped- anywhere but his eyes. his jawline, the slope of his nose, the mole under his eye-
“uh-huh,” he murmured. “right there.”
you froze.
then, slowly, he lifted one finger.
not to touch you.
just to lift your chin an inch.
not even contact.
just the suggestion of it.
and your whole body reacted.
“look at me,” he whispered.
you did.
and God, you shouldn’t have.
his eyes burned into yours-focused, intense, unreadable.
you felt heat crawl up your spine, all the way to the base of your skull.
“still not scared?” he asked, voice low enough to shake you.
“no,” you breathed.
a beat passed. Two.
then chan leaned back a little — not pulling away, just… assessing.
he dragged his gaze down your body and up again, slow enough you forgot to breathe.
“you didn’t sit,” he said softly.
“it wasn’t a real dare,” you shot back, though your voice trembled.
“It was,” he corrected. “you just didn’t do it.”
“and what?” you whispered. “you gonna punish me for it?”
his breath left him in a quiet laugh- low, disbelieving, almost dangerous.
“oh, baby,” he murmured, eyes darkening as he rose just slightly from the couch, closing the space you’d left between your body and his,
“don’t tempt me like that.”
your pulse jumped so violently your fingers curled at your sides.
chan’s lips hovered near your ear — close, close enough to feel warmth but never touching.
“you think this is tense now?” he whispered.
your stomach dropped.
“you have no idea how much worse I can make it.”
chan leans forward- eyes sharp, but teasing, hands on your hips, voice low.
“when is the last time you’ve been fucked”
the question didn’t just hang between you- it hit you.
your breath stuttered. Heat shot straight down your spine, pooling low in your stomach. chan watched every micro-reaction, eyes half-lidded, like he was cataloging your heartbeat.
you opened your mouth—nothing came out.
chan’s lips twitched, a slow, dangerous smirk spreading as he dragged his thumbs over your hips, the pressure firm enough to make your knees weaken.
“mm. that long?” he murmured, tilting his head, voice dipping to something dark and amused. “figures.”
“chan—”
“no,” he interrupted quietly, gaze locked on your flustered expression. “answer me.”
your pulse hammered. You tried to step back, but his fingers tightened just slightly—just enough to freeze you in place.
“i- i’ve never,” you managed, barely a whisper.
chan exhaled a soft laugh against your cheek, the sound low, warm, teasing.
“yeah,” he murmured. “I can tell.” the answer lingered. “fuck, baby” he mumbled under his breath, head thrown back.
your breath caught.
before you could react, chan’s hands slid from your hips to your thighs—big, warm hands curling around the back of them like he was claiming the space. the sudden change made your breath hitch violently.
“chan—what are you—”
he didn’t answer.
instead, he pulled.
one smooth, confident drag toward him.
your balance tipped, hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders—and chan used the moment, guiding you down onto his lap with a firm, sure pull.
a soft gasp slipped out of you as your thighs spread over his, your body pressed flush against his chest.
his hands stayed exactly where they’d landed—one gripping your upper thigh, the other settling low on your waist, fingers splayed possessively.
chan leaned back into the couch, gaze lifting to meet yours with a slow, satisfied smile.
“there,” he murmured, voice like velvet with an edge. “that’s better.”
your heart thrashed against your ribs.
“you— that wasn’t—” Your voice broke. “that wasn’t the dare.”
he hummed thoughtfully, slipping one hand higher up your thigh, dragging heat with it.
“no,” he agreed, eyes dark. “that was me getting tired of waiting.”
your breath faltered completely.
chan’s hand slid up your spine, dragging a shiver out of you as he pulled you closer, barely an inch between your mouths.
“now,” he whispered, eyes locked to yours, “say it again.”
You blinked, chest heaving. “say… what?”
chan’s smirk deepened, gaze flicking briefly to your lips.
“when’s the last time someone touched you like this?”
his hand squeezed your thigh—slow, deliberate.
your breath stuttered.
because sitting on him like this—hearing that—feeling that—
your answer came out smaller than you wanted.
“…Ive never done it..”
chan inhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenching, like he was holding back something sharp and hungry.
then he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured:
“good.”
his fingers dug into your hips, pulling you imperceptibly closer.
“because I want to be the one you remember.”
“chan-“ you whimpered. “you know we can’t.”
“yeah, you keep saying that, but look at you- squirming in my lap.” he hummed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
his hand then slowly slid to your jaw- his thumb now on your lower lip.
"open." your lips parted instantly, and he slid his thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue, holding it there as he stared down at you. The weight of his presence made your body tremble, every nerve screaming with the need to please him.
"look at you," he drawled, his voice dripping with need. "so desperate, baby. hm?”
he took his thumb out of your mouth- his eyes still on your lips. “atta girl.” he whispered with a grin on his face, the hunger noticeable in his eyes.
you swallowed hard, still perched on his lap, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you steady. chan’s gaze softened—not less intense, just… warmer, like you were something fragile he didn’t dare rush.
“should be your turn now, hm?” he murmured again, voice low but steady, like he was coaxing rather than teasing.
your breath caught. “i don’t— what do you mean?”
chan let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing your hip in small, absent circles that made your heartbeat trip over itself. the smirk was gone now- replaced with something gentler, deeper, like he was finally letting you see underneath all the banter.
“you made me wait,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “…so I want something back.”
your chest tightened. “c-chan— I didn’t—”
he shook his head just slightly, the motion soft, his touch reassuring on your waist.
“not like that,” he whispered.
“not anything you don’t want.”
the words settled between you, grounding and terrifying all at once.
“what… what do you want?” you breathed.
chan’s lips tugged into the smallest smile- shy at the edges, even, though his hands were still steady around you.
“I want you to look at me first,” he said simply.
you blinked. “I am looking at you.”
he chuckled softly, tilting his forehead toward yours, noses almost brushing but not quite.
“not like you’re trying to escape,” he murmured.
“look at me like you’re here. with me. right now.”
your hands tightened on his shoulders, nails barely grazing the fabric as heat crawled up your throat. the request was simple—too simple—and somehow that made it worse. More real.
slowly, you lifted your gaze, meeting his fully.
chan’s breath hitched—just slightly, just enough that you felt it.
“there she is…” he whispered, smile curling, eyes warm enough to unravel you.
“knew you could do it.”
you exhaled shakily, the tension coiling in your stomach easing—not disappearing, just… shifting.
“was that what you wanted?” you asked, voice barely a murmur.
chan’s fingers brushed up your spine, slow and careful, like he was memorizing the way you fit against him.
“how about a kiss?” he offered. oh, he was being so sweet, for now.
your pulse fluttered helplessly. you wondered what his lips would feel like against yours.
prehaps you wouldn’t have to wait so long to find out…
“and if I say no?” you managed.
“that wouldn’t be fair now would it, baby?”
god, was he irresistible.
your breath stuttered—not from nerves this time, but something deeper, something that made your chest ache in a way completely different from tension.
“it….wouldn’t,” you whispered.
chan’s eyes searched yours, thumb brushing once against your waist, gentle as a promise.
your eyes found his for the last time, before you leaned in.
chan was swift with his kiss, leaning into you as you were pressed against his chest. you kissed back, soft at first, but when you felt his tongue pressing against your lips, you opened your mouth and surrendered.
he wrapped his hands around your waist, palming at the skin beneath your shirt. a heat crept upon your cheeks as his lips kissed yours with a hunger. pressed up against you, his cock twitched a little in his pants. he had to have you, you were practically begging for it in a skirt that short.
“you taste so sweet, baby” he mused as you pulled away from him. he wondered what you'd taste like in other places, whether your cunt had the same sweetness of your mouth.
you wanted more- your cunt ached, unfamiliar feeling, but nontheless you knew you needed to be satisfied.
chan could see this, the way you clenched your thighs on his lap together, and how your heart thumped inside your chest. he'd felt it when he'd been flush against you.
'you wanna thank me some more?' he inquired, his dark brow cocked.
you bit your lip, but you knew you couldn't deny the rush inside your body, the way you were growing increasingly wet between your thighs. the ache that nagged at you, yearning to be satisfied.
'mhm,' you nodded dumbly, feeling his hands grab at your thighs.
as if the wine took over you, confidence filled your veins.
his frown turned to a smile, and he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
chan grabbed you under your thighs, and went straight to your room, as if you weighed nothing. soon letting you go, making you lead the way.
you trailed along to your room, not desperate enough to let him have you against a wall, glancing back at him every so often and watching as his eyes followed you. you shoved the door open, and switched on the little lamp by your bedside table.
your room was bare, for the most part, but chan always said that it suited you, the cream bedsheets and the old floral wallpaper. it was so innocent. he wondered if you'd stain those sheets tonight as he stretched you out. he'd want to keep them, as a reminder of what’s about to happen.
you sat down on the bed, and he followed suit, still reminded of his achingly hard cock. you couldn't keep your eyes off the bulge in his trousers; it was of a considerable size, and made you gnaw at your lip in anticipation.
"i want to help you,” you said, mouth going dry at the sight of him.
“help me, doll?” he inquired. your words were a little cryptic, but he could tell that your eyes were clearly focused on his achingly hard cock.
“mhm, you're so hard” you murmured. although you were innocent, you'd read enough romance novels to figure out what he needed.
“you can certainly help me” he grabbed your hand and guided it to his clothed hard-on.
you palmed it lightly, gasping as you felt it. he watched as your mouth spread into an exclamation of delight, lips flickering a little. you were so innocent, the way you were gentle in your touches, how you sighed with amazement.
he groaned at the touch, but moved your hand away to free his cock from the restraints of his pants and boxers. your mouth hung agape as he pulled them down to his knees and you were presented with his hard cock. he was big, not that you'd really seen a cock before, but it had to be at least eight inches, and it was throbbing desperately against his stomach.
chan guided your hand back, and wrapped it around the base. you could feel the blood coursing through it, and saw a little bit of precum dribbling from the tip.
“just move your hand up and down, princess” he cooed, and you stroked him, sweaty palms not causing as much friction as he expected.
you moved your hand to the tip, and he urged you to give it a squeeze, groaning as you did so. you felt so good, the way you were thumbing his dripping head, stroking so diligently. but he wanted more, he needed to feel you.
your thighs burned as you continued to stroke him, and you watched as he bucked his hips a little at your touch. you fastened the pace, not too quick, but just enough that his breaths grew haggard. it didn't seem so intimidating now that you were doing it, and his moans suggested you were doing a good job.
but still, your own body was aching with need, and you found yourself grinding into the bed. chan saw this, the way you were practically squirming, and moved one of his own hands to grip at your thigh.
"does doll want me to touch her too?' he said between breaths.
you nodded lazily, hand still pumping his cock. he was close already, the feeling of your hand too much, and the anticipation of finally burying himself deep inside of you was sending him over the edge.
chan’s fingers traced lightly up your thigh, and when he reached your skirt, he pushed past the hem and slipped between the apex of your thighs. you spread them, and gasped as you felt his fingers brush against the wet patch of your panties.
“oh baby, you're so wet” he sighed, his cock throbbing. he was so close...
you mewled as he removed your panties, fingers gently prying them off of you and leaving them to hang at your ankles. you kicked them off, but were left sighing as he ceased his touch for a moment.
his cock twitched in your grip, and he let out a loud, rough groan, spurts of cum coming from the tip of his cock. you blushed, watching as he came onto your hand, and his stomach. he'd have to wash his clothes tonight, because it was stained with the pearly ropes.
sweat beaded at his forehead, but he didn't let the waves of his own pleasure distract from what he wanted most, which was to feel you. you spread your legs, and he sighed at the sight of your glistening cunt.
he ran one finger over your folds, and you clutched at the bedsheets, attempting to ignore how sensitive you already were. his thumb pressed against your clit, and you couldn't stifle your moan this time, a feeling of warmth shooting across your body. you wanted more, and ground into the feeling of his thumb running circles against the sensitive spot.
“so wet for me, aren't you?” he muttered, his long fingers edging further down your folds.
“feels so... good,” you huffed, eyes fluttering shut with bliss. of course you were already lingering on the edge of your own pleasure-he doubted you'd ever even touched yourself before.
he eased a finger into your hole- feeling your slick walls take it in, but only barely. you were so fucking tight, and he watched as you winced a little at the feeling. it only hurt for a second, but you were so wet that you were longing for more.
“oh please” you gasped, feeling him arch his finger while his thumb began to vary its ministrations against your clit.
“gonna cum for me, baby?” he cooed, moving his thumb up and down, watching as your thighs began to tremble.
the heat was unbearable now, and when he added another finger, stretching you out, you felt your whole body begin to tingle with the beginning of your release.
“mhm!” you cried out, exasperated from his touch.
you gushed around his fingers, though he continued to rub his thumb against your clit, and arch his fingers inside of you, mesmerised by the wetness coating them. your breath hitched, and you came completely undone, burning and trembling as he made you cum.
he felt his cock harden again at the sight of you coming around his fingers, and as he removed them from your hole, he decided he couldn't wait any longer.
chan pushed you back into the bed, cock pressing against your thighs. your head swam with the excess of your desire, but you surrendered yourself to him, longing to feel him buried deep inside of you.
he guided just the tip towards your hole, and ran it teasingly through the soaking folds of your cunt. you mewled, and clutched at his back in an attempt to get him to push into you. deciding he was greedy, he pressed the tip into you, and you let out a shocked groan.
it hurt-he was big, but you hadn't expected it to make you tingle so much. you bit back a few tears, and let him put the rest of the tip in. you were so tight, he couldn't believe it. if you'd felt tight around his fingers, this was a whole new sensation. you were clenching around his cock, and he had barely so much as the head of it inside you.
“too big,” you gasped, feeling him ease his cock further in. it stung a little, the stretch slightly unpleasant. but you wanted him so bad. "it hurts!”
“poor baby,” he mused, stroking your cheek. “you gotta learn to take it, like a good girl. i know you want it, doll?”
you did, you wanted it so bad. even though it hurt, you felt your stomach knot tightly as it did when he'd rubbed your clit. he began to buck his hips, grunting at the tightness of your cunt. your walls stretched around his big cock, taking him in as best they could, slick with want and need.
"fuck, you're so fucking tight” he groaned as thrust inside of you.
more tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks. he watched as you tried to fight off the feelings of pain, surrendering yourself to the pleasant feeling of fullness and his throbbing cock inside of you. he wanted nothing more than to pound into you, make you scream his name as he filled you up, but you were too delicate. he'd have to wait until you were ready, and you were special, anyways. a pretty doll just for him.
"oh!" you gasped as he fucked himself deeper, reaching a new angle inside of you.
the sound of your slick mingling with the slapping of his balls echoed against the walls of your room, and you clutched at his back. your desire began to brim again, edging its way up your thighs and deep into the pit of your stomach. chan could hardly contain himself, you fit around him so perfectly, slick walls coating his cock as he thrust in and out.
"fuck baby, i don't know how much more i can take” he admitted haggardly. he attempted to control his urges, but you were just so tight. what was stopping him from coming in you right then and there?
“need you” you mumbled as he rutted against your hips, thrusts growing more desperate.
he moved one hand down to rub at your overstimulated clit, fingers deftly helping to unfurl the ache inside of you. you sputtered at the sensation, head spinning as he fucked you into the mattress.
he was so close, the clenching of your walls sending the blood straight to his head. he let out a final grunt, and slowed his thrusts, and felt himself come undone. he ground his cock into you, letting the thick spurts of his cum coat your walls. he came a lot, more than he'd ever done before, balls draining with what felt like every last drop.
he still continued to fuck up into you, wanting you to finish around him before he pulled out. your legs began to tremble, the feeling of his cum too much to handle, and you let out a sweet cry.
'so good, you pressed your lips together, coming undone around his dick.
chan pulled out, cock coated in a milky ring of your spend, his tip still red and angry from use. your body tingled, and you felt his cum trickling down between your legs. he couldn't believe how pretty you looked, all fucked out for him, drunk on his cock.
he'd turned such a pretty innocent thing into a stupid whore, who could barely form a sentence without sighing from the excess of her pleasure.
he wondered how long he'd have to wait to go another round, and whether or not you'd let him. but you'd been so good to him that night, doing exactly what he told you and coming for him not once, but twice.
“such a good girl for me, baby” he mused, stroking your thigh. 'and so innocent”
🗝️: f - fluff s - smut a - angst g - suggestive d - drabble
✎ em's favourites︎
✦ fan favourites
bang chan:
no please, allow me─ f g ✎︎
correct me, i dare you─ s f ✎✦︎
home─ f d
save a horse, ride a cowboy— s ✦
you, me, and your ears—s ✦
work hard, play harder—s✦
series: leader-nim is whipped!— f smau
── chapter one
── chapter two
── chapter three
lee minho:
back of the hall─ g d
go ask your father!—d f ✦
series: aisle be damned— f a s ✎︎
── chapter one
── chapter two
── chapter three
── chapter four
── chapter five
throw it up in the air!—f
seo changbin:
strawberry—d f
my guilty pleasure—f ✦
two handymen are better than one—s✎✦
hwang hyunjin
clay stains─ f g s
you snap first!─ f s
ticket for you─ f ✎✦︎
everything is romantic─ f ✎
devil-may-care─ f s✎✦
dumb & poetic—a
two handymen are better than one—s✎✦
series: rarepair!—f smau✎✦
── chapter one
── chapter two
── chapter three
han jisung
reunion─ s
what's a little ink?─ f s ✦
could do better─ f d
already had it─ f g d
so agitating!─ f s
but it’s my birthday!—s
lee felix:
sweeter than this─ f s g
i'll make you lose─ f s ✎✦︎
bed chem— g✎
special gift wrapping— s
kim seungmin
still watching—d g
walk him like a dog—s
yang jeongin
film set─ d g
someone to guide me—s ✦
ot8 written
headcanon masterlist─ g f s ✎︎
emergency kitty babysitter's club─ f
melting ─ f
ot8 smau
i had a dream about you—f g✦
the tragicomic chronicles of a hopeless fanboy!—individual smau series masterpost✦✎
same time tomorrow?—f g
ot8 hard thoughts
giving head—s
handling a sub drop—s f
skz in public—s
⋆.˚ put my finger on your tongue cause you love to taste ⊹₊⋆
— seo changbin × fem reader
changbin takes his sweet time drawing out your punishment after you've spent all day riling him up in the studio.
cw. mean dom!changbin, 'just the tip', rough sex, overstim, crying, choking, humiliation, breeding, name calling: slut, pet names: baby, doll, sweetheart wc. 2500 note. this story is fictional and does not depict real events or individuals.
minors dni. for mature audiences only !
this sat in my drafts for over a year but now it was finally time to rewrite it and set it free.. enjoy ‹33
In your defense — look at him. The way his tight black shirt clings to his muscles, emphasizing every dip and curve. His soft, dark curls freshly washed and still damp from the shower. His focused gaze as his hands adjust something on the mixer, that face that makes you want to wrap your arms around him from behind and slip your hands underneath his clothes…
All day long you've been distracting him. Sitting across him at lunch with your legs crossed, one foot bobbing in the air, then sliding up his thigh underneath the table. An innocent pout on your peachy glossed lips while he glowers at you and covertly adjusts himself for the third time in the past twenty minutes.
You keep leaning forward to whisper things in his ear. Light, teasing, just enough to make his cock ache in his jeans while he's mid-mixdown. Just enough to make him have to restart a verse because he missed the timing cue, too busy imagining bending you over the studio desk instead.
But Changbin doesn't say a word. With every passing hour the heat in his eyes grows hotter. He quietly watches you reapply your lipgloss and make a kissy face at Jisung as the other waves his goodbyes. He's counting down the minutes until the last person has left the studio and he won't have to hold back any longer.
Two long hours.
It takes that long before Chan, ever the last to leave, shut his laptop with a soft click and closes the studio door behind him.
Two agonizing, endless hours before Changbin can finally touch you.
And now you lie beneath him, spread out and waiting. The air around you is already thick and brimming with desire. Your shirt's pushed up and your panties dangle around your left ankle. As much as he loves seeing your naked body, the view of you flustered and begging for him while he hasn't even fully undressed you goes straight to his cock.
"You think you get to decide when I fuck you?"
"Please, Bin…"
He laughs and grips your jaw. "You've been acting like a cockdrunk slut all day. Flirting, riling me up, touching yourself in the bathroom —"
Your eyes widen and you attempt to shake your head but his grip on your jaw is too strong. Shame and excitement stir deep inside your gut as he leans in closer, forcing your gaze to stay on his.
"Don't play coy now. You think I'm that oblivious? Hell, I'm pretty sure even Chan and Sungie could smell the arousal clinging to your skin when you came back."
His hungry eyes rake over your exposed body. "And now you think I'll give you what you want, just like that?" He moves his hand to your mouth and pushes his fingers inside, letting you wet them before bringing them to your aching pussy.
A cocky grin settles on his lips when he discovers you're already soaking.
"Please," you whisper again. It's embarrassing how wet you are, your face flushing with heat at the slick sound of his fingers. One… two… it's not enough. You need more.
"I swear I'll be good for you, I-I need your cock, Binnie, please —"
Changbin chuckles. "You really need my cock that bad?" He removes his fingers and you whine at the loss. "What makes you think you deserve it?"
You splutter in protest but the press of his thick head at your entrance cuts you off, turning the words into a slurred moan. Your hips rise involuntary to meet him and —
A quick slap stings the inside of your thigh. Not enough to leave a lasting mark, but hard enough to have you bite down on your tongue.
"Stay still."
Another whine escapes your throat but you stay put. The weight of his heavy cock throbbing against your hole is maddening. You tremble, tears brimming in your eyes as you try to focus on the burn of his handprint.
He's so close to where you need him…
Your obedience is rewarded with a slow drag of his cock between your folds. You tense and fight to hold your hips steady, balling your fists and pressing your nails into the palms of your hands to distract yourself from the feeling of his flushed tip circling your hole. He moves achingly slow, like he has all the time in the world. As if you hadn't been teasing and provoking him since early morning.
"All you needed to do today, doll," Changbin mutters when he finally slides in, sinking his cock between your fluttering walls, "was be patient and behave."
And then he stops.
Your hands fist into his shirt to pull him in closer, but he's faster, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head against the backrest. Those same muscles you've been eyeing all day now hold you down with ease, adding more fuel to the heat between your legs.
You don't think you'll ever get used to his strength. Or the stretch. The way it burns just right, stretching you far beyond what you thought possible. Making you crave more.
Changbin barks out a harsh laugh seeing your confused pout, cock twitching at your entrance. Barely an inch inside.
"Been teasing me all day. About damn time I teach you some patience."
You whine his name and struggle in his grasp but he doesn't budge, strong hands still holding your wrists in their tight grasp. His voice drops low.
A warning. Your empty cunt flutters.
"I told you to stay still. Don't fucking move. Or do you want me to pull out and leave you here, leaking all over the couch like a useless slut? Your choice, baby."
You shake your head wordlessly and bite your lip to stop yourself from crying. Anything he gives you now is better than staying empty and aching. Not after waiting all day. You should've known better than to tease him: you know how ruthless he gets when you rile him up, but it's never been quite like this before.
Your brain feels fuzzy and hazed already, enticing you to fully surrender your body to him. His cruel words only heighten your arousal.
His fingers move without warning, slicking themselves with your own wetness before pressing up to your clit. The coil in your gut tightens.
"You're going to cum like this. On the tip. Not once — twice." Changbin's gaze is as stern and commanding as his thumb moving in rough circles over you clit. "And you're going to thank me for it, doll. Show me how desperate you are."
Your pussy clenches around him, trying to suck him in deeper, but he doesn't move.
"P-please Binnie, just a little more," you beg. Your cunt aches to be filled, puffy and sensitive from the unrelenting strum of his fingers. It's a painful kind of pleasure; one that has your orgasm building at a threatening pace.
"Why?" he mocks. "Feels too empty, baby? Then cum on it."
Changbin pinches your swollen clit between his fingers and your whole body tenses, back arching into his chest as you cum with a cry. Your walls flutter desperately around his tip but he just holds it there. His dark eyes are glued to the pulse of your cunt soaking his cock in a wet mess. It drips down the inside of your thighs, pooling onto the black leather underneath.
"You really just creamed my cock from that?" He shakes his head, voice thick with disbelief and something that sounds almost like awe. "That's all it took? Fuck, that's pathetic. Didn't even need the whole thing. Makes me wonder why I even bother giving you the rest when you're this easy."
Shame and embarrassment mingles with the high of your orgasm. Still, your treacherous pussy keeps clenching down on him and he chuckles again, letting go of your wrists.
Your arms fall limply to your sides, legs trembling when he folds them closer to your chest and shifts his hips forwards, swollen head nudging deeper, barely so.
Your whole body jerks. "Binnie, 'm sorry, I —"
His smile turns cruel. "I let you come like this and you're still whining for more? You think you've earned it yet?" He rocks his hips, just enough to drag his cock along your soaked entrance, the friction sharp and agonizing. "No, doll. You're going to cum again, on the tip, because that's all you deserve right now. And if you do it right… then I'll let you feel the rest of me."
He grabs your chin and tilts your face upwards so your eyes meet his gaze. "Now say 'Thank you, Changbin.'"
Changbin can be loud, he can be spirited, but above all he's determined — and years of strict schedules and building his body in the gym have given him a sense of self-discipline and conviction that's wrecked you more times than you can count.
And right now, all that discipline is aimed entirely at you. He isn't giving in, not an inch, no matter how wet you are for him. His cock stays where it is; the throb of it serves as a constant reminder of what you can't have until you do exactly as told.
"T-hank you, Changbin," you mumble.
"For what?" His tone is light. Daring you to humiliate yourself for him.
Your face burns hotter, shame bubbling up in your throat. His fingers pinch your clit until your face twists in a mixture of pleasure and discomfort. "Thank you for what? Let me hear it."
Your gaze drops down to the silver chain dangling around his neck. "For… for letting me cum on the tip," you mumble.
The words hang in the silence between you. Then the hand holding your chin moves lower to wrap around your throat. "Now look at me." His grip tightens. "And say it again."
His eyes are dark heavy-lidded but you hold his gaze this time.
"F-for letting me cum on the tip."
Changbin hums, a satisfied smile on his lips, but his grip doesn't relent. He feels your heartbeat jump underneath your jaw, all the way down to the pulse of your clit between his fingers. Tears start to blur your vision again.
"One more time, doll. Let's make sure you remember your lesson."
You choke out the words. "Thank you for letting me cum on the tip."
"Good girl." He smiles and loosens his grip, watching your shaky exhale. "Now make a mess for me again."
His thumb presses in tight, sharp circles that have your hips jerking despite yourself. His other hand steadies you as he starts to shallowly fuck his fat tip in and out of your aching hole, never more than a few inches. It's torture: the pins and needles of your pulsing, overstimulated nerves mixing with the near unbearable ache of still feeling so empty.
You're babbling half-formed pleas through the tears, Changbin's face surrounded by a blurred glow from the light behind him. The way your pussy tries to suck him in is clearly affecting him. Sweat shimmers on his forehead and his breathing has turned into pants, but he keeps his thrusts shallow.
He watches it build again: takes note of your tear-streaked face, your moans rising in pitch and volume, your trembling thighs. The muscles in his arm flex as he rolls his thumb over your sore clit over and over again.
He leans in close, lips brushing your ear. "You can do it, sweetheart. Come on. Make me proud."
His words push you over the edge. You fall apart for him, every muscle locking up tight again, fingers tightening around his strong arms until your knuckles turn pale.
Changbin works you through it. Only when the frantic flutter of your cunt around him begins to fade does he draw back, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
"Now," he murmurs, kissing your tear-stained cheeks, "you've earned it."
The first thrust is a savage drive that buries him so deep it turns your whole body into white static. Your walls clamp down around the sudden intrusion, still raw and spasming from your last orgasm. He forces your thighs flat against your chest as he presses into you, locking you in place. There's no way to escape the heat of him, the sudden fullness, each thrust hitting deeper than the last.
The heat in your core is all-consuming. It lights up every nerve.
Your voice is a hoarse whisper. "'s too much, Bin, I can't —"
He doesn't slow down. He knows exactly how far he can push you, attuned to every twitch and sound you make for him.
"Now it's too much for you?" he scoffs. "This is what you wanted."
He hooks his hands under your thighs and hikes your knees over his shoulders. His cock drives in at a new angle, causing you to jerk in his hold, cunt raw and soaking around him. Somewhere through the haze you faintly register the sound of your own broken voice crying out his name.
"Yeah," he growls, eyes locked on the way you take his cock, "that's it, sweetheart. Gonna breed you so deep you'll feel it for days."
You're floating, reduced to the pulsing of your cunt around him. Your walls flutter every time his cock hits that sweet spot, wet and wanting as always. Greedy.
“Beg for it," he commands, voice jagged. He holds onto the backrest, caging you in, making you feel small beneath him. "Beg for my cum."
You cry out, "Please, please, Binnie, I want it inside, fill me up, fill me up —" until your voice cracks and you're clamping down on him. Leaking all around his thick length. You're shaking, clinging to his body, but he doesn't stop.
"There's my pretty girl." He holds you tight, muttering hoarse praises into your skin. "Cum on my cock, sweetheart. I got you. Fuck, greedy pussy's still trying to suck me in."
Every thrust heightens that raw, painful pleasure in your core. Your body jerks in his hands, trying to escape the overstimulation, but he pins you to the couch. "You wanted me to fill you up?" he groans lowly as his movements grow erratic. "Then take it."
His cock throbs between your swollen walls. You feel it pulse and flood you in thick spurts, spilling deep inside.
Changbin finally stills, resting his forehead against yours. "Look at you," he murmurs, breathless, "you took it so well."
You kiss him, not wanting to let go despite your aching muscles. You know you're going to feel sore for days. He moves to lie on his side, pulling you down with him.
His cock stirs between your tender walls.
"Bin," you whine.
"Next time," he chuckles, caressing your soft thighs, "maybe think twice before trying to drive me crazy."
I love your work, your recent Changbin fanfic is a masterpiece 😭💕
I recently discovered that somebody can be "submissive top" and the first person that came to my mind was Bangchan can you write a fanfic about this please 💕
purple light
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pairing: bang chan x fem reader
word count: 5.7K
contains: +18, sub top channie, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (don’t, pls), fingering, chan gets whiny and messy, lotssss of kisses, kinda slow burn, praise kink, yappy needy chan
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
⋆｡°✩
summary: Chan’s all composure when the world is watching; steady hands, measured words, a kind of armor he never lets slip. But the second it’s just you and him… all that control cracks. He’s the one moving, fucking, pushing deeper, the one physically leading, but now, it’s never about control. It’s about obedience. Every thrust is for you, because you told him to, because he needs your praise, he needs you to feel good. Behind closed doors, he's yours to command.
The restaurant was warm with low light, the kind that made everything look a little softer. Glasses clinked, conversations overlapped, and Chan was right in the middle of it all, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, shoulders relaxed, that easy grin pulling everyone in.
You had seen him like this before, the way he could navigate a group without ever looking like he was trying.
He didn’t talk over people, but somehow the conversation kept coming back to him. When he leaned in to say something, everyone leaned a little closer to hear.
You caught the subtle markers of his confidence, the way his forearm flexed when he rested it on the table, the way his thumb traced the rim of his glass without thought, the way he met people’s eyes with calm steadiness.
And then there were the smaller things, the ones only you would notice.
The way his gaze always circled back to you. How his knee brushed yours beneath the table and stayed there. The faint curve of his mouth when you returned the pressure.
You were laughing at something one of your friends said when you felt his hand slip under the table, just resting against your thigh. Not possessive, not even necessarily sexual, just grounding. His thumb brushed lightly once, twice. You glanced at him.
He was still talking to someone else, but there was a different kind of smile now, a spark in his eyes that was just for you.
You leaned in slightly, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm, and said in a voice only he could hear, “You’ve been looking at me like that all night.”
That got his attention. His head turned toward you, a small, private tilt of his lips. “Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about something you won’t say out loud.”
He let out a quiet chuckle, looking back at the table like he hadn’t just been caught. “Maybe I am.”
Your hand found his under the table, fingers brushing the back of his knuckles. “Save it for later, baby” you murmured, tone light but full of promise. “I want to see it when we’re alone.”
It wasn’t a demand, more like a soft, knowing hook. One that made his gaze flick to you again, just for a heartbeat longer this time, before he nodded.
—
The night air was cooler than you expected when you stepped outside, the hum of the restaurant fading behind you. Chan walked ahead a few steps, fishing for his keys. Even in the quiet, he still carried himself the same way, steady, sure.
The car gave a soft beep as he unlocked it, and he reached to open your door first, holding it with that small, gentlemanly motion he never really drew attention to, but you always did.
“Always so proper,” you teased as you slid into the seat.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied with a grin, rounding to the driver’s side.
The engine purred to life, headlights washing the street. For the first few minutes, it was just the quiet hum of the tires and the low thump of the playlist he had queued. His hand rested easily on the steering wheel, the other draped over the gearshift, casual, controlled.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, the way the streetlights skimmed over his jaw, catching the glint of the chain around his neck. There was still that faint curl to his mouth from earlier, but his focus was on the road.
A block later he slowed; the lights ahead flipped to red and he eased the car to a stop, hand steady on the wheel. On impulse, you leaned, brushing your fingers along his wrist. He glanced at you briefly, just long enough for you to tilt your chin up and press your lips to his. It was soft, unhurried, a barely-there drag before you pulled back.
Before he could say anything, you slid your hands down his forearm, gently lifting his right hand from the gearshift and settling it on your thigh.
His breath caught almost imperceptibly. “Oh… you’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes flicking to you, then back to the road.
“Just drive,” you said softly
And he did, but his hand stayed where you had placed it, warm and steady, thumb brushing into your skin every so often. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t claiming, it was a quiet promise, one that carried all the way home.
The street outside was quiet when Chan eased the car into the driveway. His hand lingered on your thigh even after the key turned, as if he hadn’t registered that the ride was over.
You didn’t move it, just slipped out of your seatbelt and opened the door. He followed a beat later, locking the car behind you, still close enough that your shoulders brushed as you walked to the front door.
Inside, Chan dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, tugging at the collar of his shirt like he was finally letting the night fall away from him. You slipped off your coat and turned to find him watching you. Not in the casual, confident way he had done all evening, but with a quieter focus, like he was already tuned to your frequency, waiting for you.
“Good night out?” you asked, leaning against the wall.
His lips curved. “Better now.”
It was easy to close the space between you, a few unhurried steps, your fingers finding the edge of his shirt. He didn’t move until you tilted your head up, brushing a kiss just below his jaw.
“You kept your hand on me the whole way home,” you murmured.
“I liked it there,” he said simply. His voice was lower now, a little rougher.
You smiled, letting your palm smooth over the center of his chest before trailing down, slowly, to rest over his belt. Not grabbing, not demanding, just letting him feel the weight of your hand there.
“Then you can keep it up,” you said gently. It wasn’t an order, not quite, but his breath hitched like it might as well have been.
His hands found your waist, tentative at first, waiting for the unspoken yes. When it came, in the form of you leaning into him, brushing your mouth against his, he melted into it, deepening the kiss like he had been holding himself back all night.
And there it was, the first crack in that public armor. The way his fingers tightened, the way his breathing picked up, like your approval was the only green light he needed. You didn’t rush him. The two of you moved together down the short hallway, his hand brushing yours but not quite holding it, as if he was still fighting the urge to grab you and keep you close.
By the time you reached the bedroom, the only light was Chan’s purple lamp and the city lights peeking through the window. Chan closed the door behind you, not because anyone would hear, but because it felt like the night deserved its own small, sealed world.
You crossed the room without a word and settled into the armchair in the corner. Your fingers went to the zipper of your boots, slow and unhurried, as if you didn’t notice the way his eyes tracked you. The first boot came off. Then the second. You leaned back, stretching your toes, completely at ease.
He stayed by the door a moment longer than necessary, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself without you near him. Finally, he bent to untie his sneakers. When he straightened again, his hands went to the hem of his shirt.
But before lifting it, he looked at you, really looked, the faintest question in his eyes.
You met his gaze and gave one small nod.
The breath he let out was almost audible, like he hadn’t realized he had been holding it. The shirt came over his head in one smooth pull, the muscles in his arms and back shifting in the purple light. He didn’t drop it carelessly; he folded it once and set it on the chair by the door. You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered on him long enough for his shoulders to tighten. He stood there for a beat, shirtless in the muted light, waiting for another nod, another unspoken permission to keep going.
You shifted in the chair, resting one arm along the side, and let your gaze sweep over him without hurry.
He swallowed, the movement visible in his throat, and for a moment he stayed like that, bare from the waist up, eyes still searching yours.
“Come here,” you said, the words almost too gentle.
The change in him was subtle but deep, his chest rose higher with each breath, his pace careful as he closed the distance between you. When he reached you, he stood there, close enough for you to feel the faint heat radiating off his skin, but not touching.
Your fingers brushed the back of his hand, barely there. He tilted forward, like the smallest pull from you was enough to undo all that space he had been holding, fingers curling lightly around his. The warmth of his skin was immediate, his knuckles rougher than they looked. You brought them to your lips, pressing the faintest kiss to the side of one of his fingers, then another.
His breath caught. You didn’t look away. Every kiss you placed, you gave him your eyes, letting him feel the full weight of your attention.
By the fourth kiss, his hand had gone perfectly still in yours, like he was afraid to break whatever spell you were casting. His chest rose and fell faster now, the faint tremor in his exhale betraying him.
“Can you take my clothes off for me, Channie?” you asked, your voice low, smooth.
The sound he made was barely a murmur, not quite a word, more a breath that could have been yes, before he crouched slightly in front of you, hands hesitating at the hem of your top.
He lifted the hem slowly, watching your face the entire time, checking, waiting. When you didn’t stop him, his hands slid higher, the backs of his knuckles grazing your stomach. He swallowed again, breath hot and uneven now, before tugging the top over your head in one smooth motion.
For a moment, he just looked at you, lips parting like he had forgotten what came next. Then something shifted, the pause broke, and his hands came back to you, this time with more intent. He traced the edge of your bra, fingertips pressing into the soft skin just beneath it. His touch wasn’t rough, but it had lost the shyness; there was a steadier weight in his palms now.
When he leaned in, his mouth brushed your collarbone, not quite a kiss, more like he needed to feel you against his lips. You felt the faint scrape of his teeth there, the way his breath stuttered when you shifted in the chair, giving him just a little more access.
By the time his hands reached for the button of your jeans, his pace had changed, quicker now, thumbs pressing into your hips as if he couldn’t help himself.
He hooked his thumbs into your waistband, tugging your jeans down in one smooth pull. The denim caught at your knees for a moment before sliding to the floor, and before you could move, his hands were on you again, firm, almost desperate, pulling you forward until you were at the very edge of the chair.
Your legs wrapped around his waist without thought and the second later he pushed you flush against him. The impact sent a quiet shiver through him; you felt it in the way his chest rose hard against yours, in the small sound he didn’t quite swallow.
“God, you can’t even wait, can you?” you murmured, a slow, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
He tried to answer, but you were already leaning in, your mouth brushing his in the lightest tease before finally closing the distance.
The kiss was slow at first, the kind that sinks into your bones, but it deepened quickly, his lips parting under yours, tongue sweeping against yours like he couldn’t get enough.
His hands roamed without direction, sliding up your sides, down your back, gripping at your hips as if every inch of you demanded his touch. You felt him press closer, every shift of his mouth on yours just a little rougher, a little hungrier, but never breaking the pull of that long, unhurried kiss.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, chest rising and falling fast against yours. You trace your thumb along his bottom lip, dragging it slowly until he parts for you without thinking.
“You’ll do anything I want right now, won’t you?”
The question hangs between you like a spark. He doesn’t even hesitate, he nods, quick, almost desperate, before pressing your thumb back to his mouth. He kisses it, then sucks, proof that he’s being good, that he will be good.
When you tilt your head in approval, his whole body loosens, “Use me however you need, princess. I’m here for you,” he breathes, voice wrecked already, words rushing out like he’s afraid you won’t let him.
Your smile is soft, almost indulgent. “I know you are.”
That alone makes his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his hand sliding up your thigh. He leans in again, but not to take, he’s waiting, hovering, his lips just shy of yours as if he needs your permission to close the space again.
You let him. You catch his jaw with your palm, guide him in, and his kiss is fire and surrender all at once: eager, sloppy, his tongue sweeping desperately against yours. His lips part so willingly, molding to yours with a heat that makes your stomach flip. He tastes faintly of mint, sweet and sharp, and he kisses you like he’s starved, like every second his mouth isn’t on yours is wasted.
His tongue drags against yours, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier when you don’t push him away. You feel his breath shudder in your mouth, hear the small, desperate noises escaping his throat as if he can’t control them. He tilts his head, chasing more, and his hand fists at your hip to pull you closer even though there’s barely any space left between you.
You bite lightly his bottom lip, and he gasps, then surges back in, kissing you harder, messy, wet, unrestrained. His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s terrified of not giving you enough.
When you finally pull back, he’s breathless, pupils blown wide, mouth red and wet. His forehead drops against yours like he’s grounding himself.
“Please,” he whispers, “tell me what you need. I’ll give you everything.” His lips trail lower, softer now, peppering kisses along the column of your throat.
“Keep going down,” you murmur, tilting your head back to give him more.
And he does. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think. His mouth finds your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. Then lower, across the swell of your chest. When his lips brush against the curve of your tit, he pauses, glances up at you. The look in his eyes nearly undoes you, hopeful, hungry, waiting. He closes his mouth around you, warm and wet, sucking softly before flicking his tongue against your nipple.
You flinch, hips jerking a little at the sharp spark it sends through you. “I said keep going down, Channie baby,” you whisper, voice steady, coaxing.
His breath leaves him in a shaky rush, and then he obeys, lips traveling lower without question. Down the center of your torso, over your belly, leaving a trail of heat everywhere he touches. His hands never leave you, gripping your thighs, your hips, holding you close.
By the time he reaches the waistband of your panties, his breath is coming fast, chest tight against your knees. He presses a trembling kiss just above the thin fabric, eyes fluttering shut, waiting if you would stop him. But you don't.
And then he can’t help himself. His mouth dips lower, over the cotton, kissing you there like he’s worshipping. Once. Twice. Then again, wetter this time, lips parting as he breathes hot against you. His nose nudges the fabric, his tongue dragging over the barrier, and the low sound he lets out vibrates straight into you.
His fingers clutch tighter at your thighs, anchoring himself. He kisses you again, messy, open-mouthed, his lips moving against you like he had memorised the shape of you.
“Please…” he mumbles against the dampening fabric, voice breaking. He kisses you again, harder, before lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, lips swollen, pupils dark and blown. “Please, baby—let me taste you. I need it. Need you.”
Your lips curve, slow, indulgent. You smooth your hand through his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and tilt his face just enough that he sees the nod you give him.
That’s all it takes. He exhales like you’ve just set him free, then he’s gone; hooking his fingers in your waistband and tugging your panties down in a frantic rush, dropping them to the floor without even looking.
The second you’re bare, his mouth is on you. No hesitation, no teasing.
His tongue pushes deep, greedy, like he’s been starving for this all night and finally got fed. He groans against you, low and broken, the sound vibrating through your core as he drags his tongue up, then down again, licking you open like he doesn’t care how messy it gets.
His hands are firm, holding your thighs wide apart, almost shaking with the force of keeping you still for him. Every time you twitch or shift, he growls into you, pressing harder, sucking harder, desperate to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“Fuck,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his curls, pulling without meaning to. He only moans in response, pushing his face deeper like he wants to disappear inside you.
When he flicks your clit with his tongue, sharp and fast, you jolt; and instead of pulling back, he doubles down, latching his lips around it and sucking so hard your vision blurs. He’s messy, uncontrolled, but every movement screams of his need to please you.
He pulls back just a fraction, panting, lips shiny and wet. “So good—fuck, you taste so good. Gonna make you cum for me, yeah? Please… let me make you cum.” Then he dives back in before you can even answer, tongue relentless, like he’s chasing something only you can give, and you can feel the world narrow to the slick, wet heat around him. When you try to pull him up, his hands clamp to your hips like anchors, not rough, but pleading.
“Channie—come up,” you murmur, tugging at his hair gently.
He doesn’t want to stop. His mouth works greedily against you, tongue circling, lips sucking, every sound he makes vibrating into your core. When your hand tugs at his curls, trying to guide him up, he ignores it, groaning low like a protest, gripping your thighs tighter to keep himself there.
You thread your fingers deeper into his hair and pull, firm, decisive. His head jerks back, lips wet, chin slick with you. His eyes are wild, chest heaving as he pants.
“Up here, Channie,” you say, voice steady but soft enough to sound like coaxing. “I want your mouth on mine.”
He shudders at the words, but before obeying, he drags his tongue one last time through your folds, slowly, collecting every drop of you he can. The sound he makes as he does it is desperate, wrecked.
Only then does he rise, and you don’t let go, still holding his hair, guiding him until his face hovers just over yours. His lips are shiny, cheeks flushed, and he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Give it to me,” you murmur, tilting your head back, tongue peeking out in invitation.
Something in him cracks. With a guttural sound, he crashes into you, kissing you open-mouthed, tongue messy and insistent as he feeds you every taste of yourself he gathered. The kiss is frantic, wet, overwhelming and he melts into it completely, groaning into your mouth like giving this to you is the only thing he’s alive for.
All restraint disappears. It’s not delicate, not careful, your mouths crash together, wet and hungry, teeth scraping, tongues sliding deep. He moans into you, raw and guttural, and you answer with a whimper that’s almost a growl.
His hands roam everywhere, gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise. You pull him closer, gasping into his mouth only to chase his lips again, desperate not to lose the heat of him. Every kiss feels like it could tear you both apart if you stop.
You break for air just long enough to grab his chin, forcing his wild gaze to yours. Your voice is low, almost a hiss against his lips.
“Fuck me.”
He freezes, breath catching, eyes flickering like he’s not sure he heard you right.
“Now, Channie,” you insist, sharp, needy, your grip on his chin unyielding. “I need you to fuck me.”
The command detonates in him, and with a rough groan, he scoops you up from the chair, hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. You gasp, arms looping around his neck, as he carries you with a strength that feels as desperate as it does sure.
Your mouths crash together again mid-motion, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, both of you panting into the kiss as he stumbles the few steps to the bed. He lays you down, hovering over you for half a second, chest heaving like he’s about to come undone, then dives back in, kissing you hard enough to steal your breath.
He kisses you like he’s drowning, like he’ll never get enough, until finally he has to tear himself back for air. His chest heaves as he stares down at you, eyes glazed, lips swollen, hair a mess from your grip.
Then he’s moving, messy, frantic. His hands found his jeans, clumsy fingers fighting the button, cursing under his breath when it sticks. “Fuck—baby, I—” His voice cracks, whining as he finally shoves them down, kicks them off.
You reach up, but he pins your wrist to the mattress with one big hand, eyes flashing. “No. Don’t move,” he rasps, the command breaking on his tongue, more plea than order. His strength is undeniable, your body trapped under his weight, his grip firm, holding you in place even as he shakes with urgency.
“Need—need to give you what you want,” he pants, fumbling with his boxers now, nearly tearing them in his rush. When he finally frees himself, he groans, low and wrecked, rutting against your thigh once, unthinking. But then he catches himself, presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s holding back. “Tell me again. Say it again, baby, please—I need to hear it.”
Your breath fans across his mouth, and you don’t hesitate. “Fuck me, Channie.”
He whines, actually whines, the sound guttural and desperate, and you feel his whole body tense. His grip on your wrists tightens, holding you down like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and with one rough, hungry thrust forward, he gives you exactly what you asked for.
He pushes into you in one desperate, unsteady thrust, and your breath shatters. The stretch rips through you, sharp and overwhelming, forcing a gasp out of your lungs.
“F-fuck—” his voice cracks, a broken whimper as his forehead falls against yours. He freezes, buried halfway, his body trembling like holding back is agony. His grip on your wrists tightens, pinning you to the mattress as his chest heaves, sweat beading along his temples.
“So—so fucking tight,” he groans, hips jerking forward another inch, almost involuntary. He shakes his head, teeth gritted, as if he’s fighting himself. “God, baby, you’re—fuck—you feel so good around me. Can’t—can’t—”
You arch under him, the drag of him splitting you open exactly what you need. “Don’t stop, baby, please” you whisper against his ear. He moans, high and wrecked, and drives the rest of himself in with a rough snap of his hips. The force rocks you up the bed, and his whole body jolts with it, a strangled whine breaking free of his chest.
“Channie—” you gasp, but the name barely makes it out before he’s moving again, messy, frantic thrusts pounding into you. “f-fuck, keep going,” his rhythm is sloppy, uneven, like he can’t control the hunger consuming him. Each thrust knocks another cry from your throat, and he groans into your mouth, swallowing every sound.
He shifts his grip, releasing one wrist only to hook his arm under your thigh, pushing it up and out, spreading you wide open for him. His strength is staggering, he holds you down like nothing, driving into you harder, deeper, like the only thing in his head is the need to fuck you just because you told him to, just because you needed him to.
“Wanted this—fuck—wanted this so bad,” he babbles, words breaking apart as he thrusts faster. “Wanted to be good for you, make you feel so good. Am I, princess? Am I giving you what you need?”
You nod frantically, nails digging into his back, and the sound he makes in response is almost feral. “Faster, Channie, please—”, and he fucks you harder at that, hips slamming into yours with raw, reckless force, his moans spilling out unchecked, high and needy.
The bed creaks beneath the both of you, the world collapsing into sweat and heat and the filthy wet sound of him driving into you again and again, every stroke deeper, hungrier, like he’ll break apart if he doesn’t give you everything you asked for.
His thrusts grow sharper, more frantic, but you can feel it, the stutter in his hips, the way his forehead presses harder against yours like he’s trying to hide how close he is.
“Shit—fuck, baby—” His voice cracks, a whine dragged out of him against his will. His fingers tighten painfully around your thigh, pinning you down, grinding himself deeper. “Too much—too fucking good—gonna—” He cuts himself off with a sharp, guttural groan, hips jerking like his body’s betraying him.
You feel it in the way his cock throbs inside you, the twitching pulse that gives him away. His face twists, eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down his temple. “N-no, not yet. Not until you—” His words dissolve into another strangled whimper, chest heaving.
“Don't you dare stop—” you hiss, nails scratching down his back, and he shudders. “Please—fuck, please cum for me. Need you to—need you to first—”, he buries his face in your neck, mouth hot and wet as he pants against your skin. His whines are muffled there, spilling with each snap of his hips.
He pulls out so suddenly you gasp, your body clenching around nothing. "Chan!—”, you don’t even have time to continue before his hand replaces him; two fingers shoved deep, knuckles pressing against your heat.
“Fuck, Chan—” you cry out, hips jerking, eyes rolling back as he sets a brutal rhythm. Not in and out, not teasing, his fingers drag up and down inside your walls, pressing exactly where he knows you’ll break. The pressure is relentless, constant, almost punishing, his wrist snapping quick and filthy between your thighs.
“Chan—holy fuck, baby—” Your voice cracks, every curse spilling out like it’s ripped from you. “I'm almost—fuck, don’t stop—don’t you dare fucking stop—”
Your whole body trembles with the force of it, your thighs quivering around his arm. He’s staring at you like a man possessed, lips parted, sweat beading on his chest, hair sticking to his forehead. “Cum for me,” he pants, his voice low and sharp, his free hand holding your hip down because you’re thrashing against the bed. “Cum on my fingers, baby, please—”
He pulls out just for a second and your broken whine tears through the air, then he’s flicking your clit, fast, ruthless, wet sounds filling the room as his fingers slide over your swollen bud. Your back arches off the sheets, nails digging into his shoulders.
“God—fuck, fuck—yes—” you choke, every word cut off by another ragged moan. “So fucking good, Channie—fucking hell—”
And then he’s slamming them back inside you, deeper this time, curling up as he fucks you with a pace that makes your vision blur. The heel of his hand grinds your clit while his fingers work you mercilessly, wet, obscene sounds matching your cries.
“Oh, fuck,” he growls, almost frantic. “Take it for me—give me everything, please—”
You can’t even form words anymore, just curses tangled with his name, your voice breaking apart. “Oh my fucking god—yes, yes, right there— right there, you’re perfect, Chan—you’re so—”
Your whole body seizes when he curls his fingers just right, dragging hard against that spot that has you screaming. The pressure builds so fast it’s blinding, your vision going white at the edges.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Chan, I’m gonna—oh my god—”
He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his teeth gritted as he watches you fall apart. “That’s it, baby—give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my fucking fingers.”
And you do. The orgasm rips through you so violently you nearly sob, thighs snapping shut around his wrist, back arching clean off the bed. You’re cursing, moaning his name over and over as waves tear through you, milking his fingers until you’re shaking, drenched, trembling in his hold.
The sight of you, wrecked, destroyed, breaking under him, pushes him over the edge too. A strangled groan rips out of his throat, low and guttural, and his hips jerk helplessly against the sheets. He’s not even touching himself, but he’s gone, cock twitching as he spills hot and messy all over himself. Just from you. Just from giving you everything.
“F-fuck—baby, oh my god—” His voice cracks, needy and ruined, his forehead dropping against your neck as he rides it out, still working his fingers inside you even as his own body convulses.
You’re both shaking, clinging to each other, his chest heaving, yours pressed tight to his, his fingers still buried in you like he can’t bear to let go.
His mouth finds yours in a rush, lips crashing against yours, sloppy and hungry, tasting of sweat and the wreckage you both made. He’s panting into the kiss, swallowing your moans, like if he stops touching or kissing you, he’ll fall apart completely.
You gasp against his mouth, every nerve in your body still sparking, your thighs trembling. “Chan—” You pull back just enough to breathe, brushing your lips over his, your voice ragged but steady. “Fuck, baby, that was so good.”
The words hit him like a blow. His whole body jolts, a broken whimper spilling into your mouth, his eyes squeezed shut as if he might actually cry. “Yeah baby?” He kisses you harder, deeper, teeth clashing, almost frantic to prove himself again, even though your praise already undid him.
Your hand cups his jaw, steadying him, and he shudders under your touch “...you’re such a good boy for me.”
The words fall soft against his lips, but they don't just touch him, they land like a charge. For a second he freezes, eyes going wide. His breath hitched, shallow and fast, and the weight of him shifts, pressing into you harder like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“F-fuck—” It tears out of him. His face collapses into your neck, forehead hot against your skin, and he buries himself there as though hiding will steady him. He starts to tremble, small, helpless shakes through his shoulders, the kind that come when something inside finally gives. “Baby…” His voice is muffled, fraying against your throat. His lips brush at your skin in messy little kisses, then harder, clumsy messy little bites. His hands clutch at your back, fingers digging in.
You thread your fingers through his hair and stay there, steadying him with the same gentle pressure you used to pull him up earlier. “Yeah, my good boy,” you whisper, measured and soft, and the sound of it, approval, makes him break open.
You can feel the tension in his shoulders dissolve, fingers loosening until they’re soft against your back.
The man the world sees, the leader, the steady, guarded presence, peels away in thin layers until all that’s left is this: a boy who leans into your hands and trusts you completely.
You stroke the nape of his damp hair, the heat of him still clinging to your chest, and you realize how utterly he’s given himself over. He doesn’t need to carry the armor, the composure, the control he wears in public. He’s not here to be anyone but yours, to follow the subtle weight of your hand, to respond to the quiet pull of your approval.
Everything he’s ever held onto; the confidence, the assertiveness, the careful restraint, falls away in this purple light. And in its place, he is yours, willing to do exactly what you want, desperate for you to tell him he’s good, to let him know that this is enough.
Watching him surrender like this, you can see how much it pleases him, how much he thrives on being needed and directed, how much he trusts you with the part of him that the world never gets to see.
And you know, with every shiver that runs through him, every tremor of his breath, that he would trade all of that public armor, all of that careful control, just to be this, to be your good boy.
—
+++ authors note: dear anon, sorry for taking so long. i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did. i actually loved writing sub top channie, this is SO bang chan coded......
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place. ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
Tags: Enemies to lovers, Hate sex, Public risk (club setting), Explicit sexual content (fingering, oral mention, vaginal penetration), Rough handling, Possessiveness, Neck grabbing, Dirty talk , Car sex, Dubious morals but fully consensual, Clothing dishevelment, Minimal aftercare
Word count: 3.8k
Summary: You and Minho weren’t the kind of “enemies” people shipped for fun. You actually couldn’t stand him — the smug looks, the biting remarks, the way he always had to have the last word. But one too many sharp words in a crowded club turned into one too many steps too close… and suddenly his mouth was on yours, his hand was up your skirt, and you were in his car finding out just how dangerous it is when hate starts to feel a lot like want.
🥳: Special request from @yxna-bliss Happy birthday boo 🎂
You’d always said you hated him.
At least, that was the line you stuck to whenever Lee Minho walked in with that lazy, arrogant smile. The one that told you he already knew exactly what you thought of him and couldn’t care less. He had this way of leaning against walls like the whole room belonged to him. Somehow, his eyes always found you first.
Tonight wasn’t any different. The club was packed and loud, heat rolling off the bodies swaying under the lights. Even without looking, you could feel him there — the shift in the air, the faint prickle on your skin like a warning.
You didn’t glance over. Not when you could imagine the way he was watching from across the floor. Not when you knew your dress wasn’t helping your case. But when you moved toward the bar, a hand landed on the counter beside you, trapping you before you could even order.
“Careful,” he said, close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath under the music. “You keep walking around like that, you’re gonna start something you can’t finish.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for your drink as the bartender slid it over. “What do you want, Minho?”
He leaned in, lips brushing your temple in a gesture soft enough to fool anyone looking. “You,” he said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
A short, sharp laugh escaped you, though your pulse was beating far too fast. “Try again.”
“Oh, I will.” His fingertips brushed the bare skin at your hip, just under the hem of your dress. You caught your breath before you could stop yourself. “We both know you like playing with fire.”
The bass dropped and the crowd surged forward, pinning you against the bar—and against him. He didn’t move. His body was solid heat at your back, his mouth dipping to your ear.
“Say the word and I’ll show you exactly what I mean,” he murmured. “Right here. Right now.”
You should have pushed him away. Instead, you turned just enough to catch that smug, dangerous glint in his eyes. And you knew he wasn’t bluffing.
At first, you hadn’t always hated Lee Minho.
That came later… somewhere after the first time he embarrassed you in front of everyone at practice. Not the harmless kind of teasing you could shrug off, but the sort that burned, the kind that stuck in your head long after the moment had passed.
He’d walked into your life in his usual style: late, loud, and completely aware of the effect he had on people. He was good-looking, and he knew it. Worse, he was better than good at what he did, which made every smug smirk harder to ignore.
Your first real conversation had been an argument. You can still picture the way he’d leaned back in his chair, letting you get worked up while he just watched, a spark of amusement in his eyes like he was in on a joke you didn’t know. And then he’d said something—soft, low—meant only for you. Something that made heat curl low in your stomach even as you wanted to slap him.
From then on, it became a game. He’d needle you with little comments, bait you into rising to it, then watch you fluster and fume. You hated that he noticed everything. The way your eyes narrowed when you were annoyed. The way your voice dipped when you were hiding nerves. The way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were trying not to react at all.
He used it against you. Always.
One night you’d stayed late, and he’d been there too, both of you cleaning up after a mutual friend’s birthday. You’d ended up alone in the kitchen, his shoulder brushing yours every time he passed behind you. The space felt too small, his presence too big. You told yourself the flutter in your stomach was irritation. But when he’d reached around you for a glass and his hand grazed your hip, your breath caught. You prayed he didn’t hear it.
He did. You could see it in the smug little smile he wore as he walked away.
That was months ago. And ever since, the tension between you had been sharper, tighter. You fought with him like you meant it, but every fight had an edge that wasn’t just anger. He’d back you into corners during arguments, lean in too close when he didn’t need to, brush his fingers against your wrist when handing you something just to see if you’d flinch.
You told yourself you hated him. He knew better.
And now, here you were, in a club packed with strangers, his body flush against yours, his voice low and taunting in your ear. All the months of petty arguments, near-misses, and stolen glances had been building to this.
“Say the word,” he murmured again, lips brushing your jaw like a dare. “You’ve been wanting me to do this since the day we met.”
His hand wasn’t just on your hip anymore. It was there like it belonged, like he had every right to guide your body exactly where he wanted it. The bass thumped through the floor, through you, but his touch was louder than the music, and he knew it.
You were pinned between the press of his chest and the faceless bodies swaying all around, his scent cutting through the stale air — clean and warm, with the faintest hint of something sharper, like cedar and trouble. You tried to focus on the crowd, the lights, anything that wasn’t him, but every time you breathed in, there he was. Somehow he had swayed with the crowd and was able to cage you between his arms against the nearest wall in the darkness.
His voice found your ear again, rich and low enough to make your skin prickle. “Relax. You’re too tense.” His thumb traced an idle circle just above the waistband of your skirt, the skin there burning under his touch.
“I wonder why,” you muttered, but your voice lacked bite.
He smiled — you could feel it. “Oh, you know exactly why.”
You should’ve shoved him off, but then the music changed, darker, heavier, and he moved with it. His hips brushed yours, just enough to test the space between you. The first time it happened you told yourself it was accidental. The second time you knew better. By the third, you weren’t even pretending.
His fingers flexed against your hip, tightening like he might pull you in if you gave him half a chance. And you hated that you wanted to.
“You keep pretending you don’t like this,” he said, breath warm at your neck, “but your body’s giving you away.”
That made you spin your head toward him, ready to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped you cold. He wasn’t just teasing anymore — there was heat there, dangerous and unblinking, the kind that made your stomach drop and your knees threaten to follow.
“You’re imagining things,” you lied.
He leaned in until his lips were barely grazing your ear, his words slow and deliberate. “Then prove me wrong. Step away.”
You didn’t.
And that smug, devastating smirk that followed? You’d hate yourself later for how much you wanted to kiss it off his face.
The moment you didn’t step away, it was over. He knew it.
His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of your hip with a possessive weight that made your pulse trip. You felt the edge of his ring against your skin through the thin fabric, a cool scrape that somehow made the heat in you worse.
The crowd was still moving, still laughing, still oblivious — but his focus was a blade on you alone. He shifted forward, closing every inch of space you’d been clinging to. The hard line of him pressed against the swell of your ass, and your breath stuttered in a way you hoped the music drowned out.
“Still imagining things?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear like a threat.
You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say no. Instead, you bit your lip, and that was all the answer he needed.
The hand on your hip tightened, the other braced against the wall in front of you. He angled you subtly, hiding you from the view of most of the dance floor while still leaving you in plain sight for anyone who cared to look too closely. The risk sent a shiver down your spine, and when he felt it, his low laugh was nothing short of wicked.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re shaking. People will notice.”
Before you could fire back, his hips rolled — slow, deliberate — grinding you against him in time with the beat. Your fingers curled against the wall, nails digging into the painted surface to keep from grabbing him back.
“Minho—”
“Shh.” He pressed in harder, his voice dipping lower. “Don’t say my name like that unless you want everyone here to know what I’m doing to you.”
Your head tipped back against his shoulder when his mouth found the curve of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees threaten to give. His grip on you kept you upright, kept you exactly where he wanted you.
“You’re supposed to hate me,” he whispered.
“I still do,” you breathed, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.
His chuckle was a warm exhale against your skin. “Then hate me harder.”
And before you could think, his hand slipped forward, fingers brushing dangerously close to the edge of your skirt. Not enough to touch where you wanted, but enough to make you lean into him without meaning to.
“Don’t worry,” he said, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “If anyone notices, I’ll just tell them you begged me for it.”
The bass was pounding, your pulse trying to keep pace. You told yourself you could still pull away — that you could put an end to this before it spiraled. But then his hand slid higher, fingertips tracing a slow, ruthless path up the back of your thigh, and every thought dissolved like smoke.
“Don’t,” you said, weak in a way that made you hate yourself.
He smiled against your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like a promise he had no intention of keeping clean. “Don’t what?” His fingers paused, just shy of where you needed them. “Stop?”
You should have said yes. You should have shoved him away. Instead, you stayed perfectly still, breath caught, as his palm smoothed higher and higher until he found the thin lace between your legs.
“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re warm already.”
You bit down on the inside of your cheek, eyes flicking toward the crowd but no one was looking. The music swallowed everything except the sound of your own shallow breathing.
His hand cupped you through the lace, thumb dragging in a slow circle that had your knees trembling. “Still hate me?” he asked, voice a rough whisper.
“Yes,” you said, but it came out on a sigh.
He chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing your jaw before his fingers pressed harder. “Liar.”
Your hips betrayed you, rocking into him before you could stop yourself. His grip on your hip tightened to hold you there while he worked you with maddening control, each movement unhurried and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.
“You’d let me do this right here, wouldn’t you?” he murmured, the filth in his tone making your stomach drop and heat flood through you all at once. “You’d let me fuck you in the middle of this room until you forgot your own name.”
A whimper caught in your throat, and that tiny sound was all the permission he needed. His fingers slipped beneath the lace, the shock of bare skin against his hand dragging a gasp out of you.
“Minho—”
He hushed you with a slow, sinful stroke, his mouth on your neck again. “Quiet. Let me feel how much you hate me.”
The first slide of his fingers between your folds was enough to make your vision blur. Every nerve in your body leaned toward his touch, every muscle giving up its fight to keep him out.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Good girl.”
And just like that, you weren’t thinking about the crowd, or the risk, or the fact that you were supposed to despise him. You were just heat and pulse and the relentless rhythm of his hand, lost to the dangerous thrill of being exactly where he wanted you.
The music was a relentless pulse, bodies moving all around you, but the only rhythm you could feel was the one he set with his fingers inside your panties. The bass rattled through the floor, but it was nothing compared to the deep, insistent throb building low in your belly.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice hot against your ear, each syllable a drag of temptation. “You’re so tight I can barely move.”
Your hands flew to his chest, meaning to push him back, but instead you fisted the front of his shirt as he worked his fingers against you, sliding through slick heat before curling just right. Your knees went weak.
“Minho, we can’t—”
“We can,” he interrupted, lips brushing your jaw. “And we are.” His thumb pressed against your clit, slow at first, then faster, the steady grind of his palm making you gasp. “You’re going to come for me right here.”
The crowd was too close, the lights too low, and yet no one seemed to notice. Or maybe they did and you didn’t care anymore. Your hips were moving on their own, chasing the pressure, the friction, the dangerous pleasure of knowing you were seconds away from falling apart in the middle of it all.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice dripping with that cocky heat that made you want to slap him and kiss him all at once. “You feel that? You’re right there.”
You tried to shake your head, tried to hold on to some last shred of control, but his fingers curled again and your breath broke into desperate little sounds you couldn’t swallow back. His grip on your hip tightened, holding you steady while he fucked you with his hand, the wet slide of his fingers obscene against the pounding music.
“Come on, pretty girl,” he growled, his thumb circling hard and fast now, no more teasing. “Make a mess for me.”
The coil inside you snapped, white heat flooding your body as your climax ripped through you. You clutched at him like he was the only thing keeping you upright, muffling a cry against his shoulder while wave after wave shook you.
“Good girl,” he breathed, slowing but not stopping, dragging out every last tremor until you sagged against him, boneless and breathless. His smirk was pure sin as he pulled his hand away, slipping his fingers into his mouth without breaking eye contact.
“Taste just as sweet as I knew you would,” he said, and your stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the man holding you.
You barely remembered leaving the club. One minute, you were still pressed against him, the phantom throb of his fingers still between your thighs. The next, you were stumbling into the humid night air, his grip on your wrist firm enough to make you follow without question.
The world outside felt too quiet after the crush of bodies and pounding bass. Your breath came in short, ragged bursts, each one tasting faintly of the alcohol and sin still lingering on your lips. Minho didn’t say a word as he dragged you through the parking lot, but his jaw was set and his eyes burned in the glow of the streetlights.
When you reached his car, he shoved you back against the passenger door, caging you in with one palm on the metal beside your head. His other hand curled around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there, forcing your gaze up to his.
“You think I’m done with you?” he asked, voice low and rough enough to make you shiver. “That little mess you made on my hand? That was just the start.”
You swallowed hard, the cool night air doing nothing to soothe the heat thrumming through you. “Minho—”
He didn’t let you finish. His mouth crashed against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, all teeth and tongue. He broke away only to yank the door open and push you inside, following in after you.
The second the door slammed shut, it was like the last barrier broke. His hands were everywhere, shoving your dress up around your hips, gripping your thighs, dragging you toward him across the center console. You gasped when you felt the hard press of him through his jeans, your fingers already fumbling at the button.
“Fuck, you’re fast,” he growled, but there was a grin in his voice, sharp and wicked. “That desperate for me?”
You wanted to tell him no, to keep some shred of power, but then he slid his hand between your legs again, finding you still wet and aching from before, and the lie died on your tongue.
“Please,” you breathed, and his eyes darkened like you’d just handed him the keys to your soul.
He unzipped just enough to free himself, then hooked your leg over his hip, the cramped car forcing you so close you could feel every heartbeat against him. The first thrust was slow, a deliberate invasion, until he was buried so deep you couldn’t breathe. He stayed there, letting you squirm.
“Feel that?” His hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “That’s how far gone you’ve got me. I should make you beg before I move again.”
When he did move, it wasn’t mercy — it was punishment. His hips slammed into you, the car rocking with every snap of his body against yours. The smell of leather and sweat and sex filled the air, your nails clawing down his back as you tried to keep up.
“You…hate me,” you gasped, unsure if it was a question or a statement.
His grin was sharp, dangerous. “Maybe. But I still want you more than my next breath.”
Every thrust drove the words deeper. The windows fogged, your skin slick, the rhythm between you frantic and uneven, as if neither of you knew how to stop once you’d started. He shifted just enough to find the spot that made you cry out, his hand slipping between you to work your clit with ruthless precision.
“Say my name,” he demanded, hips snapping into you in a brutal rhythm.
“Minho,” you gasped, the word breaking on a moan when he hit just right.
“Again.”
You said it until your voice went raw, until the pleasure built so high you thought you’d come apart at the seams. His hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit, and you were gone — clutching at him like you’d drown without him, shattering around him in a rush of heat and light.
He came seconds later, swearing against your mouth, holding you flush to him while he spilled into you. The aftershocks left you limp, the only sounds the fogged-up tick of the engine and the ragged pull of your breaths.
When he finally pulled back, the smirk returned, lazy and lethal. “You can hate me all you want,” he said, tucking himself away, “but you’re mine now. And you know it.”
-
The car was still fogged up, the windows streaked from the heat you had made inside. Your legs trembled, not from the cold outside but from the way he had wrung you out, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the ache he left behind. You leaned back in the seat, trying to catch your breath, trying not to look at him, because you could still feel the ghost of his hands everywhere.
Minho sat there like he owned the damn air between you, one hand lazily gripping the wheel even though the engine was still off. He didn’t say anything for a while, just watched you with that slow, infuriating smirk. The one that said he knew exactly what he had done to you and would do it again without a second thought.
When you finally found your voice, it came out quieter than you wanted. “This changes nothing.”
His laugh was low, dark, the kind that settled under your skin. “Sure it doesn’t.”
You rolled your eyes, reaching for the door handle, desperate to get out before you did something stupid, like kiss him again. But the moment your hand touched the cold metal, his arm shot out, his fingers wrapping around the side of your neck. Not hard—just enough pressure to keep you still. His thumb brushed lazily along your jaw, tilting your chin until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“That’s cute,” he said softly, leaning in. “But I don’t share. So don’t make me see you with anyone else.”
The nerve. Your lips curled into a scoff, but it was weak, more for show than anything. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
You barely had time to gasp before he crushed his mouth to yours, all heat and teeth, tasting like the fight you’d just had and the sex you shouldn’t have given him.
You hated that you kissed him back harder. Hated more that you melted into it.
When he pulled away, his thumb dragged slow over your jaw, almost gentle if not for the grip that had just been there. “You’ll learn,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours like he could see every thought you didn’t want him to.
You didn’t get the chance to come up with something cutting to say before he was already moving, already tugging his jeans back on and reaching for the keys. The doors shut with a heavy thud that seemed to swallow the quiet between you.
The car smelled like him. You hated that too.
Minho started the engine, the low purr vibrating under you, making your muscles remember things you wished they wouldn’t. He adjusted the gearshift like there was no rush, the streetlights flashing gold and shadow across his face.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he said finally, voice low enough that it felt like it sank right into your bones.
You shot him a flat look. “I wasn’t planning on keeping you.”
His mouth twitched. “Sure you weren’t.” His eyes flicked over to you, sharp and steady. “I’m going to put some food in you, then take you home.”
“I can feed myself, Minho.”
“Not tonight, you can’t.” It wasn’t a suggestion, and it wasn’t up for debate.
He pulled out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other drifting down until his fingers rested on your bare thigh like it was nothing. You didn’t move it away. You told yourself it was because you didn’t care.
You pretended you didn’t like it.
Authors note: Hey babes! So a lot of requests have piled up and I’m clearing the writable ones one by one… unfortunately I can’t write all because I either don’t have enough knowledge on the topic or I just don’t write what you’re asking for 🥲
For the Taglist, i’m gonna be updating it. So if you want to be added or removed, just comment below ❤️
Happy Birthday once again to the sweetest @yxna-bliss 🥳, you’ve been an active reader and follower since the longest and i appreciate you ❤️🔥
Tags: slow burn, thigh kink, filthy smut, roommates to lovers, thigh riding, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, dom minho, work out teasing, overstimulation, accidental voyeurism
Word count: 4.8k
Summary: Living with Lee Know was fine… until his thighs became a problem. Now he’s working out shirtless in the living room, stealing your shampoo, and daring you with every smirk. You try to ignore it—until you walk in on him wet, naked, and waiting. And when he tells you to ride his thigh? Yeah. You don’t say no.
A/N: This fic was requested by @ihrtlix ❤️ Enjoy!
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
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Living with Lee Know was supposed to be chill. Strict chore schedule, shared Spotify rotation, and an unspoken rule: no feelings, no flirting, and definitely no walking around in nothing but boxers and that godforsaken muscle tee that showed everything.
And yet, there you were — biting into a peach on a lazy Tuesday morning, trying not to stare as he squatted to grab his protein powder from the bottom cabinet. Every flex of his thighs tested your willpower.
You told yourself not to look. You always told yourself. But Minho’s body betrayed every attempt at restraint. Lean everywhere except where it mattered. His arms were carved and precise, his waist trim, but his thighs? Thick like sin. Each step he took, every crouch, every stretch of fabric over hardened muscle taunted your self-control.
And he wasn’t oblivious.
He caught you sometimes — the beat of silence before you answered a question, the way your eyes dropped before darting away, the breath you held when he stretched too close on the couch. You’d swear he smirked once. Maybe twice. But he never said a word.
There were only the silences. Lingering, heavy, and charged. Accidental brushes of skin. The way his leg sometimes pressed against yours during movie nights. Close. Too close.
Still, you told yourself you were safe. That it didn’t mean anything.
Until the moment that shattered everything.
You’d come home late, annoyed, exhausted, half-ready to collapse. The apartment was quiet — lights low, faint music bleeding from behind the bathroom door. You heard the water shut off. Then a towel. A rustle.
The bathroom door cracked open before you could escape.
And there he was.
Wet. Bare. Steam curling around him like smoke. His hair stuck to his forehead, water dripping down the sharp lines of his collarbones. A white towel sat slung low on his hips, teasing just above the dangerous. His chest glistened under the hallway light, and his thighs—Jesus, those thighs—were pure destruction. Wide. Solid. Veined. They flexed with every slow, lazy step as he towel-dried his hair, and then… he looked up.
Right at you.
“Hey,” he said, like he didn’t look like every bad decision you’d ever fantasized about. Like his towel wasn’t a single twitch away from wrecking your entire nervous system.
“You good?”
You nodded. Lie. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
His eyes held yours a beat too long. Something shifted in his expression. Calculated. Curious. Knowing.
Then he tilted his head — just slightly — and let the towel dip a little lower on his hips.
“You look like you saw a ghost.”
Your throat tightened. Your pulse throbbed in your ears. You tried to look away, but it was too late.
His gaze dipped down, tracking over your legs, the death grip of your hands at your sides, the way your breath had gone shallow. He looked back up — and smirked.
“Been doing a lot of leg day lately,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Figured it was time someone noticed.”
You couldn’t move. The hallway felt too small. Too hot. And he stood too close.
That’s when it hit you. He’d known. All this time. Every stolen glance, every bitten lip, every time you pretended not to be affected while memorizing the shape of his body like scripture — he’d known.
And the worst part? He was enjoying it.
Minho stepped past you then, slow and deliberate. His bare shoulder brushed yours, sending sparks down your spine. His mouth passed close to your ear.
“If you like ’em so much… don’t be shy.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
And you?
You stood frozen. Drenched in heat.
Stunned.
—-
You tried to shake it off. That moment in the hallway — the wet skin, the low towel, the smirk like he’d just cracked your entire code — it replayed in your head on loop. And the worst part? He acted normal afterward. As if he hadn’t just stripped you bare without laying a single finger on you.
For the next few days, he didn’t say a word. But his silence had weight. A hum. A presence.
You felt it when he brushed past you in the kitchen, lingering just a second longer than necessary. You felt it when he reached for the remote, arm grazing yours like it was an accident — it wasn’t. You felt it every time he walked around in those tiny black shorts that clung to his thighs like a second skin, like he wanted to be watched.
He never said it outright. He didn’t have to.
Minho knew. And he was playing with you.
Especially during movie night.
He stretched out across the couch like he owned it — one thigh propped high, the other bent casually, teasing a dangerous view beneath loose fabric. You sat at the opposite end, pretending to care about the screen, pretending not to notice the way he occasionally shifted — slow and deliberate, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam.
“You pressed?” he asked, voice smooth, eyes fixed on the movie.
“No.” You barely breathed the word.
“Then why are your legs crossed like that?”
You choked. “I always sit like this.”
“Mhm.” His lips curved into a smirk, but he didn’t look at you. “Cute.”
You turned back to the screen, ears burning, pulse hammering in places you didn’t want to admit. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. He already had you cornered.
And then came Saturday.
You’d just rolled out your yoga mat, hoping for some peace. A little mind-body disconnect. Something slow, something grounding. You wore leggings and a loose top, hair tied up, trying to focus on your breath. On your stretch. On not spiraling over the fact that your roommate had thighs that could suffocate you and the audacity to look good doing absolutely nothing.
You were two poses in when Minho walked in. Barefoot. Tank top. The same goddamn black shorts.
He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed a towel, tossed it on the floor, and dropped beside you — air shifting with the force of his presence.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Home workout,” he said, already rolling his neck like it was routine. “Leg day.”
Of course it was.
You watched him set up — no mat, no music, no distractions. Just him, kneeling, then rising into his first slow, steady squat.
And God help you.
His muscles flexed with every movement — taut and deliberate, as if he knew you were watching. And of course, you were. You tried not to be. You told yourself to focus on your breath, your pose, anything. But the sound of him exhaling, the tension in his quads, the way his thighs expanded and contracted under smooth skin — it was hypnotic.
At one point, you bent forward into a child’s pose and nearly whined. Not from the stretch — from the view.
“Something wrong?” he asked without turning.
“Nope,” you lied into your mat.
He chuckled low. “You’ve been holding that pose for a while.”
“I’m relaxing.”
“Are you sure?”
You sat up, flushed, glaring. “Why are you doing this here?”
“This is my house too.” He dropped into a deep lunge, one thigh slicing into the air like it knew it was being worshipped. “Besides, I thought you liked watching.”
Your breath caught.
He looked at you then. Full-on. No smirk this time. Just heat. Awareness.
“I mean,” he added, tilting his head, “you do a lot of staring for someone who’s just stretching.”
You opened your mouth. No words came.
Minho stood, grabbed his towel, and wiped his neck, gaze dragging down your body like he owned it.
“Let me know if I’m distracting you,” he said, already walking away. “Or don’t.”
His bedroom door shut.
You stared at the empty space he left behind, legs shaking — not from yoga.
And that was the thing about Minho. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.
He was building you to the edge. Slowly. Mercilessly.
One day at a time.
—-
You’d had it.
The teasing. The stretching. The slow, smug smirks like he knew exactly how to unravel you without ever laying a hand. Minho was a storm in stillness — walking around that apartment like his thighs weren’t destroying your concentration one flex at a time.
But today?
Today he stole your shampoo. The expensive one. The one you rationed like gold.
You noticed it gone right after your lukewarm shower. No bottle on the ledge. Not in the cabinet. Nowhere. And you knew — you knew — he’d taken it. Not because he needed it. Not because he ran out.
But because he wanted you to come find it.
You stepped into the hallway and glared in the direction of his room. Your skin was still damp, towel clutched around your body, hair dripping. You stood there for a beat, chest rising and falling, fury burning low in your gut.
He wanted a reaction?
Fine.
You stomped to his room, still wrapped in your towel, not even bothering to knock. The door wasn’t locked — of course it wasn’t. You shoved it open, ready to yell—And froze.
Minho stood in the middle of the room. Still wet from his own shower. Back turned. Steam clinging to his skin like a second layer. And nothing but a white towel barely clinging to his hips.
As if on cue — perfectly timed, like he waited for your entrance — he turned.
And let the towel drop.
Time stopped.
His body was a punch to the throat. Wet hair clinging to sharp cheekbones. Chest gleaming. Abs carved like marble. And lower—
You swallowed. Hard.
His thighs — God, his thighs — were the first thing your eyes betrayed you for. Taut, thick, glistening. Cut so sharp you could trace the line from hip to knee without ever catching your breath. But it was all of him — the dripping cocky smirk, the full exposure, the quiet daring in his stare — that made your brain stutter.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Minho didn’t flinch. He stood there, bare, relaxed, like he’d just walked out of a dream you hadn’t woken up from. His eyes dragged down your figure — towel, damp skin, flushed face — and he grinned.
“You looking for something?” he asked, voice low, sinful.
You blinked. “My shampoo.”
He stepped closer, slow and predatory. “Oh. Right. That.”
You didn’t back up. Couldn’t. Your feet stayed planted as he crossed the room, stopping just in front of you — close enough that steam radiated off his skin and into your lungs.
“I might’ve borrowed it,” he said, voice a little too innocent.
“You think?” Your voice cracked, betraying you.
He tilted his head. Smirked. “You could’ve waited.”
“You could’ve not stolen my stuff.”
“I was curious,” he murmured. “About what made you smell that good all the time.”
That shut you up. Your breath caught, throat dry.
Minho leaned in, not touching you, just hovering — warm and wet and lethal.
“Gotta say,” he whispered, “I didn’t think you’d walk in this fast. Barely gave me time to dress.”
“Minho…”
His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
Because you snapped.
The air cracked between you — the tension finally slicing clean. Your towel loosened around your chest, breath ragged, fingers twitching like they didn’t know whether to slap him or touch everything. And Minho? He just watched you unravel, biting back a laugh, proud of every second it took to break you.
“You gonna stare all day…” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips, “…or finally show me what you’ve been thinking about when you look at my thighs like that?”
You’d never seen him like that before.
Sure, you’d imagined it. In flashes. In filth. Late at night, hand between your thighs, brain filled with the shape of him under those shorts. But nothing — nothing — prepared you for the real thing.
Minho stood there like a god carved in steam. Skin flushed, droplets running over muscle, thighs thick and flexed, cock hanging heavy between his legs, thick and half-hard — already waking up under your stunned gaze.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.
“Say something,” he said, amused by your wide eyes and gaping mouth.
But words had abandoned you. You were stuck — eyes tracking the lazy twitch of him, how he stood so relaxed in his naked glory, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
And he did.
You took a step forward without meaning to, towel still clutched to your chest. Your fingers were trembling. Knees weak. He didn’t move, just watched you — eyes low, dark, waiting.
Another step.
Your towel slipped.
You felt it loosen, but your hands didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. It hit the floor in a soft thud, pooling around your feet like you’d given up the last of your defenses. You stood there — bare, breathless, burning — and he exhaled.
“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes dragging down your body like a slow lick.
Then, he moved.
Minho stepped in close — no warning, no question — and his hands found your waist, firm and sure. He guided you back two paces until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed. The room was spinning — or maybe it was just you. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything but the heat radiating off his skin and the way his eyes never left your face.
“You’ve been dying for this,” he whispered, voice low, rough with want.
You opened your mouth to argue, but then — his thigh slid between your legs.
Thick. Solid. Perfect.
You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance.
Minho grinned, smug and slow. “Yeah. Just like that.”
Your core pressed against him — bare skin to bare muscle — and it knocked the air from your lungs. The heat of him. The size of him. The position — obscene and grounding at the same time.
He bent slightly, mouth brushing your ear.
“Ride it.”
Your head snapped up, eyes wide.
“What?”
He tilted his hips forward just enough to press his thigh harder against your center, making your legs tremble.
“You heard me,” he murmured, turning you around and pulling you onto his legs to straddle him. “You’ve been eyeing them like a good girl with a filthy secret. So ride it. Let me feel how wet thinking about them made you.”
You whimpered. Actually whimpered.
And when your hips moved — instinctively, needily — his grip on your waist tightened.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “Use me.”
You started slow, testing the friction, the give of muscle under your folds. It was too much. Not enough. Perfect. His skin was hot beneath you, slick from the shower, and your clit found pressure that made you jolt.
Minho watched you. Jaw tight, lip caught between teeth, cock now fully hard and pressed against your belly — untouched. He didn’t move. Didn’t thrust. Didn’t beg for more.
He just let you lose yourself.
Let you rub against him like you’d dreamed about.
Let you chase the high with heat building in your thighs and fire curling in your stomach.
“You look so fucking pretty when you’re desperate,” he muttered, hands sliding down to cup your ass, guiding your rhythm. “Wanna see you come just from this.”
Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, moaning into his skin as your hips sped up.
“Been teasing you for weeks,” he whispered, voice thick with pride. “This what you’ve been needing? My thigh between your legs? My voice telling you how fucking good you look dripping on me?”
Your answer was a broken gasp, your whole body trembling as slick coated his leg.
You didn’t mean to let it go this far.
You told yourself you had self control around him — that you’d stop before it got real.
But now you were riding his thigh, naked and soaked, fingers clinging to his shoulders like lifelines while your hips ground down in rhythmless, desperate circles. And Lee Know just watched you fall apart.
His cock pressed against your stomach, rock hard and untouched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t ask for more. He just let you rub yourself raw on the muscle you’d been obsessing over for weeks — strong, slick, made to ruin you.
“Minho,” you breathed, voice shaking. “I—what am I doing?”
He smirked against your cheek, hands gripping your waist like he owned it.
“You’re finally being honest,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re doing exactly what you wanted to do every time you stared at my thighs like it’s breakfast”
You whimpered, your hips stuttering forward as your clit hit the perfect spot. Again. And again. And again.
“I-I shouldn’t—fuck, I shouldn’t be—”
“But you are,” he growled, flexing his thigh beneath you, making your entire body jolt. “Look at you. Dripping. Shaking. Moaning on my leg like a filthy little thing. And you’re not even touching yourself.”
You let out a broken sob of pleasure, nails digging into his back. Every word he said made it worse. Or better. You didn’t know anymore. Your mind was a haze of heat and friction and him.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” you gasped. “This is—Minho, this is insane—”
“But does it feel good?” His voice was all low thunder now. Fingers sliding up your spine, tracing every arch and tremble.
You nodded before you could stop yourself. “Yes. God. Yes.”
“Then keep going,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple. “Don’t stop now. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Your hips moved on instinct, faster, harder — chasing the high building at the edge of your spine. The wet sound of your arousal on his skin filled the room. Your thighs burned, your stomach coiled, your whole body trembling from the friction, the pressure, the filth of it.
Minho tilted your chin up with two fingers, eyes blazing.
“You gonna come for me like this?” he asked, teasing and reverent all at once. “Riding my thigh like it’s the only thing that’ll make you feel better?”
You bit your lip, eyes glazed over. “I-I don’t think I can stop—”
He crushed his mouth to yours.
Hot. Hungry. Claiming.
You moaned into it, lips parting as he licked into you, deep and possessive. His hands roamed down, kneading your ass, guiding your rhythm as your body started to tremble harder.
His mouth broke from yours just enough to whisper against it:
“Then don’t stop. Come for me, baby. Soak me. Show me how badly you’ve wanted this.”
Your head fell back, gasping his name over and over, your climax rushing up like fire — fast, hot, blinding. Your hips stuttered, your thighs locked, and with one last grind, you shattered. Loud. Messy. Unapologetic.
You collapsed against him, trembling, your slick soaking his thigh.
And still, he held you.
Still hard. Still smirking. Still starving.
He dragged his mouth down your neck, voice ragged.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
Your body was still trembling — thighs weak, breath shallow, clinging to Minho like you’d drown without him. You’d just come undone, hard and messy, riding his thigh like an addict in heat.
But he hadn’t even started.
His cock still pulsed heavy against your belly. His mouth was wet from kissing you breathless. And his hands?
They moved.
He shifted with a low growl, gripping your waist as he guided you down to the mattress like you were made of glass and sin all at once. The sheets were cool under your back, a cruel contrast to the heat burning between your legs.
You barely had time to blink.
Minho knelt between your thighs — broad shoulders pushing them apart with no effort, gaze locked onto your soaked cunt like it was the prize at the end of a long, hard game he knew he’d win.
“You’re already a mess,” he muttered, voice dark with hunger. “And I haven’t even tasted you yet.”
Your breath hitched. “Minho—”
He dipped his head.
And devoured you.
No warning. No teasing.
Just full contact — lips wrapping around your clit, tongue sliding through your folds like he was starving and you were the only thing on the menu. You cried out, hips jerking, fists twisting in the sheets.
“Fuck—fuck—Minho—!”
He groaned into you, tongue fucking deeper, slower, filthier. The wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy echoed through the room, obscene and devastating. His grip on your thighs tightened, locking you open.
“You taste even better than I imagined,” he rasped against your cunt. “And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot.”
You were unraveling fast — overstimulated from before, nerves on fire, your body no longer yours. You reached down to push at his head, desperate for control, but he growled and slammed your hips back down.
“Don’t run,” he warned, eyes flicking up to yours. “You’re gonna take this.”
Then he flattened his tongue against your clit and sucked.
You sobbed.
Your body bucked, shaking, your thighs closing in on his head — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t care. He groaned low like your struggle turned him on more, mouth locked onto you with ruthless, perfect rhythm.
“Minho— I can’t— I’m gonna—!”
“Do it,” he said, voice muffled and filthy. “Come on my tongue, baby.”
You shattered again — harder, messier, wrecked. You screamed his name like a prayer as your back arched off the mattress, your entire body spasming under his mouth.
But he still didn’t stop.
He kept licking. Kept sucking. Pushing you higher again while you were still falling apart.
“Stop—stop—” you gasped, legs trembling. “I—please—I can’t—”
“Thought you wanted this,” he said, voice mocking but gentle. “Thought this was what you needed.”
“It is, but—fuck, Minho, I can’t take anymore—!”
His mouth left you with one last lick, and he rose over you — mouth shiny, hair wild, cock rock hard and leaking against his abs. He leaned in close, voice rough against your cheek.
“Then beg me for it.”
You blinked up at him — dazed, soaked, dizzy from pleasure.
“Minho, please—”
He smirked, hand sliding down your body, stroking your slick folds with two fingers, slow and teasing.
“Say it right.”
You whimpered, your hips chasing the contact. “Please. Please fuck me. I need it. I need you. I can’t take it anymore, Minho, please—”
He groaned like the sound of your begging was better than coming.
You didn’t even have time to breathe.
Minho lined himself up and pushed in slow — thick, stretching, perfect — and your gasp broke apart into a moan that could’ve shattered glass. He filled you inch by inch like he wanted you to feel everything — the shape of him, the weight, the stretch, the depth.
“Fuck,” he groaned, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so wet. I can feel how bad you wanted this—how long you’ve been holding back.”
You could barely nod. Could barely think.
He bottomed out with a low growl, hips flush against yours, his cock buried so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.
You were already shaking.
Already gone.
And he hadn’t even moved yet.
But then he did.
Minho pulled out halfway and slammed back in — hard enough to knock the air from your throat. You cried out, back arching, and his hand flew to your hip to hold you down.
“Oh my—Minho—”
“That’s it,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Take it.”
He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward with precision — deep, fast, punishing. Your body jolted with every thrust, his skin slapping yours, his breath ragged against your ear.
“You begged for this,” he hissed, mouth at your neck. “Begged me to fuck you, to ruin you. So don’t tap out now, baby. You asked for this.”
You were babbling now — every filthy sound ripped from your throat as his cock hit every spot that made your vision blur.
“You’re so fucking deep,” you sobbed. “Minho, you’re—ahh—fuck, I can’t—”
“Yes, you fucking can,” he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You’re taking me so well, squeezing me like your pussy was made for me.”
His words sent heat straight to your core, and your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, locking him in.
He grinned through a moan.
“Just like that. Keep holding me there. Don’t let me leave.”
You didn’t plan to.
Your body refused to let him go.
Minho leaned back just enough to watch you — eyes wild, sweat dripping, abs flexing as he pistoned into you with a force that made the headboard slam against the wall.
“You see this?” he panted. “See how cockdrunk you are already?”
You nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I’m yours, Minho—fuck—I’m so yours.”
That broke something in him.
He grabbed your face, kissed you hard — messy, teeth clashing, tongues desperate — and drove into you like a man starved. Like he needed to mark every inch of you from the inside out.
Your orgasm built fast — unstoppable. The angle. The stretch. The way he owned your body like it was created for this moment.
“Minho, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“Let go,” he growled. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you lose it.”
And you did.
Your body seized, core clenching around him in hot, wet pulses as you screamed his name into the sheets. Your climax tore through you, wrecking you from the inside out. You shook, legs trembling, sobbing with the release.
Minho kept going — chasing his own edge, fucking you through your high like he couldn’t stop. And when he came, it was with a low, broken groan — hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled himself completely.
He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged, heart pounding against your chest.
The room was silent, save for the sound of your bodies trying to remember how to breathe.
And then, with a smirk pressed against your neck, he whispered:
“Next time… you’re riding both thighs.”
—-
Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore.
Limbs tangled in sheets. Skin slick with sweat. Core still pulsing faintly where he’d broken you open and filled you up. Everything ached in that perfect way — the kind of ache that reminded you who made you fall apart.
Minho didn’t move for a while. His weight rested on you, warm and grounding, like he knew you needed it — or maybe like he did. You felt his breath fan softly against your neck, one hand tracing slow, lazy circles into your thigh that still trembled slightly.
Then he kissed your shoulder.
Slow. Soft. Sweet.
“You alive?” he murmured, voice low and half-laughing.
You huffed a breath, barely managing a reply. “Barely.”
He pulled back just enough to look at your face. You blinked up at him — dazed, flushed, completely undone. His grin was pure mischief, but his eyes? Still dark, still starved, but softer now. Like he’d already started memorizing this version of you.
“Well,” he said, brushing damp hair off your forehead, “remind me to steal your shampoo more often.”
You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m literally your favorite person right now.”
“You literally just broke me.”
His laugh was low and smug. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”
You slapped his chest weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, smugness giving way to something gentler. His fingers interlaced with yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
Then, quietly, you asked, “Was that… okay?”
He looked at you like you’d just asked if water was wet.
“Are you kidding?” he murmured. “I’ve wanted to ruin you like that since the day you moaned over my thighs during that dumb Pilates video.”
Your face flamed. “I did not moan.”
“You made a noise.”
“It was a stretch!”
“It was a whimper. From your soul.”
You tried to pull away. He held you tighter, laughing now, mouth pressed to your cheek.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“And you’re obsessed with my legs.”
“…Maybe.”
Minho kissed you again — slower this time. Deep, with no urgency. Just skin and breath and the slow, sinking warmth of someone who didn’t need to rush anymore.
“You’re staying in my bed tonight,” he whispered against your lips.
“That wasn’t a question.”
“Nope.” He grinned. “You said it yourself, you’re mine now.”
You let out a breath, eyelids fluttering shut as you melted into his arms.
“Next time,” he added with a smirk, voice rough with leftover heat, “I’m making good on that thigh promise.”
Your stomach clenched.
You peeked up at him. “Both?”
He licked his lips, gaze flicking down your body again like he was already planning your undoing.
“Oh, baby…” he purred.
“That was just the beginning.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: Heh babes, so my requests have racked up quite a bit and as promised i am gonna try to deliver all as much as possible! But for now, atleast till i clear the backlog; REQUESTS ARE CLOSED. Congratulations to Leeknow on his GUCCI Global Brand Ambassador deal!! This one’s for you baby!
A big thank you to all my readers for getting me to 2.1k followers (thats huge 🥹)
Tags: smut, enemies to lovers, sexting, nudes, public groping, size kink, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), Dom Changbin, rough sex, breeding kink, soft aftercare
Word count: 4.7k
Summary: A drunk dare. One obscene nude you should’ve deleted months ago. You send it to the loudmouth classmate you hate most—Changbin. What you don’t expect? His filthy response. Or how fast it spirals into late-night thirst traps, voice notes, and him promising to fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
You didn’t even want to go out that night.
It had been one of those weeks—back-to-back deadlines, sleepless nights, and that argument with Changbin during Tuesday’s group presentation that had left you pacing your room afterward, teeth clenched, cheeks hot.
He was too much.
Too loud. Too confident. Too all over the place.
Every class, every group chat, every hallway you tried to exist in—he was there. Smirking. Teasing. Rolling his eyes at your notes, talking over you during discussions, always finding ways to get under your skin like it was a personal hobby.
But your girls had insisted. “You need a break. You need tequila.”
So you’d gone.
Lip gloss, crop top, shots lined up like soldiers.
By midnight, the living room was a haze of heat and laughter. Someone had started a game of truth or dare with twisted rules. Everyone was half-drunk and full of bad ideas.
You should’ve seen it coming. The moment your turn came and the bottle pointed at you, a few smirks lit up around the circle like a warning.
“Okay,” Layla grinned, “truth or dare?”
You hesitated. Truth was safe. Predictable. But everyone had been choosing it all night, and you’d mocked them for it. Now it was your turn to be bold.
“Dare.”
Layla didn’t hesitate.
“Send a nude to Seo Changbin… or run a full lap around the football field naked. With a suction dildo stuck to your forehead.”
The room howled.
Someone immediately got up to rummage in a drawer. “I have the dildo!”
Your stomach dropped.
You tried to laugh it off, eyes wide. “Are you fucking insane?”
“You’ve got beef with him, right?” someone snorted.
“This is perfect.”
“You’re always bickering, it’ll shake him up.”
It wasn’t the nudity that scared you. It wasn’t even Changbin.
It was what was already in your camera roll.
A photo you’d taken months ago during a particularly filthy night, when you were feeling reckless and painfully needy. The lights had been low, your skin warm, your thoughts wicked. You’d spread yourself wide open on the sheets, wet and glistening, lips parted, your own fingers pulling at your skin. Your face was in it. Your expression ruined.
You had stared at it afterward, thinking: This is too much. No one can ever see this.
But you hadn’t deleted it.
And now… your hand hovered over it. Over the send button. The whole room was watching you, waiting.
You felt drunk. Braver than you should’ve been.
So you said, too calmly, “Fine.”
And tapped send.
It only took thirty seconds for regret to sink in like poison.
What had you just done?
He was going to lose his mind. Or worse, not react at all. He could ruin you. Show people. Mock you in class. Bring it up next time you tried to speak during a lecture.
You curled into the couch, face hot, eyes burning from the alcohol and the humiliation chewing through your stomach. Your phone buzzed once.
Then twice.
You turned it over.
Changbin 💢:
Did you mean to send that?
You stared at your phone like it had grown teeth.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Every possible answer felt wrong. You almost typed “ignore it”, but deleted it. Then you typed:
“It was a dare. Just forget it.”
Another ping.
Changbin 💢:
That’s not the kind of photo you send as a dare.
You swallowed.
Your face was burning. All the background noise in the living room—the music, the laughter, the clinking glasses—faded to a soft murmur. The heat of the dare was starting to wear off, replaced by a sick rush of adrenaline and humiliation.
Changbin 💢:
Jesus fucking Christ.
I… I didn’t know you looked like that.
You’ve been walking around class with that between your legs?
You tightened your thighs instinctively.
You typed:
“It was a stupid dare. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
But he wasn’t letting it go.
Changbin 💢:
You already had that pic?
That wasn’t a selfie. That was planned.
You took that for someone. You were gonna send it eventually.
You bit your lip.
“It’s old. I never sent it to anyone.”
Changbin 💢:
That makes it worse.
You paused.
“Why?”
Changbin 💢:
Because I’ve never wanted to fuck someone I hate more than I do right now.
You looked so good. So fucking wet. Like you needed someone to take care of it.
You blinked.
Your stomach flipped. The burn between your legs sharpened. You weren’t sure if it was arousal or pure nerves—probably both.
“This is insane.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re still the asshole who makes me want to throw things in class.”
You deleted it all.
Instead:
“You’ve seen it now. Can you just forget it?”
The reply came back instantly.
Changbin 💢:
No fucking way.
Changbin 💢:
You’re seriously gonna act like you didn’t send that on purpose? Like you don’t want me thinking about it?
Changbin 💢:
You want me hard for you, don’t you?
“No.” “Fuck off.” “Stop.”
You didn’t send any of those.
“You’re full of yourself.”
Changbin 💢:
Nah, princess. You’re the one dripping in that pic, not me.
You closed your eyes.
He was unraveling you.
The way he talked in person was always irritating—too loud, too smug. But here? In text? At 1:03 a.m.?
He was… different. Sharper. Controlled. Bold in a way that went straight to your core.
“You’re lucky I’m drunk.”
Changbin 💢:
You think I need you drunk for this?
I’d still be hard for you even if we were sober in the library.
You bit back a noise.
Your thighs rubbed together involuntarily.
Changbin 💢:
You want me to send something back? Would that make it fair? Even the score?
Your fingers twitched.
“You’re bluffing.”
Changbin 💢:
Try me.
Your pulse quickened.
“You’re not actually going to—”
Ping.
The photo loaded slowly.
Dark sweatpants. No shirt. His abs were tight, skin glowing with a warm amber sheen like he’d taken the pic right after a workout. His hand tugged the waistband down low, and the bulge beneath was unmistakable—huge, thick, pressed to the fabric like it was dying to be freed.
You inhaled, sharp.
The outline of his cock was ridiculous. Heavy. Thick at the base, curving up. The tip clearly outlined. The kind of size that made your body react before your brain caught up.
And his caption?
Changbin 💢:
Now you can imagine what’s gonna fill you the next time you talk back in class.
You didn’t realize your mouth had gone dry until you swallowed hard.
Someone from the living room called your name. “Babe! Your turn!”
“I’ll be right back,” you called, voice strained.
You grabbed your phone, pushed off the couch, and disappeared into the hallway. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere you could breathe.
And think.
And maybe—just maybe—look again.
Because for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if you hated him… or if you just didn’t know what to do with how badly you suddenly wanted him.
—
You thought you could outlast the tension.
After the photo he sent—the dick print, the way it looked too big to even be real, the caption that made your thighs clench—you told yourself it was just late-night chaos. That once the sun came up, you could pretend it hadn’t happened.
You left him on read.
Muted the conversation.
Avoided every look in class, kept your expression cold, distant.
But Changbin?
He was different now.
Quieter. Sharper. Dangerous.
He still joked with the guys. Still sat in the same row as always. But whenever your eyes flicked up, he was watching you—really watching. Like he could still see that photo of you spread open and dripping every time you bit your lip or crossed your legs.
And when your professor assigned a partner project and called out his name alongside yours?
You knew it was over.
Later that afternoon, the library was quiet. Too quiet. The air between you was thick with something unsaid as you stood beside where he sat, laptops open, pretending to focus.
You tried not to look at him.
Tried not to remember the outline of his cock stretching grey fabric. The way he’d said “what’s gonna fill you next time you talk back in class.”
Your body hadn’t forgotten.
You’d touched yourself to that image more times than you were ready to admit.
“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, eyes on the screen.
You didn’t look at him. “I’m working.”
“Right.”
“That’s what you were doing the other night too, huh? Working?”
You stiffened.
“I didn’t take you for the type to keep that kind of photo in your phone. Or was it just waiting for someone better to see it?”
You finally turned. “Are you done?”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, smirking—but something darker hid behind his eyes. He leaned in towards you, low and quiet.
“No. Not even close.”
You didn’t notice when he stood. But you did feel it when he moved behind you.
At first, it was just his hand brushing your shoulder as he leaned to peek at your screen.
Then he didn’t move away.
Instead, you felt the heavy press of his chest behind you. His palm slid slowly—casually—over your back. Lower. Resting at the curve of your waist.
And then he shifted—just slightly—and you felt it.
The unmistakable weight of him.
Hard. Thick. Pressed right up against your ass.
Your breath hitched.
“Miss me?” he whispered.
Your cheeks burned. “You’re disgusting.”
“Am I?”
“Because this…” his hand flattened against your hip, pulling you subtly back into his body, into his cock—“says otherwise.”
You should’ve shoved him.
Should’ve snapped, slapped, screamed.
But your body betrayed you.
Your thighs clenched. Your breathing went shallow.
And when his fingers brushed the hem of your skirt, you didn’t move away.
If anything—you leaned back.
“You liked it,” he murmured, lips just behind your ear.
“You liked knowing I saw you like that. That I wanted to fuck you from the second that photo lit up my screen.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, hungrier. “But your body doesn’t agree.”
His hand slid lower, palm resting on your ass now—really grabbing, squeezing, like it was his already. He rutted against you once, slow, just enough to let you feel the size of him again.
You gasped, barely holding in the noise.
“Poor thing,” he whispered.
“Trying so hard to act like you don’t want this cock stretching you open.”
You closed your eyes. “We’re in a fucking library.”
“And you’re soaked,” he growled. “Aren’t you?”
You were.
You hated him for it.
But God—you wanted more.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice a low rumble in your ear.
“Tell me you don’t want me pushing these panties to the side and sliding in right here.”
You didn’t say anything.
And neither did your body.
Because for the first time, you weren’t sure who was in control—him, or the ache between your legs screaming for more.
His grip on your waist didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened—fingers flexing into the curve of your hips like he wanted to memorize the way you fit under his hands.
You told yourself to move.
To snap out of it.
To shove his cocky ass away and slap the heat off your face.
But instead… you shifted.
Barely. Subtly. Almost like a breath.
Your hips arched back just the tiniest bit—and you felt him twitch.
Big. Hot. Hard against you.
And god help you, you did it again.
This time, he chuckled. Low and raspy.
“Keep doing that and I’m gonna take it personally.”
His voice buzzed against the shell of your ear, warm and wicked.
“I can swear you’re wet.”
“I’m not,” you breathed, barely able to form the words.
“No?”
One of his hands slid from your hip, slipping lower, slow and deliberate. Your skirt offered no protection—his fingers eased beneath the hem with practiced ease, knuckles brushing your thigh.
“Then you won’t mind if I check.”
You gasped. “Changbin—”
But it was too late.
His hand slid up. Under your skirt. Under your panties.
And then—his fingers paused.
Right at your slit.
Slick. Dripping. Heat soaked through cotton and flushed onto his fingertips.
He let out a quiet groan, something dark and pleased.
“Fuck me…”
You froze.
“You’re soaked.”
You should’ve died of embarrassment.
Instead, you whimpered—barely, breath catching in your throat. Your thighs twitched, instinctively trying to close, but his hand was already there, slipping further, middle finger pressing through the wetness and parting you open.
“Look at that,” he muttered. “Fighting me in public, dripping for me in private.”
“You can’t—” you whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through.
“I can,” he said. “And I am.”
His fingertip circled your entrance, not quite pushing in. Just enough to tease. To test how badly your body wanted him.
And it did.
God, it did.
“All this just from my picture?” he murmured. “You really are a dirty little thing.”
“Changbin, we’re—someone could—”
“Then stay quiet,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “Be a good girl and let me feel what you’ve been hiding from me.”
You squirmed against him, helpless. His hard-on grinding into your ass. His hand between your legs. Your body betraying everything your mouth refused to say.
But then—he pulled back. Slow. Measured and wicked.
“Not here,” he muttered. “Not yet.”
You let out a shaky exhale, unsure if it was relief or frustration.
“You’re not ready.”
He said it like a promise. Even more like a plan.
—
That night, your phone lit up before midnight.
Changbin 💢
You touching yourself right now?
You swallowed, heat curling in your stomach.
“No.”
A lie.
You’d been thinking about his finger, barely there, slicking through your folds. The way he pressed against you like he could fuck you through your clothes. The restraint he showed—pulling away just when you were about to lose it.
Changbin 💢:
Liar. You were dripping earlier. You think that goes away?
Changbin 💢:
You want help?
Your breath caught.
Then another message.
📷 An image.
A mirror selfie. Taken low. No shirt. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. But this time… no filter, no teasing.
His cock was hard. So obvious. Thick and curving up in those grey sweats, the head visibly straining against the fabric. His hand was wrapped around the base, gripping himself through the material.
Your core clenched.
Changbin 💢:
You made me like this. Do something about it.
Another ping.
🎧An audio file.
You hesitated… then tapped.
His voice—low, breathless, filthy—filled your room.
“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”
You bit your knuckle.
“Bet you’re wet again just hearing this.”
You were.
And you knew damn well… this was only the beginning because it was obvious that you knew you should stop.
Mute the chat. Turn your phone off. Go to sleep.
But instead, you hit play again.
Changbin’s voice filled your room for the second time, low and unsteady.
“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”
Your hand had already slipped under the waistband of your shorts. Shame curled hot in your chest, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.
Not with his voice saying things like that.
Not when your body was still aching from what he’d done in the library.
You typed, hesitant:
“You’re a menace.”
Changbin 💢:
And you’re quiet. You touching yourself again?
“No.”
Changbin 💢:
You’re such a bad liar.
Another ping. Another message.
Changbin 💢:
Say my name once, and I’ll show you the real thing. But let me hear how down bad you are first.
Your legs squeezed together.
He wasn’t letting up.
Not just the teasing — the control. The way he peeled you open without even being in the same room. It was like he’d figured out every weakness you had and was pressing on all of them at once.
You typed:
“You want me to say your name?”
Changbin 💢:
Just once. Out loud. Right now.
I know you’re touching yourself, i just want to hear you.
Your heart pounded. You stared at the audio reply button. Your thumb hovered.
Me pulling your legs apart. Spitting on your pussy.
Sliding in nice and slow while you beg me to ruin it.
You let out a shaky breath.
Changbin 💢:
C’mon, baby.
Be a good girl and let me hear how badly you want it.
The words good girl punched straight through your resolve.
Your finger hovered over the record button.
You didn’t overthink it. Didn’t script it. But at the back of your mind, you knew shouldn’t have done it.
You knew the second you hit record—you were crossing a line you couldn’t uncross. But the heat in your stomach, the ache between your legs, the way Changbin’s voice still echoed in your ears? It all left you trembling.
So you moaned. You whimpered.
And you said his name.
“Changbin…”
You sounded so fucking needy. So shameless and desperate.
Exactly how you felt.
You hit send with your heart in your throat, thighs clenched tight around your own hand. And then you waited—seconds dragging, breath caught in your chest.
Then: ping.
🎥A video.
No caption. No warning.
You hesitated, pulse in your ears, then tapped it.
The first thing you saw was skin—his hand, wrapped tight around the base of his cock. Thick. Hard. Heavy. His head was a darker shade of his skin, glistening with precum, veins running thick along the shaft.
The next thing you heard?
His voice. Ragged. Strained.
“This what you want, baby?”
He was filming from above, cock in his fist, his abs flexing as he pumped slowly, steadily. Each stroke was loud and wet. His hand moved like he was imagining you were already wrapped around him—tight, dripping, ruined.
“Been jerking off since you moaned my name,” he growled. “You sound so fucking pretty when you’re begging.”
You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.
“Wanna cum in you so bad,” he panted. “Wanna watch it drip out of you. Want you to feel it for days.”
And then—he grunted. Shuddered.
And came.
Ropes of it. Thick spurts shooting across his abs, the head of his cock twitching violently in his grip.
“That’s all for you,” he breathed, voice wrecked.“Next time, I’m doing that inside.”
The video ended, but you were done for.
You stared at your screen like it had punched you in the stomach. Heat licked down your spine. Your hand had slipped between your legs again before you even realized it.
You replayed the video.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
You wanted to taste it. Feel it. Be under it.
Then your screen lit up again.
Changbin 💢:
You still there?
Your fingers trembled. You didn’t even overthink it.
You typed:
“I need you.”
[📍Location Shared]
And hit send.
—
You barely had time to think.
One knock. That’s all it took.
You opened the door and he was on you—mouth crashing into yours, body pinning you flat against the wall like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
He kissed like a man possessed.
Like your voice note had ruined him. Like your moan had carved something primal into his chest and he couldn’t shake it loose.
His tongue slid past your lips, rough and greedy, tasting you like he had to claim you first.
“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth. “Took you long enough.”
You barely had time to respond—his hands were already under your shirt, palming your tits like they were his, thumbs flicking your nipples until you whimpered.
“This all for me?” he asked, breath hot.
“This pussy been soaking since the second I sent that video?”
You gasped as he shoved one leg between yours, grinding up against your clothed heat—his cock already hard, pressing through his sweats like a weapon.
“God,” he groaned. “You feel so fucking good.”
“Can’t wait anymore.”
He picked you up like you weighed nothing, carried you into your own apartment without breaking the kiss, and dropped you—hard—onto the kitchen counter.
Before you could speak, your shorts were yanked down and off. Your panties, too. Ripped aside with one rough pull.
“Fucking knew it,” he muttered as he spread you open. “Look at this wet little pussy. So damn ready for me.”
“You’re such a—”
“Say it,” he snarled, two fingers sliding through your folds, circling your clit just right.
“Say it while I ruin you.”
You choked on a moan, hips jerking up. His fingers dipped inside—thick, slow, curling—testing you.
“Tight,” he hissed. “So fuckin’ tight already.
How the hell you gonna take my cock, baby?”
You looked down—and froze.
He’d pushed his sweats down just enough, and there it was. All of it.
His cock was thick. Long. Veiny. Angry-red at the tip, already leaking. You’d seen the outline. You’d watched him stroke it on video. But up close?
It was fucking terrifying.
And you wanted every inch.
“I’m gonna mess you up real pretty.” he whispered, dragging the head through your slick folds.
“You’re not walking tomorrow.”
You whimpered, thighs trembling.
“Changbin—fuck—”
“What’s that, princess?” he smirked. “You scared of this cock now?”
“Shut the fuck up and give it to me.”
That was all he needed.
He lined up and slammed in—
The stretch was obscene. Your back arched, a broken cry ripped from your throat. He didn’t wait. Didn’t tease. He bottomed out in one brutal stroke, hips snapping forward until his balls slapped against you.
“FUCK,” he growled, head dropping to your shoulder. “Tight little cunt’s squeezing the shit outta me.”
You clawed at his back, desperate to breathe, but it felt too good. The way he filled you—so deep, so thick—you felt him in your stomach.
“Took it all, huh?” he rasped, pulling back just to thrust in harder. “Greedy little thing.”
He fucked you like he meant it. Like he was punishing you for every time you rolled your eyes in class. For every time you told him to shut up.
You were moaning like a pornstar—loud, shameless, wrecked—as he pounded into you on the kitchen counter, sweat dripping, his abs flexing with every thrust.
“You were made for this cock,” he groaned. “Fucking built to take it like a good girl.”
He pulled out suddenly, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you into the living room.
“Bed’s too far. Couch. Now.”
You stumbled, legs shaking. He bent you over the armrest, slapped your ass once—hard—and buried himself inside again with a brutal snap of his hips.
“This ass…” he groaned. “You know how many times I’ve stared at it in class?”
“Wanted to fuck you bent over all the damn desks.”
Your moans were broken now—choked sobs of pleasure every time his hips slammed into you.
He wrapped his hand around your throat, not too tight—just enough to own you.
“You love this, don’t you?” he growled. “Big cock splitting you open. My hand on your neck. My cum dripping out of you.”
“Yes—fuck—yes, Changbin, please—”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop.”
His grip tightened. His thrusts turned savage.
“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he warned. “I want it leaking down your thighs when you go to class tomorrow. I want everyone to know this pussy’s mine.”
You clenched around him—hard—and he lost it.
“Fuck—fuck—baby—”
He came deep inside you, groaning like he was unraveling from the core. Hot spurts filling you up, cock twitching inside your walls.
You collapsed forward, shaking.
But he wasn’t done.
He pulled out, flipped you onto the rug, and dropped to his knees.
“Need to taste you.”
His tongue went straight to your core, licking up his own mess, spreading it across your folds as he devoured you like he’d starved for days.
“Not leaving till you cum on my face.”
And you did.
Screaming his name. Shaking. Barely able to think.
Your first mistake had been sending that photo.
But your biggest mistake?
Letting him in.
Because now?
You’d never get him out.
—
You couldn’t move.
You were sprawled out on your back on the rug, blinking at the ceiling, your entire body throbbing with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you. You felt wrecked in the best, most glorious way.
And yet—somehow—Changbin was the one panting like he’d just gone through hell.
He lay beside you, arm thrown over his face dramatically.
“I’m filing a formal complaint,” he groaned. “Your pussy should come with a fucking warning label.”
You wheezed out a laugh.
“Says the guy who just broke my uterus.”
He turned his head, looked at you.
And melted.
The shift was instant—his gaze softened, mouth twitching into the tiniest smile. He scooted closer, propped himself on one elbow, and brushed your sweaty hair off your cheek.
“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle. “Like… really okay?”
You nodded. “More than okay.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten years. Then leaned in and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheekbone—everywhere but your lips, like he was saving those for dessert.
“I swear I didn’t mean to fuck you like a caveman,” he mumbled. “I blacked out. You made that sound and I was just—gone.”
“You were terrifying,” you whispered, smiling. “In the hottest possible way.”
That made him grin.
He reached over for the hoodie he’d left slung on the chair and helped you into it—actually helped, like lifting your arms, guiding it over your head, kissing your shoulder once it was on.
Then he grabbed a warm towel, knelt between your legs, and started cleaning you up with the softest, most careful touch.
“Can’t have my girl leaking all over the carpet,” he murmured.
“Your girl?”
He looked up with a cocky smirk.
“You just let me raw dog you and you screamed my name for the neighbors, baby. Don’t play shy now.”
You tried to glare, but he leaned forward and kissed your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher.
“Next time,” he said, “I’m taking you slower. Gonna edge you until you’re crying.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You’re already thinking about next time?”
He glanced up at you with a boyish little shrug.
“I think about you all the time.”
Your heart stuttered. Because it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded real. Raw. Like the truth.
He saw your expression shift and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple.
“Not just the sex,” he murmured.
“I think about you when you fight with the professor. When you tie your hoodie strings in knots. When you roll your eyes at me like you always do.”
“Binnie—”
“I like you,” he whispered.
Simple. Honest.
And it hit you harder than any orgasm.
You buried your face in his chest. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you, one big palm cupping the back of your head like he could hide you there forever.
“You hungry?” he murmured.
“Starving.”
“Good. I got us pizza and fried chicken.”
You looked up. “You really ordered food while I was moaning your name?”
He smirked. “Actually did it on my way here but I can multitask baby.”
You laughed into his chest, and he kissed your head again.
When the food arrived, you sat curled in his lap, eating from his chopsticks while he kissed sauce off your lips between bites.
Later, when you were tucked into bed and halfway to sleep, he whispered:
“You were fucking perfect tonight.”
“I’m gonna be addicted to you now.”
You didn’t say anything back. You just pulled his arm tighter around you and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.
Because you already were.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: Its been a hot minute without a Binnie smut 💪🏻 How are we liking this cute little enemies to lovers?? 🤭❤️
tags: non idol au, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, forced proximity, bickering as foreplay, fluff, angst, eventual smut, mixed written/smau
synopsis: you were only supposed to help plan your cousin’s wedding—not survive it. but when you're paired with the groom’s good friend, a.k.a the most patronising, uptight, and frustrating man on the guest list, things go from manageably stressful to unbearably tense fast. he mocks your spontaneity, you insult his meticulousness, and somehow, you’re still stuck planning the entire event side by side.
venue tours turn into arguments. hosting rehearsals get a little too flirty. and when a last-minute mix-up lands you in a sticky situation…
well, let’s just say, it’s not only the champagne making your head spin.
they’re supposed to celebrate someone else’s love story—
so why does it suddenly feel like they’re living their own?
the pages
chapter one: this could’ve been an email
chapter two: closer than my comfort allows
chapter three: please do not touch me
chapter four: the eye of the storm
chapter five: do you?
i was inspired to start a series of my own by "the lover" ft felix, by my alpha @makeitworse— read it if you're awesome
thirty minutes should be all it takes for the aphrodisiac to set in.
pairing: bang chan x reader
wc: 5k
tags: smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, dacryphilia, aphrodisiac usage. requested!
chan discovers a chocolate that brags about increasing your sex drive—“your body and partner will scream thank you!”. unbelieving of it’s marketing strategy, you both decide to give it a try and see who can hold off of giving into your desire for the longest.
the bell above the door of the convenience store jingled as chan tugged it open, his hand still loosely laced with yours. the night air clung to your skin with a faint chill, but inside the fluorescent aisles, everything buzzed too bright, too clean, like a snapshot of every late-night craving you had ever indulged in. he leaned down, murmuring something about ice cream and chips, already steering you toward the snack aisle.
you watched him scan the shelves with sharp curiosity, his brow furrowing in mock seriousness as though this was a critical decision. then his eyes caught on a box you had not seen before—slick packaging in matte black, stamped with gold foil and embossed lettering: play hard chocolate: your body and partner will SCREAM thank you!
chan squinted. “what’s this?” he plucked it up, turning it over in his hands, feeling up the texture of the embossing. his voice held that mischievous lilt that always meant trouble. “looks like one of those gimmick snacks. probably some off-brand energy boost or something.”
“you aren’t seriously considering buying that, are you?” your laugh spilled out anyway, warm and incredulous.
“what’s the worst that could happen? it doesn’t work and we fuck anyway?” his grin widened, boyish, mischievous, and reckless. he tossed the box into the basket with your chips and soda.
later, you were curled together back at his apartment. the glow of the tv painted the walls in soft colour. chan tore the sleek foil wrapper open and broke off a piece, offering it between two fingers. “half each?”
wordlessly, you lean to him and eat the chocolate from between his fingers, letting him feed you. the flavour of the dark chocolate melted across your tongue immediately, richer than expected, with a faint, bitter undercurrent. not unpleasant—just unusual. you chased the flavor with a sip of soda and leaned back against him.
chan leaned his head toward you, grin tugging at his lips. “okay. new rule. let’s see who can last longer without cracking. if this stuff turns out to work, the first one to act on the effects of this loses.”
you arched a brow. “so you already feel weird. we just ate them!”
“not at all,” he fired back, maybe a fraction too quickly. “just making it fair.”
you laughed, shaking your head. “fine. game on.”
for the first fifteen minutes or so, nothing changes between the two of you. just the hum of the movie, the steady beat of his pulse where your shoulder rested against his chest. then—something fades in. a subtle warmth unfurling low in your belly, like the first sip of wine on an empty stomach, blossoming light warmth and tingles from your gut to your appendages. chan shifted beside you, fingers twitching once against your thigh, then stilling.
“do you feel…” his voice trailed, and when you glanced up, his lips parted around a shallow breath.
heat trickled outward, tingling along your skin as though invisible hands skimmed just beneath the surface. the sensation was delicate at first, a whisper of arousal without a clear source. you tried to ignore it, focus on the screen—but the awareness grew, curling down your legs, gathering heat between your thighs. your chest rose a little quicker, each inhale sharper than the last.
chan pressed his palm against his sweats, an unconscious motion, as though trying to ground himself. he swallowed. “the packaging said that supposedly the side effects should kick in after half an hour, how long has it been?” he muttered, a third a laugh, a third a rhetoric, a third a confession.
but the chocolate was already working its way deeper, dissolving into something far more primal. every brush of his arm against yours sparked, every shared breath an invitation. the uncertainty was almost worse than the heat—the wondering if this was really happening, or if you were imagining it.
the movie carried on, bright and loud, but you could hardly follow the plot. your body was humming with that creeping warmth, prickling beneath your skin in waves that would not settle. you fixed your gaze firmly on the screen, jaw set, willing yourself to look unbothered.
game on, you reminded yourself. chan wanted to play? then fine—you were not about to lose.
despite your inhibitions, your body betrayed you anyway. your thighs pressed closer together, the movement too subtle for him to notice (actually, you had hoped it was too subtle for him to notice), but the motion sparked a sharp jolt of heat at your core. the sensation lingered, impossible to ignore, spreading outward until you had to bite your lip against releasing a sigh.
beside you, chan’s body was strung taut. he leaned back like he always did, one arm thrown along the backside of the couch, but he was far too still. his jaw worked slowly, rhythmically, as though he were grinding the tension out of his teeth. his chest rose and fell in careful measures.
inside, he was cursing.
the warmth had hit him harder than expected—like a low current running beneath his skin, catching at every nerve. the chocolate’s aftertaste lingered on his tongue, bitter and electric. each inhale carried your scent, threaded through with the faint sweetness of soda, and it only made the air feel thicker.
but there was no way he would give in first. no chance.
she looks fine, he told himself, mentally kicking himself for feeling so much already. though mid thought, the flicker of your leg shifting caught his eye, and he almost smirked. she’s fighting it too.
you felt his gaze for the barest second and kept your face forward, eyes locked on the blur of the tv. if you looked at him, you might give yourself away.
time dragged. the tension wound tighter.
chan flexed his fingers against the cushion, aching to let them drift lower—to your arm, your waist, anywhere. instead, he curled them into a fist. his thighs shifted once, restless, but he caught himself quickly, forced his body back into stillness.
you are not winning this, he told you silently, fighting the pulse of heat that rolled through him.
you, meanwhile, were rehearsing your composure in your head: shoulders relaxed, breathing even, lips pressed calm. but your body screamed at you, sparks racing up your spine each time his arm hovered near your shoulder without touching. it was maddening—every part of you aware of how close he was, how much you wanted to lean in, to shatter the silence with a kiss, a touch, anything.
but then you remembered the challenge. remembered the smug grin he would wear if you broke first.
so you stayed still. stubborn. silent.
and chan, swallowing down the rasp in his throat, stayed just as stubborn beside you.
the room was unbearably warm now. or maybe it wasn’t the room cranking it’s own thermostat. maybe it was the way your pulse refused to settle, the way each breath dragged heat deeper into your chest. the movie flickered on, completely ignored by both viewers. every ounce of your focus narrowed to chan’s presence—his steady breathing, his solid thigh only inches from yours, the quiet hum of restraint rolling off him.
you told yourself you were fine. that you would outlast him. you had to.
but then his arm shifted on the back of the couch, casual, the faintest brush of his knuckles grazing your shoulder as he stretched. a spark jolted down your spine.
you swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to remain on the screen. he’s doing it on purpose.
and he was.
chan fought against his own building hunger with every ounce of discipline he had—but that discipline came with a streak of mischief. he wanted you to break first. wanted to see the moment your composure shattered.
so he stretched again, a groan leaving his chest as though it were nothing, and let his leg shift just enough that his knee brushed against yours. the contact lingered one second too long.
his lips twitched at the corner. there. let’s see how long you last now.
your breath hitched, but you covered it with a sip of soda, pressing the can to your lips like a shield. the carbonation fizzed sharp on your tongue, but it did nothing to cool the ache curling low in your body.
he was trying to get to you. you knew it.
but you refused to give him the satisfaction.
so you sat straighter, smoothed your expression, even leaned a little farther from him to prove your composure. your heart thundered, betraying you.
chan watched out of the corner of his eye, amusement darkening into something heavier. his self-control frayed with every second of this game. the chocolate’s effects licked at him like fire under his skin, a restless thrum that begged for release.
but he would not lose. not first.
she’s stubborn, he thought, eyes dipping to the faint movement of your thighs pressing together. so am i.
he let his fingers drum against the cushion, the rhythm slow and teasing, each tap a whisper of sound. then he “shifted,” letting the back of his hand brush your arm this time, softer, more deliberate.
innocent enough to play off. charged enough to make your nerves scream.
you clenched your jaw, refusing to look at him. the heat inside you pulsed harder, needier, and it took every ounce of stubbornness not to squirm, not to gasp.
the movie blurred. time dragged.
neither of you moved to admit a thing.
both of you burned.
the silence stretched until it threatened to snap. you shifted first, turning just enough to meet his gaze. chan’s eyes glinted, steady and dark, a challenge simmering behind them.
“you wanna give in so bad, don’t you?” his voice was soft, low, but edged with smugness.
your lips curved, though your chest heaved tighter. “you wish. you just want me to give in so that you can get what you want.”
he chuckled, the sound curling hot down your spine. “what makes you think i want anything?” he leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately, his breath warm against your ear. “i’m so fine. i can do this all night.”
— which is a total lie. his blood buzzed like static, every muscle strung taut, but he held it. if he had to last all night without release, he might lose it.
you tilted your head slightly, just enough to let your hair sweep against his jaw. “sure. you definitely don’t look like you’re suffering.”
“me?” he laughed, a short, sharp sound. “look at yourself. thighs pressed tight. barely breathing. we both know you’re the one losing it.”
the flush rushed higher in your chest, but you refused to back down. you shifted your leg, letting your knee slide against his in a deliberate stroke. “i could say the same about you, i can see the flush crawling up your neck and chest.”
chan’s composure faltered for half a heartbeat—his inhale sharp, his eyes flicking to your mouth before snapping back to your gaze. his pulse thundered, traitorous.
still, he smirked. “cute try. but i’m not the one who keeps squirming.”
your laugh came out breathless, dangerous. “say that again when you stop clenching your fists.” your eyes dropped deliberately to his lap, then let them slowly trail over his body—you could see the lines of muscle under his black tank, which didn’t aid your already stretched thin resolve—back up to his eyes. “or maybe you would rather i just admit it for you?”
chan swallowed hard, the movement visible along his throat. his voice roughened as he leaned closer. “you want to make me crack? then do it. otherwise… admit you’re done for.”
the air between you sizzled, too thick, too close. the chocolate’s heat roared in your blood now, every nerve screaming for contact, every breath a fight.
and yet neither of you broke. not yet.
after a few minutes, chan shifted again, this time not pretending it was an accident. his thigh slid flush against yours, slow, deliberate, the friction making your pulse stutter.
“see?” you whispered, breath catching anyway. “you’re the one constantly moving closer.”
he tilted his head, lips curving into a dangerous smile. “because i know what it does to you.” his fingers drummed once against the cushion before skimming just barely over your arm, not a real touch—just enough to make your skin tingle. “you want me to touch you so bad, don’t you baby?”
your breath left in a shaky laugh. “keep dreaming. you’re the one whose breathing sounds like you ran for a few hours.”
chan leaned in then, so close the heat of his cheek brushed yours. his lips hovered at your ear, his whisper low enough to feel, not just hear. “give in so you can get what you want. i’m right here. i’ll give it to you exactly how i know you want it.”
the sound of his voice alone sent fire curling low in your stomach. you turned your head just slightly, your nose grazing his jawline, lips nearly brushing his skin. “you first. admit you’re losing it.”
his hand lifted from his thigh at last, fingers ghosting over your knee. he let them linger there, then traced upward a fraction, enough to make your muscles twitch beneath his touch. “funny,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours, “i thought i heard you gasp just now.”
you forced a smirk, though your body was trembling. your hand slid across his stomach, barely skimming the fabric of his tank as you traced the line of his stomach through the cotton. “and i thought i saw you flinch.”
his exhale was harsh, shuddering, and he retaliated immediately—letting his thumb circle over the bare skin just above your knee. the sensation was searing, small but enough to send a ripple of heat coursing upward.
“we both know you’re on the edge,” he whispered, lips hovering dangerously near yours.
“keep telling yourself that,” you breathed, shifting your hand lower, pressing your palm against his upper thigh. you squeezed gently, felt the muscle jump under your touch, and smiled sweetly. “you’re worse off than i am.”
chan’s composure cracked by just a hairline. his pupils blew wide, his lips parting with a sharp inhale. but he rallied, leaning so close now your noses almost brushed. “say it. admit it. i can see it all over you.”
the tension between you burned hotter, your bodies locked in a dangerous stalemate—hands wandering, voices teasing, neither willing to surrender.
chan’s thumb drifted higher on your thigh, slow enough to look casual but purposeful enough that every nerve ending screamed for more. his hand stopped just shy of where you ached for it, hovering, taunting.
“still fine?” he asked, voice low, smug, though you heard the rasp beneath it.
you tilted your chin, refusing to let your voice tremble. “completely.” and then, boldly, you let your fingers trail from his stomach down to the tender inside of his thigh, pressing gently, brushing dangerously close to where he wants you most before sliding away slyly.
chan’s breath caught. it was tiny, but you caught it. victory warmed your chest.
“hm,” you whispered, leaning in close enough for your lips to ghost over his jawline. “you almost broke, huh?”
his laugh came out cracked, breathier than he meant it to. “you wish.”
inside, chan was a complete and total mess. the chocolate burned through his veins like liquid fire, every teasing brush of your hand pushing him closer to the brink. his thighs ached from holding still, his fists clenched to keep from manhandling you onto his lap and ending the game outright.
but you were no calmer. every inch of you pulsed with need, every second of his hand lingering just shy of where you wanted it unraveling you. your body screamed to give in, to pull his mouth down to yours, to beg for more contact than this cruel teasing.
stay calm, you told yourself. do not let him win.
chan dipped his head, lips grazing your ear, his breath hot enough to make your stomach flip. “i can feel you shaking,” he murmured. “you’re holding on by a thread.”
your hand slid higher up his thigh, squeezing harder this time, and you smirked through your own trembling. “if i’m on a thread, then you’re already falling.”
the air between you snapped with tension, every brush of skin electric, every shared breath thick with desperation. both of you so close, both of you dying to give in—yet neither willing to speak the first surrender.
chan’s jaw tightened, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened at his sides. he had lasted so long—longer than he thought possible—but the way your fingers pressed, the way your thigh brushed against his, the low hum of heat radiating off your body… it was too much. every nerve ending in him was a live wire, every breath a battle. he brings his hand to grasp your jaw, turning you to face him.
“fuck it,” he mumbled before he could stop himself, voice rough, husky, ragged.
and just like that, his composure snapped.
he lunged—not violently, but with the kind of hunger that had been coiled for too long. his hand pulled you closer as his lips crashed against yours. the chocolate’s warmth seemed to ignite in your veins, every nerve singing.
you gasped, shivering at the sudden contact, and his hands roamed with abandon, brushing up your thighs, sliding over the curve of your hip, anchoring you to him. he kissed you with a desperation that made your own restraint crumble, teeth grazing, tongues teasing, the sound of him groaning low and ragged in your mouth.
inside, chan’s mind was a whirlwind of want and shame and triumph all at once. he had lost—he admitted it—but it was intoxicating. every curve beneath his hands, every gasp and whimper, every shiver of yours beneath him made the surrender worth it.
you, meanwhile, were dizzy with need. the teasing, the warmth, the chocolate—everything had stacked until it was unbearable, and now his lips, his hands, his body pressed impossibly close were the only release. your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, encouraging, teasing back.
“you… you broke first, i knew you wouldn’t last” you murmured against his lips, a mix of breathless amusement and pure heat.
“i… i did,” he groaned, a little embarrassed. “but god, you’re fuckin’ torturous to resist.”
every inch of him burned against you, every nerve singeing, and yet, somehow, he couldn’t stop. not now. not while the two of you hovered on the edge, the chocolate’s fire driving your bodies together like magnets.
unpleased by just merely sitting on the couch facing each other, chan parted from you and manoeuvred you to lie your back, crawling on top of you. your complaints of not having his lips attending to yours were silenced by them returning back. everything felt more intense, every movement felt ignited.
the teasing was over. the desperate, hungry, uncontrollable need that had simmered beneath the surface for over half an hour finally erupted, and chan surrendered completely, lips and hands and breath all claiming you in the way he had been dying to do.
his hands roamed hungrily, sliding over your thighs, kneading the curve of your ass, thumbs tracing the crease where you were already wet with need. he slung your legs over his, slotting his hips against yours, both of you hissing at the contact. the chocolate’s slow, insidious heat still thrummed beneath your skin, making every touch burn brighter.
your breath hitched, legs parting almost instinctively under him, thighs pressing against him as he ground his hips down, the friction sending shivers curling straight up into your core. you could feel the slick heat coating your folds, the way your body arched toward him as though it had been waiting for this exact touch.
chan groaned, deep and guttural, his head dipping to bite at your collarbone as one hand slipped beneath your shirt, pressing into the swell of your breast. the other hand teased up your inner thigh, palm brushing over your cunt before dragging back teasingly, only to press again harder, as though he was memorizing every inch.
his tongue traced your jaw, then down your throat, as you mewled softly, fingers clutching his hair. the taste of him—warm, urgent, slightly bitter from the chocolate—made your knees tremble. every movement he made pressed you closer, hips tilting involuntarily, body drunk on the need he was stoking so deliberately. whereas usually he’d make you beg and plea for his hands, tonight he was unwilling to wait, so he slid his hand beneath your bottoms. his fingers slid between your folds, slick and teasing, spreading your wetness—wetter than usual—before plunging in, curling, pressing all the right spots. the aphrodisiac definitely had it’s perks.
“so wet already, for me,” he groaned, voice ragged, hands gripping your thighs tight enough to leave bruises. “god, i need you. need this. need you so bad…”
you whined, arching into him, letting the heat of your arousal meet the heat of his body. the friction of his hand—your body was melting into him, every nerve screaming for more. he removed his hand and stuck his slick fingers into his mouth, essentially moaning at the taste.
“please can i eat? please i need to so bad, please let me baby.” you felt your skin flush even more—if that were possible—he sounded so desperate. who were you to say no? you nodded and he groaned, sliding down to be face-to-face with your pelvis. he stuck his fingers into the waistband and tugged the fabrics downward.
wordlessly, he dived in. the slickness clung to him, hot and delicious, and he groaned at the taste, burying his face in your cunt, licking, claiming.
your thighs shook under his relentless assault, hips rolling into him, chest arching as the wave of pleasure began building, fast and furious. the chocolate heat still pulsed through you, amplifying every friction, every touch, making it nearly impossible to think, impossible to hold back. you moaned louder when he returned his middle and ring fingers to your hole, curling right where he needed to.
“fuck… you taste so good… so fucking good,” he moaned, body trembling, fingers working you with precision, urgency, desire. his whole being was focused on you, and you could feel the desperation in every motion—how badly he wanted to devour you, how lost he was to this need.
you let your head fall back as your body shivered, every nerve ending alive, screaming. chan groaned against you, his hips rutting down against the couch desperately, pressing every inch of himself into the heat of your thighs, every slick movement sending sparks firing up your spine.
the chocolate, his hands, his mouth, his desperation—everything combined into a pulsing, relentless rhythm of want that left you panting, trembling, and utterly undone under him.
he whispered your name, ragged and frantic, as if saying it made him even more his own undoing, before burying his face between your thighs again, tongue sliding into the slick heat of your pussy with abandon, fingers curling, dragging, torturing, pleasing all at once.
every flick of his tongue, every press of his mouth against your clit made your vision blur. you bucked involuntarily, hips jerking, thighs trembling, and he groaned deep in his throat, pressing harder, faster. the chocolate still pulsed through your veins, coiling every nerve into fire, making each touch feel magnified, impossible to resist.
“fuck… so good… god, you’re mine,” he growled, fingers curling and pressing inside you, dragging over every sensitive ridge, thumbs circling, teasing mercilessly. his mouth sucked and licked at your cunt, tongue flicking at every spot that made you whine his name, arch, shiver, melt.
you clawed at his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair, rocking your hips against him, lost entirely to the rolling, pulsing heat. your stomach tightened, every muscle trembling as wave after wave of friction and wet, delicious pressure coiled inside you.
“you’re… so wet… so perfect. let me hear how good you feel baby,” chan groaned, voice ragged and strained, fingers curling, tongue plunging, tugging, dragging. his own pulse throbbed frantic and raw. he was losing it—sweat slick along his skin, breathing ragged, teeth biting, groaning, desperate.
you arched, hips snapping against his mouth, moans spilling uncontrollably as the pleasure built, rising like fire racing through your veins. the chocolate, the warmth, the desperate, urgent need in chan’s every motion drove you higher, every stroke and flick of tongue amplifying it until you could barely think.
“cum for me,” he rasped, hands gripping your thighs tighter, fingers curling in, plunging, dragging, licking, torturing. “please… let me feel it all on my fingers baby.”
and that was it—the coil snapped. your body trembled violently, hips jerking, thighs clamping around his head as the wave rolled through you in pure, dizzying heat. your hands clutched him, digging into his hair, chest rising and falling, gasping, moaning his name over and over.
chan groaned into you, swallowing your cries, sucking, licking, every motion driving you higher even as his own need twisted inside him. the desperation in him—wanting you so badly, wanting to taste you, to claim you entirely—tipped over. he shivered violently, fingers curling inside you, thrusting with his tongue in a frantic, hot rhythm, muscles quaking as he let himself fall apart against you.
“fuck, god… you’re mine… so fucking wet—yes, yes, yes…” he groaned, shaking, leaning into you as the final shudder your release ripped through you. hips twitching, chest heaving, face buried between your thighs, every nerve on fire, completely lost to the sensation of you.
you were melting, still trembling, slick and spent under him, body still pulsing, every nerve ending ignited from the chocolate and his touch. your gasps and moans mingled with his growls, the room thick with heat, scent, and the aftermath of their shared, desperate need.
chan lifted his head slowly, eyes dark, lips swollen and glistening, chest rising and falling in ragged, trembling breaths. he didn’t say a word—didn’t need to. the way his hand gripped your hip, the slick smear still glinting along his fingers, the pulse of his cock pressing against your thigh told you everything.
you shivered, knees parting instinctively, hips pressing forward. the chocolate fire still thrummed through you, every nerve ending alive, every inch of your cunt dripping and aching for him.
“please,” you whispered, voice trembling, lips quivering as your nails dug crescents into chan’s shoulders. “i… i want you inside me.”
the words made him groan low and guttural, chest vibrating against yours. his cock pressed against your slick folds, teasing the entrance, the head sliding just enough to coat itself in your wetness. the friction alone made you arch, thighs quivering, cunt pulsing around nothing as though begging.
chan’s eyes fluttered shut, jaw tight as he pushed in slow, inch by inch. the chocolate’s warmth had wound through both your veins, heightening everything—the stretch, the drag, the delicious burn of being filled felt multiplied, sharp and exquisite. you gasped, clinging to him, tears springing to your lashes at the intensity.
“fuck… so tight,” he rasped, voice rough, strained as though holding back from pounding you right then. “so fucking perfect… made for me.” his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping, fingers clutching your hips hard enough to bruise.
when he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you froze for a moment, trembling at the sheer fullness. the chocolate had made every nerve raw, sensitive, pulsing. you felt stretched beyond capacity, body twitching, clit throbbing from the pressure.
“channie—” you whimpered, the sound cracking into a sob as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
his eyes snapped open, glazed and feral, catching the tears sliding hot down your cheek. his thumb brushed them away even as his hips began to move—slow at first, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained before slamming back in, deep, perfect, brutal.
you cried out, nails clawing down his back, tears streaming from the unbearable fullness, the heat, the way each thrust pressed your walls into white-hot ecstasy.
“you’re crying for me?” he groaned, voice breaking, thrusts growing harder, faster. “fuck… so pretty like this. all mine. let me fill you up—fuck, i want it dripping out of you.”
your body clenched violently around him at his words, walls fluttering, milking his cock. the chocolate’s pulse made each thrust feel like a shockwave, unbearable and addicting all at once.
“yes—yes, want it—want you to breed me—please, please,” you sobbed, voice wrecked, legs wrapping tighter around his waist.
chan groaned loud, his hips pounding into you without restraint, balls slapping wetly against you. his thumb circled your clit, rubbing ruthlessly in time with his thrusts, sending sparks screaming up your spine.
your vision blurred with tears, body arching, every nerve screaming as the orgasm built sharp and fast. you clutched at him, nails dragging down his back, mouth spilling broken cries.
“fuck, you’re so good… squeezing me so tight, crying for my cock,” he rasped, thrusts erratic, desperate. “take it—take everything—gonna fill you up, make you mine.”
the words detonated in your head. you shattered around him, body convulsing, cunt clamping down, hot tears spilling freely as the orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming.
chan groaned loud, hips slamming deep one final time as his cock twitched, spilling hot and heavy inside you, pulse after pulse coating your walls. “fuck, yes—take it, take all of me—fuck, let me give you everything.”
your sobs turned to moans, trembling violently as his warmth spread, mixing with your slick, dripping down your thighs. your body refused to stop clenching around him, milking him desperately, as though it never wanted to let him go.
he collapsed against you, chest heaving, still thrusting weakly, shallowly, grinding his cum deeper into you, unable to stop even through the overstimulation. his lips pressed to your tear-streaked cheeks, kissing, tasting the salt.
“god, you’re perfect,” he whispered, voice raw, breath shaking. “crying for me, begging for me—fuck, i’ll give you everything. all night.”
your body quaked under him, slick and messy, still crying softly from the intensity—but this time the tears were laced with bliss, with unbearable euphoria.
and chan—still buried deep inside you, still hard, still twitching—grinned against your skin, feral and relentless.
“you feel that?” he rasped, grinding his hips, cock stirring inside your soaked cunt. “already hard again. we’re not done, baby. we’ve got all night.”
Summary: It was supposed to be a harmless retro movie night with your best friend Chan. Then the film started… and it was porn. Now you’re stuck in a dark adult cinema, horny, flustered, and sitting way too close to the man you’ve never seen that way—until now. What follows? Stolen touches, filthy tension, crossed lines, and the slowest and fastest descent into “we probably shouldn’t be doing this.” Too bad neither of you wants to stop.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
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You didn’t think twice about asking Chan.
It was a throwaway message — a random, impulsive moment while scrolling your phone. The kind of thing only your best friend would say yes to without making it weird.
Got two free tickets to a retro film screening lol. Come with me?? Apparently it’s a surprise title.
You didn’t expect him to reply three seconds later with,
Say less. I’m already choosing snacks in my head.
And now here you were.
Shoulder to shoulder in a darkened theater that smelled like old velvet and warm popcorn, curled up in plush, oversized recliners that felt suspiciously luxurious for an indie cinema. You’d joked about it when you walked in — called it “bougie-arthouse-meets-grandma’s-living-room.”
Chan had laughed, soft and bright, and dropped his head to your shoulder for a second.
“You and your weird luck,” he’d said. “Only you would win tickets to a mystery movie night in a place that looks like it doubles as a jazz bar for ghosts.”
And you’d smiled. You always smiled when he touched you.
Now, the lights dimmed fully, and the film began with a crackle of film grain and a vintage soundtrack humming over the speakers.
At first, everything felt normal.
Old cars. Sepia tones. Awkward, exaggerated acting from a woman in a silk slip and a man with a mustache too big for his face. You sipped your drink. Chan occasionally leaned in to whisper dumb commentary in your ear, and you had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Then the silk slip hit the floor.
You blinked.
Onscreen, the woman dropped to her knees.
“…Wait,” you said under your breath.
Chan leaned forward slightly. “Is she…?”
She was. Very much.
The theater stayed silent, but you could feel it now — the strange atmosphere. The intentionality of the recliners. The lack of teenagers. The fact that everyone was sitting in pairs. Close. Intimate.
You glanced at Chan.
He was frowning a little, eyes still fixed forward.
And then she moaned.
Loudly. Lewdly. Wet and raw.
Chan inhaled sharply, then turned to you — eyes wide with disbelief.
“Is this—?”
“Porn,” you whispered. “I think it’s porn.”
You both stared forward again.
The camera cut to the man’s face — all clenched jaw and labored breathing as she took him deeper into her throat.
You sat frozen, drink in your hand, heart suddenly thudding like you were caught watching something you shouldn’t.
Chan cleared his throat. Shifted in his seat.
“We should… we could leave,” he said, but his voice was strained.
You couldn’t look at him. “Mhm. Could.”
But you didn’t move. Neither did he and the screen only got filthier.
There was something hypnotic about it — not the porn itself, but the setting. The heavy quiet of the room. The creak of recliners. The small, breathy gasps from one or two corners of the theater where other pairs sat just a little too close.
Chan shifted again beside you, and this time you felt it — his thigh brushing yours.
He wasn’t pulling away. Neither were you. And your chest was rising faster now. You didn’t say anything.
You couldn’t.
Not with the screen soaked in moans and movement and sweat, and the awareness of him sitting right there, warm and silent and way too close.
You didn’t look at him.
But you wondered If he was feeling it too. You didn’t dare move.
Not because you were afraid — but because you weren’t sure what might happen if you did.
The screen lit up with flesh. Grainy but real. A woman on her back now, legs spread wide, breathless under a man twice her size. He fucked her slow and deep, long strokes that made her back arch off the mattress.
The audio was soft but obscene.
You swallowed hard.
You hadn’t meant to watch porn with your best friend. Hadn’t meant to sit this close, thighs touching, breaths syncing like your bodies had somehow started responding to the same rhythm pulsing through the room.
The theater was still mostly quiet, but… not entirely.
There were sounds. Small, barely-there ones. A stifled moan from the far right corner. A squeak of leather from behind you. Someone shifting in a way that didn’t sound like they were just trying to get comfortable.
Your skin prickled.
And beside you, Chan exhaled. A little shaky.
You finally turned your head toward him. He looked… tense. Eyes fixed on the screen, jaw tight, one hand braced on his thigh like he was deliberately keeping it there.
You whispered, “Chan…”
He blinked, tore his gaze from the screen, and looked at you.
His eyes were darker now.
His lips parted, breath shallow.
“I didn’t…” he said softly. “I didn’t think it would actually be—”
“I know,” you breathed. “Me neither.”
A beat passed. Neither of you looked away.
The sounds from the movie grew louder — wet, rhythmic, raw. Her moans echoing, punctuated by filthy dialogue that made your stomach flip.
Chan’s eyes dropped to your lips for just a second.
Just long enough to make your breath catch.
And when they lifted again — slowly — his tongue darted across his bottom lip.
“You okay?” he asked. Quiet. Gentle.
You nodded before you even thought about it.
But he didn’t look convinced.
Your knees were still touching. Bare skin brushing denim. The air between you was thick enough to chew.
You tried to shift your attention back to the screen — to pretend none of this was happening.
But all you could think about was the way Chan was not moving away.
The way your skin still tingled from that single look.
The way your body had started to thrum in time with the soundtrack.
You heard her moan again — a long, high cry that made your thighs clench instinctively.
Chan noticed. You knew he noticed.
His fingers twitched against his own leg. And then he let out a quiet, almost silent laugh — like he couldn’t believe what was happening either.
“This is insane,” he muttered.
You bit your lip. “Mhm.”
And then — softer — he added, “You’re warm.”
You turned to look at him fully now. “What?”
His eyes were on your bare thigh, where it pressed against his. His hand hovered just above it.
“You’re warm,” he said again, like it meant something else. Like he wasn’t just talking about skin temperature.
You held his gaze. And for the first time all night, something shifted. Your pulse spiked but he didn’t touch you.
Not yet.
But his hand stayed there. Hovering. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his palm. Like he was waiting for permission he didn’t know he needed.
Your breath hitched.
And Chan’s jaw clenched again — like holding back was costing him something.
“I should…” he started.
But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because neither of you really knew how this was supposed to go anymore.
You tried to shake it off.
The porn, the glances, the way Chan looked at your thighs like they were saying something. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That best friends had weird moments sometimes — and maybe you’d laugh about it tomorrow over coffee.
But then you went to dinner.
Just a casual spot near the theater. Dimly lit bar-slash-restaurant, exposed brick, candlelight on the tables. The kind of place where your friend group could cram into a long booth and pass menus around like nothing was vibrating under the surface.
Chan slid in next to you without a word.
You were hyper-aware of it. Of his shoulder against yours, the brush of his denim jacket sleeve. His thigh pressing against yours again like he needed it. Like he hadn’t gotten it out of his system earlier.
Your friend across the table said something — you didn’t catch it.
You laughed anyway. Too loud. Too bright.
Chan didn’t say much at first. He drank his beer, leaned in for the occasional snarky comment in your ear, but you could feel it — the way his hand stayed in his lap, twitching sometimes like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
And then.
You reached for a napkin. Your legs shifted. And his hand landed on your knee.
Accidentally — at first.
At least, you thought it was accidental. But he didn’t move it.
You froze.
Looked down.
He was staring straight ahead, nodding at something one of your friends was saying — like nothing was happening.
Like his fingers weren’t slowly brushing the bare skin just above your knee, under the hem of your denim skirt.
You inhaled sharply.
He heard it. You knew he did, because his fingers paused, then curled just a little.
Your stomach dropped.
You flicked your eyes sideways at him.
Chan was still looking at the others. Still pretending. But his hand was now fully on your thigh — warm, heavy, steady — and slowly sliding higher.
Your breath caught.
He was doing it on purpose. And you… You weren’t stopping him.
He leaned in then, head tilted toward yours like he was about to whisper another joke — but his voice was low this time. Quiet enough that only you could hear it over the ambient music and clinking glasses.
“You’re not moving,” he murmured. “You’re letting me do this.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
“You’re the one touching me,” you shot back, voice tight.
His thumb brushed higher.
Your skin tingled.
“Yeah,” he said, barely audible now. “And you’re letting me.”
Your legs shifted under the table, parting just a little — not on purpose, not really — but it didn’t matter. Because his fingers slipped right into that space. Hot and deliberate.
You felt the pad of his middle finger slide up the inside of your thigh.
Slow and Dangerous.
And you snapped your knees together instinctively — not in rejection, but because it was too much.
He stopped. Froze.
You looked at him but he was already looking at you. Eyes blown wide, jaw tight. Like he wasn’t sure who he was right now. Neither were you.
Your voice came out a whisper. “Chan…”
“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he said.
Silence stretched between you.
The others were still talking. Laughing. Existing in some parallel universe where you weren’t seconds from being fingered under a dinner table.
But you weren’t in that universe.
You were here. You were wet.
And Chan’s fingers were moving again.
You should have told him to stop.
There were too many people. Too many eyes. Your friends were right there — sharing food, sipping drinks, cracking jokes across the table like this was just another Thursday night.
And under the table? Chan’s hand was under your skirt.
Fully.
You didn’t know how it had happened so quickly — or maybe you did. Maybe it was always going to happen, after what the movie did to the both of you. After the way your thighs touched and neither of you pulled back.
But this? This was insane.
His fingertips brushed the edge of your underwear, and you inhaled sharply — too sharply — so you faked a cough and reached for your water.
Chan’s body shifted subtly beside you. You felt his breath near your ear as he leaned in to pretend he was saying something casual.
“Still not stopping me,” he murmured.
You clenched your thighs again, but this time it was too late. His fingers had already slipped past the edge of your panties.
Your hips twitched. And his knuckles pressed against your core.
You were soaked.
Like your body had been waiting for this since the cinema. Like it had been aching for him in the most humiliating, undeniable way.
Chan froze.
And then — low enough that no one else could possibly hear — he let out the smallest, most desperate sound.
“Fuck…”
You looked at him, panicked — your voice a whisper. “Chan, we’re in public.”
“I know,” he breathed, barely glancing at you. His hand didn’t move. “Tell me to stop and i will.”
You didn’t. You couldn’t.
And that was all he needed. His middle finger slipped inside you in one slow, hot push.
Your thighs tensed. Your mouth fell open.
You grabbed your drink like it was the only thing tethering you to reality — fingers white-knuckling the glass as you tried to keep your face normal, blank, anything but wrecked.
Above the table, someone asked you a question. Something about dessert. A menu. It didn’t matter. You didn’t hear it.
Because Chan curled his finger inside you.
Your hand shot to your lap, gripping your thigh to keep yourself from squirming. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anyone. You just nodded blindly and mumbled something noncommittal, hoping it passed.
Chan didn’t let up.
His finger moved in and out slowly, and your entire body flushed with heat. He had the audacity to smirk — just the tiniest bit — eyes still fixed on his drink like he wasn’t currently fingering his best friend under the table while people laughed and talked around them.
“This is so fucking wrong,” you hissed under your breath.
“I know,” he said. Another finger joined the first. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”
Your eyes fluttered shut for half a second.
You tried to breathe through your nose. Stay quiet. Act normal. But every subtle movement of his hand made your legs twitch, your core clench, your heartbeat crash against your ribs.
You glanced at him again.
He looked flushed now too. Like he was seconds from losing his mind, but still holding it together because it was you. Because this wasn’t just lust, it was something older, deeper — something that had been crawling under both your skins for months.
“Chan,” you whispered, like a warning.
“Say the word,” he said, voice tight. “Say stop. I will. But you don’t want me to.”
And you hated how right he was. Because instead of pulling away, you shifted forward an inch — just enough that his fingers sank deeper inside you.
Chan sucked in a breath. And you both went still.
A sharp laugh cracked from across the table, drawing attention — and you had to force a smile, nod along, pretend you weren’t sitting there with your best friend’s fingers knuckle-deep inside your body, massaging a spot that made your eyes blur.
Your thighs trembled and Chan leaned in, lips brushing your ear like a secret.
“You’re gonna cum,” he whispered. “Right here, aren’t you?”
You shuddered. Your breath hitched.
And he smiled — not cocky, not cruel. Just in awe. Like he couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked with your cheeks flushed and your teeth digging into your lip to keep a moan from slipping out.
You felt your orgasm build — fast, frantic, terrifying.
You grabbed his wrist under the table.
He stilled instantly. “Too much?”
You shook your head. “Not enough.”
And that was it.
His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm nudging your clit just enough to send you over the edge in a quiet, trembling crash of heat and pleasure. You came with your teeth pressed into your fist, staring hard at a candle on the table like it could anchor you, keep you grounded while your body shattered in silence.
And when it was over, you sat back—Breathless. Shaking.
His fingers slipped out of you slowly, carefully — like he respected what he’d just done to you, even if it made no sense at all.
Your eyes met his and the panic set in.
What the fuck are we doing?
But you were still wet. Still aching.
And you knew — without a doubt — you weren’t done.
You bolted from the table the second your legs worked again.
Something about needing the bathroom. A brush of your hand on your friend’s shoulder as you excused yourself, voice a little too high-pitched, smile a little too tight.
You didn’t look at Chan.
Couldn’t.
Your body was still pulsing from what he’d just done to you — in public, surrounded by friends, like it was the most natural thing in the world to slide his fingers into his best friend and make her come in silence while everyone else debated dessert.
Your heart thundered.
You didn’t think. You just ran.
The bathroom door swung open and you staggered inside, gripping the sink, trying to catch your breath. Your panties were still wet, your thighs sticky, your reflection in the mirror pink-cheeked and glassy-eyed and wrecked.
“What the fuck,” you whispered to yourself.
And then the door opened behind you. Your stomach dropped.
“Chan, don’t—”
But it was too late.
He stepped in, locked the door behind him, and turned to face you — eyes dark, breathing shallow, like he’d sprinted the whole way.
“I had to,” he said. “I couldn’t just let you leave like that.”
You backed up a step. “We’re in the bathroom.”
“No one saw me come in.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” His voice cracked on the edge of something— desperation, maybe. “Because I just made you cum under the fucking table and you didn’t even look at me.”
“I couldn’t!” you hissed, voice sharp and low.
He flinched. Just slightly.
You swallowed, heart pounding.
“It was too much,” you added. “You— that— fuck, Chan.”
He moved toward you. Slow. Careful. But you didn’t step back.
“You liked it,” he said softly.
You blinked. “That’s not—”
“You liked it,” he repeated. “Your body loved it. You soaked through my fingers.”
Your lips parted.
He stopped right in front of you now, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up.
“You didn’t even know you were grinding against my hand until I curled my fingers and you almost choked on your drink.”
“Chan—”
“You’re still wet, aren’t you?” he asked, voice wrecked. “Still aching.”
You stared at him. And you didn’t deny it. A beat of silence passed.
Then: “I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening to us.”
His hand rose — not to touch you, but to rest against the wall behind your head. Caging you in. Close enough that his breath hit your lips.
“I do,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped.
He leaned in just a little more. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked in that theater. The way you breathed. The way your thighs trembled.”
You swallowed hard.
“I shouldn’t want you,” he said, forehead nearly touching yours now. “You’re my best friend.”
“Then stop,” you said. It sounded like a challenge.
He looked at you.
“You don’t want me to stop.”
Your silence was answer enough.
And then he kissed you.
Hard. Hungry. Like every second you’d known each other had been leading here, and he was done pretending. His hands gripped your waist, and before you could catch your breath, he had you backed against the stall door, mouth trailing fire down your neck.
“I need to taste you properly,” he whispered against your throat. “But I can’t wait.”
You whimpered as his hands slid under your skirt again, rougher this time — no hesitation. He shoved your panties down with practiced fingers, lifted your leg over his waist and slide two fingers back inside you like they belonged there.
You moaned — couldn’t help it.
His free hand clamped over your mouth immediately.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll get us caught.”
His eyes burned into yours — wild, wrecked, possessive.
And he fucked you with his fingers like he meant it. Like he needed to make you feel it. Wrist twisting just right, fingers rubbing the spot that made your eyes roll back, and all you could do was cling to his shoulders and take it.
You came harder this time.
Biting into his palm. Hips jerking against his hand.
And even after your legs gave out and your body sagged against the door, he didn’t pull away. He held you there. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing you in.
“I’m not sorry,” he whispered.
You shook your head, eyes still glazed. “Me neither.”
—
Neither of you said anything on the way back.
You walked side by side, hands in your pockets, your face still flushed from the bathroom, heart still pounding in your throat.
The streets were quieter now, warm with the scent of summer and distant traffic, and the occasional brush of Chan’s arm sent shivers crawling down your spine.
You couldn’t look at him.
Because if you did…
You might ask for something neither of you could ever come back from.
Your thighs still ached. Your underwear still clung damp to your skin. And between your legs — Jesus. It was like your body had been switched on and couldn’t shut off.
You were still feeling his fingers inside you.
And he kept glancing sideways. Like he wanted to say something. But didn’t know how.
You finally reached his building. The stoop was dim and familiar — how many nights had you sat there together, late-night snacks and dumb conversations and sleepy yawns on each other’s shoulders? You could still see the ghost of those moments hovering in the air, but they were dissolving fast.
Chan turned to you at the door.
Hands in his pockets.
Voice rough.
“Do you wanna—” He swallowed. “Come in?”
Your heart stuttered.
You should’ve said no.
But instead you nodded.
His apartment smelled like his cologne and roses.
You stood in the middle of his living room, heart hammering. Your skin felt too tight, your legs still shaky. And Chan — god, Chan — locked the door behind you, then leaned back against it like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.
Until he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And you felt your breath catch.
“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “What?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you. Your thighs, your mouth, the way you looked at me when I touched you. I’ve never seen anything that turned me on more in my life.”
Your throat went dry.
He pushed off the door and stepped closer.
“I want to fuck you so bad I’m shaking.”
Your lips parted.
“Chan—”
“I want to pin you down,” he continued, voice wrecked. “I want to have your wrists in one hand, your neck in the other, and just ruin you.”
You made a small, helpless sound.
He reached for you then — slow, giving you time to pull away — but you didn’t.
He brushed your hair back. Tilted your chin up.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he said. “How many nights I’ve had to jerk off in silence after hugging you goodbye.”
You stared at him. Speechless.
“I think about you when I fuck my fist. I imagine you beneath me, half-undressed, legs open, begging.”
You gasped — one hand flying to cover your mouth.
But he wasn’t done.
“I want to pin you to the bed,” he whispered. “Hold you down while you squirm. Make you cry my name while I fuck you like you owe me something.”
Your legs buckled.
He caught you instantly.
“You like that?” he breathed.
You nodded, stunned.
“Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not done.”
He backed you toward the bedroom, eyes locked to yours.
“And after that?” he said. “I’m gonna cum all over you. Your stomach. Your face. Wherever I want.”
You whimpered.
“I’m gonna fuck you in your clothes, with your skirt bunched around your waist and your panties pushed aside, because I can’t wait to take them off.”
He licked his lips.
“And you’re gonna take it, baby girl.”
You stared at him, heart pounding. Breathless. Speechless.
So fucking turned on.
And then, softly you said:
“Show me.”
—
The bedroom door clicked shut behind you.
And it was like your body knew.
Your heart was a live wire. Your breath shallow. You took two slow steps into Chan’s room — familiar walls, familiar scent — but it didn’t feel like home tonight.
It felt like danger. It felt like him.
Chan followed behind, slow and steady, letting the silence stretch until you couldn’t take it anymore.
You turned around to face him.
He looked wrecked already — hair tousled, chest heaving, hands flexing open and shut at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab you and ruin you.
You didn’t say anything.
You just looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and reached for the hem of your skirt.
He caught your wrists before you could tug it up.
“Let me,” he said.
And that voice — god, that voice — low and dark and possessive, made your knees tremble.
He walked toward you, slow like a wolf circling prey. You expected him to strip you, to yank your clothes off with that filthy desperation he’d whispered about.
But he didn’t.
He kissed you.
Soft, at first and then not.
His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping the backs with practiced heat. And when he pulled your skirt up — when he saw your ruined panties again — he let out a sound so deep it rattled in your chest.
“Still wet for me,” he said.
You couldn’t speak.
“You came twice and you’re still soaked.”
He dipped his head — not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to your throat. You tilted your head back with a gasp as he sucked at your pulse, teeth grazing, mouth open and hot.
“I’m gonna fuck you just like this,” he growled. “Skirt up. Panties in the way. Legs spread for me.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he dropped to his knees in front of you.
“Chan—”
“Shh.”
He kissed your inner thigh, lips dragging dangerously close to your center, but not touching. Not yet.
“You have no idea how many times I thought about this,” he said against your skin. “How many nights I imagined tasting you.”
And then his fingers hooked your underwear and tore them down.
You gasped.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and blown.
And then — finally — his mouth closed over your core.
Your knees buckled.
You moaned his name, loud and desperate, and he growled into you, arms locking around your thighs as he dragged you closer. His tongue was everywhere — licking, curling, sucking your clit in a rhythm that was absolutely obscene.
You lost time.
Lost sense.
You gripped his hair and ground against his face, your body taking what it needed because he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t let you breathe, and when his fingers slipped inside you, you came so hard your vision blacked out for a second.
“Fuck— fuck—” you sobbed, hips jerking.
He rode it out. Held you through it. Slowed down only when you begged him to.
And then he stood.
Still fully clothed.
Hard as a rock behind his jeans.
You couldn’t think. Could barely stand.
“Take it off,” you breathed, grabbing the hem of his shirt.
But he was already on it — pulling it over his head, tossing it aside, eyes locked to yours.
And fuck.
He was beautiful. He had always been.
His body was all sharp muscle and light skin and hunger, abs flexing as he worked his jeans open, breath stuttering like he couldn’t believe this was real.
And when he stepped out of them — hard, flushed, huge — you choked on your own gasp.
He grinned.
“Scared?”
You shook your head.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not gonna be gentle.”
You moaned.
He pushed you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed.
Then shoved you onto it.
Climbed on top of you, hands bracketing your head, knees parting your thighs.
“Hands up,” he said.
You obeyed instantly, arms stretched above you on the pillow.
He leaned down, kissed your lips like they were sacred.
“Keep them there.”
You nodded.
He lined himself up — and hovered for just a second.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispered. “If I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
“Then don’t stop.”
And he thrust in.
Hard.
You arched up with a cry, nails digging into the sheets as he filled you to the hilt. He groaned above you, head falling to your shoulder, arms shaking with restraint.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” he breathed.
He gave you a moment.
And then he started to move.
Fast. Deep. Merciless.
The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room, and your gasps turned to cries, your hands fisting the sheets as he pounded into you like a mad man. Like he needed it. His fingers tangled with yours above your head, pinning you in place as his hips slammed into you again and again and again—
“Fuck—! Chan—”
“You’re mine,” he growled. “You’re so fucking mine.”
Your fourth orgasm tore through you like fire, and Chan groaned when he felt you clench around him, hips stuttering as he chased his own end.
And when he pulled out last-second and came all over your stomach, hot and messy and shaking, you felt like your soul had left your body.
You both collapsed.
Silence.
Only breath and heat and the soft whisper of, “Holy shit.”
You turned your head to look at him.
He looked at you. And he smiled.
—
It was the sun that woke you.
Bright and slow, bleeding through the gap in the curtains and painting gold across the bed. You stirred, eyes still closed, your body humming with a dull ache — sore thighs, tender hips, a deep throb between your legs that made your breath catch.
And then you felt it.
Warm skin at your back.
A chest rising and falling slowly behind you.
An arm, heavy and wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed possessively just under your ribs. His scent still clung to your skin — sweat and something darker, heady, him.
And that’s when the memories crashed in.
The bathroom.
The restaurant.
The bed.
The way he’d pinned your hands above your head and fucked you like he meant to wreck you.
Your cheeks burned instantly, eyes flying open.
Holy shit.
You slept with your best friend.
You slept with Chan.
And not just slept. You let him possess you— He had you on his face. His fingers, his mouth, his everything, and then he’d whispered things that should’ve made you run for the door but instead made you soaked.
You swallowed thickly.
And then the arm around your waist pulled you closer.
You yelped.
Chan groaned softly behind you, voice gravelled from sleep.
“Mm… what time is it?”
You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know what to say.
He blinked his eyes open, peeking over your shoulder. “You okay?”
You turned to face him — slowly, hesitantly.
He looked wrecked. Hair a mess, voice hoarse, lips kiss-bruised and sleep-swollen.
Your stomach flipped.
“I’m fine,” you said. Then added, “Sore.”
He grinned — and you hated that your thighs clenched at the sight of it.
“Good sore or bad sore?”
“Chan—”
He slid his hand down to your hip, voice low.
“Because I can fix it.”
You stared at him. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.
He quirked a brow. “Like what?”
“Like I’m still the same girl you— you—”
“Fucked six ways from Sunday?” he offered, smug.
Your face burned.
But then he leaned in, nuzzled his nose against yours.
And whispered: “You’re not.”
You blinked. “I’m not?”
He shook his head.
“You’re completely mine now remember?”
Your stomach flipped.
Your brain melted.
“Chan…”
“I’m serious,” he said. “Last night… that wasn’t just sex. That wasn’t just me losing my mind. That was me finally doing what I’ve wanted for months.”
You stared at him. He was serious.
“I thought this would ruin everything,” you whispered.
He tilted his head.
“And now?”
You took a breath.
And admitted it: “I don’t want to stop.”
He grinned. “I never was gonna let you.”
He pulled you into him, kissed you — slow, lazy, warm — and you melted right into his arms.
The morning didn’t feel awkward.
It didn’t feel scary.
It felt like the beginning of something new.
And then—
“I meant what I said last night, by the way,” Chan murmured against your mouth.
You blinked. “What part?”
“The part where I pin you down and fuck you like you stole from me.”
Your mouth dropped open. “You already did—”
“And the part where I cum all over your face.”
“CHRISTOPHER—”
“Just letting you know what’s on the schedule.”
You slapped his chest, flustered beyond belief.
He just laughed.
And kissed you again.
“Cum on my face, huh?”
Your voice came out soft. Dangerous.
Chan blinked. His grin froze on his lips. “…Uh-oh.”
You rolled onto him. Just like that. Bare skin on bare skin, straddling his hips while he stared up at you with those huge, still-sleepy eyes.
But sleep was over.
You rutted your hips once, slowly, deliberately—feeling the way his cock stirred between your thighs—and he made a sound.
“Y’know,” you said, sweet and sharp, “you’re not the only one with fantasies.”
His hands gripped your hips instantly. “Oh?”
“Mmhmm.” You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You’re not the only one who thinks about pinning someone down.”
He hissed.
“And I know you like control, but imagine this—” you rolled your hips again, voice turning breathy, “—imagine me riding you so hard you beg me to let you cum.”
He groaned.
“Imagine I keep going… and don’t let you. Just to see how long you last.”
“Fuck—”
“And I’ve thought about your mouth too. Not just eating me out—though, Christ—” you shuddered, “—I still don’t think i can walk right, thanks for that—”
He smirked proudly.
“But I’ve thought about your whimpers too. What you sound like when I suck you so slow you start losing your mind.”
You kissed down his chest, dragging your nails across his abs, feeling him tense and twitch beneath you.
“I wanna leave marks,” you whispered. “Wanna make you look wrecked for me.”
Chan was flushed now. Practically trembling under you.
“Baby girl,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You smiled.
And slid down between his legs.
“I haven’t even started.”
He wasn’t ready, but you took your time.
You teased him with your mouth first — slow licks up his shaft, tongue circling the tip, only enough suction to drive him insane. You had your hands braced on his thighs, nails biting into skin just enough to own him.
“Jesus—” he gasped, head thrown back. “You’re—fuck, that’s good—”
You moaned around him and watched his hips twitch up, his hand flying to your hair like instinct, fingers tightening in warning.
“Babe— I swear—if you keep going like this, I’m gonna—”
You pulled off right before he came.
And smirked.
“Oh, we’re doing this now?” he asked, breathless.
“Damn right we are,” you said, climbing back on top of him. “I’m getting mine now.”
You lined him up, braced yourself—
And sank down in one slow, maddening slide.
Chan’s eyes rolled back.
You didn’t even move for a full ten seconds. Just sat there, gripping his chest, clenching around him until he was panting.
And then you rode him. Like a woman possessed.
You weren’t slow. You were relentless. Skin slapping, sweat slicking your bodies together, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips as you bounced with wild, desperate rhythm.
“Fuck—fuck— you’re insane,” he groaned.
“Say you love it,” you panted.
“I fucking love it—!”
You leaned down and bit his shoulder.
And that was it.
He flipped you over without warning, slammed back into you hard enough to rattle the headboard, and locked your wrists above your head like he had something to prove.
You moaned his name so loud it echoed.
He looked down at you — hair in his eyes, lips parted, body dripping sweat — and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t talk.”
“Try me.”
So he did.
You lost count of how many times you came. How many times he made you scream. The sun climbed higher outside and you never even noticed.
He had you on your back.
Then on your stomach.
Then on your side with one leg thrown over his hips while he pounded into you, growling your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to say.
And when you came again — thighs shaking, back arched, eyes fluttering — he pulled out and came all over your chest, jaw tight and groaning like it destroyed him.
You lay there for a second.
“Holy… fuck,” you breathed.
Chan flopped beside you.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Then:
“…I want pancakes,” you whispered.
Chan turned his head, eyes still blown wide. “How the fuck are you thinking about pancakes right now?”
You smiled lazily.
“I burn calories fast.”
He groaned into the pillow.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
You rolled onto your side and kissed his cheek.
“But what a way to go.”
—
You were wearing nothing but Chan’s shirt and a pair of socks.
And it was doing things to him.
He stood at the stove, shirtless, trying to focus on flipping pancakes while you leaned over the counter, hair messy, skin glowing, humming some made-up song about how much you deserved “carbs and cuddles after all that cardio.”
“You’re just using me for my protein,” he muttered, hiding a grin.
You stretched dramatically, popping a strawberry into your mouth. “Technically, you used me for your protein.”
Chan nearly burned the pancake.
You laughed when he choked on air, stepping over to whack his back. “Careful, old man. I still need you alive for round– wait, how many rounds now?”
He turned his head, gave you a look that could scorch.
“Keep talking like that and we’re not making it to breakfast.”
You kissed his shoulder. “Then hurry up. I’m starving.”
He flipped the last pancake with a little more urgency.
A few minutes later, the two of you were at his mini kitchen table, knees brushing under the surface, your plate stacked high like a kid at a sleepover.
“You know,” you said through a mouthful of syrupy goodness, “this is dangerously close to looking like a real relationship.”
Chan froze.
You blinked. “What?”
He tilted his head. “Is that… a bad thing?”
You paused.
Fork halfway to your mouth.
“…No.”
He watched you carefully. “Because I was kinda hoping it was.”
You squinted. “Hoping it was bad?”
“No—” he laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “No, I mean—I was hoping it was a relationship. Or that it could be.”
Your heart thudded.
Hard.
“Chan…”
He looked nervous for the first time since he’d had you straddling him in bed the night before.
“I don’t wanna go back,” he said. “Not to pretending. Not to brushing this off. That’s not what last night was for me.”
You set your fork down gently.
“It wasn’t for me either.”
The tension cracked open—just a little—and he reached across the table, linking your fingers together.
“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said quietly.
You nodded. “I think I have too.”
“And I know we were reckless and a little feral and probably woke my neighbors up—”
“They applauded, Chan.”
He laughed.
You smiled.
But then—his eyes softened.
And his voice turned sincere. “Can I take you out?”
Your brows lifted. “You always do”
He smirked. “Like, properly. Date you. Buy you dinner. Try to behave myself.”
You leaned your chin on your hand, pretending to think. “And if you fail miserably?”
“Then I’ll behave badly… respectfully.”
You grinned.
“Okay,” you said. “I’m in.”
He looked so genuinely happy you felt it in your bones.
You finished breakfast in a daze of syrup and laughter, tangled limbs and coffee stolen from each other’s mugs. And when he pulled you back onto the couch, wrapped around you like he couldn’t get close enough, you let him.
Because somehow, this—this—felt more dangerous than anything that happened last night.
Not because it was wild. But because it was real.
And you both knew? You were in trouble.
The best kind.
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Authors note: GUYS!!! WE HIT 1K FOLLOWERS!!!! 🤩 wowwwww, thank you so much for always reading and indulging my delulu 😭❤️ i love you guyssssss! I think i will be doing a new series since Angry Boys did well, but ill make a poll to know what direction to go next and until then, please leave nice comments, likes and a reblog if you enjoyed this!
