Hey, name's Brandi. |31| I am your resident trashcan filled with 9-1-1, Supernatural, YouTube, Vidya gamez, and now Broadway shows...Hamilton. I'm obsessed with Hamilton. Not even gonna sugar coat that one...……………... My Masterlist I POST 18+ CONTENT. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE.
Tags: smut, explicit sex, unprotected sex/creampie, no condoms mentioned, fingering, clitoral stimulation, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, masturbation, mutual masturbation, voyeurism/exhibitionism, light dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, size kink, impulsive friends-to-lovers intimacy, misassumption of sexual orientation, brief hentai porn mention, strong language/swearing during sex, morning-after cuddling and kissing, emotional aftercare/check-ins
Word count: 6.2k
Summary: For years, you were certain your best friend Chan was gay—too kind, too gorgeous, too perfectly unattached to women. You shared keys, late nights, and every detail of your dating disasters, never noticing the way he always chose you first. One frustrated night alone with a new toy goes spectacularly wrong… until Chan lets himself in and accidentally catches you at your most vulnerable. What starts as an mortifying interruption quickly turns into a hands-on lesson you never knew you needed—and suddenly every assumption you had about him (and about yourself) comes crashing down in the hottest way possible.
🎄: This fic was requested by @peach-nyoung
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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You had known Chan for what felt like forever, since those awkward college days when you’d both been fumbling through late-night study sessions and cheap ramen dinners. He was the kind of friend who slipped into your life so seamlessly that you couldn’t quite remember a time without him. He lived two blocks away, in his modern high-rise with sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that made everything feel a little more polished, a little less lived-in, he was your constant.
You had a key to his place, tucked into your wallet like a lucky charm, and he had one to yours, a cozy, slightly cluttered apartment with its mismatched furniture and endless stacks of vinyl records. Sleepovers were routine: crashing on each other’s couches after movie marathons or bad days, no questions asked, no boundaries crossed. It was easy, effortless, the way best friends should be.
Chan himself was a walking contradiction, or at least that’s how you saw him in those quiet, introspective moments when you let your mind wander. He was undeniably sexy; broad shoulders that filled out his shirts just right, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and those dimples that flashed when he laughed, pulling you in like a secret. His hair was always a bit tousled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and his eyes held this quiet intensity that made people stare. You’d seen it happen countless times: heads turning in coffee shops, lingering glances at parties. He attracted everyone; men, women, anyone with a pulse, but from what you’d observed, it was always the handsome boys who caught his eye. You’d been around for a few of those fleeting encounters, overhearing snippets of conversation or catching him mid-laugh with some charming guy at a bar.
His closest friend besides you was Han, unapologetically gay and head-over-heels for his boyfriend Minho, and the way Chan fit into their world so naturally only confirmed what you’d assumed. He was gay, through and through, always too kind, too attentive, too green a flag to be anything else. Straight men didn’t carry themselves with that effortless grace, that quiet confidence that never veered into arrogance.
You never pried into his love life, though. It wasn’t your place. But yours? Oh, you rambled endlessly about your dates, your flings, the highs and lows of it all, assuming he was your gay bestie, the perfect sounding board. He listened with that patient smile, offering advice that was always spot-on, never judgmental.
“Sounds like he wasn’t worth your time,” he’d say, or “You deserve someone who makes you feel alive.”
And you’d nod, feeling seen, even if a tiny part of you wondered why he never shared his own stories. Not that it mattered. But you weren’t blind though, In the privacy of your thoughts, you’d admit he was one of the sexiest men you’d ever laid eyes on, a fact that simmered low in your mind like background heat, never boiling over into anything more.
Lately, though, things had shifted just a touch. It had been two months since Chan had shown up unannounced at your place, his sneakers kicked off by the door, raiding your fridge like he owned it. You hadn’t thought much of it, life got busy, runs turned into routines, and you both had your own orbits. But in that quiet space, your curiosity had turned inward. Your girlfriends had been on you about it for weeks:
“Girl, you need to try some toys. You’ve never made yourself cum? That’s criminal.” You’d laughed it off at first, but the seed was planted. You’d never been one for self-exploration like that, relationships had always been about the other person, the chase, the connection. But alone in your apartment, with the city lights flickering through your windows, the idea took root. What would it feel like to chase your own pleasure, to unravel without an audience?
You’d ordered a vibrator discreetly, a sleek little thing that arrived in plain packaging, and tucked it away until the moment felt right. Tonight was that moment. The air in your bedroom was thick with anticipation, the silk robe you’d slipped into earlier now feeling like a second skin, soft and teasing against your body. You dimmed the lights, letting the glow from your laptop screen cast shadows across the room. You put on some Hentai; it was your guilty pleasure, the exaggerated animations pulling you in faster than anything else, stirring that heat low in your belly. You hit play, the sounds filling the space: soft gasps, exaggerated pleas, the kind of fantasy that made your pulse quicken.
Settling back against the pillows, you untied the robe slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric peel open like an invitation. Cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hips. You bit your lip, a mix of nerves and excitement twisting inside you as you reached for the vibrator. It hummed to life in your hand, a low vibration that sent a shiver up your arm.
You didn’t know the first thing about this… your friends’ advice echoed vaguely: start slow, find what feels good. But as you pressed it against yourself, tentative at first, then with more intent, frustration crept in. It wasn’t clicking, not the way you’d hoped. The rhythm felt off, your mind wandering despite the hentai playing out on screen, those illustrated bodies twisting in ecstasy that seemed so far from your grasp. You shifted, spreading your legs wider, arching your back slightly as you tried to focus, to build some momentum. Your breaths came shorter, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you chased that elusive spark, the tension coiling tighter but never quite snapping.
Unbeknownst to you, your phone sat silent on the nightstand, set to Do Not Disturb, oblivious to the barrage of calls lighting up the screen. Chan had been trying to reach you, at first casually, then with growing worry when you didn’t pick up. He was out on his evening run, sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his chest, earbuds blasting a playlist to match his steady pace. But concern gnawed at him, pulling him off course. Your building was just two blocks away, after all. It was nothing to swing by, use his key, check in. That’s what friends did.
The door clicked open quietly as he let himself in, kicking off his shoes out of habit, his breathing still a little ragged from the run.
“Hey, it’s me,” he called out softly, not wanting to startle you if you were home. But the apartment felt still, the only sound a faint, muffled hum from down the hall.
He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios—were you okay? Had something happened? He moved toward your bedroom, the door slightly ajar, and pushed it open without a second thought.
And there you were.
Time seemed to fracture in that instant, the world narrowing to the sliver of space between you and the doorway. Chan froze, his hand still on the knob, his wide frame silhouetted against the hallway light like some unintended intruder in a dream you hadn’t meant to share. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the sweat from his run glistening on his skin, making the thin fabric of his tank top cling in ways that accentuated the hard lines of his muscles, the kind of detail your mind latched onto even as heat flooded your cheeks. You didn’t move, couldn’t, your body splayed open on the bed, robe fallen away like forgotten silk, the vibrator still humming faintly in your hand, its vibration a traitorous echo in the sudden silence.
His eyes; those dark, intense eyes that you’d always thought held secrets, widened just a fraction, a flicker of shock rippling across his features before he schooled them into something unreadable. But you saw it, that raw, unguarded moment: the way his gaze dipped involuntarily, tracing the curve of your exposed breast, the arch of your hip, the vulnerability of your spread thighs. It wasn’t leering, nor crude, but there was hunger there, a spark that ignited low in your gut despite the mortification clawing at you. He’d seen you like this; intimate, frustrated, chasing something alone and the air thickened with it, charged like the calm before a storm.
Chan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tore his eyes away, fixing them on the floor, the wall, anywhere but you.
“Shit,” he muttered, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it, laced with an edge that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t disgust; no, it was something deeper, more tangled; regret for barging in, maybe, or surprise at the heat that mirrored your own. His hand flexed on the door, knuckles whitening, as if debating whether to bolt or step closer.
You could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his body leaned forward just a touch, betraying the pull he fought against. He’d always been so composed, your steady best friend, the one who listened to your rambles about lovers without a hint of jealousy or want. But now, in this suspended breath, you wondered if you’d misread him all along. Was that flush creeping up his neck from the run, or something else?
You shifted then, finally, pulling the robe closed with trembling fingers, the vibrator silenced with a click that echoed too loudly. Your heart hammered, a mix of embarrassment and an unexpected thrill…had he really just seen you like that? And why did the thought of his eyes on you make your skin tingle, heat pooling anew despite the interruption?
“Chan,” you breathed, your voice a whisper that broke the spell, pulling his gaze back to yours. There was no judgment in it, only a quiet storm brewing, questions unspoken hanging between you like smoke.
He took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck, his dimples absent, replaced by a tight line of his mouth.
“I… I called. You didn’t answer. I got worried.” His words tumbled out, excuses wrapped in concern, but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking down for the briefest second before snapping away. The room felt smaller, the distance between you electric, as if one wrong move could bridge it in ways neither of you had anticipated.
Your face burned hotter than you thought possible, a wildfire spreading from your cheeks down your neck as you clutched the edges of your silk robe, pulling it tighter around yourself like it could shield you from the raw exposure humming in the air. You tried to speak, anything to break the suffocating silence, but the words tangled in your throat, coming out in fractured stutters.
“I—I didn’t… Ch-Chan, I’m s-sorry, you weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, and you curled inward, drawing your knees up to your chest on the bed, hugging them as if they could anchor you against the embarrassment crashing over you in waves.
But beneath the mortification, something darker and unexpected stirred. Your body, still thrumming from the interrupted attempt, reacted to him in a way the hentai never could. Watching Chan’s face; those chaotic emotions flickering across his usually steady features, shock giving way to something raw and unguarded, lifted a veil you hadn’t even known was there.
For years you’d slotted him neatly into the role of gay best friend, safe and sexless in your mind. Yet now, seeing the flush on his skin, the way his eyes darkened as they briefly met yours before darting away, you looked at him anew. He wasn’t just handsome; he was magnetic, potent, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, making you shift uncomfortably against the sheets.
Chan cleared his throat, the sound rough, and took a half-step back toward the door. “I—I should go,” he said quickly, ever the green flag, trying to salvage the moment with kindness. “Pretend I was never here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, wait—” The words burst out of you before you could stop them, desperate and unfiltered. “I was… I was trying to do it for the first time. Like, really trying. And it… it wasn’t working.” You buried your face against your knees for a second, the confession hanging heavy in the air, making your skin prickle with fresh shame.
Why had you said that? But you couldn’t take it back now, so you forced yourself to look up, voice smaller. “It just… wasn’t working at all.”
He froze mid-turn, his hand still on the doorknob, mouth parting as if to speak but no words coming. Slowly, he let go of the door and faced you fully again, his gaze dropping to where you sat huddled on the bed, robe clutched tight, looking small and undone. Silence stretched between you, thick and electric, until something shifted in his expression; hesitation warring with concern, and beneath it, that same unreadable heat you’d glimpsed earlier.
Then he did the unthinkable.
His voice came low, tentative, almost swallowed by the quiet room, but it hit you like a spark to dry tinder.
“Can I… can I see what you’re doing wrong?” The words were careful, edged with disbelief as if he couldn’t believe he’d said them aloud. His face was flushed deep red, ears burning, but he didn’t look away this time. He took one small, deliberate step into the room, lingering just inside the threshold, body tense like he was giving you every chance to shut this down.
Your breath caught. Your mind screamed that this was insane—your best friend, the one you’d assumed was gay, asking to watch you touch yourself? But your body betrayed you utterly. A sharp, involuntary pulse throbbed between your legs at the mere suggestion, foreign and dizzying, like a door you hadn’t known existed had swung wide open. You should say no. You should laugh it off, tell him to leave. Instead, you found your grip on the robe loosening, your knees uncurling just slightly as a strange, hazy obedience took over.
Chan noticed. His shoulders eased a fraction, the tension in his stance softening as he watched you visibly relax, or at least stop fighting the pull. His eyes, dark and intent, stayed fixed on you, no longer fleeing.
Emboldened by the shift in the air, by the way he looked at you now, like you were something he’d been denying himself for longer than you could fathom, you let the robe fall open again, slower this time. Not all at once, but enough to bare the smooth plane of your lower body, thighs parting shyly as you reached for the vibrator on the sheets.
A subconscious performance crept in, your movements languid, almost teasing, as if testing the waters of this new, charged space between you. You switched it on, the low hum filling the room again, and pressed it where you had before, repeating the same frustrated motions—circling, pressing, chasing that elusive rhythm—your breath hitching softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.
He watched, unmoving at first, but you saw the way his chest rose faster, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. The room felt smaller, warmer, every second stretching into eternity.
Then his voice cut through, deeper than you’d ever heard it, gravel-rough and commanding in a way that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Stop.”
You froze, the vibrator still buzzing against you, eyes wide as they locked on his.
“Try with your fingers first,” he said, the words low and steady despite the flush still staining his cheeks. And then—God—he took another step closer, closing some of the distance between the door and your bed, his gaze never leaving your body.
Your heart raced in a dizzying cocktail of confusion, shock, and an arousal so potent it bordered on delirium, as if you’d stumbled into a dream where boundaries blurred and desires you hadn’t named came alive. Without a second thought, you obeyed his command, setting the vibrator aside entirely, its hum silenced like an afterthought. Your fingers trembling but eager, slid down your body, parting your thighs wider under his unwavering gaze.
Chan’s eyes locked onto the intimate dance of your hand, tracing every tentative stroke along the slick folds of your pussy, circling the sensitive swell of your clit with a hesitancy born of inexperience. Self-consciousness burned in your chest, making you hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin, every shallow breath that escaped your lips, but it only fueled the fire. This felt like devouring the forbidden fruit; sweet, sinful, and utterly intoxicating, your best friend watching you unravel, peeling back layers you’d kept hidden even from yourself.
The first moan slipped out unbidden, a soft, breathy sound that hung in the air like a confession. It was involuntary, pulled from you as your fingers found a fleeting rhythm, and the effect on Chan was electric. His eyes darkened further, a spark igniting behind them as if that single noise had shattered whatever restraint he’d been clinging to. It was like he awoke, the composed facade cracking to reveal something primal beneath. He leaned forward slightly, his voice emerging soft yet laced with an undeniable dominance that sent shivers cascading down your spine.
“That’s it,” he murmured, the words a gentle command. “Slow down a little—feel it, don’t rush.”
He edged closer then, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat at the foot of the bed, his presence a magnetic pull that drew you in without conscious effort. You shifted toward him, your body moving on instinct, knees parting further as if inviting him into this sacred space. Your eyes stayed glued to his face, those sharp features softened by arousal, dimples hidden behind a focused intensity as he watched you intently, your fingers rolling and pinching your clit under his guidance.
“Circle it lighter,” he directed, his tone steady but deepening, “build it up. You’re doing so good—look at how wet you are already.” It felt better, undeniably, his words weaving through your mind like threads of silk, heightening every sensation, coaxing sparks of pleasure that had eluded you before. But still, it wasn’t quite enough; the edge remained just out of reach, a frustrating tease that left you whimpering softly, hips twitching in search of more.
Chan’s breath hitched audibly, his gaze dropping to where your fingers worked, and when you dared to glance down, you saw the unmistakable tent straining against his gym shorts, massive and insistent, a visual testament to the effect you were having on him. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you, your core clenching in response. His voice turned huskier then, thick with arousal that mirrored your own, rough around the edges like velvet dragged over gravel.
“Let me help,” he whispered, the words hanging heavy, a question wrapped in inevitability.
Before you could process, before doubt could creep in, his hand reached out, long fingers, warm and sure, brushing yours aside with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. The moment he touched you, every nerve in your body ignited, a electric jolt that arched your back and drew a gasp from your throat. It was forbidden, this shift from spectator to participant, your assumed-gay best friend now exploring you with an intimacy that shattered all your preconceptions. But God, it was hot… so achingly good, his skin against yours sending ripples of pleasure outward like waves from a stone dropped in still water.
He took over slowly, deliberately, his touch a masterclass in restraint and tease. First, he traced the outer edges of your folds with the pads of his fingers, gathering the leaking juices that betrayed your arousal, spreading them with languid strokes that made you slicker, needier.
“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble close enough to feel his breath fan across your thigh.
“You’re so responsive, listen to how your body wants this.” He circled your clit then, not directly at first, but around it, building pressure in widening spirals that had your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained now, filling the room as he rubbed with just the right firmness, alternating between feather-light flicks that teased the sensitive bud and firmer presses that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He played with you like he knew your body better than you did, dipping lower to collect more of your essence, slicking his fingers before returning to your clit, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger with a precision that drew out whimpers you couldn’t contain.
“Shh, breathe through it,” he coached, his free hand resting on your inner thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his other hand drove you higher. “Let it build, I’m right here, I’ve got you.” The tension coiled tighter, your body trembling under his ministrations, moans escalating into desperate pleas as he stimulated every inch, rubbing your folds open, playing with the pooling juices until you were drenched, the wet sounds mingling with your cries. It was exquisite torture, the slow burn of his touch unraveling you thread by thread, making you forget the shock, the confusion, lost in the haze of how right it felt.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, when the pleasure hovered on the brink, intoxicating but not quite tipping over, his movements shifted. A single long finger, slick from your arousal, pressed at your entrance, teasing the soaked heat before sinking in slowly, inch by deliberate inch. The stretch was perfect, filling you in a way your own fingers never could, curling just so to brush against that spot inside that made your vision blur and a loud, keening moan tear from your lips.
“Chan—” His name tore from your lips in a broken cry as that single long finger fully seated inside you, your walls fluttering and clenching greedily around the intrusion. The raw and desperate sound of it, seemed to hit him like a physical blow.
“Holy fuck!” A low, ragged curse escaped him, something filthy and reverent under his breath, his jaw clenching so tight you could see the muscle jump. You felt the tremor in his hand, the way he held himself perfectly still for a heartbeat, as if one wrong move would unravel whatever thin thread of control he was clinging to.
But you were already too far gone to care about restraint. The emptiness you’d chased for so long was suddenly filled, stretched, owned by him, and it wasn’t enough.
“Please,” you whimpered shamelessly, hips rocking up to meet the slow, deliberate pump of his finger. “More—Chan, please, I need more.”
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and blazing, and the intensity of his stare sent goosebumps racing across your skin. He looked wrecked, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, silently pleading for something you couldn’t yet name. Without a word, he slid a second finger alongside the first, the added thickness making you gasp as he stretched you open further, curling them just right to drag against that devastating spot inside. Your hand flew to his forearm, nails digging into the flexed muscle there for anchor as he picked up the pace, thrusting deeper, faster, the wet sounds of your arousal obscene in the quiet room.
You were climbing, spiraling, so close and then, cruelly, he slowed. His fingers stilled, then withdrew entirely, leaving you empty and aching. A broken whine escaped you, hips chasing his hand on instinct.
“Do exactly what I did,” he said, voice low and rough, though it shook at the edges. “Finish yourself. Show me you can.”
It was like he’d yanked you both back from the edge, reminding both you and himself why this had started: to help you, not to lose control. You wanted to protest, to pull him back, but the command in his tone rooted itself in you. Whimpering, you obeyed, one hand sliding down to pump two fingers into your soaked heat the way he had; slow at first, then deeper and curling while the other returned to your clit, rubbing in those firm, perfect circles he’d shown you.
He didn’t move away. He stayed right there, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his eyes never leaving your face, your body.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice velvet and gravel. “Just like that—fuck, you’re so beautiful. Keep going, let it build. You’re so close, I can feel it.”
And this time, you got it right. The pleasure coiled tight and hot, then snapped, your orgasm crashing over you in relentless waves that bowed your back and tore his name from your throat again and again. Your forehead fell against his shoulder as you shuddered through it, breath coming in ragged gasps, his low praises—“Good girl, just like that, let it take you”—vibrating against your skin.
When the aftershocks finally ebbed, you stayed there, face tucked into the curve of his neck, inhaling the salt-sweat scent of him. That’s when you felt it, really felt it… the massive, straining bulge pressing against his gym shorts, the damp spot darkening the fabric where he’d leaked through. He was huge, impossibly so, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat through your spent body.
Without thinking, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his.
Chan froze for half a second, a sharp curse spilling against your mouth—“Fuck”—before he surged forward, kissing you back twice as hard, twice as hungry. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made you moan into him. The kiss turned filthy fast; teeth and desperation, years of unspoken something igniting all at once. He kept swearing under his breath between kisses, the words muffled against your lips, turning you on all over again.
Your hand drifted down, cupping the thick length of him through the fabric. He jolted like he’d been shocked, fingers wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist to still you.
“You don’t have to,” he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t want us to do anything stupid or anything you’ll regret.”
You looked up at him, chest heaving, and asked the only question that mattered.
“Do you want me, Channie?”
Something fractured behind his eyes. The dam broke.
He kissed you again hard, swallowing the soft laugh that escaped you as you added, breathlessly, “Let’s worry about the questions later.”
The words hung between you like a match struck in the dark and Chan’s restraint snapped with an audible groan. He crushed his mouth to yours again, the kiss no longer exploratory but devouring, years of quiet tension pouring out in the slant of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. You tasted salt and heat and something uniquely him, and it made you dizzy. His hands; those careful, talented hands, slid up your thighs, pushing the silk robe fully open until it pooled beneath you like spilled ink, leaving you bare to the cool air and to him.
He pulled back only far enough to look at you, eyes dark with want, chest heaving. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice shredded, “and I will. Anytime.” But his thumb was already tracing the inside of your knee, a silent plea for the opposite.
You answered by arching into him, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his tank top. “Don’t stop.”
That was all it took.
Chan surged forward, guiding you back against the pillows with a gentleness that contrasted the urgency in his kiss. He peeled his tank top off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside, and the sight of him; broad shoulders, defined chest glistening with the remnants of his run, the cut of muscle disappearing into low-slung shorts, stole what little breath you had left. You reached for him, palms skating over warm skin, feeling the tremor that ran through him at your touch.
He settled between your thighs, the heavy weight of his arousal pressing against you through the thin barrier of his shorts. A slow roll of his hips dragged the length of him along your slick folds, and you both moaned at the contact. His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged.
“You feel—” He broke off with a curse as you lifted your hips to meet him again, chasing the friction.
Impatient now, you tugged at the waistband of his shorts. He helped you, rising just enough to shove them down and kick them off, and then he was bare against you, hot skin on skin, the thick, leaking length of him sliding along your stomach as he lowered himself again. You wrapped your hand around him instinctively, marveling at the size, the velvet heat, the way he jerked and swore into your neck when your fingers tightened experimentally.
“Later,” he growled against your throat, nipping the skin there. “I need to be inside you now.”
He reached between you, guiding himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging through your wetness in a slow, deliberate press. You gasped at the stretch, it was much much more than his fingers, fuller and perfect… and your nails dug into his shoulders. He stilled instantly, letting you adjust, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“Breathe,” he whispered, voice trembling with the effort of holding back. “I’ve got you.”
When you rocked up against him, taking him deeper, he exhaled shakily and pushed forward in one smooth glide until he was seated fully inside you. The sensation was overwhelming, yet intimate in a way that went beyond bodies, like every unspoken moment between you had led to this. He stayed buried for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing each other in.
Then he started to move.
Slow at first; long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside you, drawing soft cries from your throat. His hand slipped between you again, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, circling in time with his thrusts. The rhythm built gradually, unhurried but relentless, pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He obliged, pace quickening, the slap of skin on skin mingling with your shared gasps and moans. His mouth found yours again, swallowing every sound you made, kissing you like he couldn’t get close enough.
“Chan—” you whimpered against his lips, feeling the edge approaching fast. “I’m—”
“I know,” he panted, voice rough and reverent. “Let go. I’m right here.”
The coil snapped, and you came undone around him; walls pulsing, back arching, his name a broken prayer on your tongue. He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, spilling inside you in hot pulses that left you both trembling.
For a long minute, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, arms braced on either side of your head, breathing hard against your neck. Eventually he softened, slipping out gently, but he didn’t go far, just shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into his chest. You curled into him instinctively, ear over his racing heart, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine.
The room was quiet except for your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. Questions lingered in the air; about assumptions, about labels, about what this meant, but for now they stayed unspoken. You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone instead, feeling his arms tighten around you.
But tonight, there was only the warmth of his body against yours, the lingering ache of pleasure, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
——
Morning light filtered softly through the half-drawn blinds, painting pale gold stripes across the tangled sheets and the bare skin of Chan’s back. You’d been awake for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling, then at him, then back at the ceiling again, as if the plaster might offer some explanation for how everything had shifted overnight. His arm was still slung heavily across your waist, his body curled behind yours, and you could feel him still thick, half-hard even in sleep, nestled warm and heavy between your thighs where he’d stayed most of the night. Every small shift sent a quiet, delicious ache through you, a reminder that last night had been real. Mind-blowing, earth-tilting, assumption-shattering real.
You turned your head carefully on the pillow to look at him. He was beautiful like this…peaceful, unguarded, lips slightly parted as he breathed out the softest little snore. Those full lips you’d kissed a hundred times last night in the dark, now soft and inviting in daylight. You couldn’t stop yourself. You leaned in and brushed your mouth against his, feather-light, just once.
He stirred immediately, a quiet hum in his throat. His eyes fluttered open, confusion flickering for half a second before recognition flooded in. A slow, sleepy smile curved his mouth as he registered you, and then his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep, and kissed you properly, lazy but deep, like he’d been dreaming about doing exactly this. Your brain short-circuited all over again, warmth pooling low in your belly as his tongue teased yours, slow and unhurried. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little harder, foreheads still touching.
He searched your face, the smile fading into something softer, more careful. “Hey… you okay?” His thumb stroked along your cheek. “No regrets?”
You shook your head without hesitation, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “None. Not even a little.”
Relief flashed across his features, and he pressed another quick kiss to your lips, like he couldn’t help himself. Then you took a breath, the question that had been circling your mind all morning finally spilling out.
“Channie… I thought you were gay.” You bit your lip, half-laughing at how ridiculous it sounded now. “Did I, like… break you?”
He blinked once, twice, then burst into genuine deep laughter, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his dimples appear. He rolled onto his back, dragging a hand over his face, still chuckling.
“Why would you even think that?”
You propped yourself up on an elbow, suddenly feeling a little sheepish.
“I mean… Han and Minho are literally your closest friends besides me, and they’re together. You’re always hanging out with them. And I’ve never once seen you with a girl. Ever. You never talk about hooking up with anyone, never bring anyone around, never even mention crushes. Every gender on the planet throws themselves at you, and you just… smile and move on. It added up in my head.”
He turned his head to look at you, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “That’s pure coincidence, babe.” The pet name slipped out so naturally it made your heart skip. “I’ve had girls over. Plenty. Parties, hookups, whatever. Just never anything serious enough to turn into conversation. I didn’t think you needed the play-by-play.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And Han and Minho?”
“I love those idiots,” he said fondly. “And I don’t give a damn who they date. My little sister’s pan, actually she came out years ago. So yeah, I’m an ally. Always have been. Doesn’t mean I’m in the community myself.”
You groaned, dropping your face into the pillow beside him. “I feel so stupid.”
He laughed again, softer this time, and tugged you until you were half-draped over his chest. “You’re not stupid. You just never asked.” His fingers threaded through your hair, soothing. “And honestly? I kind of liked that you didn’t. You’d come over all flustered about some guy who ghosted you or whatever, and you’d ramble for an hour, and I’d just sit there thinking how cute you were when you got worked up. I never wanted to interrupt that.”
You lifted your head, cheeks warm. “So all this time…”
“All this time,” he confirmed, eyes steady on yours, “I’ve been into girls. Into you, if we’re being honest. But every time I got close to someone, they’d get weird about how much time I spent with you. How I’d drop everything if you needed me. Apparently that’s a red flag.” He shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “So I stopped trying for anything serious. Friends-with-benefits, one-night stands—easy, no strings. I didn’t mind. I had you anyway.”
The words settled between you, heavy and sweet. You’d been the reason without even knowing it.
You leaned down and kissed him again, softer this time, pouring everything you couldn’t quite say into it. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, that familiar heat flickering back to life.
“So,” you whispered against his lips, “now that we’ve cleared that up… what do we do about it?”
Chan’s smile turned slow and devastating. He rolled you gently beneath him, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.
“I’ve got a few ideas,” he murmured, and kissed you until talking was no longer an option.
🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶
Authors note: MERRY CHRISTMAS FINE SHYTS!!! 😍🤩❤️🎄🎄
You didn’t think I was gonna let the year end without dropping something in December, did you? 🌝 I do have one more lined up before the end of the year still so stay tuned! Drop a comment too if you wanna be added to the new taglist! And to my new followers… ✨Hiiiii ✨ I promise I’m not always this tardy with uploads but my first book is finished yaaay!! Its going through the editors right now before i publish! I’m actually so excited about it! Anywho, if you made it to this point, follow me and check out my masterlist for more of these!!
contains: +18, friends to lovers, grinding, dry humping, fingering, nipple play, protected sex, back scratching, lots of moaning
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
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summary: Close friends. Endless tension. Everyone’s been waiting for you two to finally do something about it. New Year’s eve in hot Australian summer was the perfect setting for a terrible idea. Except that… it doesn’t feel terrible at all.
The house was already glowing when you arrived, warm light spilling through wide glass doors, music humming low beneath the sound of laughter. The air was thick with summer heat, that unmistakable Australian kind that clung to skin and made everything feel slower, heavier, more alive.
It didn’t feel like a party. Felt more like being invited into someone’s dream version of New Year’s, bare feet on cool floors, open windows, the promise of fireworks and bad decisions later.
Chan spotted you before you even made it past the gate.
“You came,” he said.
He crossed the distance easily, silk catching the light as he moved. The blue Fendi set looked criminal on him, fluid, the fabric clinging just enough in the heat. The set hung loose on him, collar open, sleeves pushed up. Blue like water. Like calm. Like control.
Then there was you.
He stopped in front of you, eyes flicking over you once, quick, polite, absolutely not fooling anyone.
You were dressed in red. The kind of red that didn’t blend into a room, didn’t soften under warm lights. It held its ground. The heat seemed to belong to you, clinging to your skin, pooling at your collarbone, your legs.
Where Chan looked cool despite the night, you looked like the reason it felt so hot.
“Of course I did,” you said, smiling. “You made it sound impossible to miss.”
He laughed softly, glancing back at the house. “Yeah. I wanted it to feel… right.”
And somehow, standing there with the warm night pressing in around you, it already did.
Inside, the boys drifted in and out of your orbit, greetings, teasing, drinks pressed into your hands, but Chan stayed close. Too close to be accidental. Every time you turned, he was there, leaning in to hear you over the music, shoulder brushing yours like it belonged there.
The heat made everything more intimate. The way his arm hovered behind you. The way his knee brushed yours when you sat. The way his gaze lingered a second too long, then did it again.
You talked about nothing. And everything.
About the year ending. About plans that weren’t fully formed yet. About things that made him laugh in that quiet, breathy way that always felt personal.
At some point, you noticed the shift.
The boys had moved on to the backyard. Voices blurred into background noise. Music pulsed low and lazy.
And suddenly, it was just you and Chan.
Chan beside you like an anchor of blue, calm and steady. You like a red spark that refused to dim. The air between you felt charged, thick as the summer night.
Like something waiting.
Like heat before a storm.
Like fireworks, holding their breath.
The moment didn’t break all at once. It cracked.
Footsteps, louder now. Familiar voices drifting back in like they owned the place. Seungmin appeared first, drink in hand, eyes flicking between you and Chan with immediate, sharp interest. His mouth twitched, already amused.
“Chan,” he said casually, way too casually. “Did you already show her where she’s sleeping tonight?”
The question landed heavy. Loaded.
Chan blinked. Once. Twice.
“Oh—” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly all shy energy where there hadn’t been any seconds ago. “No. Not yet.”
You watched it happen in real time, the way his ears tinted pink, the way his posture shifted, like he had been caught doing something he absolutely had been thinking about.
Lee Know leaned in from the side, unbothered, eyes sharp with that familiar menace. He followed Chan’s gaze, then yours, and smirked.
“He already did,” Minho said. “He’s standing right in front of her.”
Silence.
Not awkward. Charged.
Chan let out a breathy laugh, half-embarrassed, half-nervous, shaking his head like that would somehow erase what Minho just implied. “You’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.
And you... You didn’t even try to hide it.
The corner of your mouth lifted. Slow. Knowing. A smirk that said yeah… maybe.
Chan saw it.
His laugh cut off just a fraction too early. His eyes flicked back to you, searching your face, catching that expression, and something in his gaze darkened. Not startled. Not upset.
Aware.
“Oh,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Minho noticed. Of course he did. He grinned like a man who had just confirmed a theory. Seungmin snorted, shaking his head.
“I’m grabbing another drink,” Seungmin said. “Before whatever this is catches fire.”
They left you there.
Chan shifted his weight, suddenly closer than before. Not touching. Just close enough that you could feel his warmth, the subtle change in his breathing.
“You think this is funny?” he asked softly, lips tugging upward, eyes still locked on yours.
You tilted your head. Innocent. Dangerous. “Maybe,” you said. “Looks like a great place to sleep in.”
His smile deepened. Slower now. Intentional.
“Yeah?” he replied.
And somewhere outside, a test firework cracked in the distance, early, impatient, like it couldn’t wait for midnight either.
You watched him for half a second longer than necessary. The way his smile lingered. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. He wasn’t backing away, but he wasn’t stepping forward either. That's when you thought: You know what? If he’s not jumping into it… I am.
A sudden crack echoed outside, bright and sharp. Light flashed through the glass walls, painting the room in brief color.
You turned your head toward the window, then back to him, already smiling.
“Looks like the party’s already starting,” you said lightly. “You’ll miss it.”
You took a step back, just enough to create space. Just enough to make it a choice.
But Chan? Chan didn’t even look at the fireworks.
His eyes stayed on you, steady, amused. Like he had caught the trick the second you played it. A corner of his mouth lifted, slow and confident. Oh. Yeah. He clocked it.
He stepped closer instead.
“My party,” he said calmly, voice low, warm, unmistakably sure, “is already standing right in front of me.”
The words settled between you, heavier than any explosion outside.
Another firework went off, gold this time, reflected in the glass, in his eyes. You could feel the heat of him now, close enough that moving away would be obvious.
He tilted his head slightly, studying your reaction. Testing.
“And besides,” he added, softer now, like it was just for you, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Well, I’m not.”
It slipped out easy. Casual. Almost bored.
He blinked. Actually blinked.
“What?” he laughed, genuinely thrown for the first time tonight. “You’re not?”
The confusion cracked his composure just enough, and that was all you needed. You stepped back into his space before he could recover, fingers catching lightly at the front of his shirt.
“Not yet,” you murmured.
Then you kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful either. Just decisive, like you had made up your mind a while ago and were finally, finally, acting on it. His breath hitched against your lips, surprise lasting only a heartbeat before instinct kicked in.
Chan kissed you back immediately.
His hand came up to your waist without thinking, grounding, warm. The world outside exploded, fireworks cracking louder now, brighter, but he barely seemed aware of it. His focus narrowed to you, to the way you fit against him, to the quiet little smile you felt curve into the kiss.
When you pulled back, just slightly, his forehead dropped to yours, laughter soft and breathless.
“Wow,” he said, stunned and delighted. “Okay.”
The word barely had time to exist before he kissed you again.
This one was different.
Less careful. Less surprised. Like something in him had finally snapped into place, like the realization hit all at once and he wasn’t about to waste another second. His mouth found yours with a soft kind of desperation, a kiss that carried regret and relief all tangled together.
"Why didn’t I do this before?" You felt it in the way he leaned into you, like he was making up for lost time.
His hand tightened at your waist, not rough, just sure, anchoring himself, anchoring you. The blue silk brushed against your skin, cool for half a second before it wasn’t, before the heat between you swallowed it whole.
The room changed. Or maybe you did.
The air felt thicker, heavier. Heat bloomed low in your belly and spread outward, lighting your skin up from the inside. Every nerve suddenly awake. Every brush of his thumb, every shift of his mouth registering too clearly.
Fireworks burst outside again, white, gold, relentless, but it felt like they were happening under your skin now, echoing through you instead of the sky.
Chan broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressing into yours again, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “I should’ve—”
He stopped himself, exhaled, then smiled against your lips like the thought alone was enough to undo him.
Instead of finishing the sentence, he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. And the heat only kept building. And you didn't want it to stop. You wanted more.
You didn’t register his hands moving at first.
They were just… there. At your waist. Your back. Sliding, steady, certain, like once he had decided, his body took over completely. The room blurred at the edges, noise dissolving into heat and color and the press of him against you.
You were vaguely aware of walking. Or being guided.
The next thing you knew, the balcony rail pressed against the back of your thighs. You gasped, not from the cold, but from him.
Chan lifted you easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he had done it a hundred times in his head already. Your breath left you in a sharp sound as he set you on the edge of the balcony, the contrast jolting, cool surface, hot body, blue silk and red fabric colliding.
Your legs wrapped around his waist without permission. Pure instinct.
“Oh—” you breathed, startled by how perfectly you fit, by how right it felt.
Chan felt it too.
He froze for half a second, like the realization hit him all at once, then his hands slid down, firm and grounding, squeezing your thighs just enough to make you inhale sharply. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, a low wrecked sound leaving him.
“Yeah, I know.” he murmured, voice rough now.
At some point, the restraint just... disappeared. You could feel him now, hot and hard, pressing insistently against your core through the thin barrier of clothing still between you. The pressure made you gasp, made your hips roll forward instinctively.
You couldn't help but grind against him, chasing friction, chasing relief, chasing him. Your fingers twisted in his hair, tugging slightly, and you felt him twitch against you in response. You wanted more. You needed more.
Chan answered with muffled moans against your lips, the sounds vibrating between your mouths as he kissed you desperately.
His hands squeezed your thighs even harder, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pulled you impossibly closer, pressing you back against him with enough force that you could feel every inch of him.
He rocked his hips up to meet yours, creating a rhythm that had you both panting, the friction not nearly enough. Every kiss bled into the next, softer but somehow needier, like neither of you could stand the space between breaths.
Chan’s mouth traced down your jaw, unhurried now, deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His lips lingered at your neck, warm, already familiar, sending heat straight through you.
Your fingers slipped to the buttons of his shirt without thought, undoing one, then another, until the realization hit.
You opened your eyes.
Reality snapped into place all at once.
“Chan,” you breathed, gently but firm, pressing your palm to his chest. “I swear I don’t want to, but… we should stop.”
He stilled immediately, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath uneven.
“What?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, confused, almost offended. “Why?”
You glanced around, heartbeat still racing. “Someone can walk by and see us.”
It took a second. Then he followed your gaze.
“Oh,” he said, blinking. A laugh escaped him, soft, helpless. “Right. Yeah. Hm.”
He thought for half a beat longer than necessary, like he was long, long gone.
“We could go to my room,” he offered, casual but not really. “If you want.”
You smiled, teasing despite the way your skin still hummed. “You’ll really miss the fireworks at the party you’re hosting?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed you again, quick, warm, certain. Like punctuation.
“I already told you,” he murmured against your lips, smiling. “My party is right here in front of me.”
Your heart did something complicated in your chest, a skip, a stumble, something that felt dangerously close to falling.
"That's really unfair," you whispered, but you were already kissing him back, fingers curling into the open collar of his shirt.
Chan pulled away just enough to look at you properly, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Is that a yes?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He took your hand without another word, leading you back through the party and up to his room. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the noise below to almost nothing.
For a moment, you just stood there, looking at each other. The urgency from outside had shifted into something slower, heavier.
"Hey," he said softly, stepping closer. His hands found your waist again, but gentler now. "We don't have to—"
You kissed him before he could finish, rising on your toes, walking and kissing and touching towards his bed. You felt him smile against your mouth.
"Okay," he breathed. "Good to know."
His fingers found the hem of your dress, but there was still a question in the touch. You answered by reaching for his buttons again, finishing what you had started outside.
His shirt fell open and you let your hands explore, palms flat against warm skin, feeling his breath hitch under your touch.
His hands slid beneath the skirt of your dress, warm and steady against your thighs, fingertips tracing slow lines upward that made you shiver. The fabric bunched around your hips as he explored, palms smoothing over skin, grip tightening when you pulled him closer.
"God," he breathed against your mouth, settling his weight between your legs. You could feel him again, hard and straining against his shorts, pressing right where you needed him. When he rolled his hips, the friction made you both gasp.
Your hands mapped the muscles of his back, nails dragging lightly down his spine, feeling him shudder and press harder against you.
He kissed you like he was drowning, one hand sliding higher under your dress while the other gripped your hip, angling you so he could grind down with more pressure.
“Chan,” you breathed, already desperate, already aching. Your dress was bunched around your hips, legs wrapped around him, and you could feel how wet you were, how ready.
"Yeah?" he murmured against your jaw, lips trailing down your neck. His hand moved between your thighs, fingers brushing over your panties, just the lightest touch, and he groaned low in his throat. “Fuck, you’re soaked through.”
The fabric was damp against his fingertips, clinging to you, and the evidence of how much you wanted him made his jaw clench.
"Touch me," you managed. "Please, just—"
He didn’t make you finish. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, sliding through your wetness, and the first touch of skin on skin drew a moan from you that you couldn’t control. Your hips jerked toward his hand involuntarily.
“Shit,” he breathed, circling slowly at first, gathering your slickness on his fingers. He watched your face, studying every reaction.
His fingers were skilled, confident, applying just the right amount of pressure as he explored. When he found your clit and circled it directly, your fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Like this?” he asked, voice rough with arousal, adding more pressure and picking up speed.
“Yes—god, yes—” You could barely form words, pleasure already building embarrassingly fast.
When he slipped one finger inside you, pressing deep, you gasped. Then another finger joined the first, stretching you, and when he curled them just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, your whole body arched off the bed.
“Fuck, Chan—right there—”
“Yeah?” he murmured, keeping that angle, those fingers curled and pressing exactly where you needed. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you steady.
“You look so perfect like this,” he said, almost reverent, thumb finding your clit again while his fingers continued moving inside you. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
His fingers worked faster now, thumb circling in tight, precise movements while he pumped his fingers in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.
Your breathing came in short gasps, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. “Fuck, I— I can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”
The confession made something twist in your chest. Your hands found his waistband, desperate to feel more of him.
He helped you, shoving his shorts and boxers down just enough to free himself. When your hand wrapped around him, hot and hard and already leaking, he groaned into your mouth, hips jerking forward into your grip.
"Fuck," he choked out. You stroked him slowly, feeling him twitch in your palm, smearing the wetness at his tip with your thumb. His whole body tensed. "Wait—I'm gonna—we need—"
"Where is it?" you finished for him, not letting go.
"Drawer," he managed, reaching over blindly.
While he fumbled for it, you sat up enough to reach for the zipper at the back of your dress. Chan noticed immediately, his hands joining yours, pulling the zipper down slowly. His fingers traced the line of your spine as it was revealed, making you shiver.
You lifted your arms and he helped pull the dress over your head, letting it fall to the floor.
His eyes roamed over you, your flushed skin, the rise and fall of your chest, the way you looked spread out beneath him, and he let out a shaky breath, like the sight of you alone was enough to undo him.
“Jesus,” he muttered, voice thick with want. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the lace of your bra, then reaching behind you to unhook it with surprisingly steady fingers.
“You’re incredible,” he breathed, leaning in to press his lips to your collarbone. The kiss was soft, reverent, a stark contrast to the urgency from moments before. He trailed lower, mouth moving across your chest with deliberate slowness, placing kisses along the swell of your breast.
When his lips finally closed around your nipple, you gasped, the sensation sending a jolt straight through you. Your fingers threaded through his hair instinctively, holding him there, and he hummed against your skin.
His tongue circled slowly, then flicked, before he sucked harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into his mouth.
His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in rhythm with his mouth.
“Chan—” you breathed, tugging at his hair.
The sensation had you squirming beneath him, hips shifting restlessly, seeking friction. Your core ached with need, still throbbing from how close his fingers had brought you earlier.
"Chan, please—"
He pulled back, grabbing the condom, tearing it open with shaking hands. You watched as he rolled it on, your chest heaving, completely bare beneath him now.
He hooked his fingers in your panties and you lifted your hips so he could pull them down your legs, tossing them aside.
For a second he just looked at you, sprawled beneath him, flushed and wanting and completely his.
"You're sure?" he asked one more time.
"Chan, if you don't fuck me right now—"
He kissed you hard, lining himself up, and pushed inside in one slow, steady thrust that had you both gasping into each other's mouths.
The stretch of him filling you completely made your eyes flutter closed, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Chan stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against yours, breathing hard.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice wrecked. "You feel—god, you feel so good."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he groaned, pulling back only to thrust in again, finding a rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders.
He moved with purpose now, each stroke deliberate and deep, angling his hips until you gasped and he knew he had found the right spot. Then he kept hitting it, over and over, watching your face like nothing else in the world mattered.
"Look at me," he said softly, and you opened your eyes to find him staring down at you with an intensity that made your chest ache. "I want to see you."
You couldn't look away even if you wanted to. The connection between you felt like a live wire, electric and all-consuming.
His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pinning it gently above your head while his other hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you harder.
"Chan—" His name came out broken, desperate.
"Fuck," he murmured, kissing you deeply. "I know."
The pleasure built and built, coiling tight in your belly. Your free hand dragged down his back, nails leaving marks you'd both see tomorrow, and he hissed, hips snapping faster.
The room felt suspended in time, just the two of you, the sound of skin against skin, ragged breathing, whispered words that might've been confessions or curses or both.
And then…
The first firework exploded outside.
The boom rattled the windows, followed by another, then another. Distant screams of joy from the party downstairs, from the neighborhood, people counting down a new year you had both completely forgotten about.
But Chan didn't stop. He didn't even slow down.
Instead, he kissed you like the world was ending and beginning all at once. His mouth moved against yours with a desperation, a passion that stole the breath from your lungs and replaced it with something that felt dangerously close to devotion.
"It's midnight," he breathed against your lips between kisses.
"Don't stop," you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. "Please don't stop."
Something shifted in him at that; permission, encouragement, need.
His grip on your hip tightened, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks, and he drove into you harder, deeper.
"Oh—F-fuck," he groaned, the sound raw and unrestrained.
Your nails dragged down his back again, scratching hard enough that he hissed and somehow moved even faster, chasing something primal between you. The sharp sting only seemed to drive him higher, his breathing ragged against your neck.
"God, yes—I like that," he panted, one hand sliding under your thigh to hitch your leg higher, changing the angle. The new position made you cry out, louder than before, and you immediately bit your lip.
Chan noticed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide. "You can let go," he said, voice rough and strained, barely holding himself together. "No one will hear you over the fireworks."
That made something inside you crack wide open.
You stopped holding back. The next moan tore from your throat freely, unrestrained, and Chan groaned in response, the sound broken and desperate. He kissed you messily, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your sounds like he needed them to breathe.
"That's it," he encouraged, breathless. "Let me hear you."
Your nails raked down his back again, harder this time, and he actually whimpered, a gorgeous, wrecked sound that made you clench around him. His rhythm faltered for just a second before he recovered, fucking into you with renewed intensity.
"You feel so fucking good," he gasped against your mouth. "So perfect—fuck—"
You were being louder now, completely uninhibited, moaning and gasping with each thrust. It felt freeing, intoxicating, especially when you could see how it affected him, the catch in his breath, the groans he couldn't quite muffle, the muttered curses.
His hand found your clit again and you cried out, back arching off the bed. The sensation was overwhelming, pleasure building so fast and intense you could barely breathe.
"Chan—I'm—"
"I know, I can feel it," he panted, circling faster, pressing harder. "Come for me. Please, babygirl, I need to feel you—"
Hearing Chan calling you babygirl combined with the desperate edge in his voice, pushed you over. You came apart beneath him, crying out his name without caring who heard, nails scratching down his back one more time as your whole body tensed and shattered.
"Oh, fuck—" Chan's voice broke completely. Your walls clenching around him was too much. He thrust twice more, deep and erratic, before burying himself fully with a groan that sounded almost pained, shuddering as he came.
Chan collapsed against you, carefully shifting his weight. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest. Both of you were breathing hard, skin damp with sweat, limbs tangled together.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice still rough. “You okay?”
You tilted your head up to look at him, “I’m more than okay.”
Relief and something warmer flooded his expression. That dimpled smile appeared, the one that made your chest feel too full.
“Good,” he murmured, pulling you closer. He was quiet for a moment, just holding you, his thumb stroking your shoulder. Then he laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “You know… that’s actually everything I asked for this new year.”
“Just this?” you teased, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion threatened to overwhelm you.
“Just this,” he confirmed, kissing your forehead. “Just you.“
—
happy 2026, everyone! 💫
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place (note: i write smut fics!) ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
warnings: miscommunication; mentions of masturbation; fingering; handjob; oral sex (f and m!receiving); unprotected sex
summary: you tell yourself it’s just stress relief. chan says it’s practice. but somewhere between the movies, the laughter and the way his mouth feels on you, something fragile snaps open - and you’re terrified it’s already too late to stitch it shut
a/n: yes this is 23k words of friends-to-lovers porn with feelings, no i don’t want to talk about it (jk, let’s talk about it pls 😂). it started as “haha what if it’s just friends with benefits practice??” and then turned into soft angst and confessions and tears and love. enjoy the pain!
you don’t really remember when it stopped being casual and turned into tradition, but friday nights have been yours and chan’s for years now. ever since you met during first year of uni - him, shy and overworked with a backpack full of notebooks; you, loud and a little reckless with coffee-stained lecture notes - the two of you have been inseparable.
there are other friends in your group, of course. the two of you go out with them sometimes, to bars or late study sessions in the library, but somehow it’s always the two of you finding each other again at the end of the night.
but friday nights? those are just yours.
it started simple, one of you too tired to go out suggesting “just a movie”. then it became a habit. now, it’s a ritual: you order dinner, sit on your couch, drink a little, watch something - it doesn’t even matter what. usually it’s your place that hides you both from the world, because you live alone now, your tiny dorm practically molded to include chan’s presence. his notebooks have sat on your desk. his hoodies in your laundry pile. his snacks hidden in your cabinets.
tonight is no different. you’ve already eaten dinner, mostly in comfortable chatter about projects and the exams coming up next week. chan groaned dramatically over his schedule while you teased him for making too many colour-coded study plans. you sipped on the wine you opened half an hour ago, warmth buzzing just under your skin.
now the movie plays, something random you’d picked without thinking. you’re stretched out on one end of the couch with your legs tucked under a blanket. chan is on the other, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one hand clutching his glass of beer while the other absently scrolls through his phone during the boring parts.
it’s easy, like it always is. until it isn’t.
on screen, the main character is suddenly pressed against a wall, kissing a guy like she’s been starved for it. you both make the obligatory noises - chan’s exaggerated "oh my god" and your laugh as you throw popcorn at him - but neither of you reach for the remote.
it’s not graphic, not really, just suggestive enough. clothes falling off, bodies tangled in shadows. then, a cut to the next day: the girl, sitting with her friends, cheeks pink as she whispers details about her previous night.
and the details are very… detailed. she talks about his mouth, how he went down on her, what it felt like, how she nearly screamed into her pillow. the girls squeal and press her for more.
you grin into your glass, amused, but the sound beside you is different - chan’s little cough, the way he shifts in his seat. you turn your head and look at him, seeing how his ears are pink now.
"what?", you ask, smiling.
"nothing", he says too quickly, eyes fixed on the tv.
you raise a brow, "chris"
he shakes his head while he drinks from his beer, "seriously, it’s nothing"
you lean closer, nudging him with your foot, "you’re literally blushing"
"no, i’m not", he tries to hide from you but you know better.
you smirk, "oh my god, you are. what’s wrong with you? is the word ‘oral’ too much for your pure brain?"
he groans, dragging a hand over his face, "shut up"
"no way", you laugh, prodding further, "you’re acting like-", you pause, narrowing your eyes, "wait. don’t tell me you’ve never-"
he stiffens.
your mouth falls open, "chris?"
his silence is answer enough.
you’re still staring at him, the movie long forgotten, "so… you’ve really never gone down on a girl?"
“no", he shakes his head, cheeks pink, "i’ve never… you know. with anyone. not really. i’ve kissed, but that’s it. that’s the furthest i’ve gone"
you open your mouth, and then close it again, "wow. i mean-", you catch yourself before saying the wrong thing, softening your tone, "i’m just surprised. i know you’ve had girls interested in you, chris"
he gives a small, humorless laugh, "interested in the idea of me, maybe. not actually me"
that twists something in your chest, "don’t say that"
"it’s true", he shrugs, though his voice is quiet, "i don’t… i don’t exactly scream experience. not when i spend most of my time buried in notes or fixing other people’s essays. and the few times i did get close? i freaked out. i didn’t know what to do. didn’t want to embarrass myself"
you study him, the way he’s fiddling with the hem of his hoodie sleeve, the way he can’t quite look at you.
"chris…"
"what if i mess up?", he blurts suddenly, voice raw, "what if a girl is just laying there, thinking about how pathetic i am? what if she tells her friends about it? i mean, the whole scene in the movie-", he gestures vaguely at the paused screen, "that’s what people do, right? talk. compare. rate"
you shake your head firmly, "not everyone. not like that. and even if someone did, that’s on them, not you"
he groans, dragging his hands over his face, "it just feels like this impossible thing. like i’m already behind, so the pressure’s even worse now. it’s stupid, i know"
"it’s not stupid", you say softly.
he lets out a breath, slumping against the couch, "i’ve tried to… prepare. you know. i’ve done some research"
your brows lift, "research?"
he scratches the back of his neck, ears turning red again, "yeah. like… guides, forums, videos. diagrams, even"
you have to bite your lip to hold back a smile, "you studied it"
"i study everything", he mutters, defensive.
you can’t help it - a little laugh slips out, not mocking, just… fond, "of course you did"
"don’t laugh", he groans, covering his face.
"i’m not laughing", you insist quickly, nudging his knee with yours, "i swear i’m not. it’s just… very you"
he peeks at you through his fingers, frown tugging at his mouth, "still doesn’t change the fact that research isn’t practice"
you tilt your head, watching the way his throat works when he swallows, the nervous little twitch of his jaw. he’s right - it’s not practice.
and maybe it’s the wine warming your blood, or maybe it’s the way he’s always looked at you like you’re steady ground. maybe it’s something you’ve been ignoring for too long. because suddenly, you hear yourself say:
"what if you practised with me?"
chan freezes.
you keep your voice as casual as you can manage, even though your heart is pounding, "i’m serious. you trust me, right?"
his eyes go wide, searching your face like you’re joking, like he’s waiting for you to laugh and say gotcha.
but you don’t.
"it’s just practice", you add, voice quieter now, "for you, it’s a way to get over the nerves. for me… well, it’s not like i wouldn’t enjoy it. and it’s a pretty great stress relief", you shrug, trying to play it off, but your pulse is racing.
he stares, lips parted, still stunned into silence.
"you don’t have to", you rush to say, "just… forget i said anything"
he swallows, throat bobbing, "you’re… serious"
"yeah", you whisper, "i wouldn’t have said it if i wasn’t"
the air feels heavy now, like the smallest movement could snap it in two.
finally, chan nods slowly, almost to himself, "okay. if you’re sure"
and just like that, everything shifts.
you still don’t really know how you got here. you can trace the steps back if you try - teasing chan about blushing at the movie you’d been watching, him surprising you when he admitted he’d never actually gone down on anyone, joking that maybe you should let him practise on you.
but now? now you’re lying on your bed, shirt bunched around your waist, panties the only thing left on your lower half, and chan is kneeling between your thighs fully dressed, hoodie still on like he’s about to study for a test rather than put his mouth on you.
his fingers rest stiffly on your knees, as if he’s waiting for permission even though you’ve given it a dozen times already. his hair falls into his eyes and you realise - he looks just as nervous as you feel.
"we don’t have to do this", he says, voice a little hoarse, "seriously. if you’ve changed your mind-"
"i haven’t", you interrupt quickly. your face burns, "i mean, unless you don’t want to-"
"i do", he blurts out, then winces, adjusting his glasses, "i mean- yeah. i want to. i just… don’t wanna fuck it up"
you laugh softly, though your heartbeat is pounding, "it’s practice, chris. that’s the point. and i-", you swallow, eyes flicking away, "i need stress relief. this… works out for both of us"
he exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders, "right. practice"
still, when he looks down at you, his gaze lingers too long on the dark patch of lace stretched damp between your thighs, "you’re already…?"
"shut up", you groan, throwing an arm over your face, "of course i am wet, i’ve got you sitting there staring at me"
he chuckles nervously, "that’s… kind of hot"
your stomach flips, "chris"
"okay, okay", he holds his palms up in surrender, then settles them carefully on your thighs, "just… tell me what to do. if i’m doing it wrong"
you peek at him from under your arm, your chest tightening at the sight of him looking so eager, so tentative, "just… start slow"
he nods, then bends down, lips brushing over the lace at your centre. just a soft kiss at first. then another. the heat of his mouth seeps through the thin fabric and you gasp despite yourself.
he pauses instantly, "too much?"
"no", you pant, "go on"
his mouth presses against you again, this time firmer. then his tongue darts out, pressing against the damp spot.
"fuck", you whimper, hips jerking.
he lifts his head, face flushed, "was that good?"
you glare at him weakly, "you’re such a nerd. just- keep going"
his grin is shaky, but he obeys. lips moving slowly over the lace, tongue dragging, sucking lightly until the fabric is wetter than before and you’re arching into his mouth. every reaction you give, he soaks it in, cataloguing your gasps and moans like study notes.
you’re moving your hips before you can stop yourself, chasing the friction.
"you like that", he murmurs, sounding more like he’s cataloguing a discovery than teasing.
"yes, fuck, yes"
then, without warning, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and slides them down. the cool air hits you and you squirm, but before you can cover yourself he’s tossing the lace aside and staring at you.
"fuck", he whispers under his breath, more to himself than you, "you’re… wow"
"chris", you hiss, embarrassment flaming, "don’t just- stare"
"right, sorry, sorry", he mumbles, but the awe doesn’t leave his face as he leans down again.
the first lick is tentative. broad, slow, from your entrance up to your clit. you cry out, hand shooting into his hair.
he freezes, "too much?"
"no", you groan, pushing his head closer, "don’t you dare stop"
his groan vibrates against you as he licks again, a little firmer this time. your thighs twitch, back arching. he tastes you carefully, tongue circling your clit, dipping lower to flick over your entrance, then back up again.
"fuck, fuck, chris-"
"like that?", he asks, pulling back just far enough to speak, lips shiny.
"yes", you gasp, tugging his hair, "more, please, more-"
the words spur him on. suddenly his shyness is burning away under your reactions, replaced with hungry determination. his mouth works feverishly - sucking your clit, licking your folds, groaning into you when your hips roll against him.
your moans fill the room, shameless, and he swallows them like fuel.
"you taste-", he pants against you, breath hot, "you taste so fucking good"
the praise makes you shudder, thighs clamping around his head. he groans and pries them apart, tongue flicking faster until you’re a writhing mess under him.
"does this-", he pauses to catch his breath, lips shiny with you, "does this feel good?"
"chris, oh my god", you’re babbling, breathless, "you’re so good, fuck, i’m-"
he doesn’t let up. his tongue circles your clit again and again, his lips sucking it between them until your vision blurs.
the orgasm crashes into you suddenly, tearing through you so hard you cry out his name, body shaking. your hips grind desperately against his mouth, your hand fisting his hair as waves of pleasure roll over you.
he groans, holding you down, licking you through it like he can’t get enough.
you collapse back against the mattress, chest heaving, thighs trembling around his head. he finally pulls back, face flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you.
you stare at him, dazed, "the research really helped you", you manage, laughing weakly.
he grins, becoming shy once again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "guess i’m a fast learner"
your body still hums with the aftershocks, skin tingling, heartbeat skipping in uneven bursts. you’re not sure how long you lie there catching your breath, staring up at the ceiling while chan pulls back, wiping at his mouth like he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
you expect him to joke, to say something nerdy like he usually would. but instead, he shifts back on his knees, adjusting his hoodie with a jerky movement, cheeks dark red.
"i, uh-", his voice cracks and he clears his throat, "i should… go to the bathroom. real quick"
you blink at him, brain still fogged, words catching up slowly, "the bathroom? why-"
he gives a strangled little laugh and pushes to his feet, "just- just a minute", and then he’s gone, hoodie moving behind him, retreating down the hall.
the door shuts softly, leaving you in the quiet of your room. you exhale, letting your body sink deeper into the mattress. your legs still feel weak, your thighs sticky, but it’s not just that. it’s not just the orgasm.
it’s him. the way he looked at you like he was starving, the way he moaned into you like he’d been the one unraveling. you close your eyes, heart stuttering as you replay it, his tongue, his voice, his name on your lips-
"stop", you mutter to yourself, dragging a hand over your face.
this is supposed to be practical. practice for him, stress relief for you. that’s all. that’s what you’d said, what you’d agreed. so why does it feel like something fragile cracked wide open between you?
you shift upright, tugging your panties back on with trembling fingers, then your shorts. it feels strange, covering up again, like you’re pretending the last half hour didn’t happen.
by the time you pad out into the living room, your hair is mussed and your lips still swollen from you biting them, but you try to hold yourself steady.
chan steps out of the bathroom at almost the exact same moment, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair damp at his temples. his eyes meet yours instantly.
neither of you says anything.
you just stand there, the quiet pressing in, the faint glow of the paused movie still flickering across the room. his gaze flicks over your face, unreadable, then drops to the floor.
and in that silence, you both make the same choice. to not speak about what just happened. to walk past this like it was nothing more than what you said - practice, relief.
but deep in your chest, you know better. you feel it in the way your stomach flips, in the heaviness between your ribs, in the way his presence feels sharper now somehow, like the air itself is different.
something fragile. something dangerous. something you can’t name yet. so you move.
you brush past him, heading for the couch. he follows a moment later. you start the movie again. and the night carries on, steady, ordinary. but inside, neither of you is the same anymore.
the days after are strangely normal. at least, they’re supposed to be. neither of you brings it up, not once. the moment he came back from the bathroom that night, both of you slipped into this unspoken pact: don’t mention it. act like nothing happened. and that’s what you do.
your exams start right away and that helps. it’s easy to drown in deadlines, in notes spread across your desk, in late nights bent over your laptop with your brain buzzing from too much caffeine and too little sleep.
the only time you see chan outside of class is at the library, your tables pushed together with books piled high between you, or at the campus café where you both huddle over mugs of coffee before trudging back to study again.
and in those moments, it almost feels like everything is the same as it’s always been. chan frowning at his laptop, muttering formulas under his breath. you groaning into your notebook, doodling little stars in the margins when your brain refuses to absorb another word.
sometimes he taps your arm, pushing his cup towards you because he knows you’ll drink the last of his cappuccino without even asking. sometimes you tease him about how his glasses keep slipping down his nose, and he blushes and adjusts them in the exact same way he always has.
but underneath that, there’s something else. because not talking about it doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten.
you haven’t forgotten the way his mouth felt on you, the sound of his groan against your skin, the way your name broke out of him like he couldn’t help it. you haven’t forgotten how it felt when you came apart under him, sharper and deeper than anything you’d managed on your own.
you definitely haven’t forgotten the look on his face when he stared at you like you were something he’d been searching for his whole life. and your body doesn’t let you forget either.
the images sneak into your head when you’re least expecting it - when you’re trying to memorise dates, when you’re highlighting a textbook, when you’re brushing your teeth. suddenly you’re back in your bed, shirt bunched up, chan kneeling between your thighs with his hoodie still on like the world’s most innocent contradiction.
sometimes the memory leaks into your dreams too, vivid and warm, dragging you under until you wake up flushed and restless, your sheets damp, thighs sticky. those nights you roll onto your back, panting, and admit to yourself that you need to touch, need to relieve it, and it’s always his face you see when you slide your fingers between your legs. always his voice in your head, stuttering questions and shaky praise.
you hate yourself a little for it. but not enough to stop. and still, every day, you sit across from him with coffee during study sessions, just pretending. until friday comes around again.
friday nights are tradition. they always have been. no matter how bad the week was, no matter how much studying you had left, friday night was yours and chan’s. but this time, it feels different.
all day, there’s a nervous flutter in your stomach that won’t go away. your hands shake when you pack up your books, when you make space on the couch, when you change into something comfortable.
you keep telling yourself it’s just because you’re stressed, because exams have been eating you alive. but that doesn’t explain the way your chest tightens when you think about him showing up, or how your palms feel sweaty like you’re getting ready for a first date.
you’ve never felt nervous about him before. never. chan’s always been your safe place, your partner in crime, the person you could say anything to. but tonight? you keep glancing at the clock, chewing your lip, shifting in your seat like you’re waiting for something you can’t even name.
you hope the feeling disappears before he gets here. but deep down, you already know it won’t. you keep pacing your dorm, telling yourself you’re being ridiculous. it’s just chan. it’s always been just chan. but your brain won’t shut up.
what if he’s been thinking about it too? what if it’s weird now, what if he regrets it, what if he secretly can’t even look at you without remembering how shamelessly you came on his tongue?
you shake your head hard, pressing your palms into your temples. no. he would’ve said something if he regretted it. right? he wouldn’t keep showing up to study sessions, wouldn’t keep texting you dumb memes at two in the morning like nothing happened.
still, your heart pounds every time you glance at the door. you jump when the knock finally comes. too sharp, too loud in your small dorm. your body freezes for a second, like you need to decide whether to actually open it.
you force yourself to breathe, to smooth your hands down the front of your hoodie before crossing to the door. when you pull it open, there he is. chan, standing in the hallway with his backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it all day. his glasses slide down his nose almost immediately, and he gives you that sheepish smile that usually makes you roll your eyes. tonight, it makes your stomach flip.
"hey", he says, casual, like he didn’t have you trembling just by knocking.
"hey", you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as shaky as you feel.
there’s a beat too long where you just look at each other. nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would notice, but it’s there - a pause weighted with everything you’re not saying.
and then chan clears his throat, stepping inside, "so, what’s on the menu tonight? i’m starving"
just like that, the air shifts back into familiar territory.
"you’re always starving", you shoot back automatically, closing the door behind him, "what do you want? pizza? thai? something greasy enough to kill us both before the exams can?"
he laughs, dropping his backpack by the couch, "you know me too well"
"obviously", you mutter, already pulling up the food app on your phone.
before long you’re sprawled across the couch together, menus pulled up, arguing over toppings the same way you always do.
"no mushrooms", chan insists firmly.
"you’re such a child", you retort, nudging his knee with your foot, "mushrooms are fine"
"fine? they’re fungus", he makes a face, and you can’t help laughing.
"you’re fungus", you shoot back weakly, and he rolls his eyes.
you’re both half-curled into opposite corners of the couch, phones out, scrolling through the endless list of restaurant options.
"okay", chan says suddenly, tilting his screen towards you, "what about this place? they make burgers with fried eggs on top"
"that’s disgusting", you reply instantly.
his jaw drops, "excuse me, you’ve never even tried it"
"and i don’t need to. i can picture the yolk dripping all over the bun. gross"
he narrows his eyes at you, "this is why you’re stressed all the time. you don’t live on the edge"
you bark out a laugh, "you think putting an egg on a burger is living on the edge?"
"obviously", he says, dead serious, and you throw a cushion at him. he ducks, grinning, glasses slipping further down his nose until he pushes them up with his thumb.
"fine", you say, scrolling again, "what about sushi?"
"sushi’s good", he admits, then adds with a smirk, "but you’re gonna hog all the salmon like you always do"
"that’s because it’s the best one", you shoot back, and he snorts.
"selfish", he mutters, but he’s smiling at you, and the teasing warmth in his eyes makes your chest ache.
by the time you finally settle on a compromise - greasy pizza with half mushrooms, half safe options for him - you’re both laughing too hard at the dumb "no mushrooms" debate to notice the minutes slipping by.
the doorbell rings and chan leaps up to get it, tossing you a triumphant grin like he personally summoned the delivery guy. you roll your eyes, but when he plops the boxes down on the coffee table, the smell makes your stomach rumble. soon enough you’re cross-legged on the floor, paper plates balanced on your knees, arguing over who gets the biggest slice.
"you literally just picked the one with the most cheese", chan points out through a mouthful.
"survival of the fittest", you shrug, already biting into it.
he shakes his head, but he’s smiling, lips shiny with grease, "you’re impossible"
"and you love it", you say without thinking, the words slipping out too easily.
he freezes just a little, then huffs out a laugh and nudges your shoulder with his, "unfortunately"
you both laugh, and the moment passes, but your stomach flips in a way it shouldn’t.
after dinner you collapse back onto the couch, pizza boxes stacked carelessly to the side. chan stretches out on the opposite sofa, one arm thrown over the backrest, legs spread in that careless way that takes up too much space. his hoodie rides up just enough to show the waistband of his sweatpants, and you force your eyes away.
you grab the remote, scrolling through movie options.
"no rom-coms", chan warns immediately.
you smirk, "what if i want to cry over two people falling in love, huh?"
"then cry over your own life", he shoots back, smirking too.
you chuck a balled-up napkin at him, "asshole"
he laughs, leaning back, utterly comfortable in your living room like it’s his own. and you should feel the same way - you always have. but tonight, it’s harder. because when the movie starts, your attention keeps drifting. not to the plot, but to him.
the way his chest rises and falls with easy breaths. the way he absentmindedly runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. the way his mouth curves when something funny happens on screen.
and just like that, your brain betrays you. suddenly you’re not seeing chan sprawled out across your couch. you’re seeing chan between your thighs, eyes dark with focus, lips shiny, tongue moving against you until you scream his name.
you shift uncomfortably, heat flooding low in your stomach. the thought makes your skin prickle, your breath catch. you cross your legs tighter, willing yourself to focus on the movie instead.
don’t think about it. don’t.
you glue your eyes to the screen, ignoring the way your pulse jumps, ignoring the dampness you feel gathering where you really don’t want it to, “just watch the movie. pretend he’s not even here”, that’s what you think to yourself.
you keep your eyes locked on the screen, determined to make it through the movie without betraying yourself. every time you feel your attention wandering towards chan, you squeeze your thighs tighter, dig your nails into your palm, breathe slower. you can do this. just a couple of hours.
the movie drags on. normally you’d be curled into your sofa, laughing at his commentary, nudging him when he says something stupid, pausing the film to argue about a plot hole. tonight, your body feels stiff, locked in place.
chan sprawls even further across his couch, one hand resting casually against his stomach, the other hanging over the side. when he yawns, the hem of his hoodie rides up higher, exposing a strip of skin that you definitely don’t notice. definitely.
when the credits finally roll, relief rushes through you - until you realise he’s looking at you. not at the screen, not half-asleep the way he sometimes is at the end of a long day. he’s looking at you.
"you okay?", he asks, voice low.
your heart skips, "yeah. why?"
he tilts his head, studying you like he’s solving one of his coding problems, "you seem… tense. quieter than usual"
shit. you force a laugh, tugging at the hem of your shorts, "it’s the exams", you say quickly, grateful when the excuse falls easily off your tongue, "i mean, we’ve already done a couple, but there’s still so much left. i just want it over with, you know?"
he hums, slow and thoughtful, nodding, "yeah. makes sense", he shifts, sitting up a little straighter, elbows on his knees, "you’ve been working really hard. i can tell"
the sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten. you duck your gaze, focusing on the pattern of the carpet instead of his eyes.
"we’ll get through it", you mumble, "just… need to keep going"
"mm", he agrees, but there’s a weight behind it, like he’s not entirely convinced. his gaze lingers, heavy enough that you fidget.
then, after a beat of silence, he speaks again. carefully, like he’s testing the water.
"you know…", his hand rubs at the back of his neck, his glasses slipping down a little, "if you need to, um, relieve some stress…"
your stomach flips violently.
he clears his throat, meeting your eyes just for a second before looking away, "i could… help you. like you helped me the other day"
the words hang in the air, thick, undeniable. his cheeks are flushed, but his voice is steady.
"like…", his tongue darts out to wet his lips, "i could go down on you again. if you want"
your mouth goes dry. for a moment you wonder if you misheard him - if your brain, fried from exams and lack of sleep, just made up the words you’ve secretly been wishing for. but no, he really said it.
you blink at him. he’s not even looking at you now, his gaze fixed on some invisible spot across the room, ears red, hand still rubbing nervously at the back of his neck.
"chris…", you breathe, not even sure what you want to say.
he winces, shoulders hunching like he’s bracing himself for rejection, "forget it. i shouldn’t have said anything, i just-"
"no", you sit up quickly, cutting him off, "no, i-", your heart slams against your ribs, words stumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them, "i want to"
his head jerks towards you, eyes wide, "you… do?"
heat rushes to your face, but you nod, "yeah. i mean…", you hug your knees to your chest, trying to gather yourself, "last time… it really helped. and it-", you swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, "it felt good. really good"
his breath hitches. his lips part like he wants to say something, but no sound comes out.
you scramble for words, heart racing, "and…i was less stressed for a bit. and you… you said you wanted practice, right?", you give a small, nervous laugh, hoping it hides the thundering pulse in your neck, "so it’s not… weird. it’s practical. it’s useful for both of us"
chan’s fingers flex restlessly against his knees, and he nods slowly, as if trying to convince himself too, "right. practice", his voice is low, strained, "and stress relief. yeah"
you nod quickly, maybe too quickly, "exactly. that’s all it is", but even as you say it, your throat feels dry. your skin prickles under the weight of his eyes.
he shifts in his seat, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves, "i just…", his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you catch yourself staring, heat curling low in your stomach, "i don’t want to mess it up. or make it worse for you. i’m still-", he lets out a breath, shoulders tightening, "still figuring things out. i don’t want to get it wrong"
your chest squeezes at the honesty in his voice, but you shake your head, "you won’t. that’s the point, remember? practice. you get better by doing it. and i-", your face burns, "i don’t mind helping you"
the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but it falters before it can form, "you’re sure?"
you let out a shaky laugh, rubbing your palms against your thighs, "chris, i wouldn’t agree if i wasn’t sure"
for a moment, neither of you move. the only sound is the low hum of the tv in the background, credits still rolling. the air feels sharp, charged, like one wrong move could shatter it.
finally, he exhales, long and slow, "okay", his voice is firmer now, though his ears are still red, "this is just for stress relief… and for practice"
"yeah", you whisper, even though your whole body feels too hot, too alive, for such a casual excuse, "just that"
he nods again, like repeating it will make it true, "then…", his eyes flick towards the hallway, then back to you, uncertain, "should we… go to your room?"
your pulse jumps. you stand before you can talk yourself out of it, brushing invisible stains from your shorts, "bedroom", you confirm softly, and he follows close behind.
your room feels different when you both step inside. smaller, heavier, like the walls are pressing in, thick with anticipation neither of you can quite name. chan lingers by the door for a second, tugging at the hem of his hoodie like he’s second-guessing everything. you turn to him, trying to smile, but your throat is too dry.
"so", you say, trying to joke, to lighten the air before it crushes you. your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with deliberate slowness, "you know how to start now, so you won’t mess it up"
the words come out breezier than you feel, a shield to cover the racing of your heart. chan’s ears flush pink, his gaze darting down and back up again, like he doesn’t know where to look, "no pressure, huh?", he mutters, his laugh soft and awkward.
you kick the shorts aside, your panties - lace again, though you hadn’t planned it - catching the dim light, "it’s practice", you remind him, though your pulse hammers in your throat, "just like last time"
he nods, steps forward, and you lay on the bed. your legs part instinctively when he kneels between them, his hands hovering for a second before settling gently on your thighs. he’s warm on your skin, grounding despite the tremor in his fingers.
for a moment, neither of you speak. then chan exhales and leans down, pressing a soft, tentative kiss over the lace covering you. the contact jolts through your body, a gasp catching in your throat.
"still good?", he murmurs, glancing up through his lashes.
"yes", you whisper, clutching the comforter beneath you, "just… don’t stop"
he doesn’t. his lips brush over the damp patch, slow and careful, then firmer as your hips twitch towards him. his tongue presses against the thin fabric, teasing where you’re already soaked, and a choked moan escapes before you can stop it.
his eyes flick up to your face at the sound, and you see his confidence spark there, "that was good?"
"yes", you pant, cheeks burning, "god, yes"
he grins shakily, then bends again, lips sealing over you through the lace. every soft suck, every slow drag of his tongue makes your thighs tighten around him, your body already desperate for more.
before long, you’re squirming against him, hips tilting restlessly, "chris", you groan, the word breaking apart on your tongue.
he chuckles low, the vibration buzzing through you, "think you’re ready?", his fingers catch the waistband of your panties.
you nod quickly, too breathless to care about shyness anymore. he slides your panties down, slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on you the entire time. when the lace is finally tossed aside, he pauses, swallowing hard.
"fuck", he whispers, almost reverent.
heat surges through you, and you reach out, tangling your fingers in his hair, "i told you before to stop staring", you murmur, but your voice cracks.
"right", he mutters, shaking himself, then dips his head again.
the first lick is broad and slow, from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and it rips a cry from your throat. your back arches, thighs twitching around his head.
"fuck, chris", you moan, tugging at his hair.
he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and does it again - firmer this time, bolder. he laps at you with growing hunger, his tongue circling your clit before dipping down to taste your entrance, then back up again.
"you taste so good", he pants between licks, lips shiny, "fuck- better than anything"
you gasp, trembling, your body on fire at his words, "don’t stop, please- just like that"
he obeys, his mouth working eagerly, his moans mingling with yours. every twitch of your hips, every broken sound from your lips seems to spur him on, his shyness burning away with each passing second.
and then, suddenly, he pulls back just far enough to murmur, breathless, "can i try something?"
you nod frantically, not even processing what he means, "yes, yes, anything-"
you don’t register it until you feel it: the slow press of his fingers against you, tentative but insistent. your gasp breaks into a moan, high and desperate, as he slides one finger in.
"fuck, oh my god-"
his mouth returns to your clit instantly, tongue circling in time with the gentle thrust of his finger. the combination is overwhelming, your body clenching tight around him.
"does that feel good?", he asks against you, his voice muffled, shaky.
"yes", you cry, hips grinding against his face, "yes, don’t stop, fuck-"
his groan rumbles through you as he adds another finger, stretching you slowly while his tongue flicks relentlessly at your clit. the sensation sends sparks shooting through your veins, your body trembling uncontrollably.
"chris, fuck, i’m-", you can’t even finish, your words dissolving into broken moans.
"come for me", he urges, his voice rough against your skin, "please- i wanna feel it"
the pressure snaps, your climax crashing into you with blinding force. your entire body shudders, back arching off the bed, his name tearing from your throat as you convulse around his fingers. he groans, holding you down, licking you through every wave as if he can’t get enough.
you collapse back against the bed, chest heaving, body still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. your thighs twitch weakly against the sheets, your pulse thundering in your ears. you can still feel him, the ghost of his mouth everywhere, the slick heat of his tongue, the way he wouldn’t stop until you broke.
chan stays between your legs, his palms now resting lightly on your thighs like he’s afraid to move without permission. his face is flushed, lips swollen and glistening, chin wet with you. his glasses are slightly crooked, fogged around the edges.
"was… was that okay?", he asks finally, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it over your own ragged breathing.
you let out a shaky laugh, weak but genuine, "okay? chris, that was-", the word gets lost in the haze clouding your brain, and you close your eyes for a second before finding your voice again, "that was so fucking good. you were amazing"
the tension in his shoulders eases, just slightly, though his blush deepens, "really?"
you open your eyes, meeting his gaze, letting him see the truth of it, "really. you don’t have to second-guess every move. i promise"
his lips twitch into a shy, relieved smile, but he still ducks his head like he can’t quite handle your praise, "guess… research wasn’t useless after all", he murmurs.
you’re about to tease him when your eyes trail down, lower. you notice the way his hoodie bunches awkwardly across his lap, how he shifts subtly like he’s uncomfortable. his breathing hasn’t steadied the way yours has - if anything, it sounds sharper, restrained.
your stomach flips. oh.
he’s hard.
you blink, heart stumbling in your chest. your eyes linger too long before jerking back up. he notices. of course he notices. his breath stutters, ears burning red. he coughs, tugging the hoodie further down as if that could hide the obvious, "i- uh. i should, um…", his voice cracks, and he clears his throat again, "i should go to the bathroom. just, uh… deal with it"
the words hit you like a slap of clarity. suddenly, you remember last time. that first night. how he’d excused himself after, disappeared into your bathroom for some time, how he’d come back looking a little flushed, avoiding your eyes.
you push yourself up onto your elbows, staring at him, "oh my god", you whisper, "last week- you did the same thing, didn’t you?"
his eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights, "it’s not-", he stumbles, voice awkward, rushed, "don’t worry about it. really. it’s nothing"
"chris", you press, guilt flooding you, "you went to the bathroom to…", you trail off, cheeks burning, unable to finish the sentence.
he rakes a hand through his hair, flustered, "look, it’s not important. i didn’t say anything because- because it’s not your problem. i just needed to… you know. calm down"
but you can’t shake the guilt twisting in your chest. he’d just gone down on you until you couldn’t breathe and you hadn’t even thought about what he was left with after. and now, with your body still buzzing and your mind hazy, the thought slips out before you can stop it.
"but you must be uncomfortable like that", you blurt, words tumbling fast, nervous, "and it’s not fair, you did all that for me and-", you swallow, embarrassment prickling at your skin, "i could help. i mean- take care of it. for you"
his entire body goes rigid. silence stretches between you, thick and heavy. he stares at you like you’ve just spoken in another language.
"what?", his voice is strangled, hoarse.
you bite your lip hard, heat rushing to your face, "i just-", the words keep spilling, uncontrollable, like a dam breaking, "you said you’ve never done anything, right? so… so no one’s ever done that for you. and you’re obviously…", your eyes flick briefly to his lap before darting away, "turned on. and this could also be good practice. for you. and it could help, like, relieve stress for you too- ", you groan softly, dragging your hands down your face, "fuck, i don’t know, i just thought maybe it’d help. unless you don’t want me to, then-"
"stop", he cuts in suddenly, his voice sharper than you’ve ever heard from him.
your chest tightens, panic flashing through you, "s-sorry, i-"
"no, i mean-", he shakes his head quickly, fumbling, "stop before you talk yourself out of it", his hands curl into fists on his thighs, his chest rising and falling unevenly, "because i… yeah. i want that. i want you to"
your breath catches, "you do?"
his laugh is nervous, shaky, but his eyes burn with something desperate, unfiltered, "do you even know how hard it is to sit here like this after-", he breaks off, groaning softly, running both hands over his face, "yes. please. i want that"
the air between you shifts, charged and new. your skin prickles as he moves hesitantly, standing to tug his sweats down just enough to free himself. he leaves his hoodie on, mirroring you still half-dressed, both of you strangely comforted by the fact that you’re not fully naked for this.
he lies back on your bed, tense but trying to look relaxed, arms folded under his head. his cock pressing against his stomach, flushed and heavy, and you can’t stop staring for a second - your mouth suddenly dry.
you crawl closer on your knees, heart hammering, "so… i just-"
he swallows, voice rough, "whatever you want. whatever feels right"
you hesitate, then wrap your hand gently around him. he hisses instantly, his hips jerking.
"fuck", he gasps, biting down on his lip, eyes fluttering shut, "oh my god"
his reaction makes you bolder, your thumb brushing over his tip, smearing the slick gathered there. he moans, muffled into his lips, and your own stomach flips at the sound.
"does this feel good?", you ask quietly, suddenly shy.
"so good", he groans, his voice thick, needy, "don’t stop please"
you tighten your grip carefully, stroking him from base to tip in a slow, tentative motion. his whole body reacts - chest heaving, thighs tensing, a hiss slipping between his teeth.
"holy shit", chan groans, his voice breaking. his hand shoots down to grab at your wrist like he’s afraid he might lose himself too fast, but he doesn’t stop you. he just squeezes lightly, grounding himself.
you glance up, watching his flushed face, the way his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogged at the edges. he looks wrecked already.
"am i-", you swallow nervously, "am i doing it right?", it’s not your first time, but you want to make sure he enjoys it as much as you did.
his laugh is breathless, pained almost, "are you kidding? fuck yes. yes, just like that"
his hips twitch involuntarily as you drag your hand back down, your thumb circling the head, spreading the slick that beads there. his head falls back against the pillow, exposing the column of his throat.
"fuck", he whines, low in his chest, "you’re gonna kill me"
you smile at him, stroking him faster now, watching his abs tighten under his hoodie with every movement. his cock pulses in your hand, leaking steadily, making it easy to glide up and down. he’s panting openly, no longer trying to hold it in, each sound spilling out and fueling you. the sight of him undone because of you makes your own core throb, wetness gathering again between your thighs.
after a minute, curiosity sparks, boldness overriding your nerves. you bend lower, your lips brushing the swollen tip as your hand continues working him. chan jerks, a strangled sound tearing from his throat.
"oh my god-", his eyes fly open, meeting yours, wide and glassy, "are you- are you really-"
you hum softly in answer, opening your mouth and taking just the head inside. the salty tang hits your tongue instantly, new but not unpleasant, and his entire body arches off the bed.
"fuck, fuck, fuck", he chants, hands flying up like he doesn’t know where to put them. they hover above you before finally tangling desperately in the sheets, "that feels- ah, that feels insane"
you hollow your cheeks around him gently, experimenting, letting your tongue swirl across the tip while your hand strokes the rest of him. his moans grow louder, unrestrained, echoing in your small bedroom.
"jesus, you’re-", he chokes, voice cracking, "you’re too good at this. i’m- fuck- i’m not gonna last"
the confession sends a rush of heat straight through you. you bob lower, taking him deeper, your throat relaxing as you adjust. chan’s hands finally give up on restraint, one burying itself in your hair. he doesn’t push, just holds, trembling as he groans your name like a prayer.
"don’t stop", he begs, voice wrecked, "please, please don’t stop"
you moan around him, vibrations making his thighs tremble. his hips lift helplessly, but you steady him with a firm hand on his stomach, holding him down while you keep working him.
his broken sounds fill the air - gasps, curses, desperate whimpers muffled against his bitten knuckles. he’s falling apart under you, unraveling with every lick, every stroke, every suck. and he looks beautiful like this - glasses askew, hoodie rucked up to reveal clenched abs, hair sticking damply to his forehead.
"shit-", his voice cracks, high and raw, "shit, i’m gonna- fuck, i’m gonna come"
you don’t pull away. if anything, you take him deeper, pushing yourself until your nose brushes the soft skin of his stomach. his strangled moan fills the air, guttural and raw, and his grip in your hair tightens just enough to tremble.
"fuck-," his voice is broken, a half-sob, "i can’t- i can’t hold it-"
you hum low around him, the vibration making his hips jerk violently. your hand strokes what your mouth can’t take, twisting, squeezing in rhythm. every second, every flick of your tongue, his control unravels further. his thighs are shaking under your palms. his stomach contracts sharply, abs twitching. his head tosses back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut behind fogged glasses.
"oh my god, oh my god, please-", he babbles, the words spilling out of him helpless, "don’t stop, don’t- fuck, i’m so close"
your own pulse hammers in your ears, arousal pooling heavy and wet between your legs at the sound of him. you swallow around him, and that’s it - that’s the breaking point. his whole body arches off the bed, hand fisting tight in your hair as his orgasm crashes over him.
"fuck-", the word rips from his throat, hoarse and wrecked, as he spills hot and thick onto your tongue.
you don’t move, just keep stroking and swallowing as much as you can, letting him ride it out. his hips jerk helplessly, every spasm drawing another broken moan from his chest.
he’s loud, louder than you’ve ever heard him - a mix of whimpers and curses and your name groaned like he’s praying to it. his release seems endless, hot pulses filling your mouth until it drips down your throat. he’s panting hard, chest heaving under his hoodie, skin damp with sweat.
finally, he collapses back against the bed, trembling all over, breath catching in sharp little gasps. you ease off him slowly, licking him clean with soft, tentative swipes, and then you sit back on your heels, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.
chan blinks up at you, dazed, his glasses crooked, lips parted like he can’t find the words.
"holy shit", he breathes at last, voice wrecked, "that was-", he cuts himself off with a broken laugh, hand dragging down his face, "i don’t even know what that was. i think you just ruined me"
the silence after is heavy, the kind that presses into your skin, settling deep in your bones. you sit there on your knees, chest rising and falling, still tasting him faintly on your tongue. chan hasn’t moved much - sprawled out on your bed, hoodie bunched at his stomach, sweat glistening at his temples. he’s catching his breath like he just ran a marathon, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed crimson.
for a moment, you just stare at him, the raw sight of him undone, ruined, still twitching in the aftermath. it’s too much, too intimate, and you quickly duck your head.
"uh-", his voice cracks, soft and hoarse. he clears his throat, trying again, still breathless, "wow. that was… yeah"
you snort, though it comes out shaky, your lips tugging into a nervous smile, "very articulate, christopher. top marks on feedback"
he laughs, a breathless little huff that makes your chest ache for reasons you can’t quite name. his hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, tugging at his damp curls, "sorry. my brain’s not… really working right now"
"you don’t say", you mutter, trying to keep it light, teasing, though your heart is pounding like a drum in your chest.
he groans, dragging a hand over his face, glasses sliding crooked again, "god, i can’t believe that just happened"
your stomach twists, equal parts nerves and something else you don’t dare name. so you force a laugh, forcing the words out before the silence can grow too heavy, "hey, think of it this way, just like i told you. you got more practice. hands-on learning, right?"
he peeks at you through his fingers, ears bright red, "hands-on, huh? that’s… one way to put it", his lips twitch, embarrassed but amused.
"don’t look so scandalised", you shoot back, nudging his knee with your hand, "this was for both of us. you needed practice, i needed stress relief", the words feel brittle on your tongue, like glass that might shatter if you press too hard.
"right", he echoes, softer this time. he pushes himself up on his elbows, still flushed, still shaky, "mutually beneficial arrangement"
the phrase makes you laugh, though it comes out almost too high-pitched, strained, "exactly. very professional of us"
"super professional", he agrees, grinning weakly. then his expression shifts, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face, "you’re… okay, though? with this? i mean-", he gestures vaguely, his hand fluttering through the air, "everything"
the question squeezes at your chest. you swallow past the knot in your throat and nod quickly, too quickly, "yeah. totally fine"
it’s not a lie, not exactly. you are fine. more than fine, maybe. your body is loose and wrecked, your pulse still humming from release, and yet there is something else there too. something sharp, fragile, cracking open in your chest. you shove it down before it can claw its way out.
he studies you for a beat longer, then nods, letting it go. his shoulders slump, tension bleeding out of him, and he lets out another breathless laugh, "god, if exams were half as intense as that, i’d actually study harder"
you chuckle, shaking your head, "don’t let the university hear you say that. they’ll start adding… extracurriculars to the curriculum"
"yeah", he says, grinning now, more himself again, "practical exams"
the both of you laugh, the sound lighter than the air between you feels. but when the laughter fades, quiet seeps back in, and you’re left staring at him - at his flushed cheeks, his mussed hair, his chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie. something inside you snaps again, a soft, almost imperceptible crack, like a thread pulled too tight finally giving way.
you feel it. you know he must feel it too, even if neither of you will admit it out loud. not now. not yet.
so you clear your throat, reaching for the corner of the blanket and tossing it at him, "hey, superstar. cover yourself before i start charging you for the show"
he catches it with a startled laugh, cheeks flaming again as he pulls it over his lap, "wow. brutal. no bedside manner whatsoever"
"hey, i never claimed to be gentle"
he shakes his head, grinning despite himself, and you cling to that - the banter, the laughter, the safe surface of things. pretending, together, that this is all it is: practice and stress relief. even as you stand to get the rest of your clothes, feeling more breakable than you’ve ever been.
the days that follow settle into a rhythm, the same one you’ve known since uni began.
the last exams, classes again, lectures, group projects, long hours hunched over textbooks until your eyes blur. chan is there through it all, like he always is. you meet in the library, side by side with laptops open, passing notes and snacks back and forth. you take breaks together too - quick coffees, cheap sandwiches from the vending machines, ten minutes of fresh air before diving back into the mess of exams.
on the surface, nothing’s changed. he still complains about professors under his breath just loud enough for you to hear, still pushes his glasses up when they slide down, still drums his pencil on the desk when he’s thinking. you still roll your eyes at him, still steal fries off his plate without asking, still laugh until your stomach hurts when he gets that high, wheezy giggle going.
but underneath, everything feels different. there’s a fragile edge to your laughter now, a quiet pulse in the air when you brush shoulders leaning over his notes, a sharp intake of breath when his knee bumps yours under the table. neither of you talk about it, but it lingers, heavy and electric.
and then friday comes again. movie night. your tradition, your anchor. you clean up a little before he arrives, trying to tell yourself it’s not for him, not because of him. but when you hear the knock at your door, your stomach flips the same way it did last week.
chan steps in, hoodie slung loose over his shoulders, hair messy from the wind outside. he kicks his shoes off like always, drops his bag in the same spot, greets you with a crooked grin like nothing in the world is different.
it’s almost easy, falling back into routine. almost. you decide on food, bicker lightly about who gets to pick the movie, laugh over the dumbest things while you eat. it’s comfortable, familiar. the kind of comfort that only comes from years of friendship, the kind that usually settles you like a weighted blanket. but tonight it only winds you tighter, because you know where this could lead, what’s waiting unspoken between you.
the movie starts. you sit on opposite ends of the couch tonight. he sprawls out, one leg hanging off the edge, hoodie rucked up a little at the waist. you try to focus on the screen, on the noise and light, but your eyes keep drifting. to the shape of his mouth, the slope of his throat, the way his chest rises and falls as he laughs at a line of dialogue.
before you know it, you’re burning, just like last week. you press your thighs together, shifting slightly, praying he doesn’t notice. but of course, he notices.
"you seem… tense", he murmurs suddenly, voice quiet under the sound of the movie.
you jerk your head towards him, startled, "what? no. i’m fine"
he raises a brow, unconvinced. your heart thunders. you swallow hard.
it feels like the ground shifts beneath you, like everything you’ve been ignoring is suddenly too close to the surface. but instead of running, instead of shutting it down, you hear yourself whisper, "fuck it"
and somehow, that’s all it takes.
minutes later, you’re in your room again, like you’ve stumbled into some unspoken script.the air in your bedroom is heavy. not the same nervous, fumbling kind of heavy as last week, but charged, expectant. you’re both more sure now, not stumbling into this for the first time but returning to something that already burned you alive once.
you lie back on the bed, pushing your shorts and panties down without waiting for him to ask. it feels shameless and brazen and your heart is hammering, but the look on chan’s face when you spread your thighs for him makes the embarrassment worth it.
he doesn’t hesitate this time. no stiff hands on your thighs, no lingering second-guessing. he slides down between your legs like he’s been replaying this moment in his head all week, hoodie riding up as he settles on his stomach.
"you know what you’re doing now", you tease, your voice shaky despite the grin on your lips, "so you can’t mess it up"
he laughs softly, but it’s lower, rougher than before, "guess you’ll have to grade me"
you don’t even have time to roll your eyes before his mouth is on you. no lace barrier this time, no easing in. just the hot press of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue over your clit that makes your whole body jolt.
"fuck-", your hand flies into his hair, tugging without thinking.
he groans into you, the vibration shooting straight through your nerves. it’s different this time. not careful kisses and hesitant licks, but hungry, deliberate movements. he sucks gently at your clit, tongue swirling, pulling broken sounds from your throat before you can stop them.
you writhe against the sheets, thighs clamping around his head, and instead of backing off, he groans and forces them apart, locking his arms under your thighs to hold you open for him.
"chris-", his name rips out of you, high and raw.
he pulls back just far enough to look up at you, his lips shiny, his eyes dark, "tell me what feels best", he rasps.
your brain is clouded, words tangled with pleasure, but you manage to say, "there- right there, don’t stop"
he doesn’t. he dives back in, tongue flicking, circling, his groans getting louder every time you moan for him. your body arches, your hips rolling helplessly into his mouth. the sounds spilling from you are shameless now, gasps and whimpers and broken cries.
then he changes it up again - his tongue still working your clit, but his hand slides down, fingers teasing your entrance before pressing in.
"fuck!", you choke out, head falling back against the pillow.
last time, his touch had been tentative, careful. now, his fingers curl inside you with purpose, finding the spot that makes your whole body seize.
"oh my god, yes, there, chris, please"
he groans, the sound desperate, and pumps his fingers faster, his tongue relentless on your clit. the combination is too much. it builds fast, fierce, white-hot. you’re babbling nonsense, tugging at his hair, thighs trembling against his shoulders.
and then you’re gone. climax tearing through you, blinding and overwhelming. you cry out, body shaking, grinding against his mouth as if you never want him to stop. he doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, oversensitive, trying to push him away. only then does he finally pull back, panting, lips swollen, face wet with you. you collapse, dazed, chest heaving.
he wipes his chin with the back of his hand, but his eyes are wide, his expression dazed too, like he can’t believe how much he lost himself in you. you’re still catching your breath, body buzzing, when you notice it. the way chan shifts against the mattress, the rise and fall of his chest too quick, the faint bulge pressing against his sweatpants.
you prop yourself up on your elbows, still wrecked, still flushed, but a slow smirk tugging at your lips, "you know", you rasp, voice hoarse from moaning his name, "it’s not fair if i’m the only one getting relief"
his eyes snap up to yours, wide, startled, lips still damp with you. you sit up properly, then crawl towards him and making him lie on your bed now. your hand slides down his stomach, deliberately brushing the hem of his hoodie, "your turn"
he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, "y-you don’t"
"i want to", you cut in, your tone firm but not unkind. your hand hovers at the waistband of his sweats, waiting for his reaction, "unless you don’t"
he exhales shakily, and then his head tips back like he’s surrendering, "fuck. yeah. please"
that’s all the permission you need. you tug his sweats down just enough to free him, the fabric pooling at his thighs. his cock springs out, flushed, heavy, leaking already.
you bite your lip, heat blooming low in your stomach, "so hard", you murmur without thinking.
his face burns, but his hips twitch at the praise. you wrap your hand around him first, testing, squeezing lightly. his groan rips out instantly, head falling back.
"shit-"
you stroke him slowly, watching the way his chest rises and falls, the way his hoodie rides up, exposing his toned stomach.
"feels good?", you ask, your voice dripping smugness.
"fuck, yes", he groans, hips bucking helplessly into your fist, "don’t stop-"
you don’t. your hand works him steadily, spreading his precum down his length, twisting your wrist just to hear the broken sounds he makes. his hands fist in the sheets, his thighs tense under you, his face a mess of parted lips and shut eyes.
"you’re beautiful like this", you whisper, and it slips out before you can stop it.
his eyes fly open, glassy and desperate, "don’t- don’t say shit like that", he pants, "you’ll kill me"
you grin, then bend down, your tongue flicking against the tip of his cock. he gasps, a sharp, strangled sound, hips jerking.
"oh fuck-"
you do it again, slower this time, savoring the salty taste, the way he whimpers. then you take him in, lips wrapping around him, sliding lower, your hand working what your mouth can’t.
his groan is guttural, torn from deep in his chest, "holy shit, fuck, i-"
he tries to stop himself, but he can’t. his hips stutter up, shallow thrusts into your mouth, and you let him, bobbing your head to match his rhythm. your tongue flattens against him, your cheeks hollow, and he’s gone.
"you’re gonna- i can’t- fuck, i’m gonna come"
you hum around him, the vibration dragging another moan from his lips. it’s all too much for him. his hand flies to your hair, not pushing, just holding, grounding himself as he unravels.
"oh my god- fuck, fuck, fuck"
he spills into your mouth, hot and overwhelming. his whole body arches, thighs trembling, abs tightening under his hoodie. you swallow what you can, pull back slowly, lips swollen, hand stroking him through the aftershocks until he collapses against the sheets, utterly wrecked. you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smirking faintly as you crawl up beside him.
he’s panting, dazed, hoodie sticking to his damp skin, "jesus christ", he mutters, voice wrecked, "you’re gonna kill me"
"guess the practice is working both ways", you say lightly, though your heart thunders in your chest.
his laugh is breathless, shaky, "yeah. guess so", but the way he looks at you - still undone, still reeling - makes it clear it’s more than that, even if neither of you will admit it yet.
it doesn’t happen all at once.
the first time after that week, when it happens again, you tell yourself it’s just another one-off, that the stress has been unbearable and chan offering to help is harmless. the second time, he’s too tired to think straight, too strung out from studying to argue when your hand lingers on his thigh and you murmur, "want me to help again?"
and then the third time, the fourth, the fifth…
before you realise it, it’s another ritual. friday night isn’t just about cheap takeout and terrible movies anymore. it’s the prelude. the movie ends, the plates get pushed aside, and one of you gives a look the other knows how to read instantly. you don’t talk about it, not really. you just… move.
sometimes it’s him between your thighs first, pulling your shorts down, glasses sliding low on his nose as he murmurs, "ready?", and waits for your frantic nod before licking into you like he’s starving. other times it’s you first, tugging at his sweats with a grin, "your turn tonight", and dropping between his legs as he curses under his breath, hoodie rucked up to show pale skin and trembling abs.
you never kiss. that line stays intact. mouths are for moaning, begging, praising, not for each other’s lips. but everything else blurs more with each week.
one night, when you’re sprawled on your bed with him buried between your thighs, you gasp, "fuck- right there, don’t stop"
he pulls back just long enough to smirk, chin slick with you, "i wasn’t planning to"
another night, you’re on your knees, his cock heavy on your tongue, his fist white-knuckled in your sheets. he groans, "fuck, you’re too good at this "
you pull off with a wet pop, stroking him slow, eyes wicked, "i guess practice is good for me too"
sometimes, when you whimper too loudly, he has to shush you, half-teasing, half-serious, "your neighbours are gonna know exactly what i’m doing to you"
your hips buck into his face, shameless, "let them"
as weeks pass, you both get bolder. he learns how to flatten his tongue just right, how to circle your clit until your whole body seizes. you learn that he goes insane when you take him deeper, when you hum low in your throat with him down your throat.
you tease him more, dragging it out, stroking him slow until he’s begging, "please, please, just- stop teasing"
he returns the favor, holding you down with his arm across your hips when you squirm, muffling your curses into your pillow. but it’s not cruel. never cruel. it’s playful, experimental, dripping with need.
the movies become background noise. sometimes you don’t even finish them. halfway through, your hand brushes his under the blanket, or his thigh presses into yours, and that’s all it takes. by the end of the night, you’re both sweaty, out of breath, clothes tangled on the floor, too wrecked to pretend it’s not affecting you. yet every time, you fall back on the same lines.
"good practice, right?"
"yeah. stress relief"
the words sound thinner each time, but neither of you dares to say anything else. still, when you catch him staring at you after you’ve collapsed against the mattress, when his hoodie rides up and you see his chest heaving, when your lips part like maybe this time you’ll kiss-
you both pull back.
next friday night changes everything.
it starts like all the others. the two of you are cross-legged on the couch, cartons of takeout spread across the coffee table. you’re arguing over who gets the last dumpling, him holding it just out of reach with his chopsticks while you glare at him.
"you’ve had three already", he says, smug behind his glasses.
"and?", you shoot back, lunging across the cushions.
he yelps, laughing so hard he almost drops it, "fine, fine, here-", he shoves it at you before you can tackle him.
the movie plays next. some ridiculous action flick with plot holes the size of sinkholes. you tease him for nitpicking the physics, he teases you for gasping at every predictable jump scare. your laughter fills the dorm, light and easy, the same way it always does. but beneath it - like every friday lately - there’s a hum in the air. a quiet knowing of what’s coming next.
later, you’re in your bed again. it’s become almost mechanical now: you tug off your shorts, he shrugs out of his sweats, both of you leaving hoodies and shirts on like it keeps this casual.
"same drill", he mutters, and even though he says it like a joke, his eyes are already dark behind his glasses.
then he’s kneeling between your thighs, pushing your knees apart, settling into a rhythm he’s perfected by now. slow kisses first, then broad tongue flattening over your clit until your back arches and your hand fists in his hair.
you moan his name, shameless now, because you’ve stopped pretending you can stay quiet for him. he groans against you, deeper, hungrier, eating you out like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.
you come hard, body clenching around his fingers curling inside you, hips rocking helplessly into his mouth. and when you finally collapse back, panting, he’s grinning up at you, chin slick, hoodie bunched at his elbows.
"getting good at this", he says, voice wrecked but proud.
you laugh breathlessly, tugging at his hair, "shut up and come here"
you flip him without hesitation now. he leans back against the pillows, and you climb between his knees. his cock is already hard, flushed, leaking. you wrap your hand around him, stroke slow, and his breath stutters, "fuck-"
then your mouth replaces your hand, and he falls apart. moaning, begging, trying and failing not to buck up into your throat. you take him deeper, hollow your cheeks, feel him twitch against your tongue until he’s groaning your name like it’s the only word he knows. he comes hard, spilling down your throat, and you swallow greedily, eyes locked on his face.
it should end there. like always. the routine complete.
but this time, it doesn’t.
you pull off him slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, chest heaving. he looks wrecked - hoodie askew, hair sticking up, glasses slipping low, sweat shining at his temples.
and suddenly, it hits you. this isn’t enough anymore. your body is still thrumming with need, still aching, still clenching at nothing. his tongue and fingers aren’t enough, your mouth on him isn’t enough. you want more. you need more.
you need him.
before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out, raw and desperate:
"chris… i need you”
“again?”, he asks, still trying to catch his breath.
“no, i-i need all of you. i need you inside me"
the silence that follows is deafening. he blinks, stunned, like he’s not sure he heard you right. his lips part, then close, then part again, "w-what?"
you swallow hard, nerves spiking, but the truth is already out there, "i can’t-", your voice cracks, and you force yourself to meet his eyes, "i can’t just stop here. i need more. i need you"
the silence after your words stretches long, heavy, but not empty. it thrums between you, full of everything you’ve both been pushing down for weeks.
chan shifts on the bed, glasses sliding down his nose. his lips part like he wants to say something, then close again. he scrubs a hand over his face, and when he speaks, his voice is rough.
"you’re serious", it’s not a question.
you nod quickly, heart pounding so hard it hurts, "i am. i wouldn’t-", your voice falters, but you steady it, "i wouldn’t say it if i didn’t mean it"
he exhales shakily, eyes searching yours, "you know i’ve never-", he breaks off, swallowing, and then forces it out, small and almost shy, "i’ve never done it before"
your chest tightens, warmth flooding through you. of course you know. you’ve known since that first night when he admitted he’d never gone down on anyone, when he confessed how much of his “experience” came from research instead of reality. but hearing him say it now, here, with both of you teetering on the edge - it feels different. softer. raw.
"i know", you whisper. you reach for his hand, curling your fingers with his, grounding him, "but… i want you. but only if you want it too"
his eyes flutter shut, like he’s fighting to keep himself together. when he opens them again, they’re darker, steadier, "i want it", he says, no hesitation now, "i want you"
something inside you aches at the way he says it. you lean forward, resting your forehead against his. for a moment, the two of you just breathe, sharing the air, letting the certainty settle in the spaces where nerves used to live.
"okay", you murmur.
you’re the one who moves first. shifting into his lap, straddling one of his thighs. the heat of his body seeps through the fabric of his hoodie, and when you settle your weight down, his breath catches. your hand finds him again, still hard, still flushed and leaking, and you wrap your fingers around him. his groan is immediate, desperate, as his hips buck up into your touch.
"fuck-", he gasps, head tipping back, throat working, "every time… every time you touch me, i feel like i’m gonna lose it"
you smile faintly, dizzy with how much you want him, "that’s kind of the point"
you stroke him slow, watching the way his face twists, how his chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. without realising it, your own hips start to move, grinding down against his thigh. the friction catches just right, sending sparks shooting through you, and a whimper slips out before you can stop it.
his eyes fly open, finding yours instantly. his mouth curves, shaky but awed, "you’re… riding my thigh"
you flush, but you don’t stop. if anything, you press harder, your rhythm syncing with the movement of your hand around him, "shut up", you mutter, breathless.
he groans, low and broken, his hands twitching where they grip your hips, "i’m not complaining"
the heat builds fast, the two of you locked in this messy rhythm, grinding and stroking, breathing each other in. your shirt is bunched awkwardly around your waist, his hoodie sticking to his skin. you tug it up with your free hand, wanting more contact, more of him. you press your palm against the strip of bare skin, feeling the heat of him, and it’s intoxicating.
"god", you whisper, "you’re so warm"
he moves to take it off completely, and then his gaze drops immediately, catching on the hem of your shirt still half-tangled at your ribs. he swallows hard, then tugs at the edge.
"can i…?", his voice is shaky, uncertain, but his eyes are blazing.
your answer is instant, "yes. yes, chris"
his hands are careful, reverent almost, as he pushes the fabric up and over your head. he tosses it aside and freezes, "fuck", he breathes, eyes wide, "you’re not- you’re not wearing a bra"
heat floods your cheeks, but you hold his gaze anyway, pulse hammering, "no", you say softly, "i’m not"
for a beat, he just stares. his mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something, but no words come out. his glasses have slipped lower down his nose, and behind them, his eyes are wide, dark, almost frantic with focus.
and then something changes. the nerves are still there, trembling under his skin, but hunger pushes forward, sharp and undeniable.
"fuck", he whispers again, and before you can react, he’s sitting up.
the shift drags you closer, your chest pressing to his chest, and you gasp as his mouth finds the curve of your neck.
"chris-", your voice breaks off in a moan when his lips latch onto your pulse, hot and desperate. he groans against your skin, one hand sliding up your side until it cups your breast. the contact makes you jolt, hips grinding down harder on his thigh.
"oh my god", you gasp, still stroking him through it, "yes, yes-"
he freezes for half a second, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes blown and searching, "is this okay?", his voice is ragged, almost pleading.
you nod so fast it makes you dizzy, "yes, fuck, yes, don’t stop"
the sound he makes is half groan, half growl, and then he’s all over you again. his mouth claims the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, messy kisses trailing lower, and his hand squeezes your breast with nervous reverence. you cry out when his thumb brushes your nipple.
"you like that?", he murmurs, sounding more like a scientist cataloguing data than someone making you come apart.
"yes", you whimper, arching into his touch, "chris, please-"
he obeys instantly, rolling your nipple between his fingers, gentle at first, then firmer when your hips stutter against him. your own hand doesn’t falter, still wrapped around him, stroking slow and tight. every little twitch of his cock in your palm makes you wetter, makes your grind against his thigh more frantic. then he moves again, lowering his head, his tongue flicking over your nipple.
you choke on a cry, your free hand flying into his hair, "fuck"
he groans against your skin, sucking softly, then harder, alternating licks and kisses that make your whole body shake. his other hand pinches your other nipple, rolling it between his fingers.
"jesus, you’re-", he pulls off just long enough to gasp, breath hot against your breast, "you’re so fucking soft, so perfect"
you moan louder, hips rolling hard against his leg, the friction against your clit almost unbearable. your hand speeds up on him, making him curse against your skin.
"you’re driving me crazy", he groans, mouth moving to your other breast. he licks a slow circle around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth and grazing it with his teeth, making your back arches helplessly.
"chris, oh my god- don’t stop-"
he doesn’t. he alternates between your breasts, his tongue, his teeth, his fingers, his groans vibrating through you while you keep stroking him, his precum slicking your palm. it’s messy and desperate and overwhelming, your bodies grinding and pulling and clutching like you’re both starving.
and through it all, you can feel the shift - how his curiosity is still there, but buried under something much hungrier. your hand is still stroking him, his mouth still at your breasts, when you realise you can’t take it anymore. the friction, the teasing, the way his thigh is soaked with you.
"chris", you gasp, tugging his hair so he looks up at you. your lips almost brush, breaths mixing, but you hold yourself back, "i need you now"
his brows knit, chest heaving, "you… you mean-"
"inside", you whisper, words shaky, desperate, "i need you inside me. please"
his breath stutters. his forehead drops to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he’s grounding himself, "are you sure?", his voice is hoarse, trembling with something between fear and hunger, "it’s my first time, i don’t- i don’t wanna mess this up"
your thumb strokes over the flushed head of his cock, making him groan low in his throat, "chris", you murmur, your voice firmer now, "you won’t. you’re perfect. and i need you"
he lets out a ragged sound, pressing his forehead harder against yours. for a moment neither of you move, just breathing each other in, hearts racing in sync.
"okay", he whispers finally, "okay. if you’re sure"
"i’m sure", you breathe back.
your hand slides down his length again, slow, teasing, and he curses, hips jerking. you grind against his thigh once more before straddling him properly, reaching down between you. his hands flutter nervously at your waist, then grip tight when he feels you line him up against your entrance. the blunt head nudges against you, hot, slick with your arousal. you both groan at the contact.
"fuck- you’re-", his words cut off with a strangled moan as you sink down, slowly, inch by inch.
the stretch burns, full and overwhelming, but you welcome it, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"oh my god", you gasp, voice breaking, "chris… so big-"
he lets out a strangled whimper, forehead pressed to yours, his whole body trembling, "holy shit, you’re- you’re so tight, so warm… i can’t-"
you bottom out, his cock buried deep, and you both stay there, shaking, clutching each other like lifelines.
"just breathe", you whisper, though you’re the one struggling for air, "just… breathe with me"
his forehead presses harder to yours, noses brushing, lips hovering dangerously close. you both groan in unison, breaths tangling - but you don’t kiss, you can’t. after a moment, you start to move, slowly, rolling your hips, grinding against him. he chokes on a sound, hands gripping your waist so hard it makes you moan.
"fuck, oh my god", he babbles, voice high and broken, "you feel so good, y/n, i can’t- i don’t know how to-"
"just- let me", you gasp, lifting yourself before sliding back down, your wetness making it easy now, "just feel me, chris. that’s all you have to do"
his head tips back, a strangled moan tearing out of him, and you take the chance to drag your mouth along his throat, licking, biting. his skin tastes like sweat and salt, and his pulse pounds under your tongue. he groans, pulling you closer, chest to chest, as you ride him harder.
"fuck, fuck, fuck- you’re gonna- you’re gonna kill me", he gasps, forehead slamming back against yours, your noses brushing again.
you moan right into his mouth, almost like a kiss, your lips so close you can taste his breath. his hips start moving, awkward at first, then desperate, thrusting up to meet yours. the angle makes you see stars, his cock dragging perfectly against your walls.
"yes, right there", you sob, nails clawing down his back.
"god, you’re- you’re so beautiful", he groans, words tumbling out unfiltered, "you feel so fucking good, i- i never wanna stop"
your teeth sink into the space between his ear and jaw, and he cries out, bucking harder into you.
"chris, fuck, i’m- i’m close", you pant, rolling your hips faster, your clit catching with every grind.
his forehead presses to yours again, sweat dripping, lips parting just enough that your moans mix in the small space between.
"me too", he gasps, voice shaking, "oh my god, i’m- i’m gonna-"
you cling to him, biting down on his shoulder, both of you unraveling. the orgasm hits you hard, tearing a cry from your throat as your walls clench around him. he shouts your name, hips jerking wildly as he spills inside you, hot and endless.
you’re both shaking, trembling against each other, foreheads pressed, lips brushing but never kissing, moaning right into each other’s mouths as you ride out every wave. the world narrows to nothing but heat, sweat, and the desperate sounds you make together.
your body slumps against his, boneless, still trembling from the intensity. his arms lock around you instantly, holding tight like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. both of you are breathing hard, chests pressed together, your foreheads still touching.
for a long moment, the room is silent except for the ragged sound of your lungs working, your heartbeats pounding against each other. his cock softens inside you slowly, the heat of him still seeping deep, making the aftershocks stretch out. your walls flutter around nothing when he finally slips free, leaving you empty in a way that feels unbearable.
you collapse onto the bed beside him, rolling onto your back with a dazed sigh. chan drops down too, landing heavily on his side. he immediately covers his face with his hand, groaning.
"holy shit", he pants. his chest still rises and falls quickly, sweat glistening at his hairline, "i… wow. i don’t even- wow"
you laugh weakly, breathless, staring at the ceiling as you try to collect yourself. your body still hums, sensitive everywhere he touched, "yeah. wow"
for a few seconds, you both just lay there, letting the silence fill in the words you can’t say. your skin feels too hot, your heart too fragile.
he peeks at you through his fingers, cheeks flushed pink, lips swollen, "so, uh", his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, "i guess… that’s another… practice session?"
you snort, burying your face in your arm to hide how much it shakes you, "yeah. practice. stress relief. the usual"
"right", he says, and though he nods, his voice is softer, quieter, like he doesn’t even believe it himself.
you both chuckle awkwardly, like it’s some sort of inside joke, but your chest aches.
"for the record", you mumble, still staring at the ceiling because you can’t look at him, "you’re… really good at practice"
his laugh is nervous, shy, but there’s pride laced through it, "guess i’ve had a pretty great partner to, uh, practise with"
the words hang in the air, heavier than they should. you want to turn your head, to really look at him, but you don’t. you’re not brave enough. instead, you curl onto your side, tug the blanket up over yourself, "we should sleep, you can stay if you want" you whisper, as if sleep will patch over what just happened.
chan mirrors you, rolling onto his side, close but not touching, "yeah", he murmurs.
but long after the lights are off, you can feel it - something fragile and terrifying hanging between you. something that snapped open the first time you got into this and refuses to be shoved back into place. and you’re too scared to name it.
the next day, you’d both sworn you’d stay in your own rooms to actually catch up on sleep. but at 1am, your phone lights up with his name, “can’t sleep. you?”. ten minutes later, chan is at your door, hair messy, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands.
the movie you put on plays for all of five minutes before his mouth finds your throat, your nails dragging down his back through the fabric. you end up in your bed, half-dressed, breathless, the air too hot between you.
“should we-”, he starts, nervous, eyes searching yours like he expects you to laugh.
“yeah", you whisper before you even think it through, "i want to"
that is all it takes. his hoodie is gone, your shirt is pushed over your head, both of you naked before you realise it. when he slides inside you for the first time since the previous night, the sound he makes - low, broken, desperate - is enough to make your whole body clench around him.
you swear under your breath, hands flying to his shoulders, "fuck, chris”
he moves carefully at first, like he is afraid you’ll shatter. but when you roll your hips up to meet him, when your nails dig into his arms and you moan his name again, something in him cracks. the pace grows frantic. his forehead presses to yours, his lips parting against your cheek, both of you panting into each other but never kissing. never that.
you gasp encouragements, half-broken words tumbling out between moans, “yes, like that- don’t stop, feels so good-”
his thrusts turn messy as he groans your name, his hands tight on your hips, grounding himself in you. you come first, clinging to him, muffling the cry in his shoulder. he follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck, every shudder of his body betraying just how badly he’d needed it.
afterwards, you lie tangled together, his arm draped across your stomach, both of you catching your breath. you don’t say “this is different now”. you don’t say “i wanted this more than anything”
instead, you joke weakly into the quiet, “guess you’re getting plenty of practice" and he huffs a laugh, voice still wrecked, "yeah. and you’re… pretty stressed, huh?”
you smile into the dark, pretending your chest doesn’t ache with something too fragile to name. but you know you’ve opened the gates to something you are afraid of.
at first, it’s easy to pretend it’s still a ritual. friday nights. movies, food, then tangled sheets and bitten-back moans. but one friday bleeds into a saturday. saturday into a sunday. and suddenly it’s not just friday nights anymore. it’s any time.
a canceled brunch plan, rain pattering against the windows, both of you curled up under a blanket on the couch. the movie you’d put on for background noise forgotten when his hand wandered under the hem of your shorts. he’d said it absentmindedly, like he was asking about the weather:
“want me to help you relax?”
your body had reacted before your brain could even catch up, spreading your knees wider, letting him tug your shorts down. his mouth was on you seconds later, warm and hungry, his hoodie still on, his hair tickling your thighs as you muffled gasps into the pillow.
after, you dragged him into your bedroom, pushed him down on the bed, and tugged at his sweats. you’d told yourself it was fairness - his turn. nothing more. but the way his head tipped back, the sounds that left his throat when you wrapped your mouth around him… that had nothing to do with fairness and everything to do with need.
one day your first class was cancelled. chan showed up with coffee anyway, like he always did, grumbling about exams again. one second you were both sitting at your desk, textbooks spread out, and the next your chair scraped back against the wall as he slid to his knees in front of you.
“we can take a quick break", he’d whispered, fingers curling around your ankles, pushing your legs open.
you’d protested weakly at first, heat blooming in your cheeks - “chris, we’re supposed to study” - but the moment his mouth found you, all arguments dissolved. your hands ended up twisted in his hair, rocking against his tongue, muffling moans with your own wrist.
later, when you were bent over your desk, breathless, with him thrusting inside you while he tried not to groan too loud, you told yourself it was just stress relief. just practice. nothing more.
another night you’d been reading in bed when he texted, “can’t focus. can i come over?”. he didn’t bring books this time.
you didn’t even bother with the pretense of studying. he was on his back within minutes, you straddling his hips with all of your clothes already on the floor, kissing everywhere except his mouth. his neck, his chest, his shoulders - you left marks you didn’t mean to, marks you’d pray no one else would notice.
when he flipped you beneath him, pressing himself against you like he needed it to breathe, you gave in without hesitation. the headboard thumped the wall with every desperate shift of your hips, and you didn’t care.
after, you lay tangled together, your head on his chest. the steady thud of his heart filled your ears, too steady, too dangerous. you told yourself it was just a comfortable pillow. nothing more.
and yet - something fragile coils tighter inside you with every “practice session". because you’re happy. impossibly happy. every time he shows up, every time he touches you, every time his voice goes wrecked and low when he begs, “please, don’t stop”
but that happiness feels sharp-edged, ready to snap. because you know, deep down, what this really is. and you’re terrified to admit it.
so you don’t. you just keep touching, tasting, pretending. but never kissing, because that’s too intimate, and you keep telling yourselves it’s not that.
it’s supposed to be a normal night. just dinner out, because neither of you want to cook and the little restaurant by campus has become a go-to spot when you’re both too tired to care.
you’re laughing about something - chan’s terrible imitation of one of your professors - as you push the door open, the warm hum of voices and clinking cutlery spilling out into the street. but the second you step inside, you see it’s packed. every table full, students and locals crammed into the small space.
“guess everyone had the same idea", chan mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
“yeah", you sigh, already turning back towards the door, "we can just grab something else"
you’re halfway through the motion when a voice cuts through the noise:
“chan!”
you turn, and there she is - soojin. the kind of girl who always seems to have an audience, her laugh too loud, her smiles too sharp. she’s standing with a group of friends near the back, shrugging into her coat.
“we’re just leaving", she says, eyes flicking over to you before landing back on chan, her grin widening, "you and your girlfriend can take our table"
the word hits you like a slap. girlfriend. it shouldn’t. it’s just a word, a throwaway assumption. but for a split second, something warm flares in your chest - until chan reacts.
“oh, no-”, he blurts, almost panicked, "she’s not- we’re not-”
the denial is quick, sharp, like he has to get it out before the thought can even exist. and suddenly, that warm spark inside you twists into something else. an ache, low and unfamiliar. you force a smile, pretending it doesn’t sting.
“oh right", soojin drawls, clearly amused. her eyes narrow just slightly, and you don’t like the way she’s looking at him, "well, in that case…”, she tilts her head, casual but calculated, "what about tomorrow night? dinner? here?”
your stomach drops. chan blinks, startled, "uh-”
“just you and me", she adds quickly, too quickly, her friends exchanging knowing looks behind her.
you can feel yourself tensing, waiting for him to brush it off, to make an excuse, to laugh it away like he always does when he’s uncomfortable. but instead-
“i… yeah", he stammers, cheeks flushing, "sure"
something in your chest cracks.
“great", soojin beams, already giving him her number and tugging her friends towards the door, "tomorrow at seven. see you then"
and just like that, she’s gone. you stand frozen for a second, the noise of the restaurant rushing back in around you. chan clears his throat, awkward, and gestures towards the now-empty table.
“should we…?”
you nod stiffly and follow him, sliding into the booth across from him. the menu in front of you blurs, your thoughts spiraling.
you don’t understand the tightness in your chest, the way your stomach twists. it’s not like you’re together. not like you’ve ever pretended to be - except in those dark, quiet moments when your bodies move like they belong to each other. but that’s different. that’s just practice.
so why does it hurt to hear him agree to tomorrow night? why does the thought of him sitting across from soojin in this very restaurant make you feel… sick?
“they, uh… left some food on the table", chan says, trying to sound casual as he picks up the menu. his glasses slide down his nose, and he pushes them up nervously, "we should order before it gets busy again"
you hum in agreement, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. you can’t meet his gaze, not when that strange, sharp feeling is clawing at your chest.
you don’t talk about it. you don’t ask why he said yes. you just sit there, pretending everything is fine, laughing at his dumb jokes, eating your food like the word girlfriend hadn’t just shattered something inside you. like him agreeing to the date didn’t make your whole work shake. but all through dinner, you can’t shake the truth pressing down on you - you don’t like this. you don’t like it at all.
that night, sleep refuses to come.
you lie in your bed staring at the ceiling, sheets tangled around your legs, the soft hum of the city outside your window doing nothing to quiet your thoughts. every time you close your eyes, you see it again: soojin’s smile, the way she leaned in so casually, the quick, nervous way chan said yes.
your chest feels tight, like there’s a weight pressing down on it. it makes no sense - none. he’s your best friend. he doesn’t owe you anything. he can go on as many dates as he wants, kiss whoever he wants, sit in restaurants with whoever he wants. you should be happy for him. but instead you feel sick. jealous. fragile. the word hisses at you in the dark, unwelcome and undeniable.
you turn onto your side, clutching your pillow to your chest like it might hold you together. you try to tell yourself it’s not about him - it’s about what you’ll lose. the easy nights, the movie marathons, the stupid inside jokes, even the practice that’s gone so far past practice you can’t call it that anymore.
if he starts dating, if he likes her - really likes her - what happens to you?
a lump swells in your throat. you press your face into the pillow and will your thoughts to stop, but they keep circling, haunting you, until your eyes sting and your chest aches.
eventually, exhaustion pulls you under, but your dreams are restless. fragments of chan’s face, his hands, his laugh - then flashes of him sitting across from soojin, smiling at her the way he’s always smiled at you.
the next morning, you drag yourself out of bed feeling like you never slept at all. your reflection in the bathroom mirror startles you: eyes shadowed, mouth tight, skin pale. you splash water on your face, but it does nothing to wash away the heaviness pressing down on you.
class is torture. chan is there, like he always is, punctual, focused, scribbling notes like his life depends on it. nothing about him looks different, but you feel different. you can’t look at him without remembering last night. without hearing his quick, eager “yeah”
he leans towards you once, pointing something out in the professor’s slides, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low and familiar. usually, it would make you smile. today it makes your stomach clench. you nod, force a small sound of agreement, and hope he doesn’t notice how stiff you feel.
the hours drag. every time he laughs you wonder if he’s thinking about tonight. if he’s already planning what to wear. you tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. but it does. it matters too much.
that night, the ache only deepens. you imagine him there, sitting across from soojin at the same table where you sat with him just twenty-four hours ago. maybe she’s leaning in, twirling her hair, making him laugh. maybe he’s nervous, fiddling with his chopsticks the way he always does when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
you hate how clearly you can see it. hate the way your chest tightens with every imagined detail. your dorm feels too quiet, too big. you curl up on your couch, knees to your chest, phone resting heavy in your palm. you could text him. ask how the date’s going. make a joke. remind him of you.
but your fingers don’t move. you don’t want to know. you’re not sure you could stand it if he answered. so you sit there in the quiet, staring at the dark screen, your chest aching with something you can’t name but can’t ignore.
you don’t have class tomorrow, but he’ll come over like he always does. it’s a friday. tomorrow, he’ll sit on your couch and smile like nothing’s changed. and you’ll have to look at him, and pretend you’re fine, and hope he doesn’t see that something inside you cracked the moment he said yes.
friday night starts the same. he shows up with food today - chicken and rice bowls from the place around the corner, the smell filling your dorm the second he walks in. you let him in with a smile that feels stretched too thin, but he doesn’t notice.
"thought we deserved something healthy", he jokes, holding up the bags, "exam brain food"
"i’ll believe it when i see you eat the vegetables", you shoot back automatically, the familiar rhythm of your banter grounding you for a second.
the table looks the same as always - takeout containers scattered, chopsticks clinking, him talking between bites about the exam he just sat through and how he’s sure he messed up one of yesterday’s essay questions. you laugh in the right places, nod along, but the entire time your mind keeps circling back to last night.
the empty space. the sound of your own dorm, too quiet without him. the sharp twist in your stomach every time you pictured him sitting across from soojin. you try to shake it off. it’s movie night. your night. you’re not going to ruin it by thinking about her. but when the food is gone and you’ve settled onto opposite ends of the couch, movie playing, the question slips out before you can stop it.
"so…", your voice is light, almost too light, and you pick at the hem of your blanket to avoid looking at him, "how was your big date?"
his head tilts towards you, curious, "why do you sound like my mom asking that?"
you roll your eyes, forcing a laugh, "i’m just wondering. i mean, i hope all this practice wasn’t wasted, you know? maybe you impressed her"
you mean it as a joke, but the words taste sour on your tongue. and when you finally glance at him, your chest tightens - because he looks almost embarrassed.
"we didn’t do anything", he says quietly, eyes flicking back to the screen, "not even a kiss"
the confession stuns you, "what?"
his lips twitch into a small smile, sheepish, "i’m still… me. shy. quiet. i need time. i can’t just- jump in like that with someone", he pauses, glancing at you, and shrugs, "you’re the only one i’ve been… like this with"
your heart squeezes so tight you can barely breathe. he doesn’t mean it the way it sounds - you know that. but still, the words settle deep inside you, warm and heavy, easing something that’s been wound tight since yesterday. the thought of him sitting across from soojin and not kissing her, not touching her - it soothes the sharpest edges of your jealousy.
but it doesn’t erase it. not completely. because he could. he could, any time he wanted. and the thought of that - the thought of losing what you have - still claws at you.
you must look too serious, because his brow furrows, "you okay?"
"yeah", you say quickly, too quickly, "just… tired. i think i’m catching a cold or something", you force a weak smile and curl deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket up to your chin, "don’t wanna get you sick, though. maybe i should just… lie down"
he doesn’t question it. doesn’t push. he just nods, turns his attention back to the movie, and lets you close your eyes.
but you’re not sleeping. you’re lying there, listening to the sound of the movie and the soft rustle of him shifting beside you, and your chest aches. because for the first time since that night - the night everything changed - it’s friday but you don’t touch.
no whispered excuses about practice. no breathless relief of stress. nothing but silence. and it terrifies you. terrifies you how much you miss it already. terrifies you how fragile this feels, like one wrong move will make the whole thing collapse.
a couple of weeks pass, and the night you pretended to fall asleep on the couch stays with you like a stone in your stomach. you keep replaying it, over and over - the first friday you didn’t touch him. the way he left without a hug, without the familiar heat of his hand brushing against yours as he walked out the door. the way your bed felt too big, too cold, when you lay awake until morning.
life goes on, of course. exams are officially behind you again, classes fall into their normal rhythm, coffee breaks between lectures become routine again. and chan is still there, always there. walking you to class, sharing his notes, laughing at your complaints about professors. you’re still inseparable - best friends, like always.
but it’s different. because you can’t stop thinking about what’s missing. the heat of his mouth between your thighs. the sound of him groaning as you stroked him. the way you used to fall back on the bed, wrecked and breathless, only to laugh about it later like it was just another study hack.
now, it’s silence where there used to be touches. space where there used to be tangled limbs. and every time he mentions soojin, that space grows wider.
"we went out again last night", he says one afternoon, when you’re sitting across from him in the library, "she really likes that little café near campus. says it reminds her of home"
you hum noncommittally, eyes glued to your laptop screen, but your stomach twists. he doesn’t notice it, he never does. and it’s not like he hides it from you - he talks about her openly, like he always tells you everything. and you let him, even though every word feels like a thread unraveling inside you. the worst part is when he looks at you with that shy smile, almost guilty, like he knows you’ll tease him.
"she kissed me yesterday", he admits one evening as you’re walking back from class.
you freeze for a split second, then force your face into something neutral, "oh? finally brave enough, huh?"
his ears turn pink, "it’s not like that", he mutters, scratching the back of his neck, "she kissed me first"
"and?", you ask, your voice a little too sharp, so you soften it with a laugh, "was it good?"
he shrugs, looking down at the pavement, "it was fine. i just… i don’t know. i still feel nervous about going further with her. i’m only comfortable with you"
the words hit you like a blow and a balm all at once. warmth rushes through you at the admission - ”only comfortable with you” - but it’s tangled with a sharp sting, because that comfort hasn’t meant anything in weeks. he hasn’t touched you. hasn’t asked you to touch him. hasn’t even hinted at it. not since that night when she asked him to go out with her the next day. the night when everything changed.
and you’re left wondering if that comfort is slipping away too. you tell yourself it’s fine, that it had to end sometime. but when you lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, you can still feel the phantom weight of him pressed against you, hear his voice rough with want. you wake up damp and aching, forced to relieve yourself while biting back moans into your pillow, pretending it doesn’t mean anything.
but it does. god, it does.
and every time you sit across from him while he talks about soojin - her laugh, her favourite songs, how she insists on splitting the bill - you feel the crack inside you deepen. you don’t want to name it jealousy. you don’t want to name it anything. but you’re so close to breaking you can feel the edges splintering. so you smile. you listen. you let him talk, because he looks happy.
and you keep swallowing down the ache in your chest, hoping it doesn’t spill out.
thursday nights aren’t anything special, not usually. sometimes you eat together, sometimes not. sometimes you study, sometimes you just scroll through your phones side by side in companionable silence. tonight, it’s takeout cartons balanced on the table and chan telling you a story about one of his professors with too much hand-waving for you to follow.
you laugh anyway, because he’s grinning, dimples flashing, eyes crinkling. and for a while, it feels normal again. not like the last few weeks of careful space and unspoken things. not like the knot in your chest that won’t go away. just… chan. your best friend.
when you’re both full, he pushes his chair back and stretches, arms over his head, "alright, i should get going. i’ve got an early start tomorrow"
you hum, already expecting to hear his follow up - “see you tomorrow night, movie night, the usual”, but it doesn’t come. instead he says, “oh, by the way. i’m not coming tomorrow"
the words hit so abruptly you blink at him, confused, "what?”
he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, "yeah, um... soojin asked if i wanted to go out with her. nothing big, just… she wants to show me this little bookstore near the river, and then maybe grab food"
it feels like the air in your dorm shifts, grows heavier. your hand falls against the carton, "so you’re skipping friday night?”
he frowns, like he doesn’t understand why you sound so sharp, "just this once. it’s not a big deal"
not a big deal.
your throat tightens, "it is a big deal, chris. we’ve never missed one. not once. it’s our thing"
“come on", he sighs, dropping his arms to his sides, "don’t make it sound bigger than it is. i’ll see you saturday, or sunday. it’s just one night"
but your chest is already burning, the weeks of swallowed jealousy and silence bubbling up, "one night that you’d rather spend with her than me"
his brows knit together, "that’s not fair. i spend every day with you"
“until she calls", you snap, "then i get pushed aside. do you even hear yourself, chris? she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not official yet, she’s barely even anything, but suddenly she gets priority over me?”
his face hardens, the softness from earlier slipping away, "you’re twisting this. i’m not leaving you behind. i’m just… trying to get to know her"
“at my expense", you shoot back. your voice is shaking now, but you can’t stop, "do you know how it feels? to be replaced by someone who barely knows you? to watch you-,” you break off, swallowing the lump in your throat, "to watch you choose her over me?”
his jaw tightens, "you’re not being replaced"
“aren’t i?", your laugh is sharp, bitter, "because that’s what it feels like. and it hurts like hell that you don’t even care"
and then it happens.
his voice rises, louder than you’ve ever heard it, cracking with frustration, "well you’re not my girlfriend either, i don’t owe you anything!”
the words slam into the room, shattering everything in their path. silence. heavy, awful silence.
chan’s eyes widen the second they leave his mouth, like he wants to catch them midair and shove them back inside. but it’s too late. they hang between you, poisonous, ringing in your ears.
your stomach twists violently, heat flooding your face. your lips part, but nothing comes out. there’s nothing to say - because he’s right. you’re not his girlfriend. you’ve never been. and yet it feels like something inside you just broke in half.
“i-”, he starts, voice small, regretful, “fuck, no, that’s not- i didn’t mean”
you shake your head, holding up a trembling hand, “just… go. please”
“listen i-”
“chris”, your voice cracks, “go”
his face crumples, guilt written across every line, but he doesn’t argue. he just stays there, frozen for a moment, before nodding once and walking to the door. you don’t watch him leave. you stare at the half-empty takeout cartons on the desk, your vision blurring.
the door closes with a soft click, but it might as well be a slam. you stay frozen for a long time, staring at the dented cardboard boxes on your desk, his chopsticks still resting across the rim of his. the room feels hollow without him in it, too quiet. your throat burns. your hands shake.
“you’re not my girlfriend. i don’t owe you anything”
the words loop in your head, louder, harsher, until they’re all you can hear. you shove the cartons aside suddenly, the sharp movement toppling one onto its side, sauce bleeding across your table. you don’t care. you’re already stumbling towards your bed, collapsing onto it face-first, pressing your face into the pillow.
and then it breaks.
tears spill hot and fast, soaking the fabric beneath your cheek. you try to stifle the sounds, biting down hard, but they keep tearing out of you. your chest heaves, your whole body trembling like you’ve just run miles.
you don’t know if you’re crying because of what he said or because it was true. maybe both. you’re not his girlfriend. you’ve never been his girlfriend. you’ve always told yourself it was just practice, just stress relief, just… just anything except what it really was. but it mattered to you. it mattered so much you can hardly breathe.
your sobs ease after a while, but the ache stays. you curl onto your side, hugging your pillow tight, rocking a little like that might hold you together. the room is dark, but every corner feels sharp, threatening, filled with the ghost of him - his laugh echoing off the walls, the warmth of him beside you on the couch, the weight of his forehead pressed against yours as you both pretended it wasn’t more.
you grab your blanket and pull it over your head, like maybe hiding will shut the memories out. it doesn’t.
sleep comes late, if at all. every time you close your eyes, you see his face as he said it - hard, frustrated, but already regretful. you hear the scrape in his voice, the guilt in his silence. you toss. you turn. the pillow grows damp again.
by the time the first grey light of morning filters in through the blinds, you feel raw, hollowed out. your head throbs from crying, your eyes sting, your chest still hurts like it’s been cracked open.
you don’t move. not even when your phone buzzes once, then again, on the nightstand. you know it’s him. you can’t look. not yet. you just bury your face back into the pillow, clutch the blanket tighter, and let the silence press in.
it’s the first friday in years that you’ll spend without him and the thought alone makes you want to cry all over again.
you don’t go to class. you don’t even move, not really. you let yourself drift in and out of shallow sleep, never really resting, never really awake. one hour blurs into the next, the quiet hum of campus outside your window a distant reminder that life is still moving, even though you feel stuck, pinned under the weight of last night.
sometimes you think about getting up. about showering, brushing your teeth, doing anything productive. but then you remember the way he looked at you, the sound of his voice when he snapped, and it’s like a wave crashing over you - your stomach hollowing, your throat tightening - and you go limp all over again, curling deeper under the covers.
you tell yourself it’s fine. that skipping one day won’t matter. that you’ll be okay tomorrow. but the truth is, you don’t feel okay at all.
it’s not until the sun has started to dip, shadows stretching long across your floor, that hunger finally forces you up. your body feels heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen after cleaning yourself up, every step slow. you stand there blankly for a long moment before pulling something simple from the fridge - leftovers, cold, eaten mechanically without really tasting it.
it fills the hollow in your stomach but not the one in your chest.
you’re rinsing the dish in the sink when the sound comes: a knock at the door.
you freeze. your first thought is to ignore it, to pretend you’re not home. but then it comes again - insistent, uneven, like whoever’s out there can’t stand still.
you dry your hands on a towel, your heart pounding harder with each step towards the door. when you open it, you almost wish you hadn’t.
chan stands there, hoodie thrown on like he rushed over, hair messy, chest rising and falling too fast. his eyes dart up to yours, restless, guilty, determined all at once.
“we need to talk", he says, voice rough, like he hasn’t slept either.
you swallow, grip tightening on the doorframe. and then, after a long, shaky pause, you step back, letting him in. he steps inside and you shut the door behind him, the click of the lock sounding far too final in the silence.
chan hovers in your living room, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. his restlessness fills the room, makes the air feel heavier. you stay by the door a moment longer, needing the distance, before finally moving past him and sitting on the couch, arms crossing over your chest like armor.
“shouldn’t you be on your date?", you ask, the words sharper than you intended. your voice sounds foreign, thin from exhaustion and disuse.
he flinches, "i… didn’t go"
you lift your gaze at that, eyes narrowing, "why?”
“because of what happened last night", he admits, his voice quiet but urgent, "because i couldn’t just… go sit across from her like nothing happened after i- after what i said to you"
your chest aches, but you keep your expression flat, tired, "so what? you’re here to fix it with an apology and then everything’s fine again?”
“no, listen…i am sorry", he says quickly, stepping closer, "i didn’t mean it, i swear. i was angry and stupid and i hurt you, i know that, but-”
“chris", you cut him off, shaking your head, “i’m so tired"
he freezes, the word hanging between you.
you bury your face in your hands for a moment, trying to gather yourself, then drop them back to your lap. your whole body feels restless, vibrating with the weight of what you’ve been holding back for weeks but have been too scared to admit, even to yourself.
“i can’t keep doing this", you whisper, staring down at the floor, "pretending it doesn’t matter. pretending you can go on a date with soojin and i’ll be fine"
“i-”
“no, let me finish", your voice cracks, but you push through, "i don’t know when it happened. maybe before we started this… whatever it is. maybe during. maybe last week, maybe last night. i don’t know. all i know is…”, your chest heaves, the truth clawing its way out, “i’m in love with you, chris”
his breath stutters.
“and it’s killing me", you continue, tears burning your eyes, "because i don’t want to be selfish. i want you to be happy, even if that means it’s not with me. even if that means you’re with her, or someone else. but i can’t-”, your voice breaks fully now, raw and trembling, “i can’t keep it inside anymore. i can’t sit here and act like it’s nothing when it’s- when you’re- everything"
silence slams down after the words, your pulse thundering in your ears. your hands grip the blanket beneath you, knuckles white, because now it’s out there, laid bare between you, and you can’t take it back.
chan’s face is unreadable. shocked, maybe. stricken. his lips part, close again, then part once more like he’s searching for the right words but none will come. your chest feels hollow, like you’ve cracked yourself open and poured everything out at his feet.
you sit on the couch, knees drawn close, your confession still vibrating in the air like a struck chord. the room feels too quiet, too still, your breath the only sound as it hitches unevenly in your chest.
chan doesn’t stay standing. he doesn’t run, doesn’t retreat into silence. instead, he moves, slowly, like if he goes too fast he’ll spook you or shatter what’s left of the fragile space between you. he sinks down onto his knees in front of you, his hands pressed flat against his thighs, knuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping the fabric of his sweats.
“look at me", he says softly.
your eyes flicker up from the floor to him. he looks wrecked - hair falling into his face, mouth parted, eyes glistening like he’s been holding back his own storm.
“you think you’re the only one who’s been losing their mind?", his voice cracks halfway through, but he pushes forward, "you think you’re the only one lying awake at night replaying everything we’ve done? the only one who keeps… keeps hearing your voice, keeps seeing your face every time i close my eyes?”
your lips part, but no words come, so chan swallows hard and continues, "i don’t know when it started either. maybe that first friday when you let me stay until sunrise years ago. maybe the first time you laughed so hard you fell off the couch and i thought-”, his breath hitches, “i thought my chest was going to burst. maybe it was that first night you let me touch you and i realised how much i wanted to make you feel good, not just because it was practice, not just because you asked, but because it was you"
your vision blurs, tears threatening again.
he drags a hand down his face, shaky, then lets it fall uselessly against his knee, "i went out with soojin because i thought i didn’t stand a chance with you. you’re-”, he shakes his head, frustrated, “you’re everything. you’re smart and funny and way out of my league. and i thought if i could distract myself, if i could focus on someone else, maybe i could stop feeling like this. but i can’t. i couldn’t even kiss her without thinking about you. i couldn’t even sit across from her without wishing it was you, so i broke it off with her today”
your breath catches.
“i love you", he blurts, desperate now, "fuck, i love you so much it hurts. i don’t care when it started, i just know it’s real. it’s the only thing that feels real anymore"
the words hang there, raw and trembling. his knees press into the carpet, his shoulders bowed, but his eyes never leave yours. they’re shining, terrified, hopeful all at once. you sit frozen on the couch, heart hammering so hard you think it might shake the room apart. all you can do is stare at him, the boy who’s been your best friend, your study partner, your safe place - and now, your undoing.
your throat feels tight, like the words you want to say are all tangled up, caught between your chest and your lips. chan’s still on his knees in front of you, waiting, breathing heavy like each second you don’t respond is another stone added to the weight crushing him.
finally, you manage to whisper, “you… you love me?”
his mouth curves, shaky and vulnerable, not quite a smile but not denial either, "yeah", he admits, voice rough, "i do. i think i’ve been in love with you longer than i even knew what it was. i just-”, he shakes his head, biting down on his lip, “i never thought you’d feel the same. not in a million years"
you laugh, watery and broken, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, "are you kidding me? i thought i was the only one losing my mind. i thought i was pathetic for falling in love with my best friend, for wanting more when i should’ve been happy with… with what we were already doing"
“pathetic?", chan’s brows furrow, his whole body leaning closer like he can’t stand the thought, "you’re the most incredible person i’ve ever met. if anyone’s pathetic, it’s me, too scared to tell you, too busy pretending with someone else"
your chest aches at the honesty spilling out of him. you lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees so you’re closer, just inches from his face, "i kept telling myself it was just practice. stress relief. that’s all it was supposed to be, right? but then you’d look at me and-”, your voice falters, breath trembling, “and it felt like more. every time"
his eyes soften, his lips parting as if to answer, but you beat him to it, "i hated hearing you went out with her. i hated it so much it scared me, because i realised just how deep i was. i wanted to be happy for you, but all i could think was… what if i lose you?”
chan exhales shakily, his hand lifting like he wants to touch you but hesitates in midair, "you’ll never lose me. never. i was so stupid thinking someone else could pull me away from you. i was with her, but i was thinking about you. it’s always been you"
you stare at him, the boy kneeling at your feet with his heart in his hands, and you can hardly believe it - after weeks of silence, jealousy, broken nights, he feels the same. your face tilts down towards his, slow, tentative. he mirrors you, leaning in until your foreheads brush together, soft and careful, both of you trembling from the weight of it all.
“so what happens now?", you whisper.
chan’s breath ghosts over your lips, warm and shaky, "whatever you want. as long as it’s with you"
his words linger in the air between you, fragile and powerful all at once, “whatever you want. as long as it’s with you”. your heart pounds so hard it almost hurts, your forehead still pressed to his. you can feel every shaky breath he takes, every tremor running through him. his hand hovers near your knee, not quite touching, waiting for something - permission, a sign, anything.
you whisper, voice trembling, “can i…?”
his eyes search yours, wide and dark, pupils blown, "yeah", he breathes, almost like a prayer, “please"
so you do. you close the tiny space left between you and press your mouth to his, soft and tentative, your lips barely brushing his. it’s nothing like you imagined and everything all at once. he lets out a broken sound, like he’s been holding it in for years, and his hand finally lands on your thigh, gripping like he’s scared you’ll disappear.
the kiss deepens slowly, your mouths molding together, learning each other in a way you never dared before. it’s messy, shaky, teeth knocking a little when you both lean in too fast, but it’s real. vulnerable. raw.
when you pull back for air, your chest heaves, and you whisper against his lips, “why does this feel scarier than everything else we’ve done?”
chan laughs softly, breathless, resting his forehead against yours again, "because it means more"
your stomach flips at the words. you kiss him again, harder this time, pouring weeks of longing and jealousy and aching love into it. his hands come up, cupping your face like he’s terrified of letting go, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
before you realise it, you’re straddling him on the floor, your knees bracketing his hips, the kiss growing hungrier, deeper. his hoodie bunches under your fingers as you tug at it, desperate to feel him closer.
“bed", he pants against your mouth, voice hoarse, "please"
you nod, heart racing, and let him lead you, stumbling a little as you keep kissing, unable to break apart for long. when you finally collapse onto your bed together, you’re both flushed, breathless, already needing each other with a burning force. but even as your hands roam, as your bodies press close, the kisses never stop now. mouths finding each other again and again, as if you’re both making up for all the times you held back.
when you finally slide down onto him, his head drops to your shoulder, groaning your name against your skin. you clutch at him, lips finding his jaw, his throat, his mouth again, each kiss an anchor. this time isn’t practice. it’s not stress relief. it’s love, raw and terrifying and blindingly real, spilling out of both of you as you move together.
the weight of chan’s body under yours feels different tonight. it isn’t just warmth or comfort - it’s him, solid and real, his hands trembling as they cradle your face like you’re something breakable. his lips are swollen already, from the way you’ve been kissing and kissing and kissing, unable to stop.
every brush of his mouth steals your breath. every soft gasp he lets out when you deepen the kiss goes straight to your chest, lodging there like it belongs. you never kissed before - you let him between your thighs, let him inside your body, but never this. never lips pressed, tongues sliding carefully, moaning into each other’s mouths.
and you both feel it. the difference. the weight. his thumb strokes your cheekbone, almost reverent, as though he’s memorising the shape of you. you break the kiss only to press another to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat, unable to stop tasting him.
“god", he whispers, breath hot against your skin, "i don’t… i don’t wanna stop kissing you"
“then don’t", you murmur, pulling him back in, swallowing the shaky sound he makes when your lips meet again.
it starts almost by accident, your body grinding down onto his, searching for more contact. his hoodie is gone, your shirt tossed aside, and then the rest of your clothes disappear, skin finally pressed to skin. when his hands slide down your sides to your hips, you feel his length straining against you, thick and hot against your skin. you gasp into his mouth, and the noise makes him twitch under you. he groans, muffled by your lips, and suddenly his hand is moving between your thighs, tentative but certain.
“can i?", he asks, breaking just enough to look at you.
your chest heaves, "please"
he slips his fingers inside you, slow and careful, like he’s terrified of doing something wrong. but when his fingertips finally brush your slick heat, both of you moan into the kiss, clutching at each other tighter.
you reach down too, wrapping your hand around him, hot and throbbing in your palm. he jerks against your touch, breaking the kiss with a strangled, “fuck-”, before crashing back into your mouth again, desperate, needy.
for a while, that’s all there is: his fingers stroking you, curling shallowly inside, your hand working him in time. the room filled with the wet sounds of your bodies and the messy, endless kisses that neither of you can seem to stop. you feel the edge building too fast, your thighs trembling as he finds a rhythm that makes your hips stutter against his hand. his moans break between kisses, head tilting back like he’s barely holding on when you stroke him just right.
“chris-”, you gasp against his lips, “wait. don’t- not yet"
he freezes, panic flashing across his face until you shake your head quickly, cupping his cheek, "i just… i want us to… together. not like before"
his relief shows in the way he breathes out, forehead resting against yours, "yeah. yeah, me too"
so you both slow down, touching each other softly now, exploring instead of rushing. he learns how you gasp when he drags his thumb in circles, how you shiver when he presses deeper. you learn the weight of him in your hand, the way his stomach tightens when you drag your fist down to the base, how his hips twitch when your thumb sweeps over the tip.
all the while, your mouths never separate for long. kisses, panting words, soft groans - they fill the spaces between touches. eventually, your hand slips away from him, and his from you, both of you trembling from holding back. you cup his face again, brushing your thumb across his swollen bottom lip.
“chris", you whisper, voice breaking with emotion.
his eyes meet yours, wide and vulnerable, and he nods, already knowing what you’re asking, "yeah", he breathes, pulling you down into another kiss, "inside. i want- i need-”
the rest of his words are lost to your mouth as you kiss him again, more desperate, already losing yourselves to each other. your body hovers over his, straddling him, both of you flushed and shaking, skin sticky from sweat and touch. you’ve lined yourself up already, your hand guiding him to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing hot and heavy against your folds.
chan’s breath stutters - you can feel it against your lips because you’re kissing again, neither of you able to stop. his hands grip your waist tight, almost bruising, but then he suddenly pulls back, breaking the kiss.
“wait", he pants, eyes wild, chest heaving.
your stomach twists in panic, but before you can speak he’s already shifting, gently rolling you onto your back. your head sinks into the pillow, your legs falling open for him without thought.
“i… i want to be the one", he murmurs, voice shaky but sure, "please. let me"
and god, the way he looks at you - reverent, desperate, like you’re the only thing in his world - makes your throat close. you nod, breathless, and pull him back down to kiss you.
his forehead presses to yours as he guides himself, the thick head nudging at your entrance. you gasp into his mouth, the stretch already making your body arch.
“fuck", he groans, the sound torn right from his chest, "you’re… so warm. so-”
he can’t even finish. he’s kissing you again, muffling his whimpers as he slowly sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you. your nails dig into his back, your body trembling with the mix of sting and fullness and the overwhelming fact that it’s him. he stills, every muscle taut, forehead pressed to yours. his lips hover over yours, brushing but not quite kissing, both of you panting against each other’s mouths.
“you okay?", he whispers, his voice breaking.
“yeah", you breathe, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him closer, "please move, chris”
he pulls back carefully, then pushes in again, the slow roll of his hips making both of you moan into each other’s mouths. the kiss grows messier, wetter, broken by gasps and whimpers.
every thrust makes your body jolt, your nails dragging down his skin, your thighs squeezing him tighter. he keeps groaning against your lips, like he can’t believe this is real - like he’ll lose it if he stops kissing you even for a second.
“god, you feel-”, he pants, but swallows the rest of his words in another kiss.
your hips start to lift to meet his, chasing every thrust. the friction builds, faster now, both of you spiraling but clinging to each other like you’ll break apart otherwise.
“together", you gasp against his lips, "don’t- don’t stop-”
“yeah", he groans, kissing you harder, almost desperate, "together"
the pace grows frantic, his hips slamming into yours, your nails clawing at his shoulders. you’re both whimpering into each other’s mouths, kissing like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth.
then it hits, sharp and overwhelming - your orgasm tearing through you, your body clenching around him. you scream into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his desperate, broken kiss. he’s right there with you, his cock twitching, his groans muffled as he spills inside you, hips stuttering against yours. the weight of his release, the way his forehead presses to yours as he gasps your name into your lips - it’s too much.
you’re both shaking, clinging to each other, kissing through the aftershocks until you can’t breathe. your chest rises and falls against his, both of you still pressed skin to skin, tangled in heat and sweat and the remnants of everything that just happened. chan hasn’t moved from inside you yet, too overwhelmed to pull away, his weight a comfort as he rests on top of you, forehead still pressed to yours.
you’re kissing again, softer now - lingering, slow, little presses of lips against lips like neither of you can get enough. you can taste salt and breath and something rawer than anything you’ve shared before. your hands tremble as they slide over his back, fingers brushing every ridge of his spine, like you’re memorising him. he shudders under your touch, his own hands cupping your face like you’re breakable.
the room is quiet except for your breathing, the faint hum of the city outside. it feels like the world shrank down to this bed, to his mouth, his breath, his body joined with yours.
“chris”, you whisper, your voice hoarse, trembling.
he hums against your lips, kissing you again before pulling back just enough to see your face. his eyes are glassy, searching yours, like he’s terrified of what comes next.
“we can’t-”, you start, then stop, throat closing around the words, "we can’t pretend anymore"
he shakes his head quickly, desperate, "i don’t want to”, his voice cracks, raw with emotion, "i don’t want to pretend. not with you"
your chest tightens, the last of your walls crumbling, "i… i love you", you say again, the words spilling out like they’ve been sitting inside you forever, "i don’t know when it happened, before or during or after everything, but i do. i love you, chris”
he lets out a broken sound, almost a laugh, almost a sob. his hands cradle your face tighter, his lips trembling, "god, i love you too. i’ve been so fucking scared to say it, but i do. i love you so much it hurts"
the kiss that follows is messy, wet with both of your tears, but it’s perfect. it’s everything you’ve been holding back, everything you’ve been terrified to admit.
he pulls back just far enough to look at you, to search your face like he’s memorising every line, "be with me", he whispers, voice cracking, "please. not just… not just this. not practice, not stress relief. i want you. all of you. be my girlfriend"
your throat aches, your chest too full, and you nod before he’s even finished speaking, "yes", you breathe, smiling through tears, "yes, of course. i’m yours"
the relief in his expression is staggering. his forehead presses back to yours, his lips finding yours again, softer, slower, filled with promise.
the rest of the night is tender, a haze of soft touches and quiet words. he finally slips out of you, both of you wincing at the loss, but he doesn’t go far. he pulls you against him instantly, wrapping his arms around you, keeping you pressed to his chest.
you lie tangled together, bare and vulnerable, whispering little nothings between kisses. your fingers trace his jaw, his lips, his hair. his hands draw idle circles on your back, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re real, that you’re his.
neither of you talk about the future, about what this means tomorrow or next week. you don’t need to. for now, there’s only this - his arms around you, his lips brushing yours, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear.
bang chan taglist (if you want me to add you to my permanent taglist, ask in the comments): @angel-writes-skz-here @prettydumbandcrying @angelbbygrl @chrizzztopherbang @miksthesqueaks @renzurrs @siennamasila
contains: +18, kinda slow burn, chan's a gentleman but he teases like a pro, fingering, handjob, nipple play, protected sex, masturbation (f.), lots of worship, reader’s a bit impatient, yappy chan (<3)
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
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summary: After your first date ended without a kiss, you and Chan spend a week building... tension. On your second date, a broken zipper and Chan's inability to stop teasing you leads to way more than just a kiss.
The first date hadn’t been anything extravagant, but somehow, it had still felt like the kind of night you’d remember longer than you should.
He had picked a quiet place, the kind where the music was soft and the lighting made everything feel like a secret. Chan had been exactly the kind of charming you couldn’t prepare for, not loud, not showy, but in the way he listened. In the way his smile lingered just a second too long after you said something. He had made you laugh, too, not in that polite, date-appropriate way, but until your cheeks ached.
By the time you both stepped outside, the night air was cooler, wrapping around you in a way that made the warmth between you feel sharper. You walked side by side, your hands brushing until he simply took yours, his palm warm, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. Every so often, his other hand would drift, the lightest brush against your waist as he guided you around a group on the sidewalk, the quick press of his fingers at your back.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Just a soft press of his lips to your cheek, and it lasted long enough for you to feel his breath linger, long enough to tell you he wanted it as badly as you did.
You stood there frozen for half a second after he pulled away, your skin still tingling where his mouth had been.
You drove home thinking about him, the way his cologne had settled into the air between you, the way his hands felt around yours, how your chest had tightened when he leaned in, how unfair it was that someone could make you feel so much without even crossing that line. Chan was polite, maybe even stubbornly so; he wasn’t going to kiss you on the first date. But every touch he gave you sent chills rippling down your spine, the kind you’d remember far longer than you should.
So when Chan texted later:
second round? same charm, new place?
You didn’t even pretend to play coy.
idk… will you kiss me?
The reply came faster than you expected.
depends
You stared at the screen. That was it? Depends? Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart doing something stupid in your chest.
on what?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
on whether you ask nicely
You could hear the smirk in his text. That confident, teasing edge he had only let slip a few times tonight; when he caught you staring at his hands and when he leaned close enough to whisper something that definitely didn't need to be whispered.
haha. i don't beg, Chan.
didn't say you had to beg
just said ask nicely
there's a difference
You bit your lip, face warming even though you were alone.
fine. will you PLEASE kiss me on the second date?
The response was immediate.
see? that wasn't so hard
and yeah. i will
Your stomach flipped.
—
The week between dates felt longer than it should have.
You had texted every day, good morning messages that turned into hour-long conversations, random photos of coffee cups and sunsets, voice notes that made your day actually enjoyable. Chan was funny in a way that caught you off guard, the kind of humor that came easy and natural, never trying too hard. He remembered small things you had mentioned in passing. Asked how your presentation went. Sent you a song because "the lyrics reminded me of something you said."
He was sweet. Thoughtful.
And then, sometimes, he'd send you videos.
The first one came on a Wednesday. Just him at the gym, phone propped up somewhere, weights in hand. The angle was casual, too casual to be accidental. You watched him lift, watched the way his jaw tensed, the way his shoulders flexed. And then he groaned, low and rough, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Another video came Friday. This time he was stretching, arm pulled across his chest, neck tilted and a great, great frame of his hands. Another groan, and your brain short-circuited in the middle of a work meeting.
You didn't reply for an hour. You knew what he was doing. By the time Saturday came around, date number two, you were wound so tight you could barely think straight.
—
He picked you up this time. Showed up at your door in a black jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly damp like he had just showered. His cologne hit you first, familiar and devastating.
"Hey," he said, smiling in that way that made your knees forget how to work.
"Hey you."
His eyes dragged over you and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed.
"You look..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Yeah. Let's go before I forget I'm supposed to be a gentleman."
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
The drive was easy, comfortable. Dinner was at a small Italian place tucked into a corner you had never noticed before. Candlelit, intimate, the kind of place where you had to lean in close to hear each other. Not that you minded.
Chan was charming. Effortlessly so. He made you laugh so hard you almost knocked over your wine, told stories that had the perfect punchlines, listened like every word you said mattered.
But underneath it all, there was something else. Something simmering.
The way his gaze lingered on your mouth when you spoke. The way his hand found your knee under the table, thumb brushing against your skin. The way he leaned in when he talked, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
"You've been quiet today," he said softly, eyes locked on yours.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
You took a sip of wine, buying time. "About whether you're going to keep your promise."
His smile was slow, dangerous. "Which one?"
"You know which one."
Chan's hand squeezed your knee gently. "I always keep my promises."
"Do you?"
"Always." His voice dropped lower. "But I never said when I'd kiss you."
Your breath caught. He grinned, leaning back in his chair like he hadn't just made your entire body light up.
"You're terrible," you muttered.
Chan just… laughed. “Let’s go to the next stop?”
“Next stop?”
“Yeah, of course. You thought this was it? No, I have a whole schedule with you.”
—
The next stop was a rooftop bar, one of those places with fairy lights strung overhead and the city sprawling out below like stars. Chan's hand found the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd, and you were hyper-aware of every point of contact.
He ordered drinks while you leaned against the railing, letting the cool night air calm your racing pulse. When he came back, he handed you something fruity and way too pretty to drink quickly.
"Trying to get me drunk?" you teased.
"Trying to get you relaxed." His eyes glinted. "You seem tense."
"I wonder why."
He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. "If you want me to kiss you that badly, you could just—"
And that's when you felt it.
A soft pop near your ribs. A sudden looseness in your dress that definitely wasn't there before.
You froze.
"What's wrong?" Chan asked immediately, reading your expression.
"Um." You pressed your hand to your side, where the zipper had apparently given up on life. "I think... my dress just broke."
His eyebrows shot up. "Your dress?"
"The zipper. Side zipper. It just—" You huffed out a laugh because of course this would happen. "It just gave up."
Chan's lips twitched. "How bad is it?"
"Bad enough that if I move my arm, you're going to see things you probably shouldn't see."
His eyes darkened slightly, but his smile stayed playful. "Things?"
"Chan."
"I'm just asking for clarification."
You rolled your eyes, but you were fighting a smile. "My bra. And possibly my underwear, depending on how catastrophic this failure is."
"Matching?" The question came out before he could stop himself.
You didn't blush. Didn't look away. Just met his eyes with a small, knowing smile. "That's—that is not relevant information."
Something shifted in his expression. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it, heat. Real, palpable heat that made the air between you feel thick.
"So they are matching," he said slowly, and his gaze dropped. Just for a second. Just long enough to flicker down to where your hand pressed against your side, where the broken zipper had left a gap in the fabric. Long enough for him to catch the smallest glimpse of black lace against your skin.
When his eyes came back up to yours, they were darker. Hungry. "Fuck," he breathed out, so quiet you almost missed it.
Your pulse kicked up, but you didn't move. Didn't try to hide. There was something thrilling about the way he was looking at you, like he was trying very hard to be respectful and losing the battle spectacularly. But he didn't look away. He shifted, angling his body to block you from the crowd's view. "Okay. How do you want to handle this?"
You appreciated that he wasn't making it weird, well, weirder than it already was. There was something sweet about how quickly he had moved to shield you, even while teasing.
"I don't know. Do you have a safety pin? A sewing kit? A miracle?"
He thought for a second. "I have my jacket in the car."
His stare felt like burning alive, like every nerve ending in your body had suddenly woken up and taken notice. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn't quite know what to do with them.
You tilted your head, emboldened by the way he was barely holding it together. "You okay there, Chan?"
"No." He let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm really not."
"Need a minute?"
"I need—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. His hand came up to rest on the railing beside you, caging you in without actually touching you. "God, stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know exactly what you're doing."
You smiled. "I'm not doing anything. My dress broke."
"Right. Your dress." His eyes dropped again, he couldn't help it, tracing the line where fabric met skin, where lace peeked through. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Just your dress."
"Just my dress," you confirmed, voice soft.
He was so close now you could feel his heat, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each carefully controlled breath. His free hand lifted, hovering near your waist like he wanted to touch but didn't trust himself to.
"I'm—" His thumb brushed against your hip, barely, "I'm supposed to be a gentleman." He broke off with a rough laugh.
"Who said you’re not?"
His eyes snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The sounds of the bar faded into background noise, the chatter, the music, all of it distant and unimportant compared to the way he was looking at you.
"I need to get my jacket," he finally said, voice strained.
"Okay."
"From the car."
"Okay."
"And you need to stay right here. Don't move. And definitely don't lift your arm."
"Wasn't planning on it."
But he still didn't move. Just stood there, staring at you.
"Chan."
"Yeah?"
"The jacket?"
"Right. Yeah. Jacket." He stepped back, dragging a hand over his face. Then he paused, turning back with that dangerous smile, except now it was edged with something feral. "Is it all black?"
Your lips curved. "Why does it matter?"
"It matters."
"Go get your jacket, Chan."
He held your gaze for another beat, then shook his head like he couldn't believe this was happening. "God—"
"You like this, don't you?"
"Love it." The word came out rough, honest. "I fucking love it."
And then he was gone, moving through the crowd faster than necessary, and you were left standing there with your heart racing and your skin buzzing and the absolute certainty that this night was about to get a lot more interesting.
Chan returned a few minutes later, slightly breathless, holding his leather jacket. He draped it over your shoulders carefully, his fingers brushing your collarbone as he adjusted it.
"There. Crisis averted."
The jacket smelled like him, cologne and something warmer, more personal. You pulled it tighter around yourself.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." He was still standing close, his hands resting lightly on your arms. "Though I have to say, this night is not going the way I planned."
"No?"
"No. I had a whole thing. Very smooth. Very romantic." His thumb traced a small circle on your shoulder. "And now all I can think about is the fact that you're wearing matching underwear."
Your breath hitched. "Oh my god."
"Sorry. I'll stop." But he didn't move away. "Actually, no. I won't. Because that's kind of driving me crazy."
"It was just—I always match. It's not like I planned—"
"You always match?" His voice dropped, rough around the edges. "That's... that's worse, actually. That's so much worse."
"Why is that worse?"
"Because now every time I see you, I'm going to wonder."
The air between you felt charged, heavy. His hands were still on your arms, his face close enough that you could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to your mouth.
"Chan?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you kiss me already?" He froze. Completely still, his hands on your arms, his eyes locked on yours. "Please." The word came out softer, and something in his expression shattered.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his hand was cupping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "You can't just—"
"I can," you interrupted, holding his gaze. "And I am."
His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, his touch reverent and desperate all at once. He leaned in, close enough that his lips barely ghosted over yours, a whisper of contact that made your breath catch. "You're really something, you know that?"
And then, he kissed you.
It wasn't soft. Wasn't tentative or testing. It was sure and certain, like he had been thinking about this for days, which, judging by the way his other hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, he probably had.
Your hands found his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as you kissed him back with everything you had been holding in all night. All week. Since the moment he had decided to be a gentleman on the first date and leave you wanting.
He made a sound low in his throat, a groan tangled in relief, and deepened the kiss, angling your head just so. His tongue swept across your bottom lip and you opened for him immediately, tasting the whiskey he had been drinking, something sweet and dark and perfectly him.
Your back hit the railing and his body pressed against yours, solid and warm, one hand still cradling your face while the other splayed across your lower back, holding you steady. The jacket started to slip from your shoulders and he caught it without breaking the kiss, adjusting it back into place even as his mouth moved against yours like he was starving.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, you were both panting.
"Should've done it sooner."
"Probably." He kissed you again, softer this time but no less devastating. "But this was worth the wait."
You hummed against his mouth, and he smiled into the kiss.
"We should probably leave," he murmured between kisses. "Before I forget we're in public."
"Where are we going?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the heat in his eyes made your stomach flip. "Anywhere that's not here. Your place? Mine? I don't care, I just—" He kissed you again, quick and desperate. "I really need to get you alone."
Your heart was racing. "Mine's closer."
"Perfect." He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Let's go."
As he led you through the crowd, his jacket secure around your shoulders and his hand warm in yours, you caught the smile on his face, satisfied and a little bit smug.
"What?" you asked.
He glanced back at you, eyes bright. "Nothing. Just thinking about how you're still wearing that matching set under my jacket."
"Chan—"
"And how I'm really looking forward to seeing it properly."
Your face went hot, but you squeezed his hand. "Drive fast."
His laugh was dark and promising. "Yes ma'am."
The drive to your place felt both endless and too short. Chan kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, his thumb drawing absent patterns against your skin that made it impossible to think straight.
Every red light felt like torture. At the second one, you put your hand over his, stilling his movements.
Your apartment building came into view and you had never been more grateful to live on the second floor. Chan found parking quickly, too quickly, like he had manifested the spot through sheer willpower, and then you were both getting out, his hand finding yours immediately.
The walk to your door was quiet, charged. You fumbled with your keys and he stood behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his breath against your neck.
"Nervous?" he murmured.
"No."
"You're shaking."
"That's your fault."
The door finally opened and you stepped inside, Chan following and closing it behind him with a soft click. The lock turned. And then you were alone, really alone, for the first time.
He leaned back against the door, watching you with dark eyes as you set your bag down, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.
"So," he said.
"So."
"Nice place."
You laughed, breathless. "You haven't even looked around."
"I'm looking at something better." His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate. "Come here."
You crossed the distance between you, and his hands found your waist immediately, pulling you flush against him. This kiss was different, deeper, unhurried now that you had privacy. His tongue swept into your mouth and you made a sound that had him groaning in response.
His hands slid up your sides, careful of the broken zipper, and then he was shrugging his jacket off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His fingers traced the gap in your dress where the zipper had failed, feather-light touches that made you shiver.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmured against your lips. "All week. Just... thinking about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made your knees weak.
"That's why you sent those videos?"
He smiled against your skin. "You liked them though."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He nipped at your pulse point and you gasped. "I could tell."
His hands were still exploring, tracing the broken zipper's path, fingers brushing against lace. He pulled back just enough to look down, and his breath caught.
"All black," he said, almost reverent.
"Told you."
"You didn't tell me anything." His finger hooked into the lace edge of your bra, just barely, and your breath hitched. "You made me think about it all night."
"Good."
He made a sound low in his chest, something between a laugh and a groan. "You're trouble."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." His eyes met yours, dark and wanting. "Can I...?"
You knew what he was asking. Nodded.
His fingers found the broken zipper, working it down slowly, carefully, until your dress loosened completely. It should've felt more significant, maybe, but instead it just felt right; Chan's hands on you, his eyes drinking you in.
The dress slipped down and you stepped out of it, standing there in just the black lace set and your heels. His gaze traveled over you, slow, burning, and when his eyes met yours again, they were absolutely molten.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're—" He shook his head like words were failing him. "Come here."
You stepped closer and he pulled you in, kissing you hard, his hands everywhere now, your waist, your hips, sliding up your back. Your fingers worked at the hem of his shirt and he helped you, shrugging it off impatiently.
"Bedroom?" he asked against your mouth.
"Down the hall."
He lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you, his mouth never leaving yours. You directed him between kisses, left, second door, and then you were falling onto your bed together, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way.
His mouth traveled down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your tits above the lace. "Tell me if I should slow down."
"Don't you dare."
He laughed, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Yes ma'am."
His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits through the lace, and you arched into the touch. The calluses on his fingertips, rough from the gym, from guitar, from whatever else kept his hands this perfect, caught slightly on the delicate fabric, sending little sparks of sensation through you.
He took his time, mapping every inch of exposed skin with his mouth, your sternum, where he paused to feel your racing heartbeat with his lips, your ribs, tracing each one like he was counting, the soft curve of your stomach. Each kiss was deliberate, worshipful, memorizing the way your skin heated under his attention.
"Chan," you breathed, fingers threading through his hair. It was softer than you expected, and you could smell his shampoo mixed with his cologne.
"Mm?" He looked up at you from where he had been kissing just above your hip, and the sight of him, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left, lips swollen and wet from his mouth on your skin, hair a complete mess from your hands, looking absolutely wrecked already, made heat pool low in your belly, made your thighs clench.
"You're taking forever."
His smile was slow, dangerous, the dimple in his cheek appearing. "Am I?" His fingers traced the edge of your underwear, the touch so light it was almost not there, just the ghost of sensation that made you want to scream. "I'm just... appreciating."
"Appreciate faster."
He laughed against your hip bone, the warmth of his breath spreading across your skin, making goosebumps rise. "Where's the fun in that?" His mouth moved lower, kissing along the lace edge, his tongue occasionally darting out to taste bare skin. "Besides, you look so good like this. All impatient for me."
You tugged his hair gently, pulling him back up, and he went willingly, crawling up your body. He settled his weight between your thighs, and you could feel every inch of him, the hard planes of his chest against your tits, the ridges of his abs against your stomach, and him, hard and insistent through his pants, pressing right where you needed him most. The friction of the fabric, the heat of him even through the layers, it was almost too much, except that it was nowhere near enough.
"I've been patient," you said, rolling your hips up against him, feeling the way his cock twitched at the contact.
His breath caught, a sharp inhale that you felt against your neck, eyes fluttering closed for a second like he was trying to compose himself. "Fuck—okay, that's not fair."
"All's fair."
"Is it?" He rocked against you deliberately this time, a slow grind that had the seam of his pants pressing against your clit through the thin lace, the friction making you both gasp. His forehead dropped to yours, breath coming faster, hot against your lips. "You're gonna kill me. You know that?"
He kissed you hard, deep, tongue sliding against yours. His hips moved in a slow grind that had you seeing stars, the rhythm steady and purposeful, like he was fucking you through your clothes, testing what made you gasp, what made your nails dig into his skin. Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours.
"Can I—" His hand slid up your back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra with the kind of ease that would've made you self-conscious if you weren't so desperate. He paused, thumb rubbing small circles on your spine. "Can I take this off?"
"Please."
The clasp gave way with a soft click and the lace fell away. His gaze dropped, pupils dilating even further, you didn't think that was possible, a low groan rumbling deep in his chest that you felt as much as heard. "Jesus Christ." His hand cupped your tit, palm hot against your skin, thumb brushing over your nipple almost reverently, watching it harden into a tight peak under his touch. The contrast of his rough hands against your soft skin made you shiver. "You're so—I don't even have words."
"Then stop talking."
His eyes flicked up to yours, amused, that dangerous smile playing at his lips. "You want me to stop talking?"
"I want you to do something."
"I am doing something." He lowered his head, tongue flicking over your nipple, a quick teasing touch that had electricity shooting straight between your thighs, and your back arched off the bed. "See? Doing lots of things."
"F-fuck, Chan—"
"What?" He sucked your nipple into his mouth, gentle at first, just his lips and the barest suction, then harder, teeth grazing, tongue swirling, and your fingers tightened in his hair. When he released you with a soft pop, the cool air hitting wet skin making you gasp, he was grinning. "You were saying?"
"I hate you."
"I doubt that." His mouth moved to your other tit, giving it the same attention, licking, sucking, the occasional graze of teeth that made you jerk, while his hand palmed the one he had left wet and wanting, fingers rolling your nipple, tugging gently. The dual sensation, the heat of his mouth and the pressure of his fingers, had you writhing beneath him. "You like me. You asked me very nicely to kiss you, remember?"
"That was before you decided to torture me."
"This isn't torture." His teeth grazed your nipple harder this time and you gasped, hips bucking up involuntarily. "This is foreplay."
"It's torture."
He kissed his way back up to your mouth, slow and thorough, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His lips were so soft and you could feel the slight roughness of stubble on his jaw scratching against your chin. "Tell me what you want then."
"You know what I want."
"Maybe." His hand slid down your stomach, fingers playing with the waistband of your underwear, dipping just beneath the lace and then retreating, over and over. "But I want to hear you say it."
You grabbed his face with both hands, making him look at you, and the heat in his eyes nearly undid you. "Touch me. Please."
His pupils dilated impossibly further, the last bit of brown disappearing into black. "Where?"
"Chan—"
"Tell me where." His fingers dipped just below the lace, not nearly far enough, just barely brushing. "Here?"
"Lower."
"How much lower?" He was definitely teasing now, enjoying watching you squirm, watching the way your chest heaved with each frustrated breath. "You gotta be specific."
You grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand down, and his breath stuttered when you pressed his against you through the lace. "There. Touch me there."
"Fuck," he breathed when his fingers finally slid beneath the lace, through your wetness. His whole body went rigid, every muscle tensing. "You're so—how are you this wet already?"
He circled your clit with gentle pressure and you moaned, hips rolling up into his touch, chasing more friction. His fingers were perfect, long and skilled. "Is this what you wanted?" His voice had gone rough, strained, like he was barely holding himself together. "Is this what you've been thinking about?"
"Yes—god, yes—"
"What else?" He increased the pressure slightly, circles getting faster, and you could feel your thighs starting to shake. "What else did you think about?"
"Your fingers," you managed, words coming out breathy and broken. "How they'd feel—oh—"
He slid one finger inside you and you both groaned, you at the sensation, at the stretch, at finally having something inside you, him at how easily you took him, how wet you were, how your walls clenched around even just one finger. "Like this?"
"I need more, Chan—"
He added a second finger, the stretch more noticeable now, a slight burn that quickly melted into pleasure, curling them just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Better?"
"Yes—don't stop—"
"Wasn't planning on it." His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, pumping slowly, deliberately, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, and the dual sensation had you gasping, had you seeing stars behind your eyelids. "You feel so good. So fucking good around my fingers."
"Chan—"
"I love the way you say my name." He kissed down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Say it again."
"Chan—"
"That's it, baby." His pace increased, fingers curling with each thrust, finding that spot inside you over and over, thumb circling your clit in steady rhythm that was quickly unraveling you. You could hear how wet you were, could feel it dripping down to his palm. "You're so close, I can feel it. Can feel you tightening around me."
You were almost gone now, words dissolving into incoherent sounds as pleasure built low in your spine, spreading through your limbs like fire. Your nails raked down his back, hard enough to leave red lines, and he groaned against your neck, the sound primal and desperate.
"That's it," he murmured, his own breathing ragged now. "Take what you need. Use my hand. I want to feel you come."
"I'm—I'm so close—"
"I know." He adjusted the angle of his fingers, pressing up harder, and hit something inside you that made your whole body jerk, made you cry out. "Right there, baby? That's the spot?"
"Yes—right there—don't stop—please don't stop—"
"Not stopping." His fingers worked faster, harder, exactly where you needed, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with each thrust. "Come for me. Let me feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my fingers."
The orgasm slammed into you like a wave, your body arching completely off the bed, back bowing, as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your thighs clamped around his wrist, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers, and he worked you through it, fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing it out, prolonging it until you were shaking, pushing weakly at his wrist.
When you finally opened your eyes, vision slowly clearing, he was staring at you like you had just performed a miracle. His hand was still between your thighs, fingers still inside you, and you could see them glistening when he slowly withdrew them.
"That was—" He shook his head, seemingly at a loss. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come." He brought his fingers to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he sucked them clean, and the sight made your still-sensitive core clench. "... and you taste incredible."
You pulled him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and intimate, your hands already moving to his belt. The metal clinked as you worked it free.
He caught your wrists, but loosely, like he didn't really want to stop you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your pulse points. "We don't have to—"
"I want to." You held his gaze, made sure he could see how much you meant it, how badly you wanted him. "I really want to."
Something in his expression shifted, the control he had been holding onto, slipping. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You worked his belt free, popped the button of his pants, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Unless you want to keep being a gentleman?"
He laughed, breathless and a little desperate. "I think we're past that point." He helped you push his pants and boxers down his hips, lifting slightly to kick them off completely, and then he was bare above you, and fuck.
He’s so beautiful. All lean muscle and smooth golden skin, a trail leading down from his abs that you wanted to trace with your tongue. His chest rose and fell rapidly, abs clenching with each breath, and you could see the sheen of sweat on his skin. And his cock, hard and flushed, curving slightly up toward his stomach, already leaking at the tip, made your mouth water, made you clench around nothing.
"You're staring," he said, but his voice was strained, his hips shifting slightly under your gaze, his cock bobbing with the movement.
"You're worth staring at."
His hand wrapped around himself almost unconsciously, a slow stroke from base to tip, collecting the precum and spreading it, and you watched his stomach muscles clench, watched a vein in his neck stand out. "If you keep looking at me like that, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like you want to eat me alive."
You smiled, slow and deliberate, licking your lips. "Maybe I do."
He made a choked sound, his hand tightening around himself, squeezing at the base like he was trying to hold back. "Jesus—you can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He cut himself off with a groan when you reached out, replacing his hand with yours. His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, silk over steel, and his hips jerked forward into your grip. "Fuck—because I'm barely holding on here."
You stroked him slowly, learning what he liked, firmer at the base, where your fingers couldn't quite touch around his girth, a twist of your wrist at the tip that made him curse and his thighs tremble. His precum made the glide easier, slicker, and you could feel every ridge, every vein under your palm. "Then don't hold on."
"You sure?" His hand covered yours, stilling your movements, and you could feel how his fingers were shaking.
You kissed him, soft and sure, feeling his lips tremble against yours. "I want you."
He reached for his pants, fumbling in the pocket for his wallet, and you watched his hands shake as he pulled out the condom. Found it, tore it open with shaking hands, nearly dropping it. You watched him roll it on, watched the way his jaw clenched when he touched himself, the way his eyes squeezed shut for a second, and then he was settling between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot even through the latex.
He pushed in slowly, so slowly, and you both gasped at the sensation. The stretch was perfect, that edge of too much that quickly melted into exactly right. He was thick, much thicker than his fingers, and you felt every inch as he sank into you. He buried his face in your neck, breathing hard, body trembling with the effort of holding still, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest.
"Fuck," he groaned against your skin, the word muffled and desperate. "You feel—I can't—give me a second or this is gonna be over before it starts."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper until he was fully seated inside you, and felt him twitch, felt every pulse of his cock. "You feel so good."
"Don't—" His hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding deeper. "Don't say things like that. I'm trying to—I'm trying to hold on."
"I don't want you to hold on." You rolled your hips experimentally, clenching around him, and he made a sound that was almost pained, almost a whimper. "I want you to move."
He lifted his head to look at you, and the expression on his face, desperate and wanting and barely hanging on, sweat beading on his forehead, lips parted around harsh breaths, made your heart race. "Oh, fuck."
"Chan. Move."
He did. Pulled out slowly, the drag of him against your walls making you both moan, and pushed back in. He set a steady rhythm, deep and thorough, his forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing.
"Is this—" His breath hitched, voice strained. "Shit, is this how you want it?"
"Faster," you managed. "Harder."
His control snapped. He grabbed your hip with one hand, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head, bicep flexing as he held himself up, and fucked into you exactly how you had asked, faster, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin obscenely loud in the quiet room, the headboard starting to hit the wall with each thrust.
"Fuck—you feel so good—" He was gone now, words tumbling out between gasps, filter completely gone. "So tight and wet and—god—perfect—didn't know it could feel this good—"
Your nails dug into his shoulders, his back, dragging down hard enough to make him hiss. The slight pain seemed to spur him on, his hips snapping faster. "Don't stop—right there—Chan—"
"I'm not—I'm not gonna last—" His rhythm was getting erratic, chasing his release, each thrust slightly off-beat, desperate. "Touch yourself. I want to feel you come again. Need to feel it."
Your hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit, still sensitive from your first orgasm, and the added stimulation had you clenching around him hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, hips stuttering.
"That's it—fuck, that's so hot—" He buried his face in your neck, his words muffled against your skin, lips moving against your pulse. "Come with me—please—I'm so close—can't hold it—"
"I'm—oh god—"
Your second orgasm hit different, deeper, longer, starting from where you were connected and radiating outward, pulling him right over the edge with you. He came with a broken sound of your name, hips jerking erratically as he spilled into the condom, and you felt every pulse of it, felt him throbbing inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just lay there breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, heartbeats gradually slowing, still connected. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, could feel his lips pressed against your neck, could feel the occasional aftershock flutter through both of you.
Finally, he lifted his head, brushing sweaty hair out of your face with shaking fingers, his touch so gentle compared to how he had just fucked you. "So," he said, breathless and grinning, that dimple appearing again. "Was that worth waiting for?"
You laughed, pulling him down for a kiss, soft and sweet and completely at odds with what you had just done.
"Yeah, it was."
—
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place (note: i write smut fics!) ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
genuinely I can't stop laughing at the fact that it's a canon buddie dynamic that eddie just goes around doing vaguely evil and illegal shit and buck follows him going surely this is all perfectly legally sound because eddie - my eddie, the paragon of goodness with a silver star - would never do anything illegal. but then again what else could I have expected from buck 'follows eddie diaz into what he suspects is a mob establishment with zero questions' buckley
