I hope I'm not just a mutual to you, but someone you want to bring up in irl conversation so you have to awkwardly and cryptically say "my friend..." and refuse to elaborate on my origins or the origins of our friendships
♡ ― fratboy!bangchan x f!reader a loooot of sexual tension, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, handjob, a lot of curse words, dirty talk.
♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.
[7.4k words ]♡― guys, i'm very grateful that you enjoyed gameboy. thanks to everyone who asked to be on the taglist, to everyone who is deeply involved in the story (just like me). here's another chapter. the third of this journey. don't forget to listen to the playlist and those who just got here PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.
♡― THE PLAYLIST.
♡ [part one] ♡ [part two]
We'll be dancin' with the shadows in the night
The stars are jealous knowing that you’re by my side
Feel the adrenaline, acceleration
In the course, we’ll be drivin' so rough
The whole campus buzzed like it had just been cast as extras in Magic Mike: College Edition.
Nahee appeared with her basket of brownies, practically vibrating with excitement. You had floated the idea to your theater crew, and, much to your delight, they had all rallied behind it.
“This,” she said, scanning the chaotic crowd, “is the sluttiest thing I’ve ever seen.” She turned to you, her grin devilish. “And I love it.”
The scene was pandemonium. The entire basketball team had ditched their shirts, creating a spectacle that rivaled any reality dating show. Lines formed instantly—three people deep for each boy, regardless of who they were. Men, women, professors who “just happened to be walking by”—no one was immune. A few of the boys even posed for photos, flexing like they were auditioning for a particularly steamy firefighter calendar.
“This has a countdown clock before someone shuts it down,” you said, arms crossed, though you couldn’t stop your lips from twitching.
“Let them try,” Eunji sighed, fanning herself dramatically. “This is art. This is community service. This is visual serotonin.”
“Speaking of the devil…” Nahee tilted her head, gesturing with the slightest nod.
You followed her gaze and immediately wished you hadn’t. Bangchan was front and center, a walking thirst trap without even trying. His arms, all defined muscle and veins, moved in practiced ease as he handed out brownies with that easy smile of his. His shoulders looked like they could carry half the student body, and his wet, glistening torso was proof he either took this way too seriously or knew exactly what he was doing. Either way, the guy was impossible to ignore.
You tilted your head, feigning indifference despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “Guess some people can’t help themselves, huh?”
Nahee smirked, not buying it for a second. “Some people, indeed.”
You hated to admit it, but he was a natural. Flashing easy smiles, throwing in effortless charm, making every girl swoon just enough to dig into their wallets a little faster. All he had on were sweatpants slung low on his hips and his cap turned backward—just unfair, really.
Not that it mattered. You weren’t talking. There was nothing to talk about. And yet, after the kiss, everything had shifted. Bangchan had distanced himself like you were a plague, and for once, he wasn’t even trying to get under your skin.
You stole glances when you thought he wouldn’t notice, hating the way every passing hand seemed to have permission to touch him. He didn’t look at you once. And knowing him, that meant something.
The sun was relentless, making the whole shirtless thing almost justifiable. You, Eunji, Nahee, and Sohee made your rounds across campus, hustling for the theater fund. But let’s be real—nobody cared about the cause.
They wanted six-packs and pretty smiles.
You were so busy pretending not to notice Bangchan’s every move that you almost missed the presence looming beside you.
“Hey,” Mingyu greeted, arms crossed, his signature grin firmly in place. “Got one of those brownies for me?”
“Of course,” you said, grabbing a brownie and passing it to him. He handed you a bill, and the weight of it made you freeze. That wasn’t just a regular bill—it was way too much.
“Uh, I think you might’ve made a mistake…” you started, holding it up.
“No mistake,” he cut in smoothly. “I’m buying the whole basket.”
You blinked. Once. Twice. “I’m sorry, what now?” you glanced at the basket, then back at him. “You want to buy all of them?”
“You heard me.” he shrugged, his tone so casual it bordered on infuriating.
Your brow arched instinctively, your internal lie detector pinging. Still, you weren’t about to complain about a sale this good. Slowly, you held the basket out to him, trying to mask your suspicion with a polite smile.
But Mingyu just shook his head, taking a bite of the brownie in his hand. “Keep it,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t buy them for the brownies.”
The corner of your mouth twitched, your sass kicking in to override your confusion. “Oh, right. I forgot. They pair perfectly with a little showing off.”
He laughed, leaning in slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted a reason to talk to the cutest seller here.”
“You know, flattery works better when you actually take the brownies.”
“I’ve got what I wanted,” he teased, taking another bite.
As much as you wanted to roll your eyes, you couldn’t hide your smirk. A sale was a sale, even if the customer was a little too smooth for his own good.
You stood there, momentarily stunned. Someone had just dropped a ridiculous amount of money on brownies—out of nowhere—and then decided you could keep both the cash and the sweets. Suspicious? Absolutely. But were you going to argue? Not a chance.
With a smug grin, you strolled across the lawn, basket in one hand and Mingyu’s absurdly generous payment in the other. The whole thing felt like an easy win—until a strange heat crawled up your spine, prickling your skin like the sun had suddenly gotten personal.
You turned your head, and there he was. Bangchan. Watching you.
And for the first time all day, he wasn’t smirking. No teasing, no cocky grin—just something sharp in his gaze, something dark curling at the edges.
Bangchan had never been the clingy type. He wasn’t the guy who caught feelings, overanalyzed texts, or lost sleep over someone who didn’t want him back.
Relationships? Fun while they lasted. Breakups? Mutual and drama-free. Ever since college started, he’d embraced the single and thriving lifestyle—no strings, no complications, no mess.
And sure, people talked. About his skills on the court, his grades, his leadership. But mostly, about his other talents. The ones that kept his phone buzzing at ungodly hours, filled with invitations that had nothing to do with basketball.
Bangchan never minded the attention. He never cared—until the only girl he actually wanted looked at him like he was just another name on a list.
Like he was forgettable.
What the hell was he doing wrong? He was a good guy. A loyal friend. A straight-A student. A goddamn basketball prodigy.
So why weren’t you interested? Why were you the only one immune?
He wanted to push, to test your limits, to make you see him the way he saw you. But that wasn’t his style.
He knew when to start and when to stop. And right now? He was dangerously close to crossing that line.
Bangchan wasn’t asking for much. Just a moment—one real, uninterrupted conversation with you. No sharp comebacks, no teasing deflections. Just you, stripped of the armor you wore so well.
But that wasn’t your style, was it? You never made things easy.
It all started when Hyunjin, the group’s reigning drama king, decided to join the theater. Naturally, he demanded a full entourage for moral support, which was how Bangchan ended up in that stuffy auditorium, sitting between Seungmin, Changbin, and Jeongin, watching Hyunjin pour his soul into a song like he was auditioning for Broadway itself.
He was good. Of course, he was good. Velvet-voiced, graceful, with a presence that demanded attention. The second he finished, Bangchan was ready to get up, clap him on the back, and drag him out for celebratory food—
Until you stepped onto the stage.
He didn’t know your name yet. Didn’t know anything about you. But there you were, in knee-high boots and a white dress, angelical, standing under the spotlight like you owned it.
Then, you started to sing. I’ll Be Over You. Soft, rich, and powerful all at once.
And just like that, Bangchan was gone.
He wasn’t used to losing—not in basketball, not in academics, and definitely not when it came to people. So when he finally got close enough to talk to you, he expected… well, something.
Maybe intrigue. Maybe mild annoyance. Fuck, he would’ve taken playful exasperation.
But you? You loathed him.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Any hope of friendship, of even standing on neutral ground, went up in flames. You always had a comeback locked and loaded, always deflected, always avoided his gaze like it might set you on fire.
And maybe it would.
Because that sharp tongue of yours? The way you kept him at arm’s length, like he wasn’t worth a second glance? It only made him want to push harder.
So fine. If you were going to make him fight for every inch, he’d play along.
He just needed to know—was this all just a game to you? Or were you just as afraid of losing as he was?
The bar was buzzing, laughter and conversation mixing with the clink of glasses and the steady thump of music. You were comfortably wedged between Sohee and Eunji, their arms draped around you like you were some rare artifact they had to protect at all costs.
You were tipsy, maybe a little emotional, but mostly just basking in the warmth of the people around you. Tonight wasn’t about stress or overthinking. It was about celebrating a well-earned victory.
"I can't even describe how happy I am, guys," you sighed, raising your glass with a lazy smile. "You are, without a doubt, the best friends a girl could have."
Eunji and Sohee groaned dramatically, tightening their hold on you. "You’re lucky we love you," Eunji grumbled. "And that we’re good at handling your emotional soju phases."
"I mean it," you insisted, half-dramatic, half-serious. "We did it! We have enough to keep the theater running until Mrs. Baek finds a permanent solution."
Your gaze flitted across the table, landing on Seungmin and Hyunjin. "None of this would’ve happened without you."
“We’re a fucking team!” Changbin declared, slamming his hand on the table with the confidence of a man three shots past his limit. "And you know what that means? Another round!"
The table erupted in cheers, and for a moment, everything felt right. Until you felt it. That pull. That heat at the back of your neck, like someone had just flipped a switch.
You knew before you even turned. Bangchan was here.
You refused to acknowledge him. Absolutely not. You were having a great time, and he—well, he was an occupational hazard. A walking, talking disruption to your peace.
"Channie!" Felix called, pulling him further into the group. "Finally decided to show up, huh?"
You still didn’t look. Instead, you took a long sip of your drink and focused on the condensation trailing down your glass, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
But Bangchan had never been one to be ignored.
"You didn’t think I'd come?" his voice slid into the conversation so smoothly it sent a shiver down your spine.
You took your time—because if he was going to show up and be smug about it, you could at least make him wait. Finally, you turned, meeting his eyes head-on. "Didn’t think you’d dare."
He smirked, leaning just a little closer, like he was waiting for you to react. You didn’t.
But your pulse? Yeah, that was another story.
Bangchan leaned back in his seat, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he watched his friends celebrate. He should’ve felt the same rush of excitement, the same weightless joy—but his mind was elsewhere. The relentless pressure of basketball training sat heavy on his chest, and the gnawing anxiety that came with it refused to let go.
And then there was you.
Standing there, effortlessly stunning, laughing like the world had never touched you. Just close enough to see, but never close enough to reach.
When Changbin made his way to the bar for another round, you followed, craving something non-alcoholic to cut through the buzz in your head. He glanced at you as you stepped up beside him.
“Happy?” he asked, arms crossed, an amused glint in his eye.
You grinned, light and unburdened in a way Bangchan hadn’t seen in a while. “Very. Thanks for all the help.”
Changbin shook his head with a smirk. “You should be thanking my boy over there.”
Your brows knitted together as you followed his gaze. Bangchan, mid-laugh, his head thrown back at something Jisung said. Carefree. Unbothered. Completely unaware that your entire world had just tilted on its axis.
“What?”
“He basically forced the team to join the sale,” Changbin said, voice thick with the weight of alcohol and honesty. “Said it was to help a friend.”
Your stomach did something weird—tightened, flipped, something you weren’t prepared for.
The memory hit like a slow-motion replay. Bangchan barged into your dorm, smug as ever, announcing he had dragged the entire basketball team into your little fundraising mess. You had assumed it was for Hyunjin and Seungmin. Maybe even for some ego boost, a reason to flash that damn smirk of his.
But no. A friend.
“Really?”
Changbin snorted. “What? You think he went out selling brownies half-naked just for fun?”
You forced a laugh, but your smile didn’t quite stick. Something about it—about him—felt different now.
Changbin walked off with his four bottles of soju, leaving you behind, still leaning against the counter, replaying his words in your head. It was almost offensive to think of Bangchan as anything other than his usual self—cocky, overconfident, annoyingly self-assured. Your brain outright rejected the idea that he could be good. That he could do something selfless without expecting anything in return.
And yet, here you were, stuck with the uncomfortable realization that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the villain you’d made him out to be.
Letting your guard down was one thing. Admitting you’d been wrong? That was the real battle.
You made your way back to the table, feeling just sober enough to regret this night’s life-altering discoveries. Sliding onto the edge of your seat, you watched as Jisung threw himself into a chair, already deep in the throes of drunken confidence.
“I’m feeling karaoke,” he announced, slurring just a little. “Who’s in?”
One by one, the group rose, fueled by alcohol and poor decision-making. Bangchan stood up last, and as he did, your hand found his arm, barely brushing over the smooth leather of his jacket.
“Hey,” you said quietly. “Can we talk?”
He blinked, caught off guard. For a second, he just stared, as if trying to decipher whether this was some kind of elaborate prank. Then, he glanced at the others heading toward the karaoke booth and nodded.
“Later,” he murmured. “That okay?”
You swallowed, suddenly unsure why your heartbeat had decided to play double time.
“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. “That’s… yeah. Sure.”
The night had escalated quickly. One minute, everyone was just vibing at Kooler’s, and the next, you were crammed into a karaoke room, neon lights flashing, Sohee absolutely butchering a ballad while Eunji screamed in horror.
The mic passed around until it somehow ended up in your hands.
“Oh, no,” you said immediately. “I don’t sing in public.”
“Ma’am,” Eunji deadpanned. “You’re in the drama club.”
“Yeah, for acting,” you retorted. “Not for embarrassing myself in front of—”
But then the opening notes of Breaking Free started playing, and the room lost it.
“Oh, you have to sing now,” Changbin cackled.
“We’re literally living a High School Musical moment!” Sohee clapped.
Then, the real nightmare happened. Bangchan grabbed the second mic.
The room erupted.
“TROY AND GABRIELLA, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Eunji announced like a sports commentator.
“Nope.” you stood up, but Jisung pushed you back onto the couch.
“You must embrace destiny,” he said solemnly.
Bangchan, ever the performer, smirked at you before dramatically bringing the mic to his lips. “We’re soarin’, flyin’—”
You covered your face with both hands. “Kill me.”
“That’s not the lyrics,” Changbin howled.
The moment Bangchan began to sing, his voice smooth and steady, you felt it—the tiny spark igniting between you, the way his presence pulled you in no matter how hard you tried to resist. His voice wrapped around the lyrics effortlessly, making them sound less like a cheesy high school musical duet and more like something real, something raw.
Then it was your turn.
Bangchan stilled for a moment, eyes widening slightly as you sang your part. He had always known you had a great voice—it was impossible not to, given how much time you spent in the theater club—but hearing you like this, just the two of you, no stage, no rehearsals, just you—it was mesmerizing.
God, you sounded unreal.
His chest tightened at how effortlessly you carried each note, how your voice blended with his in a way that made his skin prickle. You weren’t just singing—you were feeling it, even if you tried to hide behind an indifferent mask. He could see it in the way your body moved slightly to the music, in the way your lips curled at certain lyrics.
And fuck, he felt it too.
As the song picked up, the energy between you both crackled. Your voices melted together in harmony, and the chemistry was undeniable. You tried not to look at him, tried to focus on the screen, but every time you did, Bangchan was already looking at you, that damned smirk still in place.
When the chorus hit, something inside you gave in just a little. The moment was too fun, too infectious, and before you knew it, you were actually enjoying yourself.
You didn’t notice the way Bangchan’s gaze softened.
He saw through you, saw the way you let your guard down, even for just a second. And maybe it was the adrenaline, or the alcohol, or the way your voice wrapped around his in the final harmonized note, but Bangchan couldn’t stop himself from grinning like an idiot as you finished the song.
And that’s when all hell broke loose.
Everyone jumped up like it was the Super Bowl. Eunji was sobbing dramatically into Hyunjin’s shoulder. Changbin was standing on the couch, pointing like an old man watching his grandkids do something historic.
“Troy and Gabriella could never!”
When the song ended, the room was feral.
“That was the single most important moment of my life,” Eunji declared, visibly drunk and happy.
“I think I just saw God,” Felix wheezed.
Meanwhile, you just handed the mic to Eunji, turned to Bangchan, and muttered, “I hate you.”
He leaned in, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Sure you do.”
You’d excused yourself under the guise of needing a breather, but really, you just needed a damn second to exist without someone screaming lyrics in your ear or pulling you into another round of shots. The night was fun, but it was loud, and if you wanted to make it through, you needed a minute to reset.
The balcony was empty, save for the faint scent of nicotine lingering in the air. You took a deep breath, letting the cool breeze settle against your skin, grounding yourself. The city hummed below, distant and detached, and for a second, you just… let yourself be.
Then, before you even opened your eyes, you felt him.
That ridiculously familiar cologne. The one that had been all over you. On his t-shirt. In your space. In your head.
“Is our rockstar already tapped out?”
You turned just in time to see Bangchan leaning back against the railing, watching you with that look.
“A little.” you waved a hand dismissively, but your small smile gave you away.
His was softer, quieter than usual, but still there. Still undeniably him. And the way his eyes swept over you in the dim light? Yeah. You could feel it. The way he noticed things, details, like he was cataloging every inch of you.
It should’ve annoyed you. But tonight? Tonight, it didn’t.
“Heard you wanted to talk to me.”
You raised a brow, suddenly remembering why you had pulled him aside in the first place. “Right. Think I owe you an apology.”
Bangchan’s expression flickered with surprise. “For what?”
“You know what.”
“Do I?” he leaned in slightly, nodding as if urging you to continue. “You should be clearer.”
You exhaled, hating how hard it was to say it. Vulnerability has never been your strong suit.
“Fine.” you glanced down at your boots, gathering your thoughts. “I know you convinced the basketball team to help with the sale. I assumed the worst about you, and that wasn’t fair. So… I’m sorry. You really helped me.”
Silence.
When you looked up, Bangchan was staring at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. Confused. A little offended. Like that was what you thought needed an apology.
“That’s what you’re apologizing for?”
You blinked, confused. “What else should I apologize for?”
Bangchan let out a dry, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair before whispering a low, exasperated “fuck you.”
Your eyes narrowed. His arms crossed over his chest, the leather of his jacket tightening around his sleeves as he shifted against the ledge.
“What was that?” you demanded.
“Look, I appreciate the apology, really. But that’s not the thing you should be apologizing for.”
Oh, he was so good at pissing you off. Always had been.
“Then be clearer,” you shot back, arms folding tightly over your chest.
“Alright.” Bangchan turned to you fully, gaze locked in, voice steady. Too steady. “Let’s talk about your habit of coming after me and then bolting the second it gets real.”
Your jaw clenched. “I never—”
“For fuck’s sake, be for real. At the party? In my dorm? I’m not saying I didn’t want it—fuck, I wanted it. But so did you. And then you acted like it was a mistake. You run from things.”
His words landed like a punch to the stomach—sharp, direct, impossible to ignore. You blinked hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes, but you had nothing. No witty comeback, no escape route. Just the weight of the truth between you.
Maybe he was right. Maybe you did want this—him. The way he looked at you like he could devour you whole, the way his hands knew exactly where to go, the way your body reacts before your mind could stop it. You wanted it. You wanted him. But wanting didn’t make it easy.
“Why are you mad?”
“Why?” he let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Because it’s fucking frustrating, that’s why. You can’t make up your damn mind.”
You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself, but your heart was hammering.
“It’s not that simple,” you muttered, voice quieter now, the anger slipping into something else. “Not for me.”
“Why? Because you hate me?” his lips curled, amused despite himself. “Which, by the way, I’d love to hear all those bullshit reasons why.”
“Is that really what matters?” you lifted your chin, defiant.
“So what, you’ve just decided you’re gonna hate me forever?”
“Maybe I will,” you shot back, voice dripping with venom.
Bangchan smirked, stepping in closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator cornering its prey. He leaned against the railing, his body angled toward yours, closing in just enough to make you breathless. "Hate to break it to you, love," his voice was low, dripping with amusement, "but people don’t usually fuck their enemies."
That voice. That damned voice—soft as silk, smooth as sin, and dangerous enough to make your pulse stutter.
Heat coiled in your stomach, spreading like wildfire, your body betraying you instantly. No. You weren’t going to let him win this.
"You’re right," you said, tilting your chin up, feigning nonchalance. "Which is why it’s never happening again."
A bold-faced lie. One you both saw through immediately. Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, your mind was already spinning with memories—his hands, his mouth, the way your bodies fit together like a perfect crime.
Bangchan chuckled, dark and knowing. He moved closer, close enough that you could feel his breath graze your lips, your senses drowning in him—the scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating off his skin, the sheer audacity in his gaze.
"That’s a shame," he murmured, eyes flicking to your lips, "because we’ve got insane bed chem."
You swallowed hard. You didn’t know what was doing you in—the teasing rasp of his voice, the heat rolling off his body, the way his muscles flexed under that stupidly fitted jacket, or just him. All of him.
And just like that, your heart slammed against your ribs, your resolve threatening to crumble.
Bangchan lingered, watching—waiting. He wanted to see it happen, the exact moment your carefully built walls cracked. His pulse pounded, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. But you held firm, clinging desperately to whatever thread of self-control you had left.
His smirk deepened, infuriatingly cocky. "I’m heading out," he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. Then, with a knowing glance, he added, "If you ever change your mind… you know where to find me."
And just like that, he turned on his heel, walking away without so much as a second look, leaving you standing there—heart racing, head spinning, and a heat pooling low in your stomach that you really didn’t want to acknowledge.
The night stretched on, loud and chaotic, but undeniably fun. By the time the drinks had blurred everyone’s ability to string together a coherent sentence, you decided to call it.
Back at the dorm, Eunji and Sohee barely made it to their rooms before collapsing face-first onto their beds, too drunk to even bother kicking off their shoes.
You wished you could do the same. But no—your mind had other plans.
You tossed. You turned. You put on some soft music, hoping it would lull you into sleep. It didn’t. Instead, every time you closed your eyes, all you saw was him.
The way he leaned in earlier, the heat rolling off him like an invitation. The way his muscles flexed beneath his jacket. The way his voice dropped, teasing, tempting, knowing.
You exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the sheets. It was ridiculous. Annoying. Infuriating.
You rolled onto your side, desperate for a distraction—anything—when your gaze landed on something draped over your study chair.
A black T-shirt. His.
The idea bloomed in your mind just as quickly as the heat spread between your thighs.
Pathetic. That’s what this was. That’s what you were.
Still, you got up, grabbing the shirt in your hands. His scent clung to the fabric—clean, musky, him. Just the faintest trace of it had your stomach twisting, the warmth inside you flickering into something dangerously close to need.
Before you could think better of it, you were pulling a hoodie over your flimsy excuse of a pajama shirt and slipping out the door.
It was past midnight. The campus was practically a ghost town at this hour, which was both a blessing and a curse. No one witnessed this humiliating trek across the quad. No one to stop you, either.
Your steps quickened as you reached his building, as if slowing down would somehow bring back your sanity.
Not happening. Not when your knuckles were already rapping against the door. Not when your breath was unsteady, your chest rising and falling too fast. Not when anticipation was burning through your veins, leaving you lightheaded and restless.
Shuffling sounds came from the other side. The lock clicked.
And then—him.
Bangchan stood in the doorway, his torso bare, sweatpants hanging sinfully low on his hips. His skin gleamed under the dim hallway light, muscles shifting as he leaned against the doorframe.
One look at you—hoodie, messy hair, his damn shirt clenched in your fingers—and something shifted in his expression. His lips parted slightly. His gaze darkened.
He already knew.
Bangchan was deep in sleep when the knocks came. His brows furrowed, his face crumpled with exhaustion as he groggily sat up, running a hand through his messy dark hair.
He hadn't been expecting anyone. But when he swung open the door, there you were. Hoodie slightly oversized, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with something unspoken.
You lifted the black shirt in your hands, your breath still uneven. “You forgot this.”
Bangchan’s gaze dropped to the fabric, then back to you, slow and deliberate.
“That’s all?” his voice was rough with sleep, but there was something sharper beneath it.
You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”
That was all he needed.
The shirt was snatched from your grip and tossed somewhere behind him. His free hand was already at your waist, pulling you inside with a force that had your pulse skyrocketing. The door barely had time to click shut before you were on him. Hands in his hair, lips crashing into his, pouring all your frustration and desperation into the kiss.
Bangchan groaned into your mouth, gripping your hips so tight it sent a shiver down your spine. His skin was warm, solid beneath your touch—broad shoulders, the ridges of muscle beneath your fingertips.
And you wanted all of him.
His hands slid up, fingers teasing along the curve of your spine. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, earning a sharp, guttural sound from the back of his throat.
You barely recognized yourself at this point. There was barely any sanity left in your body, and whatever remained was slipping fast.
Somehow, between hectic kisses and hands wandering like they had a mind of their own, you ended up on the sofa. Bangchan sat with his legs spread, his breath heavy, and you straddled his lap, your hands splayed against his firm chest.
His eyes were dark, hooded, watching you like you were something he wanted to devour.
"Are you sure?" the words left his lips, but your body already knew the answer. Your stomach twisted—not with doubt, but with the unbearable anticipation of what was about to happen.
Bangchan opened his mouth, but you pressed two fingers against his plush lips, cutting him off.
"Shhh," you hissed, your voice edged with frustration. Your hips rolled against him, a slow, deliberate drag that had him sucking in a sharp breath. The way he twitched beneath you sent a wicked thrill through your veins.
"You're driving me insane," you confessed, your nails digging into his skin. "You're in my head. That ridiculous face of yours."
Through the haze of want, Bangchan let out a breathless laugh, slowly biting your finger. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"
You smirked, dragging your fingers down his jaw. "Shut up. Kiss me."
And he did—like he had been waiting his whole damn life to.
With effortless ease, he shrugged off his sweatshirt, leaving you in nothing but that dangerously thin white tank top—one that did absolutely nothing to hide how your body reacted to him. Bangchan’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight. Fucking hell. He wanted to devour you. Every inch. Every sound. Every shiver.
His lips crashed onto yours, rough and demanding, his hand curling around the base of your neck as his tongue teased and tangled with yours. He tasted you like he was trying to memorize every second of it, like he never wanted to stop. The heat of him, the way his fingers dug into your waist, how his breath hitched every time you met his urgency—it was intoxicating.
Then his lips left yours, trailing down your jaw, down your neck, and suddenly, your body wasn’t yours anymore. Your knees went weak, your breath came in ragged little gasps, and before you could stop yourself, a low, broken moan escaped your lips—right against his ear.
Bangchan groaned. That sound. That fucking sound. He was about to lose his goddamn mind. His hands tightened around your hips, his patience thinning by the second as you shifted against him, rolling your hips just enough to make him ache.
That sound. That fucking sound. Bangchan was about to lose his goddamn mind.
“I want it off,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with need.
His hands twitched against your waist, desperate. He could’ve ripped those pants clean off your body if he wanted to. But you took your sweet, agonizing time peeling them away before settling back onto his lap, now wearing nothing but a flimsy pair of white panties.
He would have torn your pants to shreds right then and there, but you took your time—agonizingly slow as you peeled them away before settling back onto his lap, now clad in nothing but the flimsy white panties that left nothing to his imagination.
And fuck. Bangchan broke.
You looked like a dream, like something too good to be real. Kiss-swollen lips. Hair messy from his hands. Chest rising and falling as you gasped for breath.
You were going to ruin him.
The absence of your pants made you bolder, rolling your hips in slow, teasing waves against his lap. He was already impossibly hard, every grind making it worse—if you kept this up, he was going to lose it before he even got the chance to be inside you. And that was not what he wanted.
But fuck, it felt good. The thick bulge in his sweatpants rubbing against your soaked panties, just barely grazing your clit, sending white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Every movement set off a new wave of heat, of need, of something devastatingly addictive.
“I need to do something,” you whispered against his lips, your breath warm and uneven.
Bangchan still had his eyes closed, savoring every second of this moment, refusing to let it slip away.
“Please.”
Your hands drifted down, fingers ghosting over the outline of his cock through the soft fabric of his sweats, barely touching—but more than enough to make his whole body tense. He gritted his teeth, veins pulsing as your palm pressed just a little harder.
“Fuck…” he rasped, voice hoarse, almost a plea.
You shifted between his legs, fingers toying with the hem of his pants, your nails barely scraping against his skin. His gaze burned into yours, dark with anticipation, completely at your mercy. And when you finally wrapped your hand around him—hot, firm, thick—he let out a shaky, wrecked breath.
A low groan escaped his lips, his head falling back against the couch as you wrapped your hand around him, warmth meeting warmth. The muscles in his abdomen tightened, every nerve in his body set ablaze by your slow, deliberate movements. You weren’t in a hurry—you wanted him to feel this. To lose himself in the way you handled him, the way you made him wait.
"You said I could use my pretty mouth next time," you murmured, feigning innocence, biting your lip just enough to drive him mad.
And then you winked—sweet, angelic, like you weren’t about to completely wreck him.
His breathing stuttered. His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to grab you, to make you do something instead of torturing him like this. “You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, eyes rolling shut as pleasure coiled in his stomach.
You only smiled, satisfied with how easily he was unraveling for you. Leaning in, you ghosted your lips over his, not quite kissing him—just close enough for him to chase after the contact. His body burned under yours, every breath he took shaky, labored.
"Like that, baby" he panted, his voice breaking as he let himself go, surrendering to the moment, to you.
To his torment, you picked up the pace, your touch firm, deliberate. His breath hitched, his body tensing beneath your hand as his head fell back against the couch. The heat between you was unbearable, a wildfire consuming every inch of restraint he had left.
His moans came unchecked, rough and unrestrained, completely at your mercy. He let you guide him, surrendering to every agonizing second—until suddenly, it all stopped. The loss of contact was like a snapped tether, leaving him breathless, on edge, undone.
His chest rose and fell rapidly as he blinked down at you, wide-eyed, dazed. The way you knelt between his legs, watching him with that look—he swore it could drive him insane.
And then, with agonizing slowness, your lips parted. The moment your mouth met his cock, his whole body tensed, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth. His fingers curled into the couch, muscles drawn tight as you worked him over, your tongue teasing, tormenting, ruining him.
"Look at you," he murmured, smirking like he had the upper hand when, in reality, he was barely holding himself together. "So pretty around my cock" his tongue flicked over his lower lip, his voice rough, almost reverent.
If his goal was to sound composed, he was failing miserably.
You hummed in response, deliberately slow, deliberate in every movement. He cursed under his breath, fingers threading through your hair, not pulling—yet—but holding, like he needed something to keep him grounded.
"If you keep going," his voice was strained now, his thighs tensing beneath your touch, "I—"
You raised an eyebrow. "What, baby?”
His jaw clenched. He was already too far gone to play games, but you weren’t about to make this easy for him.
And then, just as he warned, he shattered. Every muscle in his body locked up, his breath stuttering as he tipped his head back, a curse slipping past his lips like a prayer. You didn’t let up, dragging out every second of his cum until his grip on reality seemed just as unsteady as his grip on you.
His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his grip on your hair going slack. You pulled back, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, before giving him a slow, knowing smile.
By the end of it, he was completely wrecked—chest heaving, eyes hazy, limbs boneless. His vision blurred at the edges, like his body couldn’t decide whether to collapse or beg for more. He knew you were good. Knew the chemistry between you was dangerous. But the way you looked at him—innocent, yet utterly sinful—while taking him so effortlessly? That was his undoing. You weren’t just ruining him.
And yet, you didn’t stop there.
Without hesitation, you climbed onto his lap, capturing his lips in a kiss so wet, so consuming, it made his head spin all over again. The taste of himself lingered between you, but you never shied away from things like that. Bangchan was great in every way, and if he could make you feel good, you’d damn well return the favor.
"Holy shit, baby," he murmured between kisses, his voice still rough with aftershocks, "you're fucking amazing."
The wicked curve of his lips sent heat straight to your core. He was teasing you, even now, when he could barely string words together.
And God, it only made you want him more.
Every movement between you was deliberate—synchronized, electric, and dripping with consent. Bangchan’s fingers trailed down your trembling thighs, finding the soaked fabric of your panties. He barely touched you, yet a deep shiver ran through him, his cock twitching at the sheer slickness of you.
"Fuck," he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with hunger.
Then, without warning, he pushed the fabric aside and pressed two fingers against your clit, rubbing slow, relentless circles.
Your moan was swallowed into the kiss, tangled between tongues and shallow breaths. He was hard again, pressing against your stomach, his body burning with every second of restraint. Bangchan grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer, his free hand teasing and taunting with no predictable rhythm—just continuous, torturous pressure that sent you spiraling.
"I..." you tried to speak, but the words crumbled in your throat, lost in the haze.
Bangchan's dark eyes locked onto your face, studying every microexpression—the way your lips parted, the way your brows knit together, how every tiny twitch exposed just how undone you were.
Then, as if testing the limits of your sanity, he dragged his fingers lower, slipping two deep inside.
You gasped.
The stretch was sinful. Even his fingers were thick, filling you in a way that had you gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Bangchan groaned at the feeling, his patience thinning with every squeeze of your walls around him.
And the worst part? He was just getting started.
He sucked on your lip, bit it, then soothed it with a kiss. "How can you be so fucking tight?" his voice was wrecked, nearly a growl, as he felt your walls clench around his fingers, swallowing him with a desperation that made his cock twitch.
Bangchan didn’t slow down. If anything, his pace turned ruthless—deep, fast, relentless. Each thrust of his fingers sent another jolt of pleasure through you, leaving your brain nothing but static. Your body thawed under his touch, a mess of heat and sensation. He pushed your blouse up just enough to bare your breasts, immediately palming them, kneading them as if the sensation alone could ruin him.
"Don’t stop." the demand left your lips between ragged breaths. "Harder."
Bangchan groaned, watching you ride in his lap like a dream he didn’t deserve. "Jesus Christ." his voice was strained, his self-control hanging by a thread. "’Gonna cum all over me, hmm? Is that what you want?"
It was too much. The filthy words, the ruthless rhythm, his fingers buried deep inside you while his cock throbbed against your thigh, still wet from your mouth. Your body was on the edge of something catastrophic.
And then you shattered.
The orgasm slammed into you like a cursive wave, your moan breaking into something raw, something uncontrollable. Bangchan swore under his breath, completely mesmerized. He didn’t stop—kept his fingers buried inside, working you through every pulse, every aftershock.
When your breath finally started to steady, you opened your eyes. And he was watching you.
His gaze was alarming—dark, hungry, completely ruined. As if he had just witnessed the most beautiful thing in the world.
You were both breathless, skin damp with sweat, but it wasn’t just the intensity of what happened—it was everything that had led to it. The frustration, the tension, the unspoken words tangled between your bodies.
Bangchan reached for his black shirt, which had been abandoned on the arm of the couch. "Keep this."
You eyed him, still catching your breath. "Why?"
"To motivate you."
You snorted, rolling your eyes before giving his shoulder a light shove. "You're so full of yourself."
But you still slipped it on, letting the oversized fabric swallow you up, suddenly feeling less exposed—less vulnerable. His hands remained on your thighs, holding you in place on top of him, as if he wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.
Then, casually, he picked up his phone and handed it to you. "Put your number in."
You held the device, raising an eyebrow. "Why? So you can save it as ‘bootycall’?"
His lips curled into a slow, shameless smirk. "Maybe."
"You're terrible." you rolled your eyes but still tapped your number into his phone, handing it back with a smirk. "And a complete pervert."
Bangchan ran his hands up your thighs, his fingers lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. "For you?" his voice was low, teasing, but there was something deeper in his gaze. "Completely."
The weight of the moment settled between you, thick and lingering. And that was your cue. You stood, reaching for your clothes, shaking off whatever it was that passed between you. Bangchan did the same, though not without watching you with that unreadable look on his face.
"You could stay if you want," he offered, ever so casually.
You scoffed. "It's late, and the girls will notice if I'm missing in the morning."
He nodded, as if he understood—because he did. No one could know.
Once you were dressed, you headed for the door, pausing just long enough to glance over your shoulder.
"So," Bangchan leaned against the couch, arms crossed, his smirk returning. "How about it?"
You blinked. "What?"
"It'll never happen again?" his tone was pure mischief, mocking you.
Your lips curled, mirroring his amusement. "You have my number." you shrugged, stepping into the hallway. "Make good use of it."
And with that, you disappeared down the corridor, leaving Bangchan standing there, an unfamiliar, overwhelming feeling tightening in his chest.
One thing was becoming painfully clear—whatever this was between you, it wasn’t going away. And maybe, just maybe, you were better together than apart.
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