“Yeah, I see it,” he answers, fingers flying over the keyboard as he aggressively taps the keys to avoid the incoming enemy attack. One hand stays on the keyboard while the other reaches down, finding your hair again and gathering it into a loose ponytail to guide you further down on his length.
He quickly mutes his microphone before speaking.
“Holy fuck… just like that, angel. Yeah…”
You look up at him through your lashes and find his eyes half-closed, lips parted, head tilted back against the gaming chair.
“Good job, Lix. Damn, you’ve gotten so good these last few months. What’s your secret, mate?” Chan’s voice comes through the headphones and you hum around Felix’s cock.
Felix lets out a low, satisfied sound before unmuting his mic again.
“Ah, you know…” he says casually, glancing down before pushing you a little further onto him, making you choke softly. “…lots of practice and…” He pauses briefly, biting back a grin. “Really getting into it.”
For everyone who has read my Hyunjin Dolly fic, I'm making this post where you will be able to comment if you want to be added or removed from the taglist to this series.
The series will consist of 9 chapters, each for one individual doll, and they will tie in together in the final chapter. I'd like to clarify that the dollies are posted in a non-linear story.
summary: you teach felix how to eat you out, and he ends up performing better than expected.
warnings: non idol au, felix in my dumb psycho cannibal characterization of him but you can’t even tell about the psycho part it’s not mentioned at all, he has no context of personal space, sexual content, oral sex, cunnilingus, overstimulation, biting, drool, period sex(not the main event of the fic, it’s a little little scene towards the end), menstrual blood eating, mild pain
word count: 4k
it’s suspiciously quiet in your apartment. which, when you know felix, is usually a bad sign.
today, however, he’s currently just on your couch. skinny little legs dangling off the side, head upside down, watching you walk around the kitchen. interested in you. a little dumb. okay, really dumb.
“what are you doing?” he asks.
“making tea.”
there’s a pause.
“why?”
“because i want tea.”
another pause.
“oh.”
soon, he appears in the kitchen doorway. because he wants to be near you. his hair is a mess. he’s shirtless, that faint happy trail of dark hair disappearing into his cute lil pants that are doing nothing to hide how skinny his hips are. chain on his neck catching the light. he looks beautiful. (until he opens his mouth. there is nothing in that skull. it’s just wind.)
you pour the tea and lean back against the counter. he’s staring at you.
“come here.” you tell him.
he lights up immediately and walks over. no hesitation. just big dumb steps.
you hop up onto the counter so you’re sitting on it, legs dangling, and he naturally moves between them. his hands land on the counter beside you, boxing you in.
“what?” he says.
“nothing. just talking.”
“okay.”
he’s so close you can see the tiny scar on his eyebrow. you’re pretty sure he got that because he ran into a glass door once.
he tilts his head.
then he starts sniffing, the bitch. sniff. sniff sniff.
and then the shitmachine just full on shoves his face straight into your crotch. nose first. his hands are still braced on the counter but now his shoulders hunch forward so he can get closer, cheek smushing against your inner thigh.
“HEY.” you shove his head back immediately, palm on his forehead. “personal space!”
he stumbles back half a step, blinking, confused, dazed, lips parted, cheeks pink from the sudden lack of oxygen against your pussy. “what.”
“you just— you can’t just— what the fuck was that??”
“you smell weird.”
“…excuse me?”
he tilts his head again, thinking very hard. then leans forward a little, sniffing the air. “not bad weird. like… tasty weird.”
you rub your face. “tasty.”
“yeah.”
“you mean i’m ovulating.”
blank stare from him. you can literally see the gears turning in that peanut brain.
one second.
two seconds.
three.
then suddenly his eyes widen. imagine the lightbulb above his head and all. “OH.”
“you got it?”
“yeah.” he says proudly. “i learned that in med school.”
right.
right.
you’re still not sure how he got in.
“good.” you sigh. “then you know why you can’t just sniff people like that.”
he frowns. “why?”
“because it’s weird.”
“oh.”
pause.
“but it smells good.”
“do not start.”
“i’m not starting.” he says. so dumb.
he leans closer again, nose twitching.
you smack his shoulder. “stop sniffing me!”
“i’m not sniffing you.” he insists, while very clearly sniffing you.
“jesus christ. listen. you cannot just… react to that smell.”
“why?”
“because that would mean you’re basically—” you wave your hands. trying to find the words. really trying to. “—trying to eat me out just because of hormones.”
“…eat you out.”
you immediately regret saying that.
“what does that mean?” he asks.
great.
you sigh, already exhausted. “it’s… when someone uses their mouth.”
“like kissing?”
“not exactly.”
“like biting?”
“no.”
he squints at you, trying to solve the puzzle. “like… chewing.”
“no.”
he thinks for another long moment. “…like eating.”
“not literally eating.”
“okay… but with mouth.”
“yes.”
another pause.
“eating out means licking someone’s pussy, felix. vagina. with your tongue. eating it, baby. until they cum. usually. it’s intimate. sexual.“
slowly, you can watch the single brain cell finally connect the dots.
“oh.” he breathes. then, quieter: “ohhhhh.” his face flushes all the way to his ears. but he doesn’t look embarrassed. “can i try?”
you stare at him.
he keeps staring. hopeful. clueless. sweet. he’s so cute.
“you… want to eat me out? right now? first time ever?”
he nods. “yeah. please? i wanna make you feel good. and you smell so good right now and i keep thinking about… about putting my tongue there. is that okay? did i say it wrong? i can be gentle. i promise.”
you stare at him for a long time.
he waits. just looks at you with those big, empty, adoring eyes. completely serious. completely clueless. completely felix.
you exhale. slow. “…okay.”
his whole face lights up. “really?”
“yeah. but slow. and you listen. got it?”
he nods so hard his hair flops into his eyes. “mhm.”
you slide off the counter, legs a little shaky from the sudden rush of heat between them, and grab felix’s wrist before he can follow his nose right back into your crotch.
“bedroom.” you say firmly. “now. we’re not doing this on the kitchen floor like animals. i need to be comfy.”
felix blinks. processes. then his face splits into the biggest, dumbest grin you’ve ever seen, already going with you. “do i need to bring anything? like… water? a towel? school said hydration is important during physical activity—”
“just you.” you call over your shoulder, pushing the bedroom door open. “and maybe shut up for five seconds so i can think.”
he shuts up. mostly.
you flick on the bedside lamp (soft gold light, not the harsh overhead), kick the comforter back, and climb onto the bed. settle against the headboard with pillows propped behind you, knees bent, thighs parted just enough to make him freeze in the doorway.
he stares. mouth slightly open. eyes huge.
you pat the space between your legs. “come here. on your stomach. between my thighs.”
he crawls onto the bed, elbows and knees, ass wiggling a little in excitement, until he’s lying flat on his belly with his face inches from your covered pussy.
he looks up at you. waiting. eager. completely blank behind the eagerness.
“okay.” you breathe. “first. take my pants and panties off. slow.”
he nods so fast his hair flops into his eyes. reaches up, hands shaking just a little, and hooks two fingers under the waistband of both at the same time. peels them down your thighs. when they’re off and tossed somewhere behind him, he just… stares again.
“holy shit.” he whispers. “you’re so pretty. and wet. and shiny. is that normal?”
you laugh. “yeah. that’s normal when i’m turned on. now, start with kisses. inner thighs first. soft ones. work your way in. everywhere but right there yet. tease me. make me want it.”
he starts just like you told him to. kisses, messy, open mouthed, a little too enthusiastic at first. he’s pressing big, wet ones along the crease of your thigh, then the other, then back again, hoping that’ll make you feel good.
his lips are warm, a little chapped, and he’s breathing so hard through his nose you can feel the puffs against your skin. he’s shaking, actual little tremors in his shoulders.
then he pulls away and just stares at your pussy. dumb little eyes, not a thought behind them, locked on you.
and he leans in. the second his tongue touches your inner lips at first, hot, wet, oh my god, he makes this tiny “mmph” sound in the back of his throat.
he moves his tongue around a little. just testing the texture first. which he likes. a lot.
he pushes his tongue forward. the flat of it drags up your slit in one long, experimental lick, parting your lips. he doesn’t know what he’s doing, so he just… keeps going. sloppy. curious. his tongue is thick and warm and he uses way too much of it, shoving it between your folds, getting you all wet. he licks left, then right, then straight up again, nose bumping your clit on accident.
he flattens his tongue and laps at your entrance, then curls the tip and tries to push inside you. he’s messy about it. spit and your wetness mix and drip down his chin.
“felix, slower.” you guide. hand in his hair. gentle. “focus on the clit.”
he tries. god, he tries. he licks around your clit in wide, clueless circles at first, missing it half the time, tongue sliding over the hood instead of the actual nub. when he notices where he needs to be to make your hips twitch, he stays there. pressing. licking. little teeth, ow.
he pushes your lips apart wider with his thumbs, clumsy, too hard at first, then gentler when you tense, exposing everything so he can lick deeper. there are actual strings of spit connecting his bottom lip to your pussy every time he pulls back for air.
“you’re getting wetter.” he mumbles. “is that good? am i doing good?”
he does. lips close around your clit, so eager, and he sucks. hard enough to make your back arch off the pillows. his tongue keeps moving inside his mouth, fluttering against the sensitive bud while he sucks.
sucks then stops with a wet pop and a manly breath. then sucks again, gives a little moan before wet pop and manly breath again. it all sounds so wet.
he’s drooling so much now it’s running down your ass, soaking the sheets. humping the bed while he eats you. he doesn’t even notice. too focused. too brainless. groaning into your cunt like he’s the one getting eaten out.(not a bad idea. you’ll explore that later)
he’s so fucking brainless about it. at one point he stops completely, face shiny, eyes crossed a little, and just presses his open mouth against your clit and hums in pleasure. then he goes back in, tongue pushing your folds around, exploring every inch, just loooving it down there. he even tries sucking gently on one of your lips, then the other, testing the give, the softness, the way it makes you breathe funny.
when you give his hair a little tug in pleasure, his eyes roll back for a second, actual eye roll of bliss. his nose keeps bumping your mound every few passes, hot little puffs of breath fanning over you.
he pulls away. breathes on your wet cunt. goes in again. humming around you in pure bliss.
your back arches off the bed. hand tightens in his hair. you moan. there we go.
felix pulls off just enough to look up, wide eyed, terrified he fucked up. “was that bad? i just—i felt it flutter and i thought maybe—”
“good.” you gasp. “so fucking good. do it again. suck and hum. please.”
he moans, loud, then seals his lips around you again. suck. hum. suck. hum. his tongue flicks the underside of your clit in tiny little taps while he sucks, clumsy but deep.
he’s making the filthiest sounds, wet slurps, needy whimpers, little “mmph mmph” every time you clench around nothing.
his hips are rocking in helpless thrusts into the mattress as his mouth goes down, though it never parts from you, and he pushes his tongue deep into you again. thrusts in and out in shallow little pumps while his nose grinds against your clit. he’s moaning nonstop, vibrations right inside you now. his hands slide up to grip your ass, spreading you wider so he can get deeper.
he’s just… hungry with it. ravenous, even. licking like he’s trying to crawl inside you and live there. sloppy. wet. obscene. drool and your slick running down his chin, dripping onto the sheets. letting out constant muffled whimpers and the occasional “mmph—fuck—so good—so good”
but fuck, he’s good.
instinctive. relentless. every time you twitch or gasp he adjusts, flicks harder, sucks deeper, hums louder. his peanut brain finally found something it’s good for, which is making you feel good. making you drip. making you shake.
he’s so dumb. so sweet. so utterly, brainlessly devoted. and so fucking good at it already.
but he’s still felix. come on. so when he gets too excited, too hungry, he forgets that he’s handling a fragile girl under those sharp cannibal teeth of his.
his teeth graze your clit. not hard at first, just a scrape. you jolt, thighs clamping around his ears on instinct.
he doesn’t notice. keeps going. sucks a little harder. then actually bites. small, but still.
“ow, ow ow ow, felix, gentle!”
you yank his hair hard. he yelps, muffled into your pussy, and pulls back just enough for you to see his pretty face.
chin dripping, lips swollen and red, eyes wide and panicked.
“sorry sorry sorry.” he gasps, spit stringing from his bottom lip to your clit. “i didn’t mean—i just—you taste so good and it was right there and i thought—i thought maybe a little bite? i’m sorry i’m so dumb i—”
his voice cracks. actual distress. he looks like he’s about to cry. it’s fucking hilarious.
you loosen your grip in his hair. stroke his scalp instead. soft. “it’s okay, baby. just… no teeth. okay? lips and tongue only. you were doing so good.”
he nods frantically. now hair not flopping into his baby little face because it’s stuck to his skin.
he dives back in slower this time. careful. lips sealing around your clit again, soft suck, gentle pull. he hums again, and you feel it all the way up your spine. now that’s good.
“better?” he mumbles against you. barely pulling off enough to speak.
“so much better.” you breathe. hips rolling up to meet his mouth.
he moans at the praise. the sound vibrates right through your clit and you gasp.
you grind down, slow at first, smearing yourself across his face. he lets you. opens wider. tongue flat and still so you can ride it however you want.
you find the rhythm. small rocks forward, clit dragging over the flat of his tongue, then back so the tip catches the underside. forward again. back. he follows, head tilting just enough to give you the perfect angle, nose bumping your mound every time you push forward.
now you’re actually giving sound. moaning and whining and crying out and “felix, fuuuuuck, don’t stop—right there!”
aaand that’s it. felix just made you cum thru his first time eating pussy. ever. pretty sick, dare i say.
and he sucks you through it. not consciously, just naturally. like, he doesn’t think. it’s like the way he knows that when he jerks off, it feels better when he strokes himself through it rather than just stopping after he cums. so he does the same to you. so sweet.
and he lets the intrusive thoughts win. his lips open wide, and he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, whole mound, clit, folds, everything, seals tight and gives one big, greedy suck.
then he bites.
not hard enough to break skin, thank fuck, but his jaw is still strong from so many human eating. teeth sinking into the swollen, oversensitive flesh of yours just enough to sting, to shock, to send a fresh jolt straight through your still pulsing clit.
you scream now. your thighs snap shut around his head, heels digging into his back, trapping him there. he moans, muffled, into your cunt, the sound vibrating right against your raw nerves.
this bitch is a natural.
you roll. desperate to breathe, to escape the overstimulation, to curl in on yourself. you twist sideways on the bed, hips jerking, trying to close your legs tighter.
he turns with you.
greedy fucker.
doesn’t let go for a second. just rolls his head with your movement, keeps his mouth sealed to you and his hands on your ass, tongue still lapping slow and sloppy through the mess he made.
“felix, fuck—too much, too sensitive—”
he doesn’t stop, just softens his sucks. gentler laps now. little kitten licks over your throbbing clit while you shake and sob into the pillow.
“can’t stop.” he mumbles against you, slurred with your slick.
you try to push his head away, really trying to, but he just whines.
“noooo.” he mumbles into your pussy, voice muffled and pitiful. “just a little more. please? i can be gentle. promise. no teeth this time. just tongue. just—mmph—”
he tries to dip back in. tongue flicking out. you grab a fistful of his hair, harder this time, and tug his head back until his mouth finally leaves you with a wet pop. slick strings from his bottom lip to your clit, he chases it with his tongue for half a second before you yank again.
“felix. no.”
he freezes. eyes wide, glassy, pupils blown to black. chin dripping. cheeks flushed bright red. he looks horrible but it’s so cute and so hot, hair a sweaty mess, lips swollen and shiny. he was made for eating pussy.
“okay.” he whispers. so cute. obedient. a little heartbroken. “sorry. i just… really liked it. you sounded so pretty. and tasted even better. i got carried away. dumb. i’m dumb. sorry.”
you exhale. shaky. feel a little bad for him but then remember that he’ll probably forget about it by tomorrow(not about the pussy eating, about him being dumb) so after all you’re fine. just… really overstimulated.
“it’s okay, baby. you did good. really good. just… too much right now. sensitive.”
he nods. eyes still locked on your pussy.
you collapse back onto the pillows. flat on your back. legs falling open, boneless. chest heaving. skin slick with sweat. the sheets under you are soaked, your juices, his drool, his earlier mess from humping the mattress.
felix curls around your left leg. cheek pressed to the inside of your thigh, one skinny arm slung over your hip, fingers tracing lazy little patterns on your lower stomach. not on purpose to be sweet, he’s just too dumb to have his fingers still. he’s still breathing hard, ragged little puffs against your leg, but he’s content. utterly. the orgasm he gave you was one of the best things he experienced in his dull and bloody little life.
you’re both quiet. just the sound of heavy breathing filling the room. your heart hammering against your ribs. his slowing against your thigh.
it’s… intimate.
more intimate than the actual act, somehow.
“you okay?” he mumbles eventually. voice small. sleepy. “did i do it right? was it good? did you like my tongue? i tried really hard. i can practice more if you want. like… every day.”
you laugh, weak, hoarse. reach down and card your fingers through his sweaty hair. “yeah, baby. you did really good. really fucking good.”
he smiles against your leg. nuzzles closer. happy little sigh. “cool. i liked it too. a lot.”
you close your eyes. let your hand rest on his head. feel the rise and fall of his breathing sync slowly with yours.
dumb fuck.
sweet fuck.
your fuck.
after that first time, felix doesn’t just “like” eating pussy. he becomes fucking obsessed.
look. the build up of his peanut brain looks like “hungry” and “hungrier.” hungry goes for eating you out. hungrier goes for cannibalism.
he’s a munch in the truest sense in this world. pussy drunk, whatever synonym you want. he’ll drop to his knees the second you walk into a room if he catches even a hint of your scent shifting.
doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, he’ll sniff the air and start crawling toward you before he even registers what he’s doing. half the time you don’t even get pants off before his face is buried. he’ll shove fabric aside with his nose, tongue already out, licking through cotton.
if you’re standing he’ll drop and hook your leg over his shoulder, back you against the nearest wall/fridge/counter/doorframe, and go to town. sloppy. loud. moaning into you and allat.
he gets better fast, too fast for someone with zero impulse control. because he’s a natural. he knows exactly how wide to spread his tongue when you want that pressure that makes you grind on his face and hehe that’s good(dumb fuck), how to flick the underside of your clit when you’re close, how to hum when you need vibration, how to suck just hard enough to make your knees buckle without tipping into pain (unless you ask for pain, then he’s happy to oblige).
he still gets clumsy when he’s too excited, nose bumping too hard, teeth grazing on accident, but now when you yank his hair and hiss “gentle.” he immediately softens, whimpers “sorry sorry sorry.” and doubles down on precision. he’s pretty sweet tbh.
and he’s vocal. nonstop. muffled rambling the whole time. “fuck you taste so good today—so sweet—fuck there’s more—gimme more—please—i’m so thirsty—your clit’s so fat right now—i love when it swells like that—can i bite just a little? no? okay okay lips only—fuck i’m gonna cum again just from this—”
yeah. he cums untouched. a lot. humping the air, the mattress, your leg, the floor, doesn’t matter. if he’s got his mouth on you long enough, he’ll spill in his pants (or on the sheets, or down his thigh) with these pathetic, happy little sobs, never stopping his tongue for a second. sometimes he cums twice before you do. doesn’t care. just keeps going.
once he figured out you’ll literally ride his face if he stays still enough? game over. he begs for it constantly. “please sit. pleasepleaseplease i’ll be good i’ll keep my tongue out the whole time you can use me like a chair i swear.”
when you finally give in he lies flat on his back, arms wrapped around your thighs, and just… opens. tongue out, flat, ready. he looks so ridiculous. so cute. you can grind however you want, slow rocks, fast little flicks, full on humping, and he just takes it. moaning the whole time. just again, sometimes he cums untouched just from the taste/smell/pressure of you smothering him. sometimes he passes out for a second from lack of air and you have to lift off, only for him to gasp “no no no come back i’m fine i can breathe through my ears or something please—”
and then there’s your period. holy fuck. let’s keep in mind that this boy is a cannibal, yeah? so, the first time you’re bleeding(after he discovered the magic of eating pussy) and he’s around, you try to keep him away. shower, pad, locked bathroom door, the works. he still finds you. sniffs under the door. scratches. whines. talking bout sum “babe please, i can smell it—it’s so strong. let me in, i’ll be gentle—i swear—i just wanna taste—”
you crack the door an inch.
he pushes it open with his shoulder, drops to his knees right there on the tile, and looks up at you with those big, empty, pleading eyes.
“please? just a little? i’ll clean you up. i promise. i’m good at cleaning. i like blood. you know i like blood.”
you’re already wet from the hormones anyway. and he’s already drooling.
so you let him.
he’s brutal.
no hesitation. no gentleness. the second your thighs part he’s latched on, whole mouth, sucking hard, tongue scooping out every drop of blood and wetness. he moans so loud it echoes off the tiles. eyes rolling back. hands gripping your ass to pull you closer so he can get deeper.
he’s messy. blood on his chin, smeared across his cheeks, dripping down his neck. he doesn’t care. just keeps sucking, licking, fucking you with his tongue while his nose grinds your clit.
and it does help with cramps a lot.
after that, periods become his favorite. he’ll beg for them. sniff you from across the room when you’re cramping and pout until you spread your legs on the couch. he’ll crawl between your thighs while you’re watching something, peel your pad away or pull the tampon string out with his teeth(wtf), and bury his face.
he gets louder. hungrier. more feral. teeth grazing more often until you have to yank his hair and remind him “no breaking skin, felix.” he whines, apologizes, then goes right back to sucking like a man possessed.
he’s insatiable.
pussy drunk doesn’t cover it.
he’s pussy poisoned. cunt cursed. munch incarnate.
and every time he pulls back, chin wet(or red), eyes glassy, lips swollen, happy trail damp with pre cum, he just grins that big, dumb, everything-smeared grin and right there you know that you’re so down for him. anything he wants, you’ll give it to him. to make out with your cunt? it’s his. to cuddle up to you when you’re already irritated? all his, you’ll calm down.
he earned it, after all.
but yeah, you’d still give him the world even if he wasn’t a munch.
contains: +18, twt smut link, friends with tension, risk of getting caught, touchy hands under the table, teasing, dirty talk, messy sex, floor sex, riding, unprotected sex (don't!!!), oral (both receiving), fingering, handjob, squirting, mutual desperation, overstimulation, whiny seungmin (<333), reader is loud.
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open!
⋆｡°✩
summary: You were just supposed to catch up with friends. Dinner, drinks, some laughs, nothing serious. But deep inside... you came hoping he would be there. Whatever had happened between you two... God, you wanted it again. And the second he laid his eyes on you? You knew he wanted it too.
!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!
warnings: the twt smut link has explicit content. it’s porn. you don’t have to watch it to understand the story. i decided to share w/ you bc watching it inspired me writing this one. also, you have to be logged in to open the video!!
The table was crowded, laughs, wine glasses clinking, someone passing plates of pasta like this was any normal dinner with friends. It had been ages since the last time you all managed to meet up. And even longer since you and Seungmin had happened for the first time.
"Happened". Funny way to describe it. Well, you had fucked. A few times. Messy. Drunk. Those kind of nights you don’t talk about.
He walked in late, dark hoodie, hair a little too perfect, and when his eyes landed on you. You felt it in your throat. That thing he does, the slow scan. Like he’s choosing. Like he already knows.
At first, you were across the table from each other. Plenty of bodies between. Enough noise to distract anyone else. But he couldn't sit still. You noticed it right away, how he kept shifting, drumming his fingers on the edge of his plate, licking at his bottom lip between sentences. His eyes kept darting toward you, then away. Pretending to be interested in the conversation.
But you knew him enough.
Enough to know what it looked like when he was starving. And that’s exactly what he was.
Your knees bumped someone else's. Someone laughed too loudly. Seungmin leaned back in his chair just enough to see past the person between you. Eyes dragging up your neckline. Your collarbones. Your lips. He didn’t even smile. Just stared, jaw tight, like he had already undressed you ten different ways.
And you didn’t look away.
You let him stare.
The tension brewed with every course. Every refill. Every second. He moved one seat closer when someone got up to take a call. And then again when someone left to smoke. Until finally, he was beside you.
His shoulder grazed yours.
You didn’t dare turn your head. But his knee pressed against yours under the table, casual, then not-so-casual. His breath was warm when he leaned in to grab the salt. And then he didn’t move away.
“You look different,” he murmured, low enough only for you. “Pretty.”
“Wasn’t I pretty before?” you said, tilting your head, just enough bite in your voice to sting.
His lips quirked. Barely. “Don’t start,” he murmured, but there was a gleam in his eyes. Like he wanted you to.
And then, “Oh shit, Seungmin! I forgot to tell you—” Someone slid into the open spot across the table. Loud, cheerful, completely oblivious to the way you were staring straight into each other’s throats.
He turned his face toward the voice, shifting only slightly, but his knee stayed flush against yours. Still leaning close. Still burning.
You blinked, pretended to focus on your plate. Tried to pick up pieces of the new conversation. Something about a mutual friend’s disaster date. Seungmin laughed at the right moments. Gave polite answers. Played it cool.
But you knew it was all performance.
You could smell him, clean laundry, warm skin, a bit of spice in his cologne that made your thighs press tighter. You could feel his breath sometimes, just barely on your neck when he leaned back.
And you couldn’t stop looking at him.
His dark hair, slightly tousled from the hoodie. The curve of his lashes. The way his mouth moved when he spoke, slow. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed mid-sentence. Watched how his fingers curled loosely on the table.
And then, his thigh started to move.
Just a little. Brushing yours. Not by accident.
Once. Twice. He kept talking, but his leg was pressing into you now, confident, slow, steady. Testing.
You swallowed hard. Forced your face to stay blank. Polite. Like you were listening. But you weren’t. You were heat and nerve endings. You were soaked through and dizzy.
Then, your hand slipped, dropped softly under the table. Fingers shaking slightly. You let it land on his thigh.
Casual. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause his sentence.
But his voice dipped just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He kept speaking, still facing that guy. Still smiling. And your fingers slowly brushed him. Down, then up. A little higher. A little firmer. His thigh tensed beneath your touch.
And that’s when you realized. Shit, he was hard.
Already. You could feel it. Right there beside you, and you were barely touching him. You kept brushing your fingers higher. Just barely.
He was still talking, still pretending. You watched the side of his face, the way he smiled at the conversation, answered with lazy ease. But you felt the way his thigh was flexing now, tight under your hand. How his breath stuttered just once when your fingers ghosted close to where he was hardest.
And then... his hand covered yours.
Firm. Warm. No sudden movement, no alarm. Just a quiet weight. A warning. You didn’t dare look at him.
But your pulse shot straight to your throat.
His thumb slid against the back of your hand, barely a stroke. Like he was calming you. Or thanking you. Or telling you to stop. You couldn't tell exactly what he wanted to tell you.
Except... he didn’t move your hand away. He just kept holding it there. Like he wanted you to feel it. To know what you were doing to him. To know how hard he already was.
The conversation across the table went on, oblivious. Someone laughed. A fork clinked against a wine glass. But the only sound you could hear was your own breathing, shallow, uneven.
You shifted slightly in your seat, your thigh pressing harder into his. And under the table, his fingers squeezed yours.
Not hard. Just enough to say: 'Careful'.
You glanced around the table. No one was watching.
The wine had done its job, everyone loud, flushed, lost in their own little conversations. The guy talking to Seungmin was deep in some chaotic gossip, waving his fork around like the drama depended on it. No one was looking under the table. No one was looking at you.
So you moved your hand. Up.
Slowly dragging your fingers higher along the inside of his thigh. You felt the way his muscles jumped beneath your touch. How his hand, still covering yours, didn’t stop you.
He was still pretending to listen. Nodding once. A hum of acknowledgment. But his jaw had gone tighter. His eyes sharper. His breathing? Barely controlled.
Until you reached him, fully.
Hard, thick, straining against his jeans.
You let your hand rest there. Nothing more than a soft press at first. Palming him over the denim like this was something you did all the time. Like you weren’t absolutely soaking just from the tension. Like your own heart wasn’t pounding in your chest.
Seungmin’s fingers gripped yours suddenly, tight now. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shove your hand away or make you keep going.
Still, he didn’t look at you.
He stared straight ahead, lips parted, eyes on the speaker. But his breath hitched. And under the table, his legs spread just slightly.
Letting you.
Inviting you.
The conversation around you blurred, muffled. You didn’t care what was being said. All you could feel was him. Heavy and hard under your hand. And his fingers, digging into your skin now, his quietest attempt at staying composed.
But you knew him too well.
He was seconds away from snapping.
You held your hand there for a moment. Just letting him feel it.
Your palm pressed soft and steady over the thick outline of him, hot through his jeans. He was barely breathing now, tense everywhere.
And then, you patted him.
Slowly.
Once. Twice.
Right over the head of his cock, like you were comforting him. Or rewarding him. He still didn’t move. Didn’t look at you. But his jaw twitched. And his grip on your wrist? Tightened, warning.
You ignored it.
One single finger lifted from your palm.
And you dragged it. Down.
From the tip to the base. Light. Barely a trace. Just enough to make his breath catch. To make his thigh jump again. Just enough to make his cock twitch under your touch, like he was begging. Without a sound. Without a word.
And god, the shiver that ran through him... So quiet. So violent. You felt it before you saw it. Like his whole body was vibrating with the effort to stay still.
Then...
“Anyway, I’m gonna grab another drink,” the guy across from you said, finally standing. “Tell Chan I said he’s an idiot for missing this one.”
Seungmin gave a single nod, didn’t say a word.
And the second the guy was gone?
He turned his head.
And looked at you.
Not fast. Not dramatic.
But intense.
Like he could see straight through you. Like he was imagining you on your knees already. Like he was deciding how hard he was going to fuck you for this.
His eyes dragged down your face. Your mouth. Your neck. Back to your eyes.
And there was a slight smile. But no teasing. Just heat. Hot. Focused. Furious.
He leaned in, slow, voice so low it didn’t even count as a whisper.
“I hope you know what you've just asked for.”
The words ghosted over your skin like a threat.
Before you could answer, before you could even breathe, he was already shifting. His hand gripped your thigh under the table, firm this time, pulling your legs just slightly apart as he stood. Not a word to anyone. Not even a glance back.
And somehow, no one noticed.
Maybe it was the noise. The clatter of plates, the laughter, the drinks flowing like water. Maybe everyone was too drunk, too busy, too distracted. But you felt like the room had gone still. Like everything narrowed to him.
You followed him without question.
Down the narrow hall, past the coat rack and the guest bathroom. Your steps were slow, legs warm and heavy from everything he had just done to you without even touching skin. He didn’t check to see if you were behind him. He knew you were.
When he reached the last door, maybe the guest bedroom, he opened it, pulled you in, and locked it behind him.
Silence.
When he turned to you?
There was no hesitation. No smirk. Just need.
He stepped into you, crowding you against the wall before you could say a thing. His mouth was on yours in a second, hot, rough, filthy. Tongue sliding in like he owned it. Hands everywhere. One gripping your waist, the other already tugging at the back of your jeans like he couldn’t believe you were there, on his hands.
You moaned into his mouth, arms locking around his neck as he pressed against you, cock hard and insistent against your hip.
“You think that was funny?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with it. “Patting me like that? Teasing me like I wouldn’t drag you back here and fuck you against the first wall I could find?”
You barely managed a breath before his mouth was back on you. Down your neck, biting. His hand slipped under your shirt, then under your bra, fingertips digging.
“You did this to yourself,” he growled, breath hot in your ear. “You know that, right?”
And with one sharp movement, he turned you. Pressed your chest against the wall. Not gentle. Not slow. But so fucking perfect.
You were smiling. Laughing. Pressed up against the wall, cheek brushing the cool paint, heart pounding like a war drum, but you were smiling. Because you knew exactly what you had done to him. You wanted it just as bad as he did.
Maybe worse.
His chest was flush against your back, his breath ragged as it hit your neck, and his cock, fuck, you could feel it, thick and hard against the curve of your ass. There was no hiding it now. No pretense. He was grinding into you like instinct, like it hurt to not be inside you.
And then his hand, that goddamn hand. It slid down, bold and sure, fingers brushing over the front of your jeans. Right where you were soaked through.
Even with the fabric in the way, you jolted. It felt like lightning, the way he touched you. Just his fingertips, grazing your pussy like he was testing it, measuring the mess he had made with only looks and tension and one whispered threat.
He chuckled low behind you, his nose brushing your jaw. "I can feel you're dripping for me, even with all this in the way," he murmured, dragging one knuckle right along your seam. “Fuck, you want it bad, don’t you?”
You let out a shaky laugh, half breath, half whimper. "Look who's talking," you said, pushing your hips back, grinding into the thick line of him behind you. “You’ve been hard since you saw me.”
He growled, actually growled. His hand tightened on your waist, and his other flattened against your cunt, pressing down through the fabric.
The friction made your knees buckle.
"You gonna keep mouthing off,” he muttered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “or are you gonna let me fuck you?”
"I'm not stopping you"
And then he moved.
His hands went to your jeans, rough, practiced. The button popped open with a snap, zipper dragged down with a sound that made your skin burn. He yanked the waistband down over your hips, just enough to expose your ass, the lace of your underwear pulled tight across your soaked heat.
He groaned behind you, low and vicious, like the sight alone wrecked him. “Jesus…” His fingers dragged over the fabric between your thighs. “You’re soaked.”
You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark, lips parted. Smirking.
“Maybe you should’ve touched me sooner.”
That did something to him.
Because the next second, he shoved your jeans lower, let them hang around your thighs. His hand grabbed your panties by the side, snapping them against your skin before sliding them aside, just enough to bare you to him.
And then, his fingers finally touched you. Skin to skin. Slick and hot and desperate.
He swore under his breath, deep and ragged, while his fingers slid through your folds, gathering the mess. He didn’t ease in slow. Didn’t take his time. Two fingers pushed inside you without hesitation, and you gasped, loud.
“Still tight,” he hissed behind you, voice breaking.
You could barely hold yourself up now, your hands flat against the wall, back arched, legs already trembling. And he was pressing into you, grinding his cock against your ass, fingers working inside you like he was trying to ruin you before even pulling himself out of his jeans.
Every drag. Every curl. Fuck, you needed more.
“Seungmin—” you choked, head falling forward.
He pulled his fingers out with a wet sound, made you gasp from the loss.
Then you heard the soft click of his belt. The rasp of his zipper.
And that moment, the silence right before, when you knew he was lining himself up behind you?
It felt like the fucking earth was about to crack.
You barely had time to inhale before you felt the blunt heat of him, his cock pressing right against your entrance, thick and throbbing and barely held back.
He slid it through your folds first, dragging the head over your soaked cunt, groaning at the way you trembled, the way your ass pushed back, greedy for him.
And then... he sank in.
Not slow. Not gentle. Just all of him.
You cried out, fucked open in one breathless thrust, your hands clawing at the wall as his hips slammed into the backs of your thighs. He didn’t pause. Didn’t give you time to adjust. He needed this. And fuck, you did too.
“Fuck,” he gasped, mouth hot against your shoulder. “Fucking—tight—wet—shit.”
He set a brutal pace right away, hips slapping against your skin, hands digging into your waist to keep you in place. Every thrust pushed you up the wall, knocked the air out of you. His cock hit deep, again and again, filling you in a way that made your knees buckle, your thoughts scatter.
You were gasping, moaning, whispering his name. And behind you, Seungmin was unraveling.
“I only came to this fucking meeting,” he growled, thrusting harder, deeper, meaner, “because I thought you might be here.”
You whimpered, your cheek pressed against the wall, nails scraping paint.
“I sat across that table for an hour,” he bit out, breath wild, “hard as fuck. Watching you pretend like you weren’t thinking about this.”
He fucked into you harder.
“Like you weren’t soaking your jeans while everyone was fucking eating.”
You were drenched. Every slap of his hips echoed in the tiny room. Every wet, filthy sound of your pussy clenching around him made him groan deeper, made him lose rhythm for a second before he grabbed your hips tighter and kept pounding.
“Look at you now,” he hissed, hand sliding up your back, gripping your shoulder to pull you back onto his cock. “Fucking made for it. Taking me like you need it.”
You did. God, you did need it.
You could feel yourself close, tighter, hotter, your whole body trying to break apart around him.
And still, he didn’t let up.
He was fucking you like he had been waiting months. Like this was all he ever thought about. Like no one else in the goddamn world existed.
You let out a broken laugh, breath catching as his cock hit that spot deep inside you again and again. His grip on your waist was bruising, his pace ruthless, but you weren’t about to let him have the last word.
“You came hoping I’d be here?” you said, voice wrecked, taunting. “You couldn’t even look at me without getting hard.”
His thrust faltered, just for a second. You felt it. You grinned.
“Poor thing,” you gasped, pushing back against him harder, grinding your ass into his hips between thrusts. “Were you sitting there imagining this? How wet I’d be? How tight I’d still be wrapped around your cock?”
He groaned, raw, guttural, slamming into you harder like he wanted to fuck the smugness off your face.
But you were still talking, still smiling, even with your cheek against the wall and your legs shaking.
“You think I didn’t notice?” you hissed, clenching around him on purpose now, just to hear the sound he made. “The way you couldn’t stop staring at my mouth? My neck? The way your hands wouldn’t stay still?”
You rolled your hips back again, letting him slide even deeper. And god, the way he filled you, like nothing had ever fit so perfectly. “But yeah. I was wet for you before you even touched me,” you whispered.
He swore under his breath, loud, desperate, unraveling.
“You don’t know what you fucking do to me,” he growled, voice cracking. “You think this is about another night? You think I haven’t been going crazy—?”
His hand slid up to your throat, just resting there.
“You’re not leaving this room until I make you forget how to stand.”
You laughed again, breathless, biting your lip to stifle a moan as his cock slammed into you again, harder, deeper, wetter. “I’ll still be standing,” you panted, eyes fluttering. “You’re the one about to lose it.”
And the second you said it, he snapped. Pulled out of you with a sharp, wet sound that left you clenching around nothing, gasping from the loss.
Then he grabbed your waist and dropped.
Just like that.
Dragged you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and he was sitting back against the wall, cock slick and aching between you both.
You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on you again, pulling you onto his lap, lining you up.
And then, he shoved you down.
You cried out as he filled you again, all of him, fast and hard, your thighs stretching wide over his, knees scraping against the wood floor, back arching from the shock of it.
“Fuck—fuck,” he hissed, hands gripping your ass, holding you still as your cunt clenched around him. “You feel even better like this.”
You were already moving, rolling your hips down into him, grinding hard. His head tipped back against the wall, mouth falling open, breath ragged as you rode him, chasing every ounce of friction, every brutal grind of him inside you.
His hands roamed, everywhere. Gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fisting your hair as you moaned into his neck.
“F-fuck, Seungmin,” you gasped, voice shaking, body burning.
“I should’ve fucked you like this the first time,” he growled, lips dragging over your jaw, his hips thrusting up hard to meet every movement. “This real.”
You were losing it.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head falling back as he thrust up into you again and again, cock hitting so deep you saw stars.
“Look at you,” he panted, one hand gripping your ass, the other slipping between your bodies to rub your clit, fast, perfect, mean. “Thought you could sit across from me and act like none of it mattered. Like I never fucked you.”
You whimpered, your body already shaking, cunt clenching down around him, slick dripping down his thighs.
“Keep fucking me,” you gasped, eyes locking with his.
His arms wrapped around you tight, thrusts turning rough, relentless. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All you could do was take it.
Take him.
Slamming into you from below. Whispering your name like he needed it more than air.
You were right there, right fucking there.
And he knew it.
It hit you like a goddamn wave.
Every thrust, every grind of his cock inside you, it was perfect. The angle. The pressure. The way his fingers were working your clit, rough, fast, so fucking filthy, it was too much.
Your hips started to stutter. Your mouth dropped open, but nothing came out except a choked, breathless moan. You clung to him like your life depended on it, nails digging into his shoulders, forehead pressed to his, the sweat and spit between you like a fever dream.
And you couldn’t be quiet about it. You moaned, loud, broken. your body shaking in his arms as the pressure built fast and hot, unstoppable.
“Shh—fuck, shut up,” he hissed against your neck, one hand flying to cover your mouth. “Someone could hear us.”
But it was too much. You were already gone.
Your cries spilled into his palm, muffled but frantic, your hips grinding down hard, chasing it, your thighs trembling as your orgasm threatened to crash through you.
“You can’t fucking hold it back?”
You shook your head wildly, tears pricking your eyes, overwhelmed.
So he lost it. One arm locked around your waist, yanking you down harder on his cock, the other still over your mouth as he slammed up into you, fast, brutal, filthy. "Loud and messy. huh?"
“Fuck,” he grunted, voice dark and wrecked and just as desperate. “I can feel it. You’re shaking—shit, you’re fucking—dripping.”
And you were.
You felt it.
Everything, your thighs, his lap, his cock, soaking wet from how messy you had gotten. You could hear it. The disgusting, beautiful sound of your cunt sucking him in. His cock coated, slamming into you harder now, deeper, like he wanted to pull it out of you.
You gasped, ragged, broken.
“Oh f-fuck, I—I’m gonna—”
Your body exploded.
You came with a scream you couldn’t hold back, legs locking around his hips, thighs trembling violently. Your whole body jolted, shaking uncontrollably.
A rush of wetness came out of you, soaking his cock, your thighs, the floor beneath you. His mouth dropped open in pure awe, and he grunted so loud it bordered on a moan, hips jerking up into you as he fucked you through it.
“Jesus fucking Christ—” he choked, watching it happen, feeling it happen. “You just—fuck—look at you.”
You kept riding, mindless, gasping, wrecked. You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down. You were still coming, clenching around him like your body never wanted to let go.
“Fuck yes,” he breathed, grabbing your jaw, lips brushing yours, licking into your mouth as your orgasm dragged on and on. “Soak me. Just like that. Fuck—again.”
Your body spasmed against his, thighs twitching, still trembling all over his lap. Your slick was everywhere. It was all slippery, hot, soaked with everything you had just poured out onto him.
And he loved every goddamn second of it.
You were still trembling. Still pulsing around the ghost of his cock, still soaked between your thighs, dripping down both of you onto the floor, your thighs sticky, twitching, flushed with heat and oversensitivity.
And then he looked down. Saw it.
The glistening between your legs. The shine of your cum smeared on his lap, your thighs, the floor. And something in him snapped again.
“Holy shit—” he breathed, chest heaving. “I’mma fucking eat you out right now.”
“Wait—what—Seungmin—no, I—”
He dropped to his stomach like gravity had dragged him down, hands spreading your thighs open so hard your hips tilted with the motion. He pushed you back by the hips, bent you near in half on the floor, your knees pressing up toward your chest, and then gripped you hard by the ass and the backs of your thighs to hold you in place.
You were open. Completely. Held down, held wide, helpless.
“Seungmin—fuck—wait—”
But he was already there.
[twt link]
[reminder: this video has very explicit content. it’s PORN. you don't have to watch it to continue the story, k?]
His mouth crashed into your pussy with a filthy, soaking slurp, lips sealed around your folds, tongue flickering immediately, fast and greedy. He moaned the second he tasted you, deep in his chest like he couldn’t believe how wet you still were, like he needed to drown in it.
“Fuck—” he gasped against you, then shoved his face in deeper. “You taste—fuck—so good, holy shit—”
You screamed.
The way his tongue moved, fast, sharp flicks right over your clit, then slower, broader licks down through your folds, tasting every inch of you like he was trying to memorize it.
His nose bumped your clit while his tongue flattened beneath it. Then he’d switch, flick flick flick, until your hips were jerking up involuntarily, your legs shaking. You tried to pull away, tried to close your thighs, but his hands were locked around the backs of them, forcing your knees tight to your chest.
You could feel his fingers digging into your skin.
His moans vibrated straight through your cunt. He shook his head with his tongue out, fast and messy, dragging his mouth through your slick, smearing it all over his lips and jaw and groaning at the taste like it was the only thing he ever wanted again.
“Fuck, I’m gonna stay here all night,” he gasped, then buried his face back between your thighs. “I don’t care—fucking—look at this mess—god.”
The sounds, fuck, the sounds.
Every wet slurp, every obscene flick of his tongue, every slick drag of his mouth, it was loud, filthy, echoing off the walls like he was fucking you with his tongue alone. He was sucking, licking, spitting on your clit just to lap it back up, letting it run down his chin while you begged him to stop.
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, trying to pull him off, body twitching violently. “Too much—Seungmin—fuck—please—”
But he just groaned, and held you down tighter.
His tongue didn’t stop. His mouth didn’t stop. He was lost in it, obsessed.
He shook his head again, fast, rough, tongue flicking like he was trying to make you squirt again just from this. He moaned into your pussy like he needed to taste you to breathe, hips rutting into the floor beneath him, completely gone.
And the way he looked up at you from between your thighs, his mouth red, chin soaked, that puppy eyes blown wide, God.
You were sobbing now.
Your body was shaking, slick dripping down your ass, thighs twitching in his hands. His mouth hadn’t left you once. Not for air. Not for mercy. Nothing.
“Seungmin— please—fuck—I can’t— I—”
You were whimpering, crying, trying to twist away from his mouth, but his grip on the backs of your thighs only tightened. He still had you bent nearly in half, legs pinned against your chest, your pussy wide fucking open for his tongue. He was still moaning. Still fucking devouring you.
His face was soaked, chin, cheeks, mouth, everything covered in your slick. He looked ruined, obsessed, cock still hard under him as he shook his head, tongue dragging over your clit over and over like he needed you to break again.
Then it hit you. So hard.
It started in your stomach, coiled like a whip, and then snapped.
Your whole body seized, thighs locking around his head as you came, again, violently. The orgasm slammed through you like lightning, sharp and wet, your cry breaking in your throat as you clenched your legs around his face, body completely out of your control.
You came so hard you made a wet mess all over again, right into his mouth, onto his tongue, down his chin.
And god, he didn’t stop.
He groaned into your cunt, deep and loud, like it was everything he wanted, like he was trying to drink your orgasm straight out of you. His tongue kept moving, fast and sloppy, flicking your clit even as you cried, licking you through it like a man starved.
Your thighs trembled around his head, squeezing, crushing, and he loved it. Let you hold him there while he moaned, letting his face be soaked. The filthy wet sound of him eating you out echoed through the room like music, his mouth working, his nose nudging your swollen clit, his tongue never stopping.
Your whole body convulsed against the floor. Your nails dragged at his scalp.
He licked you through it all.
Even as you cried. Even as you begged. Even as your body kept shaking, kept twitching, pussy throbbing and leaking and dripping into his mouth.
And when you finally collapsed back onto the floor, chest rising and falling like you had run miles, he looked up at you.
Face covered in your cum, lips swollen, eyes glazed. Licked his bottom lip, slow and smug. Like he had just been fucking fed.
Your breath was wrecked. Your chest rising in sharp, uneven gasps as you tried to come down, twitching on the floor, body soaked and sensitive and so fucking used.
He looked fucked out, but the way he stared at you? Still hungry.
His fingers reached for yours, gentle, finally, and he guided your trembling hand to his face.
“You feel that?” he muttered, voice rough, breathy, thick with arousal and pride.
And you did.
Your fingers slid across his cheek, his jaw, his lips, and all of it was drenched. Your slick was smeared across every inch of his mouth, dripping down to his chin. Warm. Sticky. Yours.
You swallowed, eyes locked on him, lips parted in something between awe and disbelief.
“You did this,” he murmured.
You whimpered. And then he climbed up.
Slow, controlled, crawling over your trembling body until his mouth was over yours. And when he kissed you?
God.
It was filthy.
His tongue pushed in deep, immediately. His lips smeared yours with your own slick, your taste all over him, hot and wet and shameless. The kiss wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.
Fingers tangling in his hair, dragging his mouth harder against yours like you didn’t care if you could breathe again. His weight on top of you, the heat of his body pressing into every oversensitive inch.
Then, your hand slid down.
Right between your bodies. Right into the mess.
You found his cock, hard as fuck, throbbing against his stomach, and grabbed it.
He groaned into your mouth, hips jerking forward on instinct.
You started stroking him, slow at first, fingers wet from yourself, sliding easily from tip to base. He was so hot, so heavy in your palm, and the way he fucking twitched in your grip...
“You’re leaking,” you whispered against his lips, voice thick with heat as your hand moved lower, stroking harder, your slick still coating him like lube. You twisted your wrist, thumb teasing just under the head. “You were going to cum just from tasting me?”
He groaned, loud, his head falling into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t even look at you.
“Fuck,” he breathed, hips twitching. “I almost did. Fucking you and tasting your mess right after? God, that was fucking delicious…”
You smiled, slow and mean, dragging your palm up the length of him again, this time slower.
His cock jumped in your grip.
You kept stroking. Steady, lazy, cruel. The kind of pace that made him ache. You let your thumb circle the head, barely applying pressure, then gave it a soft pat like you were teasing a bruise.
“Jesus—” he choked, hips grinding down into your palm, desperate for more. His thighs flexed, his cock twitching, whole body trembling now.
“Look at you,” you murmured, licking your lips. “All worked up from my taste…”
And then you shifted, pushed him gently back until he was the one on the floor now, flat on his back.
“My turn.”
You said it like a promise. Like a warning.
Before he could even gasp, you were already going down on him.
Your mouth wrapped around the head of his cock in one smooth motion, tongue swirling slow and wet while your hand kept working his base.
And Seungmin? He broke.
“F-Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, head snapping back, hand flying to your hair like he needed to hold onto something. “Oh my god—”
You moaned softly around him, letting the sound vibrate through his cock as you sank lower, cheeks hollowing as you sucked.
He was already falling apart. Chest rising in frantic pants. Thighs trembling. And then he started to whine.
Not just moaning, whining. High, broken, helpless little sounds that spilled out of him like he didn’t even know he was making them.
You had never heard him like this before. Sobbing. Literally sobbing under you. Fisting your hair, rutting up into your mouth, his whole body twitching like he couldn’t take it.
His voice was wrecked, hoarse, trembling as he begged, "You’re gonna fucking kill me."
And you just kept going, tongue flicking the tip, sucking hard, then slow. Your hand stroking in sync, watching him lose it beneath you.
Watching him fall apart.
Because of you.
His cock was twitching hard in your grip, his moans falling apart into broken curses, his body tensing under your other hand as his thighs kept jerking, hips stuttering like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted to run or stay.
So you pulled off with a slick pop. Let his cock fall from your lips, spit still connecting your mouth to the flushed, leaking head.
You stuck your tongue out, right at the tip.
"Come on," you whispered, voice thick with heat, lips curled into a smile. “Show me how bad you need it.”
Then you fisted him, fast and ruthless. Your hand worked him up and down, tight and wet, your spit coating his shaft, mixing with his precum. Your tongue stayed right on his tip, dragging slowly over the slit as you jerked him, just enough friction to make him scream.
“F-fuck yes—Oh, fuck!” He threw his head back, spine arching, hips bucking hard into your hand.
“Holy fuck—I—fuck—I’m—”
It hit him hard, cock throbbing violently in your hand as thick ropes of cum spilled out, right onto your tongue. The first spurt splashed hot across it, the next down your knuckles, dripping onto your wrist, your hand never stopping, stroking him through it.
You moaned, tongue still out, letting it drool down the sides as his release kept coming. Hot, sticky mess, your spit mixing with it until it was dripping off your chin, down his cock, across your fingers.
Seungmin sobbed.
Guttural, shaking moans, his hips jerking helplessly with each wave of pleasure crashing through him.
“FUCK—fuck, fuck—” he gasped, trying to breathe, hand fisted in your hair like an anchor. “That was—fuckin’ insane—oh my god—”
His cock twitched again, one last pulse of cum spilling onto your waiting tongue, and you just took it. Eyes on him the whole time, filthy and proud, tongue coated, hand soaked.
He looked down at you, chest still heaving, body spent.
And all he could do was stare.
Like he had never seen anything more obscene. More perfect.
Like you just ruined him.
“Jesus,” Seungmin muttered, voice still hoarse, eyes blown wide as he looked at the wreckage between you two. “We didn’t even make it to the bed.”
You laughed, low, breathless, totally fucked out. Your legs were still trembling. His cum and your slick were everywhere, your thighs, your hand, the floor. You glanced around the room and just laughed harder.
The last time this happened, you had both been drunk. Clumsy hands, dizzy kisses, moaning into each other’s mouths without thinking. But this? This time?
It was the first thing you wanted the second you walked in. You didn’t reach for drinks. You reached for each other. You drank each other up.
You wiped your hand on what was left of your shirt, then leaned toward him. “Is it dangerous that I also came hoping you’d be here?”
You echoed it back to him, voice soft, but soaked with meaning.
He looked at you. Smirked.
“Well…” he said, glancing down at the slick trail across your thighs, at the floor beneath you both, still wet and warm. “Based on the way we’re fucking drenched on the floor, yeah—it is.”
You both started laughing again, tired, wrecked, grinning like idiots.
“Fuck,” you breathed, eyes meeting his again. “Can’t wait till the next meeting then.”
He tilted his head, tongue poking into his cheek.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling back. “Me too.”
—
+++ authors note: bro. when i saw that fucking video... i almost passed out. that was one of the HOTTEST fucking things i've ever seen. and the fact that i saw it with seungmin on my mind? holy. fucking. shit.
Summary: Hwang Hyunjin didn’t do seconds or thirds after a hookup which is why you thought fucking him once would get him to leave you alone. You were wrong, he came back twice during the summer after that one time during the spring semester and now you’ve got a Hwang Hyunjin stuck on you like a lost, lovesick puppy. Hyunjin’s on a mission to sabotage every date you go on until you admit that you two are perfect for each other. You tell him he’s being a stalker, he says he’s being persistent and dedicated and you’re just being dramatic.
Warnings: Certified loverboy/Munch!Hyunjin, uni student!hyunjin x TA grad student!f.reader, implied curve/plus size reader, Hyunjin has some morally grey traits that you overlook because you lowkey like that shit and you just as much as a simp for him, smut! MDNI! Multiple sex scenes/rounds, unprotected sex, oral (m.&f.rec), slight exihibitionism, car sex,public sex, unprotected sex, slight dom/sub/switch dynamics, Hyunjin was a kiwi when they first hooked up, nicknames: Hyune, baby,Simp/munch(his), Muse(this is cannon atp), pussy-fairy, baby etc (hers), as usual I might have missed something.
W.C: 17.7k
You had thought fucking Hyunjin would get him to leave you alone. He never went back for seconds from what you had heard around campus and the kid’s been nagging you—not really because you do enjoy his company sometimes—since you TA’d one of his English Foundation classes last fall.
You figured he just wanted to try sex with a big girl given what you knew his usual hookups looked like.So, after one particularly shitty presentation—with a lecturer that you were sure hated you—you invited him over.
What you hadn’t planned on was having Hwang Hyunjin stuck on you like a lost puppy after one fuck; okay, maybe two…three times. Once in late spring, twice over the summer when he somehow kept showing up at places you frequented and now it’s the fall semester again and Hyunjin has found every opportunity to be in your bubble even befriending your friends Minho, Chan and Changbin.
“Yahhh! Hwang Hyunjin, you can’t keep doing this to me.” You groan as you push open your apartment door with him hot on your trail. This is the third date since the semester started that he’s run off.
“I don’t see why you need to be going on dates when I’m literally right here, ready and willing to do all that Muse.”
“That’s not the point Hyune.”
“It’s not? I’m hot, you’re hot. The sex is an incredibly hot bonus but at least you know it won’t be subpar and I’ll actually get you off. All you gotta do is say yes, I’m very persistent.” He smiles.
You drop your bag on the kitchen counter with more force than necessary, the thud punctuating your frustration. Hyunjin closes the door behind him—of course he follows you inside—and leans against it with that infuriating confidence that probably works on everyone else.
“Persistent is one word for it,” you mutter, yanking open the fridge to grab a bottle of water. Anything to avoid looking at him right now, at the way his hair falls perfectly even after he’s been trailing you across campus, at how his shirt rides up slightly when he crosses his arms. “Stalker is another.”
“Dramatic.” He pushes off the door and you can hear the smile in his voice as he moves closer. “I prefer ‘dedicated.’”
You spin around, pointing the water bottle at him like a weapon. “You literally interrupted my date at the restaurant, Hyunjin. You sat down at our table and ordered food.”
“The guy was boring you to tears. I could see it from across the room.”
“You were across the room watching me? Do you hear yourself right now?”
He has the audacity to shrug, unbothered, as he hops up onto your counter like he pays rent here. “I was meeting someone at the café next door and happened to look up—”
“Meeting someone? You?”
“—and I saw you doing that thing you do when you’re trying to be polite but you’d rather be anywhere else.” He tilts his head, studying you with those dark eyes that got you into this mess in the first place. “That little fake laugh, the way you keep checking your phone under the table. You did it in Professor Kim’s lecture last spring too, remember?”
You hate that he notices these things. Hate that he’s right. Hate even more that you know there was no one he was meeting; he’d literally sat at that café for an hour, coffee going cold, just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and ruin your date.
“That doesn’t give you the right to crash my dates, Hyune. We hooked up. Past tense. That’s it.”
“See, you keep saying that.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees and the air between you shifts into something heavier. “But your body language says something different. The way you let me walk you home. How you haven’t kicked me out yet. How you’ve already called me ‘Hyune’ twice in the last five minutes.”
Fuck. You hadn’t even noticed.
“I—” You falter, gripping the water bottle tighter. “That’s just habit.”
“Is it?” He slides off the counter, moving into your space slowly, giving you every chance to step back. You don’t. “Because I think you like having me around. I think you keep going on these shitty dates hoping one of them will make you stop thinking about me, about us.”
“There is no us.”
“There could be.” His voice drops lower, softer, and suddenly you’re very aware of how close he is, how warm your apartment feels. “Just say yes, Muse. One real date. Let me take you somewhere, treat you right, show you I’m not just some college kid looking for a hookup.”
“You ran off three of my dates, Hyunjin.”
“Because they weren’t good enough for you.” No hesitation, no shame. “And I am. Let me prove it.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, treacherous thing that it is. You should say no. Should maintain the boundaries you set months ago when you decided sleeping with him was a lapse in judgment.
But god, the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the world worth his attention—makes it really hard to remember why those boundaries existed in the first place.
“One date,” you hear yourself say, and his face lights up like you’ve given him the moon. “But if you fuck this up—”
“I won’t.” He’s grinning now, that devastating smile that should come with a warning label. “You won’t regret this.”
“I already do,” you lie but you’re smiling too and from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, he knows it.
You turn your back to him as you head towards your bedroom to change out of your clothes. You know he’s going to follow you and follow he does, making himself comfortable at the foot of your bed leaning back on his arms in that lazy confident way he has while you strip out of the layers of clothes you’d been wearing.
“You’re staring, Hwang.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Annoying fucker.”
“Yeah, but you like me though.” and you don’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning or smirking. “C’mere, muse.”
“Don’t use that tone of voice,”
“Why? Does it make you wet?”
You pause mid-motion, your shirt halfway over your head, heat crawling up your neck that has nothing to do with the layers you’re peeling off. “Hyunjin—”
“That’s not an answer.” His voice is lower now, teasing but edged with something darker that makes your stomach flip.
You yank the shirt off completely and toss it at him. He catches it easily, bringing it to his face with an exaggerated inhale that makes you roll your eyes even as your pulse quickens.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.” The bed shifts as he adjusts his position before he speaks again. “Come here, Muse.”
There it is again—that voice, the one that’s all command wrapped in honey, the one that got you into trouble the first time. You should tell him to back off, remind him that one date doesn’t mean he gets to waltz back into your bed like nothing’s changed.
But your body has other ideas, already responding to his proximity, to the memory of his hands on your skin.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” you say but your voice comes out breathier than intended as you turn to face him.
He’s still on your bed, leaning back with that infuriating smirk playing at his lips, eyes tracking every inch of you like he’s memorizing the view. “What deal? I just want you closer. We can just talk.”
“You don’t want to talk.”
“Maybe not.” He reaches out, fingers ghosting over your wrist. “But I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. Even if that’s just you sitting here, telling me about your terrible date while I try very hard to behave myself.”
You snort despite yourself. “You? Behave?”
“I can be good when properly motivated.” His thumb traces circles on your inner wrist and goddamn if that simple touch doesn’t make you want to forget every reason this is a bad idea. “So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep pretending you don’t want this, or are you gonna stop overthinking for once and let yourself have something good?”
You don’t know what possesses you to do it but you wrap your hands around his throat and tilt his head back just a little so he’s looking up at you. What you don’t expect is the moan that slips out of his mouth along with the way his grip tightens on both of your ass cheeks.
“You’re playing with fire, Muse.”
His pupils are blown wide, dark and wanting, and the way his breath hitches under your palms sends a thrill straight through you. You tighten your grip just slightly—not enough to hurt—just enough to feel his pulse jumping against your fingers.
“Maybe I want to get burned,” you murmur, watching the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
“Fuck,” he breathes and his hands slide higher, pulling you closer until you’re standing between his spread thighs. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, gripping like he can’t get enough and there’s something about the way he touches you—like every curve is exactly what he wants—that makes your breath catch. “You can’t just…Muse, if you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna be able to keep my promise about behaving.”
“Did I ask you to behave?”
Something shifts in his expression; surprise giving way to hunger, that cocky facade cracking just enough to show you the desperate want underneath. It’s intoxicating, this power you have over him, the way someone so confident turns pliant under your touch.
“You’re killing me,” he groans but he’s tilting his head back further, offering himself up. “Months. Months of you ignoring me, going on dates with other people, pretending those nights didn’t change everything—”
“It was just three nights,” you say, squeezing just a little harder and his moan is obscene.
“Three perfect nights that I can’t stop thinking about.” His hands slide from your ass to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. “The way you look on top of me, the sounds you make, how your thighs feel wrapped around my head—” He cuts himself off with a shudder as your thumb traces along his jawline. “Please, Muse. Put me out of my misery. Tell me I’m not crazy, that you feel this too.”
You could still walk away. Should walk away. This is exactly what you were trying to avoid; getting tangled up with Hwang Hyunjin and his persistent attention, his ability to make you forget every logical reason this is complicated.
But God, the way he’s looking at you right now, like you’re everything he wants…
“You’re not crazy,” you admit quietly and watch his face transform with relief and triumph and raw need. “But you’re still annoying.”
“Yeah?” His hands slide under the waistband of your pants, palms hot against bare skin. “Wanna shut me up about it?”
Your fingers flex on his throat and before you know it the world tilts and suddenly your back hits the mattress, the air rushing from your lungs. The switch happens so fast your head spins or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking down at you under him with his hand around your throat; eyes dark with promise and that damn smirk that makes your thighs clench.
“Know you missed your favorite necklace.” He says with a grin and a flex of his fingers.
His hand spans your throat perfectly, thumb resting against your pulse point like he’s counting each racing beat. The weight of it, the controlled pressure, sends liquid heat pooling low in your belly.
“There she is,” he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush your ear. “Been wondering how long you’d make me wait to see you like this again.”
You should probably say something cutting, remind him he’s getting ahead of himself, that agreeing to one date doesn’t mean—
But then his fingers flex, just enough pressure to make your breath catch and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. Your hands fly up to grip his wrist, not to push away but to anchor yourself as your body arches involuntarily beneath him.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he breathes against your neck, his free hand sliding down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. “Missed the way you melt for me the second I get my hands on you. All that attitude just…gone.”
“Hyunjin—” His name comes out strangled, needy, and you hate how desperate you sound. Hate more that he’s right about all of it.
“Yeah, baby?” Another flex of his fingers, his thigh pressing between yours. “Still think those other guys could give you what I can? Still think you need anyone else when you’ve got me?”
Your nails dig into his wrist and he groans, low and dirty. “That’s my girl. Mark me up, Muse. Want everyone to know exactly who I belong to.”
“Possessive bastard,” you gasp out but your hips are already rolling against his thigh, seeking friction.
“Only for you.” His mouth finds that spot below your ear that makes you whimper. “Say you’re mine. Say those dates were bullshit and you want me.”
“You’re—ah—so fucking cocky—”
“Because I’m right.” His hand tightens fractionally, and stars burst behind your eyelids. “Now answer the question, or I stop.”
“Stop and I’ll never give you head again. Know you like that thing I do with my tongue before I take it all the way in.” You grin.
He freezes above you and you feel the full-body shudder that runs through him at the memory. His hand loosens just slightly on your throat as he pulls back to look at you, eyes blazing.
“That’s playing dirty, Muse.”
“You started it,” you shoot back, running your tongue along your bottom lip deliberately. His gaze tracks the movement like a starving man watching food. “What was it you said last time? That no one’s ever—”
“Don’t.” His voice comes out strangled, hips pressing harder against you. “Fuck, you can’t just—that thing you do, that fucking swirling before you—Jesus Christ.”
The power shift is delicious. For all his cockiness, all his control, you know exactly how to unravel him. You’ve done it before, watched him fall apart with his hands fisted in your hair, saying your name like a prayer, telling you how good you look on your knees with your mouth stretched around him.
“So maybe,” you say, walking your fingers up his chest, “you should reconsider your ultimatums. Because I can be just as stubborn as you, Hwang Hyunjin, and I know all your weaknesses now.”
He drops his forehead to yours with a breathless laugh. “You’re evil. Absolutely fucking evil.”
“You like it.”
“I love it,” he corrects and something in his voice makes your heart stutter. Too honest, too raw. He catches it immediately, tries to cover with that cocky grin. “Love how you think you’re in control right now when we both know how this ends.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
His hand slides from your throat to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lips. “With you saying my name so loud your neighbors complain. Again.” He punctuates it with a roll of his hips that has you gasping. “But first, you’re gonna answer my question. Those dates—”
“Were boring,” you admit, because fuck it, he’s not going to let this go. “Happy?”
“Getting there.” His smile is pure sin. “Now tell me you’re mine.”
“Make me.”
The words are barely out of your mouth before his eyes go molten, that pretty face transforming into something predatory and hungry. His hand slides back to your throat, not squeezing, just possessive.
“Oh, Muse,” he says, voice dropping an octave that goes straight between your thighs. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”
Before you can respond with something appropriately bratty, he captures your mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up frustration. It’s not gentle—Hyunjin’s never been gentle when he’s like this, wound up and desperate—and you wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Months,” he growls against your lips, kissing down your jaw. “Months of watching you pretend you don’t think about this.” His teeth graze your pulse point and you gasp. “Watching you go on dates with guys who couldn’t possibly know what you need.”
His free hand slides down your stomach, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants. He doesn’t move to remove them yet, just traces patterns that make your hips lift involuntarily.
“Hyune—”
“Shh,” he soothes, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s looking at you. “You wanted me to make you admit it, right? That’s what this is?” He pops the button of your pants with practiced ease. “Let me remind you exactly what you’ve been missing.”
“You’re such an asshole,” you manage but it comes out breathless.
“Maybe.” He drags the zipper down slowly, torturously. “But you like it. Like when I call you out on your bullshit.” His fingers slip just beneath the waistband of your underwear, not touching where you need him yet, just teasing. “Like when I don’t let you hide.”
You dig your nails into his shoulders through his shirt, trying to pull him closer but he resists. That damn smirk is back.
“Patience, pretty baby. We’ve got all night and I’m gonna take my time reminding you exactly why you can’t stop thinking about me.”
“Cocky—” The word cuts off in a moan as his hand finally, finally slides lower, cupping you through the thin fabric. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit and your vision goes hazy.
“What was that?” He does it again, watching your face. “Couldn’t quite hear you over all those pretty sounds you’re making.”
“I said you’re—fuck—” He adds pressure and your argument dissolves entirely.
“That’s what I thought.” His mouth finds that spot below your ear. “You can act tough all you want, Muse, but your body tells me everything I need to know.”
He hooks his fingers in your waistband but doesn’t pull down yet. Just waits, making you squirm.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your neck. “Tell me those dates were bullshit attempts to forget about us.”
“There is no us—”
He pulls his hand away entirely and you actually whimper at the loss. His answering laugh is dark and knowing.
“No? Then I guess you don’t need me to—”
“Don’t you dare.” You grab his wrist, pulling his hand back and his eyes light up with victory.
“Then say it.” He starts pulling your pants down, slowly, watching you the whole time. “Say you thought about me while you were out with them. Say you compared them to me and they didn’t measure up.”
The worst part is he’s right. Every single date, you’d found yourself thinking about Hyunjin; the way he laughs at your terrible jokes, how he brings you coffee during your TA sessions without being asked, the way he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world.
And yeah, the sex. Definitely the sex.
“They were boring,” you finally admit, lifting your hips so he can slide your pants and underwear down your legs. The cool air makes you shiver, or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking at you, like he wants to devour you whole.
“Boring,” he repeats, tossing your clothes somewhere behind him. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there, spreading you wider. “Just boring?”
“Hyunjin, please—”
“Please what?” He settles between your legs but doesn’t touch you yet. Just looks, and the hunger in his eyes makes you clench around nothing. “I want to hear you say it, Muse. Want to hear you admit that this—” he finally drags one finger through your wetness, and you gasp, “—is all for me.”
“You’re the worst,” you breathe but your hips chase his touch.
“Yeah?” He circles your clit once, twice, before pulling away again. “The worst, but you’re soaking for me anyway. Been like this all night, haven’t you? Sitting across from that guy, being polite, while thinking about what I could do to you instead.”
You want to deny it, but he chooses that moment to slide two fingers inside you, curling them exactly right and the truth spills out in a broken moan.
“There she is.” His voice is reverent now, awed. “Fuck, I missed this. Missed watching you fall apart for me.” He sets a rhythm that has your back arching, your hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. “Missed the way you get so wet, so ready. Like your body knows exactly who it belongs to even when you’re being stubborn about it.”
“Not—ah—yours,” you try, but it’s weak even to your own ears.
His thumb finds your clit and you nearly sob. “No? Then why are you grinding on my hand like you’re desperate for it? Why’d you let me follow you home, let me in your apartment, your bedroom?” He leans down, breath hot against your ear. “Why haven’t you kicked me out yet, baby?”
Because you can’t. Because despite every logical reason for why this is a bad idea, you want him. Have wanted him since that first night when he’d looked at you like you were everything, touched you like you were precious, fucked you like you were the only thing that mattered.
“Say it,” he demands, adding a third finger that has you seeing stars. “Say you’re mine and I’ll give you everything you need. Make you come so hard you forget every other guy’s name.”
“Fuck—Hyunjin—I can’t—”
“You can.” His fingers speed up, hitting that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake. “Come on, Muse. Stop being stubborn and just admit it. Admit you want this, want me, want us.”
He’s relentless and you can feel your orgasm building, pressure coiling tight in your belly. Your hands find his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.
“That’s it,” he encourages, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. “Take what you need, baby. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You’re so close, teetering on the edge and he knows it. Can probably feel it in the way you’re clenching around his fingers, the way your breathing has gone ragged.
“Just say it,” he coaxes, softer now but no less demanding. “Three little words and I’ll make you come. That’s all, Muse. Just tell me the truth.”
Pride wars with desperation but your body makes the decision for you; arching into his touch, chasing the release only he seems capable of giving you.
“Yours,” you finally gasp out. “I’m yours, okay? Happy now?”
His smile is blinding, triumphant, before his mouth crashes into yours. “So fucking happy,” he murmurs against your lips and then his fingers curl just right and you’re gone, falling apart in his arms while he swallows your moans and tells you how perfect you are, how good, how his.
You’re still trembling through the aftershocks when he slowly withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with an obscene moan that makes heat coil in your belly all over again despite having just come.
“Missed that too,” he says with a little pat to your sensitive cunt, eyes dark as he watches you try to catch your breath. “The way you taste. Been thinking about it for months.”
“You’re such a fucking munch,” you manage but there’s no heat behind it. Can’t be, not when you’re boneless and satisfied and he’s looking at you like that.
“Wonder whose fault that is?” He’s already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing all that lean muscle you’ve tried very hard not to think about. “And we’re not done. Not even close.”
Your eyes track the movement of his hands as he works his belt loose, the clink of metal loud in your quiet bedroom. “Confident.”
“Realistic,” he corrects, shoving his jeans down. “You think one orgasm is enough to make up for months? I’ve got a lot of lost time to account for, Muse.”
He’s not wrong. Even now, barely recovered, you want him. Want his weight on you, in you, surrounding you. It’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin.
“Come here,” you say, reaching for him and he goes willingly, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.
His cock presses against you, hard and hot, and you both groan at the contact. He rocks against you slowly, coating himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit with each deliberate thrust.
“Hyune—” Your nails rake down his back and he hisses.
“What, baby? Use your words.” He’s teasing, the bastard, dragging this out when you both know what you want.
“Stop teasing.”
“But you’re so pretty when you’re desperate.” He does it again, that maddening slide that’s almost enough but not quite. “Flushed and needy and all mine.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to angle him where you need him, but he doesn’t budge just holds himself just out of reach with that infuriating smirk.
“Ask nicely.”
“I’m going to kill you,” you threaten but it comes out more pleading than murderous.
“You love me,” he says, and then seems to realize what he’s said. For a moment, the cocky mask slips and you see something vulnerable underneath, hope and fear and want all tangled together.
The moment stretches between you, weighted with things neither of you are ready to name.
“Hyunjin,” you say softly, cupping his face. “Fuck me. Please.”
It’s enough. He reaches between you, lining himself up, and then he’s pushing inside with one slow, devastating thrust that has you both gasping. The stretch is perfect, familiar, like your body remembered exactly how he feels.
“Fuck,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to yours. “Fuck, Muse, you feel—” He can’t finish the sentence, too overwhelmed, and something about seeing him undone like this makes your chest tight.
“Move,” you urge, rolling your hips. “Baby, please move.”
He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, before slamming back in hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. Sets a rhythm that’s punishing and perfect, each thrust hitting so deep you see stars.
“This,” he grits out, punctuating the word with a particularly hard thrust. “This is what you’ve been missing. What those other guys could never give you.” His hand finds your throat again, not squeezing, just holding. “Tell me. Tell me they didn’t fuck you like this.”
“They didn’t—” You gasp as he changes angles, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “Didn’t even—fuck—didn’t even have a chance—”
“Because they don’t know you.” His thumb traces your racing pulse. His other hand grips your thigh to hook your leg over his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft flesh there and pulling you tighter against him. “Don’t know that you like it rough. Like when I hold you down and take what’s mine.”
He proves his point by pinning your wrists above your head with his free hand, holding you completely at his mercy. The position makes your breasts press up and he takes advantage, ducking his head to drag his teeth across one nipple.
“Don’t know how fucking perfect you are when you let go and just feel.”
You should probably protest at the possessive way he’s talking, the assumption that he knows you better than you know yourself. But he does know you, knows exactly how to make you fall apart, how to push you right to the edge and keep you there.
“Harder,” you demand because if you’re doing this, if you’re giving in, you might as well get everything you want.
His answering laugh is strained. “Greedy girl.” But he complies, fucking into you with enough force that your headboard starts hitting the wall. “That what you need? Need me to ruin you so you can’t even think about anyone else?”
“Yes—fuck yes—”
“Good.” He releases your wrists to hitch your other leg higher over his hip, the new angle making you cry out. “Because that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the dual sensation is almost too much. You can feel another orgasm building, faster this time, pulled tight like a wire about to snap.
“Hyune, I’m close—”
“I know, baby, I can feel it.” His rhythm is getting erratic, chasing his own release. “Come for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, wanna watch you fall apart.”
“Come with me,” you gasp, pulling him down into a kiss that’s more breathing into each other’s mouths than anything else. “Want to feel you—”
“Fuck…Muse—” The nickname becomes a chant as his hips stutter and the desperation in his voice is what tips you over. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, pleasure white-hot and all-consuming, and you feel him follow seconds later with a groan that you swallow down.
He collapses on top of you, both of you sweaty and spent and trembling. For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing and the occasional aftershock, his cock still buried inside you like he can’t bear to separate yet.
“So,” he finally says, voice muffled against your neck. “Still think those dates were a good idea?”
You smack his shoulder weakly. “Cálla.”
“Make me.” But there’s no heat behind it, just lazy satisfaction.
You wrap your legs tight around him and roll him onto his back as you settle on top of him. The ride you start is slow and torturous, hands on his chest as you lift until only the tip is inside before you drop all the way back down.
His eyes go wide when you flip him, a startled laugh escaping before it melts into a groan as you sink back down onto him. He’s still sensitive from coming, you can tell by the way his abs clench, the way his hands fly to your hips with a grip that’s going to leave bruises.
His fingers span your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your stomach and there’s something almost reverent in the way he’s looking up at you, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
“Fuck, baby, what are you—”
“Teaching you a lesson,” you murmur, rising up slowly, torturously slow, until just his tip is inside. His fingers dig into your flesh, trying to pull you back down but you resist. “About running your mouth.”
You drop down hard and he chokes on whatever he was going to say, head falling back against the pillows. The oversensitivity makes him twitch inside you, makes his thighs tense beneath you.
“Baby, I just—ah fuck—”
You do it again. And again. Setting a pace that’s designed to drive him insane, that has him writhing beneath you and trying to thrust up to meet you. But you keep the control, keep him exactly where you want him.
“What’s wrong?” You drag your nails down his chest, watching red lines bloom in their wake. “Thought you liked being in charge. Liked making me beg.”
“I do—fuck, I do—but you’re gonna kill me—” His feet plant on the mattress, trying to get leverage, trying to fuck up into you harder.
That’s when your hand wraps around his throat again.
The effect is immediate and devastating. His whole body goes taut, cock throbbing inside you and the moan that tears from him is absolutely wrecked.
“Stay still,” you command, squeezing just enough to make his breath catch. “You’re going to take what I give you, understand?”
“Fuck,yes, yes—” His eyes are glazed, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any iris left. His hands fall away from your hips, surrendering, and the sight of Hwang Hyunjin—cocky, confident, always-in-control Hyunjin—completely at your mercy sends a rush of power through you.
You start riding him in earnest now, the way you know drives him crazy. Rolling your hips on the downstroke, clenching around him deliberately, using him for your own pleasure while your hand stays firm on his throat.
“Oh god…oh fuck, Muse—” He’s babbling now, coherence lost. His hands scrabble at the sheets, his back arching. “Please,please, I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” You lean down, maintaining the pressure on his throat as you change the angle. “Can’t handle what you’ve been begging for? Can’t take being fucked the way you fuck me?”
“No…yes, fuck—” Tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes from the intensity. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
You weren’t planning to. Not when he looks like this; absolutely destroyed, that pretty face twisted in almost painful pleasure, completely yours. Your free hand slides up to pinch his nipple and he nearly sobs.
“You’re so good like this,” you tell him and mean it. “So perfect when you let go. When you stop trying to control everything and just feel.”
“For you—” he gasps out. “Only for you—”
Your rhythm is relentless now, chasing your third orgasm of the night while he falls apart beneath you. You can feel him getting close again despite having just come, his cock swelling impossibly harder inside you.
“Gonna come again already?” You tighten your grip on his throat fractionally and he keens. “Greedy boy. So desperate for it.”
“Please—” It’s barely a whisper. “Please, Muse, I need—”
“I know what you need.” You lean down to bite at his jaw, his neck, marking him the way he marked you. “Need to come inside me again. Need to fill me up until it’s dripping down my thighs.”
“Yes! fuck yes,please let me—”
“Then come,” you order, releasing his throat and clenching around him as hard as you can. “Come for me, Hyunjin.”
He does, with a shout that’s definitely going to have your neighbors complaining, his whole body seizing as he spills inside you. The feeling of it, the heat and the way he pulses, triggers your own orgasm; smaller than the first two but no less intense for it.
You collapse onto his chest, both of you gasping for air. His arms come around you immediately, holding you close despite the way you’re both trembling.
“Jesus Christ,” he finally manages, voice absolutely wrecked. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Payback,” you mumble against his skin, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your cheek.
“Worth it.” His hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. “So fucking worth it.”
You can feel him softening inside you, the mess of both of you starting to leak out, but neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your scalp.
“So,” he says after a while, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “About that date…”
You bite his shoulder hard enough to make him yelp. “One thing at a time, Hwang.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Yes ma’am.”
You shift to look up at him, finding him watching you with an expression so soft it makes your breath catch. His free hand comes up to trace the curve of your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
“Lemme stay,” he says quietly. “Tonight. Don’t kick me out this time.”
“I never kicked you out—”
“You very politely suggested that I had to go.” His lips quirk. “Three times. Spring semester, twice over summer. Same thing.”
You study his face; the vulnerability lurking beneath the teasing, the hope he’s trying to hide. “You’re clingy when you’re fucked out.”
“Mhmm,” he admits, no shame in it. “So is that a yes?”
You could say no. Should probably establish some boundaries, maintain some distance. But you’re warm and sated and he’s looking at you like that, and—
“Fine,” you relent. “But you’re the big spoon because I’m not sleeping on my back all night.”
His grin is blinding. “Deal.”
He finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and disappears to your bathroom. Returns with a warm washcloth and cleans you up with a gentleness that feels at odds with how you’d just fucked each other into the mattress.
“Such a gentleman,” you tease as he tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed.
“Only for you,” he says again, pulling you against his chest and draping himself around you. His hand splays across your stomach, thumb tracing idle patterns on your skin. “See? Perfect big spoon.”
You hum in agreement, already feeling sleep pulling at you. His warmth surrounds you, solid and safe, and you find yourself relaxing into it despite your better judgment.
“Muse?” His voice is soft, almost hesitant.
“Mm?”
“I meant what I said. About wanting this to be real. About—” He pauses and you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder. “About all of it.”
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “I know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You lace your fingers with his where they rest on your stomach. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”
His quiet laugh stirs your hair. “Okay, baby.”
And wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady against your back, you let yourself drift off with a small smile on your face.
You wake up to a wet, heated sensation between your legs and when you look down, Hyunjin’s looking up at you from between your thighs, morning light filtering through your curtains and painting his skin gold.
“About time you woke up. Been down here for half an hour, baby.”
“Hyune,” you breathe, still half-asleep, and your hand automatically goes to his hair.
“Love it when you call me that.” He mumbles against your inner thigh, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin. You can already see the marks blooming there, evidence of his dedication. “Especially all sleepy like this.”
Your brain is still foggy with sleep, trying to catch up, but your body already knows; hips lifting into his mouth, thighs spreading wider to give him better access.
“Half an hour?” you manage, voice rough. “Why didn’t you—ah—wake me?”
He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, lips glistening. “Wanted to see how long it would take. How deep I could get you before you woke up.” His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your grip tightens in his hair. “You were making the prettiest sounds in your sleep, Muse. Kept saying my name.”
“I did not—”
“You did.” He punctuates it with a kiss to your inner thigh, sucking another mark. “Kept squirming too, pressing that perfect ass back against me. Think you were dreaming about me?”
You were, actually. Hazy images of last night and the early hours of the morning bleeding into new scenarios, his hands and mouth everywhere. But you’re not about to admit that.
“You’re imagining things,” you say, trying for dismissive but it comes out breathy when he sucks a mark higher on your thigh.
“Am I?” His hands slide up to grip your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, to his mouth. “Then why are you so wet already? Been like this since I started, baby. So ready for me.”
His mouth returns to where you need it, tongue circling your clit with maddening precision. He’s not rushing, not trying to make you come quickly; just exploring, savoring, taking his time like he has all day.
“Hyunjin—” Your head falls back against the pillow as he slides two fingers inside, curling them just right. “Fuck—”
“Love the way you say my name,” he murmurs against you, the vibration making you gasp. “Especially first thing in the morning, all sleepy and needy.” He adds a third finger and you arch off the bed. “Missed waking up with you. Missed getting to do this.”
You want to tell him he’s only been in your bed three times before—spring semester, twice over summer—and each time you’d basically kicked him out the morning after. That this isn’t some regular thing. But then he swirls his tongue over your clit before sucking making your thighs shake, and all coherent thought evaporates.
“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. “Let me take care of you, Muse. Let me make you feel good.”
His free hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, palming your breast. His thumb brushes over your nipple and the dual sensation has you arching into his touch. He’s everywhere, surrounding you, consuming you, and it’s overwhelming in the best way.
“Close already?” There’s satisfaction in his voice as your hips start rolling against his face. “That’s my girl. So responsive for me.”
“Don’t—ah,don’t stop—”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, fingers pumping faster, and you squirt with a cry that echoes off the bedroom walls as you make a mess of his face and your sheets.
He works you through it, gentling his touches as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your hip bones, your stomach. When he finally crawls back up your body, his face is wet with you and he’s grinning like he’s won the lottery.
“Good morning,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself.
You’re still trying to remember how to breathe. “You’re insane.”
“Crazy about you,” he corrects, dropping a kiss to your shoulder. Then another to your collarbone. “Couldn’t help myself. You looked so pretty sleeping, and I’ve been thinking about doing that since you kicked me out last time.”
“I didn’t kick you out—”
“You strongly suggested I should leave because you had shit to do,” he reminds you, nipping at your jaw. “Wouldn’t even let me stay for breakfast. Three different times.”
“Because it was supposed to be a one-time thing.”
“Three-time thing,” he corrects. “And clearly not a one-time anything because here we are again and you’re not exactly complaining.”
He’s not wrong. You should be kicking him out right now, reestablishing boundaries, reminding him that one date doesn’t mean he gets to—
“Stop thinking so loud,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I can literally hear you overthinking from here.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He shifts, settling beside you so he can look at you properly. His hair is a mess from your hands, lips swollen, and there’s something soft in his eyes that makes your chest tight. “Look, I know this is complicated. I know you’ve got reasons for keeping me at arm’s length. But Muse…” His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I meant what I said last night. I want this. Want you. Not just the sex—though fuck, the sex is incredible—but all of it.”
“Hyunjin…”
“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he says quickly. “Just…give me a real chance. Let me take you on that date. Let me prove that you’re more than a hookup.”
The earnestness in his voice, in his expression, makes something in your chest crack open. Because the truth is, you want it too. Want him. Have wanted him since that first night when he stayed after, ordering takeout and arguing with you about the themes in the book you were teaching, making you laugh until your sides hurt before he rearranged your guts again.
“Like I said, one date,” you hear yourself say, and his face lights up. “But if you screw this up—”
“I won’t.” He’s kissing you before you can finish the threat, enthusiastic and clumsy and perfect. “I promise, Muse. I’m gonna make you so happy you agreed to this.”
“You’re still in my bed naked,” you point out. “Shouldn’t you go home and shower or something?”
His grin turns wicked. “Actually, I was thinking we could shower together. Save water. Be environmentally conscious.”
“That is not—”
But he’s already pulling you up, laughing at your protests, and somehow you end up in the shower with him anyway. His hands are gentle as he washes your hair, his kisses slow and sweet under the spray, and you let yourself have this—have him—without overthinking it for once.
When you finally emerge, clean and wrapped in towels, he immediately starts raiding your closet.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding clothes,” he says, pulling out one of your hoodies. “This’ll work.”
“That’s mine.”
“It’s ours now.” He pulls it on and it’s slightly too small on him, riding up to show a strip of his stomach, but he looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Perfect.”
“You should go home and get your own clothes.”
“Why?” He asks pulling the sheet off of your bed looking at you expectantly as you pass him a fresh set which he puts on before he sprawls on it like he owns it. “It’s Saturday. Neither of us has anywhere to be.”
“Don’t you have—I don’t know, plans? Things to do?”
“My only plan was you,” he says, patting the space next to him. “And I’m exactly where I want to be.”
You should insist. Should maintain some boundaries, not let him get too comfortable. But he’s looking at you with those warm eyes, your too-small hoodie riding up to show that strip of stomach, and you find yourself giving in.
“Fine,” you relent, settling next to him on the bed. “But you’re buying or making food as long as you’re here.”
“Deal.” He immediately pulls you against him, arranging you so your back is against his chest, his arms wrapped around your middle. “What do you want to do today?”
“I was going to catch up on that show I mentioned.”
“The murder mystery one?”
You twist to look at him, surprised. “How did you know?”
He shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “You mentioned it. Three weeks ago, after your TA session. You said it looked interesting but you hadn’t had time.”
Your chest does something complicated. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you tell me,” he says simply.
“You’re such a simp.”
“Only for you,” he says, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Now come on, let’s go watch your show. But I’m warning you, it’s always the butler.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s always the butler.” He sounds entirely too confident.
“That’s such a cliché—”
“Wanna bet?”
You twist to look at him. “What are the stakes?”
His grin is wicked. “If I’m right, you come to my friends’ New Year’s party with me.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’ll stop interrupting your dates.”
You snort. “You’re that confident?”
“In my detective skills? Absolutely.” He pauses. “Also I may have already watched the first episode when you mentioned it.”
“Hwang Hyunjin!”
He’s laughing now, trying to fend off your playful smacks. “What! I wanted to be able to talk to you about it! That’s romantic!”
“That’s cheating!”
“Okay, okay—” He catches your wrists, still grinning. “New bet. Come to the party with me anyway, and if the butler isn’t the killer, I’ll make you that pasta dish you said looked good on Instagram.”
“You follow my Instagram?”
“Have for months,” he admits, shameless. “You post the best food pics. Also that selfie you posted last week? In the library? Saved it.”
You don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. “You’re obsessed.”
“Completely,” he agrees easily. “So? Deal?”
You should say no. Should not agree to go to a party with his friends, to blur these lines even further. But he’s looking at you hopefully, and—
“Fine. But the pasta better be amazing if you’re wrong.”
“It will be,” he promises, and seals it with a kiss.
You end up on the couch, you settled between his legs with your back against his chest, starting the show. He was right, the butler did do it, which he’s entirely too smug about. But you find you don’t really mind, especially when he keeps pressing random kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, clearly only half-paying attention to the show.
“Hyune,” you murmur during the second episode. “You’re missing it.”
“Don’t care,” he says against your skin. “This is better.”
“The whole point of watching together—”
“Is spending time with you. Which I’m doing.” He nips at your earlobe. “The murder mystery is just a bonus.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it,” he counters, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
Halfway through the fifth episode, your stomach growls loudly. Hyunjin laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into your back.
“Lunch?” he suggests.
“It’s almost two. More like late lunch.”
“Even better.” But he doesn’t let go of you, just tightens his arms. “In a minute.”
“Hyunjin, I’m hungry.”
“Just—” He buries his face in your neck. “One more minute like this.”
Something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest. “Okay. One more minute.”
You give him five before standing up and pulling him with you toward the kitchen. “Come on. If you’re staying, you’re helping.”
“What are we making?”
“I was thinking cheesy kimchi fried rice? Nothing fancy, but—”
“Perfect,” he interrupts, already moving toward your fridge. “Comfort food. I can work with that.”
You expect him to be useless in the kitchen—he gives off those vibes—but he surprises you. He moves around your space with ease, finding things without asking.
“You can actually cook,” you observe, surprised.
“My mom made sure I all knew the basics,” he says, focused on cutting sausages and spam.
“And?”
“I’m no chef but I can handle myself fairly well in the kitchen,” he says. “It’s not really different from painting or drawing once you get used to it.”
“Big talk.”
“You’ll see.”
You work together comfortably; you handle the side dishes while he fries the rice. He keeps stealing touches; a hand on your waist as he moves past you, fingers brushing yours when you hand him the cheese, a kiss pressed to your shoulder when you’re stirring the adding radish to a bowl.
“You’re very touchy today,” you comment, not exactly complaining.
“Making up for lost time,” he says simply. “Plus you keep trying to kick me out in the mornings. Gotta get my fill while I can.”
“I don’t—” You pause. “Okay, maybe I do.”
“You do.” He flips the sandwich expertly. “Spring semester, you basically pushed me out the door. Said you had to work on your thesis.”
“I did have to work on my thesis.”
“At 7 AM on a Sunday?”
“…Yes?”
He gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “And the first time in summer, you had that ‘emergency meeting’ with your advisor.”
“That was real!”
“Mhm. And the second time, you suddenly remembered you had plans with your friends.”
You’re quiet, because okay, he’s got you there. Each time you’d basically panicked the morning after, overwhelmed by how comfortable it felt having him in your space, how much you didn’t want him to leave. So you’d created excuses, put up walls, tried to maintain distance.
“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “That was shitty of me.”
“Hey.” He turns and faces you properly, hands on your hips. “I get it. I’m younger, still in undergrad, not exactly what you probably pictured for yourself. And I came on really strong that first time. I get why you freaked out.”
“It’s not—” You struggle with the words. “It’s not about your age, really. It’s just…complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says softly. “We can just…be. No pressure, no expectations. Just us figuring this out together.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Because it is.” He cups your face in his hands looking at you. “I like you. You like me. Everything else is just noise.”
You want to argue, to point out all the ways it’s not that simple. But he’s looking at you with such earnest honesty that you find yourself nodding instead.
“Okay,” you say. “We can try.”
His smile is brilliant. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But Hyunjin?” You poke his chest. “No more interrupting my dates.”
“Deal. Mainly because you won’t be going on them anymore.”
“Cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrects, and kisses you until the rice is in danger of burning.
You eat lunch curled up on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, arguing about the show and laughing at his terrible theories about who’s going to die next. It’s easy, comfortable, like you’ve been doing this for years instead of dancing around each other for months.
“So this party,” you say eventually. “Your friends’ New Year’s thing.”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he says quickly. “I know I kind of blackmailed you into agreeing—”
“I’ll come,” you interrupt. “Might be nice.”
His face lights up. “Really?”
“Really. But Hyunjin?” You level him with a look. “This counts as our first date, right? The party?”
“What? No!” He sits up, looking genuinely distressed. “No, I’m taking you on a proper date first. Dinner, the whole thing. The party is just…the party.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he insists. “I want to do this right, Muse. Take you somewhere nice, show you off, prove I’m not just—” He gestures vaguely. “I want to date you. Properly.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. “Okay. When?”
“Monday?” he suggests. “I know this place downtown, really good food, and it’s quiet enough that we can actually talk.”
“Monday works,” you agree, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Perfect.” He pulls you back against him, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s a date.”
“It’s a date,” you confirm, and let him hold you as you finish lunch, the show playing forgotten in the background.
He doesn’t leave until nearly evening, and even then it’s reluctantly, with promises to text you when he gets home and reminders about Monday. When the door finally closes behind him, your apartment feels too quiet, too empty.
You’re in so much trouble.
Monday—The Date
Hyunjin shows up at your door an hour early, flowers in hand and wearing a sleek all-black ensemble that makes him look unfairly good while you’re still getting ready.
“You look beautiful,” he says, and the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing—makes you believe him despite your half-dressed state and bare feet.
“You’re early.”
“I missed you.”
You hum, stepping aside to let him in but your eyes are still dragging over him from head to toe. That deep-cut silk shirt is doing traitorous things to your lower regions, the fabric clinging to his frame in ways that should be illegal. The top three buttons are undone, exposing his collarbones and a hint of his chest, and the way the material catches the light makes your mouth go dry.
“These are gorgeous, thank you.” You take the flowers from him—red and white roses, your favorites, which means he remembered—with a kiss to his cheek and move to the kitchen to place them in a vase with water. Your hands are steadier than you feel as you arrange them, hyperaware of his presence behind you, the weight of his gaze.
“Not as gorgeous as you,” he murmurs against your temple.
You roll your eyes but can’t suppress your smile as you continue to arrange the flowers carefully before placing them on the counter where you can see them.
When you turn back, he’s still watching you with that look that makes your stomach flip.
“Come on,” you say, gesturing toward your bedroom. “I still need to finish getting ready.”
He follows, settling onto your bed in that way he does; legs spread just enough to be distracting, one arm propped behind him, looking like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there.
You move back to your vanity, trying to focus on putting in your second earring, but you can feel his eyes on you in the mirror. Tracking every movement.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking at him directly.
“Can you blame me?”
Your eyes find his in the mirror, and something about the way he’s looking at you—hungry but patient, like he’s content to just watch you exist—makes heat pool low in your belly. Your mouth speaks before you can stop yourself.
“Unbuckle your belt and unzip your pants.”
There’s a beat of silence. “What?”
“You heard me.” You turn on your heels, the satin of your dress whispering against your skin as you face him fully. “Or are you going to pretend like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, showing up an hour early and dressed like lust incarnate?”
You walk toward him slowly, deliberately, watching the way his throat works as he swallows. The deep-cut back of your dress matches his aesthetic perfectly—the two of you look like vampire royalty, all dark elegance and barely restrained hunger.
He smirks, but his hands don’t move. “What are you planning?”
“To suck your cock.”
The bluntness of it makes his eyes darken further, his pupils blown wide. You stop in front of him, leaning forward with your hands on his thighs, giving him a perfect view down the front of your dress. No bra—just you and the slippery satin and the promise of what’s underneath.
“Unless you’d rather just sit there looking pretty?” you murmur, your voice dropping to something darker, more teasing.
“We have reservations,” he says, but his voice is rough, strained.
“In an hour.” Your hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the buckle of his belt. “Plenty of time.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then his hands are moving, unbuckling, unzipping, giving you what you want because he always does. Always will. The metallic clink as he unbuckles it sends a thrill through you. He unzips his pants, lifting his hips just enough to push them down slightly, and the sight of him—already half-hard and straining against his boxer briefs—makes your mouth water.
You sink to your knees between his legs, and the look on his face—reverent and wrecked and completely gone for you—makes every second worth it.
“Someone’s eager,” you observe, trailing one finger along the outline of him through the fabric.
His hips jerk involuntarily. “You can’t say shit like that and expect me not to be.”
You smile, slow and satisfied, the carpet is soft beneath you, and the way he’s looking down at you—pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast—makes you feel powerful.
“We’re going to be late,” he manages, even as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with surprising tenderness.
“Then we’ll be late.” You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down just enough to free him. “Besides, you showed up early. This is on you.”
Whatever response he has dies on his lips the moment yours wrap around him.
The restaurant he’s chosen is intimate and upscale, the kind of place with candlelight and wine lists that read like novels. You’re grateful you touched up your makeup in the car, though Hyunjin had watched you do it with a satisfied smirk that suggested he wasn’t sorry at all for the delay.
“Stop looking so smug,” you tell him as the host leads you to your table.
“I’m not smug. I’m content. There’s a difference.”
“Mmhm.” But you’re smiling too as he pulls out your chair for you, ever the gentleman despite what happened less than an hour ago.
Dinner is perfect. He’s charming and attentive, asking about your research with genuine interest, actually listening to your answers instead of just waiting for his turn to talk. He asks follow-up questions, remembers details you mentioned weeks ago, makes connections you hadn’t even considered.
He tells you about his classes; about the choreography project that’s been consuming him, the way movement can tell stories that words can’t. He talks about his friends with obvious affection, about his plans after graduation (vague and artistic and somehow perfectly him), about the contemporary dance company he’s been considering auditioning for.
The conversation flows easily, punctuated by his terrible jokes that still somehow make you laugh, by the way he reaches across the table to steal bites from your plate, by the comfortable silences that don’t feel awkward at all.
“This is nice,” you say over dessert, watching him fight with a particularly stubborn piece of chocolate cake after finishing your tiramisu.
“Yeah?” He grins, victorious as he finally gets the fork to cooperate. “Told you I could do dates.”
“Don’t get too cocky.”
“Too late,” he says, but his eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners with genuine happiness. “Besides, you like it.”
You do. God help you, you really do. You like his confidence, his humor, the way he looks at you like you’re something precious. You like how he makes you feel—desired and seen and worth the effort. You like how he remembers small details you’ve mentioned in passing, how he laughs at your sarcasm instead of being put off by it.
“Maybe,” you concede, stealing his hard-won bite of cake just to watch him protest.
He gasps in mock outrage. “Betrayal! Treachery!”
“Should’ve eaten faster.”
“You’re terrible,” he says, but he’s laughing, flagging down the waiter to order a second dessert, and when it arrives, he makes a big show of guarding it from you.
The drive home is quieter, softer. His hand finds yours on the center console, fingers intertwining, and you let yourself enjoy the simple intimacy of it. The city lights blur past the windows, painting streaks of gold and red across the darkness, and you feel oddly at peace.
When he drops you home that night, he walks you to your door like a perfect gentleman. Kisses you with a sweetness that makes your chest ache, all soft lips and gentle hands framing your face. He pulls back before it can turn into more, before either of you can get swept away, and the restraint in his eyes tells you how much it costs him.
“New Year’s Eve,” he reminds you, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”
“I’ll be ready.”
He kisses you once more, quick and sweet, before stepping back. “Wear something eye catching. My friends are going to love you but I want them to be a little jealous too.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Hyunjin.”
“Goodnight, beautiful.”
And as you watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, turning back once to flash you that devastating smile, you realize you’re actually looking forward to it; to meeting his friends, to being by his side, to whatever this thing between you is becoming.
You’re definitely in trouble.
But maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.
Inside, you lean against the door, fingers touching your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his kiss. The flowers he brought sit on your counter, beautiful and bright, and your phone buzzes with a text.
Hyune🥟🥰: Already missing you
You: You just left
Hyune🥟🥰: Doesn’t change anything
Hyune🥟🥰: Dream about me
You smile, biting your lip, and type back:
You: Bold of you to assume I don’t already
Your phone rings immediately, his name flashing on the screen and when you answer you can hear the grin in his voice.
“Now who’s being cocky?”
“Learned from the best,” you counter, moving through your apartment, already starting your nighttime routine.
“I really did have a good time tonight,” he says, and the softness in his voice catches you off guard.
“Me too.”
“Even the part where you made us late?”
“Especially that part.”
His laugh is warm and rich through the phone. “I should let you sleep. But I’m serious about New Year’s. You’re going to have fun, I promise.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.” A pause. “Sweet dreams.”
“You too.”
After you hang up, you go through the motions of getting ready for bed, but your mind keeps drifting back to him—the way he looked at you, the way he listened, the way he kissed you goodbye like it hurt to leave.
Yeah. You’re definitely in trouble.
But as you slip between your sheets, your phone on the nightstand still warm from talking to him, you can’t bring yourself to mind.
New Year’s Eve
Hyunjin is nervous.
This is stupid—he’s not a nervous person. He’s confident, self-assured, usually has no problem with social situations. But tonight feels important in a way he can’t quite articulate.
He’s bringing his pussy fairy to meet his friends.
He really needs to stop calling you that, even in his head. But the nickname stuck after that first night back in spring, when he’d gone to your apartment thinking it would be like every other hookup; good sex, pleasant enough conversation, then he’d bounce and never think about it again.
Except he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.
The way you’d looked at him like he was more than just a pretty face. The way you’d argued with him about symbolism in The Great Gatsby while you ate shitty takeout at 2 AM, actually engaging with his points instead of just agreeing or trying to move things along to more sex. The way your thighs had felt wrapped around his head, soft and perfect, the way you’d tasted—
Yeah. He’d been fucked from the start.
He’d convinced himself it was just the sex. Just really, really good sex. That’s all. He wasn’t that gone after one night.
So he’d shown up again in early summer, making up some excuse about being in the neighborhood. Went there specifically to prove to himself that it wasn’t as good as he remembered, that he’d built it up in his head. That the way you tasted, the sounds you made, the soft give of your thighs under his hands—he’d exaggerated all of it in his memory.
Except it was better. So much better. He’d spent hours between your legs that night, worshipping at the altar of your body, drunk on the taste of you, the way you pulled his hair—that had started growing out—and gasped his name. And when you’d kicked him out the next morning with some excuse about work, he’d gone home and immediately started planning how to see you again.
The third time, late summer, he’d finally admitted to himself that he was completely fucked.
Because it wasn’t just about the sex—though christ, the sex was incredible. It was everything. The way you challenged him intellectually, never letting him coast by on his looks or charm. The way you laughed at his stupid jokes, this surprised little giggle like you didn’t expect to find him funny. The way you fit against him afterward, soft and warm and perfect, even as you were already planning how to politely kick him out.
Each time you’d basically ushered him out the door the next morning with some variation of “Don’t you have class?” or “I’ve got work to do,” and each time it had stung more. Like you were trying to keep him at arm’s length, to pretend it meant nothing.
But he knew better. Had felt the way you held onto him, the way you’d whispered his name like a prayer when you came.
After that third time, he’d tried to move on. Went on a few dates, let people buy him drinks at parties, even made out with someone in a club bathroom before his brain conjured images of you—the soft curves of your body, those gorgeous thighs, the breathy way you said his name—and he had to stop.
Not even his own hand worked anymore. He’d lie in bed trying to jerk off to porn, to memories of past hookups, anything but his brain would just slide right back to you. The way your stomach felt under his palm, soft and warm. The way you’d bite your lip when you were close. The taste of you on his tongue, better than anything he’d ever had, addictive in a way that terrified him.
He’d become obsessed. Started following your Instagram, saving your photos. That selfie in the library? He’d stared at it for twenty minutes, memorizing the curve of your smile, the way your hair fell. Started “coincidentally” showing up at places you frequented. The coffee shop where you did your grading. The restaurant near your apartment.
And yeah, he’d started sabotaging your dates. He’s not proud of it, but he also wasn’t about to let some undeserving asshole sweep in when he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that he could make you happy. That he could worship you the way you deserved, spend hours learning every curve and dip of your body, make you understand that every inch of you was exactly what he wanted.
Because it was. God, it was.
He knows you’re insecure about your size. He’s seen the way you try to hide sometimes, turning off lights or angling your body. Like he isn’t completely obsessed with your softness, with the way your thighs bracket his head perfectly, with how his hands look against the curve of your hips. Like he doesn’t dream about those thighs, about burying his face between them and staying there for hours, sipping the ambrosia you provide like a man dying of thirst.
If worshipping your body means getting on his knees and begging for the privilege of tasting you—well, that’s nobody’s business but his.
There was no one meeting him at that café all those nights ago and he knew you knew that. He’d sat there for over an hour, coffee going cold, watching you through the window with that forgettable guy who didn’t even make you genuinely smile. Waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt, to remind you that you already had someone who would move heaven and earth just to make you laugh.
His friends called it unhinged. He preferred “strategic dedication.”
But it had worked. You’d finally agreed to a real date and it had been perfect—you’d been perfect, laughing at his jokes and engaging with his questions and looking at him like he mattered—and now he gets to bring you to this party and show you off to his friends and maybe, just maybe, wake up with you tomorrow without getting kicked out.
He checks his phone: 8:47 PM. He’s early. Again.
chill, Felix texts him. she already said yes. stop spiraling
Hyunjin: I’m not spiraling
Felix: you’ve texted me 6 times in the past hour asking if your outfit looks okay
Hyunjin:…fair
Felix: just be yourself. she clearly likes you
Hyunjin hopes that’s true. He takes a deep breath and heads to your door.
When you opens it, he forgets how to breathe for a second. You’re wearing this skirt—black and pleated that hugs every single one of your curves before it flares out—and your hair is down and you’re smiling at him, actually smiling, and fuck, he’s so gone for this you.
“Hey,” you says. “You’re early...again.”
“Couldn’t wait,” he admits, offering his arm. His eyes trace over you appreciatively, cataloging every curve highlighted by that outfit. “You look incredible. Like—fuck, I don’t even have words. You’re perfect.”
You take his arm and he tries not to think about how right it feels, how natural. How much he wants this all the time; picking you up, taking you places, having you by his side.
The party is already in full swing when y’all arrive. Music thumping, people everywhere, the chaotic energy of New Year’s Eve in full effect. Hyunjin keeps you close, hand on your lower back as he navigates through the crowd. Possessive, protective, mine.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning down so you can hear him over the noise.
“I’m good,” you say, and squeeze his hand.
His heart does something complicated in his chest.
His friends are gathered in the living room—Felix, Seungmin, Han, a few others. They look up when Hyunjin approaches and he sees the moment they clock who he’s brought. Felix’s eyes go wide, Han grins knowingly, and Hyunjin feels his ears go hot.
“Yo!” Felix stands, grinning. “Finally! We were starting to think you ditched.”
“I told you we’d be here,” Hyunjin says, pulling you closer. His hand slides from your lower back to your hip, thumb tracing absent circles. Mine. “Everyone, this is—”
“We know who she is,” Han interrupts, amused. “You literally haven’t shut up about her for months.”
Hyunjin feels his ears go red. “I haven’t been that bad.”
“You literally have a whole folder of restaurant recommendations saved specifically for taking her on dates,” Seungmin points out. “And you’ve been planning this party outfit for a week.”
“You also practiced your introduction in the mirror,” Han adds helpfully.
“Traitors,” Hyunjin mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it. “All of you.”
You’re laughing though, that surprised giggle he loves, and it makes the embarrassment worth it. Watching you smile, hearing you laugh—he’d endure far worse for that.
“It’s nice to meet you all properly,” you say, and Hyunjin watches his friends immediately warm to you. Felix offers you a drink, Han makes room on the couch, and just like that you’re folded into the group like you belong there.
Like you belong with him.
Hyunjin doesn’t even think about it before sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. You make a small noise of protest, and he already knows what’s coming.
“Hyunjin, I’m heavy—”
“You’re perfect,” he interrupts, arms wrapping around your waist. His hand splays across your stomach—that soft, gorgeous stomach he dreams about kissing, about resting his head on—and something possessive and warm spreads through his chest. He loves this. The weight of you, the softness, how perfectly you fit against him. “Don’t start that shit. Not with me.”
He feels you relax incrementally, settling against him, and satisfaction curls through him. Good. He wants you comfortable. Wants you to understand that every single inch of you is exactly what he wants, what he craves, what he worships.
Because he does worship you. Has since that first night when he’d put his mouth on you and thought he’d found religion. The taste of you, the sounds you made, the way your thighs had trembled around his head—he’d been addicted instantly. Had gone back specifically to prove it was a fluke, that he’d built it up in his head, that no pussy could actually be that good.
But it was. You were. Is.
He dreams about it constantly. Dreams about lazy Sunday mornings spent between your thighs, about making you come so many times you forget your own name, about the weight of your thighs around his head and the taste of you on his tongue. Dreams about worshipping every curve, every soft inch of your body until you understand how fucking perfect you are.
If that makes him pussy-whipped, so be it. He’ll wear that label proudly.
The party flows around them. His friends chat and laugh, occasionally pulling them into conversation. Hyunjin keeps you close the entire time, unconsciously possessive, one hand always on you; your hip, your thigh, your waist. Under your skirt, his fingers trace patterns on your thigh, nothing obvious to anyone watching, just maintaining contact. Touching you. Claiming you.
He can’t help it. After months of wanting, of strategic “coincidences” and interrupted dates, of lying in bed alone wishing you’d let him stay; he finally has you here, on his lap, in front of his friends. He wants to touch you constantly, to remind himself this is real.
“So how’d you two actually get together?” Felix asks at one point. “Because Hyunjin’s been pining for months but he’s been real vague on details.”
“He stalked me,” you say, completely deadpan.
“I did not—”
“You interrupted three of my dates.”
“Strategically intervened,” Hyunjin corrects, fingers tightening on your thigh. “There’s a difference.”
“He also followed me on Instagram and started emailing me when I wouldn’t respond to his texts.”
Han chokes on his drink. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not,” both of you say at the same time.
“You’re insane,” Seungmin tells him.
“I’m dedicated,” Hyunjin corrects, completely shameless. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, breathing in your scent. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
“Debatable,” you say, but you’re smiling.
“You’re here,” he points out. “On my lap. At a party with my friends on New Year’s Eve. I’d say I won.”
His hand slides a bit higher on your thigh, still hidden by your skirt, and he feels your breath catch. He knows what he’s doing—teasing you, working you up slowly. He wants you desperate for him, wants you to feel even a fraction of what he’s felt for months.
The conversation moves on, but Hyunjin only half-pays attention. He’s too focused on you—the weight of you against him, the subtle shifts as you get more comfortable, the way you laugh at Felix’s jokes and engages with Seungmin’s questions about your research. The way his hands look against your skirt, spanning your waist, claiming you.
This could be his life. You on his lap at parties, meeting his friends, being part of his world. Mornings waking up between your thighs, lazy afternoons watching shows together, nights spent exploring every inch of your body. Showing you exactly how much he wants you, needs you, worships you.
He wants it so badly it physically hurts.
“You know,” Han says during a lull in conversation, grin wicked, “I’ve never seen Hyunjin like this with anyone.”
“Like what?” You ask, and Hyunjin can hear the curiosity in your voice.
“Whipped,” Felix supplies helpfully. “Absolutely pussy-whipped.”
Hyunjin doesn’t even try to deny it. His hand slides higher on your thigh, possessive. “And? Your point?”
“No point,” Seungmin says, amused. “It’s just nice to see you actually care about someone.”
And he does. So fucking much it scares him sometimes.
His hand continues its path up your thigh, fingers now tracing the edge of your underwear, and he feels you tense slightly. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“Relax,” he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear. “No one can see. Just want to touch you.”
“Hyunjin—” your voice is strained.
“You’re so soft here,” he continues, fingers dancing along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He loves this—the give of your flesh under his fingers, the warmth of your skin. “Love how you feel under my hands. Love that I get to touch you like this.”
“We’re in the middle of—”
“I know where we are.” His other hand splays across your stomach possessively. He can feel the soft curve of it, wants to kiss it, worship it. “Just reminding you that you’re mine. That all these curves, this perfect body, it’s mine to worship. Mine to taste. Mine to make come until you’re begging me to stop.”
He feels your breathing go shallow, feels the way you press back against him slightly.
“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Thinking about the last time I had my face between these thighs. How I made you come three times before you finally pulled me up. How you tasted on my tongue.” Like heaven. Like home. Like everything he’s ever wanted.
“Hyunjin, I swear—”
“I could spend hours between your legs,” he continues, barely audible. “Have spent hours there. Would spend every day there if you’d let me. Tasting you, worshipping you, making you understand how fucking perfect you are.”
“Later,” he promises. “Later I’m going to take you home and remind you exactly why you agreed to give me a chance. Gonna spend hours between your legs until you forget your own name. Until the only thing you can say is mine.”
You turn your head slightly, meeting his eyes, and the heat there nearly undoes him.
“We either need to leave or find a room,” you mumble in his ear.
His brain short-circuits for a second. Then, “What?”
“You’ve been touching me for the past hour,” you say quietly. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve soaked through my underwear. So, unless you want me to sit on it right here and keep it warm…”
Oh fuck.
His cock, which has been half-hard for the past thirty minutes, goes fully hard in an instant. The mental image of you sitting on his lap, full of him, with all his friends around—
“Right here?” The words come out strangled.
You shift on his lap slightly, and it takes everything in him not to groan. “You can just slip it in. I’ll keep it nice and warm.”
Hyunjin goes completely still beneath you, his hands tightening on your thighs hard enough to bruise. He can feel his cock pressing insistently against your ass and the mental image you just painted has him seeing stars.
This is insane. You’re in the middle of a party. His friends are right here. Anyone could notice.
But God, he wants to. Wants it so badly he can barely think. Wants to be inside you, connected to you, claiming you in the most primal way possible while surrounded by people who have no idea.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Is that a no?”
His pussy fairy—his perfect, gorgeous woman—is suggesting they fuck right here, right now, with all his friends around.
The same woman who kicks him out every morning, who’s been holding him at arm’s length for months, who finally agreed to give him a real chance—is offering him this.
He should say no. Should take you somewhere private, do this properly. Prove he’s not just about the sex, even though his dick is currently screaming at him to take you up on the offer.
But the temptation is overwhelming. The thought of being inside you, of feeling you around him while he sits here pretending everything is normal—
“Han’s room,” he manages, voice wrecked. “Second floor, last door on the right. Go up there and wait for me. Five minutes.”
“Why can’t we—”
“Because if I stand up right now, everyone’s gonna see exactly how hard you’ve got me.” His teeth catch her earlobe. “And because I need a minute to figure out if I can actually do what you’re suggesting without losing my mind and fucking you in front of everyone.”
Heat floods through him at his own words. He wants to do this right, wants to prove he’s serious about you. But he also wants you so badly he can barely see straight. Wants to worship your body the way it deserves, wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.
“Five minutes,” you agree, and slide off his lap.
The loss of your weight, your warmth, is almost painful. He watches you excuse yourself—something about needing the bathroom—and tracks your movement across the room and up the stairs. His eyes follow the sway of your hips, the curve of your body in that outfit, and his mouth goes dry.
Felix leans over. “You good, man? You look like you’re dying.”
“I’m fine,” Hyunjin lies, discreetly adjusting himself. His cock is so hard it hurts, and all he can think about is you. “Just…need a minute.”
“Uh huh.” Felix’s grin is knowing. “Sure you do.”
Hyunjin counts down—four minutes, because he literally cannot wait the full five—before standing. “Be right back.”
He doesn’t wait for responses, just heads upstairs. His heart is pounding, blood rushing south, and he can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe you suggested it, that you want him enough to risk this.
He finds Han’s room easily, slips inside, locks the door. You’re perched on the edge of the bed, and the sight of you sitting there waiting for him makes his mouth go dry.
His pussy fairy. His muse. His everything.
“You’re early,” you say, lips curving.
“Couldn’t wait.” He crosses the room in three long strides. “You’re really trying to ruin me, aren’t you? Sitting there looking innocent while suggesting the filthiest things.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“Fuck no.” He’s on you immediately, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s all desperation. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. “Been thinking about you all night. About getting my mouth on you again, tasting you, making you fall apart on my tongue.”
He wants to drop to his knees right now. Wants to bury his face between your thighs and drink until you’re begging. Wants to worship you the way you deserve, show you exactly how obsessed he is with every inch of your body.
But there’s no time, and the promise of what you suggested—
He hooks his fingers in your underwear and, yeah, you weren’t exaggerating. They’re soaked through and the evidence of your arousal makes him groan.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pulling them down your legs. He brings them to his face for a second, inhaling your scent, before pocketing them. “You weren’t kidding. You’re dripping for me.”
“Your fault,” you reply breathlessly.
“Mine,” he agrees, already working his belt loose. “All mine. This perfect pussy, these gorgeous thighs, all mine to worship.”
He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance and he pauses to look at you.
“You really want to?” he asks. “Want to go back down there and keep me inside you?”
“Yes, please—”
He pushes in slowly, both of you groaning. Once he’s fully seated, he pauses, forehead pressed to yours. Taking a moment to just feel you; the heat of your cunt, the tight grip of your walls around him, the way you fit him so perfectly.
His pussy fairy. His muse. His everything.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”
He explains his plan; in ten minutes you both go back downstairs, you sit on his lap, keeping him warm while y’all chat with his friends like nothing’s happening. Your eyes go wide, dark with lust, and he knows he’s got you.
“You’re insane,” you say with a laugh.
“Crazy about you,” he corrects. “So what do you say? Think you can keep quiet?”
“Can you?”
Fair question. He’s not sure he can. The thought of sitting there, buried inside of you, surrounded by his friends while they have no idea; feeling your walls around him, warm and perfect, while he pretends to care about anything except how good you feel—
“Guess we’ll find out,” he says as he captures your mouth in a kiss.
This is insane. Unhinged. Absolutely fucking perfect.
And as he holds you close, feeling your warmth around him, Hyunjin knows with absolute certainty that he’s completely, irrevocably down horrendous for you.
Best decision he ever made.
“It’s been ten minutes,” you mumble against his neck when he still hasn’t moved.
“You feel good,” he whispers back. So good. Perfect. Like you were made for him. He never wants to leave this feeling—buried inside you, connected to you in the most intimate way possible.
“What happened to going back downstairs and having me sit on it? Don’t want your boys to know that you’re a simp?”
He pulls back to look at you, something fierce and possessive flaring in his chest. “Simp? Baby, I’ve been pussy-whipped since the first time I tasted you. They already know.”
“Then why are we still up here?”
“Because—” He rolls his hips experimentally and they both groan. “Fuck, because I’m trying really hard to behave and you feel so goddamn good that I’m about two seconds from saying fuck it and just pounding you into Han’s bed.”
“He would kill you.”
“Worth it,” he mutters but he’s already pulling out slowly, making them both whimper at the loss. He tucks himself back into his jeans, adjusting until you can’t really tell, then pulls your skirt back down. “Okay. Okay, we can do this. We’re adults. We have self-control.”
“Do we though?”
“No,” he admits with a slightly hysterical laugh. “No, we absolutely don’t. But we’re going to try anyway because I want to see if you can actually do it. Want to see you squirm on my lap trying to keep quiet while I’m buried inside you.”
He pulls you up, steadying you when your legs shake slightly. His hands smooth down your skirt, then slide around to cup your ass.
“No underwear,” he reminds you, voice rough. The thought of it—you walking back down there with nothing beneath your skirt except his cum when this is all over—makes him dizzy. “Lots of people down there and you’ve got nothing under this tiny fucking skirt except me when you sit back down.”
“Whose fault is that? You’re the one who took them.”
“And I’m keeping them,” he says smugly, patting his pocket. Another trophy. Another piece of evidence that you’re his. “Now come on, before someone comes looking for us.”
He leads you back downstairs, hand possessively on your lower back. A few people glance your way, but no one seems suspicious; just friends returning from wherever.
His spot on the couch is still empty, his friends still talking and laughing. The room is dimly lit, most of the light coming from colored LEDs and the occasional phone screen, the rest of the party having migrated to other areas of the house. Perfect. Dark enough for what you’re about to do.
Han looks up when they approach, grinning. “There you are! Thought you got lost.”
“Bathroom line,” you say smoothly and Hyunjin loves how easily the little white lie spills from your lips. How readily you’re going along with your insane suggestion and his plan.
He sits down first in the corner of the couch where it’s darkest, pulling you immediately onto his lap. You settle against him and he can feel your slight nervousness, your anticipation. His hands slide to your hips, adjusting your position, and then he shifts beneath you.
“What are you—” you start to whisper, but then he’s worked his cock free under you, hidden by the darkness and your skirt and then he’s guiding you back onto him with careful, subtle movements.
“Shh,” he breathes against your ear. “Just relax. Let me—”
The angle is different like this, and it takes a moment of careful adjustment; him lifting his hips slightly, you shifting your weight, both moving in tiny increments that look like normal fidgeting to anyone watching. The room’s darkness helps, shadows concealing the way his hand disappears under your skirt to line himself up properly.
Then he’s pushing inside, inch by torturous inch, and you have to turn your face into his neck to muffle the whimper that threatens to escape. He bites down on his own lip hard enough to taste copper, fighting the urge to groan at how fucking perfect you feel.
It feels like forever, this careful invasion, until finally he’s fully seated and you’re both trying to breathe normally. His hands settle on your waist, holding you still and he takes a moment to just revel in it; the heat of you, the tight grip of you around him, the knowledge that you’re doing this right here, right now, with everyone around you completely oblivious.
“Good girl,” he breathes directly into your ear, quiet enough that only you can hear. His hand splays across your stomach, feeling the soft curve there, grounding himself. “Now sit pretty and don’t move.”
He can feel your heart racing; can feel the way you’re trembling slightly. From arousal or nerves or both, he’s not sure but you settle against him, and fuck, you feel so good. So warm and tight and perfect around him.
This is insane. This is the craziest thing he’s ever done. And he’s never been more turned on in his life.
“I hate you,” you whisper back but it comes out shaky.
“No you don’t.” His lips brush your shoulder, innocent to anyone watching. “You love this. Love knowing that I’m inside you right now and nobody knows. That you’re completely filled with me while you’re making small talk with my friends.”
Felix is asking you something about your major and you have to focus, have to form coherent words while Hyunjin is thick, hard and long inside you, while every tiny shift makes you want to grind down.
“English Literature and Language Education,” you manage. “I’m—ah—” Hyunjin shifts slightly and you have to cover it with a cough. “I’m doing my Master’s.”
“That’s cool,” Felix says, oblivious. “Must be how you met Hyunjin then?”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin answers for you, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “She was the teaching assistant for my class. Couldn’t take my eyes off her.”
His hand slides up under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splayed possessively. To anyone watching it just looks like he’s holding you, being affectionate. They can’t see the way his thumb is tracing patterns on your skin, the way every small movement makes him shift inside you.
“You okay?” Han asks, looking at you with slight concern. “You seem flushed.”
“Just warm,” you say quickly. “Lots of people.”
“Want me to grab you some water?” he offers, starting to stand.
“No!” You say it too quickly, too desperately, because if Han leaves that means attention on you and you’re not sure you can handle that right now. “No, I’m fine. Really.”
Hyunjin’s quiet laugh vibrates through you. His lips find your ear again. “Careful, Muse. Don’t want to seem too eager. They might figure out what we’re doing.”
“This was your idea,” you hiss back.
“And you suggested it first before I agreed to it,” he counters. “So now you’re going to sit here, full of my cock and be a good girl while I decide when I’m ready to take you home and fuck you properly.”
You’re going to die. You’re actually going to die right here on Hwang Hyunjin’s lap while his friends talk about nothing and he stays buried inside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on your stomach even though his cock is literally throbbing inside you. “You’re doing so good, baby. So perfect for me.”
Another ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Conversation flows around you and somehow you participate, laugh at jokes, respond to questions, all while fighting the desperate need to move, to grind down, to get any kind of friction.
Hyunjin is iron control beneath you, not moving except for the occasional adjustment that makes you dig your nails into his thigh. His breathing is measured, his voice steady when he talks, giving absolutely nothing away.
“You’re evil,” you finally whisper when there’s a lull in conversation.
“You love it,” he whispers back. Then, louder, to his friends: “Actually, I think we’re gonna head out. It’s getting late.”
“It’s barely midnight,” Seungmin protests.
“Yeah, but we’ve got—” Hyunjin seems to search for an excuse, “—plans tomorrow. Early plans.”
“Plans. Right. Sure,” Han’s grin is absolutely knowing.
“Shut up,” Hyunjin mutters. He shifts you forward carefully, and you feel him slip out as you stand, biting back a whimper at the loss. He’s quick to adjust himself while you smooth down your skirt, both of you trying to look casual.
“Thanks for coming,” Felix says, and you manage a smile.
“Thanks for having me. Happy New Year.”
“Anytime!” Han calls as Hyunjin grabs both your coat and his jacket before he practically drags you toward the door. “Nice meeting you officially and Happy New Year too.”
The second you’re outside, Hyunjin has you pressed against his car, kissing you breathless.
“Home,” he growls against your mouth. “Now. Because I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”
“Promise?” you ask breathlessly.
His answering smile is absolutely feral. “Oh, baby. That’s a guarantee.”
He fumbles with his keys, gets the car unlocked but the second you’re both inside he’s on you again. Kissing you desperately, hands everywhere and you’re crawling into his lap in the driver’s seat like you can’t bear even the distance between the front seats.
“We should—” you gasp between kisses, “—should drive—”
“Can’t,” he groans, already pushing your coat and skirt up. “Need you right now. Need to be inside you right fucking now.”
“Hyunjin, we’re in a parking lot—”
“Don’t care.” His hands find your ass, gripping hard, grinding you down against the obvious bulge in his jeans. “Need you too much. Been sitting there with you on my cock and I can’t, I need—”
You’re already reaching for his belt, as desperate as he is. “Backseat. At least the backseat.”
He practically shoves you off him, both of you scrambling into the back in a tangle of limbs that would be funny if you weren’t so desperate. The space is cramped but you make it work, Hyunjin pulling you back onto his lap as soon as he’s seated.
“Someone could see—” you start but he’s already pushing his jeans down, freeing himself.
“Tinted windows,” he says, pulling you up to position you over him. “And I parked in the back. No one’s gonna—fuck—”
You sink down onto him in one smooth motion and you both groan, loud and unrestrained now that you’re alone. The angle is deeper like this, the space forcing you close together and it’s perfect.
“Move,” he demands, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. His fingers dig into the flesh there, anchoring you. “Fuck, Muse, move…please—”
You do, riding him hard and fast, chasing the release you’ve both been desperate for. The car rocks with your movements, windows already starting to fog and neither of you care. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, marking you up while you bounce on his cock like your life depends on it.
“That’s it,” he groans, one hand sliding between you to find your clit. “Take what you need, baby. Use me. Fuck, you’re so perfect like this, so desperate for it—”
“Your fault,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. “Your fault for—ah—for making me sit there—”
“Worth it,” he pants, his other hand gripping your ass, helping you move, guiding you down harder onto him. “So fucking worth it to feel you like this now. So wet, so tight—been thinking about this the whole time—”
Your thighs are burning but you don’t stop, can’t stop, chasing the orgasm that’s been building since you first sat on his lap inside. His fingers on your clit are relentless, his cock hitting deep with every bounce, and you’re so close—
“Come for me,” he demands, voice strained. “Come on my cock, Muse. Let me feel it.”
You do, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you, clenching around him so hard he follows immediately with a string of curses and your name, spilling inside you while you both shake apart.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied and completely wrecked. The windows are completely fogged now, the car still rocking slightly with the aftermath.
“We’re never doing that again,” you mumble against his neck.
“Liar,” he says, but he sounds just as destroyed. “You loved every second of it.”
And God help you but he’s right. The thrill of it, the risk, the way he’d looked at you all night like he was barely holding himself back; it was intoxicating.
“We should probably get out of here before someone actually does see us,” you point out, still not moving.
“In a minute.” His arms tighten around you, holding you close. One hand strokes up and down your back, the other still resting on your hip. “Just…give me a minute.”
You let him have it, both of you catching your breath in the cramped backseat of his car. His touch is soothing now rather than demanding, and you feel yourself relaxing despite everything.
“That was insane,” you finally say.
“That was hot as fuck,” he corrects. “You, sitting on my lap with my cock inside you while my friends had no idea? That’s going in the spank bank for the rest of my life.”
You smack his chest but you’re laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.” He pauses, and there’s that vulnerability again, peeking through. “You like me.”
“Yeah,” you admit, because fuck it, you’re already in this deep. “I do.”
His smile is brilliant even in the dim light filtering through the fogged windows. “Good. Because I’m definitely not letting you go now.”
“Possessive bastard.”
“Your possessive bastard,” he corrects and kisses you soft and sweet, so different from the desperate claiming just minutes ago.
Eventually you do have to move, have to untangle yourselves and make yourselves presentable enough to drive. Hyunjin insists on taking you back to his place this time.
“Mine or yours?” he asks as he drives, one hand on your thigh. “Either way I want to wake up with you tomorrow. Actually wake up with you, not you kicking me out before I’m barely awake.”
“Yours.” You reply knowing he’s never going to let you live that down so you don’t argue, just let him drive you to his apartment. It’s small but clean, surprisingly organized for a college guy. He leads you straight to his bedroom and you’re barely through the door before he’s on you again.
This time is different. Slower. He undresses you carefully, reverently, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he reveals. Maps your body with his hands and mouth like he’s trying to memorize it.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “Can’t believe I get to have you like this.”
When he finally pushes inside you again, it’s slow and deep, his eyes locked on yours. One hand laces with yours above your head, the other cupping your face as he moves.
“Wanted this for so long,” he breathes, and there’s something raw in his voice that makes your chest tight. “Wanted you.”
You pull him down into a kiss, pouring everything you can’t say into it. He makes love to you like that—slow and thorough and achingly tender—until you’re both falling apart again, quieter this time but no less intense.
After, he cleans you up and pulls you into his arms, your back to his chest, his face buried in your hair.
“Stay,” he says quietly. “Not just tonight. Stay tomorrow too. Let me make you breakfast, take you on another date. Let me have you for the whole weekend and after that.”
You should say no. Should maintain some boundaries, some sense of self-preservation.
“Okay,” you say instead.
His arms tighten around you, and you feel him smile against your neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But you’re actually making me breakfast this time. None of this ordering in bullshit.”
His laugh is warm and fond. “Deal. I make a mean omelette.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“So competitive,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “It’s hot.”
“Everything is hot to you.”
“When it involves you? Yeah.” No shame, no hesitation. Just honesty. “You make me crazy, Muse.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” you admit quietly.
He shifts, turning you in his arms so he can look at you. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.
“I know you’re scared,” he says softly. “I know this is complicated and I’m younger than you and people are going to have opinions. But I don’t care about any of that. I just care about you.”
Your throat feels tight. “Hyunjin—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts gently. “Just…give me this weekend. Let me show you how good this could be. And if at the end of it you still want to keep me at arm’s length, I’ll respect that. I won’t like it, but I’ll respect it.”
You study his face; the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability he’s showing you. This boy who could have anyone, who’s choosing you.
“This weekend,” you agree. “But Hyunjin? I’m already in deeper than I meant to be.”
His smile is soft, understanding. “Good. Because so am I, probably been this way since before we hooked up if I’m being honest.
“That was almost a year ago.”
“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Took me months to work up the courage to even talk to you outside of class. A couple more to convince you to give me a chance. I’m playing the long game here, Muse.”
Something warm and terrifying blooms in your chest. “You’re really serious about this.”
“Dead serious.” He kisses you softly. “Now sleep. We’ve got a whole weekend ahead of us, and I plan to make the most of every minute.”
You let him pull you close, let yourself relax into his warmth. And for the first time in months, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could actually work.
“Hyunjin?” you murmur, already half-asleep.
“Mm?”
“You better not fuck this up.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “I won’t. Promise.Happy New Year,Muse.”
You whisper it back to him, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, as you drift off to sleep with a smile on your face.
Maybe Hwang Hyunjin being pussy-whipped isn’t such a bad thing after all.
pairing: chan x f reader
warnings: profanities, fwb, bad at feelings, unprotected intercourse (wrap before you tap!), idol au, idol chan x makeup artist reader
genre: explicit smut
word count: 3.9k
a/n: i didn't usually write idol au so writing this turned out to be a challenging experience for me (mainly bc i was kinda scared they're not giving idols vibes lmao) but it was fun nonetheless!! this was based off of a request i got on my insta but aside from that, i was also heavily inspired by skz's I Like It and that one vid of chan lifting 160 kg bar.... heheheh....
(this fic was originally posted on my insta @cattoleeno)
“He’s been talking about you.”
Felix’s eventual grin was a triumph of his prowess on seeing past your silence that you thought was a sufficient attempt at keeping your emotions from surfacing beyond your pounding heart. But in his defense, he had not referred to anyone in particular and yet you didn’t bother to ask who he was talking about, as if there wasn’t anyone else who would be talking about you.
Sometimes silence tells more than words ever will, Felix thought. That, or he could easily hear your heart thumping uncharacteristically fast within your ribcage in the quiet of the dressing room.
“He’s bulking and been trying lifting weights these days,” he added, eyes slid close as you brushed the last layer of a dark eyeshadow on his lids. “I wonder where the drive comes from, even he got Changbin a little intimidated but, phew, you gotta see his arms.”
You knew what he was doing. The boy always makes a big fuss of the simplest occurrences he stumbles upon while you’re doing his makeup. Oftentimes it would lead you to share your own predicaments you haven’t even told your closest ones yet, and he was always so giddy to be the first one to know. One time he tagged you on a post of himself and you posing weirdly in the mirror with a caption, yapping buddy.
But unlike the usual where you would actively comment on his chitchat show, you were not speaking this time apart from occasional hums and nods. Your lips were sealed shut. Your hands kept working.
Upon realising he wouldn’t acquire the information through a slip of tongue, his frustration then revealed itself in the form of a long sigh in surrender. “Chan missed you.”
You almost snorted, and for the first time since Felix had arrived to get his makeup done, you decided to entertain him. You bent down and stroked the brush where his lids needed the last touch of glitters. “You’re his owl now?”
“No,” he admitted, “he didn’t ask me to tell you anything but he wouldn’t stop talking about you my ears would actually be bleeding in the long run,” he glanced at the door through the the mirror where a staff had trotted in with a heap of navy robes in arms, so think that only half her face was visible. His tone went lower at the additional presence in the room, barely a whisper, “you’ve yet to write nor call him back. What’s up?”
The staff put down the robes on the couch in the corner alongside a neat pile of blankets prepared for when the members needed a nap. She flashed you a smile before pressing her phone against her ear and speaking to someone on the other end of the line.
You leaned back to inspect Felix’s face, making sure the eye makeup was symmetrical. “We are not a couple and I’m not obliged to contact him back, that’s what’s up.”
Felix frowned, “yet.”
Maybe you had to be a little daring with the label; fuck buddies, friends with benefits, stress relievers, all that but a mere ‘not a couple’ because Felix always seemed to think that whatever you had with Chan now was solely a phase before an actual relationship. But shit, fuck buddies sounded bitter in your head, and it wouldn’t taste any sweeter on your tongue.
Your laugh was sour, “I’m not crossing the line.”
Felix’s lips twitched, ready for a confrontation but… speak of the devil.
The dressing room was suddenly boisterous with more staff and the other members swarming in. Sparkly, monochromatic garments that were priorly organised on the rolling racks were taken away into a bigger dressing room next door by the stylists, your makeup assistant sat some of the members down at the vanity and started working on them, while some other staff were busy moving things here and there to make room for a makeshift, temporary snack table.
Seungmin said something to Changbin that made the older put him in a headlock before they both were dragged away from makeup. Jisung was showing Minho a newly released anime. Hyunjin was playing with Jeongin’s hair while a stylist was trying to adjust a silver necklace around the taller’s neck.
And the last one to step inside as usual, was Chan.
The last member to be dolled up would usually make the most of the extra time to nap but Chan, ever so sleep deprived, was already slipped into his stage outfit.
GIvenchy had sent their latest fall-winter collection exclusively for him. The stylist had picked out a dark, puffy top for the first performance which they forthwith altered, cutting the sleeves off to conveniently emphasise his well-built upper half particularly his arms that seemed to to have gotten a lot more muscular than you’d remembered. Paired with his newly dyed jet black hair, it was hard not to look.
A stylist assigned to the leader was on her knees when you sneaked a glance through the mirror. She was tucking the hem of his black cargo pants into the ankle of his Rombaut high boot, a black leather band dangling around one of her wrists.
Felix furtively nudged your hip with an elbow to swerve your attention back to him, face contorted into a restrained sneer at your umpteenth attempt at having a glimpse of his leader’s figure through the mirror. He mouthed, “told you.”
He was talking specifically about the arms. It was embarrassing that you so quickly caught up on that.
Against your better judgement, you took another glance in the mirror and were met with a curious gaze and a dimpled smile. Your walls wobbled for a moment just like they always would at the sight of that smile. But you nailed your feet into the ground and held your walls steady until it was silent and they stood solid again.
You looked away and bent down to embellish Felix’s freckles with strews of sparkles.
If you listened closely maybe you’d hear a long, disappointed sigh in the air.
After fixing the final sweeps of a nude gloss on Felix’s cupid bow, there came Seungmin and Jeongin who filled you in with all the horror stories from the old dance practice room. Most of which you had already heard from Felix who was an absolute coward when it comes to ghosts. You listened intently and laughed with them regardless, ignoring the way a particular pair of dark brown eyes steadily observing nearby.
But after all the youngers tailed behind their manager to a dressing room next door where everyone else had gathered to put their outfits on, it was suddenly so quiet. You didn’t realise almost all of the staff except one had left to make ready for the show one last time before the arena’s doors were finally allowed to open.
Too quiet. Except for a muffled commotion coming from the adjacent room, mostly Jisung who was arguing with someone again, Minho’s siren warm up ritual, and Hyunjin’s head-splitting giggles at something Changbin might be doing to him.
You pivoted around the vanity to arrange the palette for the last person on your list, and you could feel his gaze secured on you.
“Here, let me,” Chan politely offered a hand to take the arm band from the stylist when she was adjusting its length, “I think the others will appreciate an extra hand next door.”
Glancing at her watch, she easily agreed and scuttled away.
Chan scanned out the corridor, greeting a staff member on her way to the room at the end of the hallway, before gently closing the door when there was no longer anyone around.
You didn’t miss the sound of the door locking.
There were barely any exchanges the entire time he was sitting at the vanity while you were working on his makeup. His hands, however, had a hard time keeping still as they were roaming around, stroking playful caresses across your thighs and skimming further up beneath your skirt where they kneaded the soft globes of your ass.
“You were staring.”
“Hm?”
Chan repeated, “you were staring when I came in.”
“I was,” you admitted, “like I was looking at everyone else when they came in.”
“Mm, yeah?” He severed his back from the seat, lips barely brushing against your earlobe. You had just swept a pop of colour on his cheeks but you were the one who got red on the face. Unfair. He nipped at your earlobe, “did you look away when they stared back?”
A couple more brushes on his cheeks outwards to blend the blush. You tried to ignore the way his plump lips persistently kissed the side of your neck with a dry chuckle, “would’ve looked like a creep if I didn’t.”
“I missed you,” Chan leaned back in his chair again, the smile never left his face. “You were awfully quiet.” The lack of mere hello’s when you had seemed to be pretty comfortable talking to the rest of the members but him, he meant.
Your palm was on his shoulder as a small brush swept its way across his eyebrow, trying your best to keep it gentle despite the abrupt snap somewhere in your chest. The first remark felt way different on his tongue than them on Felix’s.
You snorted playfully, “well it’s not appropriate to scream, is it?”
A pair of crooked dents on his cheeks came into view as he grinned cunningly at a memory flashing in his head, “you did when we messed around the last time at—”
A slap on his chest. Hard. But he giggled at the embarrassment dispersing across your cheeks in red. Your eyes widened at him and lips jutted out in a disapproved look, momentarily gazing up at the closed door. A group of people had just walked by by the sounds of their hasty treads outside.
Chan peered up at you, hands kneading your ass again, “we almost got caught the last time ‘cause you didn’t have my fingers in your mouth to tone down your beautiful moans. I made you feel so good you couldn’t—”
A stinging slap on his shoulder. He winced in pain this time, although the stupidly sweet grin was unwaveringly plastered on his face. You couldn’t be more annoyed.
“Might consider moaning your full name for everyone to hear next time.”
It was an empty threat and you both knew that. You wouldn’t possibly be so stupid to risk your job only to wipe that wicked smile off of his face, no.
His hand slipped further south, pulling you by the thigh to stand closer between his legs. “So you do want a next time.”
You rolled your eyes with a scoff but he stroked the back of your thigh almost too fondly you could’ve melted if you hadn’t been there for work. He grinned, “I’ll be all ears though.”
You carried on with your work, ignoring the heightening heat in your abdomen that came with his playful teasing and touchy hands. But it didn’t help that he also looked insanely attractive in the fit.
You definitely had issues. Because it was probably the hundredth time the stylists had picked out sleeveless top for his stage outfit, and you had certainly seen so much more than his bare arms, yet it still affected you like it was the first time.
As if sensing that you were almost done once you placed the eyeshadow palette back onto the dresser, he pulled you back to sit on his lap, burying his face on your chest. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I missed you.”
Your hands found their place on his head to play with his hair. Sometimes you wanted to ask why he almost never wore his natural curls on the stage. You liked his curls. A little too much, even. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”
His words were a little muffled against your shirt, maybe his makeup would stain, “I locked the door.”
“I noticed,” you cackled, tearing yourself away from him and beginning to organise your stuff back into their respective cases. “But if you missed my ass and cunt you’ll need to wait ‘till we get back to your dorm. We’re not gonna ruin your makeup.”
Chan winced at your words. At the first few words, specifically.
He didn’t say anything but his hands once again found you.
Apparently Felix hadn’t been joking when he said Chan was into lifting weights as of lately, but the effortless cradle of his arms beneath your ass as he hauled you up onto the dresser still had you gasp in surprise. You almost forgot about the leather arm band he had taken from his stylist earlier, until it was dangling precariously in between his thumb and forefinger right before your face.
“Will you do the honours?”
With a raised brow you took the accessory and pulled his left arm closer, “you just need an excuse for me to touch you.”
He grinned, “mm, you caught me.”
The whole time you were adjusting the arm band around his bicep in silence, the whole time he was studying your face in silence. Without looking up, you scoffed, “now you’re the one staring.”
He hummed, “it’s hard not to when you’re so pretty.”
Your nose scrunched, unimpressed. You made the grip of the arm band slightly tighter than it should be but if Chan felt pain, it was only a miniscule compared to an abrupt nudge of your palm against the bulge in his pants he wasn’t even aware of. “I’m only pretty when you need a stress reliever,” you chuckled, back flush against the mirror and eyes affixed to his own, “so tell me what I can do to make you feel better without ruining your makeup. I’m not redoing that.”
Chan sighed. Every ounce of mischief that had gleamed in his face melted away along with his playful grin. Words at the tip of his tongue, but all that was let out was another sigh.
You weren’t left waiting for too long. His lips found their place on your neck as he ground his crotch against your clothed cunt. His growing bulge fondled where you felt most sensitive, and from how wet your panties already were, he knew he wasn’t the only one getting aroused in the room.
“You can make me feel good, yeah,” he sighed, detaching his face from your neck and rolling your skirt further up, “just stay still and look pretty, I’ll do the work.”
It sent the butterflies in your stomach going haywire more than you would ever want to admit, so you kept a straight face and pulled him close as he unbuckled his belt. You hoped the dresser was sturdy enough to provide not only your weight but a bit of extra pressure in the near future.
“Are you on the pill? I don’t have—”
The desperation that reflected through the immediate nodding even before he finished his sentence would have definitely gotten you in an endless circle of teasing if he weren’t just as desperate. Instead, “fuck,” he grunted, lips seeking for a certain spot below your ear he knew so much would send you otherworldly bliss. All while his fingers tugged at your wet panties to the side as he blindly guided his length to align with your awaiting entrance.
He wanted to keep sucking at your weak spot to distract you from the imminent pain that came with penetration, but it felt too good for him too that he eventually peeled his mouth away from your neck and rested his forehead on your shoulder with ragged breaths. “You feel so fucking perfect. So pretty and perfect.”
It was slow for the first few thrusts, hands roaming around to feel the other’s body, occasional kisses along the skin of the other’s neck, but never close enough to where your lips were. I missed you too, you wanted to tell him, but words of affirmation and feelings and emotions were only reserved for a committed relationship. Which you both lacked.
“Haven’t worked out in two days.” Chan grunted in between thrusts that gradually increased in pace.
What you didn’t expect was being lifted up off of the dresser, forcing your arms to involuntarily wrap around his neck and hold on.
The next thing you knew, a cold wall was pressed against your back and how deep his length was buried inside you in that position. You mewled when he started to pound into you again, face buried in your neck, planting marks all over the skin down your collarbone.
He spread your thighs further apart, nailing you onto the wall. The hands on your thighs smothered down to your ass again, gripping the plump flesh so hard you were sure there would be bruises the next morning.
He pulled away, lustful eyes burrowing into yours.
Your hooded eyes struggled to keep open, devouring the hypnotising sight of Chan fervid on relieving his needs. The sleeveless vest earned you a sinful view of the muscles and veins bulging along the surface of his biceps as his arms held you up. The leather band around one of his upper arms taunted you with its tight grip that made the bulges of his muscles all the more prominent. Beads of sweat ran down the side of his face before they dripped onto your thighs. He was godly.
How could you trade your feelings for such a beautiful, unholy sight…
“Keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He thrusted particularly hard that knocked a whimper out of your throat, grinning, “like you’d devour me clean.”
Your chuckles came out breathlessly, “but I am devouring you.”
Another hard thrust drew a louder whimper out of you, and your nails dug into his shoulders. The sound of people walking back and forth outside the room was cue enough to bite back your moans, and when he found a spot that made you see stars and unintendedly moan, your palm slapped against your mouth for assistance.
Chan wasn’t too happy with your muffled whines. With only one hand and his hips pinning you up against the wall, his other hand pulled your hand off of your mouth, replacing it with his lips instead in a fervent kiss.
“Thought you said you wanna moan my full name for everyone to hear? Didn’t I say I’ll be all ears?”
“Fuck you.” But it sounded much gentler than you had intended to. “I’m not losing my job.”
You gasped at a particular sharp thrust, glaring at his triumphant grin. But then cold sweat ran down the back of your neck when you heard footsteps just at the other side of the door. The room wasn’t soundproof in the first place, but the way you could hear the footsteps so clearly made you all the more alarmed.
Chan on the other hand didn’t seem bothered and kept going.
“Chan… slow down…” you whined, chest painful from having to hold back the screams at the blazing strokes of his cock against your walls.
He slowed the pace, nose brushing against yours, “did I hurt you?”
You shook your head, panting, then settled your forehead down onto his shoulder.
Chan didn’t waste any more time and sped up again, catching you off guard. You let out an obscene cry in surprise, followed by a chain of moans at the pleasure as he was rolling his hips to get his cock hit every spot.
You were too lost, teeth dug into his shoulder, body limp and pliant, cheeks burning, ass stinging. You let him give you everything there was to offer to get you to your high.
Your legs trembled intensely when it happened, chest heaved and teeth left marks all over his shoulder that led to his own peak as well. He moaned in your ear when he finally released.
If Chan had been patient enough to wait until the event was over and he could sneak you into his dorm, you would’ve loved to stay in his arms a little longer after such an intense session. Unfortunately he loved risks.
“Get me down.” You demanded.
And he did as asked, although his protective hands still lingered around your waist knowing that your legs would most likely give out the moment your feet touched the ground. He wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t refuse either. You clung onto him as he sat you down on the sofa and began to clean you up.
When he looked up, you instantly frowned. His face twisted in concern, “what’s wrong? Are you hurt somewhere?”
You huffed, “you ruined your makeup.”
There wasn’t much to fix but a stain of lipstick whose shade didn’t match the one on his lips smudged messily around his mouth. Red and swollen, it almost looked like his lips were stung.
He was visibly relieved at your comment, however. “We still have time.”
Then, as he looked down at where his hand was mindlessly rubbing circles on your thigh, he mumbled, “you’re always pretty.”
“Hm?”
“You’re always pretty,” he repeated, looking up at you, “you’re not just a stress reliever if that was what you thought you were to me. You’re not only pretty when I need you like that, no.”
“No,” you hummed in agreement, “I’m a friend, too, and definitely your makeup artist.”
Chan wasn’t amused. “You know what I mean.”
You snickered, “you were the one suggesting to keep it casual, Chan.” The words hung in the air for a while before you added, “and I don’t mind. I like it this way.”
Maybe there was so little truth in what you had admitted but eventually you realised there was no harm in not putting any romantic labels to your relationship as he had suggested beforehand. It wasn’t like he would be able to reserve his attention on you if you were to end up romantically given his line of work that compelled him to allocate his focus on so many things at once. You weren’t sure if you could get used to being pushed back into the last on his list all the time so you thought, being romantically involved with him would have just wounded you and him more than if you pushed your feelings down.
The less your feelings get involved, the less you’d get your heart broken.
Chan stayed silent for a moment. Thoughts swam in the depth of his irises as they bored into yours. Then, “alright. We’ll keep it this way.”
He flinched at the gentle knocks on the door. How ironic that he was more affected at being caught when there was nothing to see in the room, but had been awfully confident when your moans were straight immoral. You giggled.
A familiar deep voice made through the thin board of the door. It was so clear that you could imagine Felix pressing his lips against the door to speak. “If you horny imbeciles are done, better get out now before the others realise you’ve been gone too long. And you’re expected for technical equipment check in like five minutes, Bang Chan, chop chop.”
Chan rose to his feet and offered you a hand. A smile slowly tugged at his lips, crooked and hesitant, “come, love, you kinda have to patch up my makeup.”
୨୧ summary: you hate chan because your boyfriend hates chan, and you’re pretty sure he hates you too. so when he proposes a fake dating arrangement after you get cheated on, you accept only for the revenge plot. but that doesn’t exactly go as planned, because maybe you two never really hated each other after all.
୨୧ pairing: student!bang chan x fem!student!reader
୨୧ genre: college!au, enemies to lovers / fake dating, a lil fluff, a lil angst, smut MINORS DNI
୨୧ word count: 20.6k
୨୧ featuring: jaehyun of nct and mina & jihyo of twice
୨୧ warnings: 18+, cheating (not between reader and chan), mentions of alcohol, explicit language, poor communication, some arguing, overuse of italics (sorry!), oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (pls dont do it), breast play (+ one slap !), creampie, multiple orgasms, spitting, dirty talk, teasing, pet names (baby, princess), afab reader
୨୧ author's note: let's play a game of how many tropes can i fit into one fic! i did all of my college courses online so not too much on me and my unrealistic depictions pls… also obviously this is not an accurate portrayal of jaehyun, i love that man down okay!! and i got a lil lazy midway through this and rushed it to get to the smut lmao sorry!
You hated parties.
You hated parties because they were loud, because spaces with that many bodies on top of each other were too suffocating, because men always tried to hit on you with boozy breath and wandering eyes.
Now you hated parties because they made your boyfriend want to stick his tongue down other girls’ throats.
Jaehyun had managed to destroy nine months within three minutes – that’s the length of time you’d convinced yourself you’d spent standing there, unable to avert your gaze from the horror unfolding in front of you. Three whole minutes that he hadn’t even noticed your presence, too preoccupied. Too focused on kissing this random girl like he had something to claim, as if you weren’t enough. And worst of all, he hadn’t even cared enough to bring it somewhere private. They were in a corner of the living room, tucked away but not hidden. It had only taken a little bit of squeezing between partygoers and quick apologies to make your way to them.
They had gathered a crowd, too. A few spectators, voices meant to be whispers – drunk people can’t seem to mind their own volume.
“Yo, is that Y/N?”
“Nah, I just saw her getting a drink.”
“Shit…she’s gonna be so pissed.”
At least the alcohol hadn’t made them completely brainless. You were, in fact, pissed. There was the unmistakable heartbreak too, but you weren’t going to let anyone see that. Instead, you blinked back your tears and cleared your throat to make sure the words didn’t get stuck. Each step you took towards him made it more real, until you were close enough that you knew he could hear you over the raging music.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, far from an actual question. Your voice still broke on the last word, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed. As soon as he registers that it’s your voice, his girlfriend, Jaehyun tries to push the girl away, feigning disgust. It’s almost pathetic in a way, his little act.
“Shit, Y/N,” he curses. “I didn’t mean to – fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just – ”
He stumbles on his words as if his mouth wasn’t working perfectly fine just seconds before. When he tries to inch towards you, you step back, refusing to allow him the comfort.
“You’re fucked, Jaehyun,” you say flatly. That’s as much of your energy as you would give him, at least for now. He’d embarrassed you enough by kissing another woman in the middle of a party; you decided against escalating your humiliation by shouting at him and causing a scene. You turn on your heels and begin pushing through bodies again, away from him, and you can tell he’s following. You can hear your name, barely reaching your ears but definitely there.
Once you make it out of the most concentrated pool of people, he staggers soon after and latches onto your wrist. The same fingertips that used to run across your skin so gently now felt like betrayal and poison.
“Let me go,” you snap. His grip loosens slightly, but he still holds you there, determined to defend himself.
“I fucked up, I know, but please just hear me out,” he begs, as if he has the right to. His excuses are the last thing you want to hear right now, and you know that’s all they would be. Stupid excuses for a stupid “mistake,” and it makes you sick to even think about listening to him explain why and how he ended up making out with another woman in the corner of a party he asked you to go with him to.
“No! Fuck you, seriously,” you spit, words laced with venom you prayed would hurt him even a fraction of the way he hurt you.
And perhaps they did, or at the very least stunned him, because he drops your arm entirely. Now, you take the final steps towards the door, reaching for the handle. He tries to follow you again, unsatisfied, unrelenting. “And if you follow me out this door, I promise you I’ll never speak to you again.”
That stops him in his tracks. Maybe gives him some hope that if he just lets you cool off for the night, you’ll let him explain in the morning. Regardless of how he perceives it, you lunge at the opportunity to escape, finally making it out the door and into the crisp night air. It hits your skin viciously, your skirt and halter top offering little protection from its bite. You’re cold, heartbroken, and, worst of all, not even nearly drunk enough to mask it.
Without the vivaciousness of the party, you can only see Jaehyun kissing her in your mind, can only hear the hushed whispers of the onlookers, replaying on a torturous loop. You’d only made it down the steps of the house before the tears began to fall. Now you let them, assuming you were away from prying eyes.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed someone standing right next to the door while you and Jaehyun had your little spat. A certain someone who would get far too much enjoyment out of such a scene. You had been followed once more, but this time not by your stupid cheating ex boyfriend, but by his equally as stupid “rival.” It was still a mystery to you why they hated each other, and at this point, you didn’t care at all to find out.
“Those were some harsh words,” he chuckles, and you don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice. The same way you don’t need to turn around to know he’s smirking. You hurriedly wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup; the last thing you need is him to see you crying, another thing for him to derive sick pleasure in. You wouldn’t dare grant him that.
Because it was an unspoken relationship rule that an enemy of your partner is an enemy of your own. So, for no real reason other than the fact that Jaehyun hated him, you hated Bang Chan.
“Fuck off, Chan,” you snarl, quickening your pace. It doesn’t matter, since he catches up to you in a few short strides. “Why the hell did you even follow me out here?”
He steps in rhythm with you, making it clear he had no intentions of leaving. Not until he got what he wanted, whatever that may be. The satisfaction of seeing you broken? The chance to remind you how shitty Jaehyun is and how great he is? You aren’t sure, but you keep walking anyway.
“I just didn’t expect to hear you say such things to your boyfriend,” he answers. His emphasis of “boyfriend” makes you both angry and repulsed, then bitter and devastated. Nine months of your life gone in minutes, and now you had the displeasure of dealing with Chan on top of it.
You scoff and finally stop, turning to face him for the first time. His eyes twinkle with something devious, and it infuriates you. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”
“Oh?” he draws his head back in shock. He’s silent for a moment, and you fold your arms across your chest, glaring at him in a way he finds cute more than intimidating. “I’m surprised you two lasted this long, actually. Figured it was about time for Jaehyun to do what he does best.”
You blink at him incredulously, his careless words cutting deep. There’s no reason anything he says should bother you, but there’s something about it that stings. And Chan notices, too, watching your entire face shift from rage to sorrow. Your features soften in a way he’d never seen before – you’d only ever looked at him with hatred and annoyance – and it deflates him.
“I don’t know why you two don’t get along. Seems like you should be best friends – you’re both fucked up,” you retort quickly, though it comes out as a strained whisper.
Chan hates being grouped with him, especially in your mind where Jaehyun now seems to be synonymous with evil. He never expected to be giving you of all people an apology, but he figures he needs to. For his own consciousness, of course. Definitely not because he felt an odd pang in his chest when you looked at him with something other than disdain for once.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. Are you alright?” he asks cautiously. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see someone roll their eyes, but when you do, he swears he feels ten times lighter. Your hostility he could navigate, but your sadness was uncharted territory; he was glad to be back to familiarity. And since you hadn’t walked away from him yet, he takes the chance to dig deeper. “What did he do?”
“Like I’d want to talk to you about it. Just give it a few hours, you’ll hear about it from someone, I’m sure,” you shrug, trying to pretend that you’re unbothered. That you don’t care that you’ll likely be the talk of campus, the woeful ex-girlfriend people will look at in that pitiful way they look at small, broken things.
As much as you hate Chan, you’re grateful he isn’t looking at you like you’re small or broken. He’s looking at you the same as always, like you’re a challenge, a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. Maybe that’s why you decided to keep standing there, holding more of a conversation with him than you’d likely ever had before.
“Probably. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me, what happened?” he asks again.
He doesn’t say it with demand or snark. It sounds almost unsettlingly genuine. It sounds like someone that isn’t Chan, or at least the Chan you’re familiar with. You hesitate, conjuring up another smart remark, but you let it die in your throat.
“He fucking cheated on me. He was making out with some girl in front of everyone. Can you believe that?” you chuckle sarcastically, forgetting who exactly is standing before you. “Nevermind…I’m sure you can believe it. God, I’m so stupid.”
“No, you’re not stupid,” he says adamantly. “He’s stupid. An even bigger idiot than I thought, actually.”
It angers him more than it should that you’re degrading yourself over Jaehyun’s horrible decisions, and he has a fleeting thought of going back and telling him off for it. And as the thought passes, he can’t understand why. He knows you hate him. He knows you have likely been fed lies and half-truths by Jaehyun for months. He knows he shouldn’t care about any of this. He can’t seem to figure out why he does.
“I just can’t get that image out of my head. It’s making me sick,” you mumble, and it replays all over again. The ear-splitting music, the crowd, his lips on hers, that look on his face when he saw you. All your emotions bubble back up to the surface and come out as a loud groan, though internally you just want to scream until your throat is raw. “I wish I could make him feel even half of what I feel right now.”
The idea that pops up sounds ridiculous in his head and likely even more so said aloud, but his mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Well, maybe you could,” he trails.
“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m actually a good person,” you sneer. “I would never cheat.”
He laughs dryly and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, awaiting an explanation. “Believe me, I know you’re just a perfect princess,” he mocks, and you’re certain if you roll your eyes any harder they’ll get stuck like that. “But who said anything about cheating? Besides, you’re not together anymore,” he reminds. “And there’s only one thing I can think of that would drive him just as mad.”
You’re intrigued now, though doubtful there’s anything that could reflect the same level of hurt you currently felt. Anything rational, at least. Still, you wanted to hear whatever silly idea Chan had, if not for your own amusement.
“Which is what?” you question.
“Being with me,” he answers, too quickly, too plainly, as if it was something entirely normal and not an absolutely insane statement. When your eyes widen, he continues, waving his hands urgently to indicate you had gotten the wrong impression. “Okay, not for real, Jesus. Like faking it, you know? Just for him to see and lose his mind.”
That was quite possibly the last thing you expected, and you’re forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. You wait for him to join in, to tell you he was joking just to fuck with you. That would have been the Chan thing to do. Instead, he stares at you, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah, okay, you’re insane,” you scoff.
“Is it that insane?” he says smugly, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Think about it, imagine how pissed he’d be seeing us together.”
For a moment, you can’t help but realize how attractive he actually is. It’s not that you hadn’t noticed before – you had perfectly functional eyes – but now being single and also inches away from him, it was an unavoidable fact. It made you almost begin to consider his idea. Almost.
“Yes, it’s insane! Just because I gave you five minutes of my time on a shitty night doesn’t mean I want to talk to you ever again, let alone pretend to date you.”
“Oh, Princess Y/N gave me five minutes of her precious time, thank you so much,” he quips, and this time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Whatever, I gave you a guy’s perspective on how to get back at him. You’re not gonna get any better revenge than that.”
“And what do you get from it?” you ask, certain there must be some mutually beneficial aspect beneath it. There’s no way he would suggest something so outlandish without thinking of his own gain, and you know that’s true when he grins wickedly.
“Just the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realizes he lost his girl to the one person he hates more than anything.”
You aren’t sure why you hadn’t grasped that from the beginning. All Chan wanted, as always, was to get under Jaehyun’s skin, to take something of his, to win. The idea is still crazy, and far more theatrical than you’d usually approve of, but you’re a lover scorned.
Then, you think back to the unspoken rule, the sole reason and origin of your hatred for Chan. Jaehyun hadn’t even followed relationship rule number fucking one: don’t cheat on your girlfriend. So, you figured you could break some rules and allow some theatrics.
“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll fake date you or whatever,” you huff, trying to ignore his triumphant smirk. “But nothing weird, alright? And once it’s all over, we go back to hating each other.”
He throws his hands up like it’s offensive you’d even insinuated it. “Believe me, that’ll be no problem,” he agrees.
“Good,” you say simply, a forced tight-lipped smile on your face.
“Good,” he repeats.
The silence that falls over you two is uncomfortable, only disrupted by the sound of the wind lifting leaves along the sidewalk and the faint thumping of music. You can still see the house down the road, and it makes you wonder if Jaehyun is still inside and if he went right back to her. Suddenly, you feel the need to get home and cry in the shower with your carefully-curated sad music playlist.
“Well…I’m gonna go back to my dorm now,” you finally speak, shifting on your feet awkwardly.
“I’ll walk you,” he offers without a second thought.
You can’t help the way you exhale a little too harshly. Truthfully, you just wanted a short walk on your own to process all of the nights’ events, including the proposal you’d just accepted. And you had already spent more time than you’d like with Chan for one night (although you know you’ll have to spend much more now).
“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think we need to start the whole fake dating thing right now,” you reject bluntly.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, trying to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s just trying to do a nice thing, the right thing, but you have a way of getting under his skin. The next few weeks are surely going to be a challenge. “It’s not for that, Y/N,” he sighs. “It’s late and dark out. Just let me make sure you get home safe, please?”
The roads are lit only by streetlights and the moon shining above, and you shiver from both the chilly air and the thought of making the walk to your dorm alone. You’d expected to be going home with Jaehyun, definitely not on your own in the middle of the night.
“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. “But can we just walk in silence? Not really in the mood to talk anymore.”
You deliberately exclude that you feel like if you keep talking, you’re going to break. You’d kept a relatively strong front – far stronger than you thought you’d be after being cheated on – but it was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was all the adrenaline that kept your emotions contained, because now everything was slowing down and soaking in.
“Sure,” he nods, following closely behind when you turn and begin taking steps forward. Your dorm is ten minutes away, and you walk side by side, arms occasionally brushing against each others. You only make it about two minutes in before he stops, shrugging off his jacket. Then, he holds his hand out, gesturing to it when you stare dumbly.
“Here,” he offers. “You’re freezing.”
There’s no denying that he’s right, but that didn’t mean you were going to wear his jacket. You could survive a few more minutes of the cold, even though your skin was covered with goosebumps that hadn’t gone away since you’d first left Jaehyun at the door. “I’m not wearing your jacket, Chan,” you shove his hand back.
Before you can start walking again, he drapes it around your shoulders, ignoring the glares you send his way.
“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” he groans. “You’re literally shaking, but God forbid you wear my jacket.”
You click your tongue and pull your arms through the sleeves anyway, mumbling a grudging “thank you.” The newfound warmth was a great comfort, and you’re so wrapped up in it you don’t notice the way he steals short glances over at you. His eyes drag down your body, drinking in how his jacket sits on your shoulders like it belongs there. How the sleeves fall past your wrists and the hem lines your thighs, still mostly exposed from your skirt length of choice. How you look good wearing something of his.
And then he curses himself for even thinking it, tearing his eyes away even though he really doesn’t want to. He clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, trying to ground himself, and you look over wordlessly. Any words you were going to say get caught in your throat when you notice how muscular his arms are now that they’re no longer covered.
Still, neither of you speak again, both thinking silent thoughts that you’d never let the other know. Once you arrive at your dorm building, he walks you all the way to your door despite your protests, muttering something about you being stubborn yet again.
“Thank you for walking me home,” you force out, gratitude sounding like exasperation. Your back is pressed against the door, hand wrapped around the handle. All you want is to throw yourself in bed and sob and sleep at this point, but Chan’s presence keeps you in the hallway.
He nods, combing a hand through his hair, wondering when it became so difficult to think of the right words to say to you. “Try not to think about him too much tonight, alright?” he sighs. “I know that’s hard, but just try to get some sleep or something.”
Such gentle advice sounds odd coming from his mouth, and he waits for your sarcastic reply. Counts on it, actually.
It doesn’t come. Instead, you smile at him weakly, telling yourself you simply don’t have the mental capacity to go back and forth with him anymore. Not that you were actually hating him a little less.
“I’ll try,” you assure. “Oh, yeah. Here.”
You pull off his jacket, the one that had begun to feel a little too comfortable, and fold it over your arms towards him.
“Keep it. You can wear it around or whatever,” he suggests indifferently. It would make your fake relationship more believable, but beyond that, it would appeal to that small part of him that enjoyed seeing you in it.
Fuck, what had gotten into him?
“I won’t,” you sass, bringing the jacket back to your chest anyways.
He runs his tongue along his teeth, chuckling. “Of course you won’t. So stubborn.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop being that,” he shoots back.
Seemingly, you’d met your match. Someone who could keep up with your quick retorts, your mouthiness. And it came in the form of a man your ex boyfriend hated, a man you hated. You weren’t sure why that made it all the more exciting for you.
His gaze lingered, a curious glint in his eyes. He was trying to piece you together bit by bit, but you were a more difficult puzzle than most.
“Have a good night, Chan,” you say, finally turning the handle. When the door swings open, he finds himself looking around unintentionally, another opportunity to figure you out. He can see a few plushies on your bed, posters lined on the walls, and framed photos he can’t quite make out. There’s probably some of you and Jaehyun, and he hopes those are long gone by the next time he ends up at your dorm.
You slip inside hastily, and he realizes he’d been too engrossed in examining your room to respond. The door comes to a close in front of him.
“Yeah, you too,” he breathes out when you can’t hear, standing there just a few moments longer.
Once inside, you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps padding away, and when you do, you crack. The pictures of you and Jaehyun sit on your bedside dresser, mocking you, and you slam them down against the wood. You’re partially inclined to throw them against the wall and hope they shatter, but you don’t particularly feel like cleaning up glass shards through tears.
At least you let the teddy bear he gifted you stay on your bed, unharmed. An innocent soul caught in the crossfire, a child of divorce even.
“Fuck Jaehyun, fuck parties, and fuck this whole night,” you curse, though it comes out in choked sobs. And fuck Chan, your brain wants to say, but you bite it back. He had walked you home, given you his jacket…and become your fake boyfriend (soon to be, anyways) within the span of thirty minutes. Still, he was annoying, arrogant, impossible-to-deal-with Chan.
As much as every fiber of your being yearned for the soft comfort of your bed, you trudge to your bathroom and start the shower, making sure to put on your playlist while the water warms. Because if you were going to be heartbroken, you were at least going to be heartbroken while listening to Cigarettes After Sex.
After thirty minutes of crying and scrubbing your body of any traces of Jaehyun, you finally step out and decide to check your phone for the first time since everything had completely unraveled. Apparently getting cheated on was all you needed to reduce your screen time, so maybe that was a positive?
Naturally, there’s a few texts from people you could hardly consider friends but would now act like you were with feigned sympathy, full nosiness. Among them, however, is a text from a number you hadn’t saved.
y/n?
who’s this?
I’d say the guy you hate the most but i think someone else might’ve taken that spot
Chan. It was almost impressive that he managed to sound annoying even through texts.
ha. and how’d you get my number…?
I asked someone for it. you think they’ll take the bait?
they’ll probably just think you’re a freak who goes for recently heartbroken girls.
Nah. that’s not really my type.
oh yeah? what’s your type then?
You watch as the typing bubble pops up and disappears a few moments later, and then nothing. Minutes pass and you assume he’s leaving you on read, and that’s fine. It’s late, anyway, and after such a thorough cleansing and crying session, you’re exhausted.
So it’s no surprise when your phone buzzes again just as you manage to get comfortable in bed.
Just because that’s not my type doesn’t mean i have a type
“Liar,” you mumble to yourself. Whatever, it’s not like you care who or what he’s into. In fact, you’re glad he didn’t answer. Who knows what kind of weird things he’d come up with, if not just to irritate you.
okay, boring
What about you then? what’s your type?
You’re torn between giving him a genuine answer or something along the lines of “basically the antithesis of you.” Then, you realize you can probably do both at once, since you don’t consider Chan to align with any of your dating criteria.
i like someone who’s warm, attentive, and can make me laugh. someone who notices the little things, too
Yeah, definitely not Chan. But then again….
That can’t be right. i mean, you ended up with jaehyun
Also not Jaehyun. That was something you could admit now, but it was different coming from someone else. Like you were the only one who couldn’t see the flaws, the incompatibility. You feel stupid all over again, trying to ignore the way your throat began to tighten once more.
i’m going to sleep.
Hahaha
Aw man. i was having fun.
goodnight, chan.
Goodnight princess
The nickname might’ve been a term of endearment from anyone else, but from Chan, it was a thinly veiled taunt. You save his contact with a very fitting eyeroll emoji just to spite him, finally drifting off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep soon after.
“What an asshole,” Jihyo hisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you know I would have ripped into him.”
With all the craziness of the night, you hadn’t even thought to text any of your friends. It was one of the rare times none of them could make it out with you, and now you were being inundated with questions over lunch.
You wave her off, poking at your plate idly. “It’s fine, I promise,” you sigh.
“Has he texted you today?” Mina asks, glancing down at your phone on the table. You look down too, half-expecting to see another flurry of messages from Jaehyun – he’d already sent about twenty since the morning, all going unanswered.
“Yes,” you groan, unlocking your phone and passing it to the two girls for them to read the same desperate pleas you’d been spammed with. They scroll through, mouths slightly agape. “Should I answer? I’m worried he’s gonna end up showing up at my dorm if I don’t.”
“Here, let me answer,” Jihyo says, and you reach over and snatch the phone out of her hands before she can type. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve whatever insults she’d send his way, but that you worried any response would entice him at this point.
To satisfy her, you finally text him back, telling him to leave you alone and that you would let him know when you were ready to talk. You truly had no idea when that would be, but any more silence from your end would inevitably have him tracking you down on campus.
Then, you remembered the other half of the night, the part where you agreed to fake date the same man your friends had heard you complain about more than once. There was no way you were going to keep that from them, nor would you be able to, but you weren’t even sure how to approach the subject.
Hey, by the way, I’m pretending to date that guy I hate. For the revenge plot of course.
“There’s actually something else that happened last night,” you begin, studying their reactions. They wait expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity. “Chan heard us arguing and we…talked a little.”
“Yeah, well, that sounds like Chan. He basically feeds off of Jaehyun’s misery,” Jihyo chuckles.
Mina catches onto the end of your sentence, the words you had said just a little too quickly and quietly. Intentionally so. “What do you mean you talked? You can’t stand him.”
Now, both girls are staring at you, disbelief etched on their faces. You and Chan had never talked. You insulted, glared, and mocked. Talking? They weren’t even sure you two were capable of holding a conversation without spitting names at each other.
“It’s stupid…” you trail. “He had this idea, and…I don’t know, I guess I just agreed to it because I was so angry and emotional.”
You’re stalling, obviously, and they’re growing more impatient with each delayed sentence.
“He suggested we pretend to be together to get back at Jaehyun.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Jihyo laughs, a full-body laugh that has tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Mina just blinks at you, unamused. “Y/N! You can’t make me laugh like that while I’m eating, you know,” Jihyo scolds, still releasing occasional giggles.
“You’re not joking,” Mina says flatly. “Are you?”
Realization strikes both their faces when you don’t answer, swirling your straw around absentmindedly. Next comes their looks of disapproval.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan. But what did you expect? You had just thrown into question a fact they knew more concretely than grass being green or the sky being blue: you hate Chan. So did your need for revenge trump your hatred, or was your hatred truly never that deep after all? They suspected the latter – they always did, especially when you would go on about how insufferable he was while eyeing him from across a room.
“Like what? Like you’re crazy? Because clearly, you’re crazy,” Jihyo whisper-shouts.
“And with Chan of all people, seriously?” Mina adds.
Okay, neither of them were wrong, but they’d also never been cheated on to understand all the complex thoughts and feelings you’re experiencing right now. And yes, with Chan, because the plan simply wouldn’t work with anyone else (nor would anyone else be stupid enough to go along with it). It just had to be your ex boyfriend’s worst enemy.
“I know it’s crazy and you know I’d never agree to something like this, but – ”
“ – but she just couldn’t resist me,” someone interjects from behind you. Then, he throws himself next to you, leaning back against the table on his elbows.
You aren’t sure how long he’s been there or how much he heard, though you guess not much since one of them definitely would have warned you. Either way, add his stupidly good timing to the list of things that piss you off about him.
He hadn’t texted you in the morning – not that he was supposed to, or that you expected him to – and it almost made you wonder if the whole night was a fever dream. Evidently not, seeing as he was sitting a few inches away with a wide grin plastered on his dumb face.
“Are you stalking me across campus?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He huffs out a hollow laugh. “You wish. You guys sit in the same spot almost every day.”
Is he right? Yes. Does it make sense for him to know that? Not really. Unless he’d been paying more attention to you than you thought, which also didn’t make sense.
“Okay, so you’re not stalking me,” you conclude. “Just watching me.”
“Why does it have to be you? There’s two other lovely ladies here.”
“Ew,” Mina says.
“Don’t be gross,” Jihyo adds.
Now it’s your turn to laugh, though Chan is unamused. You want to poke him further, to find out why he knows the specific time and place your friends typically eat lunch, but you decide to save it for another time. Especially since those two are sitting right across from you and would hang onto every stupid thing he says, pestering you about it later.
Chan spins forward, now facing Jihyo and Mina. “Do you girls mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?”
“I mind,” you scoff, but he ignores you entirely.
The two girls look at each other suspiciously, knowingly. Then, Mina shakes her head, basically sending you off to your demise (another uncomfortable walk with Chan – two in less than twenty-four hours has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment). “Sure,” she shrugs. “We were just finishing up, anyways.”
Were you, though? The conversation hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down until he arrived.
With the approval of your friends, not yours, he clasps his hand around yours and stands up, trying to bring you with him. You can’t move, you can’t function at all with his hand holding your own, and once it hits you, you yank it away from him.
And then you stand anyway, as if your body was betraying you and doing everything your brain said not to.
“I hope you don’t plan on hurting her, too,” Jihyo cautions, an unspoken threat behind her words.
Her intentions are sweet, but you can’t help but feel the need to chide her for making it seem like you two are actually together.
“I’m not going to cheat on her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he jeers, picking up your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, you’re the only fake girlfriend in my life.”
He must think he’s so funny, putting on a show in front of your friends, but you’re not laughing. However, Mina and Jihyo are. Snickering under their breath, actually, and probably going to gush all about this odd interaction after you leave.
The three of you exchange goodbyes, Chan already walking away from the table. You have to take larger strides to catch up to him, and when you do, you reach for your bag, trying to pry it from his arm.
“Is it going to kill you if you let me be nice and carry your stuff?” he huffs, readjusting the strap.
“It might,” you glare, but you can tell he’s not budging, so you resign. You wait for him to speak, to offer an explanation. Instead, he scans your face like he’s looking for something beneath the surface. “Is there a reason you took me from my friends just now?”
“Are you okay?” he asks, answering your question with…a question? So. Annoying.
But it sounds sincere coming from him, unlike how everyone else had asked you since last night. You can tell the difference now between girls who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with Jaehyun, guys who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with you, the complete randoms who asked just to be in the know, and now…this. Someone who genuinely wanted to know if you were okay, nothing more, nothing less, no underlying motives.
“I’m alright,” you shrug, “just numb, I think.”
He swallows hard, then nods. And suddenly the Chan you recognize is back. “Well, you look good for someone who just got cheated on.”
Maybe the compliment would have felt good if he hadn’t tacked on the last part. You had enough reminders throughout the day, so much so that your phone had been on DND for hours. And the reminders came in other forms, too, like your lonely walk to your first class in the morning, the one Jaehyun would always accompany you on. Or the song that came on shuffle that you two had once added to a shared playlist (which you now had sole custody of).
“Do you know how to give an actual compliment?” you snap, already knowing the answer. Chan would probably drop dead before he complimented you.
“So you’d rather I just say you look good?” he questions.
Yes, yes you most certainly would. But there was no way in hell you would tell him that and make him think his words actually mean something to you. You can just picture his smug look of satisfaction already.
So you lie through your teeth.
“No.”
He chews the inside of his cheek, carefully mulling over what he says next. “You do though. Look good, I mean,” he states matter-of-factly. And to your surprise, he doesn’t drop dead afterwards.
What should you say in return? Thank you? No, that implies you’re appreciative, grateful he complimented you, which you aren’t. You look good too? Absolutely not, unless you want to have him use that against you for the foreseeable future. Ew, don’t say those things? You’re not even sure you can feign disgust like that.
You end up not saying anything at all, but your face says a lot. Too much. It heats up and your cheeks dust with red, a far worse response than any of the others you’d contemplated.
“Aw, you’re blushing,” Chan teases, bumping against your shoulder lightly. “Getting all shy on me, where’s that smart mouth?”
“Shut up,” you grumble, and then you realize you’ve been following him blindly for the past minutes. You see that he’s led you to the heart of campus, the vast field of green where couples, friends, and classmates alike all congregate. He heads straight for a bench, pulling you down next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“When’s your next class?”
You don’t answer.
“You took me away from my friends to bring me here?” And then you look around, convincing yourself everyone’s eyes are on you. “People are staring.”
He looks over at you, your bag now acting as a barrier between your bodies, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”
“Yeah, well, newsflash, princess. We’re doing this so they do get the wrong idea,” he reminds, tucking your bag by his side. With the new space, he hooks his arms around your thighs and shifts you towards him, pulling your legs onto the bench and draping them over his lap.
“Chan!” you hiss, trying to move, but he holds you there.
If you thought people were staring before, they must be drilling holes through you now. Realistically, you’re just being dramatic – everyone is too entrenched in their own problems, their own conversations, their own world to really notice you. But you know people will talk, because that’s what people do, especially when it involves two individuals who are quite well-known on campus.
“Relax. The more obvious we make this, the quicker people will see, the quicker Jaehyun will see. And then it can all be over, right?” he explains, and you huff in response. You sit there like that long enough that it becomes comfortable, his fingers tapping idly on your leg while he scrolls on his phone. At the same time, you trace mindless shapes onto the bench, pretending you weren’t melting into him slowly.
No.
Being like this with Chan shouldn’t feel this normal, and you refuse to accept that it does. So, naturally, you have to say something to ruin it. Almost like an innate reflex.
“I should’ve just stepped out in a revenge dress, but nooo, I had to agree to your stupidity,” you mumble. He laughs, and then his face contorts to something more serious.
“You have a revenge dress?”
He says it hopefully, a glimmer of interest in his eyes.
“If I do,” you begin, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “you’ll never get to see it.”
His entire body deflates, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself off of him. You had a class across campus to get to and also needed a serious mental debrief to process the last twenty minutes. He hands over your bag, lifting off the bench as well. “Do you want me to like, walk you to your classes and stuff?”
“Nope,” you decline easily. “Unless you’re willing to walk me to my 8:30 on Tuesdays.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, and he must know it because he scoffs, shaking his head like you’d just said the most egregious thing ever. You laugh and start in the direction of your class, the feeling of his body so close to yours still lingering.
The weekend comes and goes quickly, with you swearing off any more parties for the time being despite Mina and Jihyo’s pleas. They both mention something about alcohol and loud music being the perfect remedy for a break up. But you already only really went to parties to appease your friends (and Jaehyun, previously), who dubbed them an “essential part of the college experience.” Now, you had the perfect excuse not to. Even Chan texts you to ask if you’ll be going out, though he doesn’t have nearly the same level of disappointment as your friends when you say no.
Instead, you spend your days clearing your camera roll of pictures of your cheating ex boyfriend and boxing up all the things of his you no longer wanted to have in your possession. Maybe you could get Chan to burn it all for you (except for the teddy bear, of course).
And then Tuesday morning rolls around and there’s an incessant knocking on your door, which is not only irritating but unusual, given the time. You’re in the middle of getting dressed when you answer, top half still in a tank top, bottom half in jeans.
This person is about to feel all your morning wrath, until you blink a few times and register that it’s Chan of all people.
“What the hell?”
“8:30, right?” he confirms, leaning against the doorframe.
You fold your arms across your chest, resisting his charm as best as you can. “That was a joke,” you groan, opening the door wider. “I’m not done getting ready and it’s gonna look weird if you’re waiting outside.”
He steps inside happily, immediately noticing the now barren space on your dresser. You had gotten rid of the pictures, good. He also recognizes his jacket draped along the back of your chair in a way he knows you’ve worn it, or at least moved it recently. It hangs off a little unevenly, one of the sleeves wrinkled in on itself.
“Yeah, because it’ll look so much better if we come out of your dorm together at eight in the morning,” he chuckles while you walk into the bathroom to change shirts in peace.
“Don’t even think like that,” you shout. Then, you walk out, throwing the tank top at him (which he catches, unfortunately), feeling emboldened. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you.”
The smirk on your face is wiped away immediately when he grabs your wrist as you bend down to reach your bag. “Yeah? Do you know that?” he whispers. His whole demeanor shifts, gaze intense, grip strong but not painful. You attempt to force out a stammered reply, but admittedly, you’re flustered. Your own body is a traitor, clearly.
Thankfully, he releases your wrist and breaks the tension with a devilish laugh. “You’re so easy to fuck with,” he says, sounding completely like his usual irksome self.
Now that you had a glimpse of a different, enticing side of Chan, you craved more and hated yourself for it. After all, you had just said you would never fuck him. And you wouldn’t.
But can’t a girl just think about it?
You grabbed your bag successfully this time and slipped on a pair of shoes, heading out the door with him right behind.
“So why did you do this, exactly?” you question, still fighting off sleep yourself.
“When I commit to something, I go hard,” he explains, though it sounds like a double entendre. “So if we’re going to fake date, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had.”
How wonderful. You thought you were agreeing to get revenge against Jaehyun, not to fuel Chan’s ego. Maybe you’d need another fake boyfriend down the line just to knock him from the top spot.
“Well, good thing we probably won’t need to keep this up for very long. I’ve already had people text me asking what’s going on between us,” you click your tongue. “No Jaehyun though.”
“Poor guy’s probably losing his mind thinking his fuck-up made you realize you had repressed feelings for me all along.”
“Oh, I had feelings for you?”
“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That’s how my story goes, anyways.”
When you make it outside, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you just a little bit closer. And now that you understand there’s no reasoning with him, you let him. It’s too early to argue, anyways, but you still roll your eyes where he can’t see.
“God, you’re insufferable. Can’t even give me some dignity in our fake love story,” you sneer.
“Okay, fine, I had feelings for you,” he relents, and for a second, it sounds like a fact, not a fabrication. “That sound better?”
You hum in approval, satisfied with the change. Whether he would actually follow through with it, you weren’t sure.
“So, are you gonna stay cooped up in your dorm this weekend, or are you going out?” Chan wonders, seemingly forgetting why you didn’t want to go to another party in the first place. They were kind of ruined for you at the moment, especially when you never really enjoyed them to begin with.
“I’m put off of parties for a while,” you wave your hands. “And I need to study, anyway.”
He squeezes your shoulder, displeased with your answer. “C’mon, Y/N, don’t let him ruin your fun,” he urges.
It was too late for that, though; all “fun” had been sucked out the moment you caught your boyfriend sucking face, and you knew he would probably be there, too. Just because he was playing the regretful, devastated ex in your texts didn’t mean he was depriving himself of his favorite pastime. You wouldn’t even be surprised if one of his “please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I miss you so much” texts had come while he was balls-deep in another woman.
“I’ll have plenty of fun in the library, thank you,” you shoot back.
“Oh? In public? Wow, princess, I didn’t know you were into stuff like that,” he grins, and you shove his arm off of you, staring at him in disgust.
“Oh my god, you’re a fucking freak!”
“I’m the freak? You’re the one that’s going to – ”
“Chan. Stop talking.”
“Okay, okay,” he throws his hands up defensively. “But just so you know, I don’t judge, and if you want some company…”
Fuck this smug bastard, and more importantly, fuck the way he was starting to get into your head.
The rest of the walk is relatively normal, at least in the sense there’s no more talk about public sex, and you reach your class promptly at 8:28.
“Well, have a good day,” he says a little awkwardly. “Let me know when you’re planning on grabbing lunch?”
“Unlikely,” you scoff, leaving him open-mouthed as you head inside.
So how you end up with Mina, Jihyo, and Chan at your usual lunch spot, you’re not sure.
“You guys missed it. Then she goes ‘fuck you, Jaehyun!’ and he looked terrified,” Chan laughs, and your friends join in, loving the cheater lashings.
“He did not look terrified,” you correct.
“She’s being modest. Even I felt a little intimidated,” he draws in a sharp breath, “but it was kinda hot, too.”
You’re not sure where that came from, and you kick his foot under the table where Mina and Jihyo can’t see. In return, he places his hand on your thigh, squeezing.
“You guys sure you’re faking this?” Jihyo questions, her chin resting on her hand while her eyes flicker between the two of you. Like she would be able to figure you out if she just looked hard enough. Impossible, considering you couldn’t even figure out what was going on at this point. He was still annoying, painfully so, but he was also alluring, and the heat between your legs was starting to do most of the thinking.
“Yes,” you and Chan say simultaneously, almost rehearsed.
“Right,” Mina nods, drawing out the word. “As long as you believe that.”
His hand moves now, rubbing along your thigh softly, and you have to grit your teeth to not snap at him. “I do believe it, because it’s true,” you say harshly (but not convincingly). “I’d rather drink a jean jacket through a fucking straw than actually date him.”
Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his wandering hand; in fact, it only pushes him further, now sliding lower until his fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh. You shift awkwardly, keeping your eyes locked on your friends. You wouldn’t let him see that he was undoing you.
“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but a jean jacket through a straw is insane,” he smirks, finding enjoyment in your fidgeting.
“Then I guess it does a good job of conveying how much I can’t stand you.”
This time, you do snap your head towards him, eyes shooting daggers into him. They gave a silent warning, a threat he didn’t quite think you truly meant. After all, your body had a different message with the way your thighs clenched and shoulders stiffened.
“So sweet, isn’t she?” Chan smiles sarcastically, drawing his hand back. And you’re grateful – at least, that’s what you tell yourself, ignoring the small voice that said you wanted more. He reads something on his phone before typing quickly and rising from his seat.
“Anyway, thanks for the invite Y/N, but Minho’s locked himself out of the apartment, so I’ve gotta swing by before class,” he sighs dramatically.
“I absolutely didn’t invite you.”
“Sure you didn’t,” he winks, already gone before you can argue.
Once he’s out of earshot, Jihyo groans, covering her face with her hands. “God, I think if I’m subjected to that level of sexual tension again, I’ll actually pass away,” she huffs, muffled.
Bad time to take a sip of your drink.
“Sexual tension?!” you repeat, nearly choking, completely stunned by her words.
“We weren’t sure of it when you were with Jaehyun, but now it practically radiates through the air whenever you’re around each other. It’s suffocating,” Mina agrees, only adding to your embarrassment. Your face is heating up quickly, and it makes it hard to deny their accusations.
“Can you just hate-fuck and get it over with? Maybe you’ll find out you actually do get along in some ways,” Jihyo adds, exasperated.
You laugh dryly. “Oh my god, do you guys hear yourselves? I’m not having sex with Chan, that’s disgusting.”
“Well then can you two at least not make lunch feel like the build-up of a porno?”
Needless to say you would be informing him he could not join you and your friends for lunch anymore, lest you get lectured again on your “radiating” sexual tension.
By the time Friday comes, things have quieted. Chan listens when you tell him Mina and Jihyo requested your lunches stay reserved for the three of you (it’s not quite true, but the best excuse you could come up with without mentioning that your friends think you two want to fuck each other). So, you don’t see him much, aside from the couple of times he shows up outside your classes.
His texts, however, are frequent. They’ve developed into something expected, a normal part of your days. You talk about mundane things like grades and annoying lab partners. You talk about personal things like favorite songs and future goals. Each conversation is still filled with sarcastic quips and quick insults, but they don’t hold the same edge they once did. It felt more like comfort – like if you kept up the hatred act, you could protect yourself from what it was becoming.
And at the same time, the texts from Jaehyun had resumed because, although he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he had heard that you and Chan were seen together. On multiple occasions. He had even shown up at your dorm finally (the week of freedom you’d had was far longer than you’d expected), and you had slammed the door in his face, telling him it wasn’t any of his business who you hung out with anymore.
After that encounter, you were grateful for some peace – which was becoming rare in your life – throwing yourself nose-deep in your notebook. With your headphones on and such intense focus, you don’t notice anyone else’s presence.
Until someone makes their presence impossible to ignore.
“Hey, princess,” Chan greets, a cup of coffee in hand. He slips into the seat in front of you, placing the cup down and sliding it over. You have to pull your headphones back to hear him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
He shrugs. “You said you were studying, I thought I would bring you some coffee to help your brain.”
He says it so calmly, and you have to fight against the way your heart swells at the simple act of service. Though really, it wasn’t so simple, because this was Chan showing up to the library unannounced on a Friday night, when he would usually be far away from anything academic. For you.
“Well, thanks, because I feel like my brain has basically disintegrated,” you complain, taking a sip. It was your favorite, too – he must’ve asked Mina or Jihyo for your order. “Did you skip out on the party?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. Kinda just wanted to chill tonight. I thought a library date might be fun,” he muses.
You scoff, watching his lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Date?”
Chan blinks at you like you’ve wounded him, although you know it’s all part of his (perfected) act to get into your head.
“You wouldn’t call it that?” he says, disappointedly, leaning his head against the palm of his hand.
“No, I’d call it me studying for hours and losing my mind and you showing up uninvited.”
He points behind him with his thumb, turning halfway in his seat, an empty threat. “So, should I leave then?” he challenges.
This is probably the part where you should say yes. You should demand it, actually. But he had brought you coffee, liquid gold for your overloaded brain, and the chances of him listening to your request were slim to none regardless.
“It’s fine,” you concede, hoping it sounded indifferent. You even shift your focus back to your laptop to play up the act, writing down “notes” that don’t quite make sense. Chan accepts this, tapping his fingers on the table obnoxiously, purposely so. After a few minutes, he straightens in his chair, leaning forward against the table.
“I must say,” he whispers, “I’m a little disappointed to find you actually studying. You had my hopes up the other day.”
It takes you a moment to recall that conversation, and once you do, the realization spreads across your face in red hues. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” you frown.
And there may have been something seriously wrong with you for enjoying it.
“Maybe. But I think you like it. You were basically writhing when I touched you at lunch.”
Now you know you definitely should have told him to leave. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, in that way that could drive you crazy if you let it (which you weren’t).
“No, I wasn’t,” you argue weakly.
He finds your denial cute, truly, since he remembers your body’s responsiveness so vividly. It was essentially engrained in his mind, spinning it in circles. He could elicit that reaction from just touching your clothed thigh, and it made him feel powerful. And curious.
“Oh, you weren’t?” he chuckles. “So if I come sit next to you now, that’d be fine? And if I touch you like that again, you wouldn’t start to melt under my fingers?”
“I did not melt under your fingers.”
“But you would have,” he says confidently. He drops his voice to a whisper again. “If your friends weren’t there, and I kept going, you would have.”
You’re staring at each other now, wondering who will break first, though his eyes shine with excitement and yours narrow with annoyance. Or rather, desire that you try to disguise as annoyance.
“You think too highly of yourself,” you snort, scribbling gibberish into the margin of your notebook.
He releases a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to think it,” he corrects. “You’ve shown me.”
You snap now, slamming your laptop shut a little too aggressively. Because you refused to allow him to continue talking with so much confidence, like he knew what you were thinking better than you did.
“I’m sorry, did you forget the part where none of this is real? All of your little touches and stupid remarks have nothing to do with what we agreed on.”
But your boldness only encourages him, biting his lip subconsciously. “No, they don’t. That’s just for my enjoyment. Like I said, you’re easy to fuck with.”
“That's why you decided to come see me in the library on a Friday night instead of going out? To ‘fuck with me?’” you say pointedly, to emphasize how unreasonable it sounded.
“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave.”
“I asked a question.”
Chan drags his hand along his face, suddenly far less arrogant. For once, he looked like he was struggling to conjure up a smart response. And he was. But you were refusing to back down, finally having a sense of control.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you glare at him. “Really, I don’t. I just wanted to see you.”
You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t be dumb.”
Because there was no way he meant it. Or maybe you had misheard him entirely. But his whole demeanor had changed, and you no longer recognized the Chan that sat before you without his smugness.
“Right. If I tease you, I’m ‘insufferable,’” he recites, “if I’m honest with you, I’m dumb. Tell me, princess, what can I do then?”
You swallow harshly, trying to ignore what his words entailed. Honest. He said that he wanted to see you and he meant it. The air around you had shifted now, thicker, heavier, falling on your chest in a way that almost made your voice get caught in your throat.
“Are you fucking with me again?” you grimace, waiting for him to laugh in your face. To snap back into the version of him you’re familiar with.
But he doesn’t laugh. “You tell me. Am I?”
“You can’t do that!” you groan, exasperated. “You can’t say these things and then act all cryptic after.”
You cross your arms across your chest, and he relents. “Okay. Yes, I wanted to see you. Is that bad?”
“Yes.”
Yes, it was bad. Very bad, actually. Because you were supposed to hate him, and you thought he hated you. Because none of this was supposed to be real, and once you’d gotten vengeance against your shitty ex boyfriend (however dramatic it may be), things would go on like nothing had ever happened.
But is that what you wanted? It should be. It had to be.
“Huh. I guess I don’t care,” he breathes. “Do you?”
He awaits your answer, though he already knows what it will be. You had become easy for him to read now; he had studied you like you were his favorite subject. The unsolved puzzle he had finally pieced together.
And though you try to force yourself to lie and say yes, you simply cannot. All your resolve has vanished since he made such an unexpected confession, leaving you dazed.
“No,” you mumble, and your breath hitches.
His smirk returns, though it’s different now. Less of an attempt to get under your skin, more of an acknowledgement that one day he’ll get to touch every inch of it.
“Didn’t think so,” he reaches across the table, trailing his fingers along your hand. You snatch it back, ignoring his snickers.
He would be the death of you, you were certain. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking that it may not be such a terrible way to go out.
Neither of you are sure how to proceed after that night in the library, an obvious tension lingering between the two of you. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to address it, but you were growing exhausted with pretending that it had never happened.
It seemed like Chan was perfectly content with that, however. He hadn’t even mentioned it once, continuing to text you and show up outside your dorm and classes like it was all still part of a plan. And maybe it was. Maybe he was a great liar, but that didn’t explain the rift that had settled between you two. If he had lied that night, why could he hardly meet your eyes now?
You didn’t ask, because you feared the answer – both possibilities. Though when you turned to Mina and Jihyo for advice, they were adamant. They were convinced they were right all along, that there was a budding romance beneath the hatred. So, it was quite hard to get any sort of unbiased guidance from them. This was something you’d have to navigate on your own.
And by navigate, you meant continuing to avoid it. Hopefully Chan would crack before you did.
After almost two weeks of letting the unspoken words nearly suffocate you, you had begun to believe you really would have to forget it had ever happened. If he wanted to speak on it, he would. Nevermind that he could say the same thing about you; it was him that had started it, so he had to be the one to acknowledge it. It was only fair.
Your phone rings in the middle of the afternoon, during your thirty minute interval between classes. It’s Chan, which isn’t the surprising part (he had learned your entire schedule by now).
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he says only a few seconds after you pick up.
You roll your eyes, hardly registering his proposal. “A ‘hello’ might be nice.”
“Hi,” he utters. “Let me take you to dinner.”
If you agree too easily, he’ll know you had been waiting for him to say something like this. And with how straightforwardly he had asked (or stated, rather), he clearly expected your agreement. You could make him grovel just a little bit.
“You wanna see me again?” you quip, the most you’d allude to the library incident.
But Chan could match your attitude ten times over, so he has a quick retort. “I just figured if we go to dinner you could post a picture on your story, really commit to the bit,” he explains flatly, and then laughs when you’re silent. “What? You wanted me to say I want to see you?”
“Fuck you.”
“You said you wouldn’t,” he reminds. “Remember?”
If he could see you, he would undoubtedly point out how flustered you were, then follow it up with a dumb joke about how the offer was always open. And you would have to hold back from taking him up on it.
“Really doing a good job of making me want to say yes,” you chide.
“Please let me take you to dinner. I’ve been thinking about our library date, and I wanna take you on a real one.”
You huff loud enough for him to hear over the phone. “That wasn’t a date,” you correct. “And I’m busy tonight.”
A lie, but he didn’t need to know that yet. There’s shuffling on his end, and then his voice comes out sharply.
“Busy with what?”
“That’s really none of your concern,” you can’t help but grin at your own mischief. “But if you must know, I’m seeing someone tonight.”
“Y/N,” he growls, and it’s hot. You try to imagine the look on his face (why couldn’t he have FaceTimed you?), and it makes you weak.
“So, what time are you picking me up?” you ask, voice syrupy sweet despite your antics. Like honey masking poison.
He exhales loudly, and you can hear all the unease release from his body. If he was going to be so wound up about you even potentially seeing someone else, why had he taken so long to address your ever-present tension?
Maybe he was just as confused as you.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “I’ll be there at seven.”
He hangs up before you can hound him about the first half, not even sparing a second to confirm the time. No, you don’t know what you do to him, but it was inevitable that you would find out. And he would make sure that you understood to the fullest extent.
It’s difficult for you to decide on an outfit for dinner with Chan, one, because you’re still tossing with the idea internally and two, because you aren’t sure what’s an “appropriate” amount of dressed-up. If you look too good, he’ll think you’re trying too hard to impress him, and you’ll never hear the end of that.
Though, you had already agreed to going to dinner with him, so you probably wouldn’t hear the end of that, either.
Mina and Jihyo choose an outfit over FaceTime (and so kindly remind you to “at least make him wear a condom”), one that teeters right in the middle of simple and dressy, and you’ve fixed your hair at least a dozen times by the time he’s knocking on your door.
When you open it, he stares at you, and then tears his eyes away to roam all over your body. He draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Wow,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful.”
The compliment comes with no snarky follow-up, and he doesn’t even tease you when you feel your face heating up. He takes your hand and holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you; you would have never taken him for such a gentleman.
He doesn’t tell you which restaurant he’s picked, but the drive isn’t long before you arrive and are seated, his hand finding its way back to yours while you walk through the aisles.
As you sit there scanning the menu, you can’t help but realize you’re at fucking dinner with Bang Christopher Chan. And he’s staring at you like you wouldn’t notice.
“What?” you question, and he drops his head, chuckling.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just can’t believe how much things have changed.”
“You’re still annoying, don’t get it twisted.”
“Yeah, well, you still agreed to get dinner with me,” he shrugs.
He thinks he’s won with that, turning his attention to the menu. But even if he’s right, you aren’t letting him shame you so easily. “You would’ve begged me if I didn’t,” you smirk.
His eyes snap back to yours, the mischievous glint forcing him to fight back the more impure thoughts. “You know, that mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”
“Yeah? By who?”
“Careful, Y/N,” he warns, words coming out through clenched teeth.
You flash him an exaggerated smile, thanking the waitress when she returns with your drinks, and Chan curses himself for being turned on by how quickly you switch from a temptress to the sweetest angel. He stumbles over his words while giving his order, and you giggle softly without even knowing you’re the cause of it.
Considering Chan had brought you to dinner, you felt confident enough to bring up the subject of what the hell was going on between you two. Specifically the Friday night you’d left unaddressed. “So, is it finally time we talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“This,” you motion between the two of you.
He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “We’re having dinner,” he replies coyly.
You figure admonishing him for his feigned ignorance won’t bring you closer to an answer, so instead you push further.
“But why?”
“I told you, you can post it on your story or whatever. I’m sure Jaehyun still stalks your socials.”
You’d seen quite a few random spam names in your story viewers, so you knew it to be true, but you also knew that couldn’t be his reasoning.
“You also told me you wanted to take me on a ‘real date,’” you mention, and he throws his head back against the booth.
“Jesus, Y/N,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just have a nice dinner and worry about the semantics later?”
Obviously, the answer was a resounding no, which he should have expected since he understood your stubbornness better than anyone. “Oh, for you to pretend it never happened and leave me wondering for weeks? Sure thing, Chan,” you sneer.
You probably should have excluded the part where you admitted you’d still been thinking about that night, because he latches onto it and uses it to evade answering any more questions.
“I really get in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he grins.
“Or maybe I get in yours,” you shoot back. “What did you say? Something about ‘I don’t know what I do to you’?”
He rubs his jaw, exhaling through his nose loudly. Because you really didn’t know what you do to him.
“Princess, you don’t get into my head. You’ve never fucking left it.”
Your food is brought over moments later, right on cue, leaving you sitting idly, stunned. Chan pretends not to notice, already moving past his previous admission.
“God, I am starving,” he groans. He takes a bite of his meal, and then blinks at you when you haven’t even slightly shifted. “What’s wrong? You wanna take that picture for your story now?”
If you heard the word “story” one more time, you were convinced you’d actually implode. And you’d take him with you, just to annoy him in the afterlife.
“Don’t do that,” you hiss. “Don’t act clueless.”
“Well sorry for trying to be a believable fake boyfriend.”
Nothing about this felt fake anymore, and when he says it, it feels like a harsh reminder. That vicious awakening from the middle of a good dream, pulled to the surface of reality when you’re in such a deep slumber.
“That’s all you are, right? My fake boyfriend? So why do you say and do all these things that make it feel so real?” you demand.
Your meals are all but forgotten now, and the booths around you are probably getting more of your argument than any of you would like. You swear you can see the lady in the booth to your right staring at you and then leaning over to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Hopefully she’d give her some advice to never get involved with idiotic men like Chan.
He rubs his temples, growing more exhausted by the minute. “I’m trying to figure that out. I came up with a stupid plan, and somewhere along the way the lines got blurred.”
“You blurred them!” you whisper-shout, eyes widening in disbelief.
“You let me,” he says simply, and you can’t deny it. Though he’s still far more culpable for your current situation. “Listen, we can talk about it more on the way home, yeah?”
It’s his cop-out, and you should know this, yet you relent anyway. You aren’t surprised when he refuses to discuss it further in the car, either, and when he tries to put his hand on your thigh, you push it away.
He deserves that, but it still makes him sulk internally. If he couldn’t offer you answers, you wouldn’t offer him any more of yourself. At least, you’d try your best not to (easy to say, harder to do).
When he drops you off, you hardly give him a goodbye, so he knows he’s fucked up. His chest tightens at the thought of not being able to make it right. Of letting you go without telling you everything he’s been thinking for the last month.
He isn’t even sure you’ll give him another chance, but he figures he needs to sort his mind out before he faces you again, for both of your sakes.
The texts slow and then stop altogether, and you don’t see him at all for another week. Maybe you had pushed him enough that he had been scared off (still, he could at least fake break up with you). Though you had never taken Chan for someone who could be scared of anything, especially with his constant arrogance.
“That’s just how men are. They run when shit gets too real,” Jihyo says, fixing her top.
The three of you were currently getting ready in your dorm, because the minute you had texted the groupchat stating that you were desperate for a night out, they were basically busting your door down. And you couldn’t blame them, because you were never the one to initiate, but right now, it seems like the only distraction you have left.
“I think he’s just a little confused,” Mina adds with more eloquence. “I mean, do you even know what you want?”
“Yes,” you grin. “I want to go out, have a good time, and forget about all of this.”
Mina rolls her eyes at your avoidance, and Jihyo clutches her heart dramatically. “My Y/N is so back, I could cry right now.”
You know very well that a party is not the magical cure for all your problems – in fact, it’s the indirect cause of nearly all of them – but your other option was to spend another weekend in your dorm preparing an internal monologue about Chan’s cowardice. So, yes, you were going to a party.
“You know they’re both probably going to be there, right?” Mina advises. Both of the banes of your existence, though for drastically different reasons.
“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I won’t even notice that they’re there”
Between the three of you, there’s not a soul that believes your lie, but nobody questions it.
Though perhaps they should have, because maybe it would have made you reconsider before you ended up in your current situation. Which was searching through a sea of bodies for one particular person, even if you weren’t sure what you would do if you found him.
Mina notices, too, watching as your eyes sweep all along the room while nodding every once in a while, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. You really hadn’t caught a single word she’d said for the past three minutes.
And although there were plenty of people there, you were confident you’d be able to spot Chan out of a crowd. But so far, there was no sign of him, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed.
Unfortunately, however, you had spotted Jaehyun. In the back of the room, looking completely untouched, sipping on a drink with his friends on one side and a girl on the other. But he looked disinterested, not paying her any mind, nodding along indifferently. He looked like you, searching for someone amidst the chaos.
“Y/N!” Mina barks, and you turn to her immediately. “Are you even listening at all?”
“Uh, yeah,” you lie.
She throws her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Really? So what do you think, should I go over there and talk to him?”
She points to the left of you, but there’s at least five guys in the general vicinity she could be referring to. Of course, you’d know who she meant if you hadn’t been so checked out while looking for Chan.
“Um, who?” you ask carefully, and she groans, frustrated. “I’m sorry! I think I need another drink. To clear my head.”
You take off for the kitchen before she can argue, the counters covered in discarded solo cups and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Tempting. Instead, you open the fridge, pulling out one of the remaining unopened cans.
When you turn around, you’re stuck in place, a firm chest blocking you from walking away. You’re about to complain, to remind whoever it is that there’s a thing called personal space, but one look up has the words refusing to come out. It’s Jaehyun, of course.
“Y/N,” he falters, studying your face as if he’d forgotten your features.
Your heart races, not from anything other than the discomfort of confronting someone who you once thought the world of.
“Leave me alone, Jaehyun,” you spit, and he steps back, granting you some space and the freedom to walk away if you so choose. But you don’t, not yet.
He takes note of your stillness, encouraging him to speak again. “I will,” he nods. “But you haven’t given me a chance to explain, and I need you to know how much I regret what I did.”
“Yeah, well, good for you.”
He sighs, and a quiet moment passes between you, one that makes you picture him kissing that girl all over again.
“Are you with him?” he asks, under his breath. You stare at him with feigned confusion, lips pressed in a taut line. This time, he speaks louder, intentionally. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N, please. Are you with Chan?”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t. But I owe you an explanation, and if you’re with Chan…” he trails, and it sends you over the edge. You tell yourself your anger rises up solely because of Jaehyun, but it’s undeniable that half of it comes from all you’d bottled up during the days without Chan around.
“Then what? Then it doesn’t matter? You cheating on me just gets justified because I’m with Chan?” you snap, voice increasing in volume with each word. “Guess what, Jaehyun, your fuck-up is to blame for all of it.”
Even with the thumping music, your voice carries throughout the room, and a few people glance over, intrigued. Someone pushes through the crowd, entering the kitchen right as Jaehyun opens his mouth to argue back.
“Is everything okay over here?”
Both of you look over, though you don’t need to to recognize the voice. It had become your favorite, even when it was teasing you or whispering innuendos just to unnerve you.
“Chan,” you whisper, and he heads straight for you, ignoring Jaehyun’s unwavering glare.
In a few quick steps, he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him like he hadn’t ignored you for a week. “Hey, baby. Are you alright?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Baby. That was a new one. He had called you princess more times than you could count, but it had started as a taunt and never really felt like anything more than that. Baby, however, had your heart pounding and mind racing.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you swallow, finding more interest in the ground now. For a second, you forget all about Jaehyun in front of you, and it reminds you that Chan’s actions are probably directly correlated. After all, the original plan was to get back at Jaehyun, and what better moment than right now? The final act to your months-long play.
“So you two are together,” Jaehyun concludes, frowning.
“Don’t look so upset,” Chan grins wickedly. “I’ll treat her better than you ever could.”
Try not to take his words seriously, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. This is all for show. But as always, he makes them sound real, adding a layer of intensity you can’t ignore.
“You’re not good enough for her.”
You’re about to chime in, to remind him he has no say in what or who is good enough for you, and that it was rich hearing that from him of all people.
“And you were?” Chan laughs humorlessly. “C’mon, baby, let’s get out of here, yeah?”
He squeezes your shoulder, looking down at you, waiting for your agreement. And as you glance between him and Jaehyun, something takes over you entirely. You pull his face towards yours, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. When he closes the final inches, your eyes flutter closed, his lips crashing onto yours.
It’s quick, soft, restrained, and not at all like what you expected (or wanted) kissing Chan to be, but it serves its purpose.
Jaehyun stands there, wordlessly, the most satisfying look of outrage plastered on his face. Chan sees it, too, a small chuckle leaving his parted lips. He’ll probably burn the image in his mind to remember it whenever he needs a pick-me-up.
And while you’re a blend of emotions between the kiss, facing Jaehyun, and Chan’s declaration, you keep yourself together for now, yanking Chan’s hand to lead him away. “Yeah, let’s go.”
You maneuver through bodies, making it to a noticeably more empty section of the house before you finally release his hand. If you’re lucky, he’ll go back to ignoring you, and you won’t have to discuss whatever just unfolded.
Unfortunately, you haven’t had much luck recently.
“Bold move there, baby,” he quips.
There it was again. Only this time, Jaehyun’s not around, so there’s no explaining away the pet name. Does that make it better or worse? You aren’t sure.
“Shut up,” you mumble, “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”
Your night out had been ruined, and you swore you’d be done with parties for good. At least in your dorm you could save yourself from running face to face with anyone who either cheated on you or refused to share their feelings.
“I’ll take you home,” Chan states, not offers.
“I’m not getting in a car with you. You’ve been drinking.”
It was an assumption, but a reasonable one. Though clearly incorrect, because he quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head immediately. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, actually,” he refutes, now pulling his keys out of his pocket and swinging them around his finger.
So much for that excuse.
“Whatever.”
He takes this as your reluctant surrender, now grabbing your hand and leading you to his car which was only a little ways down the street. And despite the kiss, you still had nothing to say to him – or rather, way too much to say to him, and no desire to say it if he wouldn’t talk first. So a thick silence falls between you, leaving you with just the lingering feeling of his lips on yours.
“Quiet today,” he comments, stealing a glance you don’t return. You keep your head pressed against the window, a dull headache already forming from the night’s events and the alcohol.
“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble.
His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I know,” he mutters.
“And I think I hate you again.”
“Well, the ‘again’ gives me some hope,” the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Means I had you on my side for a little, at least.”
“You did. Until you wouldn’t talk to me and ran like a coward,” you insult, watching his shoulders drop and smile fade as fast as it had come. You almost regret saying it. Because all your insults before had been quick, meaningless jabs that he could brush off. This one came with intent, a bitterness that wouldn’t be forgotten seconds later.
“Yeah, I deserve that,” he sighs. “We’ll talk soon, okay? When you’re not tipsy and overwhelmed.”
“I don’t believe you,” you say flatly, still not lifting your head from the glass.
He reaches across the console for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I mean it this time. Because I’ve been going crazy without you. And that kiss just sealed the deal.”
“Please,” you scoff, forced. “It was hardly a kiss.” Hardly. Your minimization of it wasn’t wrong in a literal sense; it was short-lived, lacking the passion you knew you both had within. But regardless, it had completely hijacked your brain, so clearly it wasn’t hardly anything.
“I know. That’s the problem. I need more.”
Now, you turn towards him, trying to decipher his expression. It’s unreadable for once, devoid of that familiar smirk. You want to tell him if he needs more to take it, that he can have everything he wants if he just says the words. But those words don’t come, not tonight, and you close your eyes against the window once more.
Before you leave for your dorm, he reaches for your hand again, pulling it to his lips.
“Soon, I promise.”
You nod, trying to believe him, though you wonder if it would hurt less if you don’t.
You didn’t particularly like loose ends.
That’s why after weeks of dangling a fake relationship in Jaehyun’s face and the culmination of it all at the party the night prior, you decided to confront him fully and at least hear what he had to say before you closed the chapter for good. You didn’t owe that to him, certainly not, but you felt like you owed it to yourself. An explanation for why he did it to quell the thoughts that had never completely gone away. Which he also said he owed you, anyways.
And perhaps this was all amplified by the fact that most of the day had passed and there was no text, no call, no anything from Chan. He had only said “soon,” not “tomorrow,” but still. Some form of acknowledgement would be enough to placate you, but he hadn’t even spared you that.
So, with a final layer of lipgloss, you considered your makeup complete and mentally prepared yourself for the impending doom. You looked irresistible at least, everything Jaehyun could never have again.
But nothing could ever go to plan (once again, luck hadn’t exactly been on your side), so you aren’t shocked when a knock on your door disrupts your evening.
“Hi, princess,” Chan grins when you swing it open. Then, his eyes trail down your body, tugging his lip between his teeth subconsciously. “You look good.”
Well fuck. Why did he have to show up now? A text in advance might have saved you from unintentionally double-booking yourself, or maybe you’re at fault for assuming Chan was ghosting you again today.
“Thanks,” you smile half-heartedly, heading back to your mirror to look yourself over once more. It’s far too awkward to face Chan knowing you’re about to go see your ex, especially when you and Chan had almost established…something. Something real, beyond the pseudo-relationship.
He senses that you’re withholding something, watching you suspiciously. “Going out?” he questions, and you curse under your breath. Bracing for the storm.
“Something like that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His tone is already accusatory and you hadn’t even dropped the bomb yet, so you really had to prepare yourself for his reaction. At best, he would storm out and you could deal with it later, after you had dealt with Jaehyun. At worst, you’d have a full-blown argument in your dorm right before the other inevitable argument you’d have with Jaehyun.
“I’m going over to Jaehyun’s,” you say softly, guilt washing over you when his face drops instantly. But you didn’t need to feel guilty – you were allowed to seek closure, especially when Chan hadn’t yet granted you transparency. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you were making the right choice.
Chan’s blood runs cold, and he waits for you to laugh in his face, to tell him how dumb he looks when he’s angry. Something snarky, something annoying. Something. Anything. He doesn’t care, as long as it means you aren’t currently getting dolled up to go see your cheating fuck of an ex boyfriend.
Instead, you say nothing, shifting on your feet uncomfortably.
“Y/N, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m just hearing him out,” you say flatly. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“No, it’s not a crime, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re looking like that to go ‘hear him out?’”
You look down at yourself, a lacy bodysuit and skirt adorning your body – not to appeal to him, not at all, but to remind him what he had lost. Was it a little melodramatic? Maybe. Were you allowed to be melodramatic when confronting someone who had made you question if you weren’t enough? Definitely.
“Yes! What’s wrong with that?!”
“Everything is wrong with that!”
“Oh my god, Chan, you got what you wanted,” you throw your hands up in frustration, “I’m sure you’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw us kiss last night.”
“You think his face is what I was thinking about after we kissed, Y/N?” he asks incredulously. “I was thinking about you, only you, and how right it felt.”
Was this his confession? It was beginning to feel like it. If only it hadn’t come at such a horrible time and in such a horrible way, maybe you would be happier. Now, the words sucked the air out of your lungs, leaving you speechless and uncertain.
“So fuck what I wanted back then. What I want right now is for you to realize you deserve better than someone who broke your heart and your trust in the worst way possible,” he finishes, holding himself back from pulling you into his arms and screaming that it’s him. He’s the one who will give you everything you deserve; he’ll make it his life’s purpose to do so.
“I’m just hearing him out,” you repeat again, emphatically, though no matter how true it was or how believable you made it sound, Chan refuses to accept it.
“Right,” he scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you two all over each other in the corner of every party again.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already heading for the door, unable to take another second of seeing your face and knowing you won’t be his.
“Hope it works out, Y/N.”
The door rattles as he slams it shut, and the room feels colder, emptier. And not just because of Chan’s physical absence, but because of what it entails. The same man who you hated - and who you swore hated you - had made you feel more seen and valued in not even two months than Jaehyun had in nine. He had put more effort into a fake relationship than Jaehyun had put in a real one. You were letting that go for some semblance of closure from someone who broke you.
Previously, you had tried to convince yourself your feelings had never become real. That of course your heart would beat a little faster when Chan would remember things about you, that of course you would like the way pet names fell from his lips, that of course you couldn’t stop thinking about him in every single way possible, from pure to downright filthy. This all made sense, of course, because he was the hot guy you were faking a relationship with. It had nothing to do with Chan, and everything to do with your body and mind being too receptive of what you’d been deprived of before.
But you simply couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. And that’s why, for once, you knew what you needed to do. You type out another message to Jaehyun, deliberating each word carefully. It would be the last you’d ever give him, at least in this capacity, where he still felt like he had a small chance at getting you back.
actually, i’m not coming over. i thought about it, and nothing you say can make me forget what you did…i didn’t deserve that, jaehyun.
i know what i deserve now.
i hope you learn from this and treat the next girl better.
His texts come in quick succession, frantic pleas and apologies and then the angry ones regarding Chan. You don’t answer him or even give him the solace of knowing you’d read them. Instead, you turn your phone on DND and throw it behind you, hoping it’ll get lost in your bed sheets.
And though you’ve done the right thing, there’s still the unavoidable grief over something that once was. The only person you want comfort from right now is Chan, but you know you should give yourself the space to reflect and process properly. He probably wants some time away from you, anyways.
So you don’t call or text him. You avoid all the spots you know he frequents. You make yourself as nonexistent to him as possible. And worst of all, he doesn’t even come searching.
There’s no way for you to know how badly he wants to see your name pop up at the top of his screen, or how he waits for you outside the library on days he knows you usually study. You don’t know that he stayed up late that first night, hoping you’d call him. Each notification made his heart jump, and after the eighth one that wasn’t from you, he finally turned his phone off completely.
He didn’t want space, nor time. He wanted you. And beyond that, he wanted you to know you deserved more - that he would give you more. But he can’t fault you for any of this; he can only blame himself for not telling you sooner.
When a week goes by and it’s still silence on your end, he figures you’d forgiven Jaehyun and taken him back. And that’s just something he’d have to live with.
The days pass by slowly, monotonously, and though you argue with Mina and Jihyo that it’s healing, they complain that you’re just wallowing in needless despair (“Girl, get your man,” had been the phrase of the week).
And you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to face him after the way you’d left things. There was a gnawing worry that he wouldn’t answer your calls or texts, so you don’t even try. No, you decide you’ll just have to show up at his apartment, and yes at nine o’clock at night, because you couldn’t put it off any longer. The yearning was almost consuming you.
Though Chan had been to your dorm multiple times, you had never been to his apartment; it was way less convenient to go off-campus where he lived. You had to get Chan’s address from his roommate, Minho, who you had already known from a shared class last semester. And he had also texted you a few times begging you to do something about Chan’s moping, because it was “making his life miserable.”
While it was off-campus, it wasn’t far, and your determination was enough to ward off the apprehension of walking alone at night (though Chan would definitely not be pleased). Still, you kept Jihyo on the phone for the whole fifteen minutes, slight reassurance for both of you.
You can barely bring yourself to knock when you arrive, feeling much less composed now that you were actually there, separated from Chan by only a door and thin walls. Your fist meets the wood without you fully realizing it, and it swings open with ferocity moments later.
“Hi,” you choke out, all of your composure gone when he’s standing before you.
“Y/N?” he asks, blinking in awe to confirm that you’re real. He’d started to accept that your presence in his life was a thing of the past, a treasured memory he’d hold onto. “What are you – Jesus, it’s so dark out. Come on, get inside.”
He reaches for your arm and drags you inside, leading you all the way to his room; Minho’s home, and Chan doesn’t quite want him to hear the moment the girl he’s been losing his mind over ends things for good. Is “end things” even the right term, since there had never been a defined “thing” in the first place?
His room is not much different from any other college student’s room, with books and papers sprawled on the desk and empty energy drink cans filling the trashcan. But it’s his, and that makes your heart swell a little.
“I can’t believe you walked all the way here this late,” he scolds. He gestures for you to take a seat on his bed, and when he sits in his chair across from you, you deflate a little at the distance.
“I had to see you,” you whisper.
He clicks his tongue, trying not to melt at your words. Because to him, you’re with Jaehyun, and there’s probably some other rational explanation for why you’d shown up at his apartment at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what it could be, but it exists, surely. “You know if you had texted me I would’ve been there in minutes,” he asserts.
“Actually, I didn’t know that,” you correct, folding your arms over your chest, “considering the way you stormed out last time we saw each other.” Which may have been justified, but still.
“Can you blame me? You told me you were going to see your ex boyfriend who cheated on you, by the way. And then you didn’t even bother to call or text, so what was I supposed to think?”
“You could’ve called or texted me!”
“I thought you went back to him!”
He stands, chest rising and falling heavily, and he looks so distraught your anger fades. “I didn’t,” you say, softer now. “I didn’t even see him that night. We haven’t even spoken since. Or I guess that’s not totally true, he’s spammed me and I’ve ignored him.”
His eyes soften, and he crosses those few feet to sit beside you, mattress dipping under the added weight. “Why?”
There’s a million ways to answer that question, and you aren’t sure which is the right one. So you go with what flows naturally, not giving it a second thought.
“Because I realized I need more too,” you confess. “No more pretending, no more lies.”
Though your chest feels lighter with the confession, the room feels smaller and your throat tighter because Chan doesn’t speak, or move, you don’t even think he blinks. He doesn’t mean to stare at you like this, but you’ve left him stunned with words he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and he worries if he speaks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.
You start to rise from the bed, fighting back tears of rejection and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come – ”
His hand latches around your wrist, gently yet firmly, and you fall back to the bed with a quiet gasp.
“I haven’t been pretending. Not for a while now,” he breathes, and now you’re the silent one. “You’re right, I was a coward. I’ve wanted you so badly and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along the skin faintly, confirmation that you and this moment are very real. “I should’ve told you everything. How much I think about you, how much I hate it when you’re not here.”
There’s hardly any space between you now, foreheads nearly touching, breaths intertwining.
“How I can’t get that kiss out of my head,” he exhales. “How selfish I feel for wanting more.”
You shake your head. “You’re not selfish,” you whisper, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile.
“I am, because I want you all to myself.”
“Then you have me,” you say simply, as though such a claim wouldn’t change everything. You’ve had me without even knowing.
He can’t hold back anymore – he’s done enough of that over the past month – because those words are his absolute undoing.
“Can I kiss you right this time?” His eyes drop to your lips, awaiting, begging for your permission.
You nod eagerly, and that’s all it takes for him to place his hand along your jaw and draw your face towards his. His lips melt into your own, this time with all the passion you’d both held back before.
And while the kiss starts soft, tender, moving against each other with the carefulness of a blooming love, it quickly plunges into desperate desire. Your fingers thread through his hair, delicately at first, until you tug at the roots and he groans into your mouth.
That sound. That devilish, sinful sound. It causes the heat within your core to grow tenfold, and you kiss him more fervently now, tongues swirling together. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, then drops his head to your neck.
And when your head tilts instinctively, offering him more skin to mark as his, he can’t help but smirk because he loves having this effect on you. He’d realized it that day at lunch, when he couldn’t do anything but skim your thigh under the table. But you were offering, so who was he not to take? He nips at the skin and runs his tongue along each spot afterwards, soothing, claiming.
“Mine,” he mumbles against your neck, and then he kisses his way back up to your lips, mouth hovering over your own.
“Chan,” you rasp, “I want you.”
His lips crash against yours once more, because he can’t help himself when you’ve just said you want him so desperately. “Yeah? You want me, baby?” he asks, breathless.
You shiver when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles along your waist. “Yes,” you sigh, and then louder, “yes, God, I want you.”
He grips your waist, only sheer will keeping him from ripping off your clothes and fucking you right then and there. Because he wants to savor every last moment of this, but some small part of him is going feral – not a devil on his shoulder, but his throbbing cock trying to push through the seams of his boxers. So actually not a small part, because he’s big, you can see the imprint in his sweatpants.
“Are you sure?” he questions. “Because if you want me, that’s it. There’s no more Jaehyun, no more anyone else.”
Was he genuinely asking, or just trying to make you fall apart? You can’t tell, but you’re so needy, you answer regardless.
“I don’t want anyone else.”
His hands hook under your shirt while he guides you onto his lap, and you raise your arms for him to pull it off while you settle against him. He pauses, drinking in the sight – you haven’t even taken your bra off yet – and then his palms find your breasts, massaging through the fabric.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, thumbs flicking over your covered nipples. The moan it elicits is so delicious that he does it again, and then again, cock twitching in his sweatpants.
“You only think that ‘cause I’m shirtless,” you quip, toying with the hem of his like you needed to make things even.
“No,” he says firmly. “Always thought you were the prettiest fucking girl ever.” He reaches behind his neck, yanking his tank top up and over his head, and you swear your breathing stops momentarily. This is what he’d hidden behind t-shirts and hoodies (and that jacket you still hadn’t given back to him), and honestly, how dare he?
But you can’t focus on that a moment longer, because he dips his head down to press his lips against the tops of your breasts hungrily, dragging wet kisses all the way to your sternum. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats, fingers unclasping your bra and tugging the straps down.
His mouth is on you again before it even hits the ground, like he’ll keel over and die if he isn’t tasting you, and right now, he really thinks he might. So, for survival, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, tongue swirling around it, then flicking.
Each careful movement of his tongue causes your breath to hitch, hips rutting against him for any sort of friction, and he moans against you. His hands grip your waist, stilling your movements, and as a punishment – if you could call it that – he bites gently and tugs the sensitive bud between his teeth.
“Chan,” you moan, and when you feel the curl of that signature smirk, you become emboldened. “Who knew your mouth could actually be useful?”
Because although you definitely didn’t hate him now, you could at least reflect on that history, if not just to drive him a little wild. And hopefully he’d fuck you just a little bit harder.
He growls then, his hand sweeping along your side to squeeze your other breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm. And when you least expect it, his hand comes down, slapping your breast with enough force to make you gasp.
“Fuck, I’m gonna miss that smart mouth of yours. Always thought it was so hot the way you’d act like you actually hated me,” he chuckles, now massaging the skin.
“I did hate you,” you rasp. You aren’t even sure if that’s true anymore, because you can’t think. His cock pressing into you has your mind in a frenzy. One where your only thoughts are of having him inside you, stretching you open, filling you up.
When he lifts his head from your breasts, his eyes are dark, lidded, and boring right through you. Daring you to say it again. To lie and see where it gets you.
“You sure?” he whispers, tauntingly. “Because I always saw that look in your eyes.” His fingers dip lower, slipping into your panties, and he laughs when you shudder. “Deep down, you wanted to know all the filthy things I could do to this gorgeous body.”
Maybe you did. It matters little what you wanted back then, because you could only think of what you wanted right now, and his fingers were drifting dangerously close to it. But he was playing with you, not bringing them any further, waiting for your admission.
“You flatter yourself,” you whisper. The wrong answer, clearly, because he pulls his fingers away, gripping your chin now. Forcing you to look at him, because he knows you won’t be able to keep up the act if he’s staring at you so intensely.
“Say it’s not true then,” he orders.
You should be able to say it. You should be able to look him in the eyes and tell him he was once everything you wanted no part of. But he starts peppering open-mouthed kisses along your neck again, unfairly, and your voice betrays you. “It’s not true,” you mumble weakly.
Your fingers fly to his hair and tangle at the strands, but he won’t let you off that easily. Of course not. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers.
“No,” he growls. “Say it like you mean it.”
His commands only add to the ache between your legs, and you accept that you can’t win. Your silence tells him everything, and he releases, hand patting your cheek like he pitied you. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, satisfied.
Your breathing becomes ragged when his hand trails down again, and this time you’re sure that he’ll relent and give you what your body was craving. Or maybe that was just you trying to convince yourself.
“You never hated me. You hated that you knew I was better than your boyfriend,” he smirks, slipping his fingers into your jeans. They drag down, slowly, finally stopping right at your core. “You hated that you wanted to know what it would feel like if I touched you here,” he taunts, rubbing your pussy through the soaked fabric of your panties.
“Shit, you’re this wet for me?” he groans, fingers gliding up and down, pressing harder when they pause at your clit. “I guess I was right, then.”
Any other time you would have been able to throw something sarcastic right back at him, but not now, not when he was teasing you like this. It was the closest he’d gotten to touching you where you so desperately needed him, and your hips buck unwittingly again. “Please, Chan. Need you,” you moan.
“Yeah, I know baby,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you everything I’ve been dreaming about doing to you.”
And then you’re pushed off of him and onto the bed, hitting the sheets with a quiet squeal. The same fingers that had been rubbing your clothed pussy now hurriedly unbutton your jeans, and you lift off the bed slightly to help him drag them down along with your panties.
Once you’re completely naked before him, his movements lull, now taking in every inch of exposed skin.
You feel like you’re drowning under his eyes, because the last person to see you like this had betrayed you, had touched someone that wasn’t you. This was the reality of infidelity – the insecurity, the nagging, cruel insecurity that seeped into places it shouldn’t. Because Chan would never.
And he sees it, too. The way you begin to falter and drift elsewhere. Your head turning against the pillow, refusing to face him.
“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your jaw, pulling your face back towards him. “Where’d you go, baby? Don’t hide from me, please.”
You swallow harshly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not hiding. Just…worried I’m not enough,” you mumble, and the words break him. He hated Jaehyun before, but he despises him now, because he made you – who he considered the most beautiful girl to ever grace the earth, even when you were calling him an idiot – feel less than. And that’s something Chan would spend the rest of his life undoing if he had to.
His thumb strokes your skin now, trying to wipe away the remnants of anyone’s touch that wasn’t his. “No, stop that. You’re more than enough. You’re perfect,” he says.
Your cheeks heat up from the affirmations, and he kisses you to cement them. But it's short, subdued, as he moves further down, lips grazing your neck, your chest, then your navel. He sinks lower, hovering right above your cunt, spreading your legs apart.
“So perfect for me,” he breathes, and you can feel the air hitting against you. “You’re mine now. You won’t have to worry about anyone else ever again.”
The words can barely sink in before his tongue is on you, licking a slow, tantalizing stripe between your folds. It’s so sudden that your hips lift off the bed, and his hands come quick, wrapping around your thigh and pinning you down. He swipes his tongue again, and then he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, devouring what had been kept from him for too long.
“Fuck, Chan, please,” you moan, grabbing at his hair for something to ground you. He groans into you, both from your fingers tugging and the sound of you moaning his name like that.
“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard, tugging, releasing. Then, he swirls his tongue, creating a pattern that has your back arching, threatening to come undone.
You’d thought about this. Lonely nights in your dorm, touching yourself at the thought of how he would look between your legs, about how his tongue would feel against you. But there was no way to anticipate this. He lapped at your pussy like he was starved and you were the only meal he’d get again. He’d like that, truthfully.
Your body is trembling by the time he draws his head back, and the lack of his warm tongue causes you to whine. “Patience, princess,” he coos.
Before you can beg him to touch you again, he spits directly onto your cunt, letting his fingers spread it as if your slick wasn’t enough. And the action is so erotic, so filthy that your thighs clench involuntarily and he has to hold them open.
Two fingers push inside you, and his tongue is back, flicking your clit with urgency. He pumps them languidly, curling them against your g-spot and then pulling back until you’re almost empty. His name leaves your mouth through choked cries and it only drives him further, because he needs you to unravel just like this. His tongue circles your clit in rhythm with his fingers, hitting your sweet spot with each pump, and his pace quickens when he can tell you’re close.
“Chan, please don’t stop!” you pant. “Fuck, I’m so close.”
It’s all too much - his fingers, his tongue, the lewd noises of them bringing you to the edge. “Go on, baby, give it to me,” he coaxes. “Come on my tongue for me, just like that.”
With his permission (which was much more of a plea), you let go, throwing your head back against the pillow. Your whole body comes alive with the intensity of your orgasm, ripping through you in currents while he continues lapping at your pussy lazily. It’s only when he pulls his fingers out for the final time and sucks them clean that you come down, chest heaving.
“My mouth sure is useful, huh?” he teases, laughing when you roll your eyes.
His laughter is cut short when you sit up on your knees and tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, head lowering. Your intentions are clear, but he grips your shoulder, halting your movements.
“No, no, princess, it’s okay,” he huffs, using his last bit of self-restraint. He can’t believe he’s turning down head from you, but right now, being buried inside you is his priority.
You can’t believe it either, blinking up at him sweetly, eyes wide with confusion. “But I wanna return the favor,” you pout.
Jesus, were you an angel from above or a succubus from the depths of hell, he wonders?
“Fuck, I know, baby,” he groans. “But I need to be inside you, right now.”
He sounds so desperate that you feel like you’re in control now, and you reach for his cock through his sweatpants. Wrapping your fingers around it, stroking softly. “You wanna fuck me, Channie?” you purr.
“Yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist – all your control, gone. “You want it too, don’t you baby?” He stands, ridding himself of his sweats and boxers at once. His cock springs free, precum beading on the tip, and he cages you against the bed. “Or can you not take it? Hm? Is one all this pretty pussy can give me?”
The flip switches in you instantly, arms slithering around his neck, yanking him to you. His lips crash onto yours, all teeth and tongue, both of you at your neediest. When your hand slips down to stroke him, thumb spreading precum along his length, he lets out a low guttural sound into your mouth.
“Baby, shit, you’re killing me,” he rasps.
“Can you die inside me, at least?”
That he could do. Happily. Willingly. He reaches over you, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside. And though you shouldn’t, you bring your hand to his wrist, stopping him.
“I’m on the pill, if that helps,” you whisper. “I need to feel you, nothing else.” Your words are sinful but your eyes are so sweet, looking up at him like you’d break if he denied you.
“Fuck, princess, you’re trouble,” he groans, shoving the drawer closed and bringing his hand to your cheek instead. He swipes away a few strands of hair that had fallen, trying to soak in every inch of your perfect face.
“You love it,” you giggle.
“God, yes I do.”
He grasps his cock and fists it a few short times, then guides it along your pussy. Your slick coats his shaft immediately, slow drags making your head spin. And when he slaps the tip against your clit, you know he’s doing it just for that. To drive you crazy, to hear your whines, to see you writhing for it. For him. Would it be appropriate to call him a smug bastard again?
“Stop teasing,” you beg, your voice a strained whisper.
“But you’re so cute like this,” he says. “What’d you say again? ‘Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you?’”
You buck your hips against him, a poor retaliation, and he laughs, positioning himself at your entrance. “Well look at you now, princess.”
He presses into you just the smallest bit, enough for the tip to slip inside, still teasing when all you wanted was for him to plunge inside you and fuck you senseless. That small amount of pressure is gone in an instant, leaving you empty once more.
“Chan,” you whimper. “Please just fuck me, I can’t take it.”
You might cry if he keeps this up, still sensitive from your last orgasm but so desperate for another. And while he wouldn’t mind driving you to that point, his cock is painfully hard. Even he’s at his limit.
“Oh, baby, you’re gonna take it,” he taunts, thrusting forward in one swift motion. He bottoms out and stays there, immobile, reveling in your cunt stretching around him. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”
“Would feel more amazing if you would move,” you hiss, and he actually listens. His hips snap against you with a purpose, slow and deep, watching every inch sink further.
Each thrust reaches that sweet spot that has your back arching and nails digging into him. You can already feel the fire building inside you again, clenching around him in a way that has him wondering if you’re a dream. “Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, hips bucking faster now. Less restraining and savoring, more adhering to his primal urge to fill you up entirely.
“Funny. Jaehyun said the same thing,” you pant. You aren’t sure where the confidence comes from, especially when he’s the one pounding into you; maybe he’s fucking the attitude back into you. But you know it’ll get you into trouble, the good kind of trouble, the kind where Chan wrecks you mercilessly.
And oh, he does. He thrusts wilder, rougher, almost carelessly, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room.
“Yeah? Well he fucking lied, baby,” he growls. “Because you feel that?” His hand presses down on your stomach. “That’s all me. My cock you’re squeezing like a fucking vice.”
His hand slides down, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit. The added sensation brings you closer to the edge, and he’s nearly there as well. “Chan, oh my god,” you moan, nails dragging along his bicep.
“You’re so tight,” he grunts. “Did he ever fuck you right?” He won’t even say the name, because it holds no meaning now. You’re his, and he’ll fuck you enough times that you won’t remember anyone else.
Your walls clench harder around him, his thumb circling relentlessly. “No,” you cry. “Not like you. Not like this.” That answer satisfies him, and he pulls back all the way just to slam into you harder.
“I didn’t think so,” he muses. He leans down, nipping at your neck. “Forget about him. All you need to remember is me and my cock ruining you like this.”
You’d already forgotten, only able to think about how Chan was the one currently fucking into you like he had something to prove. You’re so close to release, strangled cries of his name escaping your lips while your thighs clench around him. “Ah, Chan, I’m gonna come!” you whimper.
“Fuck, me too, baby,” he grunts. “You want me to fill you up? Leave your pussy leaking with my cum?”
His words are your final propulsion, and he emphasizes them with each rut of his hips. Your back arches off the bed, face contorting in pure euphoria, and Chan commits the image to memory. It matters little that he knows he’ll see it many, many more times; he wants to watch you ride every single high until the end of time.
Your orgasm washes over you, setting every inch of your body aflame, and you want more. More of him. All of him. “Yes! Please fill me up, please,” you beg, voice breaking from the overstimulation.
He can’t deny you, doesn’t want to deny you, and he couldn’t anyways. You’ve basically sucked him in, legs keeping him held in place. He thrusts into you one final time, a low groan emitting from someplace deep within, hips jerking erratically as thick, white strings of cum spurt inside of you.
When you’ve milked every last drop from him, he pulls out from your spent heat and falls to the bed dramatically, limbs flopping as if he’s dead. And maybe he is, because that was definitely heaven.
You lay there side by side, chests rising and falling in sync, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation for what just happened. How you ended up like this, his cum dripping from you, your scratches welting along his back, when just months ago you couldn’t stand each other. Supposedly.
Then comes a knock on the door, and you both are struck with the realization that you’d forgotten Minho was home, in another room, hearing everything. Or rather, Chan had forgotten, and you’d never known. Never even considered it.
“Are you two done in there?” he calls from outside. You lift your head and look at Chan with wide eyes, and he shrugs like he’s just as clueless.
“Uh, yeah,” Chan shouts back. You bury yourself under the sheets, expecting the door to swing open. Thankfully, it doesn’t. But the alternative might be worse.
“Y/N, when I asked you for help, I didn’t mean by moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors in my apartment.”
Minho’s footsteps pad away from the door, and you pull back the sheets, horrified. “Was I really that loud?!” you exclaim. He hadn’t said anything about your volume or even tried to quiet you, and you were far too consumed to notice.
“A little…” Chan rubs his neck sheepishly.
You wish you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, because how would you ever face Minho again? And their poor neighbors, no less. The walk of shame was going to be unbearable. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing!” you groan.
He shakes his head vehemently and kisses your forehead, a small reassurance. “No! No, baby, it was so hot,” he coos. And then it hits him. “Wait. Minho asked you for help?”
“I guess you were going crazy without me,” you smirk. This time he groans, and you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me now.”
“Like I’d ever want to,” he whispers.
His lips press into your hair, and you can’t help but sigh against him. Because any remnants of hatred, if they even truly existed, are gone, and you’re left only with the peaceful acceptance that this was a glimpse of countless days to come.
➥ synopsis: mini series of scenarios regarding skz and cock warming
➥ warnings: 18+ content, MDNI | warnings will be put into place at the beginning of each fic [like i always do]
➥ words: 21K
➥ a/n: i hit over 500 followers, which is crazy to me as ive only been writing for 2, coming up to 3 months, so as a thank you, i decided to do a mini series. i wanted to do cock warming for a while, i just didn't know which member to do it for so i decided to do it for all. im a lil nervous about it but i hope you all enjoy! thank you all for the continued love and support! 🖤🥰
⤺ CHAN ᔾᔾ
stress relief — chan is feeling stressed at work, so you pay him a visit to help him 'relax' — words: 2.7k
⤺ MINHO ᔾᔾ
punishment — minho had a very important meeting to attend to. Under strict instructions, you was told to behave – but did you really listen to him? — words: 2.5k
⤺ CHANGBIN ᔾᔾ
we're just friends – changbin confesses something to you - so, you want a taste of him – words: 3.8k
⤺ HYUNJIN ᔾᔾ
tender loving care – still a little bit tender from the night before, Hyunjin is worried about hurting you – so you offer an alternative – words: 2.5k
⤺ JISUNG ᔾᔾ
fright night – you and jisung planned a halloween sleepover with the members. during the movie, things get a little too heated – words: 2.7k
⤺ FELIX ᔾᔾ
good boy – Felix comes home from having a rough day needing you – words: 2.7k
⤺ SEUNGMIN ᔾᔾ
stimulation is key – you and Seungmin are studying together, however, you're struggling to retain any of the information so Seungmin suggests a little bit of 'stimulation' – words: 2.3k
⤺ JEONGIN ᔾᔾ
first time – you and Jeongin try cock warming for the first time – words: 2.2k
disclaimer: majority of my works contains smut. this means they are not suitable for minors! please dni if you are one. All my works are fictional! please dont copy, translate or claim my work as your own.
a stupid bet, a sugar-sweet kitchen, and a boyfriend who wants you way more than he’s supposed to.
*°࿐ notes: as part of emmie and attie's secret stay writing event for the talented, beautiful, amazing @emmiesoverthemoon. i was sooo hyped to see that i had been assigned to you i couldn't wait to post this lol. hope you like it, you deserve the world!!
Hyunjin kisses you like he’s got nowhere else to be.
There’s a slow, unhurried weight to it. The TV is still on in the background, some drama muttering away to itself in soft, unsubtitled chaos, but the sound is blurred under the rush of your own pulse and the little wet catch of his breath every time your mouth moves against his.
You’re folded into the corner of your couch with him, half on, half around him. At some point you’d started the night sitting side by side; now his back is pressed against the armrest and you’re straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, hoodie riding up in the back. One of his hands is anchored at your waist, fingers spread, thumb tracing absent circles into the thin cotton of your t-shirt. The other is splayed between your shoulder blades, holding you steady each time you lean in and kiss him a little deeper.
This is familiar. This is easy. You know the way his mouth moves, the way he always starts soft and then forgets himself. The way he chases you when you pull back to breathe, lips parting, eyes half-open and almost offended that you’d dare put distance between you.
You tilt your head, kiss him again, slower this time. He makes a sound in his throat—quiet, pleased—and his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on your waist. You can feel the tension coil in him, the way his chest expands under your palms, the little hitch when you let your teeth graze his bottom lip before soothing the sting with your tongue.
He tastes faintly like hot chocolate and something minty. You’d shared a mug an hour ago, knees knocked together on the coffee table, laughing at some ridiculous scene on screen. Now the mug is forgotten, abandoned on the coaster.
“Hyun,” you murmur against his mouth, not really meaning anything by it. His name comes out as more exhale than word.
“Mm,” he answers, equally articulate, and drags you a fraction closer.
His hoodie is soft under your hands, but the strip of skin it doesn’t quite cover at his waist is warm, a different texture entirely. Your fingers slip lower, tracing the hem, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. You’ve been here a hundred times—on this couch, on his bed, in the backseat of his car on nights when you’re both too impatient to make it inside. There’s a well-worn path from “this” to “more”, a map your bodies know by heart.
You start to follow it without thinking.
Your hips shift, just a little. Just enough to settle more firmly over him, to close the last bit of space between your stomachs. The movement drags the seam of your leggings against him and you feel, very distinctly, the way his breath stutters. The hand at your back flexes. His fingers press into you like he’s grounding himself on your spine.
You do it again, slow, barely there.
This time the reaction is sharp. His jaw tightens. A sound escapes him, low and almost pained, and for a second you think, triumphantly—got you.
Then he breaks the kiss.
One moment his mouth is moving with yours, hot and open and eager; the next, his lips are gone and his forehead is pressed to your shoulder instead, breath gusting hot through the fabric of your shirt. His hands haven’t moved—he’s still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slide off his lap if he lets go—but the rest of him has gone very, very still.
You blink, dazed, heart thudding. It takes your brain a second to catch up with the fact that he’s not kissing you anymore.
“…Hyunjin?” you say, after a beat.
He groans. Not sexy this time—just a long, miserable sound from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Okay,” he says into your shoulder. “Okay. Wait.”
You freeze. A tiny, cold flicker of something unpleasant touches the back of your neck. You sit back just enough to see his face, hands sliding up to frame his jaw.
“Did I do something?” you ask, searching his expression. “If I hurt you or—”
His eyes fly open. “What? No.” He looks horrified at the very idea. “No, no, you didn’t do anything. You’re—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, muscles working like he’s biting down on the rest. “…too much, actually. That’s the problem.”
You stare at him. He looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever is going on inside his head. His hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips are pink and kiss-bruised, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones. He also looks like he’s in physical pain.
You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended.
“You kissed me first,” you point out, because you’re not above stating the obvious. “On my couch. With zero warning. While I was minding my business.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile and can’t quite manage it. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “That part was extremely stupid of me.”
“Okay, now I’m confused.”
You tilt his face up a little more so he has to meet your eyes. He does, reluctantly, like a school kid being called on in class when he definitely did not do the homework.
“Something happened today,” he says. “At the practice room. With the guys.”
“Is this the setup to a horror story?”
“Honestly?” He scrubs one hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair. “Yes.”
You wait. He watches your mouth for a second too long, then drags his gaze back up with visible effort.
“Promise you won’t laugh?” he tries.
“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.
He winces. “Okay, but hold your laughter internally, at least.”
“No promises.”
He presses his lips together like he’s bracing for impact. “We made a bet.”
Of course they did. You can already feel your eyebrows climbing.
“Go on,” you say slowly. “What kind of bet?”
He hesitates. Looks at the wall over your shoulder. The ceiling. Anywhere but your face. When he finally gets the words out, they’re muttered like he’s ashamed of them.
“No Nut November.”
Silence.
You blink once. Twice. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums. The drama on TV hits a particularly dramatic background music swell that feels almost intentional.
“I’m sorry,” you say at last. “You’re going to have to say that again, because my brain auto-censored it.”
He drags his gaze back to you, eyes wide, lips pushed out in a sulky little pout you’d find adorable if you weren’t so busy processing.
“No Nut November,” he repeats, enunciating each word clearly like he’s in class. “You know. That stupid internet thing? We… monetized it.”
“You—” You clamp your mouth shut, because the laugh is right there, bubbling in your chest. “You and the boys made a No Nut November bet.”
He nods, miserable.
“For money.”
He nods again.
“You voluntarily signed up,” you say slowly, “for thirty days of self-inflicted suffering. While you have a girlfriend. Who lives ten minutes away. Who you routinely climb like a tree the second you walk through the door.”
His shoulders lift in the closest thing to a defensive shrug he can manage with you still on his lap. “When you say it like that it sounds dumb.”
“That’s because it is dumb, Hyunjin.”
“I know,” he says, defeated. “But there’s a cash prize.”
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “How much?”
He tells you the number. It’s not nothing; they clearly took this seriously. You do the math quickly in your head and still can’t restrain your snort.
“Hyun,” you say, softening despite yourself, “you’re already rich. That is, like, two pairs of shoes to you.”
“It’s not about the amount,” he protests. “It’s the principle. And the bragging rights. And—” He pauses, eyes flicking down to your mouth before dragging back up again. “I was going to spend it on you.”
That short-circuits your sarcasm for a second. “…What?”
“If I win,” he says, pushing past his own embarrassment in a rush, “I’m taking you somewhere stupid romantic. Mountains, or a beach, or that resort you sent me with the heated pool and the really fluffy robes. The money we all put in would cover the whole thing. It’d be, like, a victory trip.”
You blink. Your chest does an inconvenient little squeeze.
“You could just… book that now,” you point out, a little more gently. “You don’t need a bet to take me on vacation.”
He smiles, small and stubborn. “Yeah, but it feels different if I earn it. You know? Like, ‘look what I suffered through for us.’”
You stare at him. At his earnest face, his messed-up hair, the way his hands are still sitting so carefully on your hips like you’re made of glass and temptation at the same time.
“You are insane,” you decide, affection curling through the exasperation. “Romantic, but insane.”
“Is that a yes to supporting my insane romantic quest?” he asks, hope creeping into his voice.
You sigh, dramatically, just to watch his mouth twitch.
“Let's recap,” you say. “You and your idiot bandmates shook hands on a no-sex, no-anything deal for the month, and you want me to be, what, your moral support? Your… chastity coach?”
He laughs, finally, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. “Please never call yourself that again.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” His fingers flex, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt, quickly pulling back like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.
“It’s just us,” he adds, more carefully. “The boys. I’m not asking you to… sign a contract or anything.”
“How generous,” you deadpan.
“I’m serious,” he says, and he is. You can hear it—threaded under the teasing, under the mortification. “You don’t have to change anything. I’m the one who signed up for torture.”
“Then why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “do I feel like I’m about to get drafted anyway?”
He hesitates. It’s tiny, but you feel it, the way his hands tighten on your hips for half a second before he makes himself relax.
“Because,” he says slowly, “if you keep doing… that—”
“Doing what?” You blink at him, the picture of innocence. You are still in his lap. Your shirt is still slightly crooked. Your mouth still tingles from his.
His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, like his own body is answering the question for him. His tongue darts out, quick, almost nervous, before he catches himself.
“Existing like this,” he mutters, giving your waist the faintest, helpless squeeze. “Sitting on me. Making those little noises.” His voice dips, embarrassingly earnest. “Looking at me like that.”
You feel your cheeks warm. “I was literally just kissing my boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”
The corner of your mouth twitches. You want to be annoyed on principle—because you were very much enjoying yourself five minutes ago—but the way he’s looking at you makes it hard.
You drop your hands from his jaw, smoothing them instead over his shoulders, down the line of his hoodie. He lets out a slow breath, like your touch isn’t making anything better, but he’s too gone on you to pull away.
“You’re really going to try,” you say.
“I am,” he says. And he means it. For all his dramatics, there’s steel underneath. “I have self-control. I can do this.”
You hum. “With me around?”
He turns his head, meets your gaze. That stubborn spark flares again. “Especially with you around.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bold of you to say when you just almost combusted because I moved my hips an inch.”
His ears go pink. “That was… an adjustment period.”
“Mm.”
“Warm-up,” he insists. “I’ll get used to it.”
“You’ll get used to… not having sex with me,” you say flatly. “For a month.”
A shadow of uncertainty flickers across his face, there and gone. He swallows.
“Well, when you put it like that,” he says faintly.
You feel the tiniest, petty part of you preen at that. Because there it is, laid bare between you: it’s not sex in general he’s missing. It’s sex with you. It’s your laugh in his ear, your fingers in his hair, your teeth on his shoulder.
You drag your thumbs over his cheekbones, smoothing the faint flush you put there. “You know this is going to be harder on you than me, right?”
“How do you figure?” he asks, wary.
“You’re the clingy one,” you say. “You’re the one who turns every movie night into a makeout session. You’re the one who can’t sit next to me without holding something—my hand, my leg, my entire body.”
His mouth curves, despite everything. “You love it.”
“I do,” you admit. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”
“Because I’m competitive,” he says. “And stupid. And I like the idea of saying, ‘I survived No Nut November while dating you.’ It makes me sound strong.”
“Or deranged.”
You sigh, long and theatrical, and for a heartbeat his eyes soften like he thinks you’re actually upset. You’re not. Annoyed, a little. Wound up, definitely. But underneath it there’s a thread of fondness that won’t loosen no matter how hard you tug.
“Fine,” you say at last. “I will… attempt to support your deeply questionable life choices.”
His whole face lights up, relief washing over his features so visibly it almost knocks you back. “Really?”
“Really,” you say. “I will try not to sabotage you. I will not seduce you on purpose. I will, to the best of my ability, refrain from climbing into your lap at every opportunity.”
His gaze flicks down to where you are currently planted. “Starting when?”
You pause. Consider the logistics. Consider the way his hands tighten when you shift even a little, the way his pupils are blown wide already.
“…Tomorrow,” you say.
He laughs, bright and helpless. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately,” he agrees. “Yes.”
You lean in and press a quick, closed-mouth kiss to his lips—just a peck, nothing that could be construed as dangerous, even if he still chases it faintly when you pull back.
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he said the words No Nut November out loud. His hands slide up your back, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, and he pulls you in, just enough to tuck you against his chest.
A few days pass, and for the most part, it’s… fine.
You see him in little pockets of time carved between schedules—quick coffee before practice when he’s already in sweats and a beanie, a rushed goodbye in the lobby when his manager honks from the curb, a FaceTime call with his hair still damp from the shower and his voice soft with sleep. The bet lives in the background of everything, like a bad inside joke. There’s a running tally in the boys’ group chat he shows you once, all ugly emojis and worse nicknames.
You make fun of him every time he mentions it. He rolls his eyes and kisses your forehead. It’s almost easy to forget that there’s a line between you now, even if it’s one he drew himself.
By the time Friday crawls around, you’re exhausted in a way that feels low and heavy. The kind of tired that turns your bones to sand. You spend the evening cleaning in lazy bursts—loading the dishwasher, half-folding laundry, wiping crumbs off the coffee table—and then give up around eleven, flopping onto the couch with a blanket and your phone.
He texts you sometime after that.
HYUNJIN: done late today 🥲
HYUNJIN: leaving now, might be closer to 2
HYUNJIN: don’t wait up if you’re tired okay
You send back a half-assed heart emoji and stubbornly decide you’re going to stay awake anyway.
You don’t.
Sleep sneaks up on you the way it always does—slow eyelids, heavier blinks, the show you were pretending to watch turning into background noise. You curl onto your side, phone slipping from your hand to the cushion, the apartment washed in the soft blue light of the TV. The last thing you remember is thinking you should get up and brush your teeth.
The next thing you’re aware of is the soft metallic click of your front door.
You surface slowly, in layers. The dimness of the room. The quiet shuffle of shoes being toed off. The low, familiar murmur of his voice as he whispers something to himself and drops his bag by the wall.
You don’t move right away. You’re warm and heavy under the blanket, lungs rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Footsteps pad across your floor. A shadow passes between you and the TV.
“Baby?” he says quietly.
You crack an eye open.
Hyunjin stands at the end of the couch, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp and curling around his forehead. There’s a mask hanging from one ear and a plastic bag looped around his wrist. The digital clock on your cable box informs you, unhelpfully, that it’s 2:14 a.m.
“You’re late,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
He smiles, the kind of soft, crooked thing that makes the trip worth it. “Hi to you too.”
He sets the bag down on the coffee table carefully, like it’s precious cargo. Something inside clinks faintly—takeout containers and chopsticks knocking together. The smell hits a second later, warm and savory, oily in the best way.
Your stomach flutters in vague interest, but the rest of you is too tired to respond.
“I brought food,” he says, needlessly. “In case you were hungry.”
“ ‘M not,” you mumble, letting your eyes fall closed again.
He glances at the phone wedged between you and the back cushion, screen dark.
“I made it to…” You blink, brain scrambling for a landmark. “Some guy got slapped. Might’ve been episode one. Might’ve been a commercial.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re adorable.”
You feel the couch dip as he sits down near your feet, the springs sighing under his weight. The rustle of the plastic bag, the little rip as he tears open the knot. The sharp, plasticky snap of chopsticks split apart.
You peel your eyes open again, just enough to see him through your lashes.
He’s turned sideways, one knee up on the couch, container balanced on the coffee table in front of him. The screen light catches on his jaw, on the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck. He looks tired in that way you’ve learned to read—creases at the corners of his eyes, shoulders slumping for the first time all day—but there’s still a fizz of energy under his skin. The schedule high hasn’t completely worn off yet.
“You’re not going to sleep?” you ask.
“I’m starving,” he says around a mouthful of rice. “Also, I have news.”
You shift a little, tugging the blanket up under your chin. “Good news or stupid news?”
“Both,” he says cheerfully. “Han lost.”
That wakes you up more effectively than the smell of food.
“Already?” You blink at him. “It’s been, like… what, five days?”
“Four,” he says. “And it was technically last night, so three and some change.”
You snort. “What happened?”
He grins, eyes lighting up with the kind of glee reserved for watching your friends suffer consequences.
“Apparently he had a dream that started off all innocent and then—” Hyunjin makes an unhelpful, vague hand motion. “—turned into a lot of things very fast. Woke up already… you know.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Already?”
“That’s what he said.” Hyunjin shrugs, then takes another bite.
“So Han’s out,” you say, prodding. “What about you?”
His gaze flicks to you, amused. “I’m great.”
“You’re really going to sit there,” you say, “and claim this is easy?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Hasn’t been that bad so far.”
You study him, skeptical. He looks… okay, actually. Still a little keyed up from work, but not feral. His leg is bouncing a bit where his foot rests on the rug, but that might just be habit. His eyes skitter over you once—messy hair, oversized sleep shirt, blanket burrito—and then obediently return to his food.
“Huh,” you say. “So you weren’t lying about self-control.”
He pretends to preen, shoulders squaring. “Told you. Mind of steel. Also, practice has been insane. I barely have the energy to think about sex.”
You hum. “Must be nice.”
His mouth curves, just enough. “Are you suffering?”
You give him a flat look.
He reaches over with his free hand, fingers searching blindly under the blanket until they find your ankle. His palm is warm where it closes over your skin, thumb rubbing absent circles over the bone. It’s casual, familiar, easy in a way that doesn’t immediately set your nerves on fire.
“Have you…” He trails off, lashes dipping as he looks down at the food again. “You know. Been okay?”
You tilt your head. “You mean, am I climbing the walls without your dick?”
He chokes on a grain of rice.
“Don’t say that while I’m chewing,” he wheezes, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. His grip on your ankle tightens in affronted self-defense. “I could’ve died.”
You smile, lazy and mean. “You walked into that.”
He recovers with a theatrical sigh, shoving another piece of chicken into his mouth like he needs to occupy it with something other than words.
You think about giving him a real answer. About the way your brain keeps replaying little moments from before the bet, about the heat that hums under your skin when he hugs you from behind, about the way you’ve caught yourself staring at his hands more than once this week. But he looks tired and proud of himself in the same breath, so you just shrug.
“It’s been… fine,” you say. “You’re busy. I’m tired. I’ve been mostly falling asleep before my brain has time to be annoying.”
He seems relieved by that, tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction.
“Good,” he says softly. “I didn’t want this to feel like—” He makes a face, searching for the word. “Like I’m withholding something from you.”
“You kind of are,” you say lightly. “But it’s consensual withholding, I guess.”
“Sexy,” he mutters. “Love when my girlfriend talks about things like a lawyer.”
You nudge his calf with your toe. “You’re the one who turned your sex life into a contract.”
“Don’t remind me.”
For a while, the apartment settles into a sleepy kind of quiet. The TV murmurs to itself in the background, all dim colors and looped soundtrack. Hyunjin eats, methodical and unhurried, and you watch him with half-lidded eyes, floating in that strange in-between space where you’re too tired to get up but not tired enough to sink all the way under again.
He looks at home here, in a way that makes your chest ache a little if you think about it too hard. His socks are mismatched—one black, one gray—and his hoodie rides up when he leans forward to grab another piece, exposing a sliver of pale skin at his waist. There’s a small stain on the cuff. His bag is half unzipped by the door, phone charger peeking out.
He catches you staring eventually.
“What?” he asks, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just looking.”
“At my chewing?” he says doubtfully.
“At my boyfriend,” you correct.
The expression that crosses his face is almost comically soft. His shoulders drop, eyes going warm at the edges, mouth curving in that way that says you could ask for the moon and he’d at least google how to get it.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
“You’re already here,” you point out, but you scoot anyway, pushing yourself up and crawling the short distance until you’re within reach.
He abandons the food for the moment, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and lifts the blanket in invitation. You tuck yourself against his side, head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his thigh. He settles an arm around you automatically, palm spreading over your upper arm, thumb tracing slow, soothing lines.
This isn’t new. You’ve done this a hundred times. In other months, on other nights, this is the position that leads to wandering hands, to his mouth finding yours, to something more tangled and breathless and messy.
Tonight, it doesn’t.
You feel the awareness of that hovering between you like a held breath. The way his fingers pause for half a second on your arm before resuming their pattern. The way his chest rises and falls under your cheek, maybe a bit deeper than usual.
“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur, eyes slipping closed again.
He huffs a soft laugh, the sound rumbling against your ribs. “I told you. I can do it.”
“This is only the beginning,” you remind him. “Don’t get cocky.”
You fall quiet after that, lulled by the steady motion of his hand and the low, steady noise of the TV. Sleep creeps up again, heavier this time. Your muscles go slack one by one, your thoughts dissolving into half-dreams. Somewhere above you, Hyunjin’s voice blurs into a comforting hum as he narrates his day.
Eventually, his words start to slow. He finishes the last bites of his food one-handed, sets the empty container back in the bag, and leans forward to tie it closed, careful not to jostle you too much.
When he settles back, you make a small, unconscious sound and burrow closer. His arm tightens around you automatically, his other hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you.”
You could say the same—about him, about this stupid bet, about the next three weeks that are going to test both of you more than either of you realize. But right now, it’s still easy. Right now, it’s just his voice, his warmth, the soft press of his lips against your forehead as the room blurs out.
You let your mind go quiet, let your body sink into his.
For week one, at least, cuddling really is safe.
It’s a Tuesday when you head to the dorm after work, the hallways too bright and too quiet at the same time. Changbin opens the door with a fork in his mouth and a hoodie half on, half off his shoulder.
“Oh,” he says around the fork, then catches himself and pulls it out. “Hey. He’s here—just showering.”
“Hi,” you smile. “Whatchu eating?”
He lifts the plastic container he’s demolishing. “Protein.” Then, because he’s not actually a monster, “There’s more in the fridge if you want. I picked up extra.”
“I’m okay.” You toe your shoes off. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
He waves you down the hall, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Make good choices.”
You snort and leave him to his protein and plausible deniability.
Hyunjin’s room is the same it’s always been—two plants clinging valiantly to a windowsill, a paint-smeared tote hooked over a chair, a candle he probably isn’t supposed to have tucked half-behind a stack of books. You sit on the edge of his bed and listen to the water shut off, the muffled thump of the bathroom door, the soft slap of bare feet down the hall.
He comes in toweling his hair, damp shirt clinging in places you’re trying not to think about. There’s a drop of water clinging to the hollow beneath his ear; you feel it like a physical tug somewhere deep and unhelpful.
“Hey,” he says, and it’s stupid how much better the room feels just because he’s in it. “You got here quick.”
He tosses the towel onto the chair and crosses the room in two long steps, leaning in to press his mouth to your forehead. The kiss is quick, chaste, the kind that shouldn’t do anything to you at all.
It does.
You try to hide it by reaching for the ends of his hair, tugging at damp strands to fluff them. He ducks his head obligingly, that lazy, pleased sound rumbling in his chest.
“Long day?” he asks, and he’s close enough that you can see the damp darkening his lashes, the tired creases at the corners of his eyes.
You shrug, noncommittal. “Fine.”
His mouth tilts. “Liar.”
“I am attempting nonchalance,” you say primly.
“Terrible attempt,” he says, even softer. His hands slide to your hips like they belong there—because they do—and then stop, a tiny check you feel more than see. He studies your face for a beat, all the easy teasing peeling back. “Talk to me.”
You look away. The words feel ridiculous even inside your head. You’re fine. You are. It’s just that every time he looks like this—clean and warm and a little undone by the shower—your body sings a single, unhelpful note and refuses to shut up about it.
“I’m… tired,” you say, which is true. “And you look like that.”
“Like what?” He follows your gaze down the curve of his own throat, as if he might discover the problem alone. When he looks back up, he’s smiling, but it’s gentler now. “Come here.”
You go easily, because you always do. He pulls you up the bed and sits back against the wall, legs long and relaxed, and you settle sideways into his lap, your shoulder to his chest, your knees tucked beside his ribs. His hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt without fanfare, palm spreading warm over your stomach, the other arm bracketed around you, a cage you have never wanted to run from.
For a minute, you let the room be small and quiet. You listen to the city mutter through the window and the dorm’s ancient heating rattle like a ghost down the vent. His thumb moves in slow circles at your waist. Your breath takes its cues from his.
It would be easy to leave it here. It would be smart.
You shift.
It’s small. An inch, maybe less. A recalibration that has you closer to the heat of him, to the clean smell of his skin, to the damp line of his jaw when you tip your head back to look. He doesn’t move when you do it. He doesn’t even breathe, for one held second. You feel the restraint in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his hand flattens against your stomach like he can anchor both of you to something that isn’t this.
“Baby,” he says, and it’s not a warning so much as an acknowledgment. A you’re not wrong, I feel it too.
You swallow. “I know.”
His eyes skate over your face. Whatever he sees there makes a decision for him. He exhales through his nose and dips his head, pressing his mouth to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. Kisses that are careful, not cold. Kisses that say I want to and I promised myself I wouldn’t in the same breath.
You catch his jaw with your fingers when he tries to duck away from your mouth again. He goes still under your hand, eyes flicking to your lips.
“Hyun,” you say, and you hate how rough it sounds. “I’m really… I’m not trying to make this harder, but—”
“I know,” he says immediately, like he’d been waiting to hear that. He cups your face, thumb skating under your eye. Up close like this he looks a little wrecked himself, damp hair curling, mouth soft and pink, pupils a little too big. “I can tell.”
Your cheeks heat, humiliation and relief tangling together. “It’s stupid.”
His mouth flickers like he wants to argue with that on principle. He doesn’t. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, voice dropped low.
“Do you want me to help?”
You go silent. The question hangs between you, honest and easy. He’s not teasing. He isn’t trying to talk you out of anything. He’s offering.
“Help… how,” you ask, and your voice breaks exactly where his eyes do.
“However you want,” he says, like it’s simple. His hand leaves your stomach and slides to your hip, not pulling, just there. “I can take care of you. Just you.” His mouth quirks, apology-soft. “Let me.”
The worst part is how fast your body answers for you. Heat rushes bright and immediate under your skin; your breath catches and you feel yourself lean toward him on a string you didn’t know you’d given him.
“That’s not—” You stop. Try again. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s not about fair,” he says, and he means it. “It’s about you.”
You search his face for the crack in the offer, the place where it costs him too much. All you find is want and patience layered over it like gauze. He’s careful even in this—like his own restraint is something he can set down for a second if it means you get to breathe again.
Your hands have found the back of his neck without permission. Your thumb strokes a damp curl flat, the kind of thoughtless, tender touch that should make this easier and doesn’t at all.
“What if you—” You stop, because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate. Your eyes flick to his mouth and back. “What if this makes it worse for you?”
His smile is crooked and honest. “It already is worse for me.” He tips his forehead to yours. “But I can live with worse if it means you sleep.”
You press your lips together, a small, involuntary pout he sees and promptly chases with a soft kiss, like he can kiss the indecision off your mouth.
He murmurs against your lower lip, “Say the word.”
The room narrows to his breath and your pulse. To the way his fingers curl at your hip, not urging, just steady. To the warm, damp smell of his t-shirt and the faint thread of citrus in his hair. You could nod. You could fall into the shape of the offer and let him handle it, and you know with a weird, fierce certainty that he’d be devastatingly good and even more devastatingly gentle.
You want it.
You want him.
And yet there’s a stab of stubbornness you didn’t know you had, something that says later, not like this, not when he’s already walking a tightrope for you both.
“I…” You exhale and press your face to his throat, buying a second against his skin. Your voice comes small. “If you start, I won’t let you stop.”
He swallows, the motion brushing your cheek. “You don’t have to.”
“Hyun.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s a soft capitulation, not to the bet but to you.
“Okay,” he says, and kisses your hair. “Okay. Then let me do something else.”
Before you can ask, he shifts, easing you down the bed. He lies on his side and tucks you in against him, your back to his chest, his arm heavy over your waist. His knee slides between yours, not indecent, just there, a solid line to lean into. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw, the place below your ear that makes your whole nervous system light up, and he kisses you slowly, like he has time to spare, like he can bleed the ache out by degrees.
You melt, traitorously. His hand spans your lower belly, the heel of his palm applying the gentlest pressure in time with your breath, a rhythm that asks and asks until your body answers by unclenching.
“Better?” he whispers after a while, voice gone husky with concentration.
You nod, the movement dragging his mouth along your skin. “A little.”
“More?” he asks, and even now it’s a question.
You find his hand where it rests at your waist and bring it lower. No coyness—your fingers slot between his and you guide, decisive, until his knuckles meet the inside of your thigh. His breath catches against your jaw.
“Here,” you say, already breathless. “Like this.”
He doesn’t make you show him twice. His palm curves over the heat of you through your leggings, a careful pressure that has your hips tilting before you can stop them. He follows the shift without comment, mouth moving at your neck in slow, coaxing kisses while his fingers learn the shape of what you need—broad strokes, then tighter, then right where you’re aching.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “I want to get it right.”
“You are,” you manage, and then you’re not managing at all because he is, the heel of his hand catching exactly where the ache peaks. You exhale a small, helpless sound into his shoulder. He swears under his breath, almost reverent.
There’s the faint, traitorous scrape of the bedframe when you roll your hips into his hand. He stills for a heartbeat, listening; from the living room comes the distant murmur of Changbin’s TV and a laugh that might be at a meme or a dog video or nothing at all.
Hyunjin’s mouth ghosts your ear. “Quiet for me, yeah?”
You nod too fast, the motion tugging a gasp from your chest when his fingers press a fraction harder. It’s not enough; it’s too much; it’s perfect. You grab his wrist and push—just a little more, just there—and he groans like the simple trust of it does him in.
“Okay,” he says, voice wrecked-soft. “Okay, baby.”
He works you through the fabric until it’s damp, heat pulling heat, your thighs clenching around his hand like you could keep it there forever. You can’t think in full sentences; your world narrows to the steady drag of his palm and the way his lips keep finding you—temple, jaw, the corner of your mouth when you turn blindly toward him. Every time he feels you shiver he makes one of those low, encouraging sounds that never fails to set you off.
It still isn’t enough.
You catch his wrist again, firmer, and tug his hand under the waistband. He goes without protest, breath stuttering as his fingers slip against you, nothing in the way now but your own restraint. The first touch is shockingly gentle; the second has intent behind it. He finds slick heat and then slides lower, tasting the whine you can’t swallow.
“Like that?” he asks, barely there.
“Mm—” Your head tips back against his shoulder. “Yeah. More.”
He gives you more. Two fingers, careful at first, easing you open, his palm angling so his thumb can circle right where you want it. The sound you make is embarrassingly soft and he swallows it with a kiss to your cheek, then your mouth, then back to the place below your ear that makes your knees go loose even though you’re lying down.
You don’t realize you’re grinding until he breathes a shaky laugh at your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Use me.”
You do. You rock into his hand, chasing what he’s giving you, and something in him slips its leash.
“God—” His fingers tighten on your hip like he’s steadying himself, then he’s moving you with him, guiding the grind, setting the rhythm he wants from you—long, deliberate strokes that land you right over his thumb every single time. His breath saws against your neck, hot and uneven. “Look at you. Fuck.”
You try to be quiet. You try. But the way he angles his wrist, the way his fingers curl just right and stay right, drags a sound out of you that’s too loud for the thin dorm walls.
He clamps a palm over your mouth before it’s even fully out, reflex-quick. “Shhh,” he breathes, voice frayed. “Baby—quiet. Please.”
It should be mortifying; it only makes your pulse ricochet. You nod against his hand, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewards you by pressing in deeper, circling faster, like he’s losing the map and loving it.
“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s it, that’s it.” He’s gone pink high on his cheeks; his pupils are huge, swallowing the brown. He can’t keep still—hips twitching once behind you before he forces them flat to the mattress with a strangled noise. His jaw flexes like it hurts. “You feel so—” He cuts himself off on a quiet groan when you clench around his fingers. “Please. Do that again.”
You do, because you’re helpless for him, because his hand is relentless and every soft, wrecked little sound he makes sinks straight to where you’re aching. He slips a third finger in only when you drag his wrist down and ask for it with a needy roll of your hips; he swears into your shoulder and gives it to you, patient for exactly two strokes before his control frays again and he’s driving you through it, thumb never leaving the spot that’s turning you inside out.
Another moan swells; his palm seals your mouth a second time, more desperate now, his fingers splayed across your cheek. “I know,” he whispers, nearly panting. “I know, I know—be good for me. I’ve got you.”
You are far past good. Your nails bite at his forearm; the bed gives a perilous creak. He presses closer to muffle it, chest flush to your back, forearm banded across your waist to hold you right where he wants you. You can feel the tremor in him, the fine shake running through his shoulders. You can feel him hard and ignored, pressed hot against the curve of you, and the quiet, broken sound he lets out when you grind back by mistake is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.
“Don’t—” His warning shatters into a laugh that’s barely a breath. “Don’t do that to me, I’m hanging on by a thread.”
You’re not sure if you apologize or whine; it dies under his hand either way. He kisses the hinge of your jaw like thanks, like apology, like please. Then he sets himself to finishing you—no mercy, no pause, just intent, the pads of his fingers dragging the way he knows drives you crazy, his thumb ruthless and steady.
The wave hits fast. You try to tell him—his name, the word close, anything—but all that comes out against his palm is a panicked sound, so you grab his wrist and squeeze, nails digging in.
“I know,” he says, strangled. He buries his mouth against your shoulder, breath scorching. “Let go. Let me have it.”
Two more circles and you break—silent first, too much for sound—and then a gasp rips free anyway, high and wild. His hand holds firm over your mouth, muffling it; his other arm pins you tight while you shake through it, fingers never letting up until the aftershocks start to make you twitch away.
“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, easing you down, slowing, softening. His palm leaves your mouth to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth while you find air again. “Good girl. So good.”
You float for a moment, boneless, every muscle unspooling at once. He slips his fingers free with ridiculous care, tugs your waistband gently back into place, then brings his hand up and licks his fingers clean.
You turn in his arms and see it: how ruined he is. Hair a damp mess, lips swollen, pupils blown, a flush licking down his throat. He’s breathing like he just ran stairs. He’s buzzing—the kind of taut, vibrating restraint that makes your post-release brain go soft with something feral and fond.
“Hyunjin,” you whisper, reaching for him.
He catches your hand and threads your fingers together to stop you from going anywhere dangerous, laugh cracking on the edges. “Don’t. Don’t touch me or I'm going to nut in my fucking pants."
He’s laughing when he says it, but it’s wrecked—too high at the edges, too close to something he doesn’t trust.
He scrubs a hand over his face, drags in air, then blows it out slow like he’s extinguishing candles. “I need a… God. I need a colder shower.”
“You literally just—”
“A colder one,” he bites, already peeling himself away from you like you’re a live wire. He kisses your forehead in apology and swings his legs off the bed. “Two minutes.”
You watch the way he stands—careful, like any wrong move might undo whatever thread he’s got left—and you’re a little in love with him for choosing distance when everything in him is screaming closer.
You let him go, because you love him, because you’re sated and soft and this is the part where you be kind. He crosses the room in long strides, hooks his thumbs in his sweats, and—because modesty has never been a thing with you two—shucks them and his briefs in one smooth, catastrophic motion. Stark naked, he’s all flushed skin and long lines and want he’s trying to pretend isn’t chewing through him. You watch his back flex as he grabs a towel and a spare tee from the chair, then he’s out the door with a muttered “two minutes” like a promise to both of you.
Week three arrives with sugar in the air and Hyunjin starfished on your kitchen rug like a defeated prince.
You’re at the counter with a mixing bowl, scraping browned butter down the sides while the oven hums to temp. He’s in sweats and a wrecked ponytail, one sock on and one sock nowhere to be found, forearm over his eyes. Every so often his ankle bumps your cabinet. Thunk. A soft hum. Thunk.
“You’re going to dent my cupboards,” you say, dropping vanilla into the mixing bowl a slow, amber ribbon.
“Mm,” he answers, noncommittal.
“You’re staying for the christmas party, right? Next month? I’m not doing sugar-cookie assembly line by myself.”
“Mm.”
“I’m thinking two kinds. Classic trees and those little star sandwiches with the jam. You’ll be on sprinkle duty.”
A quiet smile in his voice. “Mmhm.”
You flick a glance down. “This is a conversation, you know.”
He slides the forearm off his eyes. Blinks hazily at you from the floor. “I’m participating,” he says, deadpan, then ruins it by softening, gaze raking you slow like he forgot he’s supposed to be alive and not a ghost. “You’re pretty.”
Your first instinct is to preen. Your second is to throw flour at him. You settle for a smug tilt of your head. “You say that now. Wait till I’m covered in powdered sugar.”
He huffs a laugh that buzzes the rug. “Can’t wait.”
You hold up the whisk. “Do we like gooey or crisp?”
“Mm. Gooey.”
“Okay, king of strong opinions.”
He smiles up at the ceiling. Another thunk. Another hum.
You pour the butter-sugar mix into the flour. Fold. Breathe. The apartment feels small and warm and very, very you—his hoodie drying on a chair back, a reusable tote on the knob, your playlist low on your phone. For a minute, he’s content to be a warm obstacle on your floor, soaking you up.
He speaks without moving his arm. Almost conversational. “Hypothetical.”
You glance down, fighting a smile. “Hit me.”
“What if,” he says, voice too even, “I put the tip in.”
Your wrist doesn’t even pause. “Tip of what?”
Silence.
You scrape around the edge of the bowl, utterly absorbed. “Like—piping tips? For the cookies? I told you, we don’t need the fancy snowflake nozzles, they’re so annoying to clean—”
“Baby,” he says, and his forearm finally slides off his face.
You still don’t look. “Or did you mean baking tips? Because, sure, here’s one: don’t eat all the dough before it hits the tray—”
“Babe.”
You sigh like he’s interrupting something deeply important and set the whisk down. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Hyunjin. I’m not a mind reader.”
He’s already looking at you like you are, eyes dark in a way that doesn’t match the lazy sprawl of his body. He pushes himself up on his elbows, ponytail sliding over his shoulder, gaze dragging from your bare legs to the hem of your shorts and back up.
“The tip,” he says slowly, like he’s testing every word before he lets it out. “Of my dick. In you.” A beat. “Hypothetically.”
You blink once. Twice. “Ohhh.” You click your tongue. “That tip.”
His mouth falls open. “You are insufferable.
He’s up before you can reply, a shadow at your back, hands sliding under your elbows to the counter so you’re bracketed, caged, warmed. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw like muscle memory.
His mouth opens against your pulse on a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. He sets his hands on your hips and moves you—one step forward, one to the side—until your thighs kiss the counter and the mixing bowl wobbles. He steadies it with one hand without taking his eyes off you, then slides it out of reach, batter-slick whisk clinking in the sink.
“Hands on the counter,” he says.
You look over your shoulder, innocent. “Why?”
“So I don’t break your stupid mixing bowl.”
“Responsible,” you say, even while your fingers are already spreading on the laminate, flour dust ghosting your skin.
He crowds in, chest to your back, palms skimming down your hips like he’s fitting you to a blueprint only he can see. The oven clicks; the air smells like butter and sugar and the cold outside dying in the radiator. He bends to your neck. Kisses. Bites once, soft. Breathes out like he’s been underwater for days.
His voice drops an octave you feel in your knees. “I want to get off on you,” he says, every word deliberate. “I want to grind against you raw on this counter until I forget my own name, and then I want to fuck you.”
Heat hits you so fast you have to grab the edge of the counter to steady yourself. Your laugh comes out thin. “Are we still speaking in hypotheticals?”
“Hypothetically,” he agrees, and then he’s doing it—tilting your hips, slotting his thigh between yours, the rough press of his sweats catching the thin cotton of your sleep shorts as he drags you back along him. The first grind is exploratory; the second has purpose. He uses your waist like a handle, sets the tempo he wants, long, mean drags that line his length over the place you’re already burning.
You try to be smug, to keep the pretense, but your breath betrays you, breaks jagged on the exhale. Flour dust jumps off the counter with each push, lighting the air like static. His ponytail has half-escaped; a damp strand falls into the hollow of your shoulder as he noses there, breathing you like oxygen.
“Hyun,” you manage, warning, plea, everything.
“Yeah,” he answers, a torn sound. His hands are big and careless and perfect where they grip, thumbs digging into soft skin so he can pull you back harder. “Yeah, baby. Take it.”
He’s not gentle. He’s not cruel. He’s something feral in between, a man who’s been good for weeks and finally lets himself be selfish. He steers you so your belly meets the counter edge; the leverage is obscene. You arch, helpless, and he goes a little unhinged at the sight—hips stuttering, breath breaking hot against your neck.
“God—look at you.” He groans into your skin, the sound strangled. “This is what you do to me. You hear me? This. Every night.”
You push back, meeting the roll of him with greedy, short little rocks that make the cabinet rattle. He laughs—wrecked, disbelieving—and tightens his grip until all you can do is let him use your body to chase what he needs. Your thighs tremble; slick heat soaks through cotton; the room narrows to the rhythm, to the knock of the cupboard, to his voice unraveling in your ear.
A moan swells before you can catch it. He grins into you neck. “Thats it. Let me hear you,” he whispers, ragged, like prayer. “Be good for me.”
You are good. You are ruined. Your lashes stick from the heat. He ruts through the damp mess he’s made of you, the drag so precise you see stars at the edges. He says your name like he can anchor himself in it.
The oven beeps ready; neither of you moves. He presses you deeper to the counter, one hand flat beside yours, the other spread over your belly to feel every desperate twitch while he works you. His pace goes tight and deliberate—grind, drag, pause; grind, drag, pause—until you’re slipping, chasing, whining.
He breaks first.
“Fuck the bet,” he says, sudden, hoarse. “I’m done. I’m done.” His mouth finds your ear and his voice is all teeth. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” you gasp into his palm, wrecked.
He’s already there—sweats shoved low enough to free him, the quick-rough sound of cotton surrendering. Your shorts follow with a jerk, no ceremony, just the urgent rustle of fabric and the brief, cool kiss of air on your skin before he’s there, hot and heavy and real against you.
“Spread,” he says, and his knee knocks yours wider, his hand guiding, uncaring of flour handprints and sugar smudges. He drags the head of himself over you once, twice, slicking himself in what you’ve already given, and then does it again—slower, meaner—like he’s trying to memorize the way you go soft against the counter when he catches your clit on the upstroke.
“Hyun—” It’s barely a word.
“I know.” His voice is dark honey, ruined at the edges. He slots himself between your thighs and ruts there, bare skin to bare skin now, the length of him sliding through the mess he’s made of you. No thrust yet—just long, grinding passes that smear heat everywhere and light up each nerve he touches. His grip on your hips is possessive, fingers denting flour into your skin. “Let me use you,” he breathes, almost reverent. “Let me—”
He guides your pelvis so you ride him back, makes you take his rhythm: drag, press, catch, shiver. Your belly bumps the counter each time; a dusting of sugar lifts into the air like static. You’re wet enough that it’s obscene, the glide slick and noisy in the warm quiet of your kitchen. His ponytail snags in the nape of your neck; he noses under it, inhales like he’s starving.
“Look at this,” he mutters, half-crazed. “Look at what you do to me—feel what you do to me.” He rocks up so the head grinds just under your clit and you jolt, a strangled sound tearing loose. “That’s it. Be sweet.”
You are, because you can’t be anything else like this. Your thighs clamp; you chase every pass without pride, cheeks hot. He’s shaking behind you—actually shaking—hips stuttering once when the underside of him slips just right against you.
“Fuck—” He laughs, hoarse and unbelieving. “I could cum like this. I could—” He cuts himself off with a hiss, throttling the thought. “No. Not before I—” His teeth find the hinge of your jaw, a quick bite that lands more like a kiss. “I need in.”
You nod so hard your forehead taps the cabinet. He shifts his hand from your mouth to your jaw, turning you just enough to catch your profile with his lips, a messy brush that says sorry and thank you and mine all at once.
“Tell me,” he says, words breaking, the tip riding your clit on purpose now, cruel. “Say it.”
“Inside,” you gasp, shameless. “Hyun, inside—please.”
“Yeah?” He lines up, the head nudging your entrance, pushing and retreating in tiny, maddening presses that make you see white. “Just the tip,” he promises, like a liar and a saint. “I’ll be good.”
You feel the tremor in his thighs when he finally breaches you: slow, steady pressure and then the hot, perfect give of your body taking him. He stops with just the crown nestled inside, jaw locked, breath a ragged shudder against your shoulder. Your fingers claw at the laminate.
“Jesus,” he says into your skin, awed and wrecked. “You’re—I forgot how good you feel.”
You try to move; his arm bands across your waist, pinning you. “Don’t,” he grits, almost laughing at himself. “If you move I—” His hips twitch, helpless. You whine, crushed under the wanting.
He holds there for two, three breaths, like a man at the edge of a cliff telling himself not to jump—then the cliff gives. He eases a fraction deeper, a slow, shallow roll that feeds you a few more millimeters and steals the air from your lungs. You gasp; he groans raggedly like your reaction hits him straight in the spine.
“Just—” Another tiny push, another desperate bite of his lip. He’s barely inside, and somehow it feels like everything. “Just the tip. I swear.” He nuzzles your cheek, voice a trembling whisper. “Let me have this.”
You do. You let him have you: let him set the smallest, filthiest rhythm—out a breath, in a breath—each shallow press a tease that builds pressure until you’re shaking against the counter. He never leaves you; he never takes more than an inch. It’s torture cut into lace, and he’s falling apart in it with you, muttering praise and nonsense into your skin.
“Perfect. Perfect. Taking me so good—there you go—” His thumb sneaks lower to feel where you’re stretched around him and the sound he makes at that is shattered, reverent, almost boyish in its wonder. “You’re making a mess of me.”
You are. He is. You feel him pulsing, the restraint a live wire under your hands. Your body clamps down, greedy, and his control howls.
“Okay,” he says, like a surrender and a warning braided together. He presses a kiss behind your ear, soft as sugar. “One more. Just—” His hips roll, deep as he dares, shallow as he can stand. The head nudges that spot again, deliberate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. “Just like that.”
Then suddenly, something in him snaps—audible, almost—and the careful, pretty rhythm you’ve been holding together goes feral. His grip bites, his hips lurch, and he slides in a rough, shallow stroke that punches a sound out of both of you. Another, tighter. A third that’s barely anything at all, just the thick, blunt head grinding where you’re slickest, and he’s gone.
“—ohhhh, fuck—” The word breaks on a groan. He bites into your shoulder as the noise tears out of you, forehead dropping to your shoulder, body strung bow-tight as it hits him. Heat floods; his hips stutter and lock, jerky little pulses betraying him while he tries to stay buried only that impossible inch.
You feel him shake through it, every tremor telegraphing to your spine: weeks of restraint burning up in seconds. He slams home and finishes inside of you, messy and hot, fingers clenched tight around your hips.
For a heartbeat it’s only breathing—his, wrecked and ragged; yours, caught under his palm in quick, shocked pulls. The oven timer chirps again, unbearably cheerful.
He blinks back into himself by degrees. The hand at your mouth slides to your cheek, thumb stroking once like apology. He leans his forehead to the nape of your neck and laughs once, breathless, incredulous, doomed.
“I lost,” he says into your skin, like a eulogy. Then, with immediate, dramatic conviction: “This is your fault.”
He doesn’t move. If anything, he melts closer, chest sealed to your back, nose buried under your ear like he could crawl inside your skin and be done with it.
“My fault?” you echo.
“Absolutely,” he says, kissing the line of your jaw like penance. “A conspiracy. You, butter, sugar, tiny kitchen. I never stood a chance.” Another kiss. Another. He’s clingy in that way that makes you gooey—hands roaming with nowhere to land, mouth greedy for reassuring you’re-here-you’re-mine pecks that trail from your temple to your cheek to the corner of your lips. “I was strong until you did the—” he gestures vaguely at your hips, voice cracking into a helpless laugh, “—that exact thing.”
You tilt your head back, catching his mouth. “Poor baby.”
“Savage temptress,” he counters, already nuzzling, already smiling against your skin like he’s high on you. He finally peels away an inch to grab a paper towel, wipes you and the counter with gentleness that makes your throat sting, then tosses it and wraps himself around you again like the clingy, overheated octopus he is.
“Hyun, the timer,” you remind, soft.
He groans theatrically and still doesn’t let go. “I’m emotionally compromised.”
You bump his hip with yours; he gasps like you shot him and tightens his arms. “Okay! I’m going. I’m going.”
He peels himself off you in slow inches, fingers dragging along your waist until the very last second, like Velcro that refuses to unstick. The oven timer chirps again, smug. He mutters something rude at it under his breath and grabs an oven mitt.
You watch him cross the kitchen: sweats low on his hips, ponytail half dead, cheeks still a little pink. He looks wrecked and soft and yours, and something hot and fond curls under your ribs.
He opens the oven, a blast of heat puffing his hair back, and wrestles the tray out. “Look at that,” he announces, setting it on the stovetop with a hiss of metal on metal. “Perfect. Unlike my failure.”
You snort. “You act like you didn’t sprint to failure the second you had an opening.”
“Defamation,” he says, affronted, but his eyes are laughing. He leans on the counter next to the cookies, shoulders heaving once in a leftover shiver, then glances at you with the expression of a man who just remembered something terrible. “Oh, fuck.”
“What?”
“The group chat,” he groans. “We have to tell them.”
You blink. “We?”
“We are in this together,” he insists immediately. “If I go down, you’re my accomplice.”
You wipe a thumb through a stray streak of flour on the counter. “Or,” you say, “you could… not tell them.”
He blinks. “Not… tell them?”
“Not tonight,” you amend. “You can confess your tragic downfall in the morning. When you’re less—” you wave a hand at his whole flushed, wrecked self “—like this.”
He considers that, chewing his lip. Then he sighs, dramatic. “Postponed execution. I’ll allow it.” He chucks his phone onto the table without unlocking it and steps back into your space like a magnet snapping home.
You squeak when he scoops you up by the waist, spinning you lazily once before setting you on the counter beside the cooling tray. His hands find your hips again and stay there, thumbs rubbing little circles over the fabric.
“Hyun,” you laugh. “Cookies are hot.”
“So am I,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Equal threat level.”
You roll your eyes, but your fingers are already in his hair, loosening the half-dead ponytail, combing through the strands at his nape. He melts, actually melts, tipping his forehead into your shoulder with a tiny, content sound.
For a minute, that’s all it is: his arms around your waist, your nose tucked into his damp hair, the kitchen warm with butter and sugar and the soft tick of the cooling oven. His heartbeat is a steady thump against your ribs. The sharp edge of earlier has dulled to something slow and syrupy.
He speaks without lifting his head. “Just so you know,” he mumbles into your shirt, “I’m taking you anyway.”
You stroke the back of his neck. “Hm?”
“The trip.” He turns his face so his cheek is pressed over your heart, words softer, clearer. “I still want to go. With you. Even if I lost like, spectacularly.” His mouth quirks. “Maybe because I lost spectacularly.”
You huff a tiny laugh. “You don’t need an excuse to take me on vacation, you know.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s no bravado in it now. Just that earnest, stupid-sweet honesty you’re a little bit addicted to. “I just… liked the story in my head. Suffer all month, win the pot, whisk you away with my noble restraint.” He tips his chin up to look at you, eyes soft. “But I think ‘couldn’t keep my hands off my girlfriend while she was making cookies’ is a pretty good story, too.”
“A little embarrassing,” you correct.
“Still vacation-worthy.”
You search his face. “You’re sure?”
He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and certain. “I’m sure,” he says against your lips. “I wanted the trip with you. The rest was just… decoration.”
Your chest does that inconvenient squeeze again. You thread your fingers with his where they rest on your thighs, squeezing.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then we’ll go.”
His whole body relaxes, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He grins, bright and boyish and a little relieved, then tucks back into your shoulder, arms cinching you closer until you’re basically welded together.
He smiles against your collar, and the kitchen, your stupid cookies, the ruined bet—all of it settles into something small and sweet and yours. No charts, no prize money, no rules.
Just Hyunjin, sticky with sugar and soft with relief, promising you a vacation he was always going to take you on anyway, and you, letting him hold you there on your own counter until the only thing left humming in the air is the certainty that he’d lose a hundred bets, and choose you, every single time.
pairing: gn!reader x vampire skz ot8 [poly]
contains: fluff – inspired by this tweet (needy vampire who isn’t actually hungry so they just nibble on their human’s neck for hours like they’re teething). 1.4k words
☆ note: silly & lighthearted to remind me what words are <3
divider by @lariesographic / my masterlist
“Why are you doing that?”
You spare a glance at Chan. “Netflix just added my favorite cartoon from when I was a kid, so we’re having a marathon. You can join us if you want, but you might be lost on the finer plot points.”
On screen, bright characters burst into song about the importance of friendship.
A long-suffering expression settles across Chan’s features. Jolly music fills your living room as he takes in a deep breath. If his DNA allowed it, his hair would surely be grey by now, just from exhaustion alone. “I meant why is Felix attached to your neck?”
“Oh, you should’ve just said that then! He’s snackish,” you reply, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re positioned between Felix’s thighs, back to his chest, head lolled, letting him nibble on your neck as he pleases. The numbing agent in his saliva makes you feel slightly floaty.
He is not actually putting any effort into it, like he does when he feeds. He just passively lets trace amounts of blood travel through his fangs every so often. Enough to satiate. Enough to satisfy neediness.
Jeongin, sprawled across a couch and paying zero attention to you, mutters, “This is such a stupid show.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in over an hour, too enthralled to interrupt the stupid show beforehand. It’s not enough to dissuade you from chucking a throw pillow in his direction.
Turning back to Chan, you reiterate, “Come join.” He opens his mouth to refuse, but you speak first. “You were up until noon yesterday, at least take a break. With us, preferably.”
Against your neck, Felix nods his head as much as he can in his position.
“No. I have work to do,” Chan replies. He doesn’t make a move to go do his work, though. It’ll be a back-and-forth conversation, then. He always breaks, nobody knows why he still insists on putting up a squabble over things like this. Appearances, probably.
It takes a few seconds to fish the remote out of your pile of blankets, but eventually you find it and lower the volume. Everyone resolutely ignores Jeongin’s protesting groan.
Felix finally disconnects and licks over his puncture marks. Their saliva contains healing properties, and it’s a general house rule that they don’t leave visible marks anywhere on your skin. A smattering of bite marks decorate your inner thighs – it’s a point of pride for a few select members.
“Tastes good.” Felix says. He’s behind you, but you can hear the pout in his voice. “Get over here.”
“It’s not healthy for more than one person to feed from you at a time. You’ll lose too much blood.”
“He’s not sucking that hard,” Jeongin interjects, apparently now committed to the conversation now that he can’t hear your cartoon. “Don’t,” a pointed look at you, “It’s too easy of a joke.”
“You don’t like how I taste?”
Chan throws a mirroring pointed look at Jeongin, his own silent plea not to take the bait. Then he turns back to you. “Honey, you know that’s not what I meant, but you’ll get lightheaded without food.”
Felix grabs a strawberry off the brownie-and-fruit plate beside the two of you.
“You’ll get cold.”
You shift to get comfier in Felix’s embrace and adjust the blankets draped across your lap.
Twin pairs of footsteps creaking down the staircase interrupts any other argument Chan could put up. Han and Minho appear – Minho looking smug, while Han is smoothing down his hair. They’re both too enamored with each other to notice everyone else staring at them, watching their grand entrance.
A few more steps down, one instance of Han nearly tripping down the stairs, and Minho finally looks up. He surveys the scene. Studies Chan’s stance. Glances over you and Felix. “Oh, are we snacking?” he asks.
Instead of verbally answering, you hold out your closest arm in offering.
Han emits an incomprehensible noise that might not be words at all, then immediately turns into a blur. One moment he is still descending the stairs, the next he’s diving onto the floor and crashing into your side.
For all his eagerness, Han takes great care not to harm you.
He grasps your arm in his cold fingers, careful not to bend it uncomfortably, then sinks his fangs into the crook of your elbow. A slight prick of familiar pain sprouts in the seconds before his saliva takes effect. Soon enough, Han’s snuggling into your side, while Felix pulls you in closer with a gentle hum and reattaches himself.
Minho follows Han to the ground, as he tends to go wherever Han goes. There’s another pinprick on your wrist when he joins in.
The four of you settle into each other while a new episode’s introduction begins. Much to Jeongin’s delight, Felix reaches around to grab the remote off your lap and turn up the volume again.
Chan releases a disbelieving sigh, but gives in anyway, just like everybody – including himself, if he’s honest – knew he would. It’s common knowledge he never stands a chance against any of you. As much as he would deny it if asked, he will actually do most things you want.
He announces over the theme song, like it’s news, “Fine, but I still won’t feed. It’s the principle of it.”
“You have too many principles of things,” Jeongin murmurs.
It was barely audible, but Chan heard it just fine. Jeongin doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.
Chan crosses over to where Jeongin is splayed out, pauses in front of the couch, and lets his entire body weight fall on top of the youngest. A slight kerfuffle breaks out while he tries to take up as much of Jeongin’s real estate as he possibly can. Jeongin relents, accepting fate, and allows himself to be cuddled.
The couch is definitely not big enough for two grown men to lay horizontal, but they make it work. While everyone else is distracted watching the screen, Jeongin presses a kiss into the top of his head and begins playing with the ends of his hair. Chan isn’t the only one whose appearances crumble nearly instantly.
Over time and more episodes, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Seungmin all wander into the living room. Seungmin wordlessly takes up post with your other wrist and stays there, batting away Changbin when he tries to squeeze in.
It’s comfortable, steady, domestic in a way that makes your thoughts fuzzy if you think about it too long – which might have something to do with the four vampires attached to you, but that’s neither here nor there.
An hour later, Chan’s snores ring out through the room. They nearly drown out the speakers. Jeongin insists you pause the show for him while he carries the oldest to bed. Hyunjin insists he’s too old to be this invested – notably, it’s also the first time he’s spoken since he joined the cuddle pile.
Now that he’s started talking, though, he keeps at it, whining to Felix, “You’ve had her neck forever! I wanna turn!”
Felix’s grip on you tightens. His thighs move upwards to cage you further into him. Hyunjin gets the message.
Night evolves into dawn, and the beginnings of early light seep through your curtains around everyone’s yawns. The living room divulges into darkness when a half-conscious Felix turns off the screen. Your marathon is finally over. Nobody paid any attention to the last few episodes anyway.
Minho jostles Han awake, fangs still sunken in your skin. Sleepily, Minho licks over both his and Han’s marks and whisks away the younger man to bed.
You don’t even realize you’re moving until Felix has you pressed against his chest. He whispers, “C’mon, love, let’s go to bed,” into your ear, just for you to hear.
Truthfully, he could have yelled it from the highest rooftop. He could have screamed it into a microphone. It wouldn’t make a difference. You’re the only person he wishes to hear him. Everything he speaks is for you and the other seven members of his house. And he’ll spend the rest of eternity grateful that you’re his.
☆ note: wrote this between clients, so if it's ass do not tell me, ty love u
sfw taglist: @emilyywhyy @velvetmoonlght @opiumfidgetspinner @bahngarang @angelwings-fly @pixie-felix @certainstarfishmiracle @luvvvivi @strhwa @ayedomino008 @flwrkssed @breakmeoff @foppishitudinality @ilovedallywinston @cookiewookie9t @astrayapple @teffyx @geni-627 @kpopgirliez @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis
lmk if you want to be added/removed from the taglist!
He wants control. He wants eye contact. He wants to see you fall apart under him. Legs pinned back, deep strokes, hand around your throat or fingers rubbing your clit while whispering. He’s a pleaser, makes deep eye contact, whispers filth in your ear. It’s intimate and dominant.
“Look at me while I make you cum.”
Minho.
Doggystyle. spanking, degrading, full view.
Ass man. Loves the sound of skin slapping, the sight of you arching for him, the way your voice breaks when he goes deeper. “Back up on it. You can take more, can’t you?” Hand on your neck, other on your waist, and zero mercy.
Changbin.
Cowgirl. reverse & regular, all hands and praise.
He wants to see you ride it. Watches you bounce while gripping your waist and moaning shamelessly. Flexes from underneath. Helps you move if your legs give out. Loves the control you have but flexes from underneath to remind you who’s really in charge.
“Look at you. Fuck, you’re so perfect on top of me.”
Hyunjin.
Lotus. intimate, sensual, deep grind.
He wants connection. chest to chest, breath to breath, his cock buried in you while his hands run over your back. Slow, deep strokes and endless kissing.
“Stay close. Don’t run. Let me feel all of you.”
Jisung.
Prone bone. messy, quiet, desperate.
Face down, ass up, legs spread. He lives for the way you squirm under him. Moans in your ear while grinding into your soaked pussy. Likes you flat on your stomach so he can whisper in your ear and keep you right there. Full control, full access, messy, sweaty.
“Stay still. Just let me fuck you like this… fuck… you feel insane.”
Felix.
Spooning. sweet, deep, and dirty.
Full body contact. Hand on your stomach while he grinds into you slowly from behind. Whispering praise in your ear, kissing your shoulder, making you shake from the inside out. Gentle start, but he can flip the switch if you ask.
“You’re taking me so well… stay right here, baby. I’ve got you.”
Seungmin.
Standing. against the wall, rough, possessive.
Strength kink. Pushes you up, holds your thighs, fucks you standing just to show he can. Grabs your face mid-thrust and whispers, Pushes you up, holds your thighs, fucks you standing just to show he can. Cold expression, filthy actions,
“Let them hear who you belong to.”
Jeongin.
Missionary. subby, eager, obsessive.
He wants to see your face, hear your voice, watch your lips tremble when you say his name. Might lose rhythm from how badly he wants to please you. Wants to look in your eyes, follow your lead, and learn what makes you shake. Innocent face, filthy thoughts. Will whimper.
“Am I doing good? D-Do you like it like this? Please don’t stop…”
