🐺 “just testing (not really)” inspired by this tiktok
Bang Chan x reader
Fluff | Established Relationship | Soft Teasing | Touch-Starved Energy | Melt-Into-the-Kiss | Playful Intimacy.
setting: It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings—no schedules, no studio, no pressure. Just you, him, and a half-lazy idea you saw somewhere that you absolutely shouldn’t be thinking about this much.
⸻
It starts as something small.
Harmless, even.
Just a passing thought while you’re curled up on the couch, half-watching something you’re not really paying attention to. Your phone is warm in your hand, screen dimming after a video you definitely watched more than once.
A stupid trend.
That’s all it is.
And yet—
You glance over at him.
He’s not paying attention to you. Of course he isn’t. He’s stretched out comfortably, one arm behind his head, the other loosely holding his phone, scrolling without much focus. Completely relaxed. Completely unaware.
And suddenly, the idea doesn’t feel so harmless anymore.
It feels… tempting.
You sit up a little straighter.
“Hey.”
He hums in response, not looking up yet.
“Can you come here for a second?”
That gets his attention.
There’s no hesitation when he puts his phone aside, pushing himself up and walking over like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like of course he’d drop everything just because you asked.
That alone almost makes you lose your nerve.
Almost.
He stops in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes.
“What?” he asks, soft, curious.
You try to keep your expression neutral. Casual. Like this isn’t a setup.
“Stand still for a second. And put your arms out… Please”
A pause.
A small, amused smile tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t question it. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t push.
He just—
Does it.
Arms slightly out, like you asked. Open. Unprotected. Completely trusting.
It hits you, briefly, how easy that was.
How easy you are for him.
And something in your chest tightens.
Just a little.
You don’t give yourself time to think about it.
Because if you do, you’ll stop.
So you step forward.
Close the distance.
And kiss him.
⸻
There’s a split second where nothing happens.
Where he stays exactly as he is—still, unmoving, caught off guard just enough that your heart almost drops.
And then—
He melts.
Not slowly. Not carefully.
It’s immediate.
Like instinct.
His arms come around you in one smooth motion, pulling you in like he’s been waiting for it without even knowing he was. The kiss deepens before you can even register the shift, his hand sliding up your back, anchoring you closer.
Closer than you planned.
Closer than you meant.
And suddenly this isn’t a test anymore.
Because he doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t hold back.
Doesn’t leave even an inch of space between you once he realizes what’s happening.
He just—
Gives in.
Completely.
⸻
You weren’t prepared for that.
Not really.
The kiss lingers, warm and unhurried, but there’s something underneath it—something that feels a little too real for something that started as a joke.
Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking.
His grip tightens just slightly in response.
And for a moment, everything else fades.
No overthinking. No teasing. No pretending.
Just this.
⸻
When you finally pull back, it’s not by much.
Just enough to breathe.
Just enough to look at him.
His forehead rests lightly against yours, eyes still half-lidded, like he hasn’t fully come back yet. Like he’s still somewhere in between where you started and where you ended up.
There’s a softness there.
Unfiltered. Unhidden.
“What was that for?” he murmurs.
You almost tell him.
Almost say it was just a trend. Just curiosity. Just something dumb you saw online.
But the words feel… wrong.
Because that’s not what it felt like.
Not to you.
Not to him.
So instead, you shrug slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“Nothing.”
He doesn’t believe you.
You can tell.
But he doesn’t push.
He just studies you for a second longer, something warm and knowing in his expression, before his hand slides gently to the back of your neck.
And then—
He kisses you again.
Slower this time.
Deeper.
Like he’s answering a question you didn’t ask out loud.
what to know: bang chan x gn!reader, sfw, getting together, fluff, love confessions, crushes, friends to lovers, chan pov, silver hair chan, reader knows their worth and knows what they want
word count: 4.3k
recommended listening: it's you by henry
It's not a question he can avoid.
At some point, no matter the interview, no matter the country, no matter how different everything else is, it always comes back to the same thing. The phrasing changes just enough to keep it interesting and to maybe get a different answer, but it's never enough to make a difference fundamentally.
What is your ideal type?
Chan used to think about it a lot more when he was younger—back when questions were actually tricks in disguise and his answers needed to be simultaneously meaningful and clever and yet still relatable. Thankfully, by then, he was smart enough to know that 'it's what's inside that matters,' was the correct answer.
After being pressured once or twice (try two hundred times) to elaborate, he eventually had to retire the old answer. It sounded heartfelt once, but by now everyone said that to stay out of hot water. Now they want him to be original, to be controversial, to stir drama. They want him to get into the nitty gritty of what exactly he likes about someone's insides, if you'll pardon the terrible phrasing.
Now, his go-to answer is a solid, "I like who I like. I don't really have an ideal type."
Sure, it's a non-answer, and it kind of shines a cagey light on the subject, making it awkward for any follow-up questions. But he likes it that way. It keeps the heat off him while letting everyone else wonder and speculate. And really, that's the whole point. His type is nobody's business but his own.
When he's alone, when there's no one to impress or cater to, the question will sneak back. Not the question exactly—it's the answer that haunts him. He tries to imagine it: someone patient, someone understanding, someone... not him, basically (not that he isn't those things, but he definitely does have to make an effort sometimes). Someone who can handle all the ongoing chaos of his life without wanting to run screaming in the other direction. It's what he's supposed to want and what would make sense.
But when he tries to picture them—really picture them—there's nothing there. A blurry figure, he supposes.
Want to know what is there, though?
Your face.
He's not particularly bothered by this fact—your face is quite nice.
However, it confuses him a little.
For one thing: you're impatient. You look up the endings of movies before they're even halfway done, and he still doesn't understand why because you also don't understand why. You start eating before your food has fully cooled down, and then you have the audacity to complain about a burnt tongue.
For another thing: you interrupt perfectly normal conversations because someone says a word that reminds you of a song, and suddenly you're singing it and you won't stop until you get to a lyric you can't remember. The same thing occurs with pop culture quotes, and Chan really has a difficult time keeping up with those, especially when you and Felix start rebounding off each other.
And you're not... always understanding.
You don't fill in the gaps for him or assume the best possible interpretation just to keep things comfortable for everyone. If anything, you tend to assume the opposite first, not out of malice but out of some part of you that likes to chronically overthink and be realistic.
It makes things harder.
And sometimes, if he's being honest, it irks him.
You don't let him get away with things other people would let slide. You don't accept "I'm fine" when it's clearly not true, and worse, you don't let him redirect the conversation when it starts drifting into territory he doesn't feel like navigating.
There was a night—there are a lot of nights, but this one comes back to him often—where he'd shown up to your scheduled catch-up already worn thin. He hadn't said much at first, which isn't unusual, and you hadn't pushed immediately, which is. You'd let him settle, let his silence stretch out between you while you leaned against the side of your car, tracing absent patterns into the condensation on your drink while telling a story about a coworker.
It had almost worked.
He'd almost managed to sit there and let his quiet do what it usually does with everyone else.
And then, out of nowhere, you'd glanced over at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Are you here with me?"
He hadn't even looked up. "Huh?"
"Well, I'm talking to you and you're nodding, but I could probably replace you with a cardboard cutout and get the same results."
"That's harsh," he'd muttered, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.
"It's true," you'd shot back, entirely unmoved. Then, after a beat, quieter but no less direct, "What's wrong."
It was just a statement, dressed as a question that implied he didn't get to avoid it.
"I'm fine," he'd said automatically, because he's quite good at those two words.
You'd stared at him with a patience that felt almost ironic coming from you, considering how quickly you lose interest in anything that doesn't immediately hold your attention. (Maybe that should have been an early sign to him, that you never seemed to get tired of things that involved him.)
"You're not. You know, you could just say you don't feel like talking about it," you'd added after a second, shifting your weight, your voice losing a bit of its edge. "That's allowed. I'd respect that. I just don't like being lied to."
You don't always understand why he makes the choices he does, and you don't pretend to, but you're not unreasonable. You don't demand more than he can give. You just expect him to be honest about where the line is, instead of pretending it isn't there at all.
"I'm just tired," he'd admitted finally, the words coming out guilty.
You'd watched him for a second, as if weighing them, deciding whether they were enough.
Then you'd nodded once. "Okay. Let's call it then. You should go home and sleep."
"But I just got here," Chan had nearly whined, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he finally glanced up at you. "And we've had this scheduled for so long."
By the time he'd made it to you that night, the hangout had already been pushed back twice. Once because he'd run late at the studio, again because something else had come up that he couldn't get out of.
And then he'd gotten there—
—and he'd been too tired to be any good to you.
He couldn't just go home.
"We've been here for nearly forty minutes," you'd corrected, and it wasn't all that gentle. "You've just been zoning out for most of it."
He'd shifted his weight, jaw tightening just slightly, not in anger but in something closer to frustration—at himself, mostly, though it didn't feel that clear in the moment. It had just felt... off. The whole night had felt off in a way he hadn't wanted, not after how much he'd been looking forward to it.
"I don't want to go home," he'd said after a second.
"Why?" you'd asked.
The answer should have been simple.
Because he'd made the time.
Because it had taken effort to get here.
Because it felt like a waste to leave now.
All of those things were true.
But none of them were what came to mind first.
He'd glanced at you, then away again, as he searched for something that sounded reasonable enough to say out loud.
"I just—" he'd started, then stopped, exhaling softly. "We barely see each other as it is."
"That's not really the point," you'd said, though your voice had lost some of its earlier firmness. "Seeing each other doesn't count if you're not actually... here for it."
"I am here," he'd insisted, a little more quickly this time, as if saying it fast enough might make it true.
"You're here physically," you'd corrected, just as quick. "Mentally? Questionable."
He'd just sort of shook his head, not sure how he was supposed to argue when you were definitely in the right.
"You don't have to be 'on' all the time," you'd continued. "If you're tired, you're tired. That's fine."
"That's not really fair to you."
"Why not?"
"Because you wanted to hang out," he'd said, and there was something more in it now, something that edged closer to frustration again because he'd also really wanted to hang out.
You'd tilted your head slightly at that, studying him for a second longer than usual.
"I did want to hang out," you'd said slowly. "I still do. Just not at the expense of you being miserable."
"I'm not miserable."
"You look miserable."
He'd exhaled again, longer this time, shoulders dropping just a fraction as the argument circled back to the same place it had been sitting from the start.
You weren't going to budge on this, he could tell. You don't budge on most things, you stubborn thing.
It was decided, after that, that you would take a raincheck (which then later turned into another raincheck before he'd finally gotten a whole day to just dedicate to hanging with you).
He'd been happy to get an extra few hours of sleep that night, and his body thanked you the next morning, but the rest of him hadn't quite followed suit. You'd made a reasonable call, one he would've encouraged anyone else to make in your position. He'd been tired. He hadn't been present. There wasn't anything to argue there.
And yet he found himself thinking about it... and thinking about it... and thinking about it some more.
You hadn't bent to meet him where he was, hadn't adjusted your expectations to accommodate the version of him he'd shown up as that night. You'd taken one look at it and said, no, this isn't good enough—for either of us.
That's the part that he ruminates on most.
Because it isn't just that you'd noticed—people notice things about him all the time. His job is to be noticed. People comment on how tired he looks, tell him to rest, suggest he take care of himself in ways that are easy to ignore because they follow it up by asking him to work more.
You'd asked him to leave, to give something up in the moment for the sake of something better later, even if that meant disappointing himself right then and there. You hadn't let him settle for half-present. You hadn't let him offer you something incomplete and call it enough.
And, more than that, you hadn't let him convince himself it was enough.
It's irritating, when he thinks about it too long.
There's a part of him that still resists it, that bristles slightly at the memory of being told what to do, of having the decision taken out of his hands even when he knows, logically, that it hadn't been about control. It had been about care. About achievable standards. About the quiet understanding that what he needed and what he wanted weren't always the same thing—and that, sometimes, someone else had to be the one to hold that line when he wouldn't.
He's not used to that.
He's used to managing himself, to pushing through, to deciding what he can and can't handle without much interference from anyone else. He's used to people accommodating him, adjusting around him, accepting whatever version of him he has to offer at any given moment.
You don't do that.
You never have.
And that should be a problem. A big one.
It should clash with everything he's told himself he should want—someone easy, someone understanding in the way that means they don't push too hard, someone who doesn't make things more complicated than they need to be.
You don't fit neatly into the version of an "ideal" he's been repeating for years. You don't sound perfect when he reduces you to traits and qualities and hypotheticals: someone who calls him out, someone who doesn't let things slide, someone who makes him stop when he'd rather keep going.
And yet when he tries to picture the alternative, when he tries to imagine someone softer in those moments, someone who would've let him stay, let him sit there half-engaged and call it time well spent just because it was easier and it was what he said he had to offer, it doesn't sit right.
All the traits he thought mattered, all the things he's been repeating for years because they sounded right... they don't hold up against something that already exists.
Because he's not comparing you to anything.
He's comparing everything else to you.
And nothing really comes close.
He could sit here and build the perfect person from the ground up. He's done it before: picked out every trait, every quality, every detail down to the last eyelash that should, in theory, make someone exactly right for him or for anyone subjectively. And he'll even tack on the face and body of a celebrity crush to sweeten the pot...
And still... it wouldn't be you.
Which is strange.
Strange that something imperfect, something a little messy, something that doesn't follow any of the rules he set for himself somehow feels more right than something designed to be flawless. Strange that all those small habits, all those little things that should make him pause, are the very things he can't imagine being without.
He can picture perfect.
He just doesn't want it.
Not when it means losing you.
The answer he's been giving all this time circles back: he doesn't have an ideal type. He just likes who he likes.
And who he likes is you.
He almost laughs at himself for not seeing it sooner.
It definitely explains a whole lot.
You're halfway through a story when he tunes back in, something about a café and a barista and a misunderstanding that you'd already told him about a month ago.
Not that he says anything.
He just watches you, elbow resting against the table, head tilted slightly as you talk. You're animated about it, hands moving a little wildly as you explain. It's yet another cute habit of yours to add to his long list of nonnegotiables.
He's a bit betrayed by his heart and mind for figuring this all out right now. It would have been far more convenient earlier this morning, or last night, or any time before now—he could have rehearsed, given himself a pep talk, even brought flowers.
God, he hadn't even bought your coffee for you! And he seriously can't remember if he held the door open for you when you entered. Did he walk on the correct side of the pavement as you came down the block?
You set your drink down and stick him with a certain look. "What?"
He blinks out of his mini panic, half expecting you to get on his case about being half-present again. "What?"
"You're staring."
"Not sure where you expect me to look when you're talking if not at you," he says slowly, almost defensively, though there's a little twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrays him.
"No, no, you've just got a funny wrinkle between your eyebrows," you say, reaching over the table to dig a thumb into the spot you're talking about. "You only get that when you're a little upset... What's wrong—oh, have I already told this story? I have, haven't I? I'm boring you. Why didn't you say anything?"
Chan blinks at you, a little caught off guard by your flurry of words, but the twitch in his mouth spreads into a soft, almost embarrassed smile. He reaches up slowly, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently pulling your hand down from his face. He doesn't let go, just lets it rest lightly on the table, cradled in his own, deciding he'd test some waters.
"You're not boring me," he assures, choosing not to say anything about the repeat story. "I didn't know I get a wrinkle when I'm upset. You sure it's not just proof of my aging?"
You wave him off with your other hand, keeping the one in his perfectly nestled there (which is a good sign). "You're not getting old," you say firmly. "Stop talking like that."
"I've gone completely grey," he says, pointing up at his dyed hair.
You laugh, and he's pretty proud of himself for thinking of that on the fly, even if that joke is technically recycled from Seungmin.
You settle back in your chair after a moment, still holding his hand lightly.
"Are you... sure you're not upset about something?" you ask, studying him.
He gives a small, wry shrug, trying to keep it light. "Upset? Me? Nah... I'm fine."
Before you even say anything, he knows you'll call him out on it. He should really learn that 'fine' is a trigger word.
"Chan."
There's a certain tone about it that only you're capable of. He recalls the many instances where he'd shivered over it, immediately caving in. Honestly, how hadn't he realized sooner?
"...I was just thinking," he starts, already feeling the mistake as the words leave his mouth.
"A dangerous pastime," you sing, quoting Beauty and the Beast.
"I know," he sings along in stride, channeling his best Gaston.
"What have you been thinking about?" you ask, and your attention drops to his hand, your fingers starting to play idly with the rings he's wearing, turning one slightly, then another. And, unfortunately, that derails him, so he doesn't get a chance to steer the conversation to safer waters. At his silence, you glance up, a little grin already forming as you jokingly ask, "About me?"
You're clearly waiting for him to deny it to get him to talk about what he was actually thinking about.
But he just... looks at you.
"Oh," you say, quieter now.
Your hand stops moving completely, but you don't pull away.
"What about me?"
He's not sure why you sound nervous. If he's thinking about you—and clearly he is, it's all that's been on his mind today—why would it be anything but good?
His thumb brushes lightly against the side of your hand, almost absent, but grounding enough to keep him from overthinking himself into silence again.
"...Everything, I think," he admits.
"Everything." You laugh it off quietly, the answer clearly not what you were expecting. "Why was that so deep so suddenly?"
Because it is that deep.
"Sorry, sorry," he chuckles. "I think I just had an epiphany."
"...about me," you finish, blinking in confusion.
"About myself, actually," he corrects.
"You're losing me," you say. "Is this about you or me?"
"Both?" He sheepishly grins, tilting and ducking his head. His ears are starting to burn.
You stare at him for a second like you're trying to decide whether he's being serious or if this is some elaborate bit you're not in on, and he does feel a little bad that he's confusing you with his hesitation.
"It's—" He stops, presses his lips together briefly, then tries again. "It's about me realizing something. And the thing I realized just... happens to be about you."
"Is it..." you search for a word, frown growing, "bad?"
"Bad?" he repeats immediately at the inconceivable word. "Why would it be bad?"
You swallow. "I mean... have you realized I'm annoying? You realized you find me intolerable, didn't you?"
He smiles, shaking his head. Jumping to conclusions, as always. Intolerable, pfft, after so long knowing each other?
"I don't think I've ever been more certain of the opposite actually," he says, watching you and your reaction carefully.
You don't look convinced, and he feels a little sad because this shouldn't even be a question.
"I was thinking about how I've been answering a question wrong for years," he says, still choosing to beat around the rosebush.
Your expression shifts, confusion again overtaking whatever else had been there before.
"What question?"
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, glancing down at your hand for half a second before looking back up.
"My ideal type."
"That you don't have," you supply, because you do know that much, at least.
"Right," he says.
"Okay," you say slowly, drawing the word out as you sit back just slightly in your chair, though you don't pull your hand away. "And why—exactly—were you thinking about that while I was talking about a barista?"
"Good question," he admits.
"Chan."
"Sorry, I'm a little nervous," he chuckles.
"You're nervous?" you ask, brows knitting. "You're freaking me out a little."
"Well, watch me freak you out some more," he says, heart jumping out of his chest. "I like you. A lot."
"..."
You don't say anything right away.
Which, for you, is basically like screaming.
Your grip on his hand loosens just slightly—not enough to let go, just enough that he notices.
"Chan," you say finally, and his name sounds different in your mouth right now. "What?"
"For a while," he continues, not sure what else to say in response.
"...For a while," you repeat slowly.
"Yeah. Just thought you should know..."
Like he's pointing out that your shoe is untied. Can you tell he hasn't done this before?
You stare at him long enough that he starts to feel it in his shoulders, like a weird muscle tension. Your silence really is never a good sign, but your grip on his hand tightens again, and that's the first thing that tells him he's probably misreading your silence.
"As in..." you start, then stop and retry. "You like me. Like—like me."
"Yes," he says immediately, because that is now old news. "I do... is that okay?"
"'Is that okay'..." you mutter to yourself, perhaps mocking him a little. "Bahng Chahn essentially tells me I'm his ideal type, an answer that has eluded millions and millions of fans and stumped interviewers, and he asks if that's okay."
Chan blinks at you, caught somewhere between embarrassed and a little amused. You're trying to make him sweat, that much is clear. And it's working, unfortunately.
"Would you like to change your question are you going to stick with that?" you ask, one corner of your mouth pulling up with a smirk.
See, nothing can ever be easy with you.
"I'd like to change my question," he says.
"I'm listening."
Despite how much he wants to shrink back and continue skirting around this, he knows you'd like a straightforward approach. He just needs to man up and do it. Fighting.
“Would you go out with me?” he blurts, biting his bottom lip and bracing for some sort of mental or emotional (or, knowing you, even physical) impact.
Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth where he’s still biting his lip, then back up to his eyes. He tries to read your mind, something he's tried on multiple occasions with little success, and the only thing he's able to think in that moment is: how have I never noticed how pretty those eyes are until this moment?
"Okay," you say rather simply, knocking him out of yet another stupor. "I'll go out with you."
"Just like that?" he asks, stunned.
"Were you hoping for a different answer?" You tilt your head.
"No!" His hand grips yours, tugging it to his half of the table. "No, that was the ideal answer. Just... I know we've been friends for a while, and it's a big deal to change that to something romantic?"
"True." You nod, agreeing with him. "It is a big deal. But the fact that I have known you for so long is exactly why I know you’re not asking this lightly."
His throat moves as he swallows, your certainty somehow making him more nervous instead of less.
“And?” he prompts carefully, because he can feel there’s more.
“And,” you continue, “if we’re being honest, I’ve been waiting for you to figure yourself out for a while.”
That makes him freeze.
“...What?”
You raise a brow at him. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“I— I am shocked,” he admits, voice a little unsteady now, because now he's trying to re-evaluate every interaction you’ve ever had. "I'd only just realized it myself."
He sneakily looked at his watch. Yeah, he only figured it out maybe half an hour ago.
“...Are you really surprised I figured it out before you?” you ask.
“...No,” he admits after a beat, and there’s something mildly resigned in it. “You’re not... you’re not easy to hide things from.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
He huffs a small laugh, but it doesn’t fully hide how overwhelmed he still is, sitting there with your hand in his and the entire conversation feeling a bit out of his breadth.
“You always notice things before I do,” he adds. “It’s kind of your thing. I think you’ve probably known what I want or need before I even do, most of the time.”
"It probably helps that I was actually looking for the signs," you say.
He stares at you, blinking, and he sees the corner of your mouth lift, just slightly.
“I wasn’t exactly subtle either, Chan," you admit.
“...Wait,” he says slowly. “You..."
"Let's just say, I've never been confused about my type," you say. And now it's your cheeks and ears that are turning a lovely shade of red.
“So,” he says, mind reeling, “just so I’m understanding this correctly...”
You sigh. “Channie.”
“No, no,” he insists, though there’s a smile creeping in now that he’s not trying to suppress. “I just want to make sure I’m not hallucinating the last five minutes of my life.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull your hand away or interrupt him again.
He takes that as permission to continue.
“You’ve known how you feel,” he says, pointing vaguely between you, reconstructing a timeline in his head, “and you’ve known how I feel. And you’ve just... been sitting on that information.”
"I can't do everything for you," you chuckle.
“I feel like I should be more embarrassed,” he confesses, his free hand coming up to hide his face.
“You probably should be,” you say, laughing as you pull his hand away.
“Thanks.”
He realizes fully, then, that this is what he must have been trying to describe all those times he gave vague answers about not having an ideal type. It was not avoidance. It was misdirection, because he had been looking in entirely the wrong direction for something that was never hypothetical to begin with.
There is a strange kind of relief in that, threaded through with a lingering disbelief that it took him this long to recognize something that had been sitting in front of him the entire time.
He glances at you again, still seated across from him, very much real in a way that no imagined version of his perfect match could ever manage to be. And it occurs to him that nothing he could have constructed in his head would ever live up to this.
♪⋆.✮ Bang Chan x f.reader
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ After Chan’s appearance on a talk show sparks subtle questions about marriage, he comes home early for the first time in weeks. Between shared cooking, sleepy kisses, and quiet confessions, the two finally discuss the future they’ve both been dreaming of but too scared to ask for.
wc: 3548 words!
trope: Established relationship • Domestic softness • Idol x non-idol • vulnerability • Shamelessly in love • Yearning disguised as teasing • Future talk (marriage + kids) • Gentle intimacy
cw: Mention of idol schedule stress, light insecurities about time and commitment, subtle spice/flirty tone, kissing, emotional vulnerability, discussion of future family planning
16+ please.
⋆˙⭑𓂃 author’s note:
The domestic softness we all secretly wish was real. This is pure warmth, healing, and a little bit of teasing. Enjoy the cozy ache. ✦
The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the air purifier and the soft music playing from your phone on the kitchen counter.
You’re halfway through answering emails, wrapped in a blanket at the dining table with a half-finished cup of coffee, when the front door clicks open.
At first, you think you have imagined it. chris never comes home this early. Not during comeback season, not during promotion week, and certainly not after a talk show. You blink twice, pushing back from the chair.
The door swings open fully, and there he is -- cap pulled low, mask loose around his chin, backpack hanging off one shoulder. exhaustion clings to him like an aura, but his eyes soften the second they land on you.
"Baby, I'm home."
Home.
It hits you in the chest, warm and strangely overwhelming. You almost forgot what his voice sounded like without a mic or studio filter. You step toward him, a smile growing unintentionally wide.
"You are home early," you say, eyebrows lifted. "Are my clocks broken?"
He snorts, pushing the door shut behind him. "I know, shocking, right? I figured I should remind you what I look like before you forget."
You laugh as he toes off his shoes, kicking them lazily aside. Before you can think, he crosses the room in a few long steps and wraps his arms around you, face burying into the crook of your neck. His hug is heavy, full body weight leaning against you like he needs the grounding. You slide your hands over his back, holding him just as tightly.
"Rough day?" you murmur.
"Long day," he breathes. "But a good one. John hyung was fun."
The interview. Of course. You pull back enough to look him in the eyes. "Yeah, I watched it. You were cute."
His mouth curls into a smirk. "Just cute?"
"Well, until you started talking about marriage on a talk show like that for all to see."
His ears turn pink instantly. You enjoy that you always have and you always will.
"Oh my god, you saw that?"
"I did. 'When am I gonna get married?' -- ring a bell?"
He groans loudly and drops his head into your shoulder. "It was a joke. Mostly. Kind of. I don't know, hyung put me on the spot."
"Sure, Christopher," you tease, running your fingers through the curls escaping his cap. "Just saying, it sounded very real."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft but sparkling with something playful. "And if it was real?"
Your breath catches for the smallest fraction of a second. You push at his chest lightly, pretending to push him away. "Go shower. You smell like a studio and stress."
Chan gasps dramatically. "You wound me."
But he laughs and heads toward the hallway, pausing to look back at you. His voice drops lower, warmer.
"Stay right there. Don't move. I missed you today."
Fifteen minutes later, he returns in slack sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips and a white tank top slightly damp from the shower.
His natural curls were more fluffier as his hair had grown longer and slightly damaged because of the bleach, eyes sleepy, skin clean and glowing. He looks... painfully good. The kind of good that makes your stomach turn and your brain go quiet.
"You're staring," he says, already grinning.
"No, I'm observing."
"Observing, huh? With your jaw on the floor?"
You roll your eyes and get up from your chair. "You hungry?"
"Starving," he says, catching your hand as you walk past and bringing it to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to your knuckles -- one of his quiet gestures that always makes your chest ache.
"Cook with me?" you ask.
"Only if I can back-hug you the whole time."
"You say that like I have a choice."
He does exactly that -- arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder, swaying side to side while you start preparing ingredients on the counter. You grab veggies from the fridge, and he hums contentedly behind you, warm and solid.
"You know," he says quietly, "standing here with you... it feels like breathing again."
You pause, heartbeat hitching. His hands slide slowly up and down your sides, comfortable and familiar.
"It's been really hard lately," he continues, voice soft. "Barely sleeping, barely eating something that isn't a convenience store kimbap. But coming home to you... it's like everything resets."
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. "I'm proud of you, Channie. Really proud."
He smiles, small and real, and leans down to kiss you -- slow, lingering, like he’s drinking you in. You melt into it, arms looping around his neck.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. "Thank you for waiting for me," he whispers.
"I always will."
You cook together, bumping hips intentionally, stealing bites, chan trying to feed you with chopsticks but missing your mouth on purpose just to watch you glare. Dinner ends up with simple white sauce pasta and garlic bread, eaten at the counter with your knees touching under the bar.
Between bites, you say casually, "So... about the interview."
Chan freezes, fork halfway to his lips. "Oh no."
You laugh. "relax. I just wanted to ask something."
His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Uh huh. go on."
"How many kids were you planning when you say things like that on television?"
He chokes on air, coughing dramatically. "Kids?"
You keep a perfectly innocent face. "Yeah. Children. Mini-channies or mini-me."
He clears his throat, face turning bright red. Then he straightens his back and looks at you with unexpected seriousness.
"That's not my decision," he says gently. "It's your body. You carry them. You have to go through everything. I just... want whatever you want. Two, three, none, ten -- whatever makes you happy."
Your chest tightens. The sincerity in his voice hits hard.
"You really think that far?" you whisper.
"All the time," he admits. Then, with a smirk, he adds, "Although ten kids might kill us both, so maybe not that many. But only if you want…. We dont need to if you dont wanna.."
You burst out laughing, leaning into him. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.
Silence settles comfortably between you, warm and full.
Chan presses a kiss to your temple and whispers, "We'll talk more when we are fully ready. I'm not scared of the future with you."
You look up at him, smiling softly. "I'm glad you're home, channie."
He looks at you like you're the only thing he's ever wanted.
"Me too."
— —
Dinner plates are stacked in the sink, warm dishwater running, soft music floating through the apartment. Chan stands beside you drying bowls with a towel, hip bumping yours every few seconds like he just can’t help touching you.
It’s quiet, comfortable -- the kind of silence you spent years craving when you both lived chaotic lives in opposite directions. You glance sideways at him, noticing the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes soften every time they meet yours.
It’s been a long time since he looked this peaceful.
You flick a little foam onto his arm, pretending not to watch him.
"So," you say casually again, "marriage, huh?"
The towel slips from his fingers. He stares ahead dramatically, jaw dropping. "You’re really going to do this to me while I’m washing dishes? You ain’t gonna drop the topic are you?"
You grin. "Just asking a harmless question. You’re the one who started it in front of a cam."
Chan sighs, drying his hands and leaning against the counter, watching you with that intense, fond gaze that always makes your stomach flutter. He reaches out, fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Did it bother you?" he asks softly. "Hearing me say that?"
You shake your head. "No. It... it surprised me. In a good way."
His thumb brushes your cheek. "Good."
You hold his hand against your face, feeling his warmth soak into your skin.
"Did you mean it?" you ask quietly.
He takes a deep breath, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment. When he looks up again, vulnerability sits raw and open beneath his lashes.
"I meant every word," he says. "I’ve thought about it longer than I want to admit."
You let the water run as you turn to face him fully. His hands find your waist like instinct, gripping gently, thumbs stroking the hem of your shirt.
"I don’t want to promise you something I can’t give," he says, voice low. "Being an idol means late nights, schedules changing at the last minute, going months without real time together. I don’t want to marry you and then disappear. I don’t want you to think you’re alone in it."
Your chest aches at the fear hidden under his softness -- the fear you’ve known for years.
"channie," you say, sliding your arms around his neck, "I never expected perfection. I just want you. However you come. Whatever that looks like."
He lets out a shaky breath, forehead falling onto your shoulder as his hands tighten around you. You feel him exhale like he’s been holding it for months.
"I love you so much it scares me," he whispers.
You smile into his hair, remembering the first time you heard that voice.
"You know," you say, pulling back a little, "I still think about the first time we met sometimes."
His lips curl faintly. "The cafe?"
"Mm. You looked so angry at that workbook."
Chan laughs, full and bright, head tilting back. His curls bounce, and you swear your heart flips.
"I wasn’t angry," he argues weakly
"You were glaring at your korean essay like it personally had offended you."
"’cause it did!" He grins and nudges your nose with his. "Tenth grade was brutal. I could understand everything but writing it was like trying to decode an alien language! And then you walked in, sat beside me without asking, and said 'You look like you're about to cry, want help?'"
You laugh. "I thought you were going to throw your pencil at me."
"I was going to," he admits, eyes sparkling, "but then you smiled and my brain malfunctioned."
You lean in, whispering teasingly, "And you've been malfunctioning ever since."
"Oh absolutely," he says. "still am. see? right now. completely broken."
You flick his forehead gently and he pretends to stumble backwards dramatically, then pulls you back against his chest.
"But honestly," he says softly, voice dipping sincere again, "I think I fell for you the moment you stayed with me until closing time. When the cafe staff kicked us out, and we walked home sharing earphones. I knew then. I just... couldn’t say anything yet."
You remember it clearly -- the cold night air, your hands brushing awkwardly, his shy glances, the warm glow of streetlights turning him gold. You remember thinking he felt like safety before he ever became yours.
"And then you trained, and everything changed," you say gently.
Chan nods. "I almost lost you."
"But you didn’t," you whisper. "You never will."
His grip on you tightens, like he believes you now in a way he didn’t before.
He brushes his lips against yours, a slow kiss at the corner of your mouth.
"I want to make a life with you," he murmurs. "A home, a family. I want to wake up next to you without counting hours before I leave again."
You swallow, throat tight. ".........then what’s stopping you?"
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. "Probably just me. I’m scared of being selfish."
"chris," you whisper, lifting his chin so he meets your eyes, "loving someone isn’t selfish."
For a second, he just stares at you -- really looks -- like he’s memorizing every detail. Then his expression shifts, something warmer and heavier settling behind his eyes.
"You’d look really good carrying my last name," he says, voice dipping low and shameless.
Heat floods your cheeks. "Christ--"
"I’m serious." His thumb strokes your lower lip. "Mrs. y/n bahng? That has a nice ring to it."
"And you’re bold tonight," you say, breath catching.
He smirks. "I’ve been bold since the day I met you. You just didn’t notice."
You shove him lightly, but he pulls you right back, hands sliding to your hips, grip firm, body close.
"Can you imagine it?" he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "Little ones running around here? Mess everywhere? You yelling at me for letting them eat snacks before dinner?"
Your pulse stutters.
"Stop," you whisper, embarrassed.
"I don’t want to stop," he says, voice rougher. "I think about it all the time."
His fingers press into your waist, body warm and steady against yours.
"You’re my future," he whispers. "Even if it takes time, even if it’s messy. You’re it for me."
You don’t trust your voice, so you just pull him into a kiss -- deep, slow, desperate. He holds you like you might disappear, mouth moving against yours like worship, like he’s breathing for the first time.
When you finally break apart, he presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.
"I’m yours," he whispers. "Don’t ever doubt that."
The moment hangs heavy and sweet between you, the kind that feels like a turning point -- like the world just shifted an inch.
"Come here," he says softly, taking your hand. "Let’s go get comfortable."
He leads you toward the bedroom, fingers intertwined, like he’s afraid to let go.
The bedroom lights are low, warm and golden, throwing soft shadows across the room. You both move slowly, like you’re afraid to break whatever fragile bubble you’ve stepped into. Chan sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off his rings one by one, setting them carefully on the nightstand.
You change into a loose shirt and soft shorts, and when you turn back around, he’s watching you with that expression again -- the one that sees right through you, like he’s memorizing every moment for later.
He pats the space next to him. "Come here."
You climb onto the bed, settling beside him. He immediately hooks his arm around your waist, dragging you gently across his lap so you’re facing him. His hands rest warm on your thighs, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, searching your face.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Are you?"
He nods, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. "I am now."
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. Each one feels like a promise. You slide your hands up his shoulders, feeling the tension he carries there finally beginning to melt.
"It still feels strange," he murmurs, "coming home like this. Early. Actually getting to sit with you. Touch you. Talk to you. I missed this so much."
You brush your thumb along his jaw. "We’ll have more of it. We’ll make more."
His eyes darken with that same intensity from earlier.
"You always talk like the future is certain," he says quietly.
"It is," you whisper. "At least with you."
Something in him cracks open. He pulls you closer, forehead against yours, breathing you in.
"I want all of it," he whispers. "Marriage. A home. Waking up next to you every day. Cooking together, fighting over laundry, arguing about stupid things and then making up. I want to grow old and grey with you and complain about our backs hurting…though mine already hurts at times."
You laugh softly against his lips. "You sound like you’ve planned this."
"I have," he admits without shame. "More times than I can count."
You tilt your head, brushing your nose against his. "Tell me."
He smirks lightly, hands squeezing your hips. "Tell you what?"
"Everything. What you picture. What you want."
His voice falls lower, rougher, trembling with honesty.
"I want a little house just outside the city," he begins. "With space for a yard. So the dogs have room to run. And maybe a tiny studio space for me so I’m not working in the living room and driving you insane."
"Bold of you to assume you won’t drive me insane anyway."
He grins. "Oh, I will. But at least it’ll be in a beautiful house."
He traces patterns on your arm as he keeps speaking.
"And maybe kids. Not because I feel like I should, but because... I want to see what pieces of us look like put together. I want to teach them guitar. I want them to fall asleep on my chest. I want to watch you hold them, but again only if you want kids. And thats a picture my brain keeps replaying."
Warmth floods your body, tightening your throat.
"How many?" you ask softly again.
He shrugs, easy and gentle. "You are repeating questions tonight baby, the answer won’t change… we will have as many or as few as you want. It’s your body. You decide. I’ll just be the supportive guy handing you water and crying more than you."
You laugh, wiping the corner of your eyes. "You’re ridiculous."
"Deeply," he says. "Irrecoverably ridiculous about you."
You rest your forehead against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent -- detergent and his hair sweet serum and something uniquely Chan. His hand slides up your back, slow and soothing.
"And marriage?" you question again in a whisper.
He stills, then speaks with absolute certainty.
"I’d marry you tomorrow," he says. "If I could give you the time and the stability you deserve. If I wasn’t always exhausted, always gone, always trying to be everything for everyone else."
"Chan--"
He lifts a hand to cradle your jaw.
"I don’t want our wedding to be rushed. I don’t want you walking down the aisle alone because I’m overseas. I want to be there. Fully. Present. Not half a person."
You cup his cheek, leaning closer. "You don’t have to be perfect for me."
"I know," he whispers, eyes softening. "But I want to be better. For you."
You swallow hard, voice trembling. "I’d wait a lifetime if it meant ending up with you."
His breath stutters -- you feel it more than hear it. He pulls you into a kiss that is slow, deep, reverent. His hands slide up your back, gripping gently, pulling you closer like he can’t bear the space between you.
When you break apart, foreheads still touching, he whispers:
"One day, I’m going to get down on my knees and I’m going to ask you to be my wife my forever. And I hope you say yes."
You smile through the heat pooling in your chest. "I will. Every time."
Something playful sparks in his eyes, breaking the intensity with ease.
"Good. Because I already practice saying ‘my wife’ in the mirror."
You shove his shoulder, laughing. "You’re shameless."
He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice dripping with warmth.
"Only for you."
Your breath hitches as his hands glide slowly up your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt just enough to feel skin. His mouth trails soft kisses along your jaw, down your neck, lingering like he’s worshipping every inch.
"You have no idea what you do to my head just by existing," he whispers against your skin. "I missed touching you like this….holding you close."
Your fingers slide into his curls, tugging gently, and he groans softly, head falling back into your hand like he’s starving for it.
"Stay with me tonight," he murmurs. "Don’t let go."
"I’m not going anywhere."
He moves the blanket over both of you, settling you against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. He presses one last kiss to the side of your neck and breathes out, peaceful and soft.
Minutes later, his breathing steadies, falling slow and deep -- the rare sound of christopher genuinely resting.
You stroke his hair gently, smiling as he murmurs something half-asleep, voice warm and slurred against your skin.
"Goodnight, future Mrs. Bahng."
You feel your heart break and rebuild all at once.
"Goodnight, chris."
The world fades into quiet, warm and safe, wrapped in the arms of the man who is already your home.
Stray Kids received their 1st Album of the Year (Daesang) at 2025MAMA with their KARMA Album!
I'm soooo fcking proud of them. They deserve it so much. All the struggles they went through, the exhaustion they all felt, all the ups and downs, it all paid off.
STRAY KIDS EVERYWHERE ALL AROUND THE WORLD. YOU MAKE STRAY KIDS STAY!!
This 8 men who creates music will always be my home ❣️
One day when Chris finally takes a step back you'll realise just how lucky you were to have someone as caring and selfless as him to look up to. One day he's going to put a stop to all of this and choose something private to pursue that none of you will be able to have access to, and you're going to regret the way you treated him despite how kind he's always been, regardless of the hurt that gets spewed his way.
You forget that under his public image, he's a normal person just like anyone else, who's trying his hardest to do what he enjoys while also helping millions of people, which isn't something he's obligated to do. He doesn't have to spend his time thinking about how he can make complete strangers feel better and like they aren't alone. He doesn't have to spend his time sending messages in the hopes of making the people on the other end smile and forget about their worries for a moment. He doesn't have to put everyone first and forget to take care of himself. But he does because he genuinely cares and wants people to be happy - and if that's corny to you, then I worry for you. Clearly you haven't experienced any sort of care or kindness in your life and that's why it makes you feel uncomfortable. Otherwise, it doesn't make any sense for you to treat him the way you are. And why feel the need to say anything at all? If you don't like him or the things he does - which is completely valid, it's impossible to like everyone or to be liked by everyone - then don't say anything at all. Why are you wasting your time bringing your own character down just to hurt someone who has shown nothing but kindness to you? If someone in your day-to-day life came up to you and treated you personally the way he treats his fans, would you treat that person the same? Would you call them corny for being kind? Would you say horrible things when they make time for you? I highly doubt you would unless you're a complete and utter cunt ... which I wouldn't put past a few of you. So why treat him that way? What exactly are you gaining from this?
The worst part is, I know a large chunk of you who are behaving this way are also the same people who complain on a regular basis about him not doing his lives anymore, and act all entitled like you deserve to have his time. You're the same people who claim he can't do anything right, yet as soon as he disappears for a day, he's the one in the wrong for not being there. Not only does that make you hypocritical, it makes you downright selfish, rude, and overall a shitty person. You make him apologise for things he has no business apologising for. He's the one who deserves hundreds of apologies - yet he always apologises first because he doesn't want more hurt to be spread around.
Maybe you don't understand what you have in front of you right now. One day when it's all gone you'll realise. But it'll be too late for you to do anything about it.
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
izzy806
2087
germansingergirl
