but deep down... all my writer friends are inactive or have officially left this fandom because the readers consume fics like fast-fashion without giving anything in return. there is no concept of reblogging with feedback anymore. writers who need encouragement and feedback to grow instead leave feeling like a hollow shell. interaction and engagement is no longer the priority, and no matter how many times we bring up this issue, this fandom is just... hopeless. yes.
i have had the blessing of good, constant readers even after being here for 5 years now. however, that does not make me better than anyone. i feel deeply for my writer friends who have struggled on this platform and left on a bitter note when they are brilliant writers and have so much potential. that hurts me deeply, and i do not feel okay about this at all.
it's not just the readers to blame, no. i think the atinyblr, as a whole, has a very specific problem. it does not allow much space for the longfic writers to grow. it does not allow much space for genres other than smut. i won't be pointing fingers at the readers or the writers, but it is very disappointing that there is such a lack of creative freedom here when the ateez lore should have allowed so, so much creativity. ateez content is so packed with all the elements that we hardly ever get to explore in detail here in our writing and when we do, it just doesn't get as appreciated as other forms of writing. so i don't blame the writers for feeling disappointed and leaving. i'm just immensely sad bc i have never felt this alone here.
you dont even have to write a long paragraph to reblog a fanfic, just a simple word or just a # and reblog or even a like is the perfect way to let writers know their work is being read and appreciated. Even if they do it just for the love of it, still knowing a community or space values it encorages people to keep doing it!! like they already are posting +5k +10k +50k words for free just because they want to share their passions with the fandom... such a shame
you and your ridiculously cute copywriter coworker, han jisung, spend three days pitching an aphrodisiac chocolate brand while ignoring the very obvious year-long mutual crush between you. the campaign succeeds, however, jisung accidentally eats the product samples afterward, and suddenly the marketing slogan “awaken your instincts” becomes less of a tagline and more of a personal problem.
› pairing copywriter!jisung x graphic designer!reader / mention of hyunlix*
› genre coworkers to lovers; crack fic
› rating suggestive
› wc 20k / idk what happened ok
› warnings smut in second part!
ᝰ.ᐟ guys this one got away from me, i just kept writing so now i have to post in parts. also i wanted to include hyunlix more but it was already getting word heavy. maybe i can do a drabble for this bc i honestly love this hyunjin so much. dedicating this one to my bby @joyracha bc i love her and hannie is 1/4 her bias line. enjoy hunnies! <3
*disclaimer ‼ i am in no way shape or form suggesting that hyunjin and felix are together nor suggesting their sexuality. purely fictional <3
𖤘 taglist: @kloversung
n e x t ›› .ᐟ m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ m e s s a g e m e .ᐟ
Jisung had been halfway through his convenience store kimbap when he realized he opened your Instagram without thinking. Again
There you were. Laughing in a behind-the-scenes photo from last week’s shoot, sunlight caught in your hair. He zoomed in. In a respectful, studying-lighting way. Obviously.
“Jisung.”
His soul exits his body. He locks his phone so fast it nearly ricochetes off the table and looks up at you, panic riddled all over his face.
You stand in front of him, iced coffee in hand, expression unreadable but dangerously pretty.
“Hm?” he says, like he had not just been memorizing the curve of your smile.
“Chan wants to see us in his office after lunch.”
“Cool. Yeah. Great,” he nods, attempting casual and landing somewhere near malfunctioning. “Did he say what about?”
You shrug. “Probably the Daehan campaign. Or he finally realized you’re the genius behind all his awards.”
Jisung blinks. If he died right now, he’d die honored.
He coughs once into his fist, nodding too fast. “No, no, I just…you know. Words. Anyone can do words.”
Anyone cannot do words, actually. He knows this. The entire fourth floor knows this. Chan knows this. But when you say it, when you look at him like that, like he’s something impressive instead of a guy who alphabetizes his anime figures, his brain folds in on itself.
You’re already turning away before he can recover. You grab your lunch from the breakroom fridge, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and walk back toward the creative pit.
Jisung exhales and watches you go.
It’s subtle in his mind. It is not subtle in reality.
His eyes follow the rhythm of your steps, the way you greet the account team with a quick joke, the way you lean over your desk and adjust your monitor. He tells himself he is simply observing. He is absolutely not just staring.
He sighs, long and theatrical, before dragging himself up and heading toward his own desk.
Chan’s office is probably the cleanest and most efficient-looking place in the building. The glass walls give it that transparent, we-see-everything creative director aesthetic, but the blinds are half drawn now, sunlight slicing across the meticulously organized desk in deliberate angles.
Chan sits behind it, relaxed posture, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable in that way that makes junior staff sweat.
He smiles easily most days. He laughs loudly. He buys team dinners when campaigns go well. But when it comes to work, he becomes surgical.
Perfection is not a preference. It is the baseline.
“Sit,” he says casually, though the word carries weight.
You and Jisung settle into the chairs across from him. Your knee almost brushes his. Almost. He becomes acutely aware of the exact centimeter of space between you.
Chan slides two copies of a project brief across the desk.
“New client. They’re a relatively new company. They’re small, but they’ve got funding and ambition. They want a splash.”
Jisung reaches for the folder at the same time you do. Your fingers graze for half a second. He freezes, but you don’t. You flip yours open smoothly, already scanning.
Botanical Bliss.
He reads the product description once. Then again. Then once more to confirm he is not hallucinating.
Premium dark chocolate infused with natural herbal extracts known for stimulating desire and enhancing intimacy. Marketed as a luxury aphrodisiac experience.
Next to him, you slowly raise one eyebrow, then side-eye him.
Chan leans back in his chair. “They want bold. Sensual but not tacky. Suggestive without being explicit. They’re targeting young professionals. Late twenties to thirties. Social media heavy. Think launch campaign, video concept, tagline, packaging visuals.”
Jisung forces himself to focus on the brief.
You are reading silently, but he can practically hear your thoughts working. The way you start tapping your finger lightly when ideas begin forming. The way your lips purse when you’re analyzing.
He should be thinking about ideas too.
He is thinking about the word intimacy and how you are sitting six inches away.
Chan watches the two of you carefully. “I assigned this to you both because you work well together.”
Jisung tries not to visibly combust.
“We do?” you ask, glancing up.
“You challenge each other,” Chan replies. “You balance one another. I want this conceptualized by Thursday.”
Thursday.
Three days. Three days of brainstorming aphrodisiac chocolate. With you.
Jisung nods slowly, determined to act like a normal, professional copywriter who does not need to be hosed down.
“Yes, sir,” he says evenly.
You close the folder, expression thoughtful, eyes flicking to him again.
“So,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly, “guess we’re selling desire now.”
He meets your gaze, trying very hard to keep his voice steady.
“Guess we are.”
Chan claps his hands once, bright grin snapping back into place like the intensity had never existed.
“Great. I trust you two. Have fun with it,” he says, already standing.
The whiplash is real. One second he is dissecting brand tone, the next he is all dimples and easy charm again. He opens the office door for you both, ushering you out with a casual, “Don’t disappoint me.” Which, somehow, sounds more threatening when said cheerfully.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, you let out a quiet breath.
“Okay,” you say, adjusting the folder against your hip. “I’m going to grab my laptop. Meet me in the workshop in ten?”
Jisung nods immediately. “Yep. Ten. I love ten. Ten’s great.”
You give him a look that suggests you will unpack that sentence later, then turn and head down the hall.
He stands there for three full seconds after you disappear around the corner.
He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead.
On one hand, this is the universe finally throwing him a bone. Three uninterrupted days of collaboration. Of sitting close. Of bouncing ideas back and forth. Of maybe, possibly, if the stars align and he doesn’t implode, flirting in a way that feels organic and not like he memorized it from a rom-com.
On the other hand, this is three uninterrupted days of proximity to the girl who turns his mind into alphabet soup.
The probability of him saying something humiliating?
Ninety-nine percent. Generous rounding.
Still, ten minutes later, he walks into the workshop with his laptop tucked under his arm and determination stitched across his face.
The workshop is less mystical than its name implies. It is a glass-walled brainstorming room with a massive whiteboard, pinboards cluttered with past campaign mockups, a long table scattered with markers, sticky notes, and the ghosts of deadlines past.
You are already there, writing on the whiteboard in bold strokes.
BOTANICAL BLISS
TARGET DEMO: 25-35
TONE: LUXURY / INTIMATE / SENSUAL
Your handwriting is neat but confident, each letter deliberate. You reach up slightly to underline a phrase, skirt shifting with the movement.
Jisung freezes.
Had you been working out? There is…definition. Or maybe it’s the skirt.
It fits nice. The fabric hugging your hips in a way that feels personally offensive to his ability to function.
His brain, traitor that it is, supplies commentary: firm.
Stop it. You’re being a pervert, he tells himself.
He attempts to redirect his gaze to the whiteboard. It betrays him and drifts south again.
He swears it is only for half a second. Maybe one and a half.
You turn suddenly, and he performs the most dramatic recovery maneuver of his career.
His eyes snap upward with the speed of a man avoiding sniper fire. He pretends to be deeply invested in the ceiling light fixture. Then the marker tray. Then his own laptop, which he opens with unnecessary urgency.
“Great spacing,” he blurts, pointing vaguely at the board. “The hierarchy of information. Very strong.”
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“The hierarchy,” you repeat.
“Yeah. Visually. It’s…hierarchical.”
You stare at him for a beat longer, clearly trying to decide if he’s being serious. Then you shrug.
“Thanks.”
You cap the marker and lean back against the table, crossing your arms. He very intentionally keeps his gaze above collarbone level now, like a man who has learned from near-death experience.
“So,” you say, tilting your head. “How do we sell chocolate that makes people want to rip each other’s clothes off without sounding like we’re selling chocolate that makes people want to rip each other’s clothes off?”
His lungs stop.
Three days.
He is not surviving this.
An hour in, and Jisung is borderline impressed with himself.
He has only stuttered five times. Five.
That is practically a personal record when alone in a room with you.
He has also tripped once, but that was because the leg of the table has been slightly crooked since the summer internship incident of last year and not because you laughed at something he said and he forgot how to coordinate his limbs.
You pretended not to notice anyway. Which is worse, honestly.
Because you are kind. Effortlessly so. You let him regain balance without comment, simply handing him a marker like nothing had happened. No teasing. No smirk. Just steady, warm normalcy.
The workshop now looks like a war zone of ideas. The whiteboard is filled halfway, sections boxed off into categories. Brand Identity. Emotional Hook. Visual Direction. Market Positioning.
You sit cross-legged in your chair, laptop balanced on your thighs, scrolling through mood board references. Rich browns and deep burgundy packaging fill your screen. Gold foil accents. Close-up photography of chocolate breaking apart in slow motion.
Jisung forces himself to focus on words. The brief had said they did not have a finalized product name yet, and that had bothered him.
Botanical Bliss sounded like a spa retreat for stressed-out office workers, not something you slide across a table to your partner with intent.
He had stared at the board for a long minute earlier, fingers tapping against the marker.
Botanical. Nature. Extracts. Chemistry. Desire.
Elixir.
He stands now, adding it to the top of the whiteboard in bold letters.
ELIXIR.
You look up. “Elixir?” you repeat, tasting the syllables.
“It’s versatile,” he says, pacing a little now that he is in his element. “It implies transformation. Something concentrated. Potent. It also gives them room to expand. Different infusions, different flavors. Elixir: Ember. Elixir: Velvet. Elixir: Midnight.”
Your eyes light up. “Oh,” you murmur, sitting forward. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
Heat creeps up his neck. He clears his throat, pretending he’s totally okay
“It doesn’t box them into just one SKU. It’s a foundation name. A line.”
He watches you sketch a quick thumbnail layout on your tablet. The way your mind translates his abstract word into shape and texture fascinates him every time.
He moves back to the board, adding underneath:
INDULGENCE, INFUSED INTENTIONALLY
INDULGE YOUR INSTINCTS
AWAKEN YOUR INSTINCTS
He steps aside so you can see them fully.
You stand, walking closer to the board. Close enough that he can smell your perfume. Something clean with a floral undertone.
You tilt your head, reading each line carefully.
“Indulgence, Infused Intentionally,” you say first. “That one feels luxury. Intentional. Like it’s crafted.”
He nods. “It emphasizes the herbal aspect without sounding gimmicky.”
“And Indulge Your Instincts,” you continue, tapping the board lightly. “That’s more direct.”
“More playful,” he agrees. “It invites them to lean in.”
You glance at the last one.
“Awaken Your Instincts.”
Silence stretches for a second.
“That one,” you say slowly, “is dangerous.”
He swallows audibly “Good dangerous?”
You turn to him. “Very.” You walk back to the table, thoughtful now. “We could build visuals around that. Dark background. One source of warm light. Close-up product shots. Minimal copy. Let the tagline do the heavy lifting.”
He watches you as you speak, animated and focused, completely unaware that you are the reason he just wrote three lines that sound like they belong on the cover of a romance novel.
This is why he loves working with you. Not just because you are beautiful. Not just because you make his brain turn to mush. But because when the two of you are building something together, it feels seamless. Like gears locking into place. His words. Your visuals. A concept becoming concrete in real time.
You glance at him. “What?”
He realizes he’s been staring at you.
“Nothing,” he says quickly, then softens. “I just think we’re onto something.”
You smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “We are.”
You still remember the first time you saw Han Jisung.
It had been your second day at Nuri Media. You were still memorizing faces and names, and which department each face and name worked. You’d walked in that morning with your tablet tucked under your arm and a quiet, electric determination humming in your chest. Fresh-faced. Ambitious. Ready to prove that hiring you had been the smartest decision they’d made all quarter.
Chan had called everyone into the workshop for a brief team introduction.
You remember smoothing your blouse before stepping inside. The room had been loud, creatives mid-conversation, chairs scraping against the floor, the whiteboard streaked with marker residue. Then Chan had clapped once, that familiar bright authority snapping everyone’s attention toward him.
“Everyone! This–,” he’d said, smiling at you, “–is our new graphic designer.”
You had bowed slightly, introduced yourself, voice steady despite the way your heart was trying to punch through your ribs.
That was when you noticed him.
He was leaning back in his chair near the end of the table, laptop open, fingers frozen mid-typing. Round eyes. Soft, almost doe-like, but sharp with excitement. Plush lips parted just slightly like he’d forgotten to close them. Dark hair falling into his face in a way that looked accidental but suspiciously flattering.
And then your gaze had dropped to his laptop.
There, in the corner, was a sticker.
A Howl Jenkins Pendragon sticker.
You had blinked.
Cute marketing copywriter with a Studio Ghibli obsession? Dangerous combination.
He caught you looking. Not at him, but at the sticker. And instead of pretending he didn’t notice, he’d awkwardly tilted his laptop a few degrees toward you like he was offering proof of his character.
After the meeting, when people dispersed back to their desks, he approached you.
Well, approached was generous. He sort of shuffled in your direction.
“Hi,” he’d said, pushing his hair back, then immediately tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m Jisung. I do words. For things.”
You’d laughed before you could stop yourself.
“Words for things?”
“Yeah,” he’d nodded earnestly. “Big fan of them.”
It was awkward. It was slightly stilted. He tripped over one sentence and corrected himself twice. But he’d asked about your design style. About what kind of projects you liked. He’d listened. Really listened. Eyes focused, nodding thoughtfully. You walked back to your desk that day thinking: he’s cute.
A year later, it is not just cute.
Somewhere along the way, your harmless little crush has grown roots.
Because how could it not?
He is kind in ways that feel deliberate.
He brings back specialty KitKats and matcha cookies from Japan when he visits friends and leaves them on the communal table with a sticky note that says “for the team :)” but always places the strawberry ones specifically on your desk because he remembers you mentioned once that they’re your favorite.
He signs up to bring food to every company party. Volunteers, even. Shows up with homemade tteokbokki one month, carefully labeled for spice levels because he knows half the account team can’t handle heat like him.
And then there was the banana bread.
The bakery three blocks down makes the best in Incheon. He brings loaves some mornings, sets them in the kitchen, casually mentioning they’re from that place you all love.
You reach for a slice, then pause automatically.
“Wait,” you’d said. “Does this have walnuts?”
He’d shaken his head immediately. “No, I asked them to make one without.”
You had told him about the allergy your first month there. Just walnuts. Not pecans. Not almonds. Just walnuts.
He’d remembered.
You’d thanked him, trying to keep your voice even, trying not to read too much into it.
Because he’s like this with everyone, you tell yourself.
He’s generous. Thoughtful. That’s just who he is.
But when you work late, and the office thins out until it’s just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant cleaning crew, he always lingers.
The first time he does it you’re packing up your laptop when he casually walks over to you.
“So,” he’ll say casually, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’m heading out too.”
He walks beside you to the parking lot, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the night air. You talk about nothing and everything. Campaign ideas. New anime episodes. The fact that the vending machine on the second floor eats coins.
When you reach your car, there’s always that tiny pause.
“Text me when you get home,” he’ll say sometimes, then backtrack. “I mean, if you want. Just so I know you didn’t get kidnapped.” That or, “If you got abducted by aliens, you would still let me know you were good right?”
You laugh, roll your eyes, and promise you will.
He shuffles toward his own car after, giving a small wave without fully turning around.
“See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder.
And every time, you sit in your driver’s seat for a few seconds longer than necessary, watching him unlock his car, wondering if he does this for everyone.
You want to be closer to him.
Not even in a dramatic, sweeping, romantic way.
Just closer.
To sit next to him at lunch without overthinking it. To text him memes outside of work without staring at your phone for five minutes before hitting send. To tell him that yes, you noticed the way he remembered the walnuts. That it meant something.
But you’re shy about it.
Because what if he’s just like this with everyone?
What if you’re not special at all?
So instead, you keep it tucked inside. You tease him lightly. You compliment his copy. You stand a little too close sometimes and pretend it’s accidental.
And when he smiles at you, soft and bright and entirely unaware of what it does to you, you think: Maybe?
And you don’t do anything about it anyway.
The next afternoon, the workshop feels smaller.
Not physically. The walls are the same glass panels, the same scuffed table, the same whiteboard still branded with ELIXIR in thick black marker. But the air feels denser. Like the room knows the deadline is creeping closer. A day and a half to be exact.
Jisung sits across from you, laptop open, fingers flying over the keyboard as he formats slides for Thursday’s pitch. Title slide. Brand philosophy. Target demographic. Emotional positioning. He adjusts spacing twice. Changes the font from one serif to another. Then switches it again. Precision matters. Chan notices everything.
He types: ELIXIR. Awaken Your Instincts.
Then pauses, studying the words.
They look powerful. Intentional.
Unlike him.
He scrolls to the next slide, summarizing yesterday’s brainstorm, bullet points clean and articulate. He should be focused. He sorta is, until the faint click of a lip gloss tube distracts him.
He doesn’t mean to look up, but he does.
You’re seated at the end of the table in a swivel chair, one leg crossed under the other. You twist the cap of your gloss with absentminded ease, eyes still scanning your screen as you swipe the applicator across your lips.
Slow and careful.
His brain empties.
The gloss catches the light, making your lips look softer. Fuller. Shiny in a way that feels entirely inappropriate for a Tuesday afternoon in a corporate brainstorming room.
You press your lips together once then smack them lightly. It is a tiny sound, but it detonates in his chest.
He stares. Not because he wants to be obvious. Not because he is trying to be a creep. But because there is something deeply unfair about the way you exist. The way you can be mid-campaign, half-distracted, entirely focused on work, and still look like you stepped out of a dream of his.
He groans internally. Get it together.
You are applying lip gloss. Not performing a seduction ritual.
He should be typing but his fingers have yet to move in thirty-seven seconds.
You lower the tube, cap it, toss it back into your bag, and return your full attention to your screen.
He is still looking.
As if summoned by instinct, you pause. Your eyes lift slowly and meet his directly. Caught.
His heart slams into his ribcage. He jerks slightly, hands flying back to his keyboard, and the first sentence that exits his mouth has not been pre-approved by his brain.
“Did you know octopuses have three hearts?”
You blink. “What?”
He doubles down because retreat is not an option now.
“Three. Two pump blood to the gills and one to the rest of the body. Also their blood is blue.”
You stare at him.
He keeps going. Why is he still going?
“Which is relevant because, uh, branding-wise, multiple cores of function is interesting? For Elixir. Multi-layered effect. Like triple impact.”
The stretch is visible from space.
You narrow your eyes slightly, studying him. “Jisung.”
“Yes.”
“Were you just staring at me?”
His soul briefly exits his body again.
“No.” Too fast.
He winces.
“I mean. Not in a weird way,” he adds, which somehow makes it worse. “I was just thinking. About gloss.”
Your eyebrow lifts. “Gloss.”
“Marketing gloss,” he corrects quickly, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “Like the glossy finish on premium packaging. High-shine coatings. Luxury perception.”
You lean back in your chair, clearly unconvinced but entertained. “Mhm.”
He forces himself to type again, words blurring for a second before snapping back into focus.
Across from him, you smile faintly and return to your work. But a few seconds later, you speak without looking up.
“For the record,” you say casually, “this is strawberry.”
His fingers freeze again.
“What is?”
“My lip gloss.”
He swallows. “Oh.”
You glance up at him once more, mischief flickering in your eyes. “In case you were doing research.”
He chokes on absolutely nothing.
You grin, satisfied, and turn back to your tablet.
Jisung stares at his screen, pulse racing.
His brain has officially clocked out. It packed its things and skedaddled.
Strawberry. You said it so casually.
He should respond normally. Lightly. Cool.
Instead, what comes out of his mouth is:
“Strawberry’s my favorite fruit.”
Silence. Even he hears the lie. It hangs in the air between you, flimsy and poorly constructed.
You slowly lift your eyes from your tablet and your expression shifts. Suspicious.
“Strawberry?” you repeat.
He nods once, trying to sell it. “Yeah. Classic. Reliable. Versatile.”
Why is he pitching fruit like it’s a brand campaign?
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“I thought it was mangosteen.”
The word hits him square in the chest. He blinks.
“You remember that?”
The question slips out before he can stop it. Because he remembers the conversation. It had been months ago. Team dinner after landing the Daehan contract. Someone had asked about favorite fruits for a stupid icebreaker game. He’d said mangosteen because he genuinely loves it and because no one ever expects that answer.
You’d laughed and said, “That’s so on-brand for you.”
He’d thought about that sentence for three days. And you remember.
You shrug, like it’s nothing. “You talked about it for like five minutes. Something about the texture being elite.”
He did. He absolutely did.
He feels heat creeping up his neck again, but this time it’s different. Softer. Less panicky.
“You kept listening?" he asks quietly.
You blink at him like that’s obvious. “Of course I listened. You were talking.”
He stares at you. Because yes, that is how conversations work. But you don’t understand what that means to him. You don’t understand that most people zone out when he goes on mini tangents about niche preferences. That they smile politely and wait for him to finish.
You remember the fruit.
His brain slowly reboots, but it’s running on a different operating system now.
“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mangosteen is still number one. I just appreciate strawberries.”
You tilt your head.
“Appreciate.”
“It’s accessible,” he adds weakly.
You lean back in your chair, studying him with that look that makes him feel both exposed and safe at the same time.
“Jisung,” you say carefully, “you don’t have to change your favorite fruit.”
“I’m not changing it.”
“You literally just did.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I panicked,” he admits finally.
Your lips twitch. “Why?”
Because you were looking at me like that. Because your lip gloss is strawberry and suddenly fruit preferences felt like compatibility metrics. Because I want us to have things in common even if they’re small and stupid.
He cannot say any of that.
Instead, he gestures vaguely at his laptop. “Deadline stress.”
You hum like you don’t fully buy it. Then, softer, “You know it’s okay if we don’t like all the same things, right?”
The sentence lands gently.
He nods. “I know.”
You watch him for a second longer. Then you smile.
“For what it’s worth,” you add, “I think mangosteen is still a very you answer.”
His heart stutters. “Very me?” he repeats.
“Unexpected. A little dramatic. Kind of rare.”
He laughs under his breath. “That’s how you see me?”
You shrug again, but there’s warmth there. “Yeah.”
The room goes quiet, but not uncomfortable.
He looks at you differently now. Not because you remembered the fruit. But because you paid attention.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Mangosteen stays.”
“Good,” you reply. “Because strawberry doesn’t suit you.”
He grins despite himself. “And what about you?”
You glance at him, eyes playful. “Something a little sweet but bold. Maybe cherries.”
His brain threatens to leave again. But this time, he doesn’t mind.
Okay, what is actually happening?
You keep your eyes on your screen, stylus moving across your tablet with steady, professional precision, but your brain is nowhere near the packaging mockup you’re pretending to refine.
There is no way you just caught Han Jisung staring at your lips, right?
You replay it. You had applied gloss. Absentminded. Normal. Human. Other people moisturize their lips too.
And then you felt it. That subtle prickle at the back of your neck. The unmistakable weight of someone’s attention resting somewhere very specific.
You looked up.
He was looking at you. Not at the board. Not at the screen. Not even at your eyes.
Your lips.
And when you caught him, he didn’t even try to pretend he hadn’t. He just malfunctioned. Started talking about octopuses like he was presenting at a marine biology conference.
You press your lips together again unconsciously, remembering the way his gaze snapped upward like he’d been electrocuted.
There’s no way. There’s no way that was what you think it was.
Jisung is sweet. Jisung is kind. Jisung zones out sometimes when he’s thinking. Maybe he was analyzing color. Shine. Texture. Marketing gloss. He is a copywriter. He could have been conceptualizing sensory appeal.
You chew on the inside of your cheek.
But then there was the strawberry thing.
You had thrown that in casually. Teasing. Testing.
He panicked. Panicked panicked.
He changed his favorite fruit on the spot. And when you corrected him, when you said mangosteen, the look on his face—
It wasn’t embarrassment. It was surprise. Soft. Almost vulnerable.
“You remember that?”
The way he said it. Gently. Like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to.
Your chest tightens a little at the memory.
You do remember things about him.
You remember that he drinks his iced americanos on an empty stomach and then regrets it fifteen minutes later when his tummy starts hurting. You remember that he hums anime openings under his breath when he’s deep in thought. You remember that he gets anxious in crowds, that he prefers rainy days because they feel cinematic, that he once stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing edits for an intern’s presentation so she wouldn’t get torn apart in front of a client.
You notice things. You just assumed he didn’t notice you noticing.
You risk a glance up at him now. He’s typing again, brows slightly furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration. He looks normal. Focused. Not like someone who was staring at your mouth ten minutes ago.
Maybe you imagined it.
But then he glances up too, just briefly. And when your eyes meet, something passes between you.
Your stomach flips. Okay. Okay.
You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms like that will steady you.
There is absolutely no way you are flirting with Han Jisung in the middle of a project about aphrodisiac chocolate. And there is definitely no way he is flirting back. Right?
Except.
You did tease him.
You called him dramatic. You told him you were sweet but bold. Intense. Who says that? That is not neutral coworker dialogue.
You stare at your screen, heat creeping up your neck now that you’re the one replaying everything.
Was that flirting? Was he flirting? Or are you both just chronically awkward creatives stuck in a room talking about “awakening instincts” and projecting it onto each other?
You think about the way he always walks you to your car. The way he remembered the walnuts. The way he lights up when you praise his ideas. The way his ears turn red when you stand too close.
You’ve always told yourself he’s like that with everyone. But is he?
You try to picture him staring at someone else’s lips, and your jaw tightens unexpectedly.
No. You would have noticed. You always notice when he pays attention to other people.
You swallow.
There’s a strange thrill blooming under your ribs now. Dangerous and terrifying, but hopeful.
Because if he was staring at your lips—
If that wasn’t accidental—
Then maybe you’re not alone in this. Maybe the soft glances aren’t one-sided. Maybe the late-night walks aren’t just convenient. Maybe the banana bread wasn’t just team spirit.
You glance at him again. He’s pretending to focus, but his fingers have slowed. His shoulders are slightly tense like he’s thinking too.
Your pulse picks up.
There’s no way.
And yet—
You tilt your head slightly, watching him for one more second.
If this is flirting, it’s subtle. Balanced on the edge of plausible deniability. But it feels real.
The air in the workshop is still thick with whatever that was between you when the door suddenly swings open.
Chan walks in—dimples out, eyes crinkled, and energy at max capacity. He claps his hands once, the sound echoing against the glass walls.
“So,” he says brightly, scanning the room, “are you guys getting freaky in here?”
Your soul leaves your body.
Across from you, Jisung visibly chokes on nothing.
“What?” you both blurt at the exact same time and the synchronization only makes it worse.
Chan pauses mid-step, eyebrows lifting slightly as he looks between the two of you.
You’re sitting too stiff.
Jisung’s ears are bright red.
The whiteboard behind you literally says Awaken Your Instincts in bold letters.
The silence stretches. You can feel heat crawling up your neck.
“No!” you say quickly.
“I mean—no,” Jisung echoes, voice cracking on the first syllable.
Chan’s smile falters just a bit, confusion flickering across his face.
“I meant,” he clarifies slowly, gesturing vaguely at the board, “because you’re selling aphrodisiac chocolate.”
Oh. OH.
The humiliation hits in waves.
You laugh, but it comes out too high. “Right. Obviously that’s what you meant.”
Chan squints at the both of you. “Okay,” he says carefully. “You two are being weird.”
You straighten immediately, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your skirt. “We’re not being weird.”
“You are,” Chan insists lightly, then shakes his head. “Whatever. I regret the joke. Moving on.”
He drops into one of the chairs, leaning back with casual authority. “Show me what you’ve got so far.” Professional mode back on.
You grab your laptop before Jisung can, projecting the presentation onto the screen mounted on the wall. Your fingers are steady now. You are good at this. Confident here.
“Okay,” you begin, clicking to the title slide. “We’re proposing the name Elixir.”
Chan’s expression shifts from focused to intrigued in an instant. “Elixir,” he repeats.
Jisung stands beside you, suddenly in his element. His voice levels out, confident and smooth.
“It positions the product as concentrated. Transformative. It also allows for expansion. A full line. Elixir: Ember. Elixir: Velvet. Elixir: Midnight.”
Chan nods slowly. “Good. Scalable.”
You click to the next slide. Mood boards fill the screen. Deep chocolate tones. Burgundy packaging. Gold foil detailing. Close-up shots of dark chocolate breaking under warm light.
“We’re leaning into luxury,” you explain. “Minimal copy. Strong visual language. Matte boxes with embossed lettering. High contrast photography. Suggestive but not explicit.”
Chan leans forward slightly. “Taglines?”
Jisung steps in smoothly, like this is a choreography you’ve rehearsed for months. “Indulgence, Infused Intentionally,” he says first. “Emphasizes craftsmanship. The herbal aspect.”
You click.
“Indulge Your Instincts.”
Click.
“Awaken Your Instincts.”
The last one lingers on the screen.
Chan’s eyebrows lift. “That one,” he says, pointing. “That’s bold.”
You nod. “It’s the strongest emotionally. Direct, but still refined.”
Chan glances between you again, something unreadable passing through his expression, but he doesn’t comment.
Instead, he nods once. “This is solid,” he says. “You’re on the right track. I want mock packaging by tomorrow afternoon. And refine the tagline options. Pick a frontrunner.”
You both nod.
Chan stands, clapping his hands again, though softer this time. “See? Freaky, but productive.”
“Chan,” you groan.
He grins unapologetically. “I’m leaving now before I make it worse.”
He heads for the door, pausing just long enough to add, “Good work. Keep it sharp.”
The door closes and silence floods back in.
You and Jisung are still standing too close to each other near the screen.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you both step back at the same time.
Again. In sync.
You clear your throat. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier now. “Mock packaging.”
“Yeah,” he replies, adjusting his sleeves unnecessarily. “Less freaky.”
You snort.
He glances at you, lips twitching.
You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen.
If Chan wants physical mock packaging by tomorrow afternoon, you need Hyunjin. Immediately.
You grab your phone off the table and hit his contact without hesitation, putting it on speaker as you lean back in your chair.
It rings twice.
“Make it quick,” Hyunjin answers, voice smooth and dramatic as ever. “I’m elbow-deep in a disaster.”
“Hi, sunshine,” you reply sweetly. “I need a favor.”
Across the table, Jisung’s fingers pause over his keyboard. He pretends to keep typing, but he is absolutely listening.
There’s shuffling on the other end. “Define favor.”
“I need a mockup printed. Premium finish. Matte box. Embossed lettering if possible. All by tomorrow afternoon.”
Silence. Then a laugh. “By tomorrow afternoon? Are you insane?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “But I’m your best friend.”
“That title expired when you forgot my birthday last year.”
“I did not forget your birthday.”
“You texted me at 11:58 p.m.”
“It still counts.”
Jisung’s jaw tightens slightly.
Your best friend is Hyunjin?
He knows Hyunjin. Everyone at Nuri Media knows Hyunjin. Print production specialist. Tall. Sculpted like he was carved by someone with unrealistic standards. Moves like he’s walking down a runway even when he’s carrying paper samples.
Objectively attractive. Annoyingly attractive.
On the phone, Hyunjin sighs theatrically. “What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll take you to dinner,” you say without hesitation.
Jisung’s stomach drops.
Dinner?
“With wine,” you add.
“With dessert,” Hyunjin counters.
“Fine.”
“And you’re driving.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then no embossing.”
You groan. “You’re evil.”
“I’m busy.”
“Hyunjinnn,” you plead, dragging out his name in a way that makes Jisung’s molars grind. “Please. It’s for a pitch. Chan will murder us.”
There’s a pause. Then, softer, “What’s the project?”
“Aphrodisiac chocolate.”
Hyunjin bursts out laughing. “Oh, I’m absolutely printing that.”
You grin. “So you’ll do it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Send me the dielines and specs in an hour. I’ll stay late.”
You soften instantly. “You’re the best.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Dinner. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you confirm.
“Bye, loser.”
“Bye, diva.”
You hang up, smiling faintly as you place your phone back on the table.
The room is quiet.
You look up.
Jisung is staring at his screen very intensely. Too intensely. “Is Hyunjin your boyfriend?”
The question slips out of him almost too casually. Almost.
You blink.
“What?”
He shrugs, eyes still on his laptop. “You said dinner.”
You stare at him for a second before realization dawns.
“Hyunjin?” you repeat, incredulous. “No.”
He nods once, but his shoulders are still stiff.
“He’s—I mean. He sounds close.”
“He is close,” you say slowly. “He’s my best friend.”
He pauses but continues to stare at the screen.
You continue, “He’s also very much taken.”
That makes his eyes flick up. “Taken?”
“Yeah,” you say, leaning back casually. “He’s been dating his boyfriend for two years.”
“Boyfriend,” Jisung echoes.
“Felix,” you clarify. “You’ve met him. Sunshine personality? Bakes brownies for the office sometimes?”
Recognition dawns across Jisung’s face. “Oh.”
The tension drains from his posture so fast it’s almost comical.
“Oh,” he repeats, this time quieter.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No reason.”
“You thought—” you start, then stop, a slow smile spreading across your face. “You thought Hyunjin and I were dating.”
He straightens defensively. “I didn’t think. I just asked.”
“You looked like you thought.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
His ears are pink again.
You lean forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. “Were you jealous?”
He freezes. “Of Hyunjin?”
“Yes. Of Hyunjin.”
“Why would I be jealous of Hyunjin?”
You gesture vaguely in the air. “Tall. Hot. Print production genius.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “He’s dramatic.”
“So are you.”
“That’s different.”
You grin.
There it is. That flicker.
He looks at you now, properly, like he’s debating something internally. “I just wanted to know,” he says finally, softer.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“Well,” you reply, voice light but steady, “now you know.”
Silence settles between you again.
You glance back at your screen.
“Anyway,” you say casually, “dinner’s just repayment. He’s saved my ass more times than I can count.”
Jisung nods slowly. “Good,” he mutters.
You look up again. “Good?”
“Good he’s taken,” he corrects quickly. “Less workplace drama.”
You study him for a moment. Then you smile to yourself and turn back to your mockup layout.
Across the table, Jisung finally resumes typing, but this time, there’s a small, unmistakable lift at the corner of his mouth.
By the last day before the presentation, Jisung has accepted one undeniable truth: this project is trying to kill him.
He walks into the workshop five minutes early, armed with coffee and the final draft of the slides, ready to fine-tune transitions and rehearse the pitch. He feels prepared.
Then you walk in and he forgets everything he felt prepared about.
It’s not that you’ve never dressed well before. You always look good. Effortlessly put together. Intentional.
But today? Today feels deliberate.
Your blouse dips when you lean forward, highlighting your cleavage. The fabric frames you rather than hides you, and your pencil skirt hugs your hips in a way that makes his palms sweaty.
You look like the visual embodiment of the word Elixir.
You drop your bag onto the chair and smile at him. “Morning.”
He swallows. “Morning.”
His voice is stable. Suspiciously stable.
You walk past him to set your coffee down, and when you lean over the table to plug in your laptop, he has to physically force his gaze upward. Whiteboard. Ceiling. Fire sprinkler system. Anything but—
You straighten and glance at him. “What?” you ask lightly.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked like you were buffering.”
He blinks. “I was not buffering.”
“You were.”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
Packaging specs, he should say. Font hierarchy. Client retention.
Instead: “Embossing depth.”
You smile slowly. “Right.”
You sit down across from him, crossing your legs. The movement is subtle but intentional. He notices because he notices everything about you.
At this point, he knows.
The first day, he thought maybe it was accidental. A shared joke. A coincidence.
The second day, he convinced himself he was projecting.
Today?
You are on one.
The way you hold eye contact half a second longer than necessary. The way your voice softens slightly when you say his name. The way you lean closer when reviewing slides instead of staying on your side of the table.
You’re flirting with him.
At first, when you brush your shoulder lightly against his while looking at the mock packaging render, he stiffens.
You notice, but don’t apologize. You just tilt your head and say, “Relax. I don’t bite.”
His brain flashes an unhelpful image. He clears his throat. “Good to know.”
You grin.
He feels it click then.
If you’re playing, maybe he can play back.
Later, when you’re rehearsing the pitch and you stumble slightly over a phrase, he leans back in his chair and says, ““Careful. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’m distracting you.”
You blink. Then laugh. “That was smooth.”
“I write for a living,” he replies, shrugging.
It feels foreign on his tongue but not entirely unwelcome..
Then he says, evenly, “You know, if you keep dressing like that, Chan’s going to think we’re method acting.”
Your head whips around. “Excuse me?”
“You look very…on-brand,” he clarifies smoothly. “Luxury. Intentional. Suggestive but not explicit.”
Your mouth opens slightly. Then closes. “You’re bold today.”
He shrugs again, though his pulse is hammering. “Deadline confidence.”
You walk back toward him slowly. “Oh,” you murmur. “So this is what happens when you stop panicking?”
“I still panic,” he admits. “I’m just better at hiding it.”
You stop directly in front of him. “And what exactly are you hiding right now?”
The question hangs between you.
He looks up at you. A slow grin begins to form on his lips.
Your breath catches. Then you step back, satisfied, and return to your seat.
“Okay,” you say lightly. “Let’s finish this before we actually get freaky in here.”
He laughs under his breath.
This time, he doesn’t flinch. Because he knows now.
You’re not just imagining it. And neither is he.
Hyunjin opens the door before you can knock a second time.
He looks you up and down once. Twice. Then leans against the doorframe.
“Oh,” he says flatly. “You’re dressed like that.”
You roll your eyes and shove past him into his apartment. “Hello to you too.”
He shuts the door behind you. “Is this dinner for me, or are you planning to seduce the valet?”
“It’s repayment for saving my professional life,” you shoot back. “Focus.”
He crosses his arms, gaze still scanning you with theatrical scrutiny. “Your blouse is fighting for its life.”
“It is not.”
“It is.”
He gestures vaguely at your chest. “If you inhale too deeply, someone’s losing an eye.”
You swat at him. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, following you as you step into the living room. “Is this for Jisung?”
Your silence answers for you.
Hyunjin gasps dramatically, hand flying to his chest. “You minx.”
“I am not a minx.”
“You are weaponizing cleavage during a pitch week.”
You grab the mockup box off his table. “He barely survived lip gloss yesterday.”
Hyunjin freezes. “Explain.”
You glance at him. “He stared at my lips.”
Hyunjin’s jaw drops. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He tilts his head down and stares at you, mouth agape. “Our little copy boy?”
“Do not call him that.”
He blows a raspberry at you. “Boo.”
“Then he panicked and started talking about octopuses.”
Hyunjin howls.
You shove the mockup into the trunk of your car a few minutes later while he continues cackling. By the time you’re seated at the restaurant, he’s still smirking.
And this is not just any restaurant.
This is one of those places where the lighting is moody, the chairs are velvet, and the menu does not include numbers.
You open it and look at him pointedly.
“You are paying for the mockup,” he says sweetly.
“You’re evil.”
“You promised me dinner. You did not specify a budget.”
You sigh and close the menu. “Fine. If I cry later, it’s your fault.”
A waiter appears and suddenly wine is being poured and the bread arrives in a gold bowl just to aggravate you.
You both take a sip.
Hyunjin relaxes back in his chair, long legs crossing elegantly. “Okay. Felix is good. Hasn’t gotten lost in like a month. Work is boring. My mother is still asking when I’m moving back home. Your turn.”
You tell him about Chan’s chaotic entrance. About the pitch progress. About Jisung’s sudden confidence today.
“And then,” you say, lowering your voice slightly even though no one is listening, “he told me I was on-brand.”
Hyunjin blinks. “On-brand?”
“Yes.”
“For aphrodisiac chocolate?”
“Yes.”
He sets his wine down slowly. “Oh, he wants you.”
You choke on your sip. “Stop it.”
“He does,” Hyunjin insists. “Men do not compare your outfit to luxury seduction products platonically.”
You glare at him. “We were joking.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Tell me exactly what you wore today.”
You look down. So does he.
He throws his head back laughing.
“Sweetheart,” he says, wiping at imaginary tears. “Your boobs are staging a coup, and your ass has been looking insane lately.”
You gasp. “Hyunjin!”
“I’m objective,” he says calmly. “I’m gay, not blind.”
You bury your face in your hands.
He continues mercilessly. “If Jisung didn’t notice, I will personally escort him to an optometrist.”
“And he tried to act cool. Failed. Then recovered. Then flirted back.”
Hyunjin’s knife clatters dramatically against his plate while he butters his bread. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“He’s evolving.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“He asked if you and I were dating,” he adds suddenly, connecting dots.
You blink. “How did you know that?”
“Because men are predictable. And because I’m stunning.”
You roll your eyes. “He sounded a little jealous,” you say softly.
Hyunjin’s grin softens into something smug and affectionate. “There it is.”
You look down at your wine. “We’ve just been dancing around it for a year.”
“And now?”
“Now it feels obvious.”
Hyunjin reaches across the table and flicks your wrist gently. “Listen to me very carefully,” he says, lowering his voice dramatically. “If that man is not actively trying to court you by next week, he is a fool. A complete, certified fool.”
You snort. “He’s shy.”
“So are you.”
You pause.
He tilts his head, studying you. “You like him,” he says gently.
“I know.”
“You’ve liked him.”
“I know.”
“And he looks at you like you hung the moon and stars.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
Hyunjin softens further. “Go easy on him,” he adds. “He’s probably glitching out.”
You think about the octopus comment and laugh. “He absolutely is.”
Hyunjin raises his wine glass. “To aphrodisiacs.”
You clink yours against his.
“And to you,” he adds with a smirk, “for using cleavage to get what you want.”
You groan.
He leans back again, satisfied. “Honestly,” he says, eyeing you once more, “if he doesn’t hit that soon, I’m revoking his genius title.”
You kick him lightly under the table. “Shut up.”
He just smiles. “Oh, babe,” he says sweetly. “This is going to be fun.”
Jisung wakes up earlier than necessary, staring at his ceiling for a few minutes.
Today is presentation day. Today is standing beside you in front of a board of directors and pretending he has not been losing sleep over both a chocolate campaign and the way your laugh does something to his heart.
After work yesterday, he stopped by his usual salon and asked for a trim. Not a drastic change. Just refinement. His two block haircut, usually a little chaotic around the edges when he runs his hands through it too often, is now sharper. Clean around the sides. The top styled.
This morning, he stands in front of his closet and bypasses the oversized hoodie. Ignores the worn-in sneakers. Instead, he pulls out a pair of black slacks he genuinely forgot he owned, the fabric structured and fitted in a way that makes him stand straighter the moment he buttons them. A crisp white shirt follows, tucked in properly. Over it, a charcoal cardigan that softens the look just enough to keep him from appearing like he’s trying too hard.
He debates contacts then chooses the clear frame glasses. They make him feel smarter and less boyish.
When he finally looks at himself in the mirror, he pauses.
Okay, not bad. Not bad. Not trying too hard.
He slings his messenger bag across his body, the leather strap cutting diagonally over his chest, and heads out the door with his pulse already a notch higher than usual.
By the time he reaches the meeting room, Chan is already inside, pacing lightly with a coffee in hand, phone to his ear.
Jisung pushes the door open and sees you.
You’re arranging mockup boxes at the center of the long table, adjusting their angle so the embossed ELIXIR catches the light perfectly. Your hair falls over one shoulder as you lean forward slightly, concentration written across your face.
Then you look up and freeze.
He sees it happen in real time: your eyes widen, just a fraction. Your gaze sweeps over him from head to toe, slower than necessary. The cardigan. The slacks. The glasses.
For a split second, your lips part.
If he were not already standing, he might have fallen over.
You recover quickly, but not before he catches the faint flush creeping up your neck.
“Morning,” he says, voice steady in a way that surprises even him.
You blink once, then smile. “Morning.” Your tone is soft, appreciative.
He steps fully into the room, setting his bag down near the head of the table. He can feel your eyes still on him, assessing, recalibrating.
Chan glances between you both and immediately grins.
“Oh, wow,” he says loudly. “Did the aphrodisiac work on you two overnight?”
Both of you snap your attention to him.
“What?” you say.
“I’m just saying,” Chan continues, gesturing dramatically, “suddenly we’ve got tailoring, dapper clothing, and tension thick enough to bottle and sell.”
Jisung’s ears redden as you glare at Chan. “We’re dressed appropriately .”
He laughs, clearly delighted with himself. “Relax. I’m kidding. Mostly.”
Jisung clears his throat and moves toward the stack of printed packets, grateful for something to do with his hands. You join him, fingers brushing briefly as you both reach for the same stack.
Neither of you pull away immediately..
You hand him a few copies. “Can you set these at each seat?”
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out lower than usual.
You begin placing water bottles evenly along the table. He adjusts the mockup boxes so the logo faces forward at a flattering angle. There’s an unspoken choreography to it now. You move around each other seamlessly, occasionally catching each other’s eye and exchanging small, private smiles.
He notices you looking at his glasses again.
“New?” you ask quietly as you pass him another packet.
“Old,” he replies. “Just rediscovered.”
“They suit you.”
The compliment lands differently today.
He meets your gaze. “Thanks.”
Before either of you can say anything else, voices echo down the hallway.
You move beside him, close enough that your arm nearly brushes his.
The door opens. Three members enter first, followed by two more, all dressed in sleek business attire that screams investment and expectation. Polished shoes. Sharp watches shining under the light. Evaluating eyes wandering the room, taking everything in.
Chan steps forward immediately and greets them with easy confidence. Jisung and you follow suit.
Handshakes are exchanged. And you introduce yourselves smoothly, your voice clear and composed.
“Thank you for coming,” you say, gesturing toward the table. “We’re excited to show you what we’ve developed for Botanical Bliss.”
They take their seats.
Jisung moves to the front of the room, clicking the remote as the title slide illuminates the screen behind him.
ELIXIR. Awaken Your Instinct.
He glances at you once. You nod subtly.
He begins. “Botanical Bliss is entering a market that thrives on sensation, luxury, and subtlety,” he says, voice steady and resonant. “We wanted a name that encapsulates transformation without losing refinement.”
You step in seamlessly when he gestures to the mockup box, lifting it carefully so the glossy lettering catches the overhead light.
“Elixir,” you continue, “positions the product as concentrated, elevated, and expandable. It creates room for a full line of experiences.”
As you speak, he watches the board members’ faces—interest and curiosity evident in each one.
You place the box back down gently and meet his eyes again for a fraction of a second.
You move through the slides together like you’ve rehearsed it a hundred times, even though most of it has lived only in brainstorms and stolen glances across a workshop table.
When he delivers “Awaken Your Instincts,” his voice is measured but deliberate.
He feels it: the confidence. The connection.
You follow with the visual strategy, stepping slightly closer to him without thinking, your shoulder nearly brushing his sleeve.
The moment the final slide fades to black, there is a beat of silence that stretches just long enough for Jisung to briefly imagine rejection.
Then the chairman of the Botanical Bliss board leans back in his chair, folds his hands together, and smiles.
“This,” he says slowly, glancing at the others, “is exactly the direction we were hoping for.”
You maintain composure, but Jisung sees the slight lift of your shoulders. The tiny exhale you try to disguise as a nod.
Questions follow, but they’re good questions. Engaged questions. Expansion strategy. Rollout timing. Influencer alignment. You and Jisung volley answers back and forth like you’ve been doing this together for years. No stepping on each other’s lines. No awkward pauses. Just rhythm.
By the time the chairman stands and extends his hand again, it’s done.
“We look forward to moving ahead with Elixir,” he says.
Jisung bows politely, heart pounding, adrenaline fizzing in his veins. “Thank you so much. We’re excited to bring it to life.”
You echo his gratitude, poised and radiant, and for a fleeting second he forgets the board entirely because you look incandescent when you’re proud of yourself.
As they gather their materials, one of the directors gestures to an assistant waiting by the door. A sleek black box is handed to each of you.
“Our first production samples,” she explains. “We’d love for you to try them.”
Try them?
Jisung feels heat creep up his neck.
You accept yours first, hands steady. “Thank you,” you say graciously, even though your cheeks are faintly pink.
He follows suit because refusing would be unprofessional and because apparently today is a test of his cardiovascular system.
“Appreciate it,” he manages.
The box is heavier than expected. Fitting.
The board exits with handshakes and polite bows, leaving the room echoing with the afterglow of success.
The door closes.
Then Chan appears at his shoulder like a mischievous spirit summoned by tension.
He grins so wide his eyes nearly disappear. “Well,” he says brightly, clapping his hands once, “I guess the aphrodisiac works.”
“Chan,” you groan immediately.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, gesturing between the two of you, “that was electric. If the chocolate doesn’t awaken instincts, that presentation will.”
Jisung coughs into his fist.
“You two killed it,” Chan adds, softening slightly. “Seriously. That was one of the smoothest joint pitches I’ve seen from this team.”
The compliment lands warm and solid.
“Thanks,” Jisung says, and this time there’s no stutter.
Chan gives you both one last knowing look, eyes crinkling again. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That eliminates nothing,” you deadpan.
He laughs and finally leaves, shutting the door behind him.
And then it’s just you and Jisung.
The meeting room feels different without witnesses. Charged in a new way. The sample box sits on the table between you like a prop in a very obvious metaphor.
You turn to him slowly.
He steps closer. “You were amazing,” he says first, because that feels safe. Honest. “The way you handled the rollout questions? Insane.”
You shake your head. “You carried the naming and positioning. They were hooked from slide one.”
He smiles faintly. “We work well,” he says.
You hold his gaze. “Yeah. We do.”
There’s a pause. He can feel the moment stretching, balancing on the edge of something. His pulse ticks louder in his ears.
He inhales slowly. “Dinner,” he says.
You blink. “Oh! Okay. To celebrate?”
He shakes his head once. “No.”
The word settles between you.
Your eyebrows lift slightly. “Then why?”
He swallows, but he doesn’t look away this time. “Because I don’t want our best conversations to only happen in a workshop with a whiteboard behind us.”
Your breath catches almost imperceptibly.
“I want to take you to dinner,” he continues, voice steady despite the riot in his chest. “Not because we landed a client. Not because Chan made inappropriate jokes.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth.
“Just…because it’s you.”
You look at him for a long second. Then you smile.
And Jisung thinks, distantly, that if this is what aphrodisiac chocolate feels like, he might need to send the board a thank you note.
At exactly 5:31 p.m., you are already pacing.
Which is ridiculous, because Jisung said he would pick you up at 7:00, and that leaves you with an hour and twenty-nine minutes to spiral, overanalyze, and dismantle your entire wardrobe in the name of romance.
Your bedroom currently looks like a fabric tornado passed through it.
Two skirts are on the floor. A blouse is hanging halfway off the back of your desk chair, and a dress you rejected ten minutes ago is draped across your bed dramatically, as though it were channeling Hyunjin himself.
You stare at your closet.
What do you wear on a date with a man you’ve liked for a year but who has technically only asked you out for the first time today?
Your brain, extremely unhelpfully, begins supplying categories: Cute. Sexy. And somewhere in between.
You chew on the inside of your cheek.
Cute is safe. Cute is you. Lace collars, puff sleeves, soft skirts, ribbons, all the hyper-feminine pieces you’ve always loved wearing. But then you think about the cleavage incident and the way Jisung’s brain nearly exited the building.
You smile to yourself. He definitely noticed. Which is flattering, but then you remember all the other moments. The quieter ones. The year of glances and nervous laughter and him remembering tiny things about you. He asked you out because he likes you.
Your pacing slows.
He likes you. Enough to look you in the eye and say he wanted dinner because it was you.
You feel warmth bloom under your ribs.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Be normal. Be yourself.” You pause before adding quietly, “But like slightly hotter.”
You turn back to your closet with renewed purpose and start digging deeper. Past the soft cardigans. Past the frilly blouses. Until your fingers catch on something silky.
You pull it out. The secret weapon: the black dress—Hyunjin’s gift.
It’s been hanging there for months, worn exactly once for a birthday dinner where he’d spent the entire evening loudly informing strangers that “my friend looks illegal tonight.”
The dress is simple in theory, but lethal in practice. Black, spaghetti straps, bodycon but structured enough to feel elegant. The bodice cinches slightly at the waist, shaping your figure with almost suspicious precision.
You hold it up in front of the mirror before slipping into it and immediately understanding why Hyunjin had insisted on it.
The dress fits you like a glove, hugging your waist, smoothing over your hips, and the neckline dipping just enough to be flirtatious without being scandalous.
You turn slightly in the mirror and blink at your reflection. Wow—your ass looks great.
“Well,” you say slowly, “that’s dangerous.”
You grab your phone immediately.
you: trying on the dress you spent money on me for
Hyunjin replies in approximately six seconds.
jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : send photo??
You take one quickly in the mirror and send it.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Then disappears.
Then appears again.
Then finally—
jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : oh my god, i might have a boner
You grin.
He sends another text immediately.
jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : if jisung fumbles this date I’m fighting him in the parking lot next monday
you: be serious
jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : dead serious, bitch. your waist looks illegal. your boobs look delicious. and your ass is looking bountiful. yeah, that dress is a public safety hazard
You laugh out loud.
you: relax
jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : no YOU relax. you are going to make that poor man’s brain an aneurysm
you: he’s picking me up so i can drink if i want to
Three dots appear.
jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : oh he’s in love with you
You roll your eyes but your smile lingers.
you: i’m getting ready
jinnie ×̷̷͜×̷ : kill him gently, sweetie
You set your phone down before he can escalate further and move to your vanity.
Makeup comes next.
You keep it soft but polished. A warm base, a little blush, subtle shimmer on the eyelids, mascara that lifts your lashes just enough to frame your eyes. Lip gloss—yes, strawberry, because you have a sense of humor.
Jewelry follows—small gold hoops and a delicate necklace that rests just above the neckline of the dress.
Your hair takes the least amount of time. You curl it lightly, letting the waves fall naturally over your shoulders until it looks effortless. By the time you step back and look at yourself in the mirror again, your nerves have returned.
You check the time.
6:58.
Knocking at the front door in the tune of a song echoes through your living room, your heart nearly launching out of your ribcage before you’re grabbing your small purse, taking one last steadying breath, and walking to the door.
When you open it Jisung is standing there and he looks unreal.
Black slacks again, but paired this time with a dark fitted sweater layered over a crisp shirt. The sleeves are pushed up slightly, exposing the smooth, vascular expanse of his forearms.
And the glasses. He kept the glasses.
For a second, both of you just stare.
Then his brain catches up with his mouth.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You blink. “Oh?”
His eyes travel from your face down—very respectfully, very carefully—and then back up again, like he’s making a conscious effort not to implode.
“You,” he says slowly, “are doing something to my nervous system right now.”
You laugh softly, leaning against the doorframe.
“That bad?”
“That good,” he corrects immediately.
His hand rubs the back of his neck, a familiar nervous gesture, but his gaze doesn’t leave you.
“I knew you’d look nice,” he admits. “You always do.”
Your heart flutters.
“But this?” he adds quietly, gesturing vaguely at the dress, “this feels like psychological warfare.”
You grin. “I wanted to impress you.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “You did,” he says. “Very effectively.”
You glance down at his outfit. “And you cleaned up pretty well yourself, Mr. Cardigan.”
He laughs under his breath. “You noticed.”
“You look good,” you say honestly.
His ears turn faintly pink. “Well,” he replies, straightening slightly, “I figured if you’re taking me seriously enough to say yes, the least I can do is look like someone worthy of the invitation.”
You study him for a moment. The nervous smile. The way he’s clearly trying to be confident but still looks like the same sweet, thoughtful guy you’ve liked for a year. Your chest warms and you smile softly at him.
He smiles back and holds his arm out for you. “Ready?” he asks.
You nod, hooking your arm with his, stepping out and closing the door behind you.
“Ready.”
As you walk toward his car together, he glances at you again and mutters under his breath, mostly to himself—
okay i may be obsessed with this right now.. just a posibility.. not like a totally real scenario where i stayed up way past my usual bedtime reading this bc i was hooked since i read office cute shy jisung.. (i still have to wake up fucking early but # worth itttt)
Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension
Word count : 9.6k
Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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There was no knock. There never was.
Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.
You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”
He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”
“You don’t know my life.”
“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”
You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”
He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”
Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.
Normal.
You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.
This was just how it had always been.
People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.
Not even close.
You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.
Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”
You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”
“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”
“You’re so unserious.”
“I’m efficient.”
You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”
He grinned. “Always.”
He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.
And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.
⸻
Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.
Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.
You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.
You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.
Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.
“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”
“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”
Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.
Then you felt it.
One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.
His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.
Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.
His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.
“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”
He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.
You didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?
You were choking.
Silently. Violently.
He had no idea.
He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.
But this?
This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.
The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.
You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.
“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”
You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.
Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.
Like it meant nothing.
And to him, it probably didn’t.
But to you?
You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.
⸻
The door shut with a final click.
Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.
Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”
You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”
He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”
You hesitated, but only for a beat.
This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.
So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.
At first, it was nothing.
Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.
“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”
“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”
You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.
Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.
It felt too good. Way too good.
But it was still safe.
Until his hands shifted.
Slid higher.
Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.
Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.
A sound left you.
High-pitched. Sharp.
Needy.
You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.
Chan stilled.
You didn’t breathe.
Then—
“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.
You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.
“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”
He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.
His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.
You were still. Too still.
“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”
You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”
His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.
You couldn’t look back at him.
Not yet.
Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…
Or if he definitely did.
You hadn’t mentioned it.
Neither had he.
Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.
If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.
“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.
He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”
And that was that.
Or so you thought.
—
The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.
“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.
“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”
You rolled your eyes, grinning.
It was easy again. Like nothing happened.
Until it wasn’t.
He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.
“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”
You glanced at him. “What?”
He didn’t speak right away.
Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.
Then he looked at you. Really looked.
“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”
Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.
You played dumb. “What sound?”
Chan tilted his head, amused.
“Don’t do that.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.
He followed. One step. Two.
“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”
Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”
“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”
You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”
“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”
You froze.
He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.
Your voice came out small. “So?”
“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”
Silence.
Heavy. Awkward. Charged.
You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Chan stepped a little closer.
You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.
He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.
Just… observing.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”
Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.
“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”
Your breath hitched.
He wasn’t teasing anymore.
He wasn’t joking.
You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.
And something else you couldn’t name yet.
You looked away.
“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”
He smirked. “So that’s a no?”
“That’s a goodnight.”
You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.
And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.
The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.
You felt it.
That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?
He had a thread.
And he was pulling it.
“Wait,” he said, quiet.
You kept walking.
“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”
The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.
Your breath hitched.
Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.
“Chan—”
He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.
Your breath caught.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”
You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.
“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.
“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”
You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.
“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”
His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.
You stopped breathing.
His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.
Then— He wrapped.
Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.
Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.
Everything in you went still.
Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.
Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”
You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”
His hand didn’t move.
“Then what’s it like?”
You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.
“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”
You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.
He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.
“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”
“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.
He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.
His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.
But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.
“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”
You blinked.
Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”
He glanced back with a smirk.
“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”
⸻
Dinner was a blur.
You barely tasted anything.
Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.
You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.
He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.
Not with intent.
Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.
You poked at your own noodles.
“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.
Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.
“Talk about what?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”
A beat of silence.
Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”
You stared at him.
Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.
And suddenly?
You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.
“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”
The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.
“…Now?”
You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”
Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”
His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.
You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”
“I know.”
“We said we wouldn’t.”
“I remember.”
“So why now?”
Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”
You flushed.
“Curious about what?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”
A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.
You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”
Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”
“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”
“I’m still your best friend.”
“And we don’t talk about sex.”
“We do now.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.
You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”
Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”
You blinked. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “Dead serious.”
You hesitated.
Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”
A pause.
Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”
“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”
His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”
You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”
He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”
Your thighs pressed together under the table.
You looked away. “You go. Say something.”
He was quiet for a second.
Then—casually—“I like brats.”
You choked.
“Excuse me?”
Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”
“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”
He laughed, head tipping back.
But the tension didn’t ease.
If anything—it twisted tighter.
You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”
He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”
You paused. “…Both?”
Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Another silence.
He watched you. “You like intense?”
You looked up.
His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.
You whispered, “Yeah.”
He stood.
You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.
Your breath caught.
“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”
“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”
His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.
“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”
His hand dipped.
Neck again.
Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.
And this time?
You didn’t pretend.
You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.
“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”
You should’ve walked away.
Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.
But you didn’t.
You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.
Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.
His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.
Not rough.
Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?
And God… you did.
“You’re really into this,” he murmured.
You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
He hummed.
Then leaned closer.
“But you’ve imagined it.”
You stiffened.
He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”
You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”
He pulled back.
Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.
“What?”
“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”
“I wasn’t being bratty.”
“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”
He let go.
The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.
Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.
Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.
You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”
Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”
Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”
“That I’ve been missing out.”
You blinked. “Missing out on what?”
He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”
Your heart thumped.
“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious.”
He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”
You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”
“Then what about Hyunjin?”
“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”
Chan laughed.
You didn’t.
“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”
You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”
“I know.”
“I just thought it’d be… weird.”
Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”
“You’re not freaked out?”
“Nope.”
You hesitated. “So what now?”
He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.
He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.
And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.
He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.
His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.
He traced.
Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.
You held perfectly still.
“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters now.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.
“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”
Your legs weakened.
Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.
He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”
You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”
“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”
“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.
That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.
“There she is.”
“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.
“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”
You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”
“Swear.”
You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”
Chan’s eyes darkened.
“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”
You blinked. “Your turn.”
He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.
Then leaned forward and said—
“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”
You froze.
“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”
Your breath hitched.
“Too much?” he asked, smiling.
You didn’t answer.
Because truthfully?
You didn’t know if it was.
You weren’t sure what had shifted.
The air, maybe.
Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.
But Chan didn’t back down.
He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.
“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”
You swallowed. “Me neither.”
“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”
“And now?”
His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.
“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”
You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.
He felt it.
His thumbs stilled.
“That bother you?” he asked softly.
You shook your head before you could stop yourself.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”
“I don’t know,” you breathed.
“Hmm.”
He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.
“Do you like when I talk like that?”
You hesitated.
Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”
Your lips parted, no sound coming out.
He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”
You flushed.
He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.
“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.
“What side?”
He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”
You shivered.
He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”
“I’m not quiet.”
“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”
He leaned in again.
Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.
“You always give this much control without realizing it?”
Your mouth went dry.
“I’m not—” you started.
But he shook his head.
“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
You were wet.
God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.
He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.
And that’s when you felt it.
Hard. Heavy.
Brushing your inner thigh.
Your breath stilled.
Chan didn’t move.
His lips quirked—just barely.
And that’s when you knew.
He felt it too.
Still, he played innocent.
“Something wrong?”
Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”
“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”
You blinked.
“No.”
“Because you’re hot?”
You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”
That made him pause.
“How?”
“You’ve never… acted like this.”
He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”
You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”
“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”
You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.
And still, you didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t say a word.
His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”
You nodded without thinking.
Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”
Your lips parted, breath catching.
“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”
He smirked, voice dipping lower.
“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”
You gasped again, this time audible.
He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.
And then—God help you—he moved just a little.
A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.
Just enough to feel how warm you were.
How ready.
Your jaw clenched.
Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.
And that was his breaking point.
Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.
Not squeezing. Not dominating.
Feeling.
Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.
You swallowed. “Then show me.”
His eyes snapped back to yours.
Dark.
Ravenous.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Didn’t push further.
Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”
That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.
But then his head dipped lower.
And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.
You jolted.
He smiled against you.
“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.
And then he bit you.
Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.
A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.
High. Desperate.
Sinful.
“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.
But he heard it.
God, he heard everything.
His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”
Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.
He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.
And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.
“…Chan.”
His name, like a prayer.
Choked. Shaken.
Raw.
He stilled.
Completely.
You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.
“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.
Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.
You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”
He shook his head once. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“My name.”
You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.
And that was it.
That broke him.
Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.
Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.
Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.
Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.
And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?
It shattered him.
Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.
You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.
“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
But you did.
You knew now.
And worse? You loved it.
You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.
Loud. Guttural.
You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.
And he didn’t even try to hide it.
His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.
Just holding.
Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.
“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”
You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.
Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.
“Not anymore.”
That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.
Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.
This wasn’t affection.
This was possession.
He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.
His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.
And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.
His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.
You could feel how hard he was.
And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.
He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”
“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.
His eyes flashed.
“Say less.”
His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.
Because you were soaked.
Dripping.
His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.
You gasped. Shuddered.
Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”
You whimpered.
His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.
You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.
“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”
You swallowed, chest heaving.
You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.
Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.
And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:
You were gone.
Undone. Open.
And he loved it.
His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.
You cried out, knees trembling.
He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.
“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”
You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”
He smirked.
And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.
You screamed.
Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.
He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.
“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”
You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”
You shook your head, biting your fist.
He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”
You moaned louder—desperate.
And then he stopped.
Just like that.
Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.
You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.
“What—?”
He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”
You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.
He kissed you again, rougher this time.
And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.
You stared.
You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?
This was feral.
Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.
“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.
You couldn’t even speak.
Just nodded.
Because the fire had already started, and now?
You wanted to burn.
You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.
He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.
His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”
You nodded again, swallowing hard.
He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.
“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”
And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.
“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”
Chan paused.
Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.
Bratty.
His brows lifted. “Oh?”
You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”
Chan blinked slowly.
Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.
“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”
You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.
“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”
He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”
You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”
And that was it.
That was all it took.
He snapped.
His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.
You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.
“Fuck—”
“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.
You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.
You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.
You weren’t used to being his.
Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.
Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”
You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”
He pulled out halfway.
“Say it right.”
“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.
He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.
“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”
“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”
He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”
And when you clenched around him at those words?
He lost it.
His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.
“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.
You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”
He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”
He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.
“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”
Your pride screamed no.
But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.
You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:
“Make me.”
Chan’s eyes blazed.
“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”
And from the way your legs shook?
You knew he already was.
You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.
Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.
But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.
He hadn’t stopped moving.
And he hadn’t stopped talking.
“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”
You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”
“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”
You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.
And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.
You damn near sobbed.
“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”
You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.
“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.
Chan stopped moving.
Dead still.
And grinned.
“Oh, baby girl.”
And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.
His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.
“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.
You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.
And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.
“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”
You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”
So he pulled out, flipped you again.
“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.
He didn’t move.
Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.
“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.
You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.
“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”
He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.
“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”
You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.
But you nodded.
You were gone.
Gone for him.
He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.
And then?
He moved you again.
He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.
Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.
And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.
“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”
You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”
He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.
“Come for me.”
And this time?
You did.
With a scream that could’ve broken glass.
Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.
Chan didn’t stop.
He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.
“Fucking—shit—”
You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.
And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.
“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”
Chan huffed against your cheek.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”
—-
Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.
You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.
Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.
The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.
He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.
The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.
Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.
“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.
You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”
He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”
But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And maybe that’s why you did it.
Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.
Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.
Why your lips didn’t stop there.
Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.
Not like this. Not yours.
He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.
You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.
“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”
You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.
“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”
His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.
You kissed lower.
And lower.
And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.
He groaned.
“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”
You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.
“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.
His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”
You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.
“I don’t have a gag reflex.”
Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.
“Jesus Christ.”
And then you took him in.
All of him.
Slow. Deep. Deliberate.
His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.
“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.
You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.
He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.
“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”
You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.
Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.
“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”
You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.
And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.
Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.
He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.
When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.
Chan stared.
Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”
You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”
He groaned, forehead against yours.
“We’re not sleeping tonight.”
And you knew he meant it.
—
The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.
You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.
Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.
A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.
You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”
He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.
He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.
You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”
Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”
“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”
His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”
You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.
“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”
You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”
Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”
You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”
“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”
His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.
Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”
“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”
You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”
His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.
“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”
“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.
He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”
You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”
“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”
You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”
Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.
“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”
Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”
He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.
“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”
He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.
“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”
And just like that, you knew.
You’d opened Pandora’s box.
And Chan had no plans to close it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!
Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!
i feel like i need to tidy up my blog but my fuckass laptop fucking broke so as soon as it gets fixed i promise i WILL make a masterlist of my fic recs and a decent intro post bc its a mess
not for anything in specific but i like to use this kinda to keep track of what i do read and etc
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistake in advance.
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summary: It was stupid, really… how one week every month your brain decided to turn Han Jisung into something else entirely. Normally he was just Ji, your best friend, the boy who let himself into your apartment without knocking and ate half your snacks. But that week? God, you couldn't even look without feeling the need to devour him.
There were days when his laugh seemed deeper, when the stretch of his black t-shirt across his chest made your stomach twist, when the fabric clung to his biceps so tight it was impossible not to look, When you caught yourself staring at his hands wrapped around a controller and thinking of things best friends should never think about.
You had trained yourself to handle it. Stay quiet. Avoid too much eye contact. Blame hormones and wait it out. Friendship was more important. Always.
Except tonight.
Tonight he was sprawled across your couch, damp hair curling against his forehead after a shower, shirt long forgotten somewhere. His skin was warm, golden under the TV light, and the smell of his shampoo lingered in the air. You curled your legs under yourself, forcing your eyes back to the screen, trying not to breathe too deeply.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the screen. “Why do you sometimes look at me like that?”
Your pulse stuttered. “Like what?”
“Like…” he tilted his head, pretending to think, though you caught the edge of a smile. “Like you want something.”
Your laugh was sharp, fake. “I don’t.”
“You don’t?” His eyes flicked to yours then, curious. Too curious.
“No,” you said quickly, but it came out breathy, your voice catching on the end.
The corner of his mouth lifted, slow, knowing. He shifted closer, resting his arm along the back of the couch, body heat brushing against you. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah, Jisung, I’m sure.”
“Okay then.”
He came even closer, dropping his head onto your lap, a habit of his, one you were more than used to. But this time, as soon as his weight settled against you, your whole body lit up. Your breath hitched, heavy and uneven, and you forced yourself to play it cool, to keep your hands still, to pretend this was as casual as it always had been.
Except it wasn’t. Not when his hair brushed against your skin. Not when the heat of his body radiated through you, or when the faint smell of his shampoo curled up into your lungs and stayed there. You could see every line of his face, every shift of muscle, every little thing you weren’t supposed to notice. And your mind was long, long gone.
He didn’t say a word for the rest of the night, which was weird, Jisung was a yappy guy. Always running his mouth, filling silences with dumb jokes, humming under his breath, narrating his own thoughts like you hadn’t known him for years. But now? Nothing. Just him sitting there, quiet, and you facing the screen, pretending to care about that goddamn movie while your pulse pounded everywhere but your chest.
You tried to stay still, tried to focus, tried to shove your mind anywhere but the direction it was going. But the warmth of his body next to yours was distracting, the silence deafening, and soon your eyelids got heavy.
You must’ve dozed off.
Because suddenly you were dreaming, really dreaming, of him. Touches that had never happened, his voice in your ear saying things he had never said, heat curling low in your stomach until it felt so real you startled awake with your heart racing.
The movie was still on. The room was dim, the glow from the TV flickering across the walls. A blanket you didn’t remember pulling up was covering you, soft and warm. And right beside you, there he was, head tilted slightly down as he scrolled on his phone like nothing in the world had shifted.
“Bet that nap felt… good,” he said casually, without even looking at you.
“Uhum,” your throat felt dry. “I was sleepy.”
“Sleepy, huh?” His tone had that dangerous lilt, like he knew something you didn’t.
“Yeah… sleepy.”
Finally, he looked up from his phone, dark eyes locking onto yours, too steady. “Why exactly were you calling my name for?”
“What?”
“Yeah yeah, I heard that”
“It was just… a dream”
“Yeah.. but that kind of dream for sure”
“Jesus Christ. You won’t let go, will you?” you muttered, sitting up a little. “I’m just a bit… you know, horny. It’s just that time of the month. You ended up being my mind’s victim, that’s all. End of story.”
Jisung’s brows shot up, and then he laughed, low, amused, almost smug. “Ohhh, end of story? Sure. So what, you want me to call up that guy you went out with last week for you?”
Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck. “Shut up.”
“What?” He grinned, leaning back against the couch. “He’s probably free. Though, to be fair, he didn’t even know how to kiss, right? You said that. Honestly, tragic.”
You glared, but he only chuckled, basking in your reaction, because that’s what best friends did, poked at bruises until the other one snapped.
Except this time… this time you could feel his heat radiating toward you. And when you risked a glance at him, the way he was looking at you made your chest tighten. Not playful, not entirely. Deeper. Like maybe he had already been thinking about the same things you had dreamed of.
Your pulse jumped, your mouth dry.
“So…” his voice was softer now, slower, eyes never leaving yours. “How was that dream?”
It wasn’t weird that he asked, not for you two. You had always been too comfortable, telling each other things you probably shouldn’t. But this time, the words weighed heavier. This time, the air was different.
“Come onnn!” he whined, that voice only Jisung could pull off, halfway between a joke and a plea. “I want to know.”
You shifted under the blanket, gripping the edge a little tighter. “Nothing much. I honestly can’t even remember it.” A lie, and a bad one, you could still feel it. “But it was more about… chasing a release somehow than what was in fact being done.”
His eyebrows lifted, interest flickering in his eyes, but he stayed quiet, letting your own words hang heavy between you.
That blanket was saving you. Because the way your thighs were pressing together, clenching harder with every second, you’d be ruined without it. The ache was pulsing now, deep and insistent, impossible to ignore. And talking about it with him, with Jisung, of all people, was making it so much worse.
His gaze flicked down to where the blanket bunched around your lap, then back up to your face, slowly. And when the corner of his mouth tugged into that knowing smirk, your stomach flipped.
He was breathing heavy now. You tried to look away, but you couldn’t.
“I can leave…” he murmured, voice low, careful. “So, you know, you can chase your release.”
Your lips parted, your eyes still locked on him. “…Okay…”
But he didn’t move.
“Or—” he cleared his throat, the sound tight, almost nervous. “Or I can stay and, hm… we can chase it together.”
You closed your eyes, releasing a breath. “Ji, we can’t.”
“I know,” he said quickly, leaning in, words tumbling out. “I know. But just… just for fun. We won’t have sex. We can just do it together, you know?”
Before you could protest again, he shifted, dragging himself under the blanket with you. The space between you disappeared.
His thighs brushed against yours beneath the blanket, warm and solid. And then you caught the subtle movement of his arm, his hand slipping lower, slowly.
“Is this okay?” he asked softly, watching your face.
You nodded, throat too tight for words.
For a moment, the only sound was your breathing. You hesitated, your fingers twitching against the blanket, your whole body wound tight, nerves sparking under your skin. But the weight of his stare, the sound of his breath, the fact that he would do the same thing inches away from you… it pulled you under.
Your hand slid down, tentative at first, brushing over the thin fabric between your legs. A shiver shot through you at the contact. You pressed a little harder, exhaling shakily, until finally, slowly, you slipped under the waistband.
The first touch made your whole body jolt. You were wet already, embarrassingly so, your fingers sliding easily against yourself.
And then, a sound.
Soft, strangled, not yours.
Jisung.
He heard it. That slick, obscene sound in the quiet of the room. His lips parted as he dragged in a sharp breath, and before he could stop himself, a shy, broken moan escaped him.
Your eyes flew to his face, heat flooding every inch of you. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes low, but he didn’t look away.
And under the blanket, you both kept moving, his hand stroking himself, yours circling, pressing, dipping lower. The air thickened, your heavy breaths filling the silence and wet rhythm of your fingers and the faint slick sound of his hand working himself. The intimacy of it was unbearable: best friends, side by side, baring every secret breath and sound to each other.
You bit your lip, hips twitching upward into your hand, fingers dragging over your clit in lazy circles before sliding down again, gathering more of your arousal. The blanket was a shield, but the way his thigh pressed into yours made every movement vibrate between you, every shift impossible to hide.
“Fuck…” he whispered suddenly, voice cracked open, his forehead tipping forward until it brushed your shoulder. His breaths came hot against your skin. “You sound… so wet.”
The way he groaned right after, like the words had undone him too, pushed you further. You pressed harder, moving faster, chasing the edge you had been aching for.
His pace matched yours, each soft grunt and shaky exhale pulling you closer. You could feel him unraveling next to you, his hand moving quicker, thighs tensing against yours. And you couldn’t stop looking at him, his flushed face, the way his mouth kept falling open, the desperate little sounds slipping out despite his effort to hold them back.
Your hips lifted off the couch slightly, back arching, fingers circling furiously now. The pressure was unbearable, every nerve lit up.
“Oh, s-shit,” he whispered, broken, eyes squeezing shut. “Say my name”
“Ji—” it tore out of you, breathless, almost a cry. “Jisung”
And that was it. Your body clenched, trembling as release crashed through you, heat flooding your core, thighs quivering under the blanket. The wet sounds grew louder as you worked yourself through it, chasing every drop of pleasure until you couldn’t anymore.
Next to you, his hand stilled with a sharp, muffled groan, his body jerking as he spilled into his fist. He buried his face against your shoulder, teeth clenched as he came undone, his shaky breaths loud in your ear.
For a long moment, the only thing in the room was the sound of you both breathing, ragged, uneven, trying to come down.
Finally, Jisung pulled in a long, shaky inhale, still hiding his face against you. Then, with the tiniest laugh, he muttered, “Well… that was… different.”
Your cheeks burned, but your lips curled despite yourself. “You don’t say.”
—
You never talked about it. Not that night. Not the morning after. You just let yourselves drift into sleep on the couch, tangled under that same blanket, like nothing had even happened.
But something had. And whatever it was, it lingered.
After that, things felt… different.
Closer.
You caught yourself noticing it in small ways first, his hand on the back of your chair during late-night gaming, fingers brushing your shoulder like it belonged there. The way he leaned into you when he laughed, chest pressed against your back as though your bodies had decided space was optional.
It wasn’t just you, either. Jisung had gotten bolder, without even realizing it. His hugs lasted longer, holding on until you had to push at his chest and tease him for being clingy. His cheek kisses stopped being quick taps; now they lingered, his lips warm against your skin, leaving you flustered every time.
And maybe the strangest part was how normal it all felt. Like you had both silently agreed to erase that night and pretend nothing had changed, except everything had.
Because it never happened again. Not once.
But the weight of it was everywhere, tucked into every glance that lasted a little too long, every brush of skin that felt too deliberate, every easy excuse you both found to be pressed up against each other…
And today?
It was one of those nights when he was coming to your apartment, one of those sticky summer nights where the air felt too heavy to breathe. You were in a tank top, no bra underneath, and shorts that clung tight to your thighs. It was hot. That was the only kind of clothes possible to wear.
Jisung arrived already tugging his shirt over his head, tossing it aside the second he stepped in. But then he looked at you. Really looked. His eyes dragged up, down, lingering in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Excuse me, Ji? Have you lost something?” you asked, trying to mask the heat in your voice.
“Well, I think I did,” he shot back smoothly, lips twitching.
“No, you didn’t. Now stop looking at my butt and give me the beer you bought me.”
He grinned, handing it over, and you clinked cans like always. It was fun, loud laughter, music playing low in the background, the two of you sprawled on the floor and couch in turns, talking about everything and nothing. It was the kind of night you've had a hundred times before.
Maybe it was the heat of summer, maybe it was that night you had never spoken about, maybe it was both. But your skin felt too sensitive, burning with every brush against his. And his heat, God, you could feel it. Every time he leaned close to whisper some dumb joke in your ear, every time his arm pressed against yours as he reached for the chips, every time his thigh bumped yours when he laughed too hard, your body caught fire.
And you didn’t move away.
Neither did he.
You were closer and closer, shoulders touching, legs pressed together like the couch wasn’t wide enough, like the floor wasn’t big enough. It didn’t feel like best friends hanging out anymore. It felt like something was about to happen.
And you weren’t sure you wanted to stop it.
“Ji.”
“Hum?” he hummed, voice casual, but his eyes were already on you.
“Do you remember… that night?”
You didn’t even have to clarify. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Do you ever… think about it?”
His lips pressed together, then parted just enough for a whisper. “Well, yeah…”
“Me too.”
Silence stretched, charged and heavy, until he finally breathed, “…We can’t.”
“I know.”
“But…”
You both said it at the same time and immediately broke into nervous laughter, the sound shaking some of that unbearable tension.
“You go first,” you told him.
He licked his lips, hesitant but honest. “We can do it again if you want. Just… no sex.”
Your chest tightened. “I think I want that.”
This time, there was no blanket to hide under. You were both on the floor, the low lamp casting shadows that made everything feel sharper, rawer.
He shifted where he sat, legs spread wide on the carpet, watching you with that mix of mischief and restraint that only made your pulse race faster.
“So what,” you asked, tilting your head, trying to sound playful even though your voice was shaking, “we just… sit here and stare at each other?”
He smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Depends. You planning on doing something worth staring at?”
Your stomach flipped. “Don’t act like you’re not already.”
He choked out a laugh, running a hand over his mouth, but his eyes, dark, locked on you, betrayed him. “I can’t stop imagining…” He trailed off, shook his head, then let out a nervous, broken laugh. “Never mind.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was charged, electric, daring. His gaze flicked down, your tank top, your thighs, the waistband of your shorts, and you swore you felt it like a touch.
You swallowed hard.
Then his hand moved, slowly, and he patted himself over his shorts, a faint hiss slipping past his lips at the contact. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, his eyes stayed on yours the whole time.
The outline of him was obvious, straining against the thin fabric, and the way his fingers curled around himself had your breath catching in your throat. Heat surged through you, pooling low in your stomach, until you couldn’t stand anymore.
Your own hand drifted down, mirroring his, pressing against the damp heat between your thighs. His lips parted when he saw, chest heaving.
“Oh, shit…” he whispered, stroking himself now, slow and shaky.
You nodded, your fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts, your touch clumsy at first but growing bolder when his jaw clenched, when his breath hitched harder.
You swore the room grew smaller, hotter, every second. The quiet was deafening, filled only with the slick sounds of him stroking himself and your uneven breaths. The carpet prickled under your bare thighs, grounding you in a way you didn’t want, because everything else in your body was floating, pulling toward him.
His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide and almost disbelieving, like he couldn’t believe you were both really doing this again. Every time your lashes fluttered shut, his voice was there, rough, low, “Don’t stop… don’t look away.”
Your fingers slipped deeper, the little gasp that tore from your throat wasn’t meant to be heard, but he did. His rhythm stuttered, a strangled groan breaking from him, his head tipping back for just a second before snapping forward again, watching you like a man starved.
He could see the little hitch in your breath as your fingers moved lower. And you could see his hand, working himself under his shorts, the outline of his cock straining against the thin fabric.
It should’ve been enough. The deal was clear: no sex. To pretend it was just this. But it wasn’t. enough. Not tonight.
“Ji…” Your voice cracked on his name. “I– I need more.”
Before you could think twice, before either of you could talk yourselves out of it, you reached forward. In one swift motion, you pulled his hand away from his shorts and dragged yourself into his lap.
He froze, breath caught, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to put them. And then, like he couldn’t help himself, his arms locked tight around your waist.
Your chest pressed into his as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms looped around his shoulders like you were clinging for dear life. His scent was everywhere, soap and heat and him, and the way his breath hitched only made the fire in your stomach worse.
But you were already moving. Your hips rolled forward, slow and desperate, dragging yourself against the hard line of him under his shorts. The friction was dizzying, sharp, too little and too much all at once.
He gasped, almost a choke, his fingers digging into your waist before he caught himself. His grip loosened instantly, like he was afraid of breaking the one fragile rule between you.
“Is this—” you whispered, shaky, pressing your mouth against his shoulder. “Is this okay? Just… this.”
His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it against your temple. “Fuck…” His voice was ragged, almost broken, and yet his hands hovered uselessly in the air, fists tightening, opening, tightening again as you ground down harder. “Yeah”
You could feel him pulsing against you through the thin layers of fabric, every shift of your hips drawing out a low, shaky sound from his chest. You were panting now, thighs trembling, and he was matching your rhythm without even meaning to, the two of you caught in a loop that neither wanted to stop.
Your whole body was burning. Your breath came shallow, shaky, as you rocked harder into him, the thin cotton of your shorts dragging against his, dragging against him. The sound of it, low fabric friction, the little whimpers you couldn’t hold back, the strangled groans he tried to bite down, filled the room more than the summer heat.
“Holy shit,” Jisung rasped, head falling back against the couch. His lips were parted, sweat glistening at his hairline. “You’re—” he swallowed, voice breaking, “—you’re killing me.”
You whimpered in reply, hips rolling with more urgency, and his hands flexed uselessly at your sides. He wasn’t sure if he could touch you, and his restraint only made him twitch harder beneath you, straining against his shorts.
Then, his voice dropped lower. “Can I—” he sucked in a breath, shaky, “can I take them off? Just your shorts. Please.”
“The underwear stays,” he rushed to add, voice wrecked but sure. “I swear. Just… I need to feel you closer. Just this much.”
You closed your eyes, biting your lip, the ache between your thighs making the decision for you. With trembling hands, you pushed the waistband down, lifting your hips just enough to slide them off. His eyes never left you, his chest heaving, jaw clenched like he was in pain.
“Mine too,” he muttered suddenly, voice low and ragged, already tugging his shorts down his thighs. His boxers clung to him, soaked through at the tip, a dark wet patch spreading where his precum had leaked. He was rock hard, straining against the thin fabric, every outline visible, and you couldn’t stop staring.
And then you sat back down on him, only the thin, damp fabric of your underwear keeping you apart. The difference made you gasp, loud and broken, your nails digging into his shoulders. He let out a guttural moan, so desperate it shook through both of you.
“Oh, fuck, baby…” he groaned, hips jerking up involuntarily to meet yours. “That’s it. Just like that. F-fuck— keep going.”
Baby. He had called you that before, always in a mocking tone, the way best friends threw names around to tease. But this time? This time it felt different, low and raw and wrecked, and your whole body lit up even more, heat flashing through you at the sound of it.
You rolled again, slower this time, savoring the sharp, wet drag, the way the head of him pressed right against your swollen clit through your panties. The slick sound between you was undeniable now.
“Shit—” his voice cracked as his head fell forward, lips brushing against your ear without meaning to. “You’re soaking me through. You—” he gasped when you ground down harder, “you like this that much?”
You whimpered, clenching around nothing, grinding like your body was chasing something more. “Yes… Ji, I—fuck, I need—”
His answer was another choked moan, hips meeting yours in a rougher rhythm now, his self-control fraying with every drag of your bodies.
Your hips rolled harder, chasing friction, and the pace between you turned messy, uncontrolled. His hands slipped beneath your tank top, fingers splaying against the hot skin of your back, holding you tighter like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.
You didn’t care. You wanted him closer, way closer.
Lifting your head from where it had been tucked into the curve of his neck, you leaned up until your lips brushed against his ear. The words didn’t come, just a moan, shameless and breathy, spilling straight into him.
The sound wrecked him.
“Shit,” he whined, high and desperate, clutching at you with trembling hands, dragging your body harder against his. His hips stuttered up, meeting you rougher, guiding your waist in erratic pushes. “Don’t— don’t do that to me—”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your forehead pressing to the side of his head, both of you gasping through the hot, wet drag of fabric on fabric.
“Fuck, Jisung—” you moaned again, louder. His voice cracked on another whimper, breath catching as he forced your hips down against the rigid, soaked outline of him.
“You’re—ah, fuck—you’re driving me crazy,” he choked, his tone shaky and pitched high, every ounce of restraint gone. “Do it again. Please—moan for me again.”
Every nerve in your body was lit, every drag of his cock under his underwear sending shocks through you. The wet heat between your thighs made your panties cling, sticky, unbearable, and still you ground harder, chasing that edge.
“Ji—fuck—” you whimpered, breath breaking against his ear.
That was all it took. His hands clutched you tighter, forcing your hips down in a frantic rhythm, his thighs trembling under you. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you?” His voice cracked with it, whiny and rushed. “I can feel you—god, I can feel how bad you need it—”
You were already gone.
Your body tensed, a desperate cry slipping from your throat as your orgasm tore through you, thighs clenching tight around his hips, grinding helplessly against him while you came. You buried your face in his neck, muffling the broken sounds spilling from your mouth, your whole body shuddering in his arms.
Jisung was wrecked by it, by the feel of you convulsing against him, by the hot wetness soaking through your panties and spreading over his cock. His hips snapped up wildly, chasing, needing. “Fuck, fuck—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
He was loud now, gasping and whining, rocking against you harder until he broke apart too. His cock throbbed in his underwear, spilling hot and sticky between you both, soaking the already-dark patch at the front of his briefs. He clung to you through it, voice pitched high as he moaned your name into your shoulder.
The room fell quiet except for the sound of your heavy breaths, your bodies still rocking lazily, more aftershocks than rhythm now.
Just sweat, tangled limbs, and the sharp, sweet sting of knowing you had just crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.
“Oh, fuck, Jisung. Just for fun, huh?” You were still catching your breath when Jisung finally slumped back against the couch, chest heaving, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. You stayed straddling his lap, too dazed to move, but the ridiculous grin tugging at his lips made you groan.
“Don’t,” you warned, pointing a shaky finger at him.
He tilted his head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “Don’t what? Congratulate you? Because—wow—you sound like a goddamn dream when you cum.”
“Han Jisung!” you smacked his shoulder, heat rising to your cheeks.
“What? You want me to lie? Pretend you didn’t almost break my neck grinding down on me like that?”
You covered your face with both hands, whining into your palms. “This is literally the worst idea ever.”
“And yet…” His hands slid up your sides, playful, not really touching but close enough to remind you of what just happened. “…best orgasm I’ve had in months.”
You peeked through your fingers. “That’s depressing.”
“That’s honesty,” he shot back, grinning wider. Then he leaned in, voice dropping into a teasing whisper. “Also… you owe me new shorts. Pretty sure you ruined these.”
You shoved at his chest, but he just laughed harder, holding you in place so you couldn’t escape.
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying not to smile.
“Impossible and hot,” he corrected, smug. “Don’t forget that part.”
And despite yourself, you laughed too, tangled up in him, sticky and messy and more comfortable than you should be.
Eventually, you peeled yourself off his lap, legs shaky as you stood. “Okay, I’m disgusting,” you said, tugging at your tank top. “I’m gonna shower before I actually stick to these.”
Jisung leaned back, arms draped over the couch, eyes still glued to you in that lazy post-release haze. You rolled your eyes at him and, just to mess around, tossed over your shoulder, “You could always hop in with me.”
That snapped him upright, his laugh coming out sharp and disbelieving. “Ha—don’t joke like that.”
“You’d faint before the water even got warm.”
“Yeah, sure,” he called back, muttering under his breath as he grabbed a cushion to shove over his lap.
—
Steam clung to your skin as you stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, droplets trailing down your legs. You hadn’t bothered with much, just one of your shirts, the hem barely covering your hips, as you padded barefoot toward your bedroom to grab clean panties.
Jisung was spread across the couch, one arm over the backrest, phone in his hand. His eyes flicked up casually, and then widened, head snapping forward like he had been slapped.
“Fucking hell,” he blurted, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing? You can’t do that!”
You blinked at him, pausing mid-step. “Do what?”
“Do what?” His voice cracked. “You’re naked!”
You glanced down at yourself, then back at him with a scoff. “Well, sorry! I’m on my way to get a new panties. You’re the one that shouldn’t be looking that much.”
But he was. His gaze kept darting down, catching the glimpse of your ass every time the shirt shifted, the bare curve of you almost giving him more than he could handle. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, as if that would erase the image already seared into his brain.
And that’s when you noticed. He was still in just his boxers, and… hard.
Your lips curled, mischief sparking. “Ji…” cocking your head as your eyes dropped to his lap. “Seriously? Again?”
His ears turned red instantly. “Shut up,” he muttered, grabbing a cushion like it could save him, but you were already laughing.
“Oh my god, you’re so obvious.”
“You literally walked out here with your ass hanging out!” he shot back, voice high with desperation. “What the hell did you expect?”
“Relax,” you teased, flashing him a grin as you started toward your room.
“Stop—don’t—” he tried, but you were already slipping into your bedroom, the door swinging halfway shut behind you.
And something inside him snapped.
“Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, throwing the cushion aside as he pushed off the couch. His legs moved before he could think better of it, padding fast down the hall. The door creaked open under his hand, and there you were, standing by your dresser, shirt riding high as you dug for clean panties.
“What the hell?” you spun, startled, clutching the shirt’s hem down instinctively.
He shut the door behind him, chest heaving. His eyes were dark, hungry, no trace of the lazy teasing from before. “You can’t just—walk around like that—and then leave me—” His voice cracked again, desperate now.
You swallowed, heat prickling under your skin at the sight of him like this. Boxers low on his hips, still straining, his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“Jisung…” your voice came out softer, nervous.
“I’m serious,” he rasped, stepping closer. “I can’t—shit, I can’t take it.”
You leaned back against your dresser, pulse hammering, suddenly aware of just how cornered you were by his body heat and his voice. “Ji…”
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, restless, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Look at me,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m pathetic. I didn’t even get to change—” he motioned down at his boxers, at the obvious mess spread across the front. His face twisted, half shame, half hunger. “I’m standing here still fucking wrecked from earlier, and—and I’m still so hard it hurts.”
The confession hit you like a spark to gasoline. Your eyes flicked down before you could stop yourself, taking in the dark patch of dried cum against the fabric, the swollen length beneath it, twitching with every shallow breath he took.
“You don’t get it,” he rushed on, words tumbling out in a desperate stammer. “You come out there in just a shirt, and I—fuck, I can’t stop looking, I can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s killing me. I need—” he choked, whined, the sound raw in his throat, “I need something. Please. Just… anything.”
His voice cracked again on that last word, so small, so undone. He wasn’t the playful best friend anymore, he was begging, almost breaking, standing there in his cum-soaked boxers, staring at you.
You should’ve felt guilty, maybe. He looked wrecked, like he was seconds away from falling to his knees for you. But instead, something hot curled in your stomach, sharper than lust. You loved this, loved seeing Jisung, your Jisung, usually all jokes and easy charm, standing there trembling, begging, wrecked just because of you.
“Anything?” you tilted your head, letting your lips curve slow, wicked.
His breath hitched. “Y-yeah. Please. Just… don’t leave me like this.”
You took a step closer,m, watching the way his eyes blew wide, tracking every move like a starved thing. Then, softly, you tsked. “Poor Ji. All messy, and still begging for more.” Your gaze flicked down, lingered on the obvious bulge, the sticky patch darkening the front of his boxers. “You’d do anything if I asked, wouldn’t you?”
He whimpered, the sound punched out of him, and nodded too fast. “Yes. Fuck, yes—I would, I swear, just… please.”
“Careful, Ji,” you murmured, voice low, teasing. “Keep begging like that and I might start to think you actually belong to me.”
He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, and whispered hoarsely, “Maybe I already do.”
“No, you don’t. You’re my bestie, remember?” you said it soft, eyes cutting into him with a sharpness that had nothing to do with innocence.
“Right. Yeah, I know. Fuck, I know,” Jisung muttered, running a hand through his hair, looking absolutely destroyed. His voice cracked on the last word.
“But?” you pressed, not letting him off the hook.
He froze, caught in the way you were staring, like you already knew exactly what he was about to say, and you were daring him to say it anyway. His eyes pitiful, wide, the most vulnerable you had ever seen him.
And then, as if to pour gasoline on the fire, you didn’t even bother hiding what you were about to do. You reached for the new panties.
He didn’t blink. Couldn’t. His jaw slackened as the fabric slid up your thighs, catching high on your hips. Every second of it, he was looking, openly, hungrily, the thick line of him pushing against his boxers, obscene and desperate.
“Fucking hell,” he hissed, voice tight. “Are you doing this on purpose? All this bestie talk and then—doing this slowly, right in front of me?” His fists clenched, knuckles white where they gripped at his thighs. “You know what you’re doing to me.”
You tugged the panties up the rest of the way, smoothing the waistband against your hip like you weren’t putting on a show, but you knew damn well you were. His eyes tracked every movement, breath coming harder with each second you ignored how ruined he looked.
“God, you’re killing me,” he muttered, voice wrecked, like he hated himself for saying it but couldn’t stop.
You tilted your head, pretending innocence. “Killing you? I’m just getting dressed, Ji.”
“Don’t—” his voice broke, and he bit his lip, shaking his head. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” you asked, dragging it out, stepping just close enough for him to feel the weight of your presence without touching. His chest heaved, eyes darting down your body and back up to your face, as if he couldn’t decide where to look. You smiled then, sweet and devastating, “What’s wrong, Jisungie?”
He actually whimpered. Shoulders slumping, thighs pressing together, his hands fisting uselessly on his lap. “F-fuck—don’t call me that right now. Please.”
But the way he leaned toward you, the way his whole body responded to the name, you knew he loved it. He was completely undone, standing there in nothing but his boxers, cock straining and leaking again, looking at you like you held every shred of control over him.
“Aw,” you teased, “You’re adorable.”
His head fell back against the doorframe with a groan, raw and desperate. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked, voice strained, pupils blown wide.
“Of course I am,” you shot back, lips curling, the confidence rolling off you in waves.
He was still looking at you, devouring you, like he was almost ready to drop to his knees if that’s what it took. And you? You leaned in, catching him off guard.
“Come here,” you whispered, tugging him forward by the shoulders until he stumbled into you.
It was just a hug, should’ve been, at least. You had hugged a thousand times before. But this wasn’t the same. Not when your arms slid over his shoulders, your chest pressed against his, and his arms wrapped around your waist with a grip so desperate it nearly stole your breath.
“You're making this way too hard” you murmured, but the sound melted into your throat when he squeezed tighter, harder.
You felt him, hot and heavy against your lower stomach, straining through his boxers, pressed flush into your skin. His breath hitched at the contact, and your nails dug into his shoulder blades without thinking.
“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck, muffled, ruined. “You have no idea.”
But the way your lips ghosted over his ear, the way your body curved into his on instinct? You knew exactly what you were doing.
Your lips brushed his neck first, just the faintest press of warmth against his skin, enough to make him shiver. He gasped, clutching your waist tighter as if the sound alone might tether him.
“Don’t—” his voice cracked, pitiful. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”
But you only smiled against his skin, trailing higher, letting your breath fan over his jaw. Then you pulled back, slowly, your hand sliding up to grab his face, tilting it toward you.
And there he was. So close. So goddamn close. His breath mixed with yours, shaky and uneven, his lips parting like he was seconds away from forgetting every rule you had ever made together.
You hovered there, teasing, brushing your lips just close enough to make him choke on a sound. His eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, then snapped open again, desperate.
“Please,” he whispered, so broken it almost undid you on the spot.
Your grin widened, wicked. “Well… kissing definitely isn’t having sex.”
That was all it took.
He closed the distance, and the second your lips touched, he melted. A wreck. He kissed you like he had been starved for years, messy and frantic, lips crashing against yours in a rhythm that was nothing but need. His hands slid up your back, fingers digging in like he couldn’t get you close enough.
He whimpered when you opened your mouth for him, the sound vibrating straight into your chest. His tongue pushed against yours clumsily, greedy, like he didn’t even care how sloppy it was, he just needed more.
“Fuck—” he broke the kiss just long enough to gasp against your mouth, his lips wet, swollen. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”
You caught his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging just enough to make him moan, high, needy, almost too loud. You swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper this time, slower, rolling your tongue against his until his thighs shifted under you, restless, seeking friction.
Your own stomach twisted, the heat pooling between your legs sharp and insistent. Each time his breathy whine slipped past your lips, you clenched around nothing, your body aching in sync with his.
His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. “Don’t stop,” he begged into your mouth, the words slurred with desperation. “Please, don’t stop.”
And you didn’t.
You devoured him.
You couldn’t stop kissing him, couldn’t stop swallowing every broken moan he poured into your mouth. His lips were swollen, wet, slick with spit, but he didn’t care, and neither did you. Every kiss was messy, frantic, tongues sliding, teeth clashing, breathless whines filling the space between you.
You collapsed onto the bed together, tangled and gasping, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once.
But then he pulled back, panting, pupils blown. “Please,” he rasped, tugging you toward the edge of the mattress. “Sit—sit right here. Please, I need—fuck, I need it.”
You blinked, dazed, but obeyed, sliding to sit on the edge of the bed. Your elbows propped behind you, chest heaving, hair a wild mess. The way he was looking at you made your stomach twist.
He stood between your knees, hands trembling as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. You caught a glimpse, red, flushed, leaking, and then he freed himself, fisting the base with a shaky groan.
“Ji—” you started, shocked, but he cut you off, eyes locking with yours as he pumped once, twice, moaning.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice broken, desperate. “We won’t. I just—fuck, I need this. I need you watching me.”
Your thighs clenched, heat sparking low in your belly as his fist worked over his cock, slick sounds filling the quiet between his needy whines. His eyes never left yours, pleading, glassy, undone.
You swallowed hard, hand trembling as you slid it down between your legs, slipping under your panties. The second your fingers found your clit, you gasped, eyes flying back to his.
He saw. His breath caught, hips jerking into his fist, a guttural sound tearing out of him. “Oh, f-fuck—yes. Please—please, touch yourself for me.”
Your fingers circled faster, slick already coating your hand, the ache unbearable. Every moan that fell from your lips was mirrored by his, every shift of your body matched by the sloppy, desperate pace of his fist. Eyes locked. Bodies shaking. Both of you ruined, chasing release together without ever breaking the rules.
You were drenched, your fingers slick and messy as you rubbed yourself raw. Jisung’s eyes were wild, glazed with need, his fist a blur over his cock as he matched your pace. The room was filled with wet sounds, whines, gasps, both of you right there but still aching for more. It wasn’t enough.
With a sharp groan, he suddenly stilled. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, pulling your fingers away from where you were dripping and swollen.
“Wha—” you tried, breathless, but before you could ask, fuck, he angled forward and pushed the head of his cock against your soaked panties.
You both gasped at the contact.
“Holy shit—” he choked, hips twitching as the thick length slid against your covered slit, the fabric doing nothing to hide how wet you were. Precum mixed with your arousal instantly, making it obscene, messy, almost bare.
Jisung froze, chest heaving, his forehead nearly knocking into yours. He held himself there, trembling, waiting. Just to see. Just to make sure. If you would stop him. If you would say no.
But you didn’t.
You tilted your hips instead, dragging yourself against him, and the sound he made, broken, whiny, shot straight through you.
“Oh, fuck—” he gasped, voice wrecked, thrusting forward again. “Baby… it’s so wet—feels like you’re—fuck—”
The thin barrier of your panties was nothing now, every grind making you both moan louder, desperate and messy, so close to crossing the line completely it barely mattered anymore.
He was so hot, so hard, sliding against you in messy, desperate strokes. Every time the head caught on your clit through the soaked fabric, you gasped, hips jerking up into him.
Jisung was a mess above you, sweat curling his hair, lips swollen and shiny, breath tearing out of his chest in ragged moans. He pressed harder, rutting against you like he couldn’t stop himself, the slick sound between you filling the room.
“F-fuck—, you’re soaking me through again—” he gasped, voice high and shaky, his cock grinding so deep into your folds the fabric clung tight to both of you. “It’s like you’re—like I’m already—” His words dissolved into a whine as his hips snapped forward again, harder, chasing it.
You clutched the sheets behind you, arms shaking as you pushed your hips up to meet his. The pressure was unbearable, the drag so wet it felt bare, like every inch of him was sliding right against your swollen clit, against your dripping entrance, against everything you needed filled.
Your moans tangled with his, sloppy and loud, your body arching as he drove himself over you. The outline of his cock was so clear through the drenched fabric you could feel the veins, the thick weight, every ridge dragging against your folds.
And then, you couldn’t take it anymore.
With a shaky hand, you tugged your panties aside. Just a little. Just enough.
Jisung’s breath hitched so sharply it broke into a cry, raw and guttural. “Oh, f-fucking Christ—” His cock slid against you fully now, bare to bare, the wet heat of you coating him instantly.
He nearly collapsed, forehead falling against your shoulder, his entire body trembling as he rutted forward, slower this time, savoring it, moaning into your skin. “I won’t—I won’t go inside, I promise,” he whined, his voice so ruined it made you clench. “I just—please, let me—just like this—fuck—”
You couldn’t even answer. Your mouth opened, but all that came out was a broken moan, your hips lifting, dragging yourself against the length of him in desperate circles, slick and messy, every grind pulling him deeper against your folds.
It felt dangerous. It felt inevitable. It felt like crossing the line, even without him inside you.
Jisung’s thrusts slowed, the frantic pace breaking into something almost reverent. His hand wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, guiding himself as he dragged his tip up your folds, sticky and wet, circling your clit, slipping lower just to hover at your entrance.
Every time the swollen head kissed your hole, your body clenched in reflex, and he whimpered, nose burying into your shoulder. But then, he’d pull away, dragging back up, smearing you open and wet, grinding himself against your clit until your thighs trembled.
“Jisung—” You could barely breathe. The teasing was driving you insane, the thick head catching everywhere but where you needed it most.
He moaned, shaking his head, his voice a broken rasp. “I’m s-sorry, I can’t—I just want to feel all of you, every inch—fuck, you’re—”
But you wanted it too. Needed it.
Your hand slid down, trembling, and he froze when your fingers brushed his cock. Carefully, deliberately, you pressed his tip against you, holding him there as your hips rolled up to meet him.
The gasp that tore out of him was wrecked. “Oh—oh my god—baby—” His entire body jerked forward, his cock twitching hard against your hold. You dragged him higher, rubbing him through your slick folds, pressing down so he dragged against you as if he were fucking you, thick, heavy, perfect.
His head tipped back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as he moaned your name. “Yes—like that—just like that—holy fuck, you’re—” His words dissolved into a whine as his hips rocked helplessly into the pressure of your hand guiding him, each stroke hitting your clit and folds so perfectly it felt like he was inside without crossing the line.
You couldn’t stop, not with how good it felt, the friction sharper, deeper, every grind soaking him more, every roll of his hips making you both choke on the sound of it. Your panties clung uselessly at the side, your thighs spread wide, and he was rutting against you like you were the only thing he had ever wanted.
His voice broke, desperate and raw. “Please don’t stop—don’t ever stop—fuck, I’m so close, baby, I can’t—”
The rhythm turned ragged, messy, both of you grinding harder, faster, no restraint left. Your fingers held his tip flush against your folds, every roll of his hips making him drag thick and heavy across your clit, catching perfectly, sparks firing in your stomach.
“Baby—oh my god, shit—” His voice broke on a sob of a moan, forehead pressed to yours, sweat slicking his temples. He was rutting against your hand, against you, helpless, chasing it with every ounce of his body.
“Ji—fuck, Ji, don’t stop—” You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, your whole body tightening as his cock slid and caught exactly where you needed it. The obscene sound of it, wet and relentless, only pushed you higher.
And then you shattered. Your body arched up against him, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as you came, soaking him, thighs trembling around his hips.
The second he felt you clench and shake, Jisung broke. His hips jerked hard, his cock grinding desperately against you one, two more times before he let out a strangled cry, spilling hot and messy all over your folds, your stomach, your panties tugged to the side.
“Fuckfuckfuck—” His words dissolved into gasps as he collapsed forward, cock still twitching against your drenched skin, rutting through the aftershocks because he couldn’t stop, not yet.
You held his face against your neck, both of you panting, bodies sticky and trembling, ruined together.
When he finally stilled, chest heaving, he whispered against your skin, voice raw and wrecked, “That… that was… too good. I can’t—” He laughed weakly, still clinging to you. “We’re so fucked. I’m so fucked.”
You let out a breathless laugh, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “I think it would be easier if we just have sex already. This is insane.”
His head snapped up, eyes blown wide, mouth dropping open. “Wait—really? You say that now? After—fuck, after that?” His voice cracked in disbelief, half-whiny, half-hungry, still. “Shit, don’t play with me like that, I can’t get hard again already.”
You just giggled, tilting your head, smug.
He groaned, collapsing against your chest again, hiding his face. “God, I’m being pathetic again, aren’t I?” His voice was muffled, small, wrecked.
You traced a lazy line down his back, grinning at the way he shivered under your touch. “Mm… yeah. A little.”
“Shit, I'm fucked.”
—
+++ authors note: idk why it's called dry humping i'm personally really fucking wet about it...
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place.
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♫ tonight's the night, the night that cinema comes to life
୨୧ summary: a night with the hot nerd you've been eyeing has effectively taken over your mind. it's mutual, of course — jisung's been thinking about you all day too. and now that you're alone with him again, you want him to show you.
୨୧ pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!fem!reader
୨୧ genre: college!au, minimal fluff, smut MDNI.
୨୧ word count: 6.1k
୨୧ warnings: 18+, explicit language, praise, pet names (baby), light choking, voyeurism, male masturbation, spit, thigh riding, fingering, handjob, light degradation, edging, sub!jisung, plot is basically just movies and sex lmao
୨୧ author's note: this is a continuation of me, the loser? hehe. i can't lie, i really liked this when i started it and ended up hating it by the end lol. i got super lazy :( hopefully some of you still enjoy it <3
jisung wakes up the next morning with only one thought running through his head: what the fuck happened last night?
not because he can’t remember it (he can remember it all very vividly), but because it doesn’t make sense. you’re you — gorgeous, popular, desired by many. and he’s him — nerdy, quiet, unnoticed by most.
yet as the night unfolded from something desperate to something tender, none of that seemed to matter. you sat side by side on your bed watching a movie like it was normal; he pointed out little details that you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise and you nodded your head in amazement at the intricacies.
midway through, you somehow ended up with your head against his shoulder and your leg lazily draped over his. and while he was internally falling apart, you seemed entirely unphased. then, once it was all over and he reluctantly told you he needed to head back to his dorm, you didn’t send him off without your number in his phone and a kiss on the cheek.
so now here he is, sitting in the dining hall with his friends, staring at your contact like it’ll offer him advice. the photo you set stares back at him, wide smile and bright eyes drawing him in. is he supposed to text you? wait for you to text him? if he does text, what does he say?
but he can’t dwell on it any longer because the conversation suddenly shifts to him, pulling him out of his own thoughts. he should’ve known that disappearing upstairs with one of the prettiest, most popular girls on campus would lead to an interrogation the next day.
truthfully, after all of the night’s events, his mind is in shambles. all he can think about is how good you felt grinding against him, how sinful you sounded moaning his name, and how delicious you tasted on his tongue. hopefully jeongin and hyunjin wouldn’t be able to tell he’s currently losing it over you.
“so, how was the rest of your night?” hyunjin probes, chewing innocently despite his intent. of course he wants to know all the deep, dirty details.
jisung doesn’t bite. not yet, at least. the two boys will surely pry it out of him regardless. “uh, it was good,” he answers simply. flashes of you — far from innocent — flicker through his eyes like a film reel and he has to blink them away.
“just good?” hyunjin quirks an eyebrow. “you went upstairs and then nobody saw you again after. for a second, i thought y/n was a succubus and dragged you to hell.” his friends both break into laughter at that, but jisung just shakes his head.
“not a succubus,” he mutters, “she’s really sweet, actually.”
“yeah?” jeongin asks with a smirk that only grows slyer when jisung nods. maybe they both know he means it in more ways than one.
unfortunately, neither of his friends would take “good” for an answer. they know that he’s much less unabashed than them, but that matters little. you’re one of the girls even they haven’t had a chance with, and they were dying to know what it is that makes every guy you’ve slept with come running back for more.
“you know we’re gonna need more details,” jeongin continues. “how was it? did you make her cum? you wore a condom, right?”
jisung’s face heats up and he coughs awkwardly, trying to not choke on the bite he’s just taken.
clearly, they think you two actually fucked. it’s a fair assumption, considering how you vanished together from everyone’s sight for the remainder of the night. and he definitely wouldn’t have been opposed to it, but that’s simply not how things went.
“i – no, we didn’t – ”
he’s struggling to get the words out and they’re staring at him expectantly. thankfully, his saving grace comes at the perfect moment, and he can tell it’s you before he even looks beside him. it might be creepy that he can already recognize your perfume, but it’s not his fault you smell so intoxicating.
“hi, boys,” you smile sweetly, first at hyunjin and jeongin across from you, then at jisung next to you. your eyes linger on him, soft yet swirling with something unspoken, and he curses himself for what it does to him. all he can think about is how those same eyes pooled with raw desire not even twenty-four hours ago.
you have to stop staring at him. if not, he might be stuck in the dining hall until his dick decides to stop going haywire over one look. it’s a little emptier because it’s the weekend, but still — letting anyone see him with a very prominent glimpse of his arousal would send him straight to his coffin.
“y/n!” hyunjin beams, “what a surprise. we were just talking about you.”
thank god for hyunjin. his comment tears your eyes away from jisung, and now he feels like he can breathe again. “oh really? should i be worried?” you giggle, resting your chin on your palm.
“nah. we were just inquiring about the night you shared with our dear jisung here,” he reveals indifferently, no shame whatsoever. if he wasn’t already very aware of your own forwardness, jisung might’ve been worried that his friends would scare you off.
but then he remembers you’re much more like them than you’re like him. so to you, sex isn’t some taboo subject to be spoken about in hushed whispers; it’s just another part of life. sex with you, though, couldn’t possibly be “just another part of life.” it would probably be the cause of his ascension to heaven.
“oh,” you say simply, leaning in over the table and tilting your head. “and? did you find out everything you want to know?”
“not exactly. he’s pretty tight-lipped,” jeongin cuts in, sighing dramatically.
you turn to jisung briefly, noting the way he’s hanging his head a little lower, trying to avoid eye contact. he’s clearly flustered, and it’s cute. he spares you a quick glance when you reach for his hand under the table and squeeze just once. “well, what questions do you have? you know i’m an open book,” you shrug.
hyunjin and jeongin exchange looks, a little uncertain now that you’re actually offering up the answers. but they obviously won’t get them from jisung, so this is their only opportunity. they’d be fools to not take it.
“what did you guys end up doing after you left?”
“hm,” you tap your finger on your chin, feigning ponderance. “well, let’s see. we went upstairs and chatted for a bit. then i brought him back to my place and we had unbelievable, earth-shattering sex. literally life-changing.”
you emphasize the words with an especially sultry drawl of your voice, and it’s enough to make even jisung melt despite knowing their inaccuracy. nobody speaks at first, and you’re in disbelief that they believed your exaggerated lie so easily.
boys. so painfully, adorably stupid.
“holy shit,” jeongin mumbles. hyunjin can’t even formulate a thought. when you snort at their reactions, they’re utterly confused.
“i’m kidding, you idiots,” you roll your eyes. “we just watched a movie and then he went back to his dorm. right, ji?”
you squeeze his hand under the table again and the jolt goes straight to his pants. jesus. he can’t look at you or touch you in any capacity without going crazy.
“right…” he nods.
conveniently, you left out the part where you made him cum in his boxers and he ate you out like you were his last meal. you wouldn’t have shied away from delving deeper typically, but you were mindful of jisung’s boundaries. if he didn’t want to share, you wouldn’t, either.
the other two deflate instantly, clicking their tongues in disappointment. and while they don’t push further, they both know there must’ve been far more beyond chatting and a movie.
“anyways, i only stopped by because i wanted to ask if you’d come over again tonight,” you direct your attention to jisung, watching his face subtly light up at your request. “it’s only fair you watch the batman for me since i sat through 3 hours of interstellar for you.”
there’s too many thoughts running through his head right now. one, why did you choose to ask him this in person rather than over text? two, you actually wanted him to come over again? and three, how dare you say “sat through” like those three hours weren’t pure cinema?
none of those questions make it past his lips, though. “i’ve already seen the batman – ” he begins before jeongin kicks him under the table. a silent bro, shut the fuck up. “i mean, no, yeah, that sounds cool. that sounds great.”
you don’t seem to notice any of their interaction, grinning happily at his acceptance. it’s strange how badly you want to spend time with him again — not just sexually, either. there’s something so natural about being with him. it feels authentic in a world full of facades because he’s nothing like anyone else you surround yourself with.
and perhaps that is everything you need.
“perfect. you know my address now, so just be there at seven?”
he doesn’t even have a chance to confirm the time with you before you’re off, throwing quick goodbyes over your shoulder. his eyes follow you all the way out of the building, smiling dopily without realizing it.
when he snaps out of it, his friends are blinking at him in both amazement and amusement.
“‘right, ji?’” jeongin mocks, “dude. nickname basis already? what the hell are you packing?”
“and she wants to see you again tonight? just how ‘life-changing’ was the sex?” hyunjin adds, narrowing his eyes.
even he doesn’t have the answers they’re looking for. he isn’t sure why you’ve taken a liking to him. all he knows is that he’s so damn grateful.
promptly at seven, jisung arrives at your apartment, clad in a hoodie, sweatpants, and his glasses. always his glasses. and he sure doesn’t complain when you grab his wrist and drag him all the way to your room. in fact, it offers him a chance to stare at your ass from behind you, barely covered by the miniscule fabric of your shorts.
“i have the place to myself for the night, thank god,” you announce once you’re in your room, spinning around on your heels. he hopes he was able to avert his eyes quick enough for you to not notice where they were lingering.
“oh,” he says quietly. so it’s just the two of you. why is he suddenly so nervous again? “where’d your roommate go?”
you lean down and adjust one of the pillows you’ve arranged on your bed. this time, you’ve prepared the whole scene; your bed is set up for maximum coziness and there’s an assortment of snacks and drinks on your dresser. this is what you’ve decided to spend your saturday night doing, and something about it has his mind spinning with all the future possibilities.
could this maybe become something more? could you possibly want more with him? would he even be able to handle that? his reaction to the thought alone leaves him doubtful.
“out. she begged me to come with her, but i’m drained,” you groan.
“you had a long night,” he comments. it’s not intended to be provocative or teasing, but it lands that way.
a devilish grin spreads across your face. “so did you,” you remind, falling to your mattress. when you scoot to make room for him and pat the empty space beside you, he’s left standing there like an idiot. “are you gonna sit? you’re not scared of me now, are you? i don’t bite.”
there’s a faint purplish red mark on his neck that says otherwise. he’s pretty sure his lips are still a little swollen from you biting them, too. and don’t forget about his earlobe either.
“if you don’t bite, i’m really worried about where this came from,” he pulls his hoodie down to expose your handiwork fully. you sit up on your knees and reach up to trace your fingers over it, pretending to not notice how he shudders beneath your touch.
the sight of it sends your mind into a frenzy, memories of its origin flashing through it. you’re reminded of how he essentially encouraged you to mark him. “wow. someone is really talented at their craft.”
“‘craft?’” he snorts. “your craft is leaving hickeys on men?”
you grab the collar of his hoodie to yank him closer, dropping your voice to a breathy whisper. “not just any men. nerdy submissive men who want me to mark them up,” you purr. he’s stunned into silence, putty in your hands just from words. it’s enthralling, the power you hold over him.
“now, let’s indulge ourselves in the best superhero, shall we?” you ask, snapping back into the usual upbeat version of yourself. the version that makes him wonder if he imagined the last thirty seconds.
this time, when you release your grip on his hoodie and settle back against the pillows, he slides right next to you — still wondering how you manage to go from dangerously alluring to innocently charming in the blink of an eye.
“unless we’re watching spiderman, please don’t say that again.”
jisung is done for.
it’s only his second night of actually interacting with you beyond quick greetings when your friend groups intermix. his second night of seeing the real you, the one that sighs dreamily over battinson and makes jokes about paul dano’s riddler being a redditor (he laughs and prays that you never end up seeing his reddit karma).
and yet his heart is doing this weird thing it hasn’t done in years, since his last relationship all the way back in high school. it beats faster when you smile and lean into him during your favorite scenes, and he realizes then just how much he loves your smile. he loves it even more when it’s directed at him.
maybe he shouldn’t turn this into anything, but he can’t stop envisioning waking up next to you or bringing you on cute café dates. before, he would steal glances at you just because you were pretty. now, he can’t stop looking at you because everything about you is addictive and he needs constant confirmation that all of this is real.
unfortunately, the hours pass by quicker than jisung hoped — filled with laughter, unwarranted criticism on his end (he’s really just trying to get back at you for your disrespect to interstellar), and him trying not to pass away when you reach over him for your drink and your chest brushes against his arm.
once the credits start rolling, he wonders if he’s supposed to initiate the goodbyes. but you don’t make any attempt to move from the bed, instead sitting up and turning to face him.
“you can’t tell me that’s not a five star movie,” you declare. “plus, robert pattinson is so yummy.”
he scrunches his face up and shakes his head adamantly. “his bruce wayne is just an angsty emo boy,” he scoffs.
“it’s been one movie,” you retort. “besides, what if i like angsty emo boys?” your tone is light and playful, but it still evokes a strange sense of unease that he knows is unreasonable.
“doesn’t really seem like your type,” he mutters, hoping it sounds indifferent.
clearly, it doesn’t. the calculated flutter of your eyelashes and slight tilt of your head tells him you’ve seen right through him. you’re driving him crazy on purpose, trying to pry a confession out of him. “what’s my type, then, ji?” you question, voice softened in that maddening way that could make him give you anything.
“you know…” he motions his hands like it’s obvious, “the normal ones. popular, good-looking. like hyunjin or jeongin.”
not like me, he thinks. if you lined up every guy you’ve ever been with, he’s pretty sure he’d be the only outlier. should that make him feel honored or worried? that’s one of the many things he hasn’t quite yet worked out.
“funny,” you begin, though your expression is devoid of humor, “i’m pretty sure you’re the one i chose to make out with.”
“which i still don’t understand.”
for as smart as he is, jisung is really clueless sometimes. it’s teetering on the thin line between adorable and making you want to rip your hair out.
“what’s there to not understand?” you ask. “you remember the dare, right? ‘make out with the hottest guy here?’ that was you.”
he’s quiet, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. you want — need — him to know that although it was a stupid dare, it wasn’t a lie or a mistake. every guy there was attractive, sure, but there was something about jisung that pulled you in. and now, you were completely enraptured.
“and i’m glad it was you. i’ve been thinking about last night all day,” you add truthfully. the way you say it so casually already has him starting to spiral.
“you have?” he asks incredulously, eyebrows quirking under the rim of his glasses.
“mhm,” you nod, a smile playing on your lips. “you haven’t?”
your pout leaves him scatter-brained, struggling to respond despite the answer being very obvious. yes, last night is all he’s thought about. in the shower, during his marvel rivals session, while chatting with his friends, on the way to your apartment. it’s been on a constant loop that he’s really surprised hasn’t gotten him into trouble yet (aside from being the reason his team lost his last rivals game). “no! or – fuck – yes. yes i have,” he huffs out.
a beat passes, one that feels too long and too quiet. you’re studying him, scanning every inch of his face wordlessly. should he be the one to speak again? should he have lied? do you think it’s weird that he has thought about you nonstop? his overthinking and second-guessing is really going to drive you both crazy.
and then you cut through the brief silence with a question he didn’t expect you to ask with such confidence.
“did you jerk off thinking about it?”
he almost chokes at both your forwardness and accuracy. god, how do you have him all figured out? this morning, right after he woke up and the memories of the previous night came rushing back, he just couldn’t help himself.
“no...” he lies halfheartedly, and you don’t believe it for a second. he’s never been a good liar, and it’s ten times more difficult to lie to you. especially when you’re looking at him like this, an angel wrapped in sin.
your finger finds its way under his chin, lifting it so that he can’t look anywhere besides directly at you. “don’t lie to me,” you demand, eyes big and round as they undo him.
“...yeah i did,” he mumbles shamefully.
he tries to turn his head away, but then your fingers are on his jaw, holding him in place. so instead, he squeezes his eyes shut to avoid your stare. he can’t possibly face you now that he’s admitted to something so private and embarrassing.
but you don’t find it embarrassing at all. it’s only further proof that jisung is an intriguing mystery — nerdy, shy, quiet, yet downright filthy beneath it all. and you want to learn every bit of him, from the loser on the surface to the freak hidden within.
“show me.”
his eyes snap open at that. he half-expects you to burst into laughter and tell him you’re only joking. a larger part of him knows that you’re not; he’s discovered your boldness has no bounds.
“wha – what?” he stammers.
“show me,” you order again, “show me how you got off to the thought of me.”
not joking, no laughter. you’re genuinely asking him to do this, and rather than immediately denying, he’s actually considering it. more than considering it. he’s already internally agreed.
he’s never masturbated in front of anyone before, of course. it’s always been a sacred act shared between him and his hand, but the idea of you watching now is too tempting.
“you want me to jerk off in front of you?” he gulps, just to make sure he hasn’t misunderstood.
you lean forward, trailing your finger from his jaw along his neck, your touch featherlight against his skin. then comes the rest of your fingers splayed on the flesh, an unfamiliar yet enticing sensation. there’s no pressure at first, just your hand wrapped around his throat delicately. you’re trying to gauge his reaction — waiting for him to give you the signal that this is okay.
and to him, it’s more than okay. there’s a slight nod of his head that gives you the go ahead, and your grip tightens, pressing into the sides of his neck firmer.
“mhm,” you hum, emphasizing your words with a slight squeeze, “will you do that for me, ji?”
how you’ve managed to sound so sweet while asking him to do something obscene is beyond him. “fuck,” he curses under his breath. he’d do anything for you at this point. “yeah i can. i will.”
he misses your grasp as soon as it leaves his throat; he’ll probably end up jerking off to the memory of it tomorrow too. but for now, he’s just left thinking about it while you settle back onto your knees.
“you’re so good for me,” you praise, pressing one chaste kiss to his jaw. “here, i’ll even help you out.” you maneuver over him and swing over the edge of the bed. once you’re on your feet, you hook your fingers into your shorts and shimmy them down hastily (not that they were covering much, anyways). now, you’re left in just your underwear and the tight tank top that’s been driving him crazy all night.
pathetically, he immediately feels his dick twitch in his boxers, springing to life just at the sight of you in less clothing. it probably doesn’t help that your nipples are poking against the fabric and holy shit.
there’s a very visible damp patch on your panties. were you this wet during the whole movie?
“you’re soaked,” he comments, and he sounds mesmerized.
“surprised again?” you chuckle. “i told you, i’ve been thinking about it all day.”
now that he knows you’ve been having the same desperate thoughts as him — coupled with the fact that you look so incredibly sexy standing before him nearly naked — he feels a bit emboldened. the question comes out before he can stop himself.
“can i…touch you?”
even you’re taken aback by his abruptness, almost giving in at first. “so sweet of you to ask, sungie. but no,” you deny harshly, then softer, “not yet. need you in less clothes and stroking your cock for me first, yeah?”
he doesn’t have a chance to argue (not that he would) before you’re crawling on top of him seductively, situating yourself in a very familiar position. you’re back in his lap, pulling him back to the memory of last night.
“here we are again. but you like it, don’t you?” you tease.
that’s the understatement of the year. he fucking loves it, and if he were to be smited down right here, right now, he’d die a happy man. “y-yeah. i do,” he nods.
“i can tell,” you say, grinding down against the bulge in his sweatpants. it pulls a moan from the back of his throat, and you lean down until your lips brush against his ear. “pathetic.”
but in an instant you draw back, fingers toying with the hem of his hoodie. he knows what you want without asking, so to satisfy you he sits up, back lifting off the headboard, and pulls it up and over quickly.
as a reward, you slide down to his knees and reach your hand into his sweats and boxers, wrapping around his hardened length. he’s already leaking, and you spread it along his slit with your thumb, grinning when he whimpers at your deliberately slow actions.
jisung’s only granted a few quick pumps before you remove your hand entirely, now pulling at the waistband of his pants. ever so helpful, he raises his hips just enough for you to be able to pull them down to his mid-thighs, along with his boxers. his cock springs free, pink tip glistening with precum.
when you touch him again, it’s only to drag your finger along his shaft tantalizingly. the sharpness of your long nails causes his breath to hitch, especially as you trace along one of the prominent veins. it’s a delicious light pain, the slight dig into his flesh making him forget all about your original request.
“i’d love to keep going, but that’s not what i asked for, is it?” you coo, yanking your hand away just as he begins to think maybe you’ll give him more. he shakes his head weakly, eager to be touched but just as eager to listen. and maybe also a little fearful that you’ll stop entirely if he doesn’t.
he watches, bewitched, as you tilt your head down and spit, saliva dribbling down and landing on his cock messily. “go on, baby. i think i helped you enough.”
“enough” isn’t quite right — he wants more, but he still slips his hand down and takes himself into his fist, using your spit as lubrication for his strokes. they’re slow and restrained, not yet fully confident with your eyes on him.
even though he’s still adjusting to being watched, he secretly loves it. he loves seeing you bite your bottom lip between your teeth, loves how you don’t look away once, and really loves when you roll your hips against his leg involuntarily, desperate for some form of relief.
“talk to me,” you instruct breathily, “tell me what you’re thinking about.”
he quickens his pace, pumping himself with more purpose. his mind is filled with all the images from last night along with his own added fantasies. if he’s lucky, he’ll get to fulfill them with you one day. and if he’s not, at least he’ll have his perverted brain to keep him going.
“thinking about you,” he pants. “how good you tasted. how pretty you looked cumming on my tongue.” a ragged moan escapes him when he squeezes his base harder with his strokes, remembering your fucked out expression as he lapped at you through your orgasm.
“yeah? i looked pretty?” you purr.
you rut your hips again, leaving a second wet spot, this time on his sweatpants. he catches a glimpse of it and it ruins him, hand moving frantically because he’s so desperate and he doesn’t think he’ll last long. “so pretty. the prettiest,” he rasps.
“you’re so sweet, ji. and i like being nice to sweet guys.”
he isn’t sure what exactly “nice” entails, but he has several ideas that he would very much enjoy. like feeling your mouth with your perfect pink lips wrapped around him, or being buried deep in your pussy as you ride him.
instead, you reach down and cup his balls, fondling them while he strokes himself, hardly maintaining a rhythm. “keep going. i know there’s more in that filthy head of yours,” you order, almost riding his thigh at this point.
oh, there’s so much more. you don’t even know the half of it. for a guy that doesn’t have much sex, his fantasies are endless.
“i thought about how you’d look giving me head...your mouth, your tongue, your lips. i want all of it.” with your hand working in tandem with his strokes, he’s lost all composure, words tumbling out of him without a second thought.
“greedy, aren’t you?” you taunt. “c’mere. i’ll give you all of it.” he sits up immediately, having sunken against the pillows and headboard in his reckless desire. you lean forward to meet him halfway, lips crashing together sloppily. it’s not exactly what he had in mind by his admission, but he was more than happy to kiss you again.
unlike last night, something in him compels him to take more control, sliding his tongue across your bottom lip and pushing inside hungrily. there’s the familiar taste of your lipgloss again, the one he’s engrained into memory after just one night.
his hand slows, more focused on kissing you and tasting every inch of your mouth, but his languid strokes are still enough to bring him closer to the edge. but then you pull back, leaving him confused and a little pouty.
“tell me,” you begin, breathless, “when you came, what exactly did you picture?”
it takes him only a second to recount the visual that swirled in his mind as he spurted onto his chest at nine in the morning. his eyes were barely open before he was yanking his boxers down.
“you riding me. bouncing on my cock, telling me how good it feels. yeah…that got me off quick,” he clears his throat, feeling a little sheepish. as if he isn’t currently jerking himself off in front of you and hasn’t already divulged some of his other dirty thoughts.
“hm,” you hum, “next time, ‘kay?”
he can’t tell if he’s disappointed or excited. disappointed that he has to wait, excited at the prospect of a “next time.” either way, he chokes out an agreement that falters to a groan; he’s back to fucking his fist desperately, chasing after that familiar high.
“now stop,” your voice snaps him out of it entirely.
as if you’ve physically wounded him, his face settles into something pitiful and pleading. you wish you could commit it to memory. “w-what?” he sputters, slowing but not stopping.
“you didn’t hear me? i said stop.”
“but i’m — shit. i’m so close,” he whines.
you position yourself on all fours between his legs, bringing your face impossibly close to his. “you’ve been doing so good listening. would you want to disappoint me now?” you warn.
never in a million years.
“no,” he sighs, dropping his hand to the bed dejectedly, wondering if your plan this whole time was to edge him to oblivion.
that’s for another day. currently, you’re not feeling cruel enough for that, and he has listened quite well. so you fall back against the mattress beside him and slide off your panties easily, tossing them somewhere in your room. silently, he prays somehow you’ll forget about them and he can sneak out with them. god, pervert.
and then you reach over and wrap your hand around his cock, picking up right where he left off. your leg crosses over his, thighs spread wide. “touch me,” you purr. “please, ji. we’ll make each other feel so good.”
looking over, he finds you rubbing your clit lazily with your free hand. it flips a switch in him, slinking his hand down to replace your own. he drags his digits between your folds, groaning when he feels just how wet you are.
he teases a finger at your entrance, circling around it before applying the lightest amount of pressure. you squeeze his length in retaliation, and that cancels his antics swiftly.
“no teasing, remember?” you remind.
“i remember,” he mumbles, plunging his finger into your cunt before you can utter another word. the abrupt fullness causes your movements to stutter, losing the rhythm you’ve built with your strokes.
“fuck,” you moan. you try to work your hand against him again, but it’s futile when he adds a second finger, curling them both against your sweet spot.
the skill he has with his hands makes sense when you really think about it. you might’ve shrugged him off as being clueless and inexperienced at first, but years of gaming have made him quite masterful.
if he knew all the all-nighters spent ranking up would lead to him making a pretty girl clench around his fingers, he’d have grinded even harder. because here you are, trying your hardest to pleasure him while he’s making it rather difficult (in the best way).
honestly, he doesn’t mind that you’re struggling. any touch from you — especially this kind of touch — is enough for him. he’s already been close once, and he can feel it clawing its way back, a knot in his stomach as the tension grows.
“god,” you pant, “this is so fucking hot.”
side by side in your bed, trying to bring each other to release — it’s such an intimately raunchy scene. one you knew none of the guys you usually fuck would even try to entertain.
“do you wanna know what i’ve been thinking about today?” you ask, focusing on his tip now. you’ve finally resumed a steady pace, rubbing your thumb along his slit, pumping the first couple of inches.
his own pace quickens at that, trying to lure your desires right out of you. “please,” he begs.
“i’ve been thinking,” you begin, “about letting you fuck me. giving you the control.”
the thought has crossed his mind, sure, but hearing you say it brings a whole other wave of excitement. though he’s loved being at your mercy, there’s a part of him that wants to fuck you stupid, too. to shove your pretty face into the mattress and prove to you that losers can be just as nasty.
“yeah?” he groans, unable to get much more out.
he’s basically holding himself back from fucking your hand, still driving his fingers into you as he nears his breaking point. the heel of his hand brushes against your clit each time, and you know you’re almost there as well.
“yeah. would you even be able to handle that? i mean, you probably watch porn for the plot, huh?” you taunt. pretending that he hasn’t already proven himself with his tongue and, soon, his fingers.
“no!” he denies quickly. “i’d be good. i’d make you cum.”
“then cum right now and maybe i’ll consider it.”
jisung is a good listener. it’s part of why he’s such an excellent student, and that seems to apply in the bedroom too. he spills over your hand with whiney moans, brain almost too clouded to remember you’re still needy beside him.
almost.
it’s like the second wind you get when you’re nearing exhaustion. he slips his fingers out, gliding them through your folds before landing on your clit carefully. the tight, fast circles he makes against the sensitive bud are your undoing, thighs clenching and shaking.
“ji,” you cry, “fuck, jisung.”
“see? i’ll always be good for you,” he breathes out, still lazily rubbing your pussy as you come down.
while you both lay there in the messes you’ve created, you realize that han jisung is slowly ruining you for other men. you should’ve listened when your friends said the quiet ones are the freakiest.
“you’re a liar, by the way,” he says suddenly. you turn to him in confusion, waiting for an explanation. “you said you like being nice. telling me to stop like that was very not nice.”
ah, right. part of you wants to warn him that that was only a glimpse of the torture you can enact, but you figure it’d be more fun to leave him oblivious.
“well, i still let you cum, didn’t i?” you giggle, a melodic sound that makes his heart jump again. now that he’s dealt with whatever horny demon takes over when you’re around, he’s left with only the more pure, innocent thoughts.
“yeah…yeah, i guess so.”
“exactly. so don’t make me regret it,” you rise to your knees and flick his forehead lightly, laughing when he rubs the skin afterwards. “otherwise i’ll remember this for next time. and i have a very good memory, han jisung.”
you slide over him and off the bed, grabbing the towel from your earlier shower off the floor. he catches it when you toss it at him, cleaning up as best as he can. unfortunately, your sheets are definitely still going to need a good wash.
“oh, do you?” he raises his eyebrows. “what were the names of cooper’s kids?”
goddamn him and his stupid interstellar fascination.
“not fair. i just wasn’t paying attention!” you whine, rolling your eyes when he smirks at your defeat.
he sighs dramatically, feigning disappointment as if he wasn’t already well-aware you wouldn’t be able to answer. “maybe we need to watch it again…” he trails. it almost sounds like a threat.
“no.”
and as he erupts into laughter at your immediate denial, you can’t help but smile and join him, giggling together like two idiots slowly falling for each other.
you’d never let him know that you would happily sit through any movie over and over again if it meant more time with him.
because losers are definitely your new type.
NSFW VIDEO WARNING ⚠︎ this is what originally inspired this whole thing if anyone's curious lmao.
where im from its fall now so im kinda in the mood for more moodt/autumn themed fics like getting caught in the rain and falling in love kind of things...
a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.
୨୧ summary: you hate chan because your boyfriend hates chan, and you’re pretty sure he hates you too. so when he proposes a fake dating arrangement after you get cheated on, you accept only for the revenge plot. but that doesn’t exactly go as planned, because maybe you two never really hated each other after all.
୨୧ pairing: student!bang chan x fem!student!reader
୨୧ genre: college!au, enemies to lovers / fake dating, a lil fluff, a lil angst, smut MINORS DNI
୨୧ word count: 20.6k
୨୧ featuring: jaehyun of nct and mina & jihyo of twice
୨୧ warnings: 18+, cheating (not between reader and chan), mentions of alcohol, explicit language, poor communication, some arguing, overuse of italics (sorry!), oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (pls dont do it), breast play (+ one slap !), creampie, multiple orgasms, spitting, dirty talk, teasing, pet names (baby, princess), afab reader
୨୧ author's note: let's play a game of how many tropes can i fit into one fic! i did all of my college courses online so not too much on me and my unrealistic depictions pls… also obviously this is not an accurate portrayal of jaehyun, i love that man down okay!! and i got a lil lazy midway through this and rushed it to get to the smut lmao sorry!
You hated parties. You hated parties because they were loud, because spaces with that many bodies on top of each other were too suffocating, because men always tried to hit on you with boozy breath and wandering eyes.
Now you hated parties because they made your boyfriend want to stick his tongue down other girls’ throats.
Jaehyun had managed to destroy nine months within three minutes – that’s the length of time you’d convinced yourself you’d spent standing there, unable to avert your gaze from the horror unfolding in front of you. Three whole minutes that he hadn’t even noticed your presence, too preoccupied. Too focused on kissing this random girl like he had something to claim, as if you weren’t enough. And worst of all, he hadn’t even cared enough to bring it somewhere private. They were in a corner of the living room, tucked away but not hidden. It had only taken a little bit of squeezing between partygoers and quick apologies to make your way to them.
They had gathered a crowd, too. A few spectators, voices meant to be whispers – drunk people can’t seem to mind their own volume.
“Yo, is that Y/N?”
“Nah, I just saw her getting a drink.”
“Shit…she’s gonna be so pissed.”
At least the alcohol hadn’t made them completely brainless. You were, in fact, pissed. There was the unmistakable heartbreak too, but you weren’t going to let anyone see that. Instead, you blinked back your tears and cleared your throat to make sure the words didn’t get stuck. Each step you took towards him made it more real, until you were close enough that you knew he could hear you over the raging music.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, far from an actual question. Your voice still broke on the last word, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed. As soon as he registers that it’s your voice, his girlfriend, Jaehyun tries to push the girl away, feigning disgust. It’s almost pathetic in a way, his little act.
“Shit, Y/N,” he curses. “I didn’t mean to – fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just – ”
He stumbles on his words as if his mouth wasn’t working perfectly fine just seconds before. When he tries to inch towards you, you step back, refusing to allow him the comfort.
“You’re fucked, Jaehyun,” you say flatly. That’s as much of your energy as you would give him, at least for now. He’d embarrassed you enough by kissing another woman in the middle of a party; you decided against escalating your humiliation by shouting at him and causing a scene. You turn on your heels and begin pushing through bodies again, away from him, and you can tell he’s following. You can hear your name, barely reaching your ears but definitely there.
Once you make it out of the most concentrated pool of people, he staggers soon after and latches onto your wrist. The same fingertips that used to run across your skin so gently now felt like betrayal and poison.
“Let me go,” you snap. His grip loosens slightly, but he still holds you there, determined to defend himself.
“I fucked up, I know, but please just hear me out,” he begs, as if he has the right to. His excuses are the last thing you want to hear right now, and you know that’s all they would be. Stupid excuses for a stupid “mistake,” and it makes you sick to even think about listening to him explain why and how he ended up making out with another woman in the corner of a party he asked you to go with him to.
“No! Fuck you, seriously,” you spit, words laced with venom you prayed would hurt him even a fraction of the way he hurt you.
And perhaps they did, or at the very least stunned him, because he drops your arm entirely. Now, you take the final steps towards the door, reaching for the handle. He tries to follow you again, unsatisfied, unrelenting. “And if you follow me out this door, I promise you I’ll never speak to you again.”
That stops him in his tracks. Maybe gives him some hope that if he just lets you cool off for the night, you’ll let him explain in the morning. Regardless of how he perceives it, you lunge at the opportunity to escape, finally making it out the door and into the crisp night air. It hits your skin viciously, your skirt and halter top offering little protection from its bite. You’re cold, heartbroken, and, worst of all, not even nearly drunk enough to mask it.
Without the vivaciousness of the party, you can only see Jaehyun kissing her in your mind, can only hear the hushed whispers of the onlookers, replaying on a torturous loop. You’d only made it down the steps of the house before the tears began to fall. Now you let them, assuming you were away from prying eyes.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed someone standing right next to the door while you and Jaehyun had your little spat. A certain someone who would get far too much enjoyment out of such a scene. You had been followed once more, but this time not by your stupid cheating ex boyfriend, but by his equally as stupid “rival.” It was still a mystery to you why they hated each other, and at this point, you didn’t care at all to find out.
“Those were some harsh words,” he chuckles, and you don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice. The same way you don’t need to turn around to know he’s smirking. You hurriedly wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup; the last thing you need is him to see you crying, another thing for him to derive sick pleasure in. You wouldn’t dare grant him that.
Because it was an unspoken relationship rule that an enemy of your partner is an enemy of your own. So, for no real reason other than the fact that Jaehyun hated him, you hated Bang Chan.
“Fuck off, Chan,” you snarl, quickening your pace. It doesn’t matter, since he catches up to you in a few short strides. “Why the hell did you even follow me out here?”
He steps in rhythm with you, making it clear he had no intentions of leaving. Not until he got what he wanted, whatever that may be. The satisfaction of seeing you broken? The chance to remind you how shitty Jaehyun is and how great he is? You aren’t sure, but you keep walking anyway.
“I just didn’t expect to hear you say such things to your boyfriend,” he answers. His emphasis of “boyfriend” makes you both angry and repulsed, then bitter and devastated. Nine months of your life gone in minutes, and now you had the displeasure of dealing with Chan on top of it.
You scoff and finally stop, turning to face him for the first time. His eyes twinkle with something devious, and it infuriates you. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”
“Oh?” he draws his head back in shock. He’s silent for a moment, and you fold your arms across your chest, glaring at him in a way he finds cute more than intimidating. “I’m surprised you two lasted this long, actually. Figured it was about time for Jaehyun to do what he does best.”
You blink at him incredulously, his careless words cutting deep. There’s no reason anything he says should bother you, but there’s something about it that stings. And Chan notices, too, watching your entire face shift from rage to sorrow. Your features soften in a way he’d never seen before – you’d only ever looked at him with hatred and annoyance – and it deflates him.
“I don’t know why you two don’t get along. Seems like you should be best friends – you’re both fucked up,” you retort quickly, though it comes out as a strained whisper.
Chan hates being grouped with him, especially in your mind where Jaehyun now seems to be synonymous with evil. He never expected to be giving you of all people an apology, but he figures he needs to. For his own consciousness, of course. Definitely not because he felt an odd pang in his chest when you looked at him with something other than disdain for once.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. Are you alright?” he asks cautiously. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see someone roll their eyes, but when you do, he swears he feels ten times lighter. Your hostility he could navigate, but your sadness was uncharted territory; he was glad to be back to familiarity. And since you hadn’t walked away from him yet, he takes the chance to dig deeper. “What did he do?”
“Like I’d want to talk to you about it. Just give it a few hours, you’ll hear about it from someone, I’m sure,” you shrug, trying to pretend that you’re unbothered. That you don’t care that you’ll likely be the talk of campus, the woeful ex-girlfriend people will look at in that pitiful way they look at small, broken things.
As much as you hate Chan, you’re grateful he isn’t looking at you like you’re small or broken. He’s looking at you the same as always, like you’re a challenge, a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. Maybe that’s why you decided to keep standing there, holding more of a conversation with him than you’d likely ever had before.
“Probably. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me, what happened?” he asks again.
He doesn’t say it with demand or snark. It sounds almost unsettlingly genuine. It sounds like someone that isn’t Chan, or at least the Chan you’re familiar with. You hesitate, conjuring up another smart remark, but you let it die in your throat.
“He fucking cheated on me. He was making out with some girl in front of everyone. Can you believe that?” you chuckle sarcastically, forgetting who exactly is standing before you. “Nevermind…I’m sure you can believe it. God, I’m so stupid.”
“No, you’re not stupid,” he says adamantly. “He’s stupid. An even bigger idiot than I thought, actually.”
It angers him more than it should that you’re degrading yourself over Jaehyun’s horrible decisions, and he has a fleeting thought of going back and telling him off for it. And as the thought passes, he can’t understand why. He knows you hate him. He knows you have likely been fed lies and half-truths by Jaehyun for months. He knows he shouldn’t care about any of this. He can’t seem to figure out why he does.
“I just can’t get that image out of my head. It’s making me sick,” you mumble, and it replays all over again. The ear-splitting music, the crowd, his lips on hers, that look on his face when he saw you. All your emotions bubble back up to the surface and come out as a loud groan, though internally you just want to scream until your throat is raw. “I wish I could make him feel even half of what I feel right now.”
The idea that pops up sounds ridiculous in his head and likely even more so said aloud, but his mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Well, maybe you could,” he trails.
“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m actually a good person,” you sneer. “I would never cheat.”
He laughs dryly and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, awaiting an explanation. “Believe me, I know you’re just a perfect princess,” he mocks, and you’re certain if you roll your eyes any harder they’ll get stuck like that. “But who said anything about cheating? Besides, you’re not together anymore,” he reminds. “And there’s only one thing I can think of that would drive him just as mad.”
You’re intrigued now, though doubtful there’s anything that could reflect the same level of hurt you currently felt. Anything rational, at least. Still, you wanted to hear whatever silly idea Chan had, if not for your own amusement.
“Which is what?” you question.
“Being with me,” he answers, too quickly, too plainly, as if it was something entirely normal and not an absolutely insane statement. When your eyes widen, he continues, waving his hands urgently to indicate you had gotten the wrong impression. “Okay, not for real, Jesus. Like faking it, you know? Just for him to see and lose his mind.”
That was quite possibly the last thing you expected, and you’re forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. You wait for him to join in, to tell you he was joking just to fuck with you. That would have been the Chan thing to do. Instead, he stares at you, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah, okay, you’re insane,” you scoff.
“Is it that insane?” he says smugly, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Think about it, imagine how pissed he’d be seeing us together.”
For a moment, you can’t help but realize how attractive he actually is. It’s not that you hadn’t noticed before – you had perfectly functional eyes – but now being single and also inches away from him, it was an unavoidable fact. It made you almost begin to consider his idea. Almost.
“Yes, it’s insane! Just because I gave you five minutes of my time on a shitty night doesn’t mean I want to talk to you ever again, let alone pretend to date you.”
“Oh, Princess Y/N gave me five minutes of her precious time, thank you so much,” he quips, and this time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Whatever, I gave you a guy’s perspective on how to get back at him. You’re not gonna get any better revenge than that.”
“And what do you get from it?” you ask, certain there must be some mutually beneficial aspect beneath it. There’s no way he would suggest something so outlandish without thinking of his own gain, and you know that’s true when he grins wickedly.
“Just the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realizes he lost his girl to the one person he hates more than anything.”
You aren’t sure why you hadn’t grasped that from the beginning. All Chan wanted, as always, was to get under Jaehyun’s skin, to take something of his, to win. The idea is still crazy, and far more theatrical than you’d usually approve of, but you’re a lover scorned.
Then, you think back to the unspoken rule, the sole reason and origin of your hatred for Chan. Jaehyun hadn’t even followed relationship rule number fucking one: don’t cheat on your girlfriend. So, you figured you could break some rules and allow some theatrics.
“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll fake date you or whatever,” you huff, trying to ignore his triumphant smirk. “But nothing weird, alright? And once it’s all over, we go back to hating each other.”
He throws his hands up like it’s offensive you’d even insinuated it. “Believe me, that’ll be no problem,” he agrees.
“Good,” you say simply, a forced tight-lipped smile on your face.
“Good,” he repeats.
The silence that falls over you two is uncomfortable, only disrupted by the sound of the wind lifting leaves along the sidewalk and the faint thumping of music. You can still see the house down the road, and it makes you wonder if Jaehyun is still inside and if he went right back to her. Suddenly, you feel the need to get home and cry in the shower with your carefully-curated sad music playlist.
“Well…I’m gonna go back to my dorm now,” you finally speak, shifting on your feet awkwardly.
“I’ll walk you,” he offers without a second thought.
You can’t help the way you exhale a little too harshly. Truthfully, you just wanted a short walk on your own to process all of the nights’ events, including the proposal you’d just accepted. And you had already spent more time than you’d like with Chan for one night (although you know you’ll have to spend much more now).
“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think we need to start the whole fake dating thing right now,” you reject bluntly.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, trying to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s just trying to do a nice thing, the right thing, but you have a way of getting under his skin. The next few weeks are surely going to be a challenge. “It’s not for that, Y/N,” he sighs. “It’s late and dark out. Just let me make sure you get home safe, please?”
The roads are lit only by streetlights and the moon shining above, and you shiver from both the chilly air and the thought of making the walk to your dorm alone. You’d expected to be going home with Jaehyun, definitely not on your own in the middle of the night.
“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. “But can we just walk in silence? Not really in the mood to talk anymore.”
You deliberately exclude that you feel like if you keep talking, you’re going to break. You’d kept a relatively strong front – far stronger than you thought you’d be after being cheated on – but it was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was all the adrenaline that kept your emotions contained, because now everything was slowing down and soaking in.
“Sure,” he nods, following closely behind when you turn and begin taking steps forward. Your dorm is ten minutes away, and you walk side by side, arms occasionally brushing against each others. You only make it about two minutes in before he stops, shrugging off his jacket. Then, he holds his hand out, gesturing to it when you stare dumbly.
“Here,” he offers. “You’re freezing.”
There’s no denying that he’s right, but that didn’t mean you were going to wear his jacket. You could survive a few more minutes of the cold, even though your skin was covered with goosebumps that hadn’t gone away since you’d first left Jaehyun at the door. “I’m not wearing your jacket, Chan,” you shove his hand back.
Before you can start walking again, he drapes it around your shoulders, ignoring the glares you send his way.
“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” he groans. “You’re literally shaking, but God forbid you wear my jacket.”
You click your tongue and pull your arms through the sleeves anyway, mumbling a grudging “thank you.” The newfound warmth was a great comfort, and you’re so wrapped up in it you don’t notice the way he steals short glances over at you. His eyes drag down your body, drinking in how his jacket sits on your shoulders like it belongs there. How the sleeves fall past your wrists and the hem lines your thighs, still mostly exposed from your skirt length of choice. How you look good wearing something of his.
And then he curses himself for even thinking it, tearing his eyes away even though he really doesn’t want to. He clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, trying to ground himself, and you look over wordlessly. Any words you were going to say get caught in your throat when you notice how muscular his arms are now that they’re no longer covered.
Still, neither of you speak again, both thinking silent thoughts that you’d never let the other know. Once you arrive at your dorm building, he walks you all the way to your door despite your protests, muttering something about you being stubborn yet again.
“Thank you for walking me home,” you force out, gratitude sounding like exasperation. Your back is pressed against the door, hand wrapped around the handle. All you want is to throw yourself in bed and sob and sleep at this point, but Chan’s presence keeps you in the hallway.
He nods, combing a hand through his hair, wondering when it became so difficult to think of the right words to say to you. “Try not to think about him too much tonight, alright?” he sighs. “I know that’s hard, but just try to get some sleep or something.”
Such gentle advice sounds odd coming from his mouth, and he waits for your sarcastic reply. Counts on it, actually.
It doesn’t come. Instead, you smile at him weakly, telling yourself you simply don’t have the mental capacity to go back and forth with him anymore. Not that you were actually hating him a little less.
“I’ll try,” you assure. “Oh, yeah. Here.”
You pull off his jacket, the one that had begun to feel a little too comfortable, and fold it over your arms towards him.
“Keep it. You can wear it around or whatever,” he suggests indifferently. It would make your fake relationship more believable, but beyond that, it would appeal to that small part of him that enjoyed seeing you in it.
Fuck, what had gotten into him?
“I won’t,” you sass, bringing the jacket back to your chest anyways.
He runs his tongue along his teeth, chuckling. “Of course you won’t. So stubborn.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop being that,” he shoots back.
Seemingly, you’d met your match. Someone who could keep up with your quick retorts, your mouthiness. And it came in the form of a man your ex boyfriend hated, a man you hated. You weren’t sure why that made it all the more exciting for you.
His gaze lingered, a curious glint in his eyes. He was trying to piece you together bit by bit, but you were a more difficult puzzle than most.
“Have a good night, Chan,” you say, finally turning the handle. When the door swings open, he finds himself looking around unintentionally, another opportunity to figure you out. He can see a few plushies on your bed, posters lined on the walls, and framed photos he can’t quite make out. There’s probably some of you and Jaehyun, and he hopes those are long gone by the next time he ends up at your dorm.
You slip inside hastily, and he realizes he’d been too engrossed in examining your room to respond. The door comes to a close in front of him.
“Yeah, you too,” he breathes out when you can’t hear, standing there just a few moments longer.
Once inside, you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps padding away, and when you do, you crack. The pictures of you and Jaehyun sit on your bedside dresser, mocking you, and you slam them down against the wood. You’re partially inclined to throw them against the wall and hope they shatter, but you don’t particularly feel like cleaning up glass shards through tears.
At least you let the teddy bear he gifted you stay on your bed, unharmed. An innocent soul caught in the crossfire, a child of divorce even.
“Fuck Jaehyun, fuck parties, and fuck this whole night,” you curse, though it comes out in choked sobs. And fuck Chan, your brain wants to say, but you bite it back. He had walked you home, given you his jacket…and become your fake boyfriend (soon to be, anyways) within the span of thirty minutes. Still, he was annoying, arrogant, impossible-to-deal-with Chan.
As much as every fiber of your being yearned for the soft comfort of your bed, you trudge to your bathroom and start the shower, making sure to put on your playlist while the water warms. Because if you were going to be heartbroken, you were at least going to be heartbroken while listening to Cigarettes After Sex.
After thirty minutes of crying and scrubbing your body of any traces of Jaehyun, you finally step out and decide to check your phone for the first time since everything had completely unraveled. Apparently getting cheated on was all you needed to reduce your screen time, so maybe that was a positive?
Naturally, there’s a few texts from people you could hardly consider friends but would now act like you were with feigned sympathy, full nosiness. Among them, however, is a text from a number you hadn’t saved.
y/n?
who’s this?
I’d say the guy you hate the most but i think someone else might’ve taken that spot
Chan. It was almost impressive that he managed to sound annoying even through texts.
ha. and how’d you get my number…?
I asked someone for it. you think they’ll take the bait?
they’ll probably just think you’re a freak who goes for recently heartbroken girls.
Nah. that’s not really my type.
oh yeah? what’s your type then?
You watch as the typing bubble pops up and disappears a few moments later, and then nothing. Minutes pass and you assume he’s leaving you on read, and that’s fine. It’s late, anyway, and after such a thorough cleansing and crying session, you’re exhausted.
So it’s no surprise when your phone buzzes again just as you manage to get comfortable in bed.
Just because that’s not my type doesn’t mean i have a type
“Liar,” you mumble to yourself. Whatever, it’s not like you care who or what he’s into. In fact, you’re glad he didn’t answer. Who knows what kind of weird things he’d come up with, if not just to irritate you.
okay, boring
What about you then? what’s your type?
You’re torn between giving him a genuine answer or something along the lines of “basically the antithesis of you.” Then, you realize you can probably do both at once, since you don’t consider Chan to align with any of your dating criteria.
i like someone who’s warm, attentive, and can make me laugh. someone who notices the little things, too
Yeah, definitely not Chan. But then again….
That can’t be right. i mean, you ended up with jaehyun
Also not Jaehyun. That was something you could admit now, but it was different coming from someone else. Like you were the only one who couldn’t see the flaws, the incompatibility. You feel stupid all over again, trying to ignore the way your throat began to tighten once more.
i’m going to sleep.
HahahaAw man. i was having fun.
goodnight, chan.
Goodnight princess
The nickname might’ve been a term of endearment from anyone else, but from Chan, it was a thinly veiled taunt. You save his contact with a very fitting eyeroll emoji just to spite him, finally drifting off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep soon after.
“What an asshole,” Jihyo hisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you know I would have ripped into him.”
With all the craziness of the night, you hadn’t even thought to text any of your friends. It was one of the rare times none of them could make it out with you, and now you were being inundated with questions over lunch.
You wave her off, poking at your plate idly. “It’s fine, I promise,” you sigh.
“Has he texted you today?” Mina asks, glancing down at your phone on the table. You look down too, half-expecting to see another flurry of messages from Jaehyun – he’d already sent about twenty since the morning, all going unanswered.
“Yes,” you groan, unlocking your phone and passing it to the two girls for them to read the same desperate pleas you’d been spammed with. They scroll through, mouths slightly agape. “Should I answer? I’m worried he’s gonna end up showing up at my dorm if I don’t.”
“Here, let me answer,” Jihyo says, and you reach over and snatch the phone out of her hands before she can type. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve whatever insults she’d send his way, but that you worried any response would entice him at this point.
To satisfy her, you finally text him back, telling him to leave you alone and that you would let him know when you were ready to talk. You truly had no idea when that would be, but any more silence from your end would inevitably have him tracking you down on campus.
Then, you remembered the other half of the night, the part where you agreed to fake date the same man your friends had heard you complain about more than once. There was no way you were going to keep that from them, nor would you be able to, but you weren’t even sure how to approach the subject.
Hey, by the way, I’m pretending to date that guy I hate. For the revenge plot of course.
“There’s actually something else that happened last night,” you begin, studying their reactions. They wait expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity. “Chan heard us arguing and we…talked a little.”
“Yeah, well, that sounds like Chan. He basically feeds off of Jaehyun’s misery,” Jihyo chuckles.
Mina catches onto the end of your sentence, the words you had said just a little too quickly and quietly. Intentionally so. “What do you mean you talked? You can’t stand him.”
Now, both girls are staring at you, disbelief etched on their faces. You and Chan had never talked. You insulted, glared, and mocked. Talking? They weren’t even sure you two were capable of holding a conversation without spitting names at each other.
“It’s stupid…” you trail. “He had this idea, and…I don’t know, I guess I just agreed to it because I was so angry and emotional.”
You’re stalling, obviously, and they’re growing more impatient with each delayed sentence.
“He suggested we pretend to be together to get back at Jaehyun.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Jihyo laughs, a full-body laugh that has tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Mina just blinks at you, unamused. “Y/N! You can’t make me laugh like that while I’m eating, you know,” Jihyo scolds, still releasing occasional giggles.
“You’re not joking,” Mina says flatly. “Are you?”
Realization strikes both their faces when you don’t answer, swirling your straw around absentmindedly. Next comes their looks of disapproval.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan. But what did you expect? You had just thrown into question a fact they knew more concretely than grass being green or the sky being blue: you hate Chan. So did your need for revenge trump your hatred, or was your hatred truly never that deep after all? They suspected the latter – they always did, especially when you would go on about how insufferable he was while eyeing him from across a room.
“Like what? Like you’re crazy? Because clearly, you’re crazy,” Jihyo whisper-shouts.
“And with Chan of all people, seriously?” Mina adds.
Okay, neither of them were wrong, but they’d also never been cheated on to understand all the complex thoughts and feelings you’re experiencing right now. And yes, with Chan, because the plan simply wouldn’t work with anyone else (nor would anyone else be stupid enough to go along with it). It just had to be your ex boyfriend’s worst enemy.
“I know it’s crazy and you know I’d never agree to something like this, but – ”
“ – but she just couldn’t resist me,” someone interjects from behind you. Then, he throws himself next to you, leaning back against the table on his elbows.
You aren’t sure how long he’s been there or how much he heard, though you guess not much since one of them definitely would have warned you. Either way, add his stupidly good timing to the list of things that piss you off about him.
He hadn’t texted you in the morning – not that he was supposed to, or that you expected him to – and it almost made you wonder if the whole night was a fever dream. Evidently not, seeing as he was sitting a few inches away with a wide grin plastered on his dumb face.
“Are you stalking me across campus?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He huffs out a hollow laugh. “You wish. You guys sit in the same spot almost every day.”
Is he right? Yes. Does it make sense for him to know that? Not really. Unless he’d been paying more attention to you than you thought, which also didn’t make sense.
“Okay, so you’re not stalking me,” you conclude. “Just watching me.”
“Why does it have to be you? There’s two other lovely ladies here.”
“Ew,” Mina says.
“Don’t be gross,” Jihyo adds.
Now it’s your turn to laugh, though Chan is unamused. You want to poke him further, to find out why he knows the specific time and place your friends typically eat lunch, but you decide to save it for another time. Especially since those two are sitting right across from you and would hang onto every stupid thing he says, pestering you about it later.
Chan spins forward, now facing Jihyo and Mina. “Do you girls mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?”
“I mind,” you scoff, but he ignores you entirely.
The two girls look at each other suspiciously, knowingly. Then, Mina shakes her head, basically sending you off to your demise (another uncomfortable walk with Chan – two in less than twenty-four hours has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment). “Sure,” she shrugs. “We were just finishing up, anyways.”
Were you, though? The conversation hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down until he arrived.
With the approval of your friends, not yours, he clasps his hand around yours and stands up, trying to bring you with him. You can’t move, you can’t function at all with his hand holding your own, and once it hits you, you yank it away from him.
And then you stand anyway, as if your body was betraying you and doing everything your brain said not to.
“I hope you don’t plan on hurting her, too,” Jihyo cautions, an unspoken threat behind her words.
Her intentions are sweet, but you can’t help but feel the need to chide her for making it seem like you two are actually together.
“I’m not going to cheat on her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he jeers, picking up your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, you’re the only fake girlfriend in my life.”
He must think he’s so funny, putting on a show in front of your friends, but you’re not laughing. However, Mina and Jihyo are. Snickering under their breath, actually, and probably going to gush all about this odd interaction after you leave.
The three of you exchange goodbyes, Chan already walking away from the table. You have to take larger strides to catch up to him, and when you do, you reach for your bag, trying to pry it from his arm.
“Is it going to kill you if you let me be nice and carry your stuff?” he huffs, readjusting the strap.
“It might,” you glare, but you can tell he’s not budging, so you resign. You wait for him to speak, to offer an explanation. Instead, he scans your face like he’s looking for something beneath the surface. “Is there a reason you took me from my friends just now?”
“Are you okay?” he asks, answering your question with…a question? So. Annoying.
But it sounds sincere coming from him, unlike how everyone else had asked you since last night. You can tell the difference now between girls who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with Jaehyun, guys who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with you, the complete randoms who asked just to be in the know, and now…this. Someone who genuinely wanted to know if you were okay, nothing more, nothing less, no underlying motives.
“I’m alright,” you shrug, “just numb, I think.”
He swallows hard, then nods. And suddenly the Chan you recognize is back. “Well, you look good for someone who just got cheated on.”
Maybe the compliment would have felt good if he hadn’t tacked on the last part. You had enough reminders throughout the day, so much so that your phone had been on DND for hours. And the reminders came in other forms, too, like your lonely walk to your first class in the morning, the one Jaehyun would always accompany you on. Or the song that came on shuffle that you two had once added to a shared playlist (which you now had sole custody of).
“Do you know how to give an actual compliment?” you snap, already knowing the answer. Chan would probably drop dead before he complimented you.
“So you’d rather I just say you look good?” he questions.
Yes, yes you most certainly would. But there was no way in hell you would tell him that and make him think his words actually mean something to you. You can just picture his smug look of satisfaction already.
So you lie through your teeth.
“No.”
He chews the inside of his cheek, carefully mulling over what he says next. “You do though. Look good, I mean,” he states matter-of-factly. And to your surprise, he doesn’t drop dead afterwards.
What should you say in return? Thank you? No, that implies you’re appreciative, grateful he complimented you, which you aren’t. You look good too? Absolutely not, unless you want to have him use that against you for the foreseeable future. Ew, don’t say those things? You’re not even sure you can feign disgust like that.
You end up not saying anything at all, but your face says a lot. Too much. It heats up and your cheeks dust with red, a far worse response than any of the others you’d contemplated.
“Aw, you’re blushing,” Chan teases, bumping against your shoulder lightly. “Getting all shy on me, where’s that smart mouth?”
“Shut up,” you grumble, and then you realize you’ve been following him blindly for the past minutes. You see that he’s led you to the heart of campus, the vast field of green where couples, friends, and classmates alike all congregate. He heads straight for a bench, pulling you down next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“When’s your next class?”
You don’t answer.
“You took me away from my friends to bring me here?” And then you look around, convincing yourself everyone’s eyes are on you. “People are staring.”
He looks over at you, your bag now acting as a barrier between your bodies, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”
“Yeah, well, newsflash, princess. We’re doing this so they do get the wrong idea,” he reminds, tucking your bag by his side. With the new space, he hooks his arms around your thighs and shifts you towards him, pulling your legs onto the bench and draping them over his lap.
“Chan!” you hiss, trying to move, but he holds you there.
If you thought people were staring before, they must be drilling holes through you now. Realistically, you’re just being dramatic – everyone is too entrenched in their own problems, their own conversations, their own world to really notice you. But you know people will talk, because that’s what people do, especially when it involves two individuals who are quite well-known on campus.
“Relax. The more obvious we make this, the quicker people will see, the quicker Jaehyun will see. And then it can all be over, right?” he explains, and you huff in response. You sit there like that long enough that it becomes comfortable, his fingers tapping idly on your leg while he scrolls on his phone. At the same time, you trace mindless shapes onto the bench, pretending you weren’t melting into him slowly.
No.
Being like this with Chan shouldn’t feel this normal, and you refuse to accept that it does. So, naturally, you have to say something to ruin it. Almost like an innate reflex.
“I should’ve just stepped out in a revenge dress, but nooo, I had to agree to your stupidity,” you mumble. He laughs, and then his face contorts to something more serious.
“You have a revenge dress?”
He says it hopefully, a glimmer of interest in his eyes.
“If I do,” you begin, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “you’ll never get to see it.”
His entire body deflates, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself off of him. You had a class across campus to get to and also needed a serious mental debrief to process the last twenty minutes. He hands over your bag, lifting off the bench as well. “Do you want me to like, walk you to your classes and stuff?”
“Nope,” you decline easily. “Unless you’re willing to walk me to my 8:30 on Tuesdays.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, and he must know it because he scoffs, shaking his head like you’d just said the most egregious thing ever. You laugh and start in the direction of your class, the feeling of his body so close to yours still lingering.
The weekend comes and goes quickly, with you swearing off any more parties for the time being despite Mina and Jihyo’s pleas. They both mention something about alcohol and loud music being the perfect remedy for a break up. But you already only really went to parties to appease your friends (and Jaehyun, previously), who dubbed them an “essential part of the college experience.” Now, you had the perfect excuse not to. Even Chan texts you to ask if you’ll be going out, though he doesn’t have nearly the same level of disappointment as your friends when you say no.
Instead, you spend your days clearing your camera roll of pictures of your cheating ex boyfriend and boxing up all the things of his you no longer wanted to have in your possession. Maybe you could get Chan to burn it all for you (except for the teddy bear, of course).
And then Tuesday morning rolls around and there’s an incessant knocking on your door, which is not only irritating but unusual, given the time. You’re in the middle of getting dressed when you answer, top half still in a tank top, bottom half in jeans.
This person is about to feel all your morning wrath, until you blink a few times and register that it’s Chan of all people.
“What the hell?”
“8:30, right?” he confirms, leaning against the doorframe.
You fold your arms across your chest, resisting his charm as best as you can. “That was a joke,” you groan, opening the door wider. “I’m not done getting ready and it’s gonna look weird if you’re waiting outside.”
He steps inside happily, immediately noticing the now barren space on your dresser. You had gotten rid of the pictures, good. He also recognizes his jacket draped along the back of your chair in a way he knows you’ve worn it, or at least moved it recently. It hangs off a little unevenly, one of the sleeves wrinkled in on itself.
“Yeah, because it’ll look so much better if we come out of your dorm together at eight in the morning,” he chuckles while you walk into the bathroom to change shirts in peace.
“Don’t even think like that,” you shout. Then, you walk out, throwing the tank top at him (which he catches, unfortunately), feeling emboldened. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you.”
The smirk on your face is wiped away immediately when he grabs your wrist as you bend down to reach your bag. “Yeah? Do you know that?” he whispers. His whole demeanor shifts, gaze intense, grip strong but not painful. You attempt to force out a stammered reply, but admittedly, you’re flustered. Your own body is a traitor, clearly.
Thankfully, he releases your wrist and breaks the tension with a devilish laugh. “You’re so easy to fuck with,” he says, sounding completely like his usual irksome self.
Now that you had a glimpse of a different, enticing side of Chan, you craved more and hated yourself for it. After all, you had just said you would never fuck him. And you wouldn’t.
But can’t a girl just think about it?
You grabbed your bag successfully this time and slipped on a pair of shoes, heading out the door with him right behind.
“So why did you do this, exactly?” you question, still fighting off sleep yourself.
“When I commit to something, I go hard,” he explains, though it sounds like a double entendre. “So if we’re going to fake date, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had.”
How wonderful. You thought you were agreeing to get revenge against Jaehyun, not to fuel Chan’s ego. Maybe you’d need another fake boyfriend down the line just to knock him from the top spot.
“Well, good thing we probably won’t need to keep this up for very long. I’ve already had people text me asking what’s going on between us,” you click your tongue. “No Jaehyun though.”
“Poor guy’s probably losing his mind thinking his fuck-up made you realize you had repressed feelings for me all along.”
“Oh, I had feelings for you?”
“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That’s how my story goes, anyways.”
When you make it outside, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you just a little bit closer. And now that you understand there’s no reasoning with him, you let him. It’s too early to argue, anyways, but you still roll your eyes where he can’t see.
“God, you’re insufferable. Can’t even give me some dignity in our fake love story,” you sneer.
“Okay, fine, I had feelings for you,” he relents, and for a second, it sounds like a fact, not a fabrication. “That sound better?”
You hum in approval, satisfied with the change. Whether he would actually follow through with it, you weren’t sure.
“So, are you gonna stay cooped up in your dorm this weekend, or are you going out?” Chan wonders, seemingly forgetting why you didn’t want to go to another party in the first place. They were kind of ruined for you at the moment, especially when you never really enjoyed them to begin with.
“I’m put off of parties for a while,” you wave your hands. “And I need to study, anyway.”
He squeezes your shoulder, displeased with your answer. “C’mon, Y/N, don’t let him ruin your fun,” he urges.
It was too late for that, though; all “fun” had been sucked out the moment you caught your boyfriend sucking face, and you knew he would probably be there, too. Just because he was playing the regretful, devastated ex in your texts didn’t mean he was depriving himself of his favorite pastime. You wouldn’t even be surprised if one of his “please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I miss you so much” texts had come while he was balls-deep in another woman.
“I’ll have plenty of fun in the library, thank you,” you shoot back.
“Oh? In public? Wow, princess, I didn’t know you were into stuff like that,” he grins, and you shove his arm off of you, staring at him in disgust.
“Oh my god, you’re a fucking freak!”
“I’m the freak? You’re the one that’s going to – ”
“Chan. Stop talking.”
“Okay, okay,” he throws his hands up defensively. “But just so you know, I don’t judge, and if you want some company…”
Fuck this smug bastard, and more importantly, fuck the way he was starting to get into your head.
The rest of the walk is relatively normal, at least in the sense there’s no more talk about public sex, and you reach your class promptly at 8:28.
“Well, have a good day,” he says a little awkwardly. “Let me know when you’re planning on grabbing lunch?”
“Unlikely,” you scoff, leaving him open-mouthed as you head inside.
So how you end up with Mina, Jihyo, and Chan at your usual lunch spot, you’re not sure.
“You guys missed it. Then she goes ‘fuck you, Jaehyun!’ and he looked terrified,” Chan laughs, and your friends join in, loving the cheater lashings.
“He did not look terrified,” you correct.
“She’s being modest. Even I felt a little intimidated,” he draws in a sharp breath, “but it was kinda hot, too.”
You’re not sure where that came from, and you kick his foot under the table where Mina and Jihyo can’t see. In return, he places his hand on your thigh, squeezing.
“You guys sure you’re faking this?” Jihyo questions, her chin resting on her hand while her eyes flicker between the two of you. Like she would be able to figure you out if she just looked hard enough. Impossible, considering you couldn’t even figure out what was going on at this point. He was still annoying, painfully so, but he was also alluring, and the heat between your legs was starting to do most of the thinking.
“Yes,” you and Chan say simultaneously, almost rehearsed.
“Right,” Mina nods, drawing out the word. “As long as you believe that.”
His hand moves now, rubbing along your thigh softly, and you have to grit your teeth to not snap at him. “I do believe it, because it’s true,” you say harshly (but not convincingly). “I’d rather drink a jean jacket through a fucking straw than actually date him.”
Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his wandering hand; in fact, it only pushes him further, now sliding lower until his fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh. You shift awkwardly, keeping your eyes locked on your friends. You wouldn’t let him see that he was undoing you.
“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but a jean jacket through a straw is insane,” he smirks, finding enjoyment in your fidgeting.
“Then I guess it does a good job of conveying how much I can’t stand you.”
This time, you do snap your head towards him, eyes shooting daggers into him. They gave a silent warning, a threat he didn’t quite think you truly meant. After all, your body had a different message with the way your thighs clenched and shoulders stiffened.
“So sweet, isn’t she?” Chan smiles sarcastically, drawing his hand back. And you’re grateful – at least, that’s what you tell yourself, ignoring the small voice that said you wanted more. He reads something on his phone before typing quickly and rising from his seat.
“Anyway, thanks for the invite Y/N, but Minho’s locked himself out of the apartment, so I’ve gotta swing by before class,” he sighs dramatically.
“I absolutely didn’t invite you.”
“Sure you didn’t,” he winks, already gone before you can argue.
Once he’s out of earshot, Jihyo groans, covering her face with her hands. “God, I think if I’m subjected to that level of sexual tension again, I’ll actually pass away,” she huffs, muffled.
Bad time to take a sip of your drink.
“Sexual tension?!” you repeat, nearly choking, completely stunned by her words.
“We weren’t sure of it when you were with Jaehyun, but now it practically radiates through the air whenever you’re around each other. It’s suffocating,” Mina agrees, only adding to your embarrassment. Your face is heating up quickly, and it makes it hard to deny their accusations.
“Can you just hate-fuck and get it over with? Maybe you’ll find out you actually do get along in some ways,” Jihyo adds, exasperated.
You laugh dryly. “Oh my god, do you guys hear yourselves? I’m not having sex with Chan, that’s disgusting.”
“Well then can you two at least not make lunch feel like the build-up of a porno?”
Needless to say you would be informing him he could not join you and your friends for lunch anymore, lest you get lectured again on your “radiating” sexual tension.
By the time Friday comes, things have quieted. Chan listens when you tell him Mina and Jihyo requested your lunches stay reserved for the three of you (it’s not quite true, but the best excuse you could come up with without mentioning that your friends think you two want to fuck each other). So, you don’t see him much, aside from the couple of times he shows up outside your classes.
His texts, however, are frequent. They’ve developed into something expected, a normal part of your days. You talk about mundane things like grades and annoying lab partners. You talk about personal things like favorite songs and future goals. Each conversation is still filled with sarcastic quips and quick insults, but they don’t hold the same edge they once did. It felt more like comfort – like if you kept up the hatred act, you could protect yourself from what it was becoming.
And at the same time, the texts from Jaehyun had resumed because, although he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he had heard that you and Chan were seen together. On multiple occasions. He had even shown up at your dorm finally (the week of freedom you’d had was far longer than you’d expected), and you had slammed the door in his face, telling him it wasn’t any of his business who you hung out with anymore.
After that encounter, you were grateful for some peace – which was becoming rare in your life – throwing yourself nose-deep in your notebook. With your headphones on and such intense focus, you don’t notice anyone else’s presence.
Until someone makes their presence impossible to ignore.
“Hey, princess,” Chan greets, a cup of coffee in hand. He slips into the seat in front of you, placing the cup down and sliding it over. You have to pull your headphones back to hear him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
He shrugs. “You said you were studying, I thought I would bring you some coffee to help your brain.”
He says it so calmly, and you have to fight against the way your heart swells at the simple act of service. Though really, it wasn’t so simple, because this was Chan showing up to the library unannounced on a Friday night, when he would usually be far away from anything academic. For you.
“Well, thanks, because I feel like my brain has basically disintegrated,” you complain, taking a sip. It was your favorite, too – he must’ve asked Mina or Jihyo for your order. “Did you skip out on the party?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. Kinda just wanted to chill tonight. I thought a library date might be fun,” he muses.
You scoff, watching his lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Date?”
Chan blinks at you like you’ve wounded him, although you know it’s all part of his (perfected) act to get into your head.
“You wouldn’t call it that?” he says, disappointedly, leaning his head against the palm of his hand.
“No, I’d call it me studying for hours and losing my mind and you showing up uninvited.”
He points behind him with his thumb, turning halfway in his seat, an empty threat. “So, should I leave then?” he challenges.
This is probably the part where you should say yes. You should demand it, actually. But he had brought you coffee, liquid gold for your overloaded brain, and the chances of him listening to your request were slim to none regardless.
“It’s fine,” you concede, hoping it sounded indifferent. You even shift your focus back to your laptop to play up the act, writing down “notes” that don’t quite make sense. Chan accepts this, tapping his fingers on the table obnoxiously, purposely so. After a few minutes, he straightens in his chair, leaning forward against the table.
“I must say,” he whispers, “I’m a little disappointed to find you actually studying. You had my hopes up the other day.”
It takes you a moment to recall that conversation, and once you do, the realization spreads across your face in red hues. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” you frown.
And there may have been something seriously wrong with you for enjoying it.
“Maybe. But I think you like it. You were basically writhing when I touched you at lunch.”
Now you know you definitely should have told him to leave. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, in that way that could drive you crazy if you let it (which you weren’t).
“No, I wasn’t,” you argue weakly.
He finds your denial cute, truly, since he remembers your body’s responsiveness so vividly. It was essentially engrained in his mind, spinning it in circles. He could elicit that reaction from just touching your clothed thigh, and it made him feel powerful. And curious.
“Oh, you weren’t?” he chuckles. “So if I come sit next to you now, that’d be fine? And if I touch you like that again, you wouldn’t start to melt under my fingers?”
“I did not melt under your fingers.”
“But you would have,” he says confidently. He drops his voice to a whisper again. “If your friends weren’t there, and I kept going, you would have.”
You’re staring at each other now, wondering who will break first, though his eyes shine with excitement and yours narrow with annoyance. Or rather, desire that you try to disguise as annoyance.
“You think too highly of yourself,” you snort, scribbling gibberish into the margin of your notebook.
He releases a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to think it,” he corrects. “You’ve shown me.”
You snap now, slamming your laptop shut a little too aggressively. Because you refused to allow him to continue talking with so much confidence, like he knew what you were thinking better than you did.
“I’m sorry, did you forget the part where none of this is real? All of your little touches and stupid remarks have nothing to do with what we agreed on.”
But your boldness only encourages him, biting his lip subconsciously. “No, they don’t. That’s just for my enjoyment. Like I said, you’re easy to fuck with.”
“That's why you decided to come see me in the library on a Friday night instead of going out? To ‘fuck with me?’” you say pointedly, to emphasize how unreasonable it sounded.
“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave.”
“I asked a question.”
Chan drags his hand along his face, suddenly far less arrogant. For once, he looked like he was struggling to conjure up a smart response. And he was. But you were refusing to back down, finally having a sense of control.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you glare at him. “Really, I don’t. I just wanted to see you.”
You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t be dumb.”
Because there was no way he meant it. Or maybe you had misheard him entirely. But his whole demeanor had changed, and you no longer recognized the Chan that sat before you without his smugness.
“Right. If I tease you, I’m ‘insufferable,’” he recites, “if I’m honest with you, I’m dumb. Tell me, princess, what can I do then?”
You swallow harshly, trying to ignore what his words entailed. Honest. He said that he wanted to see you and he meant it. The air around you had shifted now, thicker, heavier, falling on your chest in a way that almost made your voice get caught in your throat.
“Are you fucking with me again?” you grimace, waiting for him to laugh in your face. To snap back into the version of him you’re familiar with.
But he doesn’t laugh. “You tell me. Am I?”
“You can’t do that!” you groan, exasperated. “You can’t say these things and then act all cryptic after.”
You cross your arms across your chest, and he relents. “Okay. Yes, I wanted to see you. Is that bad?”
“Yes.”
Yes, it was bad. Very bad, actually. Because you were supposed to hate him, and you thought he hated you. Because none of this was supposed to be real, and once you’d gotten vengeance against your shitty ex boyfriend (however dramatic it may be), things would go on like nothing had ever happened.
But is that what you wanted? It should be. It had to be.
“Huh. I guess I don’t care,” he breathes. “Do you?”
He awaits your answer, though he already knows what it will be. You had become easy for him to read now; he had studied you like you were his favorite subject. The unsolved puzzle he had finally pieced together.
And though you try to force yourself to lie and say yes, you simply cannot. All your resolve has vanished since he made such an unexpected confession, leaving you dazed.
“No,” you mumble, and your breath hitches.
His smirk returns, though it’s different now. Less of an attempt to get under your skin, more of an acknowledgement that one day he’ll get to touch every inch of it.
“Didn’t think so,” he reaches across the table, trailing his fingers along your hand. You snatch it back, ignoring his snickers.
He would be the death of you, you were certain. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking that it may not be such a terrible way to go out.
Neither of you are sure how to proceed after that night in the library, an obvious tension lingering between the two of you. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to address it, but you were growing exhausted with pretending that it had never happened.
It seemed like Chan was perfectly content with that, however. He hadn’t even mentioned it once, continuing to text you and show up outside your dorm and classes like it was all still part of a plan. And maybe it was. Maybe he was a great liar, but that didn’t explain the rift that had settled between you two. If he had lied that night, why could he hardly meet your eyes now?
You didn’t ask, because you feared the answer – both possibilities. Though when you turned to Mina and Jihyo for advice, they were adamant. They were convinced they were right all along, that there was a budding romance beneath the hatred. So, it was quite hard to get any sort of unbiased guidance from them. This was something you’d have to navigate on your own.
And by navigate, you meant continuing to avoid it. Hopefully Chan would crack before you did.
After almost two weeks of letting the unspoken words nearly suffocate you, you had begun to believe you really would have to forget it had ever happened. If he wanted to speak on it, he would. Nevermind that he could say the same thing about you; it was him that had started it, so he had to be the one to acknowledge it. It was only fair.
Your phone rings in the middle of the afternoon, during your thirty minute interval between classes. It’s Chan, which isn’t the surprising part (he had learned your entire schedule by now).
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he says only a few seconds after you pick up.
You roll your eyes, hardly registering his proposal. “A ‘hello’ might be nice.”
“Hi,” he utters. “Let me take you to dinner.”
If you agree too easily, he’ll know you had been waiting for him to say something like this. And with how straightforwardly he had asked (or stated, rather), he clearly expected your agreement. You could make him grovel just a little bit.
“You wanna see me again?” you quip, the most you’d allude to the library incident.
But Chan could match your attitude ten times over, so he has a quick retort. “I just figured if we go to dinner you could post a picture on your story, really commit to the bit,” he explains flatly, and then laughs when you’re silent. “What? You wanted me to say I want to see you?”
“Fuck you.”
“You said you wouldn’t,” he reminds. “Remember?”
If he could see you, he would undoubtedly point out how flustered you were, then follow it up with a dumb joke about how the offer was always open. And you would have to hold back from taking him up on it.
“Really doing a good job of making me want to say yes,” you chide.
“Please let me take you to dinner. I’ve been thinking about our library date, and I wanna take you on a real one.”
You huff loud enough for him to hear over the phone. “That wasn’t a date,” you correct. “And I’m busy tonight.”
A lie, but he didn’t need to know that yet. There’s shuffling on his end, and then his voice comes out sharply.
“Busy with what?”
“That’s really none of your concern,” you can’t help but grin at your own mischief. “But if you must know, I’m seeing someone tonight.”
“Y/N,” he growls, and it’s hot. You try to imagine the look on his face (why couldn’t he have FaceTimed you?), and it makes you weak.
“So, what time are you picking me up?” you ask, voice syrupy sweet despite your antics. Like honey masking poison.
He exhales loudly, and you can hear all the unease release from his body. If he was going to be so wound up about you even potentially seeing someone else, why had he taken so long to address your ever-present tension?
Maybe he was just as confused as you.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “I’ll be there at seven.”
He hangs up before you can hound him about the first half, not even sparing a second to confirm the time. No, you don’t know what you do to him, but it was inevitable that you would find out. And he would make sure that you understood to the fullest extent.
It’s difficult for you to decide on an outfit for dinner with Chan, one, because you’re still tossing with the idea internally and two, because you aren’t sure what’s an “appropriate” amount of dressed-up. If you look too good, he’ll think you’re trying too hard to impress him, and you’ll never hear the end of that.
Though, you had already agreed to going to dinner with him, so you probably wouldn’t hear the end of that, either.
Mina and Jihyo choose an outfit over FaceTime (and so kindly remind you to “at least make him wear a condom”), one that teeters right in the middle of simple and dressy, and you’ve fixed your hair at least a dozen times by the time he’s knocking on your door.
When you open it, he stares at you, and then tears his eyes away to roam all over your body. He draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Wow,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful.”
The compliment comes with no snarky follow-up, and he doesn’t even tease you when you feel your face heating up. He takes your hand and holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you; you would have never taken him for such a gentleman.
He doesn’t tell you which restaurant he’s picked, but the drive isn’t long before you arrive and are seated, his hand finding its way back to yours while you walk through the aisles.
As you sit there scanning the menu, you can’t help but realize you’re at fucking dinner with Bang Christopher Chan. And he’s staring at you like you wouldn’t notice.
“What?” you question, and he drops his head, chuckling.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just can’t believe how much things have changed.”
“You’re still annoying, don’t get it twisted.”
“Yeah, well, you still agreed to get dinner with me,” he shrugs.
He thinks he’s won with that, turning his attention to the menu. But even if he’s right, you aren’t letting him shame you so easily. “You would’ve begged me if I didn’t,” you smirk.
His eyes snap back to yours, the mischievous glint forcing him to fight back the more impure thoughts. “You know, that mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”
“Yeah? By who?”
“Careful, Y/N,” he warns, words coming out through clenched teeth.
You flash him an exaggerated smile, thanking the waitress when she returns with your drinks, and Chan curses himself for being turned on by how quickly you switch from a temptress to the sweetest angel. He stumbles over his words while giving his order, and you giggle softly without even knowing you’re the cause of it.
Considering Chan had brought you to dinner, you felt confident enough to bring up the subject of what the hell was going on between you two. Specifically the Friday night you’d left unaddressed. “So, is it finally time we talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“This,” you motion between the two of you.
He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “We’re having dinner,” he replies coyly.
You figure admonishing him for his feigned ignorance won’t bring you closer to an answer, so instead you push further.
“But why?”
“I told you, you can post it on your story or whatever. I’m sure Jaehyun still stalks your socials.”
You’d seen quite a few random spam names in your story viewers, so you knew it to be true, but you also knew that couldn’t be his reasoning.
“You also told me you wanted to take me on a ‘real date,’” you mention, and he throws his head back against the booth.
“Jesus, Y/N,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just have a nice dinner and worry about the semantics later?”
Obviously, the answer was a resounding no, which he should have expected since he understood your stubbornness better than anyone. “Oh, for you to pretend it never happened and leave me wondering for weeks? Sure thing, Chan,” you sneer.
You probably should have excluded the part where you admitted you’d still been thinking about that night, because he latches onto it and uses it to evade answering any more questions.
“I really get in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he grins.
“Or maybe I get in yours,” you shoot back. “What did you say? Something about ‘I don’t know what I do to you’?”
He rubs his jaw, exhaling through his nose loudly. Because you really didn’t know what you do to him.
“Princess, you don’t get into my head. You’ve never fucking left it.”
Your food is brought over moments later, right on cue, leaving you sitting idly, stunned. Chan pretends not to notice, already moving past his previous admission.
“God, I am starving,” he groans. He takes a bite of his meal, and then blinks at you when you haven’t even slightly shifted. “What’s wrong? You wanna take that picture for your story now?”
If you heard the word “story” one more time, you were convinced you’d actually implode. And you’d take him with you, just to annoy him in the afterlife.
“Don’t do that,” you hiss. “Don’t act clueless.”
“Well sorry for trying to be a believable fake boyfriend.”
Nothing about this felt fake anymore, and when he says it, it feels like a harsh reminder. That vicious awakening from the middle of a good dream, pulled to the surface of reality when you’re in such a deep slumber.
“That’s all you are, right? My fake boyfriend? So why do you say and do all these things that make it feel so real?” you demand.
Your meals are all but forgotten now, and the booths around you are probably getting more of your argument than any of you would like. You swear you can see the lady in the booth to your right staring at you and then leaning over to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Hopefully she’d give her some advice to never get involved with idiotic men like Chan.
He rubs his temples, growing more exhausted by the minute. “I’m trying to figure that out. I came up with a stupid plan, and somewhere along the way the lines got blurred.”
“You blurred them!” you whisper-shout, eyes widening in disbelief.
“You let me,” he says simply, and you can’t deny it. Though he’s still far more culpable for your current situation. “Listen, we can talk about it more on the way home, yeah?”
It’s his cop-out, and you should know this, yet you relent anyway. You aren’t surprised when he refuses to discuss it further in the car, either, and when he tries to put his hand on your thigh, you push it away.
He deserves that, but it still makes him sulk internally. If he couldn’t offer you answers, you wouldn’t offer him any more of yourself. At least, you’d try your best not to (easy to say, harder to do).
When he drops you off, you hardly give him a goodbye, so he knows he’s fucked up. His chest tightens at the thought of not being able to make it right. Of letting you go without telling you everything he’s been thinking for the last month.
He isn’t even sure you’ll give him another chance, but he figures he needs to sort his mind out before he faces you again, for both of your sakes.
The texts slow and then stop altogether, and you don’t see him at all for another week. Maybe you had pushed him enough that he had been scared off (still, he could at least fake break up with you). Though you had never taken Chan for someone who could be scared of anything, especially with his constant arrogance.
“That’s just how men are. They run when shit gets too real,” Jihyo says, fixing her top.
The three of you were currently getting ready in your dorm, because the minute you had texted the groupchat stating that you were desperate for a night out, they were basically busting your door down. And you couldn’t blame them, because you were never the one to initiate, but right now, it seems like the only distraction you have left.
“I think he’s just a little confused,” Mina adds with more eloquence. “I mean, do you even know what you want?”
“Yes,” you grin. “I want to go out, have a good time, and forget about all of this.”
Mina rolls her eyes at your avoidance, and Jihyo clutches her heart dramatically. “My Y/N is so back, I could cry right now.”
You know very well that a party is not the magical cure for all your problems – in fact, it’s the indirect cause of nearly all of them – but your other option was to spend another weekend in your dorm preparing an internal monologue about Chan’s cowardice. So, yes, you were going to a party.
“You know they’re both probably going to be there, right?” Mina advises. Both of the banes of your existence, though for drastically different reasons.
“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I won’t even notice that they’re there”
Between the three of you, there’s not a soul that believes your lie, but nobody questions it.
Though perhaps they should have, because maybe it would have made you reconsider before you ended up in your current situation. Which was searching through a sea of bodies for one particular person, even if you weren’t sure what you would do if you found him.
Mina notices, too, watching as your eyes sweep all along the room while nodding every once in a while, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. You really hadn’t caught a single word she’d said for the past three minutes.
And although there were plenty of people there, you were confident you’d be able to spot Chan out of a crowd. But so far, there was no sign of him, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed.
Unfortunately, however, you had spotted Jaehyun. In the back of the room, looking completely untouched, sipping on a drink with his friends on one side and a girl on the other. But he looked disinterested, not paying her any mind, nodding along indifferently. He looked like you, searching for someone amidst the chaos.
“Y/N!” Mina barks, and you turn to her immediately. “Are you even listening at all?”
“Uh, yeah,” you lie.
She throws her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Really? So what do you think, should I go over there and talk to him?”
She points to the left of you, but there’s at least five guys in the general vicinity she could be referring to. Of course, you’d know who she meant if you hadn’t been so checked out while looking for Chan.
“Um, who?” you ask carefully, and she groans, frustrated. “I’m sorry! I think I need another drink. To clear my head.”
You take off for the kitchen before she can argue, the counters covered in discarded solo cups and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Tempting. Instead, you open the fridge, pulling out one of the remaining unopened cans.
When you turn around, you’re stuck in place, a firm chest blocking you from walking away. You’re about to complain, to remind whoever it is that there’s a thing called personal space, but one look up has the words refusing to come out. It’s Jaehyun, of course.
“Y/N,” he falters, studying your face as if he’d forgotten your features.
Your heart races, not from anything other than the discomfort of confronting someone who you once thought the world of.
“Leave me alone, Jaehyun,” you spit, and he steps back, granting you some space and the freedom to walk away if you so choose. But you don’t, not yet.
He takes note of your stillness, encouraging him to speak again. “I will,” he nods. “But you haven’t given me a chance to explain, and I need you to know how much I regret what I did.”
“Yeah, well, good for you.”
He sighs, and a quiet moment passes between you, one that makes you picture him kissing that girl all over again.
“Are you with him?” he asks, under his breath. You stare at him with feigned confusion, lips pressed in a taut line. This time, he speaks louder, intentionally. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N, please. Are you with Chan?”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t. But I owe you an explanation, and if you’re with Chan…” he trails, and it sends you over the edge. You tell yourself your anger rises up solely because of Jaehyun, but it’s undeniable that half of it comes from all you’d bottled up during the days without Chan around.
“Then what? Then it doesn’t matter? You cheating on me just gets justified because I’m with Chan?” you snap, voice increasing in volume with each word. “Guess what, Jaehyun, your fuck-up is to blame for all of it.”
Even with the thumping music, your voice carries throughout the room, and a few people glance over, intrigued. Someone pushes through the crowd, entering the kitchen right as Jaehyun opens his mouth to argue back.
“Is everything okay over here?”
Both of you look over, though you don’t need to to recognize the voice. It had become your favorite, even when it was teasing you or whispering innuendos just to unnerve you.
“Chan,” you whisper, and he heads straight for you, ignoring Jaehyun’s unwavering glare.
In a few quick steps, he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him like he hadn’t ignored you for a week. “Hey, baby. Are you alright?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Baby. That was a new one. He had called you princess more times than you could count, but it had started as a taunt and never really felt like anything more than that. Baby, however, had your heart pounding and mind racing.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you swallow, finding more interest in the ground now. For a second, you forget all about Jaehyun in front of you, and it reminds you that Chan’s actions are probably directly correlated. After all, the original plan was to get back at Jaehyun, and what better moment than right now? The final act to your months-long play.
“So you two are together,” Jaehyun concludes, frowning.
“Don’t look so upset,” Chan grins wickedly. “I’ll treat her better than you ever could.”
Try not to take his words seriously, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. This is all for show. But as always, he makes them sound real, adding a layer of intensity you can’t ignore.
“You’re not good enough for her.”
You’re about to chime in, to remind him he has no say in what or who is good enough for you, and that it was rich hearing that from him of all people.
“And you were?” Chan laughs humorlessly. “C’mon, baby, let’s get out of here, yeah?”
He squeezes your shoulder, looking down at you, waiting for your agreement. And as you glance between him and Jaehyun, something takes over you entirely. You pull his face towards yours, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. When he closes the final inches, your eyes flutter closed, his lips crashing onto yours.
It’s quick, soft, restrained, and not at all like what you expected (or wanted) kissing Chan to be, but it serves its purpose.
Jaehyun stands there, wordlessly, the most satisfying look of outrage plastered on his face. Chan sees it, too, a small chuckle leaving his parted lips. He’ll probably burn the image in his mind to remember it whenever he needs a pick-me-up.
And while you’re a blend of emotions between the kiss, facing Jaehyun, and Chan’s declaration, you keep yourself together for now, yanking Chan’s hand to lead him away. “Yeah, let’s go.”
You maneuver through bodies, making it to a noticeably more empty section of the house before you finally release his hand. If you’re lucky, he’ll go back to ignoring you, and you won’t have to discuss whatever just unfolded.
Unfortunately, you haven’t had much luck recently.
“Bold move there, baby,” he quips.
There it was again. Only this time, Jaehyun’s not around, so there’s no explaining away the pet name. Does that make it better or worse? You aren’t sure.
“Shut up,” you mumble, “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”
Your night out had been ruined, and you swore you’d be done with parties for good. At least in your dorm you could save yourself from running face to face with anyone who either cheated on you or refused to share their feelings.
“I’ll take you home,” Chan states, not offers.
“I’m not getting in a car with you. You’ve been drinking.”
It was an assumption, but a reasonable one. Though clearly incorrect, because he quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head immediately. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, actually,” he refutes, now pulling his keys out of his pocket and swinging them around his finger.
So much for that excuse.
“Whatever.”
He takes this as your reluctant surrender, now grabbing your hand and leading you to his car which was only a little ways down the street. And despite the kiss, you still had nothing to say to him – or rather, way too much to say to him, and no desire to say it if he wouldn’t talk first. So a thick silence falls between you, leaving you with just the lingering feeling of his lips on yours.
“Quiet today,” he comments, stealing a glance you don’t return. You keep your head pressed against the window, a dull headache already forming from the night’s events and the alcohol.
“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble.
His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I know,” he mutters.
“And I think I hate you again.”
“Well, the ‘again’ gives me some hope,” the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Means I had you on my side for a little, at least.”
“You did. Until you wouldn’t talk to me and ran like a coward,” you insult, watching his shoulders drop and smile fade as fast as it had come. You almost regret saying it. Because all your insults before had been quick, meaningless jabs that he could brush off. This one came with intent, a bitterness that wouldn’t be forgotten seconds later.
“Yeah, I deserve that,” he sighs. “We’ll talk soon, okay? When you’re not tipsy and overwhelmed.”
“I don’t believe you,” you say flatly, still not lifting your head from the glass.
He reaches across the console for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I mean it this time. Because I’ve been going crazy without you. And that kiss just sealed the deal.”
“Please,” you scoff, forced. “It was hardly a kiss.” Hardly. Your minimization of it wasn’t wrong in a literal sense; it was short-lived, lacking the passion you knew you both had within. But regardless, it had completely hijacked your brain, so clearly it wasn’t hardly anything.
“I know. That’s the problem. I need more.”
Now, you turn towards him, trying to decipher his expression. It’s unreadable for once, devoid of that familiar smirk. You want to tell him if he needs more to take it, that he can have everything he wants if he just says the words. But those words don’t come, not tonight, and you close your eyes against the window once more.
Before you leave for your dorm, he reaches for your hand again, pulling it to his lips.
“Soon, I promise.”
You nod, trying to believe him, though you wonder if it would hurt less if you don’t.
You didn’t particularly like loose ends.
That’s why after weeks of dangling a fake relationship in Jaehyun’s face and the culmination of it all at the party the night prior, you decided to confront him fully and at least hear what he had to say before you closed the chapter for good. You didn’t owe that to him, certainly not, but you felt like you owed it to yourself. An explanation for why he did it to quell the thoughts that had never completely gone away. Which he also said he owed you, anyways.
And perhaps this was all amplified by the fact that most of the day had passed and there was no text, no call, no anything from Chan. He had only said “soon,” not “tomorrow,” but still. Some form of acknowledgement would be enough to placate you, but he hadn’t even spared you that.
So, with a final layer of lipgloss, you considered your makeup complete and mentally prepared yourself for the impending doom. You looked irresistible at least, everything Jaehyun could never have again.
But nothing could ever go to plan (once again, luck hadn’t exactly been on your side), so you aren’t shocked when a knock on your door disrupts your evening.
“Hi, princess,” Chan grins when you swing it open. Then, his eyes trail down your body, tugging his lip between his teeth subconsciously. “You look good.”
Well fuck. Why did he have to show up now? A text in advance might have saved you from unintentionally double-booking yourself, or maybe you’re at fault for assuming Chan was ghosting you again today.
“Thanks,” you smile half-heartedly, heading back to your mirror to look yourself over once more. It’s far too awkward to face Chan knowing you’re about to go see your ex, especially when you and Chan had almost established…something. Something real, beyond the pseudo-relationship.
He senses that you’re withholding something, watching you suspiciously. “Going out?” he questions, and you curse under your breath. Bracing for the storm.
“Something like that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His tone is already accusatory and you hadn’t even dropped the bomb yet, so you really had to prepare yourself for his reaction. At best, he would storm out and you could deal with it later, after you had dealt with Jaehyun. At worst, you’d have a full-blown argument in your dorm right before the other inevitable argument you’d have with Jaehyun.
“I’m going over to Jaehyun’s,” you say softly, guilt washing over you when his face drops instantly. But you didn’t need to feel guilty – you were allowed to seek closure, especially when Chan hadn’t yet granted you transparency. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you were making the right choice.
Chan’s blood runs cold, and he waits for you to laugh in his face, to tell him how dumb he looks when he’s angry. Something snarky, something annoying. Something. Anything. He doesn’t care, as long as it means you aren’t currently getting dolled up to go see your cheating fuck of an ex boyfriend.
Instead, you say nothing, shifting on your feet uncomfortably.
“Y/N, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m just hearing him out,” you say flatly. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“No, it’s not a crime, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re looking like that to go ‘hear him out?’”
You look down at yourself, a lacy bodysuit and skirt adorning your body – not to appeal to him, not at all, but to remind him what he had lost. Was it a little melodramatic? Maybe. Were you allowed to be melodramatic when confronting someone who had made you question if you weren’t enough? Definitely.
“Yes! What’s wrong with that?!”
“Everything is wrong with that!”
“Oh my god, Chan, you got what you wanted,” you throw your hands up in frustration, “I’m sure you’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw us kiss last night.”
“You think his face is what I was thinking about after we kissed, Y/N?” he asks incredulously. “I was thinking about you, only you, and how right it felt.”
Was this his confession? It was beginning to feel like it. If only it hadn’t come at such a horrible time and in such a horrible way, maybe you would be happier. Now, the words sucked the air out of your lungs, leaving you speechless and uncertain.
“So fuck what I wanted back then. What I want right now is for you to realize you deserve better than someone who broke your heart and your trust in the worst way possible,” he finishes, holding himself back from pulling you into his arms and screaming that it’s him. He’s the one who will give you everything you deserve; he’ll make it his life’s purpose to do so.
“I’m just hearing him out,” you repeat again, emphatically, though no matter how true it was or how believable you made it sound, Chan refuses to accept it.
“Right,” he scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you two all over each other in the corner of every party again.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already heading for the door, unable to take another second of seeing your face and knowing you won’t be his.
“Hope it works out, Y/N.”
The door rattles as he slams it shut, and the room feels colder, emptier. And not just because of Chan’s physical absence, but because of what it entails. The same man who you hated - and who you swore hated you - had made you feel more seen and valued in not even two months than Jaehyun had in nine. He had put more effort into a fake relationship than Jaehyun had put in a real one. You were letting that go for some semblance of closure from someone who broke you.
Previously, you had tried to convince yourself your feelings had never become real. That of course your heart would beat a little faster when Chan would remember things about you, that of course you would like the way pet names fell from his lips, that of course you couldn’t stop thinking about him in every single way possible, from pure to downright filthy. This all made sense, of course, because he was the hot guy you were faking a relationship with. It had nothing to do with Chan, and everything to do with your body and mind being too receptive of what you’d been deprived of before.
But you simply couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. And that’s why, for once, you knew what you needed to do. You type out another message to Jaehyun, deliberating each word carefully. It would be the last you’d ever give him, at least in this capacity, where he still felt like he had a small chance at getting you back.
actually, i’m not coming over. i thought about it, and nothing you say can make me forget what you did…i didn’t deserve that, jaehyun.
i know what i deserve now.
i hope you learn from this and treat the next girl better.
His texts come in quick succession, frantic pleas and apologies and then the angry ones regarding Chan. You don’t answer him or even give him the solace of knowing you’d read them. Instead, you turn your phone on DND and throw it behind you, hoping it’ll get lost in your bed sheets.
And though you’ve done the right thing, there’s still the unavoidable grief over something that once was. The only person you want comfort from right now is Chan, but you know you should give yourself the space to reflect and process properly. He probably wants some time away from you, anyways.
So you don’t call or text him. You avoid all the spots you know he frequents. You make yourself as nonexistent to him as possible. And worst of all, he doesn’t even come searching.
There’s no way for you to know how badly he wants to see your name pop up at the top of his screen, or how he waits for you outside the library on days he knows you usually study. You don’t know that he stayed up late that first night, hoping you’d call him. Each notification made his heart jump, and after the eighth one that wasn’t from you, he finally turned his phone off completely.
He didn’t want space, nor time. He wanted you. And beyond that, he wanted you to know you deserved more - that he would give you more. But he can’t fault you for any of this; he can only blame himself for not telling you sooner.
When a week goes by and it’s still silence on your end, he figures you’d forgiven Jaehyun and taken him back. And that’s just something he’d have to live with.
The days pass by slowly, monotonously, and though you argue with Mina and Jihyo that it’s healing, they complain that you’re just wallowing in needless despair (“Girl, get your man,” had been the phrase of the week).
And you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to face him after the way you’d left things. There was a gnawing worry that he wouldn’t answer your calls or texts, so you don’t even try. No, you decide you’ll just have to show up at his apartment, and yes at nine o’clock at night, because you couldn’t put it off any longer. The yearning was almost consuming you.
Though Chan had been to your dorm multiple times, you had never been to his apartment; it was way less convenient to go off-campus where he lived. You had to get Chan’s address from his roommate, Minho, who you had already known from a shared class last semester. And he had also texted you a few times begging you to do something about Chan’s moping, because it was “making his life miserable.”
While it was off-campus, it wasn’t far, and your determination was enough to ward off the apprehension of walking alone at night (though Chan would definitely not be pleased). Still, you kept Jihyo on the phone for the whole fifteen minutes, slight reassurance for both of you.
You can barely bring yourself to knock when you arrive, feeling much less composed now that you were actually there, separated from Chan by only a door and thin walls. Your fist meets the wood without you fully realizing it, and it swings open with ferocity moments later.
“Hi,” you choke out, all of your composure gone when he’s standing before you.
“Y/N?” he asks, blinking in awe to confirm that you’re real. He’d started to accept that your presence in his life was a thing of the past, a treasured memory he’d hold onto. “What are you – Jesus, it’s so dark out. Come on, get inside.”
He reaches for your arm and drags you inside, leading you all the way to his room; Minho’s home, and Chan doesn’t quite want him to hear the moment the girl he’s been losing his mind over ends things for good. Is “end things” even the right term, since there had never been a defined “thing” in the first place?
His room is not much different from any other college student’s room, with books and papers sprawled on the desk and empty energy drink cans filling the trashcan. But it’s his, and that makes your heart swell a little.
“I can’t believe you walked all the way here this late,” he scolds. He gestures for you to take a seat on his bed, and when he sits in his chair across from you, you deflate a little at the distance.
“I had to see you,” you whisper.
He clicks his tongue, trying not to melt at your words. Because to him, you’re with Jaehyun, and there’s probably some other rational explanation for why you’d shown up at his apartment at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what it could be, but it exists, surely. “You know if you had texted me I would’ve been there in minutes,” he asserts.
“Actually, I didn’t know that,” you correct, folding your arms over your chest, “considering the way you stormed out last time we saw each other.” Which may have been justified, but still.
“Can you blame me? You told me you were going to see your ex boyfriend who cheated on you, by the way. And then you didn’t even bother to call or text, so what was I supposed to think?”
“You could’ve called or texted me!”
“I thought you went back to him!”
He stands, chest rising and falling heavily, and he looks so distraught your anger fades. “I didn’t,” you say, softer now. “I didn’t even see him that night. We haven’t even spoken since. Or I guess that’s not totally true, he’s spammed me and I’ve ignored him.”
His eyes soften, and he crosses those few feet to sit beside you, mattress dipping under the added weight. “Why?”
There’s a million ways to answer that question, and you aren’t sure which is the right one. So you go with what flows naturally, not giving it a second thought.
“Because I realized I need more too,” you confess. “No more pretending, no more lies.”
Though your chest feels lighter with the confession, the room feels smaller and your throat tighter because Chan doesn’t speak, or move, you don’t even think he blinks. He doesn’t mean to stare at you like this, but you’ve left him stunned with words he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and he worries if he speaks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.
You start to rise from the bed, fighting back tears of rejection and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come – ”
His hand latches around your wrist, gently yet firmly, and you fall back to the bed with a quiet gasp.
“I haven’t been pretending. Not for a while now,” he breathes, and now you’re the silent one. “You’re right, I was a coward. I’ve wanted you so badly and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along the skin faintly, confirmation that you and this moment are very real. “I should’ve told you everything. How much I think about you, how much I hate it when you’re not here.”
There’s hardly any space between you now, foreheads nearly touching, breaths intertwining.
“How I can’t get that kiss out of my head,” he exhales. “How selfish I feel for wanting more.”
You shake your head. “You’re not selfish,” you whisper, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile.
“I am, because I want you all to myself.”
“Then you have me,” you say simply, as though such a claim wouldn’t change everything. You’ve had me without even knowing.
He can’t hold back anymore – he’s done enough of that over the past month – because those words are his absolute undoing.
“Can I kiss you right this time?” His eyes drop to your lips, awaiting, begging for your permission.
You nod eagerly, and that’s all it takes for him to place his hand along your jaw and draw your face towards his. His lips melt into your own, this time with all the passion you’d both held back before.
And while the kiss starts soft, tender, moving against each other with the carefulness of a blooming love, it quickly plunges into desperate desire. Your fingers thread through his hair, delicately at first, until you tug at the roots and he groans into your mouth.
That sound. That devilish, sinful sound. It causes the heat within your core to grow tenfold, and you kiss him more fervently now, tongues swirling together. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, then drops his head to your neck.
And when your head tilts instinctively, offering him more skin to mark as his, he can’t help but smirk because he loves having this effect on you. He’d realized it that day at lunch, when he couldn’t do anything but skim your thigh under the table. But you were offering, so who was he not to take? He nips at the skin and runs his tongue along each spot afterwards, soothing, claiming.
“Mine,” he mumbles against your neck, and then he kisses his way back up to your lips, mouth hovering over your own.
“Chan,” you rasp, “I want you.”
His lips crash against yours once more, because he can’t help himself when you’ve just said you want him so desperately. “Yeah? You want me, baby?” he asks, breathless.
You shiver when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles along your waist. “Yes,” you sigh, and then louder, “yes, God, I want you.”
He grips your waist, only sheer will keeping him from ripping off your clothes and fucking you right then and there. Because he wants to savor every last moment of this, but some small part of him is going feral – not a devil on his shoulder, but his throbbing cock trying to push through the seams of his boxers. So actually not a small part, because he’s big, you can see the imprint in his sweatpants.
“Are you sure?” he questions. “Because if you want me, that’s it. There’s no more Jaehyun, no more anyone else.”
Was he genuinely asking, or just trying to make you fall apart? You can’t tell, but you’re so needy, you answer regardless.
“I don’t want anyone else.”
His hands hook under your shirt while he guides you onto his lap, and you raise your arms for him to pull it off while you settle against him. He pauses, drinking in the sight – you haven’t even taken your bra off yet – and then his palms find your breasts, massaging through the fabric.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, thumbs flicking over your covered nipples. The moan it elicits is so delicious that he does it again, and then again, cock twitching in his sweatpants.
“You only think that ‘cause I’m shirtless,” you quip, toying with the hem of his like you needed to make things even.
“No,” he says firmly. “Always thought you were the prettiest fucking girl ever.” He reaches behind his neck, yanking his tank top up and over his head, and you swear your breathing stops momentarily. This is what he’d hidden behind t-shirts and hoodies (and that jacket you still hadn’t given back to him), and honestly, how dare he?
But you can’t focus on that a moment longer, because he dips his head down to press his lips against the tops of your breasts hungrily, dragging wet kisses all the way to your sternum. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats, fingers unclasping your bra and tugging the straps down.
His mouth is on you again before it even hits the ground, like he’ll keel over and die if he isn’t tasting you, and right now, he really thinks he might. So, for survival, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, tongue swirling around it, then flicking.
Each careful movement of his tongue causes your breath to hitch, hips rutting against him for any sort of friction, and he moans against you. His hands grip your waist, stilling your movements, and as a punishment – if you could call it that – he bites gently and tugs the sensitive bud between his teeth.
“Chan,” you moan, and when you feel the curl of that signature smirk, you become emboldened. “Who knew your mouth could actually be useful?”
Because although you definitely didn’t hate him now, you could at least reflect on that history, if not just to drive him a little wild. And hopefully he’d fuck you just a little bit harder.
He growls then, his hand sweeping along your side to squeeze your other breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm. And when you least expect it, his hand comes down, slapping your breast with enough force to make you gasp.
“Fuck, I’m gonna miss that smart mouth of yours. Always thought it was so hot the way you’d act like you actually hated me,” he chuckles, now massaging the skin.
“I did hate you,” you rasp. You aren’t even sure if that’s true anymore, because you can’t think. His cock pressing into you has your mind in a frenzy. One where your only thoughts are of having him inside you, stretching you open, filling you up.
When he lifts his head from your breasts, his eyes are dark, lidded, and boring right through you. Daring you to say it again. To lie and see where it gets you.
“You sure?” he whispers, tauntingly. “Because I always saw that look in your eyes.” His fingers dip lower, slipping into your panties, and he laughs when you shudder. “Deep down, you wanted to know all the filthy things I could do to this gorgeous body.”
Maybe you did. It matters little what you wanted back then, because you could only think of what you wanted right now, and his fingers were drifting dangerously close to it. But he was playing with you, not bringing them any further, waiting for your admission.
“You flatter yourself,” you whisper. The wrong answer, clearly, because he pulls his fingers away, gripping your chin now. Forcing you to look at him, because he knows you won’t be able to keep up the act if he’s staring at you so intensely.
“Say it’s not true then,” he orders.
You should be able to say it. You should be able to look him in the eyes and tell him he was once everything you wanted no part of. But he starts peppering open-mouthed kisses along your neck again, unfairly, and your voice betrays you. “It’s not true,” you mumble weakly.
Your fingers fly to his hair and tangle at the strands, but he won’t let you off that easily. Of course not. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers.
“No,” he growls. “Say it like you mean it.”
His commands only add to the ache between your legs, and you accept that you can’t win. Your silence tells him everything, and he releases, hand patting your cheek like he pitied you. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, satisfied.
Your breathing becomes ragged when his hand trails down again, and this time you’re sure that he’ll relent and give you what your body was craving. Or maybe that was just you trying to convince yourself.
“You never hated me. You hated that you knew I was better than your boyfriend,” he smirks, slipping his fingers into your jeans. They drag down, slowly, finally stopping right at your core. “You hated that you wanted to know what it would feel like if I touched you here,” he taunts, rubbing your pussy through the soaked fabric of your panties.
“Shit, you’re this wet for me?” he groans, fingers gliding up and down, pressing harder when they pause at your clit. “I guess I was right, then.”
Any other time you would have been able to throw something sarcastic right back at him, but not now, not when he was teasing you like this. It was the closest he’d gotten to touching you where you so desperately needed him, and your hips buck unwittingly again. “Please, Chan. Need you,” you moan.
“Yeah, I know baby,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you everything I’ve been dreaming about doing to you.”
And then you’re pushed off of him and onto the bed, hitting the sheets with a quiet squeal. The same fingers that had been rubbing your clothed pussy now hurriedly unbutton your jeans, and you lift off the bed slightly to help him drag them down along with your panties.
Once you’re completely naked before him, his movements lull, now taking in every inch of exposed skin.
You feel like you’re drowning under his eyes, because the last person to see you like this had betrayed you, had touched someone that wasn’t you. This was the reality of infidelity – the insecurity, the nagging, cruel insecurity that seeped into places it shouldn’t. Because Chan would never.
And he sees it, too. The way you begin to falter and drift elsewhere. Your head turning against the pillow, refusing to face him.
“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your jaw, pulling your face back towards him. “Where’d you go, baby? Don’t hide from me, please.”
You swallow harshly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not hiding. Just…worried I’m not enough,” you mumble, and the words break him. He hated Jaehyun before, but he despises him now, because he made you – who he considered the most beautiful girl to ever grace the earth, even when you were calling him an idiot – feel less than. And that’s something Chan would spend the rest of his life undoing if he had to.
His thumb strokes your skin now, trying to wipe away the remnants of anyone’s touch that wasn’t his. “No, stop that. You’re more than enough. You’re perfect,” he says.
Your cheeks heat up from the affirmations, and he kisses you to cement them. But it's short, subdued, as he moves further down, lips grazing your neck, your chest, then your navel. He sinks lower, hovering right above your cunt, spreading your legs apart.
“So perfect for me,” he breathes, and you can feel the air hitting against you. “You’re mine now. You won’t have to worry about anyone else ever again.”
The words can barely sink in before his tongue is on you, licking a slow, tantalizing stripe between your folds. It’s so sudden that your hips lift off the bed, and his hands come quick, wrapping around your thigh and pinning you down. He swipes his tongue again, and then he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, devouring what had been kept from him for too long.
“Fuck, Chan, please,” you moan, grabbing at his hair for something to ground you. He groans into you, both from your fingers tugging and the sound of you moaning his name like that.
“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard, tugging, releasing. Then, he swirls his tongue, creating a pattern that has your back arching, threatening to come undone.
You’d thought about this. Lonely nights in your dorm, touching yourself at the thought of how he would look between your legs, about how his tongue would feel against you. But there was no way to anticipate this. He lapped at your pussy like he was starved and you were the only meal he’d get again. He’d like that, truthfully.
Your body is trembling by the time he draws his head back, and the lack of his warm tongue causes you to whine. “Patience, princess,” he coos.
Before you can beg him to touch you again, he spits directly onto your cunt, letting his fingers spread it as if your slick wasn’t enough. And the action is so erotic, so filthy that your thighs clench involuntarily and he has to hold them open.
Two fingers push inside you, and his tongue is back, flicking your clit with urgency. He pumps them languidly, curling them against your g-spot and then pulling back until you’re almost empty. His name leaves your mouth through choked cries and it only drives him further, because he needs you to unravel just like this. His tongue circles your clit in rhythm with his fingers, hitting your sweet spot with each pump, and his pace quickens when he can tell you’re close.
“Chan, please don’t stop!” you pant. “Fuck, I’m so close.”
It’s all too much - his fingers, his tongue, the lewd noises of them bringing you to the edge. “Go on, baby, give it to me,” he coaxes. “Come on my tongue for me, just like that.”
With his permission (which was much more of a plea), you let go, throwing your head back against the pillow. Your whole body comes alive with the intensity of your orgasm, ripping through you in currents while he continues lapping at your pussy lazily. It’s only when he pulls his fingers out for the final time and sucks them clean that you come down, chest heaving.
“My mouth sure is useful, huh?” he teases, laughing when you roll your eyes.
His laughter is cut short when you sit up on your knees and tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, head lowering. Your intentions are clear, but he grips your shoulder, halting your movements.
“No, no, princess, it’s okay,” he huffs, using his last bit of self-restraint. He can’t believe he’s turning down head from you, but right now, being buried inside you is his priority.
You can’t believe it either, blinking up at him sweetly, eyes wide with confusion. “But I wanna return the favor,” you pout.
Jesus, were you an angel from above or a succubus from the depths of hell, he wonders?
“Fuck, I know, baby,” he groans. “But I need to be inside you, right now.”
He sounds so desperate that you feel like you’re in control now, and you reach for his cock through his sweatpants. Wrapping your fingers around it, stroking softly. “You wanna fuck me, Channie?” you purr.
“Yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist – all your control, gone. “You want it too, don’t you baby?” He stands, ridding himself of his sweats and boxers at once. His cock springs free, precum beading on the tip, and he cages you against the bed. “Or can you not take it? Hm? Is one all this pretty pussy can give me?”
The flip switches in you instantly, arms slithering around his neck, yanking him to you. His lips crash onto yours, all teeth and tongue, both of you at your neediest. When your hand slips down to stroke him, thumb spreading precum along his length, he lets out a low guttural sound into your mouth.
“Baby, shit, you’re killing me,” he rasps.
“Can you die inside me, at least?”
That he could do. Happily. Willingly. He reaches over you, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside. And though you shouldn’t, you bring your hand to his wrist, stopping him.
“I’m on the pill, if that helps,” you whisper. “I need to feel you, nothing else.” Your words are sinful but your eyes are so sweet, looking up at him like you’d break if he denied you.
“Fuck, princess, you’re trouble,” he groans, shoving the drawer closed and bringing his hand to your cheek instead. He swipes away a few strands of hair that had fallen, trying to soak in every inch of your perfect face.
“You love it,” you giggle.
“God, yes I do.”
He grasps his cock and fists it a few short times, then guides it along your pussy. Your slick coats his shaft immediately, slow drags making your head spin. And when he slaps the tip against your clit, you know he’s doing it just for that. To drive you crazy, to hear your whines, to see you writhing for it. For him. Would it be appropriate to call him a smug bastard again?
“Stop teasing,” you beg, your voice a strained whisper.
“But you’re so cute like this,” he says. “What’d you say again? ‘Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you?’”
You buck your hips against him, a poor retaliation, and he laughs, positioning himself at your entrance. “Well look at you now, princess.”
He presses into you just the smallest bit, enough for the tip to slip inside, still teasing when all you wanted was for him to plunge inside you and fuck you senseless. That small amount of pressure is gone in an instant, leaving you empty once more.
“Chan,” you whimper. “Please just fuck me, I can’t take it.”
You might cry if he keeps this up, still sensitive from your last orgasm but so desperate for another. And while he wouldn’t mind driving you to that point, his cock is painfully hard. Even he’s at his limit.
“Oh, baby, you’re gonna take it,” he taunts, thrusting forward in one swift motion. He bottoms out and stays there, immobile, reveling in your cunt stretching around him. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”
“Would feel more amazing if you would move,” you hiss, and he actually listens. His hips snap against you with a purpose, slow and deep, watching every inch sink further.
Each thrust reaches that sweet spot that has your back arching and nails digging into him. You can already feel the fire building inside you again, clenching around him in a way that has him wondering if you’re a dream. “Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, hips bucking faster now. Less restraining and savoring, more adhering to his primal urge to fill you up entirely.
“Funny. Jaehyun said the same thing,” you pant. You aren’t sure where the confidence comes from, especially when he’s the one pounding into you; maybe he’s fucking the attitude back into you. But you know it’ll get you into trouble, the good kind of trouble, the kind where Chan wrecks you mercilessly.
And oh, he does. He thrusts wilder, rougher, almost carelessly, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room.
“Yeah? Well he fucking lied, baby,” he growls. “Because you feel that?” His hand presses down on your stomach. “That’s all me. My cock you’re squeezing like a fucking vice.”
His hand slides down, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit. The added sensation brings you closer to the edge, and he’s nearly there as well. “Chan, oh my god,” you moan, nails dragging along his bicep.
“You’re so tight,” he grunts. “Did he ever fuck you right?” He won’t even say the name, because it holds no meaning now. You’re his, and he’ll fuck you enough times that you won’t remember anyone else.
Your walls clench harder around him, his thumb circling relentlessly. “No,” you cry. “Not like you. Not like this.” That answer satisfies him, and he pulls back all the way just to slam into you harder.
“I didn’t think so,” he muses. He leans down, nipping at your neck. “Forget about him. All you need to remember is me and my cock ruining you like this.”
You’d already forgotten, only able to think about how Chan was the one currently fucking into you like he had something to prove. You’re so close to release, strangled cries of his name escaping your lips while your thighs clench around him. “Ah, Chan, I’m gonna come!” you whimper.
“Fuck, me too, baby,” he grunts. “You want me to fill you up? Leave your pussy leaking with my cum?”
His words are your final propulsion, and he emphasizes them with each rut of his hips. Your back arches off the bed, face contorting in pure euphoria, and Chan commits the image to memory. It matters little that he knows he’ll see it many, many more times; he wants to watch you ride every single high until the end of time.
Your orgasm washes over you, setting every inch of your body aflame, and you want more. More of him. All of him. “Yes! Please fill me up, please,” you beg, voice breaking from the overstimulation.
He can’t deny you, doesn’t want to deny you, and he couldn’t anyways. You’ve basically sucked him in, legs keeping him held in place. He thrusts into you one final time, a low groan emitting from someplace deep within, hips jerking erratically as thick, white strings of cum spurt inside of you.
When you’ve milked every last drop from him, he pulls out from your spent heat and falls to the bed dramatically, limbs flopping as if he’s dead. And maybe he is, because that was definitely heaven.
You lay there side by side, chests rising and falling in sync, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation for what just happened. How you ended up like this, his cum dripping from you, your scratches welting along his back, when just months ago you couldn’t stand each other. Supposedly.
Then comes a knock on the door, and you both are struck with the realization that you’d forgotten Minho was home, in another room, hearing everything. Or rather, Chan had forgotten, and you’d never known. Never even considered it.
“Are you two done in there?” he calls from outside. You lift your head and look at Chan with wide eyes, and he shrugs like he’s just as clueless.
“Uh, yeah,” Chan shouts back. You bury yourself under the sheets, expecting the door to swing open. Thankfully, it doesn’t. But the alternative might be worse.
“Y/N, when I asked you for help, I didn’t mean by moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors in my apartment.”
Minho’s footsteps pad away from the door, and you pull back the sheets, horrified. “Was I really that loud?!” you exclaim. He hadn’t said anything about your volume or even tried to quiet you, and you were far too consumed to notice.
“A little…” Chan rubs his neck sheepishly.
You wish you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, because how would you ever face Minho again? And their poor neighbors, no less. The walk of shame was going to be unbearable. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing!” you groan.
He shakes his head vehemently and kisses your forehead, a small reassurance. “No! No, baby, it was so hot,” he coos. And then it hits him. “Wait. Minho asked you for help?”
“I guess you were going crazy without me,” you smirk. This time he groans, and you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me now.”
“Like I’d ever want to,” he whispers.
His lips press into your hair, and you can’t help but sigh against him. Because any remnants of hatred, if they even truly existed, are gone, and you’re left only with the peaceful acceptance that this was a glimpse of countless days to come.
any fanfic that has miscomunication in it WILL be read by me. this was amazing i love a chan that just cant communicate his feeling right and has a hard time (on fiction of course)
Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him, and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (11,1k words)
Author's note: Thank you for each and every one of you who have been following this series since chapter one. Hope you enjoyed this one too 🫶🏻❣️
The days after the presentation feel longer than they should.
Every morning, you come into the office with that same tightness in your chest. You’re not nervous about who’s going to win. Not really. You just want it to be over. You want to stop feeling like you’re holding your breath.
And then there’s Minho.
Quiet. Calm. His eyes sharpen just slightly as he concentrates on his work. You envy him and sometimes you wish you can be like him — completely unbothered and look good doing it.
The clock ticks past ten. An email notification pops up.
Subject: Promotion Results – Announcement This Friday.
You exhale, staring at the words. Two more days. Two more days of waiting with this tightness in your chest.
Across the room, Minho’s already looking at you. It’s not a long look, just a flicker of something shared. A tiny acknowledgment that the wait is almost over. His lips twitch, like he’s about to smile, but he doesn’t. He just goes back to his monitor, pretending to type, the faintest crease between his brows.
You’re still staring when Felix suddenly appears beside your desk, a stack of folders in his arms.
“Big news this Friday,” he says cheerfully, setting the files down with a soft thud.
You hum, reaching for the flies to take a quick look at it. “Don’t expect much from me.”
Felix raises an eyebrow, leaning against the edge of your desk. “Why not?”
You glance past him at Minho who is pretending to read something on his screen, but you can tell he’s listening. He’s too still not to be.
“Minho deserves it more,” you say quietly. “He’s worked hard for it.”
Felix tilts his head, his tone softening. “So have you. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Then, lowering his voice, he leans in close enough that you can feel his breath brush your ear. “For what it’s worth, I’m still rooting for you,” he whispers.
You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.
But before you can answer, Minho’s voice cuts through the air. “Hey, intern,” he calls with the kind of tone that makes people sit up straighter.
Feli’s head whips to his direction. “Yes?”
“Send these files to finance for me,” Minho says, not looking up. “Now.”
Felix gives a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
He scoops up the stack of files from Minho’s desk, but before walking away, he pauses by you again. “Lunch later?” he asks, smiling that sweet, soft smile of his.
You glance at Minho and he’s definitely glaring now, pen frozen in his hand.
Then you look back at Felix’s warm, almost angelic face and can’t find it in you to say no to him. “Sure,” you say.
Felix beams, and as he walks off, you can feel Minho’s gaze burning holes through you.
You shrug lightly, pretending to stay focused on your computer screen, but there’s a tiny thrill buzzing under your skin. You shouldn’t enjoy it, but you do.
Minho’s jealousy has always been just the right kind of satisfying.
-
The canteen is crowded with employees at lunchtime, queuing to get their chosen menu for lunch. You and Felix shuffle forward in line, scanning the menu above the counter.
“What are you having?” Felix asks, rocking back on his heels.
“Not sure,” you say as you crane your neck to check today’s menu. “The Korean food sounds good.”
“Beef bulgogi. Yeah, that sounds delicious,” he nods in approval.
“Come on, it’s my treat,” you tell him with a smile, guiding the two of you to join the queue for the Korean food, the sound loosening some of the tension from the morning. For the first time in days, you feel light.
A few minutes later, the two of you settle into a small table by the window. Felix talks easily about the new client, about how he once saw the HR manager accidentally nap through a meeting and you find yourself laughing between bites of food.
Your laugh dies down when all of a sudden, someone makes his way toward your table. You know who it is from his steps slow, his gaze fixes. He sits on the chair next to you, carefully placing his tray on the table.
Felix notices too late. “Oh— Hyung! So nice to have you joining us.”
“I hope so,” Minho simply replies, picking up his cutlery.
Felix, ever polite, tries to make conversation. “So, Hyung, you must be anticipating the announcement this Friday, right?”
“Though I’m sure it’ll go to whoever impressed the boss most,” Minho coyly says, spearing a piece of chicken with unnecessary precision.
“True,” Felix says easily. “You both did great.”
It gets quiet as everyone continues eating, but the kind of silence that makes you suspicious of what Minho is going to say next. You can barely enjoy your food, mindlessly stirring your soup with your spoon.
You were right to because a moment later, Minho looks up and then, straight at Felix. “You like her, don’t you?”
Felix freezes mid-bite. “Sorry?”
Minho doesn’t look away as his head makes a gesture toward you. “You like her.”
Felix gets taken aback for a second but then smiles that gentle, unfazed smile of his. “What’s not to like?” he says simply.
You shoot Minho a warning look, but he just keeps eating, as if the conversation is completely casual. You clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. “So, uh— the food’s not bad today, right? The soup’s actually—”
Minho cuts in, eyes flicking to Felix again. “If you like her that much, why’d you make her pay for lunch?”
Felix laughs softly, unbothered. “Ah, right. I’ll make it up to her later. Maybe with drinks after work?”
You open your mouth to politely refuse, but Minho beats you to it. “Can I come too?” he asks, smiling, but his tone isn’t as casual as his words.
Felix hesitates, eyes darting between you two, then nods. “Sure, why not?”
Minho’s smile sharpens just a little. He picks up his tray, stands, and says in a low, almost playful drawl, “Can’t wait for drinks later.”
-
The clock finally hits six, and the office starts to thin out, the others have walked past your desk, saying their byes to you. You stretch, your shoulders aching from a long day, and reach for your bag.
“Ready to head out?”
You look up to see Felix leaning against your desk, that easy, sunshine grin lighting up his face. He’s already got his coat slung over one arm, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened like he’s already halfway out the door.
“Yeah,” you say, standing and slinging your coat over your shoulders. “Just need to grab my purse.”
He nods, waiting patiently, then turns toward Minho’s desk a few feet away. “Hey, Hyung. You ready?”
Minho doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Can’t,” he says flatly. “Director asked me to help polish her presentation. Might take a while.”
Felix’s smile softens with sympathy. “Will it take long?”
“Not sure,” Minho answers without looking away from the screen.
Felix considers it for a second before coming up with a resolve. “I’ll just text you the address in case you want to swing by later, yeah?”
“Sure,” Minho replies, fingers still typing, gaze fixed on the monitor.
Felix glances at you, gesturing toward the door. “Shall we?”
You nod, following him toward the exit. The sound of your heels clicks against the floor, echoing louder than it should in the dim office.
Just before you step out, Minho’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Have fun, you two.”
You hesitate for a second, hoping that Minho will decide to ditch work, but of course, he doesn’t. His eyes stay on the screen, face calm in the cold light of the monitor.
Felix flashes him a friendly wave. “See you, Hyung.”
And then you’re out in the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you, leaving that one sentence hanging in the air.
Have fun.
-
The bar is alive with laughter and a hum of soft jazz. Warm amber lights glint off the glasses, and the air smells faintly of citrus and something smoky. Felix sits across from you, his grin easy, his sleeves rolled up, the kind of relaxed confidence that makes people naturally gravitate toward him.
You’re three rounds in and the world feels softer around the edges, a little fuzzier, a little easier to breathe.
Felix is telling you a story about his first week at the company, about how he accidentally sent a spreadsheet full of memes to the finance department and you’re laughing so hard you almost spill your drink.
It feels good to laugh. It feels good to forget, even if just for a little while. But as you lift your glass for another sip, the thought creeps back in.
Minho.
You picture him still at his desk, fingers typing non-stop, that faint crease between his brows as he stares at his screen. The glow of the monitor on his face. The quiet of the empty office.
And the way he didn’t look at you when he said have fun.
You twist your straw absentmindedly.
“Another round?” Felix asks, already signaling for the bartender. “My treat again.”
You shake your head with a small smile. “I think I’m good. If I have one more, I’ll start confessing my sins.”
Felix chuckles. “You? Never. You’re too composed for that.”
“Trust me,” you say, grinning faintly. “It’s all an act.”
He laughs again, then checks his watch. “Alright, then. We should probably head out. Want to share a taxi? We’re going the same way.”
Your heart lurches, but you shake your head. “I have to stop by somewhere first. Just an errand.”
He studies you for a second, eyes kind but not prying. “Alright,” he says finally, raising his hand to hail a cab.
When the taxi pulls up, he opens the door for you, steadying your arm as you slide into the backseat.
“Thanks for the drinks,” you say softly.
“Anytime,” he replies, his smile warm and unassuming.
“Goodnight, Felix,” you mutter with a smile.
“Goodnight.” He closes the door gently, stepping back as the taxi starts to move.
You watch him disappear in the side mirror, the city lights blurring behind him and then you lean forward, the decision already made.
“Can we go to StarLight Tower?” you tell the driver.
“The office building?” he asks.
You nod. “Yes, please.”
As the city slips past the windows, you realize your heart’s beating faster than it did all night — not from the drinks, but from the thought of seeing him again.
-
The office is dark when you arrive, the only light coming from Minho’s desk lamp. He’s still there, sleeves rolled up to his elbow, tie is nowhere around the collar, eyes fixed on the screen. The soft click of your heels echoes through the room, breaking the stillness.
He glances up as you approach and then he looks back at his monitor.
You pout a little as his expression doesn’t change. No surprise, not even a smile. “Wow. You don’t even look happy to see me.”
Without looking away, he says dryly, “Let me guess. The intern’s a lightweight, and that’s why drinks ended early?”
You chuckle, shaking your head. “No.”
He types a few more words before asking, “You’re the lightweight?”
You stop beside his desk, crossing your arms. “Because I won’t allow you be the only one sucking up to the director by working overtime.”
That finally earns you a smirk and the knot in your chest instantly loosens. You set your bag down, slip off your coat, and nod toward his screen. “Can I help you with anything?”
He looks up at you then, eyes meeting yours in that way that makes everything else fade. “Yeah,” he says softly.
You expect him to hand you a file or ask you to check something, but instead, he reaches out, his hand finding your waist. You laugh quietly as he draws you closer until you’re perched sideways on his lap.
You roll your eyes, half protesting, half amused. “This is the help you need?”
He hums, eyes still on the screen. “You’re helping me just like this.”
You don’t know if you find that endearing or impossible, but you don’t move. You stay there, one arm draped loosely around his shoulders, watching the light from his monitor reflect in his eyes. The rhythmic clicking of the keyboard fills the space and you use the chance to trace your gaze over his face — the sharp features softened by the desk lamp, the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth.
“I thought I was supposed to suck up to the director, not you,” you tease quietly.
He stops typing, looks up at you with a smirk that’s equal parts challenge and affection. “I’m the only one you need to suck up to.”
You burst into quiet laughter, the sound echoing softly between you. He grins, then reaches up, fingers brushing your chin, guiding your gaze back to him. When he leans in, the kiss is slow and impossibly tender. The kind that feels like everything has finally fallen back into place.
“Now, stop distracting me,” he flatly says as he turns his head back to the screen.
The rest of the office is dark and you stay quietly in his lap while he works, the rhythmic tapping of keys and the soft glow of the lamp filling the space around you. His focus doesn’t waver; he still has that crease between his brows when he’s deep in thought. You watch his fingers move, his profile caught in the glow, and feel something gentle tug at your chest.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his jaw, just a brush of lips against warm skin. He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and you smile against his neck before resting your head there.
“Finish quickly,” you murmur, your voice muffled. “So we can go home.”
His chuckle rumbles under your cheek. “Home?”
“Mhm,” you hum, eyes half-closed. “You’re the one keeping us here.”
He tilts his head a little, enough that you can feel his grin. “And then what? You’ll… suck up to me?”
You groan, half-laughing, and give his chest a light punch. “You’re think you’re that lucky, huh?”
His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together as he goes back to typing one-handed. “Ugh, you’re only slowing me down,” he says but there’s affection woven between the words.
Half an hour later, the sound of Minho’s typing finally slows, then stops. You lift your head, almost falling asleep on his shoulder.
“Done?” you softly ask, tucking your hair behind your ear.
He hums, fingers clicking a few more times to save his work. The lamplight catches the faint tiredness in his eyes, but there’s satisfaction there too.
You get up from his lap, letting him move and get ready to leave. You stretch your arms above your head while stifling a yawn. “I almost fall asleep,” you innocently admit.
Minho shuts his laptop, gathers his papers neatly, then reaches over to turn off the lamp. The office instantly grows darker, the only light coming from the city outside.
You take your coat, hanging it on your arm instead of putting it on and hold your bag on the other hand. You step away from his desk, waiting for him.
When he finally comes to your side, he reaches for your hand, fingers slipping easily between yours that it feels like they belong there.
The two of you walk down the long hallway together, the click of your shoes echoing against the quiet floors. The elevator dings softly when you reach it, and Minho presses the button. The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s the kind that hums with quiet comfort, a shared exhale after a long day.
When the doors open, you glance at him. “Let’s get a late-night snack.”
His lips curl into that half-smile that always spells trouble. “Didn’t you say you’re sleepy?”
“I said I almost fall asleep. Not feeling sleepy.”
Minho squeezes your hand as the two of you step inside the elevator. “Do you want to sleep? Or do you want to eat?”
You shoot him a look, but he just smirks, eyes fixed ahead as the doors close.
By the time you reach the lobby, the world outside has quieted down. He pushes the glass door open for you, the night air cool against your skin.
“Come on,” he says, still holding your hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s go get that late-night snack before you fall asleep.”
You smile up at him, your heart swelling a little at how ordinary yet perfect this feels—just the two of you, walking out into the night like you’ve done it a thousand times before.
-
Minho wakes to the pale light slipping through the curtains and the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing beside him. You’re tucked against his side, your hand resting over his chest, tracing lazy shapes against his skin. Every so often, you press a sleepy kiss along his neck or the edge of his jaw, and he can’t help but smile even before opening his eyes.
He groans softly. “It’s too early.”
Your voice is a murmur against his shoulder. “I have to go back to my place first… change, get ready for work.”
He tightens his arm around you, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes.”
You laugh quietly, half-asleep. “You always say that.”
“Because you never listen,” he mutters, pulling you closer until your head fits perfectly under his chin. For a moment, neither of you move — just the soft warmth between sheets, the quiet thrum of morning.
Eventually, you shift, brushing a kiss against his collarbone as you pull away. “I need to shower.”
He grumbles in protest, eyes barely open as you slip out of bed. You don’t wait until you’re in the bathroom to undress, you begin grabbing the hem of the sweater you borrowed from him and taking it off of you. You take your underwear next, bending down slowly as you pull it down your legs.
Minho’s gaze burns into you the entire time, his lips parting slightly as he props himself up on one elbow, enjoying the view.
Once you’re fully naked, you slowly turn on your feet, planting your hands on each side of your waist. There’s not even the slightest of shyness in you, if anything, you’re daring him to look and letting his gaze traces every curve of your body until his eyes brimming with lust.
Then, you turn on back on your feet, not giving him another second to look as you head toward the bathroom.
When you pause at the bathroom door to flash him a sly smile, his smirk turns predatory as he mutters, “That shower better be cold as hell."
Minho can only endure a few minutes of staring at ceiling and then he slips off the bed, padding into the bathroom. When he steps in, you’re already in the shower, washing your hair.
He takes his time, removing his clothes and tossing them into the laundry basket in the corner of the room. You seem to have noticed him already because you don’t flinch when he opens the shower door.
The steam curls around both of you as Minho steps in behind you, his chest pressing flush against your back. His hands slide over your soap-slick skin with a possessiveness that makes your breath hitch—one palm flattening over your stomach to pull you tighter against him while the other trails up to tangle in your wet hair.
“Missed a spot,” he murmurs, lips brushing the nape of your neck as his fingers dip lower— “...Let me help.”
He takes the bar of soap you’re holding and you let him do it for you, lathering it all over your skin with one hand as the other rests on your hips. A moment later, he moves your body forward, letting the warm water washes as the suds away with gentle rubs of his hands.
Noticing that he’s only moving his hands around the chest area, especially your breasts. You look over your shoulder and teasingly say, “You put a lot of focus on this area.”
His hands still momentarily before he leans down to nip at your shoulder, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “Just being thorough,” he murmurs, squeezing on your breasts as his thumbs brush over your nipples.
His other hand glides lower suddenly, tracing the curve of your hip before dipping between your thighs with a knowing hum.
“Or… should I multitask better?”
You softly gasp the second his hand makes contact with your sex. Your hand flies to his arm, not sure whether you’re trying to stop him or guide his movement. You end up holding on to it to keep you steady.
His fingers curl just right as your arm loops around him, his free hand splaying across your lower abdomen to pin you tighter against his body. His laugh is a hot puff against your ear when he feels you tremble.
“How about I’m putting all of my focus here?” His voice drips with smug amusement as his thumb circles faster.
The steam thickens and your moans grow louder as his fingers work in slow, maddening circles—pressing on your clit just enough to almost tip you over the edge before backing off with a teasing flick. His mouth follows suit, teeth scraping your neck in warning before soothing the sting with his tongue.
Before you can react, Minho steers your body, pinning it against the wall of the shower stall until your breasts squashed in between. The cool glass contrasts sharply with your heated skin, his forearm locking across your waist to hold you in place. His other hand doesn’t relent, sliding his fingers through the slick heat with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. Despite it, you find yourself moving, back arched and riding on his fingers.
“Look at you,” he rasps, lips grazing the shell of your ear as his thumb circles your clit faster. “Fucking yourself on my fingers.”
His teeth sink into your shoulder when he feels you clench around him. His grip tightening as he lets you chase it—his fingers crooking just right to drag a broken moan from your lips. The water sluices over both of you, amplifying every slick sound between your thighs.
“Want to come like this?” his voice wrecked as he matches your rhythm with rough thrusts of his fingers.
His free hand yanks your head back by the hair, exposing your throat to his teeth while his palm grinds against your clit in punishing circles. “I don’t think so.”
Minho goes completely still and without letting go of you, he puts his cock between the gap of your thighs. You softly gasp feeling his stiff, hot member pressed against your wetness. You instinctively brings your legs together, giving him that tightness he seeks.
He groans when your thighs clamp around him, the slick heat driving him wild as he thrusts between them. His fingers never let up on your clit, rubbing in tight circles just how you like it. Each movement designed to push you closer to the edge.
“Fuck— you feel that?” His voice is rough with need, hips rocking harder against you. His teeth graze your earlobe before his breath ghosts over it in a taunt. “And I’m not inside you yet.”
The sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin is obscenely loud, echoing in the small space and when your moans pitch higher, he lets out a dark chuckle against your shoulder.
“Seem like you’re ready to take it inside you now, mmh?” he says and you know it’s just rhetorical question.
His thrusts grow erratic, the tip of him catching your clit with each pass until suddenly—he flips you around to face him, pinning you back against the wall.
“Minho…” you breathlessly gasp, your hands resting on his chest now.
His smirk darkens as he suddenly lifts you—pinning your back against the shower wall in one fluid motion. His cock presses right into your entrance, teasing but not giving in yet.
“I'm going to fuck you so hard,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, “that you forget how to walk straight into work later.”
A sharp thrust punctuates his words, his cock slides right in and fill you almost immediately, stealing your breath as he adds with a smirk, "Starting now."
Your hands gripping on his shoulders, moans spilling out of your parted mouth non-stop. You glance down to find his mouth seals over your nipple, tongue flicking roughly as his hands dig into your hips—holding you in place against the fogged-up glass. The cold surface bites into your back, a sharp contrast to the warm water and his hotter touch.
His mouth leaving bite marks down your collarbone between thrusts that send water sloshing over the shower floor. Your moans echo off the tiles, mingling with his ragged curses.
“Fuck— how are you always this tight for me, mmh?" He grits out, teeth scraping your nipple just to feel you clench around him. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you harder onto him as the glass rattles behind you.
When he licks into your mouth this time, it tastes like sweat and shared ruin. “Now, come for me, baby.”
You cling to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders as he feels you tightening around him, causing his rhythm turn jagged and desperate. His forehead drops against yours, breath coming in ragged bursts as he chases his own release as well as chasing yours.
“There— fuck, yes—" His voice shatters when your nails rake down his back, "I feel you… going to come so hard for me."
The water scalds. His thrusts stutter. He looks at you, your eyes screwed shut, overwhelmed with pleasure. He grabs your chin, forcing you look at him. “Look at me when you do,” he waits until you open your eyes for him, half-lidded and dazed. “…Want to watch you fall apart for me.”
Minho groans at the sight of your blown-out pupils, the beads of water clinging to your lashes, the way your lips part as you come around him. His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself deep as he traps your moan with a searing kiss.
“Mine.” The word is a growl against your mouth, possessive and raw. “Every time you come… it's mine.”
His arms lock around you tighter as the aftershocks rock through both of you—water still pouring down in hot streams over trembling skin. The two of you stay like that for a moment until he gently put you down, you gasp as he slowly let go. Then, he pulls away.
You gasp at the sudden emptiness and a brief moment later, you gasp again at how his seed spilling out of you, dribbling down your inner thigh in creamy white fluid. The sight always works to arouse him, despite just having his release a moment ago.
You glance up and step forward, resting your hands flat on his chest. Then, you push him until, this time, his back is pressed against the tiled wall. You lean in, kissing him so hard that for a second, Minho has a hard time returning it.
When you pull away, you smile and ask, “You know what time it is?”
He has his hand on your waist, thumb gently caressing the skin. “What?”
You glide your hand down his front but your eyes locked with his. “Time for cold shower,” you answer, hand secretly turning the faucet behind him.
Minho gasps as the icy water hits his overheated skin, muscles tensing under the sudden shock—but his hands still find your waist, pulling you flush against him despite the cold. His smirk is pure mischief as he shakes droplets from his hair. His fingers trail down your spine, lingering just long enough to make you gasp too before he reaches the faucet to crank the heat back up with a glare.
“What makes you think that I’m done with you?”
-
The apartment smells like coffee and toasted bread as the two of you having breakfast in the kitchen. Your hair still damp, his sweater still a bit too big on you, the sleeves swallowed your hands whole no matter how many times you push them up to your elbows.
For a moment, it’s just the two of you in a peaceful, quiet morning with just the sound of clinking cups and the city slowly coming to life. It almost feels… normal.
Then, you break the silence. “We should probably try not to make it obvious today.”
He looks up from his steaming mug of coffee. “Obvious?”
“That there’s something going on between us,” you say, lowering your voice. “People already talk enough. Let’s not give them proof.”
Minho hums, nonchalant, sipping his coffee. “One of us will be promoted soon anyway. They’ll have something else to gossip about.”
“Minho.” Your tone sharpens slightly. “I’m serious.”
He raises a brow. “You really think anyone’s paying that much attention?”
“You’re not exactly subtle. So at least—” you point the butter knife at him “—try to behave until the announcement.”
He bites back a smile, leaning back in his chair, eyes glinting with mischief. “Behave. Got it.”
“Keep that in mind,” you warn, though the edge in your voice softens when you see the smirk tug at his lips.
Minho lifts his cup in mock salute. “I’ll try. No promises.”
The sun is already climbing by the time you both leave his apartment. Minho drives one-handed, the other resting loosely on the gear shift, a faint smile curving his mouth every time he glances your way. You’ve rolled the window down a little, the breeze brushing against your face, and there’s an easy quiet between you — the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.
When the car pulls up in front of your apartment, he shifts into park but doesn’t turn the engine off yet.
You turn toward him, smiling. “Thanks for the ride.”
He hums in response, eyes flicking to you, lingering. “You should sleep a little before work.”
“So should you,” you say, echoing his earlier tone.
Minho smirks faintly. “I’ll nap during the director’s meeting.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’d better not.”
The laughter fades into a softer silence. You lean closer, one hand reaching up to his cheek, your thumb tracing the faint stubble there. Then you give him a long, lingering kiss, the kind of kiss that makes time stutter. It’s gentle but full, the quiet hum of the engine beneath it, the morning sunlight spilling in through the window.
When you pull back, he stays still for a moment, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a lazy smile.
“If you’re late,” he says after a beat, voice low and teasing, “I’ll tell everyone about us.”
You laugh under your breath. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Depends on my mood.”
You roll your eyes, giving him one last quick kiss. “Behave,” you warn, though there’s no real edge to it.
“Never,” he replies with that maddeningly confident grin.
You open the door and step out into the morning air. Turning back, you wave at him once before walking toward your building. You can feel his gaze on your back until you disappear inside.
In the car, Minho stays still for a moment, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other tapping idly against his thigh. Then he exhales, slow and quiet.
That flutter in his chest that sneaks up on him every time you’re near returns again, steady and stubborn. He shakes his head with a faint smile before driving off, the day suddenly not looking so long anymore.
-
Minho gets to the office a little earlier than usual. Not because he’s eager to start work, but because the memory of you tangled in his sheets still lingers like static on his skin, and the only thing that will help is seeing you again.
He’s opening his work emails when he hears the familiar rhythm of your heels echoing across the floor. He looks up just in time to see you walk in, hair tied neatly, expression calm, collected. You’re all business again. Like you didn’t just spend the night at his place, getting fucked in the shower mere hours ago. Except for the faintest flicker in your eyes when you pass his desk.
“Morning,” you politely greet with subtle nod.
His lips twitches into a smile. “Morning.”
You don’t look at him for long, just long enough to acknowledge him before heading to your seat. He’s still watching you when Felix shows up, carrying a tray of cups of coffee in his hand and that bright, sunny grin plastered across his face.
“Morning,” Felix chirps, setting the cup down on your desk. “Figured you might need this after last night.”
Minho’s jaws tighten slightly. “That little shit,” he mutters under his breath.
You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re too nice, Felix. I should’ve gotten you one instead.”
He shrugs, easy and kind as ever. “You can make it up to me next time. I’ll let you buy the fifth round.”
Minho clicks his pen, loud enough to draw both your attention. “Hey, intern,” he calls out, voice smooth but sharp at the edges. “Got another coffee?”
Felix blinks, a little startled, before offering a sheepish smile. “Ah—sorry, Hyung. I didn’t know you wanted one. Here—” He pushes his own cup toward Minho. “You can have mine.”
Minho stares at the cup for a moment, then at Felix. The kid means it. Of course he does.
“Don’t bother,” Minho mutters finally, turning back to his monitor. “You’ll need it more than I do.”
Felix chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck before excusing himself to go back to his desk.
When Minho looks up again, he catches you supressing a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief at his antics. “Behave,” you mouth, reminding him.
He huffs quietly, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching upward.
You turn back to your screen, pretending to focus, and Minho forces himself to do the same. But the sight of your smile lingers in his mind far longer than it should, and for a moment, it’s almost enough to make the jealousy worth it.
Minho keeps his word—at least, he tries to.
He keeps his distance in the office. He doesn’t hover by your desk, doesn’t linger too long in meetings, doesn’t look at you for longer than what’s acceptable between co-workers. You wanted discretion; he agreed. Just a few more days until the announcement, he told himself. Just a few more days of pretending. But the pretending is starting to wear thin.
He catches you and Felix in the pantry one morning, talking and laughing while enjoying coffee. Felix says something, and you nudge him playfully with your elbow. At lunch, it’s the same. He walks past the cafeteria and sees you two already seated, your heads tilted toward each other over shared jokes. By the time the day ends, he’s had to unclench his jaw so many times his head aches.
Watching you and Felix leaving work together is the last straw—not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he’s tired. Tired of pretending that you’re not the best part of his day. Tired of watching from the corner of the room while someone else gets to stand next to you in plain sight.
He wants to be the one walking you out. He wants to talk to you over lunch without keeping his hands to himself. He wants to look at you the way he actually feels—open, unguarded.
But he can’t. Not yet.
So Minho sits at his desk long after you’ve gone, staring blankly at his monitor. The office falls into silence and he presses a hand over his face, exhaling a sharp breath.
“Just a few more days,” he mutters to himself. “Then I’m done hiding.”
-
The day is finally here and Minho, who told himself he didn’t care about the outcome anymore, keeps checking the corner of his screen every few minutes—refresh, refresh, refresh.
Then a small, innocuous ping comes. An email from HR. Subject line: “Department Promotion Results.”
His cursor hovers over it for a second before he clicks. He scans the message once, twice—his brain takes a moment to register what he’s reading. His name. His name is there. For a moment, everything around him blurs. He exhales slowly. Not triumphant, not relieved—just quiet.
When he looks up, you’re already watching him. You smile, small and proud, your hands coming together in a subtle clap. Then, just as softly, you mouth the words “congratulations.”
He gives a faint smile back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He knows you meant it. He knows how hard you worked, how many nights you stayed late, how much you wanted this, too. It should feel like victory, but it doesn’t. It feels… unfair.
Within minutes, the office erupts. His co-workers crowd around his desk to congratulate him, give him pats on his back, handshakes, jokes about drinks tonight.
He nods, smiles, says all the right things. Thank you. Yeah, unexpected. No, really, you worked hard too.
But through the noises around him, he sees you. You’re standing there with Felix by your side. He’s leaning slightly toward you, saying something that makes you laugh quietly into your hand.
Minho’s smile fades a little. He got the promotion. He should be happy. But as he catches one last glimpse of you across the room with your gentle smile and someone else by your side, Minho realizes that winning doesn’t feel anything like he thought it would.
-
His team had picked the place for celebration tonight, a restaurant not far from the office. It’s loud with the sound of drunken chatters and clinking glasses, the smell of grilled meat hanging warm in the air. Minho sits at the far end of the long table, the so-called man of the hour, with a half-empty glass and too many congratulations ringing in his ears.
You sit across from him and right beside you, the little shit himself, Felix.
He’s been watching it all evening. The way Felix leans toward you when he talks. The way you laugh in response. The way Felix fills your glass, slides another plate of meat in front of you with that stupid grin that never seems to fade.
Minho knows tonight’s supposed to be about the team — about gratitude, hard work, leadership. But the more he watches you, the more that gnawing ache in his chest grows, curling tight around his ribs.
One of the senior coworkers stands, raising a glass. “Let’s give another round of applause for Minho, everyone! You’ve earned this, man. Thanks for treating us tonight!”
The table erupts in cheers. Minho stands too, smiling, nodding, waiting for the noise to settle before he speaks.
“Thank you, everyone,” he says, voice even. “You’ve all worked hard — really hard. I couldn’t have done this without the team.”
He glances across the table, his eyes finding you. “And—” he adds, his tone softening, “I’d also like everyone to congratulate her. She worked just as hard, and honestly, it could’ve gone either way.”
The team turns to you with warm smiles, raising glasses, clinking them in your direction. You smile back, offering a small toast of your own.
It should end there. It could end there. But then your gaze meets his again. Your eyes are bright, proud, and something in them makes his chest tighten and he’s tired… He’s tired of distance.
Minho’s mouth moves before his mind catches up. “And since we’re being honest,” he continues, voice steady but low, “I think it’s also time everyone knew—”
You tilt your head slightly, brows furrowing.
Minho exhales. “—that she and I are together.”
The words hang in the air and for a moment, no one speaks. The clinking stops. The hum of conversation dies. Then, quiet murmurs ripple through the table — hesitant appaluds, a few exchanged looks, an awkward cough somewhere down the row.
But all Minho sees is you and how your smile falters, fading into something that looks like disbelief. Then disappointment. Your eyes drop, and you reach for your drink, pressing your lips together.
The pit in Minho’s stomach sinks deeper. He thought this would feel right — freeing, even. He thought it would feel like he was finally claiming what you both had been protecting in secret for too long.
But as the silence stretches and your gaze refuses to meet his, Minho realizes that instead of making things easier… he’s just made everything harder.
-
The cold night air greets him the second Minho steps out of the restaurant, the soft buzz of conversation fading as the door swings shut behind him. Minho steps into the narrow alley beside the building, loosening his tie and letting out a slow breath. He stops when he finds you there, standing next to the stack of cases filled with empty beer bottles.
“Minho.” Your voice is steady, but he can hear the tension coiled in it.
“What’s going on?” he asks lightly, as if nothing’s wrong. “I think that went well, didn’t it? Everyone knows now. No more sneaking around.”
You’re stunned by how casually he says it. “Went well?” You step closer, lowering your voice. “You didn’t even talk to me before saying anything.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. We’ve been keeping it quiet long enough. It’s not like they wouldn’t find out eventually.”
“That’s not the point, Minho.” Your voice cracks slightly, and that gets his attention. “You decided that for both of us without even asking. Do you realize how that looks?”
Minho frowns. “Why are you so mad about this? I thought you’d be relieved. At least now we don’t have to hide.”
You exhale shakily, frustration bleeding through your calm tone. “You’re not listening. It’s not just about you. You’ll be moving into your own office, your own title. People will treat you with respect. But me?” You gesture helplessly toward yourself. “I have to stay down there and hear the whispers. The gossip. The jokes about how I probably got special treatment.”
Minho’s brows draw together, his jaw tight. “You really think I’d let anyone say that about you?”
“I think you don’t understand what it’s like to be me right now.”
Silence falls. The air feels heavier between you and him, the warm light from the restaurant spilling weakly into the alley.
He looks at you and knows that you’re upset, eyes shining with a mix of anger and something else, something he can’t name. And for a moment, he wants to reach out, to pull you in, to say it’s okay. But the words you say next knock the breath out of him.
“Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“What?”
“This. Us. Being together, being involved with someone at work.”
For a long moment, Minho just stand there, processing your words. Then, slowly, he scoffs — the sound low and disbelieving. “Good,” he says finally, his voice flat but sharp. “Because I’m moving out of that office anyway. You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”
You look like you want to say something, but he doesn’t give you the chance. He turns away, walking toward the street. The air is cold against his skin, his heartbeat heavy in his throat.
Behind him, the alley stays quiet. He doesn’t look back.
-
You stand there for a moment, frozen under the restaurant’s neon glow, watching Minho’s back disappear into the night. The air feels colder without him — not because of the weather, but because of how he left.
You hug your coat tighter around yourself, blinking hard as if that could wash away the sting sitting heavy behind your eyes. It shouldn’t have ended like that. Not after everything.
Soon, the night ends with your coworkers file out in pairs and small groups, laughing, slinging arms over each other’s shoulders, still high from food and drinks and the aftertaste of celebration. You nod absently when they say goodbye, offering faint smiles that don’t quite reach your eyes.
Their taxis pull up one by one, headlights sweeping across the curb, until it’s just you left standing there. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the taxi app, the screen glowing dimly in the dark. You’re halfway through opening it when a voice calls softly, “Hey.”
You turn and Felix is there, standing a few steps away, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his hair a little messy from the wind. He tilts his head, concern flickering in his eyes. “Did you already order one?”
You glance at your phone again and the app’s still open on the home screen, untouched. “Not yet,” you admit quietly.
Felix hums, nodding as if he expected that. “Then take mine,” he says gently. “It’ll be here in a few minutes.”
You kindly refuse his offer. “It’s okay, Felix. I—”
He waves off your protest with a small grin. “It’s fine. I can wait for the next one.”
You hesitate but eventually sigh, nodding. “Thank you.”
For a while, you both stand there in silence. The city hums around you — cars passing, laughter spilling from the restaurant doors, the faint clatter of dishes being cleared inside. Then Felix speaks, his voice calm and almost careful. “You know,” he starts, eyes on the street instead of you, “everyone kind of knew about you and Minho.”
Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t say anything.
He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I mean… it wasn’t hard to notice. The looks, the way you two tried not to look at each other.” His tone is light, teasing, but not unkind. Then, quieter, “People just didn’t want to say anything. Probably because, well… it’s Minho.”
You huff out a quiet, surprised laugh at that. “That sounds about right.”
Felix’s smile widens a little, but then his expression softens. “Still, you shouldn’t worry too much about what people think,” he says gently. “They’ll talk, sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re right. What matters is how you feel about it. About him.”
You glance up at him. His tone is steady, his eyes warm — no judgment, no gossip. Just kindness. Despite everything, you smile. “You’re really too nice, Felix.”
He grins, wide and bright. “Someone’s gotta be.”
Right on time, the taxi pulls in beside you, headlights briefly washing over both of you.
Felix opens the door for you, holding it as you climb into the backseat.
“Thanks,” you say, your voice softer now. “For the ride. And for… that.”
“No worries,” he simply says, his smile still gentle. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Felix.”
He shuts the door lightly, and as the taxi pulls away, you glance back once — he’s still there on the curb, hands in his pockets, watching until the car disappears into the stream of lights.
You lean back against the seat, the city passing in blurs of orange and gold outside the window.
Felix’s words linger in your mind, echoing softly.
What matters is how you feel about it. About him.
And as much as you want to be angry, you can’t stop your chest from aching in that same, familiar way whenever you think of Minho.
-
You spend the whole weekend doing everything except actually resting. You try cleaning the apartment. You try reading. You even try to cook a recipe you found on the internet. But no matter what you do, the thought of Minho threading through your head, looping over and over like a movie you can’t turn off.
You can still see him in that alley and the way he looked at you, the disbelief in his eyes before he turned and walked away. You keep telling yourself you were right to be upset. He should’ve talked to you first. You both deserved to decide that moment together.
But the longer you sit with it, the more the edges of your anger start to blur. Because maybe he was just… tired of hiding. Maybe saying it out loud was his way of telling the world you mattered to him.
You sigh, pressing your palms over your eyes. “God, why did I say that?”
Maybe this was a bad idea. Those words replay in your mind like a cruel echo. Because it wasn’t a bad idea. It never was. He’s the one thing that makes the long days worth it, the one thing that makes you smile before you even reach your desk. The reason you tried harder, pushed further, believed you could do more.
And now you’ve gone and ruined it with those damn words.
You toss and turn in bed, the sheets tangled around you, until you give up pretending to sleep. You check the time on your phone — it’s late, but not too late. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding as a single thought settles in your chest.
You could fix this. You could just go to him. Tell him what you meant, what you really feel.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you throw off the covers and pull on your jeans, tugging a jacket over your shoulders. You grab your wallet, your phone, keys and head for the door.
You open the door all at once, not expecting to see Minho there, his hand still half-raised in the air, as if he’d been caught mid-knock. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before softening.
The hallway is silent except for your breath and the faint noises coming from your next-door neighbors. You both just stare — two people who were so sure of what they wanted days ago, suddenly speechless now that the chance to fix it is right in front of them.
“Minho…” you whisper, your voice breaking just enough to give you away.
He drops his hand, exhales, and takes a slow step closer. His eyes flicker between your face and the floor, and the silence stretches until he finally speaks.
“I was wrong,” he starts quietly, his voice rough, hesitant. “I should’ve talked to you before I said anything at dinner. I just—”
Before the words even settle, you crash into him, your arms circling his shoulders, holding on so tight you almost knock him off balance. He catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you with a soft grunt of surprise.
For a moment, neither of you say anything. You just press your face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him. When you finally pull back, your fingers are still clutching at the front of his shirt. You look up at him, your voice trembling but certain.
“I’m sorry… For what I said. I didn’t mean it — any of it. This isn’t a bad idea, Minho. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
He looks at you, eyes soft but searching. You keep going before your nerves catch up.
“I don’t care what people say. I don’t care about the gossip or the whispers or anything else. I like being with you.”
His lips twitch, just barely, into that smirk you know too well. He notices that you’re holding your wallet and phone in your hands. “Were you about to head out?”
You nod.
He tilts his head just slightly, teasing. “To see me?”
Caught off guard, you drop your gaze, feeling your cheeks heat. “Maybe.”
He chuckles under his breath and before you can say anything else, he pulls you close again, one hand on your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck, and his mouth finds yours. The kiss starts slow, then deepens with the kind of longing that only comes after too many days apart.
You smile against his lips, your heart hammering, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you kiss him back. The tension, the regret, the words you both said in anger — they all dissolve in that moment.
When you finally break apart, your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, and everything feels a lot lighter. And for the first time in days, you know — things are okay now.
-
Minho kicks the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, carrying you straight to the bedroom only to pause halfway when he spots the mess of blankets and pillows tossed haphazardly on it. He raises an eyebrow at you, smirk creeping back in.
“Been… nesting in here?” He accuses, nodding at the obvious evidence of your sleepless nights before lying you down gently on the mattress.
You tenderly frame his face with your hands. “Yeah,” you admit with a small voice.
He leans in, covering your body with his, kissing you with a hunger that borders on desperation. “Missed this…” he murmurs between kisses, hands roaming possessively over your sides. “Even when I was pissed… all I could think about was how much I fucking missed you.”
His lips trail down your neck, pausing just over your ear to whisper, "Did you miss me?"
You turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. “I missed you,” you pause to press a quick kiss on his jaw and then you add, “So much.”
His entire body melting into yours as if you'd just unknotted every tense muscle in him. His arms tighten around you, face buried in the crook of your neck for a long moment. His teeth graze that sensitive spot just below your ear—harder this time—as his hands slide under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin he can reach. His hips press down against yours with deliberate friction, drawing a choked moan from your lips.
His fingers dig into your waist when you arch against him, his voice dropping to a growl. “Still think this was a bad idea?”
You sheepishly smile, fingers trailing the shape of his jaw. “You’re a bad idea,” you playfully say.
His eyebrow perks up. “Yeah?”
Before you can answer, Minho crashes his mouth to yours in a kiss that tastes like mine, mine, mine. His hands are everywhere at once — threading into your hair, skating down your ribs, gripping your thigh to hitch it around his hip.
“Try getting rid of me now,” he mutters against your lips before biting down on your lower one. His hips roll against yours in a slow, filthy grind—just enough to remind you exactly how much he plans to keep you close.
Your hands are clawing at the opening of his shirt, struggling to unbutton it without looking, without detaching your mouth from his. Soon enough, you manage to part it open halfway.
Minho reluctantly let go of the kiss to take it off for you, tossing the shirt aside. But he’s just as impatient as he tugs at your clothes, his eyes darkening as he stares at the expanse of skin you’ve just revealed. His fingertips trace the valley between your breasts like it’s something sacred before his mouth follows, placing gentle kisses on the skin.
“Mine…” His voice is wrecked, hands sliding down to unbutton your jeans with agonizing slowness. "All mine."
His grin turns devilish as he shoves the fabric down your hips in one rough motion and then, he leans in, propping a hand against the mattress next to your head while the other trailing down your stomach until his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear. He lets them snap back against your skin before dipping lower, just to tease.
“Going to make you come like this first,” he murmurs, fingers rubbing between the slick folds, “then fuck you so slow it drives us both insane.”
His teeth graze your earlobe as his fingers finally slip inside—curling just right. “…Unless you've got a better idea?”
Instead of answering, you pull him for another kiss, all teeth and tongue. Your nails clawing at his warm, honey skin of his back. You’re moaning into the kiss and Minho swallows each
His free hand skims up your ribs to rub at your nipple, rolling it lazily between his fingers as he watches you writhe.
“So sensitive…” he breathes, not even trying to hide how much it turns him on. His pace quickens abruptly, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit while his thrusting fingers push you toward the edge.
Your hips are lifted off the bed, chasing more frictions, more of that curl of his fingers that tease you right on the spot that makes you—
“Oh—” Your loud, broken moan echoing in the room and Minho can feel the way you’re tightening, your walls fluttering as you come undone around his fingers. Your hips slumping back onto the bed, your fingers grasping at the sheets, needing something to hold on.
Minho slowly draws his fingers out of you, his eyes widening at the sight of his fingers coated with your essence. In such hurry, he undoes his jeans, pulling it down just enough to let his erection sprung free. He gives it a few strokes before aligning it to your entrance.
“I’m still coming,” you whine, still relishing your high.
He ignores your warning, his hands grip your hips hard as he slides his cock in one smooth thrust. The groan that tears from his throat is raw, unrestrained, his forehead dropping against yours as he lets you feel every inch of him — hot and swollen, pulsating with desire.
“Fuck. You’re still clenching from the first one," he mutters through his gritted teeth.
He pulls out almost all the way—just to slam back in deeper, stealing your breath with each snap of his hips. When his mouth crashes onto yours again, it’s all teeth and shared moans.
Soon, your moans turn into cries, and at times, a mix of the two. You’re overstimulated, yet he can feel you heading to another orgasm. He keeps going, thrusting into you until you’re on the brink of your climax and then, he pulls out.
Minho watches hungrily as you whimper from the sudden emptiness, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread. His cock twitches against your hip, slick with proof of how much he’s holding back.
“Not yet,” he simply says. His thumb circles your clit in torturous little flicks—just enough to make your back arch off the bed again. He doesn’t bother taking his jeans off, letting it tugging around his thighs as he leans down. His head hanging between your legs for a moment before planting his mouth on your throbbing cunt.
“Minho, please…” you sweetly, weakly beg.
His tongue flattens against your clit in one broad, filthy stroke—the vibration of his answering groan making you jolt. His hands pin your hips down as he devours you like it’s his sole purpose, alternating between cruel sucks and flicking the tip of his tongue just there, right on your bundle of nerves where he knows you can’t take it.
“Louder,” he orders against your wet folds before sealing his mouth over you again—sucking until your thighs tremble around his head. "Wanna hear how much you want it."
His fingers slide back inside you, curling in time with each desperate rock of your hips. He doesn’t let up—not even when tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.
Minho once again stops when you’re tethering on the edge, making your head drops onto the pillow with a defeated sigh. In a second, he’s up, positioning himself between your legs. His cock dripping with need as he lines himself up—teasing the tip against your entrance in slow circles just to watch you squirm. His hips shift—pushing in just the tip, then pulling back with a cruel smirk at your whimper.
“Minho, please...” you breathlessly plead again and again.
Minho hears it. He indulges on the desperation that laced your voice. He hikes up your thighs higher and then, pushing his cock deeper into you. Your mouth falls open, letting out an inaudible gasp from the fullness.
His hands lock under your knees, spreading you wider as he leans down—lips brushing yours in a barely-there kiss. “Good girl.” The praise is rough with want. "Taking me so fucking deep…”
He doesn’t give you time to adjust—just starts a ruthless pace, each snap of his hips dragging a broken moan from your throat.
“Minho…” you softly call between your moans. You wait until his eyes find yours and then, you say, “Slowly.”
He leans in closer until his face hovering inches away from yours. “Slowly?”
You nod. “Want to feel you more.”
His hips stuttering mid-thrust before he forces himself to slow—grinding deep instead of pulling out, letting you feel every inch as his forehead drops to yours.
“You want to go slow, mmh?” he pants, voice strained like it’s physically paining him to hold back. “Okay, then.”
His next thrust is agonizingly deliberate—circling his hips just to watch your lashes flutter. His fingers tangle with yours above your head, pinning them there as he murmurs, “There, feel me. Feel every inch of me.”
You hum, a lazy, blissful smile blooms on your face. “Yeah, like that.”
Not long after, he can feel you loosening around him, melting into the slow, almost languid thrusts. You’re breathlessly moaning, hands roaming around your body, touching yourself, fondling on your breasts. It’s so arousing that he can’t help but joining in, licking your nipples until they’re wet with his saliva.
His next thrust is even slower—a deliberate, torturous drag that makes you both gasp as he lingers deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. “Feel it?” He asks followed with a quick press of his lips on your jaw. "Feel how much I want you?"
He rolls his hips in a slow circle just to emphasize the point—his fingers tightening around yours as he exhales shakily.
You nod as you pull his head closer, allowing you to kiss him — slowly, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
Minho melts into the kiss, his groan vibrating against your lips as his hips move in sync with yours. His hands slide under you to pull your body even closer, eliminating every last inch of space between you.
“Fuck…” His voice breaks when you roll your hips up to meet his next thrust. “I don’t ever want to stop.”
He nips at your lower lip before swallowing your next moan—his rhythm growing just a fraction rougher, betraying how badly he’s clinging to restraint.
Your arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging into the flesh he’s sure you’re leaving crescent marks on the skin. You break the kiss to mutter against his lips, “Minho, I'm about to come.”
His arms locking around you like he wants to fuse your bodies together. His voice is pure gravel when he rasps against your mouth. “Come,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me feel you come around me.”
His next thrust is brutal, angled just right to tip you over the edge with a cry and the second you fall apart, his control crumbles. His thrusts turning rough, erratic as he chases his own release. His hands scramble to grip your hips, pulling you onto him with every snap of his hips until he stills, buried deep as a broken groan tears from his throat.
His forehead drops against yours, entire body shuddering through the aftershocks. Then, he collapses on top of you—still panting, still catching his breath—before placing his lips on yours for a long, deep kiss.
When he pulls away, he has one hand cupping your jaw and then, he says, “Next time we argue… remind me that making up feels this good.”
-
You and Minho lie tangled together on your bed, the air warm and soft between you. His arm drapes loosely around your waist, your leg slung over his, the kind of closeness that makes it hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins. His skin is warm under your palm, his breathing steady and slow, and when you tilt your head up to kiss him, he meets you halfway.
When you pull away, you’re still smiling, your fingertips tracing idle circles over his chest. “Congratulations, by the way,” you murmur, and he hums, eyes still closed, lips quirking into that familiar coy smile.
You love that about him—the calm, the quiet confidence. So unbothered. So effortlessly attractive doing absolutely nothing.
“I knew you’d get it,” you say softly, your voice half proud, half teasing.
He opens one eye to look at you. “And you said you were going to crush me.”
You chuckle, pressing your nose lightly against his jaw. “You’re too hard to beat.”
You laugh under your breath and shift closer until your hand rests on his chest again. “And that’s okay because I like rich men,” you tease.
He turns his head toward you, eyes glinting with mischief. “Then you’re seducing the wrong man.”
You gasp in mock offense, swatting at his chest before snuggling closer, clinging to him like you might never let go. “Fine,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes, “now tell me, what should I get for your new office?”
He hums, pretending to think, and then he leans in close—so close that his breath brushes against your ear—and whispers it.
Your eyes go wide as you gasp and lightly smack his chest again, shaking your head. “No way. You’re getting a plant. That’s all you’re getting.”
He laughs, low and throaty, the sound vibrating against your cheek as you nestle back into the crook of his neck. The silence that follows is easy, comforting, the kind that feels like home.
Then you let out a small sigh. “I’m going to miss it.”
Minho looks down at you. “Miss what?”
Your fingers trace the shape of his jaw. “You sitting across from me,” you say quietly. “You pretending to focus on your screen when you’re actually staring at me.”
His lips twitch into a grin. “I was never pretending.”
You nudge him gently. “Still. It’s going to feel strange not having you there.”
For a moment, he just watches you, eyes softening in a way that makes your chest ache. “I’ll still be around,” he says, brushing your hair from your face. “Just… from a fancier desk.”
You snort, but it’s affectionate. “Right. Fancy man, fancy office.”
You stack your hands together on his chest, propping it under your chin. You stare at him with a small grin tugging at your lips. “Does this mean I have to suck up to you now?”
His grin turns devilish. “Oh, you have a lot of sucking up to do.”
You barely have time to roll your eyes before he pulls you in, kissing you again—slow, smiling against your lips, the kind of kiss that makes the world outside his arms feel completely irrelevant.
-
The day Minho finally packs up his things feels strangely anticlimactic.
You sit at your desk, trying to focus on the spreadsheet open on your screen, but your eyes keep drifting to the man across from you. Or rather—the man who usedto be across from you.
Minho is tidying up the last of his things, sliding a few folders into a box, unplugging his desk lamp, organizing the files and items he’s taking with him. Your coworkers are also watching from their desks, a few of them congratulating him again despite having done it a dozen times already.
He takes it all with his usual calm charm of polite smirks, dry one-liners, that small bow of his head when someone praises him too much. And then, just like that, he’s done.
“Alright,” he announces, lifting the box. “Don’t miss me too much.”
People laugh. Someone says, “We won’t,” and someone else says, “We definitely will,” and he makes a face at both.
He starts walking away with them wishing him the best on his new title. He glances back only once, eyes sweeping over the department—then landing on you.
It’s a moment so brief you’re not even sure anyone else sees it. His gaze softens just a little. Everyone knows about you and him now, but that only means you have to show professionalism more than usual. You give him a small, subtle nod, encouraging him to go ahead.
With that, he turns the corner and disappears.
You exhale quietly into the sudden emptiness and when you glance up again, his desk is bare. No lamp. No folders. No Minho sitting there pretending not to stare at you while you pretend not to look back.
You didn’t expect it to hit you like this—this tiny ache in your chest, this sense of something missing, like a song stopped halfway through. You’re really going to miss him sitting there. Miss those glances, those dangerous little exchanges. Miss knowing he was always right within reach.
You sigh and force yourself to look back at your work and try to adjust to this change. But before you type anything, your phone buzzes on your desk.
You reach for it, expecting another email notification. But instead, it’s a new text message from him.
Minho: I expect you in my office soon.
A slow, uncontrollable smile curls onto your lips.
You look at his empty desk again and instead of feeling that ache from moments earlier, something else settles in your chest. Something steadier. Surer. Because suddenly, the space between your desks doesn’t feel like distance at all.
You don’t fear it. You don’t fear the change. Not anymore. If anything, you know that it’s only going to pull the two of you closer than ever.
You pick up your phone again, already texting him back.
You: On my way, Mr. Manager.
-
✨ DESKJOB: BONUS CHAPTER is available on Patreon ✨
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ok this final chapter felt like the cherry on top, so amazing😭 glad they got their happy ending even though that probably includes a trip to the hr office first ahahahah
Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (7,4k words)
Author's note: I hope you're not bored of Deskjob yet cause there are two more of this 🥹
From the moment Felix walks into the office, Minho hates him.
Not because the kid did anything wrong—if anything, Felix is too good. Too nice, too helpful, too bright-eyed with that sunshine smile that makes everyone instantly warm to him. But most of all, Minho hates him because he’s always with you.
Everywhere Minho looks, there you are with Felix trailing close behind, chatting, laughing, your head bent near his as you explain something at your desk. And Minho… Minho hasn’t had a moment alone with you in days. No stolen touches in the pantry, no teasing words whispered between cubicles, no “fun” in empty offices. Just Felix, Felix, Felix.
The worst part? Everyone loves him. The team gushes about how hardworking he is, how polite, how adorable. Minho grits his teeth each time Felix flashes his wide grin, each time your laugh rings out at something he said or did.
And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because Felix is taking up all the space that supposed to be his.
-
The company retreat is supposed to be Minho’s idea of a good time. He’s the one who pitched it, after all. A weekend camping trip to build teamwork, boost morale, get everyone out of the office and away from their screens.
Everyone seems excited, buzzing with energy as they pile off the bus with their bags, the forest air fresh and cool around them. Everyone, except him.
Because from the second they arrive, Felix is at your side, carrying your bag before you can even lift it, talking about how he always wanted to go camping, handing you bottled water even though you’re not thirsty.
Every time Minho looks, Felix is there. Always there.
Worse is Minho can’t do a damn thing about it. He’s too busy organizing, too busy calling out instructions, making sure activities run smoothly. He’s the team leader, the one in charge so he can’t sneak you away like he normally would.
Instead, he has to watch. Watch you smile up at him, polite and sweet, because you can’t afford to be anything but.
And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because you’re his and no one else knows it.
-
The sun shines through the canopy of trees, casting a golden haze over the hiking trail. Minho’s at the front, leading the group up the incline, voice firm as he calls out reminders about footing, slippery rocks, hydration. And talking about hydration, he decides that it’s time to take a water break so when the trail flattens out, Minho stops and turns.
“Alright, let’s take a five,” he announces.
Everyone lets out a sigh of relief almost at the same time, water bottles are out and they lightly chat as they have a sip of it. Minho takes a gulp from his own water tumbler while silently scanning the group. His eyes sharpen when he sees you in the back with Felix beside you. Your arms brush every so often, and Felix laughs at something you say, all bright and unbothered, while you smile politely in return.
“Hey, new intern,” he calls out, tone sharp enough to make the intern perk up instantly.
Felix points at himself, not sure if Minho was calling for him even though he’s the only intern in the team. “Me?”
“Why don’t you lead the group for a while? Keep everyone moving. I’ll take the back,” Minho orders as he hoists the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder.
Felix’s face lights up at the trust, and he nods enthusiastically, hurrying forward to guide. One by one, the rest of the team follows until it’s just you and Minho at the tail end, the chatter and footsteps of the group growing fainter with distance.
Minho doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches the curve of your hip as you walk, the way your tight leggings cling to your skin and it makes something coil hot and tight in his chest. Without thinking, his hand shoots out. He grabs your wrist, tugging you off the trail and into the cover of the trees.
“Minho—” you start, but your voice is hushed, like you already know what’s about to happen.
He doesn’t let you finish but keeps dragging you further until the two of you hidden behind the row of trees and bushes. He presses you back against the rough bark of a tree, his body crowding yours, his eyes dark and dangerous.
“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear, “how much it pisses me off to see you walking with that freckled boy?”
A low, amused chuckle slipped out of your mouth. You rest your hand flat on his chest, fingers teasing the zipper on his jacket. “What’s your problem with Felix? I think he’s great.”
His hand slides down and then, suddenly, he grips your thigh, tugging it up around his hip. “You think I’m just gonna stand there and watch while he takes my place?”
The forest is quiet except for birdsong and the rustles of leaves as the wind slips through the trees. No one else is around, it’s just you and Minho, and his restraint on the edge of breaking.
You rest both hands on his chest now, unsure whether you’re going to push him or draw him closer. “Minho, I’m sweaty.”
Minho smirks and that tells enough that he doesn’t care. The rough bark digs into your back as he presses closer, his lips crushing against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat. His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, one digging into your waist, the other keeping your thigh hooked around his hip.
You can feel the frustration radiating off him with every kiss, every drag of his mouth against yours. His tongue sweeps over yours, hungry, desperate, and it makes you whimper against him. He swallows the sound, his thumb brushing dangerously low against your waistband, teasing but not quite giving you what you want.
“I like this” he mutters, lips trailing down your jaw, biting at your skin just enough to leave the faintest mark. “Why don’t you wear these leggings to work from now on?”
You’re chuckling against his lips but your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath hitching as his hand slips between your legs, cupping your clothed sex. The world outside this little pocket of trees feels miles away, though in reality, the group can’t be too far ahead. It’s reckless, messy, exactly what Minho craves.
The sound of someone jogging lightly back down the trail makes Minho stiffens for a second before pulling away, his hand instantly dropping to his side. Both of you stand breathless, chests rising and falling as the footsteps draw closer.
The two of you are not moving until you grab Minho’s hand and walk back to the hiking trail, pushing past the bushes and plants.
“Hey!” Felix’s voice cuts through the trees, cheerful and oblivious. He pushes through the brush until he spots you both, relief flashing over his face. “Oh, there you are! You weren’t behind us anymore, so I wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”
Your lips still tingle from the kiss, but you school your face into an easy smile. “That’s so nice of you, Felix. Thanks.”
Felix beams, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course. Can’t lose anyone on my watch.” He gestures back toward the trail. “Shall we?”
You nod and step forward, easily slipping back into stride beside him, the two of you resuming the hike as if nothing happened.
Minho lingers in the back, his jaw tight, hands curling into fists at his side. He trails behind, his eyes locked on Felix walking next to you — laughing, talking, keeping your attention.
And ugh, Minho hates it because he let the moment slip. Hates it even more that Felix looks like the good guy now.
-
The sun is beginning to set when everyone is back from hiking. Now, the campsite is buzzing with activity, half of the group are gathering ingredients to cook, the others are tending to the firepit and the rest are setting up tables for dinner.
Minho stands in the middle of it all, issuing directions with clipped efficiency. “You,” he says, pointing at you. “Help me with dinner prep. We need someone who knows what they’re doing.”
You bite back a smile, already knowing what this really is: an excuse to have you at his side. You grab your jacket and make your way toward the fold-out table stacked with ingredients, but before you even reach for the cutting board, a voice pipes up.
“I can do that. I’ve cooked for groups plenty of times,” Felix brightly offers with a grin, already taking the knife in hand like it’s settled.
Your mouth opens to protest, but Minho gets there first. “No. I gave her that task. You’re on firewood duty.”
Felix freezes in place. “But… the others already went for wood. I thought I could—”
“Do I look like I’m asking for suggestions?” Minho cuts in, his voice cold enough to draw the attention of a few teammates nearby. “I said firewood.”
A ripple of awkward silence spreads. Someone mutters under their breath. Another teammate gives Minho a pointed look, clearly thinking he’s being unnecessarily harsh. Felix swallows, his ears tinged pink, but he still nods politely. “...Right. Firewood. Got it.” He sets the knife down gently and heads off, his easy smile faltering.
You watch him go, feeling bad for Felix. Around you, the team exchanges uneasy glances. One of them finally says what everyone is thinking: “Jeez, Minho. He was just trying to help. No need to bite his head off.”
Minho ignores them, jaw clenched as he turns back to the supplies. But when his eyes flick to you, the tension lingers — not at Felix, not at the team, but at himself, for letting his jealousy crack through the mask.
And yet, when you quietly step beside him to pick up the knife, he feels a flash of victory anyway.
-
The fire crackles brighter as the night deepens, bottles passed around, laughter rising into the trees. Someone sets up a tiny speaker, and before long the karaoke contest begins — voices loud, off-key, but filled with joy.
You’re in the middle of it all, cheeks flushed from the beer, laughter bubbling out of you as you belt into the plastic mic with Felix and two others beside you. The campfire glow kisses your skin golden, your smile so bright it drowns out the flickering flames.
Minho pretends to busy himself with tending the fire, poking at the wood with a stick, but his eyes are traitors. Every chance he gets, he steals a glance. At the way your hair falls when you throw your head back to laugh. At the way you clap along to the beat, carefree and glowing with a joy he can’t look away from.
He finds himself smiling too. Just a small curl of his lips, unguarded and real. It sneaks up on him before he can stop it, but he’s aware that he’s surrounded by his co-workers so with a sharp exhale, he quickly drops his smile and forces his gaze away. He takes a long sip of his beer and puts his expression back to the calm and composed mask he wears so well.
No one can know. No one can see.
Because if anyone caught him looking at you like that, it wouldn’t just ruin everything you’ve built together in secret, but it would also expose just how deep you’ve already gotten under his skin.
The karaoke shifts into another round, someone queuing up a ridiculously upbeat pop song. The moment it starts blasting, Felix bounces to his feet, grinning from ear to ear. He takes the mic in one hand and without hesitation, he extends his other hand toward you.
“Come on,” he urges, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Dance with me.”
You laugh, shaking your head at first, but Felix is relentless. He tugs you gently from your seat, spinning you around before you can protest. The circle of coworkers erupts with cheers and whistles, clapping to the beat as you stumble into a playful dance with him.
You’re laughing, cheeks flushed, your movements are careless and free. Felix twirls you dramatically, both of you nearly toppling into the grass, and the group howls with laughter. The glow of the fire and the easy joy of the moment make you look even more radiant, and Felix only adds to it with his exaggerated moves that have everyone in laughter.
Minho sits back, bottle loose in his hand. He wants to move, to break it up somehow, but he knows he can’t. Not without raising questions, not without ruining the carefree mood of the night for everyone.
And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because he has to stay quiet.
-
The night winds down slowly and the karaoke eventually dies out with tired laughter, bottles clinking as they’re set aside. Someone yawns loudly, another stumbles off toward the tents, and soon the campfire is nothing but glowing embers.
You stretch, rubbing your eyes as though the day’s hike and excitement have finally caught up to you. Around you, people are already zipping up their tents, voices growing softer and sleepy murmurs.
You’re just about to slip into your own tent that you share with the other two female co-workers when a hand closes gently around your wrist. You glance back, startled, only to find Minho standing there in the shadows. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, but his thumb tenderly brushing over your skin. Then, with his voice pitched low so only you can hear, he murmurs, “Come to my tent later.”
There’s no hesitation in your response, no question in your eyes. You simply nod, lips curving into a small smile that’s just for him. It’s the kind of smile that floods his chest with warmth, the kind of smile that reminds him exactly why he can’t stand seeing you share it with anyone else.
“Good.” He releases your wrist, letting you walk away as though nothing happened.
You disappear into your tent, and Minho lingers outside for a moment longer, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from betraying just how much he’s aching to reach for you again.
Later, he tells himself. I’ll have you later.
-
Minho’s tent is located a little apart from the others, tucked near the trees with its own flickering fire crackling low in front of it. It’s much quieter here, only the rustle of leaves and the occasional pop from the campfire. He’s been sitting there for a while now with the flames softening his usually sharp features, having a bottle of water to help him sober up as he waits for you.
However, as the minutes tick past midnight, his foot starts tapping restlessly against the ground. His hand goes to his jacket pocket, fishing out his phone. Maybe you’ve fallen asleep. Maybe you forgot. Maybe—
His phone is only halfway out when he catches sight of you emerging from the shadows. Hands stuffed deep into your jacket pockets, hair a little tousled from sleep, that smile on your face instantly melts away every trace of his worry.
Before you can even say anything, Minho shoots up from his chair. He closes the distance in a few strides, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight like he’s been starving for this all night. His lips find yours in a haste kiss. It’s rough, sudden, startling you just for a moment but you manage respond, pressing back into him, the kind of kiss that tells him that you wanted this just as much.
When he finally breaks away, his breath is still mingling with yours. He laces his fingers through yours without another word and guides you to the chair by the fire.
You stop when you notice there’s only one chair. “Where am I supposed to sit?”
Minho drops into the chair himself, stretches his legs out a little, then taps his lap with a small, knowing smirk. “Here. I’ll keep you warm. Come on.”
You can’t help but smile at the cocky ease in his voice. Still, you indulge him, settling onto his lap. He immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, tucking you against his chest. His warmth seeps into you, stronger than the fire’s glow, his breath brushing against the side of your face as if he can’t resist staying close.
The crackle of the flames fills the silence, you shift a little on his lap, stretching your hands toward the fire, but soon enough you glance sideways at him with that look that tells him you’re about to bring something up.
“So…” you draw out, your tone playful, “did you really have to scold Felix like that earlier?”
Minho tenses just slightly beneath you. He doesn’t look at you, instead pretending to poke at the fire with a stick he grabbed. “He messed up,” he says flatly.
You raise a brow at that. “He offered to help. That’s not messing up, Minho. He’s just trying to be a good intern.”
He stays quiet and calm, eyes stayed on the flames. You watch him for a beat before it clicks, and you let out a soft laugh. “Oh my god,” you say, gently reaching for his jaw and cup it in your hand, “you’re jealous.”
That finally makes him look at you, his eyes sharp and narrowed. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” You can’t hide your grin as you turn on his lap to face him more fully.
He cuts you off with a kiss, firm and sudden, almost like he’s trying to shut you up. When he pulls back, his voice drops low, muttering against your lips, “That boy been following you like a lost puppy.”
Your chuckles spill free, utterly amused. “So… jealous.”
Minho exhales, clearly refusing to give you the satisfaction. He leans back in the chair, arms tightening around your waist as if to ground you there. “You talk too much.”
“I should say that jealously is not a good look on you but…” you tease, leaning in to nip lightly at his jaw. “… it looks kind of hot on you.”
He smirks, eyebrow slightly raises higher than the other. “Well, it that turns you on.”
You laugh, the sound soft and warm against the quiet night. You drop your head against his shoulder and after a beat, you murmur, “You know, you really don’t have to worry. I’d never date Felix.”
Minho tilts his head down toward you, his tone low and skeptical. “Why not? He’s nice. Everyone likes him.”
You chuckle softly, placing your hand on the hand resting across your waist. “Because he’s not you.”
“So you’re saying he’s nice, and I’m… what? The opposite?”
Your grin widens, sensing the sulk settling over him. “Exactly. He’s nice, and you’re not.”
His mouth falls open in disbelief. “Not nice? Really?”
You nod, eyes are sparkling with mischief. “You’re scary, Minho.”
He straightens a little, about to protest, but you quickly cut him off, pressing your lips to the edge of his jaw. “And that’s why I like you.”
That earns you a twitch at the corner of his lips, like he’s trying not to smile, but failing. You take advantage, kissing a trail along his sharp jawline until you reach the spot just beneath his ear.
“Want to know something else?” you whisper.
He hums, his hand tightening around your waist.
“It turned me on seeing you all riled up and jealous like that.”
Minho instantly forgets he was sulking a moment ago. His lips curl into a dangerous smirk as he grabs your chin, pulling you up to face him. “Oh, really?”
Before you can answer, he closes the distance, kissing you hard and it deepens in the next second, hot and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that makes your head spin. He doesn’t even give you time to breathe, only pulling back for a second to nip at your bottom lip before diving back in.
His hands that are resting innocently around your waist, start to wander — sliding up beneath your jacket, feeling you through the thin fabric of your shirt, making you shiver despite the fire’s warmth.
You gasp against his mouth when his palms drag up your sides and his cold fingers meet your bare skin. He groans quietly at the sound, his chest vibrating against yours as he pulls you closer onto his lap, leaving no space between you.
“Minho—” you manage to whisper, but it comes out breathless, breaking into a moan when he presses his mouth to your throat, sucking at the soft skin there. His hands slip higher, teasing over the curve of your breasts, squeezing just enough to make you arch into him.
He chuckles against your skin, low and smug. “Scary, am I?”
You laugh, breathlessly gasping as his thumbs brush over your hardened buds through the layers of clothes. “You’re—terrifying,” you sigh, the word melting into a whimper as he mouths lower along your neck.
“Good.” His voice is rough, dangerous in the way it pulls more heat through your body. One hand grips your hip, keeping you pinned against the bulge pressing hard beneath his sweatpants, while the other toys shamelessly with you through your clothes.
The fire crackles louder, but it’s nothing compared to the sound of his wet, sloppy kisses as he devours you, pulling moans from your lips that you try to swallow down, afraid someone might hear.
But Minho doesn’t care. His teeth scrape at your collarbone, his hand sliding lower now, cupping you between your legs even through the barrier of your jeans, and he groans at the sheer dampness. “Fuck… already so wet for me?”
You can only nod frantically, clinging to him, arching your back seeking for more friction, more heat.
His kisses only grow rougher, wetter, his tongue tangled with yours as his hand slips daringly past the waistband of your jeans. The heat of his palm against your bare skin makes you jolt, a sharp gasp swallowed into his mouth.
You clutch at his shoulders when his fingers find your cunt, teasing slowly at first, stroking on your clit just enough to make you squirm in his lap. His cock strains against you through his sweats as you grind helplessly down, chasing more of his touch.
“Minho…” your voice breaks into a needy whimper, muffled against his lips when he dips a finger lower, sliding it through your slick folds. The sensation pulls a moan straight from your throat, your whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.
The fire crackles, the night air cold, but you’re burning hot in his lap, every nerve alive as he takes his time with you. His other hand grips your hip, forcing you to move just enough that every squirm drags you over the hard length beneath you.
It’s messy, desperate and doing it fully clothed somehow make it more obscene than being naked. The rough denim against your skin, his hand buried deep, your muffled cries against his mouth… all of it only makes the whole thing hotter, filthier.
Just when you’re falling apart, just when your hips stutter helplessly into his touch, Minho stills. Your eyes fly open, and he pulls his hand away, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine against his lips in protest, tugging at his hoodie, trying to drag him back to you.
Instead, he smirks, eyes glinting wicked in the firelight. “Not here,” he mutters against your mouth. “Let’s get inside the tent.”
There’s no need to question him, it’s a command after all and you nod eagerly, already rising when he takes your hand. His smirk deepens at your eagerness as he pulls you with him toward the tent, the firelight dancing on both of your flushed faces.
-
The tent is dim and hushed, only the muffled chorus of crickets outside and your uneven breathing filling the small space. The moment the zipper seals behind you, Minho pushes you back onto the sleeping bag, climbing over you with his mouth immediately claiming yours again.
It’s desperate, teeth clicking, tongues sliding, all the pent-up frustration from the whole day finally breaking loose. His hands roam everywhere, tugging at your jacket until it’s gone, then sliding beneath your shirt to stroke your warm skin.
He pulls back just enough to smirk down at you, eyes dark and hungry. “Been waiting all fucking day for this,” he rasps, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it aside. “Had to watch that puppy following you around like a little puppy… while all I could think about was getting you like this, underneath me.”
You shiver, your hands already fisting in his hoodie, pulling it over his head to reveal the lean lines of his torso and the hard ridges of his abs.
He chuckles when he sees the way your eyes trace his skin, and he leans down, nipping at your bottom lip. “Go on. Take the rest off me.”
The way he says it… commanding yet taunting, has your fingers fumbling at his sweatpants, dragging them down over his hips while he helps, kicking them away. His mouth returns to your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark before he soothes it with his tongue.
Your jeans are next, and he moves slow, unbuttoning them while his gaze stays locked on your face. “You’re so impatient, huh? Squirming in my lap earlier like you were going to lose your mind.” He peels them down your legs, lips curling into a dangerous grin. “All it took was my hand in your jeans, and you were ready to beg.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but the words only make you wetter. You reach to cover your face, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he hovers over you.
He clicks his tongue at you as a warning. “I want to see how wrecked you get for me.”
He lets one hand go, dragging his palm down the curve of your body, stopping at the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger beneath the waistband, teasing. “Should I leave these on while I ruin you… or should I take my time watching you fall apart as I strip you out of every last piece?”
He leans down, kissing you again and again until all your lungs burn from lack of oxygen. His finger lingers at the band of your underwear, tugging but not pulling, just enough to make you ache.
“You hear that?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, his tone rough and low. “Every little sound carries out there. Someone could walk past, hear what I’m doing to you.”
He smirks when you squirm, your thighs pressing together instinctively. “And the thought of you trying to keep quiet for me… fuck, that’s even better.”
The space is so tight that every movement has your bodies brushing, your knee bumping his hip, your shoulder brushing the tent wall, his chest grazing yours whenever he leans closer. It makes every touch feel amplified, every inch of him unavoidable.
Minho drags his palm down your stomach, his eyes never leaving your face. “You want it so badly, aren’t you? I can feel how tense you are under me.” He chuckles lowly, the sound curling hot in your belly. “All I’ve done is touch you through your jeans, and now…” His fingers slip beneath the band of your underwear, just grazing your heat before pulling away again. “Now you’re soaked, aren’t you?”
You whimper, arching up against him, and he smirks in triumph. He leans down, biting at your lip until it stings, then licks over the mark soothingly. “Answer me. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”
“Yes,” you gasp, desperate.
“That’s my girl.” His hand grips your hip, keeping you pinned. “But you don’t get me that easy. You kept me waiting all day.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, voice dropping filthier. “You’re going to wait a little longer while I take my time with you.”
The cramped space makes every grind of his hips against yours maddeningly intense, his stiff member pressing through the thin layers left between you. He rocks into you slowly, letting you feel the hardness just enough to make your toes curl.
“Small space,” he whispers, smirking when the tent wall rustles against his back as he shifts. “Nowhere to move. Nowhere to hide.” His lips trail down your neck, teeth scraping. “You’re stuck here with me until I decide you’ve had enough.”
Minho doesn’t give you another second to breathe before he slips his hand into your underwear, this time with no hesitation. His fingers part your folds, finding you wet and swollen, and the deep groan he lets out vibrates against your throat.
“Fuck,” he breathlessly mutters, pressing a kiss under your jaw as his middle finger teases your entrance, circling but not pushing in. “You’re drenched for me. You’ve been like this all night, mmh?”
You whimper, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his shirt. He chuckles, low and filthy, and dips his finger inside just barely but enough to make you jolt.
“Don’t squirm,” he warns, his voice dripping with dominance. “You’re going to stay quiet and take what I give you.”
The tent feels unbearably small now, every inch of space taken by his weight pressing you down, his body heat wrapping around you. He curls his finger inside you while his thumb circles your clit, dragging a strangled moan out of you before you can stop it.
Minho bites at your bottom lip to swallow the sound, then pulls back with a smirk. “Shhh… you want everyone out there to know you’re getting fingered in my tent?” His pace quickens just slightly, enough to make your hips buck. “Well, then I’ll make sure they hear exactly how good I make you.”
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body arching, and he presses his free hand firmly to your hip, holding you in place. “Stay still,” he mutters against your neck, curling his finger deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. “God, you’re so fucking tight. Imagine how good you’ll feel when I finally fuck you after this.”
You writhe under him, your voice breaking as you whisper his name, begging for more, begging for release which only turns his smirk wicked.
“That’s it. Beg for me.” He kisses you hard, fingers working you faster, his thumb relentless on your clit. “Come for me, baby. Make a mess all over my hand.”
The words send you spiraling, your body tensing as the orgasm rips through you, and Minho doesn’t stop. Instead, he fucks you through it, drinking in every twitch and gasp like he owns it. When you finally slump against him, trembling, he pulls his soaked fingers out and brings them to his lips, sucking them clean with a slow, obscene moan.
A smirk tugging at his lips as he’s licking his thumb. Then, he leans down to whisper, “Now… think you can keep quiet for me again when I finally fuck you?”
He pulls back just enough to stare at you. His gaze drags down your body like fire, searing your skin, and then he’s crawling over you, his knees caging your thighs apart.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice rough and reverent all at once. His fingers trace over your bare thighs before he grips them hard, spreading you open. “You’re already trembling and I haven’t even given you my cock yet.”
You gasp as he grinds down against you, rubbing his length between your slick folds, the tip pressing right on your clit. He smirks at your reaction, dipping his head to your ear. “Feel that? That’s what’s been aching for you all day,” he whispers, slowly moving his hips back and forth, making you whimper. “You don’t even know what you do to me, huh?”
“Then fuck me, Minho,” you manage to say with a shaky voice and the sound he makes in response is almost a growl.
That makes Minho’s eyebrow raised in intrigue. His cock is thick and heavy in his hand as he strokes it once, twice, right in front of you. He leans down, catching your lips again in a bruising kiss as he lines himself up and pushes in slow, stretching you until your nails claw at his shoulders.
“Shit,” he groans, burying his face in your neck as he bottoms out. “Yeah, always so tight — always so good for me.”
You bite back a moan, but he feels it anyway, feels the way your walls flutter around him, and he chuckles breathlessly. “Trying to be quiet?” he teases, pulling back and slamming into you again, harder this time, the small tent shaking with the force. “Good luck, baby. I’m not stopping until everyone out there knows you belong to me.”
His thrusts are relentless, deep and punishing, filling every inch of you while his hand sneaks between your bodies, finding your clit again. The combination makes you cry out before you can help it, and his smirk is pure sin as he hushes you with another kiss.
“Shhh,” he mutters against your lips, though he’s grinning. “You’re going to get us caught. But maybe that’s what you want, huh? Maybe you like the thought of everyone hearing you come all over my cock.”
The dirty words make your whole body shudder, your orgasm building fast, and he feels it, feels you clenching around him like you’re seconds away. He fucks into you harder, faster, whispering filth right into your ear.
“Come for me. Do it, baby. Show me no one else can make you feel like this.”
The world blurs as your orgasm crashes through you, your body convulsing, nails sinking into his back. Minho curses loud against your mouth, his hips stuttering before he spills into you, filling you up with a deep groan, his forehead pressed to yours.
For a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, your bodies tangled together in the dim glow of the tent. He doesn’t pull out right away, he stays buried deep, almost like he can’t stand to let you go just yet. His nose nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
“Still think I’m not nice?” he teasingly asks with a smirk.
You laugh weakly but the sheen of sweat coated your skin makes you shiver. You cross your arms together in front of you, shielding you from the cold. “Can we get into the sleeping bag now? I’m cold.”
He hums but makes no effort to shift. Instead, he kisses your shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing up until his lips find yours again in a slower, sweeter kiss. Finally, he pulls out carefully and helps you settle into the sleeping bag. He tugs it up to cover your bare bodies, wrapping you in its warmth before sliding in beside you.
The sleeping bag is wrapped around you both, a cocoon of warmth in the cramped little tent. He has you pressed against his chest, his arm heavy across your waist, his fingers lazily tracing idle shapes over your skin as if he can’t stop touching you.
You glance up, looking at him through your lashes. “You know, it’s kind of funny to think what everyone would say if they found out about us.”
Minho lets out a low hum, clearly unconcerned. “Let them. I don’t care.”
You chuckle and press a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Of course you don’t. Everyone’s too scared of you to say anything anyway.”
His lips brush against yours as he leans in closer, his voice dropping into a low, teasing whisper. “What about you? Are you scared of me?”
You tilt your head toward him, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “No.”
His brows lift just slightly, intrigued. “No?”
You shake your head, smiling. “I was, at first. You were cold, sharp, and intimidating like you didn’t want anyone getting close. But now… after spending time with you, I know better.” You reach up to touch his cheek, softening your voice. “You’re not scary. You’re just… soft-hearted on the inside.”
Minho scoffs, pretending to look offended. “Soft-hearted? You’re imagining things.”
You laugh quietly, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. “Mm, no. I think I’m right.”
Another kiss, higher this time, brushing the corner of his mouth. “I know I’m right.”
His lips twitch despite himself, fighting a smile, but he shakes his head. “You’re insane.”
You kiss him full on the lips this time, slow and lingering. “Exactly how you like it.”
He finally cracks, his mouth curving into that crooked grin as he kisses you back, deeper this time, pulling you impossibly closer into his chest.
-
The air inside the tent grows warmer as the night stretches on, your voices hushed but constant, weaving through jokes, casual chat and the kind of laughter you’d never risk sharing outside this small space. Before you know it, the faint gray of dawn begins to bleed through the thin canvas walls.
You sigh, brushing your fingers along his arm draped over your waist. “I should go back. If the girls wake up and see my empty sleeping bag, they’ll know something’s up.”
The second the words leave your lips, Minho tightens his hold, rolling just enough to cage you beneath him. His face hovers close, hair falling into his eyes, the sharpness of his jaw softened in the pale morning light.
“No,” he says firmly, his voice a gravelly whisper from lack of sleep. “You’re not going anywhere.”
You let out a sigh, half exasperated, half amused. “Minho—”
But he cuts you off by pressing his mouth to yours, not with the gentle kisses you’ve been trading all night, but something raw and hungrier. His hands brace on either side of your head, trapping you in between, his weight sinking you deeper into the mattress of blankets beneath.
You try to protest between breaths, but his lips are relentless, his tongue brushing against yours, making your resolve falter. You squirm beneath him, half-heartedly pushing at his chest. “You’re persistent…” you murmur against his mouth, your words dissolving into a sigh when his hand slides down your side.
“That’s not a no,” he teases, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction as his fingers slip between your legs.
A rush of heat flooding through you at the way he’s looking down at you possessively, desperately, and yet entirely yours. And despite every rational thought reminding you that dawn is breaking and someone could notice your absence, you find yourself arching into his touch, silently giving him permission to escalate things again.
His lips claim yours again, slower now, deeper as his hand glides down the side of your thigh and then, slowly, he lifts your leg, hooking it around his waist. You know what he’s going to do next and just the thought of it enough to make you drenched all over again.
When he finally slips his cock inside you, the cramped sleeping bag makes every movement more intimate. His pace is slow, almost teasing, like he wants to draw out every sound, every shiver from you. You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the firm lines of muscle beneath his shirt, muffling your moans into his mouth as his thrusts build a steady rhythm.
“Minho…” you breathe against his lips, your voice trembling as the heat coils low in your stomach.
“Shh,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Just feel me.”
And you do, you feel every languid roll of his hips, every low grunt spilling from him as he moves deeper, slower, stretching the moment until it’s almost unbearable. When release crashes over you, it tears through your body in waves, your muffled cries swallowed by his kiss.
Minho doesn’t stop. His thrusts remain steady, dragging out your overstimulated whimpers as he holds you close, his forehead pressed to yours. His pace only falters when his own release overtakes him, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as he finally spills inside you.
The tent is filled with nothing but the sound of your uneven breaths, your bodies tangled together in the lingering heat. Minho presses one last slow kiss to your lips, softer this time, almost reverent.
“Mine,” he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.
And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it because he should have screamed it out loud.
-
The early dawn casts a bluish glow over the tent as you hurriedly pull your clothes back on, your skin still tingling from his touch, your lips swollen from his kisses. You’re halfway through buttoning your shirt when a sudden tug makes you gasp.
“Minho!” you hiss, glaring down at him as half of his still tucked in the sleeping bag, one hand smugly undoing the button you just fastened.
“What?” he asks with feigned innocence but his eyes hooded with mischief.
His fingers trail to the next button and snaps it open. “Stay a little longer.”
You swat his hand away, trying to re-button your shirt, but he catches your wrist, thumb brushing against your skin in that lazy, possessive way of his. “Or maybe you don’t need this at all,” he murmurs, tugging at the hem of your shirt before you push him back with a scowl.
“Are you serious?” you whisper-shout, bra strap sliding down your arm as he’s already managed to unhook it again. “Someone’s going to notice if I don’t get back soon!”
Minho only shrugs, completely unbothered, his grin infuriatingly cocky. “Let them.”
You roll your eyes but lean down, capturing his mouth in a long, lingering kiss, hoping it will finally make him behave. His lips soften against yours, his hand tightening at your waist, but when you pull back, he sighs dramatically, releasing you at last.
“Fine,” he mutters, watching as you hastily finish dressing, but the smug curve of his lips says otherwise. You both know he’s won, in his own way.
With one last warning glare, you unzip the tent, the cool dawn air spilling in as you slip outside and behind you, you can still hear the low chuckle that follows you all the way back to your own tent.
And ugh, you love it. Love it that he is the one secret you get to keep to yourself.
-
The camp is alive with the bustle of everyone getting ready to leave. Bags slung over shoulders, voices chattering as everyone climbs onto the bus, the groans from loading the heavy equipment into the trunk of the bus. Minho stands by the door, clipboard in hand, his sharp gaze sweeping over the group to make sure no one’s missing and no equipment is left behind.
Felix is right behind you, reaching out a hand to steady you as you step onto the bus. “Morning!” he cheerily greets you.
“Morning, Felix!” You greet him back with a smile.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, voice warm and kind.
“Good,” you reply while adjusting the strap of your bag.
And then, almost unconsciously, your eyes flick to Minho. Mischief curls at the corner of your lips as you add, “Maybe you should ask Minho too.”
Felix, oblivious, turns toward him. “Hyung, how was your sleep?”
Without missing a beat, Minho’s eyes briefly meet yours before he replies, deadpan but certain. “Better than I could have ever imagined.”
You catch the quick twitch of his lips, but it’s your own smirk that betrays everything. Sliding into one of the front seats, you don’t look back yet you feel his eyes on you, sly and knowing, the secret between you two tucked neatly behind the façade of normalcy.
And just like that, the bus rumbles to life, carrying everyone back, leaving behind the retreat and everything that happened in that small, cramped tent.
And ugh, Minho hates it. Hates it that it’s only hitting him now how deeply he’s fallen for you
-
✨ DESKJOB: CHAPTER FOUR is available on Patreon ✨
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ok i failed as a reader bc i got to excited with part one that i completly missed that there were TWO mlre chapters anyways this was amazing i totally hope they end up together fr
⟶ you’d been tutoring him with his classes. history of magic, herbology, transfigurations, potions. your sweet, shy, caring friend yeosang… how shameless he becomes after you both ingest the most dangerous, illegal lust potion to exist.
𓄃 happy birthday to me, this is my gift for all of you!!!
𓄃 day twelve of @chimivx and i’s kinktober!
𓄃 wizard!yeosang x fem!reader | wc ~7k
𓄃 heed the warnings im not your mother: smut minors dni, this fic is very sex-pollen esque, they’re both intensely horny, virgin!reader, strong beefy ponytailed yeosang, oral f!receiving, multiple rounds, p in v, lotta unprotected creampies :p loosely based on hp universe but if u dont know hp its fine they’re just wizards, fuck you jk rowling
You can hear them before you see them, huddled up together in the lounge, cackling so loud the sound reverberates throughout the stone corridor your penny loafers carried you through. High archways, open air windows, intricate carvings into stone that no human hand could have perfected, you try to ignore the paintings that moved with your steps.
You turn the corner into the lounge, a palm softly caressing the heavy, arched wooden doorframe, double doors that opened up into the vast, candle-lit space. Green velvet chairs that matched the curtains draped over floor to ceiling windows, only one or two stayed open during the day, typically drawn shut so students could study calmly.
Calmly.
“You three are so loud,” you snarl as your penny loafers click to a stop before the three chairs huddled in a triangle, a deep, black table in the center, holding thick books and chalices of god knows what. With a hand on your hip, the other arm holding books pressed to your chest, you keep your voice quiet but sharp, “This room is for studying, you know.”
San makes a show of looking around him, at the lack of people occupying the lounge. Almost ten, maybe fifteen chairs took up space, five tables amongst them, maybe three people occupying them. You let your eyes dance over the almost empty room before landing back on San, his slicked back hair, the black robe hanging over his shoulders, the yellow illuminating the breadth.
You stand your ground, “Just because it’s not busy in here doesn’t mean you need to be obnoxious.”
“We weren’t even loud,” Wooyoung argues, the blue in his robe bringing out the chocolate of his eyes, the red undertone in his black hair that nearly lays over his lashes. His mouth twitches upward in a smirk, “We were just laughing. You should try it sometime.”
You slide your scowl to Yeosang, whose eyes dance between the three of you, but he doesn’t interject. He never interjects, not when Wooyoung makes one of his infamous remarks towards you, nor when he encourages San into teasing you, too. Yeosang, quiet, timid and kind until it killed him, you wondered how you were both in the same House. Sometimes you wondered if you were tutoring him to bring out the bravery buried inside him, too.
“Whatever,” you huff, rolling your eyes. You turn your body to Yeosang, hands clutching your books to your chest a little harder, “Are you ready? It’s past three.”
Yeosang nods, black hair tied tightly behind his head, tendrils framing his face that curved just beneath his jaw. Both hands grip the armrests of the chair to help him stand, then he grabs his books from the table, his goblet, you had the same routine every other day. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the days you meet Yeosang here at three o’clock sharp to tutor him in everything. History of Magic, Herbology, Transfigurations, Potions, you remember the day your professor assigned Yeosang to you in hopes that you’d get him to at least pass.
“Good luck,” Wooyoung teases, a song in his tone, eyes trapped in crescents with how wide his grin spreads. He reaches into his pockets, “Hold on, don’t forget this.”
“I’m not taking that,” Yeosang huffs, “You shouldn’t even have that.”
“What is it?” You ask, eyeing the iridescent liquid in the small glass vial. It doesn’t look like any potion you’ve seen before.
“Liquid Luck,” Yeosang answers too quickly, waving his hands in front of Wooyoung who tips his head back in loud laughter. Your eyebrows furrow, you know the color of Liquid Luck, a molten gold that looks as lucky as it makes you, but you’ve never seen such a pearly, almost rainbow substance. Your curiosity makes you take a step forward, hand reaching out to touch it.
Yeosang lurches forward to snap the potion from between Wooyoung’s fingers before you get the chance, “You’re beyond help. Beyond saving, Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung just laughs louder, crinkles beside his uneven eyes, “You- You should try it out, man. Just see what happens, I’m curious.”
“You use it,” Yeosang stuffs the glass in his robe pocket, the red interior bustling outward at the movement, a bite in his tone you’ve never heard before. You’re standing frozen, eyes wide, confusion and surprise written all over your face.
“I’m not as lucky as you,” Wooyoung is smirking again, his eyes sliding to you right before he winks, long, dark lashes almost reaching his cheek as he does so. “I like ‘em to have a little attitude.”
Your top lip curls in disgust, “Ew, Jung Wooyoung. Never speak to me again.” You turn on your heel, penny loafers heading toward the private study room you and Yeosang always used. Turning your head behind you to Yeosang who had leaned towards Wooyoung, no doubt whispering words you didn’t want to hear, you called, “Let’s go, Yeosang.”
He straightens on command, following behind you to the study room. The room smelled faintly of morning mist leftover from the window that had most likely been cracked earlier in the day, paired with the same smell of magic and ancientness that wrapped around the school like a hug. You laid your books down on the wooden table, a long slab of oak that ate up half the space, benches lined on either side, a tall, full bookshelf against the wall. A lonely bar-cart sat in the corner, water and potions glittering the space for focus, listening, learning, golden goblets and tall jars atop a used, golden slate.
“I’m sorry about him,” Yeosang mutters quietly as the heavy door groans closed, the small metal lock latching louder than his voice.
You take your normal spot, and the bench cries as Yeosang sits down beside you. You give him a quick shake of your head, “Nothing I’m not used to.”
“You shouldn’t be used to it,” Yeosang’s voice is quiet, small, almost sheepish.
Your head turns, taking in the shape of his jaw, the slope of his nose. So beautiful he’d appear feminine if it wasn’t for the masculinity he bore in his chest, his shoulders, everywhere from the neck down. You open your Potions book to the page that you left off last on Wednesday, somewhere in the middle, a wit-sharpening draft Yeosang couldn’t memorize for shit. The same draft charmed to keep itself filled kept in the corner of the study rooms.
You huff, “It is what it is.” Spreading your hands on each page, covering the contents of the book, you turned to him again, “You studied?”
Yeosang’s lips curled at the corner, “...Somewhat.”
“The exam is on Monday, Yeo,” you slant your eyebrows, pointing your gaze. “That whole time you were giggling with San and Wooyoung you could have been memorizing.”
“I’m sorry,” he frowns, a crease forming between his brows, “I looked over it last night.”
“You swear?” You ask, pulling the book towards you, not waiting for his answer. “Recite it to me then.”
His cheeks heat a pretty pink color, kissing the high points, spreading wide over his nose. His voice is quiet, uneasy, slightly high-pitched as he counts on his fingers, “Water, ginger…”
“And?” You raise your brows, “There’s only four ingredients, Yeosang.”
“Something with beetles…” He makes a disgruntled face, features morphing together. “...Armadillo.”
Your lips curl into a grin, “So close.”
He meets your eye with nothing but uncertainty swirling in deep brown, “Scab beetles.”
“Scarab beetles.”
“Right, right. Armadillo…”
“Bile.”
“Yes!”
“I’ll actually accept that,” your eyebrows raise, mouth bending to show how impressed you were. Usually Yeosang didn’t remember anything past water. “Now tell me how to brew it.”
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and the word falling from his lips so shamelessly makes you choke on your spit, a laugh tumbling form your chest.
“I don’t think that’s a step,” you giggle, then attempt to look serious again, “Don’t curse, it’s foul.”
“I’m sorry,” his lips are still bent, humor and amusement in his eyes. “Simmer the water, add the… Scarab beetles, stir three times–”
“Five times,” you correct.
“Five times,” he nods, “Clockwise.”
“Counter-clockwise.”
He furrows his brows, “Clockwise.”
You tilt your head, lips smacking, “Counter-clockwise.”
“Check the book,” his eyes drop to the book you held to your chest and you peel it from your red-colored robes, eyes scanning the page. Right there, in clean cut handwriting, it says Clockwise.
You purse your lips, “I’m sorry, my fault. It’s clockwise.”
His smile is proud like he wants to pat himself on the back– the sight makes you giggle. You don’t get to see that look on him very often. With heat in your cheeks, you shake your head quickly, “Keep going.”
“Five times clockwise,” he nods his head as he speaks as if he’s committing the information to memory, searching for more inside his head, “Simmer five minutes. Add ginger, don’t stir, simmer again.”
“For how long?” You cock a brow.
“...Twenty minutes?” His eyes widened, looking to you for confirmation. When you nod, he smiles all teeth, and continues. “Let it cool, stir seven times every three minutes, clockwise and counter-clockwise. When it’s not hot anymore–”
“How do you check?”
“With a hand over the pot. Add the armadillo bile then, and let it sit for eight minutes.”
“Wow,” you breathe, “That was all, like, perfectly correct. I’m surprised and impressed.”
He claps his hands together ceremoniously, lips stuck together, curled at the edges and pursed in the center. You lean in closer, smelling the woody, black pepper, tea-leaf scent that was purely Yeosang, “Now tell me how to make it taste better.”
“Peppermint leaf on the tongue, not in the potion,” he nods, then meets your eye, pride evident in his features. You clap your hands together, wide smile on your face, cheering for him like he had just won a world record. It was a huge deal to have a study session go so smoothly, so effortlessly– Usually studying was like pulling teeth with Yeosang.
“Temperature is key for this one,” you say after a minute of cheering, “You need to be vigilant with the fire while brewing, to keep it at a simmer. You don’t want it boiling.”
He nods with every word, letting them sink in, and you place the Potions book atop the wooden table again, hands landing just beside it, letting the cold, almost damp-feeling oak settle into your skin. A knock sounds at the door a moment later, and your necks snap to Wooyoung creaking the door open, a sly grin on his cheeks.
“Apologies, study-birds,” he teases, peeking his head around the slab of oak, “Can I get that vial of Desiderium back?”
Your jaw drops to the wood beneath your skull. You repeat, with eyebrows in your hairline, “Desiderium?!”
Yeosang huffs, an irritated breath, digging into his pockets for the glass. You choke on a laugh, “How the hell did you get your hands on Desiderium? You could get expelled for that, Jung Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung rolls his eyes and holds his hands out for Yeosang to toss the vial to him. He catches it swiftly between deft fingers, shooting Yeosang a nod of appreciation before his rebuttal, “Who cares.”
You stand, palms planted on the damp wood as Wooyoung makes his way over to the study bar, carelessness in his steps. You keep your voice quiet but harsh, “Wooyoung, Desiderium is banned, like banned banned. You could get somebody hurt, you could hurt yourself, that isn’t a toy or Viagra.”
He whips his head around, a nasty smirk on his lips, “You know what Viagra is?”
Your cheeks flush, back straightening, fingers curling before your robes. Voice smaller now, not as quiet or confident, you say, “Yes I know what Viagra is, I’m not a child.”
He pours himself a goblet of the wit-sharpening potion, taking a deep drink from the scratched golden chalice, you watch how his bumped nose dips into the cup, how his Adam’s apple expands with each gulp. He lets out a massive, verbal breath when the cup is drained, slamming the goblet back on the slate.
“Go to the bathroom and drain that vial, Woo.”
He raises his brows, “Do you know how much it took to even get this? Hell no.”
You crane your neck to look down at Yeosang who appears utterly thoughtless. With a strain in your voice, you try, “Yeosang, do something.”
“What am I supposed to do?” He asks, his voice genuine. “He did go through a lot to get it.”
You release a sound of disbelief, a sharp breath from your lungs. “Yeosang!” You whisper-yell, then turn back to Wooyoung who leans against the bar cart, “I can’t just let you carry that around with no consequence.”
“Who are you gonna tell?” Wooyoung raises his brows in amusement, “A professor? Head Girl?”
You sputter, “I- I’ll–”
The truth was, you didn’t want to tell anyone. You eyed his pocket, the crinkle of weight in the black robe, curiosity lighting up your mind. Desiderium was a banned potion across the wizard world, a worse love potion than Amortentia, it wasn’t even considered a love potion. It was an… Arousal potion of sorts, you’ve only heard stories of it, but you knew it wasn’t safe. If taken in large quantities it was toxic, resulting in a stomach-pumping spell or in worse cases, death. If taken in small quantities, it makes the consumer unbelievably horny, insatiable for hours, so aroused and consumed by lust they lose themselves completely.
You wondered, despite knowing it was banned. If that really was Desiderium, if it really does what it’s supposed to, what it feels like to be under the spell. You don’t have much experience in the sex area, or really in the arousal area entirely. Your life has always been centered around academics and competition, and your small group of friends that were more like you than someone like Wooyoung. You’d never had a boyfriend, or someone to pull that velvety feeling from your gut, you’ve never felt the feeling of losing yourself that you’ve overheard Wooyoung talk about when debriefing his hook-ups with San and Yeosang.
“You’ll what?” Wooyoung tilts his head in amusement.
“It’s fine,” Yeosang finally interjects, “He won’t do anything with it, he has no problem getting… no problem in that area.”
“Yeosang, that’s–”
He glances up at you, eyes clear, certain. You swallow down your disdain, your clear discomfort, the heated curiosity nipping at your cheeks. You sit down slowly, back in your place next to Yeosang, and Wooyoung giggles like a child.
“Have fun studying,” he winks again, and then he’s out the door in a flash.
You huff a breath when he’s no longer in sight, irritation biting at your skin, heating you beneath your robes. Pushing your hair behind your ears and flattening your skirt, you huff, “I’m just gonna pretend like that didn’t happen.”
“That’s best to do with most things concerning Wooyoung.”
“Well, do you think it’s right?” You’re facing him now, eyebrows back in your hairline, “He could do whatever he wants with Desiderium, he could give it to whoever he wants. That’s sick.”
“He’s not a bad guy,” he’s shaking his head fervently, his hands coming up to his chest in defense, “He’d never use it on someone without their knowledge or anything like that.”
“Then what’s the point of having it?” You argue, jaw tight, eyes focused.
“Well,” Yeosang cranes his neck slowly, a tilt to his head that means he doesn’t want to finish his sentence, “There’s this one girl, and he… They, you know. A lot. And there’s stuff he wants to try, and—”
“Okay,” you turn away, cheeks growing hot at the words leaving his mouth. For a moment you wonder if Yeosang has ever been with anyone like that, if he’s taken a sip of the Desiderium, if he ever thinks of getting that kind of… boost.
You shake your head to hopefully rid yourself of the thought, “I get it. But if he uses it on anyone,” you shoot him a sideways glance, “I can’t let that slide. I won’t be a bystander. You have to tell me.”
Yeosang nods what seems like a thousand times in a millisecond, “I will, I promise.”
You push out a heavy breath, forcing your eyes back on your book, you had three more potions to get through for his exam on Monday. Blinking at the page, brain drifting back to the Desiderium… No.
“What’s next?” His voice is soft, as if he’s gracefully pulling you out of your mind, as if he could read it. You swallow.
“Sleeping draft,” your voice is so low it’s basically a whisper, turning the page, trying to ignore how the energy in the room feels different. Charged. Maybe two curious brains instead of one. You don’t look up, “Ingredients?”
He leans onto the table, two elbows pressed to the wood, his chin buried between them. He tilts his head to the side, giving you a view of his pretty cheekbones, the side of his face that didn’t have the birthmark. You glue your eyes to the book. Yeosang is barely even your friend, just a guy you tutor– But you wonder if his thoughts mirrored yours at all, even if you shouldn’t think of him that way at all.
“Water,” he’s mumbling, his tone half bored, “Um, Lavender.”
“This one’s a breeze,” you try to push some encouragement into your tone, “One more ingredient, and then tell me how it’s brewed.”
A small breath passes through his lips, “Uh,” he closes his eyes for a moment, “Mint.”
His lips are so shiny– wet, like he’d just swiped his tongue over them. The loose pieces of hair hanging out of his ponytail lay over his creamy skin, the rich color a contrast to the pink on his cheeks still present.
“No, chamomile.”
Shit. You didn’t even hear him get it wrong.
“Hey,” he picks his head up, eyeing you from the table, “I thought you said cursing is foul.”
You said that out loud? “It is,” your chuckle is nervous, “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he smiles, the S in sorry slurred by his slight lisp. The sound brings an unfamiliar warmth to your chest, a smile on your cheeks. In a rush, you turn your head back to the book.
“Okay,” you heave a breath in an attempt to push the weird air away from the two of you, “Water, lavender, chamomile. Tell me how it’s brewed.”
Yeosang groans, sitting up straight, “I can’t focus.”
“Fill your cup,” you jut your chin in the direction of the mind-sharpening potion in the corner of the room, “Actually, can you pour me one, too?”
He nods, untangling himself from the bench to walk over to the bar-cart, and you suck in a deep breath that isn’t full of Yeosang’s air. You don’t know what’s going on in your chest, or why the mention of Desiderium has you both feeling weird, or maybe it was just you that was weird. It was always just you, the untouched one who has no experience that feels weird when anything sex-related is brought up. Yeosang is probably fine.
Your eyes pick up to his fingers wrapped around the handle of the jar, watching how the veins that climb up his forearm like vines strain while he fills two goblets. You’ve always known Yeosang is attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. He’s popular amongst the girls in your year, your house, other houses, even. He’s kind, genuine, soft, but you’ve never really thought about him that way, never had anything to add to the conversation, because you know him as the timid dumbass you tutor in every single subject.
“Do you want any mint?” He asks from the cart, and you nod your head, mumbling your thanks.
Always kind, with his deep voice and the muted rose colored kiss mark on his temple, funny in the way that has you shaking your head because his humor was so silly it was almost childish. He always opens the door for you to the study room, pulls out the heavy bench if the last group to occupy the room pushed it in too far. Chivalrous. Sweet. Gorgeous.
You’re taking it from his hand by the time he walks back to the bench and gulping down the cup in four massive swallows. You need to focus on tutoring him, not how pretty he looks when he’s smiling or how words fall off his lips like each one is a spell.
When his empty goblet hits the oak you plant your hands on the wooden table before you, mind already feeling sharper. “Okay, seriously now, this one’s easy.” You shoot him another sideways glance. “Tell me how it’s brewed.”
“Bring the water to a slow boil,” you’re both nodding with his words, “Add lavender and stir twenty times.”
“Twenty-one,” you correct, and his smile blooms again. You shudder.
“Add chamomile and let it simmer for twenty minutes.”
“Ah, that’s where twenty came from.”
“Add purslane for nightmares,” he hums, a low, ruddy sound, “Add ginger for some kick.”
“I’m proud of you,” you say matter-of-factly, “You even answered questions I didn’t ask yet.”
“I told you I studied!” He’s smiling wide and bright, “I know how you work now, how you ask questions. I know the question before it’s on your tongue.”
You think both of your eyes widen at the same time. An innocent statement, nothing behind it, but the word tongue… Right now… Why is there a heat blooming in the pit of your stomach?
He must feel it too, with the way his eyes dart for his lap, fingers twisting together above his slacks. You swallow again, robes feeling heavy on your skin, the air of the room feeling hotter.
“The next is, um,” you’re blinking rapidly as you flip the page, “Uh, deflating draft. Antidote for the… Swelling solution, it reduces… Um, swelling… And size.”
You can feel the sheen of sweat on your forehead growing rapidly. You’re twisting your neck in discomfort, your clothes too fucking hot, you shimmy off your robe, letting it fall over back of the bench.
There’s an intake of breath on your left, and your head turns to Yeosang who’s already staring at you, his pupils blown. Eyes wider. Nostrils flared in a way that told you he was on alert.
“Ingredients?” You squeak, swallowing down the spit that keeps forming in your mouth. What the fuck is going on right now?
“Water, wood sorrel,” his voice is monotonous, as if he was reading a script, mind somewhere else, but his eyes are still locked on you. His voice deepens, a low hum, “Sagebrush, aloe, powdered galangal.”
Your thighs tighten. Has he always sounded that way? Sultry? Sexy?
You clear your throat as his fingers stop twisting together on his lap, he crosses his leg over his knee and throws his robe over his slacks. Your jaw locks, the movement shoving his smell into your space, and the scent becomes a feeling. A low rumbling in your gut, a blooming heat turned to sparks ignited.
“How- Um, How do you brew it? The potion?” You’re obvious. You’re internally smacking the shit out of yourself because it’s so fucking obvious you’re horny, it might as well be written on your forehead.
Yeosang looses a shaky breath, you can hear how it staggers, you can feel how it reaches your hair, moving it across your blouse. Still in that sultry, alluring tone, he says, “Boil the water, and– fuck, add the woodsorrel and sagebrush.”
You don’t scold him for the curse. He continues, “Don’t stir, make sure they’re submer- ah, under water, under the water completely. Submerged, yeah.”
Your ears are red-hot, body tingling, you can feel the stickiness growing between your legs like it did when you’re ovulating. And his voice, his voice, your shoulders slouch listening to him, getting lost in how clear he sounds in the depth of his words. Breathily, you say, “Keep going.”
He groans. Groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, head dipped down, hair creating a veil so he can’t see you. It feels unbearable– the fire burning so brightly in your gut, your body felt like a livewire, if he so much as brushed his skin against you, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to hold back.
“Lower the temp to a simmer, add the aloe,” your eyes slide to where his fists curl around his robe, knuckles white. In a low grumble, he says, “Fuck Wooyoung.”
Your head perks up, eyes widening as you face him, and as soon as he sees your face his eyes close immediately, lips curling together. “Shit, I can’t even look at you right now.”
“Why?” You ask, barely noticing how heavy your breath has gotten. You were nearly panting now, lips wet and swollen, “Why fuck Wooyoung? What did he do?”
He looked flushed, his cheeks bright pink, his ears tipped red, his birthmark was so dark. You wanted to kiss it, lick it, his eyelashes so beautiful, you wanted to see them closer–
“He used it,” he cracks an eye open, “The Desiderium.”
You blink, eyes sliding to the pair of empty goblets on the table, then back to him. “Like, on us?”
Both of his eyes are open now, but they dance around the room, never landing on you. “Yes, on us, we drank it. I don’t– I don’t know how much, but it was in the potion jar on the cart, we- we drank it.”
“Oh, shit,” you gasp, but somehow the air filling your lungs feels good, “Oh shit.”
Panic doesn’t seem to find you. You’d left yourself entirely, entering a bubble of lust and arousal, feeling the burn inside your body with nothing to fucking smother it. Your eyes drop to his robe, the breadth of his shoulders, the veins dancing on his wrists while his fists still curl around the fabric.
“What do we do?” He asks you, eyebrows shot up, “What’s the anecdote?!”
“Don’t know,” you mumble dreamily as your eyes catch onto his jaw, his tongue that pokes between his lips as he speaks. He’s so pretty, so big and so muscular but so beautiful, you wonder if he tastes as sweet as he looks.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath and it sounds like a compliment.
You smile, head tilting, hand reaching forward to play with one of the hairs that frame his face. His eyes widen when you take it between your fingers, twirling it, knuckles brushing against his face. The millisecond of contact, of skin on skin, you can feel it like you’d just stuck your hand between your legs.
He moans.
He moans, and your entire world is flipped upside down.
Your eyes lock together, a question neither of you want to ask, have to ask.
Pride was a thing of the past by the time you climbed into Yeosang’s lap, legs splintered by his hips, mouths messily tangling together as if you were trying to swallow each other whole. You could feel him pressed up against you— hard chest, hard abdomen, hard cock— every inch of you was touched by him, consumed by him, burning, steaming, you were sure when you lifted your heads the windows would be fogged over.
Panting into each other’s mouths like dogs, his tongue dragged across yours hastily, harshly, his lips bruising yours with blatant force. Your hands held onto his nape, fingertips tangled in the slick of his ponytail, pulling stray hairs out every time your fingers twitched.
“Shit—” he breathed, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, a nasty, brutal sound. You moaned at the sound of his voice, shameless and completely involuntary, head dropping at how it rumbled from his chest.
“We,” he tilted his head back as your lips moved to his jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses down his throat, tongue lapping at every inch of skin as if you’d taste his very soul. His hands land on your hips, heavy and rough, “I can’t—”
“I need it,” you sound breathless, murmuring into his skin, “I need you to do something, need you to touch me, Yeosang.”
He moans again at how his name falls off your lips, high-pitched, eyes screwed tight with his hips bucking up at how gone you sound. Your hips grind into him, panties pressed against his slacks, skirt blanketing over where your hips met.
“We’re not in our,” his groan is breathy, strained, as if he was fighting it off, “Right minds. We shouldn’t be doing this here.”
“I don’t care,” your hands slide to his cheeks, feeling the heat beneath them, hips still working their dirty, slow grind, meeting his eye. “You want it, don’t you? You do, right?”
He’s nodding before you finish the question, “I want it, I want you, in this skirt, your face, fuck—”
Your lips curl, parting, leaning forward to attack his again, tongue slipping into his mouth like its made a home there. This heat, this urgency, you didn’t care how you looked, how you sounded, if you were doing this right, it was incredible. Empowering. It was a fleeting thought, how you’ve never done this before, how you’ve gone so long without doing this.
His hands find your top while your lips stay locked, fingers nimble, making haste as they undo the tiny buttons lining your chest and abdomen. He pushes the cotton off your shoulders, throwing it to the floor, face lighting up when he sees the baby pink bra adorning your chest.
“Are you sure?” He mumbles as he pulls back, eyes zeroed in on your chest, as if he couldn’t force himself to meet your eye if he tried. You wonder how he still has so much self control, yours was gone the moment the goblet touched your lips. “I need, need you to say yes, I—”
“Please, yes, do something.”
A hand slides under your ass, lifting you at the same time as the backs of his knees push the bench out from behind him. One hand clears the table while the other keeps you close, and then your ass is pressed to the bare wood, his palms pressing your shoulders back until you feel the steam of the wet slab of wood meet your burning skin.
“Yeosang!” You squeal, the cold a shock, but a comfort. He grunts in response, pulling his wand from his pants, quickly charming the door locked, the room soundproof, two spells you’d taught him to master two weeks ago.
“I’m sorry,” he growls and it doesn’t sound like an apology at all, especially not when he peels his robe from his shoulders, pulling his sweater vest over his head, more stray hairs framing his face. His voice is dazed now, low, here but far as he starts to unbutton his own shirt, “I can’t risk someone hearing or coming in, I need you, I need to do whatever, everything, I need all of you.”
Your body tightens at his words, at how desperate he sounds, the only thing you want right now is for him to take all of you. You want him shameless, you want him impolite, you want him so far from kind he isn’t Yeosang at all anymore.
You spread your knees, bare thighs pressed to the wood, skirt hiked up to your hips. He gasps when he bends while pulling his pants down, eye to eye with your heat atop the table, a low groan rips from his chest again.
“You’re soaked,” still dazed, eyes locked again, he spoke to himself more than to you. “I want— can I taste you?”
“Stop asking,” you mutter, anticipation carbonating your very blood, “Do everything like you promised.”
He’s on his knees then, fingers hooked into the elastic of your baby pink panties, tugging them down your legs. He pulls your hips to the end of the table and the back of your head meets the wood, sighing in relief when the thick air meets your core, gasping again when you feel cool breath pushed into your glistening folds.
He wastes no time licking a stripe up your center, moaning so loud when his tongue slides between your folds, and the noise, the pleasure makes your back arch. It's barely a thought in your mind that no one’s seen you there, that no one’s had their mouth there— you didn’t care, you needed it. You needed more.
Your hands fly to his hair, fingertips sliding into his tightly bound ponytail, nails clawing at his scalp, sounds of pleasure ripping from your chest one after another. It felt so good, so wet, you’ve never experienced anything like it, this burn in your core, how every nerve ending in your body seemed to ignite.
When the tip of one of his fingers prod at your entrance your body locks, thighs squeezing against his head, it felt foreign and weird but good and confusing. He hums against your clit, lips wrapped around it, lightly sucking as he slips inside slowly, groaning into you when he gets past his first knuckle.
He pulls back, “You’re tight.”
You can’t see him, but you moan in response, words escaping you before you can think about them, “Stretch me out then.”
With more force he curls his finger inside and your back lifts from the wood, an elbow sliding behind you, holding yourself up as a wrecked, ragged, guttural moan escapes you. “Keep doing that,” you breathe, “Oh my god, Yeosang, do that again.”
His eyes flick up to yours and they’re so dark, his pupils so wide, with his hair so messy and his features so deep he almost seemed menacing. He shakes his head, fingers pulling from your core, mouth detaching from your folds, you feel empty.
He doesn’t sound like himself anymore, raw, restless, “Can’t, can’t take it anymore.”
Your back meets the wood again as he tugs his deep red briefs down to his thighs, rock hard and leaking cock slapping up between veiny hips, his chin tucked to his chest. He grips himself, knuckles white around the base of his cock as he stares at your core, still glistening, pulsing for him.
“Inside,” you nearly cry, knees bending upward, spreading yourself wide. His eyes meet yours and there’s no uncertainty, no pause, no patience.
He lines himself up, mushroom tip poking at your entrance that’s never felt more than his finger, your breath hitched in your throat. Your face tightens as he slips himself inside, a cry leaving your lips once the fat tip pushes past your folds, a relieving yet strangled sigh when he sheathes himself fully.
“You have to— I’m not gonna,” his eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging open, lips glossy and wet, hands planted on either side of the table. He’s moaning now, higher in pitch and you’re trying to calm your breathing, locked in on how he feels like he’s splintering your stomach.
Overwhelming but everything, he’s huge, everything about him. Your eyes flutter, open and closed, watching how his curved shoulders flex, how the veins on his arms swim up to his biceps, the chiseled abs on his torso, stuck in a time-warp of constant enduring how he splits you open.
“I gotta move,” he’s panting all over again, “Open up for me, baby.”
Your breath hitches at the pet name, pulsing around him, clenching around his length. A muddled groan leaves his lips as everything freezes, his fingers on the table, his abdomen, his eyes, you feel warm. Full. He curses through an ear-piercing moan, pulling out halfway, chest heaving, and then he mutters, “Shit, I just came.”
You lean up on your elbows, eyeing him through wet lashes, “What?”
But then he’s grabbing you, a strong, sticky forearm wrapping around your torso, pulling you into him, his mouth sloppy against yours once more. He whines into your lips as he starts thrusting inside you again and you’re speechless, frozen, drool spilling down your unmoving lips as his cock curves upward, hitting that same spot from before.
“Gods, baby, you gotta open up or I’m gonna cum again,” he says through a ragged breath, hips quickening their pace, the slick inside you letting him move so easily.
“I can’t,” you whimper, chin tipping back, hands braced on the table behind you. “It feels so good, Yeo,” you snap your head back down, “I didn’t- I didn’t know it felt so good.”
His eyes flicker to yours, a question on his tongue he didn’t need to ask, he didn’t want to stop. Selfishly he fucks into you faster, harder, hands planted on your hips as he drinks up every moan and cry that leaves your lips.
His head hangs low, sweat dripping past his collarbones, down his abdomen, your legs hook around his waist, knee socks and penny loafers slamming into his too-hot skin.
“I need,” you shake your head, throat dry, the pleasure was too much. Too overwhelming. “Sit down, sit, sit sit sit.”
In one quick motion he’s scooping you up, sitting back on the bench, your knees landing on either side of him with your hands planted on his shoulders.
You bounce as soon as you gain leverage, ignoring the immediate burn in your thighs as your forehead falls to his shoulder, lips pressed to his skin with sounds of pleasure stringing together in a continuous song. He’s somehow deeper, the pleasure more intense, a pit of blazing heat that grows stronger, you can’t keep yourself upright.
His grip on your hips is steady, grounding in the swirl of sweat and spit and lust, bouncing you effortlessly, keeping you moving in rhythm. His voice is low and strained again, “Want you to cum around my cock, baby.”
You cry, hips twitching against him, the pit in your stomach growing hotter, stronger. His lips press against your burning skin and you moan, his tongue is heavy and sopping wet as he licks up the sweat along your jaw, whispering, “Rub your clit for me, baby, please.”
Your nails claw into his shoulders harder, stomach clenching, a cry leaving your lips after the words leave his mouth, your orgasm was right there, right on the brink. You clench around him, hips stuttering when a low groan leaves Yeosang’s lips, so low and rumbled it makes the rubber band snap.
Your moans slur together you cum around his length, his firm hands on your hips fucking you through it as if you were weightless, nothing but a fucktoy for him to use. His huff of a laugh is in amusement and disbelief, “You came? Just like that?”
Winded, cheeks hot and body stinging, you nod, head tipping back, needing the air of the room on your skin.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “I need to cum again, need to fill this pussy one more time.”
His arm wraps around your waist one more time and you’ve submitted to the fact that you could be just a toy for him to use forever. You’re on the floor in a flash, knees pressed to hardwood, your palms braced before you, on all fours.
He slips back in and you fold, chest pressed to the hardwood, cheek hot against the floor, elbows bent with your palms still braced on either side of you. He fucks into you ruthlessly, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, his hands heavy and hot against you.
You’re jelly, body moving with his, muscles barely holding you up anymore. You’re sure drool is puddled beside your mouth, sounds leaving you that you couldn’t hear, a mess of overwhelming, blinding pleasure.
“Want you to cum again,” he says from behind you and all you can do is cry. Tears fill your waterline and spill down your cheeks, into your mouth, mixing with the drool on the floor.
He’s so fucking deep you swear he’s in your throat, his rhythm sloppy but merciless, cockhead kissing your cervix. He slips a hand around your front, two fingers pressed against your clit, rubbing quick circles as he leans down, panting against your back.
“T-Too much,” you cry, nails clawing into the hardwood, shoulders shaking with each sob.
“You can,” he’s straining like he’s on the brink of his own orgasm, “Come on, baby. Cum with me, c’mon.”
You focus on his hand between your legs, his cock drilling into you, the pit in your stomach filling with pressure again. You choke, on your breath or your tears or your spit you weren’t sure, breath getting caught in your lungs as he pushes you closer, your orgasm so close to could taste it.
“I’m gonna cum,” you choke out, voice utterly raw, words slurred and muffled.
“Yes,” he moans, “Mm, fuck, yes, so good for me, cum around my cock.”
Your body locks, joints tightening at his words, orgasm rushing over you like a tidal wave. His grip on your hip is blinding, he’s focusing on fucking you through it, keeping his rhythm precise, his angle perfect, “Yes, that’s it, baby. So tight— fuck, you’re so— fuck.”
He’s spilling into you again, filling you with that sticky warmth, that fullness you felt before. You moan together, shameless and debauched as his thrusts slow down, then he’s pausing, fully sheathed, the only sounds in the room being your heaving breaths.
“Oh my gods,” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, heavy hands running over your shaking, hot skin. Down your back, landing on your hips, he pulls you backward as he sits on his heels.
You land over his chest, cock still buried inside you, head flopping back over his shoulder. He moves your hair from your face, thumb swiping below your lips, cleaning off the drool.
“Are you okay?” He asks, panic in his tone.
You nod, still pulling breath into your lungs, eyes softly closed. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know,” you repeat with a shake of your head, “That sex felt so good, Yeosang.”
You crack an eye and he’s beet red, half his hair pulled out of his ponytail, framing his face like a mural. He’s so fucking beautiful.
“I didn’t know that you haven’t had sex before,” his voice is quiet, tone raw, you both needed water. “I’m going to kill Wooyoung.”
“No,” you shake your head, dry swallowing, “No, thank him.”
“Thank him?” Yeosang repeats, eyebrows raised.
Your smile is lazy, tired, a slow chuckle tumbling off your tongue, “I don’t think the Desiderium wore off yet.”
His cock twitches inside you, still rock fucking hard, he blushes even deeper, “You wanna go again?”
“It’s a form of studying,” you shrug, breaths finally slowing, “You can tell Wooyoung exactly how it works.”
Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (6,2k words)
Author's note: Happiest birthday to the guy with a strong black cat energy 🐈⬛
When the company you worked for merged with another, you expected new rules, new systems, maybe even new friendships.
What you didn’t expect was Minho.
The first time you saw him, you thought he was simply the type who wore his seriousness like his suit jacket—stiff, formal, but nothing a smile couldn’t soften. You’d always believed people had gentler sides waiting to be uncovered, so you gave him the benefit of the doubt.
A week into working alongside him, you learned that’s just how he is. Sharp words cut through the air like knives when he caught a junior making a mistake. He didn’t yell, but the low, pointed tone was enough to freeze everyone within earshot. A misplaced report, a late submission, even a typo—Minho noticed it all, and he wasn’t afraid to call people out on it.
Soon, people began steering clear of him like he was a ticking bomb. Words spread across the office—cold, harsh, distant. You should have joined them in keeping your head down, but instead you found yourself watching him.
In the same week you worked alongside him, you also learned something no one knows about Minho. Behind every cutting remark, he was precise. Behind every scolding, there was a strange kind of care—because he wanted things done right, not out of cruelty, but out of pride for the work itself. His standards were high, but he held himself to them, too.
And what began as respect, an admiration for his dedication, slowly grew into something else. Something you didn’t dare say out loud.
Because somewhere between watching him stay late nights to finish projects and catching rare glimpses of him rubbing his tired eyes when he thought no one was looking, your admiration twisted into a secret crush.
-
The weekly strategy meeting—usually a blur of charts and numbers—feels different the moment Minho speaks.
He sits across the long table, posture straight, every word rolling off his tongue clear and precise. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess himself. His voice carries with it a weight that demands attention, and everyone in the room listens.
You try to look casual, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his crisp white shirt stretches neatly across his shoulders, to the silky blue tie that looks far too elegant for such a dull Monday, to the way he leans forward slightly when he’s emphasizing a point. Eloquence drips from every sentence, intelligence carved into the lines of his expression.
You can almost feel yourself melting into your chair just watching him. How is it fair that someone so stern, so terrifying to others, can be so impossibly attractive to you?
All of a sudden, Minho’s eyes flick your way. Sharp, direct, like he knows.
Your heart skips a beat and heat rushes to your face as you quickly duck your head, scribbling nonsense into your notes just to look busy as if you weren’t just openly staring at him a second ago. You pray he didn’t notice. You pray the room is too full, too loud, that you’re nothing more than another coworker in his periphery.
But even as you keep your head down, the image of him—confident, composed, devastatingly beautiful in that blue tie—burns behind your eyes.
-
Not long after the meeting wrapped up, your landline rings and you pick it up. It’s a muscle memory at this point.
The secretary ditches formality and goes straight to the point. “The director wants to see you.”
There’s no need to respond anyway. When the director calls, you come even though the summon usually means extra work, and sure enough, when you step into the office, you find Minho already there, sitting opposite her, one leg crossed over the other, looking maddeningly composed.
“Ah, you’re here,” the director says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’ll get straight to the point. They moved up the new product presentation to tomorrow so I asked Minho to prepare the initial draft. But…”
She briefly glances at him and Minho’s lips curl into the faintest smirk.
“I can’t do it alone.” His voice is even, but there’s something in the way he says it—like he’s already a step ahead. “This project is too detailed for one person to handle without risking mistakes.”
The director nods in agreement. “That’s why I want you to work with him. Tonight, if possible. The draft needs to be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”
Tonight? With him? Just the two of you? You can feel your pulse pick up.
Minho turns his head, and his gaze lands on you. His eyes don’t waver, don’t soften—just steady, dark, unwavering. But beneath the formality, there’s something else there. Something that feels like… anticipation. Almost like he’s curious to see what you’ll say. Almost like he’s looking forward to it.
You swallow air, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your own ears. Being alone with Minho… the thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. You’re not sure you’re ready for whatever comes with it.
Then again, this is work. A task directly handed to you by your superior. You can’t say no.
So you straighten in your seat, clear your throat, and force out, “Of course. We’ll get it done tonight.”
The director smiles, relieved. “Good. I’ll leave it in your hands then.”
When you rise to leave, Minho does too. As you pass each other in the doorway, his arm brushes against yours—light, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. And then, in the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips.
-
The office begins to empty as the evening creeps in. Desks that buzzed with chatter just hours ago now fall silent, one by one. You’re still at your computer, finishing up a few loose ends, when a co-worker passing by pauses at your desk.
“Hey, you’re not leaving?” she asks, slipping her bag over her shoulder.
You shake your head with a small smile. “No. I’ve got to work late tonight… with Minho.”
Her eyebrows jump and then she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice so no one else can hear. “Good luck.”
Before you can reply, she slips away with a knowing shake of her head. You exhale slowly, sinking back into your chair and stretching your arms above your head, shoulders loosening from a day of tension.
The quiet is almost soothing until you catch the sound of footsteps approaching. You glance up to find Minho stands beside your desk.
“What do you want to do?” he asks, voice low but steady. Then with deliberate motions, he undoes the buttons at his wrists and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric slides back, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.
You straighten, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We should probably divide the tasks,” you suggest, trying to keep your voice even. “That way, we won’t overlap.”
You try to focus on his words as he talks about a way to divide the task but your eyes keep drifting down to the veins coiling beneath his skin, prominent with each flex of his hand as he smooths the sleeve into place. It’s such a simple movement, ordinary even, but it makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.
“...and you can handle the visuals,” he finishes.
You force your gaze back up to his face, hoping he didn’t notice the split-second detour of your eyes. “Right. The visuals. I can do that,” you answer a little too quick, a little too casual.
He tilts his head just slightly, studying you with that unreadable expression and then, as if nothing happened, he nods and sits down, pulling his laptop closer.
It’s just you and him in the office tonight. And you know it’s going to be harder than ever to concentrate tonight.
-
Minutes stretch into hours and you’ve buried yourself deep into your slides, eyes locked on the screen, pen tucked between your teeth as you work through numbers and charts.
But even in your focus, thoughts of coffee creep in. Your body aches for the warmth, the caffeine, the small break, the excuse to stretch your legs. You hesitate, though. Should you offer to make one for Minho too? Would he even want you to? He doesn’t exactly seem like the type who accepts favors easily.
You nibble the cap of your pen, debating on it, until the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at you.
Slowly, you turn your head and sure enough, Minho’s eyes are already on you. Not casually, not by accident—just steady, dark, fixed in your direction.
You force your voice low, hesitant, as if the silence between you might break if you speak too loudly. “I… I was going to make coffee. Do you want one too?”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, like he’s searching for something behind your question. Then, finally, his lips part. “Yeah, sure.”
He doesn’t look away, not even once, and it makes your chest flutter in a way that feels dangerous.
You clear your throat, breaking the spell, and push back your chair. The scrape of its legs against the floor sounds louder than it should. With shaky hands, you gather yourself, stand, and head for the pantry, your pulse quickening with each step, as if you’re fleeing from the pull of his gaze.
The coffee machine whirs as you press the power button on and it’s the only sound that fills the pantry. You stand in front of it, arms raised as your fingers knead into the tense muscles of your neck. A sigh slips from your lips, low and drawn out, almost a moan, as you try to ease the ache from sitting at your desk too long.
“Oh, that felt good…” you murmur under your breath, pressing harder on the tension on your shoulder.
The sound of footsteps makes you jolt and you quickly turn on your feet, eyes widening when you see Minho standing at the doorway with his hand tucked in his slacks pocket.
“Why are you so surprised?” he asks evenly, a brow quirked.
You shake your head too fast, clutching for composure. “N–Nothing.”
The smirk that curls on his lips tells you he doesn’t buy it. It’s small, sly, almost like he’s reading straight through your lie. He steps further inside, leaning against the counter with infuriating ease, arms crossed over his chest. His head tilts, his gaze steady, following your every movement as you fumble with the machine like it suddenly became rocket science.
Then, out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the silence. “Am I scary?”
The question makes you laugh awkwardly, too quickly, like it’s a ridiculous thing to ask. “What? No, of course not.” You wave a hand, trying to dodge it, but your laugh dies a little too soon.
Minho doesn’t move but his eyes sharpen. “I know everyone in the office is scared of me,” he says simply, like he’s stating a fact.
You shake your head, stubborn. “They just don’t know you the way they should.”
His gaze lingers, piercing through you, holding you in place. “What about you?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “Are you scared of me?”
The words trip out of you instantly, almost desperately. “No.”
But your smile is too quick, too awkward, as though you’re trying to hide something.
He studies you, silent for a long beat. Then he nods slowly, almost like he’s solved a puzzle. “You’re not scared of me,” he says at last. “But you’re afraid of me.”
His eyes lock on yours, unwavering, and you feel yourself unraveling under his intense stare. He’s too close to the truth, too close to the secret you’ve been keeping.
Panic, you abandon the half-brewed coffee and turn on your heel. “I’d better get back to work,” you mutter in a rush, desperate to escape.
But you barely make it two steps before his voice snaps across the room. “You like me, don’t you?”
You can feel the blood drains from your face as your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. The silence that follows is deafening, your halted body betraying you more than any words could.
Behind you, Minho exhales a laugh—low, knowing, edged with triumph. “Don’t bother denying it. I can see it all over you.”
You walk fast, your heels clicking against the floor as if putting distance between you and Minho could erase what just happened. But the office is nearly empty, and the echo of his footsteps follows close behind, relentless.
You make it to your desk and try to busy yourself by tidying the cluttering pens and papers,. But of course, it’s useless because his desk is right across from yours. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide until the task is done and Minho knows it.
“I’ve noticed the things you do when you think I’m not looking,” he says from behind you. His smooth, low voice peeling away your defenses.
“The way you stare at me in meetings. That little look you give me when you think I’m too busy to notice. You chew your lip when I speak, like you’re holding something back. And just now…” His tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around steel. “…that face you made when I caught you in the pantry.”
You squeeze your eyes shut as embarrassment and frustration mixing until you can’t take it anymore. You spin in your chair, facing him head-on, your words spilling out before you can stop them.
“Yeah, okay, I like you.”
The confession slices through the silence and for a moment, the world holds still. Then, slowly, a smirk curves across Minho’s lips. He steps closer, closing the space between you with unhurried strides.
“Want to know something?” His eyes glint, dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. “I can actually do this job myself.”
Your lips quiver as you mutter, “What?”
He plants a hand on the edge of your desk, leaning in. “I asked for you because I wanted to be alone with you.”
Before you can react, he presses a hand against the desk beside your hip, then the other, caging you in. The wooden surface digs into your back as his body looms over yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him.
You’re pinned, trapped, your pulse hammering in your throat. His eyes sweep over your face, lingering like he’s quietly measuring you, observing you and then he smiles—not cruel, not mocking, but dangerous in its certainty.
“Now that I’ve got you…” his voice drops, low and intimate, “…what should I do with you?”
The smirk on his lips deepens, and for a moment you swear you see something feral flicker in his eyes.
Your lips part, trying to come up with an excuse, or shift the attention back to the task at hand, just anything to escape this situation but before any words can leave your mouth, he crashes his lips against yours.
The kiss is harsh, searing, all teeth and tongue and pent-up tension. The papers you’re holding slip from your hands and scatter across the floor as you clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. He presses you harder against the desk, one hand gripping your jaw to tilt your face, forcing you to open for him as his tongue claims yours without hesitation.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are wet, swollen, your breath shaky. Then his voice dips into a growl.
“We could’ve had this all along.”
Before you can respond, his hand skims down your waist, sliding under the hem of your blouse, fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach. Your back arches involuntarily, a needy sound slipping past your lips, and that’s all the permission he needs. He dips his head, capturing your mouth again, deeper this time, hungrier.
The constant hum of the computer fills the silence between gasps and muffled moans as he devours you, his hands roaming shamelessly now, palming your waist, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against the hard press of his body.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips, biting at your lower one before sucking it into his mouth.
You’re dizzy, drunk on him, your fear completely eclipsed by the way he’s kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s wanted this just as badly.
“Minho—” you sigh between kisses, but the words die as he lifts you onto the desk, scattering pens and files onto the floor.
He steps between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs. “Here,” he says, voice rough, dark. “We’re doing it here.”
Your body already trembling at his words. “Here, what? Why… here?”
A smirk curls his lips as he leans in, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “Because I want you to remember this every time you sit at this desk. I want you to think about me fucking you so good you can’t focus on your work.”
Heat floods all over you at his words, your stomach twisting with anticipation. You try to hide your shiver, but his knowing grin tells you he noticed.
He doesn’t give you time to protest as his mouth crashes against yours again, hungrier than before, his hands sliding up your thighs until his fingers slip beneath your skirt, dragging the fabric higher.
The desk creaks beneath your shifting weight as his palm cups you over your panties, and you can’t hold back the gasp that escapes your lips. He swallows it eagerly, deepening the kiss as his fingers press harder, teasing your clothed sex until your hips are rocking against his hand.
“Already so wet,” he murmurs against your lips, smug, savoring every sound you make. “You wanted this too, didn’t you? Sitting across from me all day, pretending you weren’t staring.”
You bite your lip, unable to deny him. Your silence only makes his grin widen, his fingers curling around your panties to tug them aside.
The office is quiet, eerily so but the thought of someone maybe being just down the hall makes every touch feel dirtier, hotter. Without warning, Minho slips his fingers inside you, stretching you slowly. The sudden intrusion makes your mouth fall open, a sharp moan escaping before you can stop it. The sound echoes too loud in the empty office, and Minho’s eyes go wide. In an instant, his other hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the desperate sound you let out. But there’s a flicker of amusement behind his eyes like he enjoys how reckless you are for him.
“Shh,” he whispers low, his voice hot against your ear. “You want the whole building to hear how needy you are?”
You shake your head quickly, but it doesn’t stop the way your body clenches around his fingers as he pumps them deeper. He curls them just right, dragging out another muffled whimper that vibrates against his palm.
The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. It must be the security guard doing their round. Panic sparking in you, your wide eyes meet his, but Minho just smirks like this is all part of his game. He slows his pace, almost lazy now, each thrust of his fingers driving you insane while his hand stays firmly over your mouth.
“Quiet,” he breathes, his lips brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. “Be good for me. Don’t make a sound.”
The footsteps come closer, so close you swear they’ll stop at your door. Minho’s eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, his fingers never stopping, his expression daring you to hold it together.
Your chest heaves as the guard’s shadow passes by, lingering for a second that feels like eternity… before moving on.
Only when the steps fade away does Minho finally ease his hand from your mouth, his fingers glistening as he pulls them from your cunt. He brings them up between you, studying the shine with a crooked grin before slipping them past his lips, sucking them clean like he’s savoring you.
“Who needs coffee when I have this,” he says, his voice husky, gaze dark as he looks at you trembling on your own desk.
Then his hands are on you again, this time reaching for your blouse, unbuttoning it open but his patience wears thin on the third one so he yanks it open, the buttons scatter across the floor.
“You…” his voice is low and rough, as his eyes rake down your body, “…you hide this under those boring office clothes?”
He mutters it like he’s cursing himself for not noticing sooner, his fingers already tearing at your blouse, ripping the thin fabric open until your bra is exposed. His breaths quickening as he pushes the fabric aside to bare your skin.
“Fuck,” he exhales, almost reverent, running his hand down the front of your body.
Minho doesn’t waste time. He’s tugging at your skirt now, shoving it up around your hips, his fingers digging into your thighs. His eyes burn as he takes in the sight of you spread out across your desk, your clothes clinging in pieces.
“This…” he mutters, almost to himself as his hands trace the curve of your waist, your breasts. “This is what I’ve been missing?”
His mouth finds your skin then, hot and demanding, biting at your collarbone before dragging his lips down your chest. Each mutter against your flesh is half-groan, half-praise, as if he’s talking more to himself than to you.
“Hmm… Perfect,” he breathes, tugging your bra down and cupping your breast in his hand, squeezing like he needs to prove you’re real. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and his muffled voice groans against it, “Absolutely perfect.”
Minho doesn’t rush even though you can feel how badly he wants to. His hands are everywhere, greedy and rough, but his pace is agonizingly slow, like he wants to unravel you piece by piece.
“You know what’s fucked up?” he murmurs against your skin, his lips grazing the underside of your breast before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers circling just above your waistband, teasing but never quite touching where you need him most.
“The whole office is terrified of me…” he chuckles darkly, dragging his teeth over your nipple until you gasp, “…but if they saw you like this? Spread out, dripping for me on your desk? They’d know who really has the power over me.”
Your body arches, chasing his hand, but he pulls back, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Not yet.”
His fingers finally dip under your skirt, brushing over your soaked panties. The low groan he lets out vibrates against your chest. His thumb presses harder on your clothed clit, making you whine.
“Beg for it,” he demands, slipping one finger beneath the fabric but not inside. He drags it up your slit, collecting your slick, then holds it up for you to see glistening under the dim office light. “Beg for me to touch you.”
You try to buck against him, but he pins your hips to the desk with a firm hand, his smirk growing as you squirm. “God, you look so hot like this. All dressed up, torn open, begging me to ruin you.”
His finger dips in just the slightest, barely pushing past your entrance before pulling out again, making you whimper. He leans close to your ear, his voice husky as he whispers, “I’m going to make sure every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how desperate you were for me.”
His words, the way he said it while intensely gazing into your eyes, it undoes something in you. Shakily, breathlessly, you mutter, “Minho, please…”
He triumphantly smirks and without another ounce of restraint, he pushes two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, but the sound barely leaves your mouth before he clamps his other hand over it, muffling you.
“Shhh,” he warns, his breath hot against your cheek. “You don’t want them finding out what a needy little slut you are for me, do you?”
His fingers work inside you relentlessly, curling just right, pumping faster each time you clench around him. The wet sounds echo indecently in the quiet office, and you can feel yourself unraveling quickly, the tension winding in your belly like a spring about to snap.
He watches your face intently, eyes dark and burning with hunger. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. You gonna come for me? Right here on your desk?”
You nod frantically, your muffled whimpers spilling against his palm. He leans closer, whispering filth into your ear as his thumb finds your clit and presses down. “Do it. Make a mess for me. I want to see you fall apart.”
The combination of his filthy words, the ruthless rhythm of his fingers, and the dangerous thrill of being caught sends you tumbling over the edge. Your whole body shakes, convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you firmly, hand still over your mouth as your muffled cries vibrate against his palm.
Minho groans low in his throat, watching the way you shudder and spasm for him. He doesn’t stop until you’re a trembling, breathless mess slumped against your desk. He doesn’t give you a moment to recover as he grips your waist and pulls you off the desk, turning you around, making you face the desk. “Bend over,” he orders, voice like gravel. His hand presses between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the cool surface of your desk, your skirt bunched indecently around your hips.
He lets you go but then you hear the clinking of metal and then zipper being pulled open from behind you, heightening the tension in the room. The next time he has your hands on you again, you feel the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked entrance, smearing your slick across your folds. He doesn’t push in all the way, just the tip breaching you, then pulling out again, over and over, until you’re whining with frustration.
“Please…”
“Please?” He leans down over you, lips brushing your ear, his cock nudging just barely inside before retreating again. “You think you’re ready to take all of me? Hm?”
You arch your back, desperate, your fingers clawing at the desk. “Yes—fuck, yes.”
He chuckles darkly, savoring your begging as he pushes in just a little deeper, stretching you slow, inch by inch. The burn makes you gasp, your body instinctively clenching around him.
“God,” he hisses through gritted teeth, pausing to control himself. “So fucking tight. You feel like you’re going to tear me apart.”
You whimper, pushing back against him, but he grips your hips hard, refusing to let you take more than what he allows. His cock slides another inch deeper, the pace slow, almost torturous.
“Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck like a cruel comfort. “I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this stretch every time you sit at this desk.”
By the time he finally bottoms out, the pressure is overwhelming, your walls pulsing around the fullness of him. He stays buried deep, not moving, forcing you to take the sensation of being completely filled. Then, he pulls back just slightly, only to push it in, hard. You cry out, the sound muffled by your own arm as you bury your face in it.
Minho smirks in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. That’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”
For a moment, he holds himself deep inside you, his thrusts slow yet intense, dragging against every nerve ending. His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his mouth grazing your ear.
“You know how many days I sat across from you at this desk,” he murmurs, hips rocking just enough to make you gasp, “watching those perfect little legs of yours cross and uncross? Made me want to rip that skirt off and see what was underneath.”
You clench around him at his words, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter. He pulls back and slides in again, slow enough to make your toes curl.
“And that tight skirt,” he continues, voice dripping with filth, “hugging your hips, your ass—fuck, every curve showing, but just out of reach. Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over and take you right then?”
Your moan slips out before you can stop it, your face pressing harder into the desk to stifle the sound. Minho smirks against your skin, picking up just a little more pace but still keeping it torturously measured.
“And when you’d sit there,” he says, remembering in vivid detail, “biting your pencil between your teeth as you thought? Drove me fucking insane. All I could think about was how those lips would look wrapped around my cock, how you’d sound with your mouth full.”
You whine, your body trembling, and he growls low in his chest, clearly loving your reaction.
“But the worst,” he groans, thrusting in slow and deep, making your knees buckle, “the worst was wondering what kind of sounds you’d make when I finally got inside you. I used to sit across from you every day, imagining your moans, wondering if you’d be sweet and needy…” His thrust punctuates each filthy word. “…or if you’d scream for me.”
Your walls flutter around him at his confession, and he curses, kissing the side of your neck as though he can’t help himself. “And now I get to find out. Every fantasy—right here, on your desk.”
Your whole body shudders, the tension breaking all at once as his filthy words unravel you. You cry out his name and it’s echoing too loudly in the quiet office. His hand clamps over your mouth instantly, muffling the sounds as your orgasm tears through you, walls spasming around his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans into your ear, holding himself deep inside as he feels you pulse around him. “You really came just from that?” He chuckles low, dark and smug, his hand still pressed against your lips. “All it took was me telling you how I’ve been thinking about you and you’re already falling apart for me.”
Your muffled whimper makes him smirk even more. He pulls his hand away just long enough to whisper, “Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?” before replacing it again when another moan escapes.
Instead of slowing down, his thrusts grow harder, deeper, relentless, each one knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body’s already oversensitive, still reeling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.
“You came a second ago but your cunt’s still clinging to me like it’s begging for more.”
Your mouth falls open in a cry, but it barely escapes before his hand presses over your lips again, muffling your sounds.
The office is silent except for the wet slap of his hips against you and your muffled moans. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. “That’s it. Take it,” he growls. “Every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how I fucked you senseless on it.”
Your body trembles, pleasure coursing through your veins until it’s unbearable. You try to hold it back, but the pressure coils tight and fast, snapping all over again.
You convulse around him, muffled cries spilling against his palm as your second orgasm crashes through you, harder than the first. Your knees buckle, your nails scrape across the desk, and he groans deep in his chest as your walls clamp down around his cock.
“Fuck—there it is. That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he hisses, thrusting through your climax, dragging out every pulse, every flutter. “I’m not stopping until you’re dripping all over this desk for me.”
Your body jerks, overstimulated, yet the heat won’t let go. He doesn’t give you a break, using your quaking, trembling body to chase his own edge, rutting into you like he owns you. His breath fans hot against your ear as he leans over you, chest pressing into your back, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head so you can’t escape the rasp of his voice.
“You could’ve told me,” he says, almost scolding, but with a hint of hunger in it. “All this time, you were sitting across from me, looking at me like that… and I had no idea you wanted me too.”
Your mouth parts, words caught in your throat as your body clenches tight around him at the confession. He lets out a dark chuckle, dragging his cock all the way out before sinking back into you slow, making you feel every inch of his swollen length.
“If you’d told me sooner,” he continues, his pace torturously unhurried, “we could’ve been fucking each other’s brains out every night by now.” His hand slides down your side, squeezing your waist before dipping between your thighs, his fingers pressing against your swollen clit. “All those nights you went home aching for me? You could’ve been screaming my name instead.”
You shiver under him, the words, the rhythm, the overwhelming stretch of him inside you—every part of it coils together until you’re trembling on the edge again.
Suddenly, his tone shifts softer. His lips brush the back of your neck, then your jaw, before he finds your mouth and kisses you. Slow, sweet, devastating in contrast to how he’s been fucking you.
“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs against your lips, his thrusts still rolling steady yet deep, each one more intense for its restraint. “Scares you a little, doesn’t it?” He smirks when your body clenches, when you nod against him. “Good. I want you excited. I want you desperate.”
The push and pull, the sweet kiss and the filthy words, it’s all too much. Your body arches into him, your legs trembling as his thrusts finally grow just a little rougher, just enough to drive him to the edge. He buries himself deep inside you one last time, his hand gripping your hip as he groans, spilling his seed into you.
The sound of his raw, broken groan of your name, echoing in your head long after the moment passes.
He stays buried in you, his chest pressed to your back, both of you breathing hard, bodies damp with a sheen of sweat. Then, slowly, he pulls out. The stretch makes you gasp, and the emptiness leaves you trembling. You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel the warmth spilling down your thigh, his release sliding out of you in a messy trail.
Minho leans back just enough to watch, his dark eyes fixed on the sight. His lips curve into a wicked smirk, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum.
“Fuck. Didn’t expect to see you like this,” he mutters, dragging his thumb along the curve of your hip possessively. His gaze never leaves the way you’re dripping for him. “Ruined and dripping for me… on your own desk.”
The office feels too quiet now, the hum of fluorescent lights a reminder of where you are and the stack of unfinished files is still scattered on the desk beneath you.
When he finally meets your eyes again, there’s no teasing in his stare, just a quiet, dangerous claim.
“You’re mine now. Every time you sit here…” his hand cupping your jaw, forcing you to look back into his eyes. “…you’ll remember who you belong to.”
-
The next day, everything at the office feels the same on the surface but you both know it’s not.
You’re at your desk, leaning forward slightly as you skim something on your computer screen, unaware of the eyes burning into you.
Minho sits across the room, looking as composed as ever to everyone else. But inside, he’s replaying that night in vivid detail—the way you clutched the desk, the way you cried out his name, the way his release dripped down your thighs.
He pushes back his chair and strolls toward you, his expression perfectly neutral, nothing to raise suspicion. He stops at your side, one hand braced casually on the desk as if to ask about the document you’re reading. But beneath the facade, he places his other hand on the curve of your ass, hidden from everyone else’s view.
He leans down, close enough that only you can hear him, and whispers in that low, dangerous tone. “If you keep bending over like that, I’ll take it as a sign you want another round right here.”
His hand slowly strokes over the round of your ass before he pulls back, face still blank, as if he only asked about numbers on a spreadsheet. He walks away like nothing happened, leaving you there, outwardly composed but inwardly seething with need, already plotting when he’ll get you alone again.
-
✨ DESKJOB: CHAPTER TWO is available on Patreon ✨
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!
the 5 times you want mingi to stay + the 1 time he does
fuckbuddy!au
word count: 14k
angst, fluff, smut
funnily enough, the arrangement started on valentine’s day.
you and mingi both happened to be at a bar with your friends that night, your separate groups wallowing in self pity in the form of overpriced tequila and body-shots.
meanwhile the both of you sat just two stools away from each other, miserable not because of your relationship status but from the company that came with alcohol and obnoxious, drunken rambles.
those drunk ramblings were, in fact, what sparked everything.
btw this work did wonders to getting me out of my readers block, it just had everything and the perfect amount of angst that i need to get through the day so yea!! chefs kiss
“I believe we deserve more than just four days” damn who’s we???
don’t be a coward and say what you really mean; i’m just entitled and demand more but i’m covering it up as criticism so that i can guilt-trip you into writing more and get what i want.
people are so entitled these days... it seems they just forget how much work it is and how almost everything yall do is for FREE!! like just be grateful they are even doing it at all, it doesnt matter if its four works a month or once a year like... how can they even think its reasonable to demand even more? and its still the same ghost readers who cant even like or reblog a post...
