Dahlia

94 baby 🫩 | OT8 | Chris & Hyunjin bias | Reblogged skz smut n angst mostly -because I like pain and hot boys 💗

[rockpaperskzers]

intro + master list

𓏲ּ𝄢 welcome to my corner of delusion 𓏲ּ𝄢 bang chan biased 𓏲ּ𝄢 all works contain smut, unless noted

ᝰ.ᐟ = based off a prompt from an ask. 𖹭 = no smut

The SKZ House (chan x hyunjin x reader | complete) AU. Senior Year. Living with the SKZ Fraternity. Your duties include cooking, cleaning, and pleasing your assigned members. Act Like You Love Me ᝰ.ᐟ (hyunjin x reader | complete) AU. You're cast as Hyunjin's love interest in a TV series. Enemies to Lovers.

Summer In Seoul (chan x reader | complete) In Korea for work, you have a summer fling with what you assume to be an average guy. But then, you find out what he really does for a living.

Forever x Fendi (chan x reader | in progress) When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.

Crossfire(minho x reader x chan | paused) Minho is dangerous, untouchable and yours. You've been with him since the rise of SKZ. But when Chan comes back into your life, now a cop, you're forced to face the question: who are you willing to sacrifice everything for?

BANG CHAN Did I Do Good? I Told You Not To Wear This LEE KNOW Bratty Little Pussy CHANGBIN Nonsense Peacemaker (ft. Seungmin) HYUNJIN coming soon HAN A Little Help From My Friend FELIX Get Off the Game Obsessed SEUNGMIN My Best Friend's Brother ᝰ.ᐟ Peacemaker (ft. Changbin) JEONGIN coming soon

FAKE TEXTS (OT8) after an argument you wake up to texts from your bf 𖹭

HEADCANONS hyung line as newbord dads 𖹭

banners @cafekitsune

[giventakenmeg]

familiarity .ᐟ.ᐟ

fucked up!chan x f!reader

word count: 3.0k

synopsis ⋆˚꩜｡ a night of vulnerability leads you to find out the truth.

genre ⋆˚࿔ in all parts there will be angst, smut, fluff, crack, lit all of above. in this, there is smut and slight angst. he’s called chris in this bc yes im that girl

cw: unprotected p in v (don’t do it. he pulls out), oral (m! receiving), fingering, semi public sex (backyard), mention of hickeys, lmk if there’s any i missed!

part 3 | part 2 | part 1

“Oh my gosh, why did you stop it??!” Hannah whines through the call.

“Cause i’m not like that!” You defend, groaning as your grip on your thigh tightens. “I mean shit, I wish I was. That man is so.. ugh.”

“Girl, I wish I knew what he looked like so I could support you. So unfortunate he was homeschooled.” She huffs.

“Tell me about it. He’s a beautiful man.” You smile, then hum in hesitance.

“I heard that, what’re you thinking?”

You chuckle, then shake your head with a sigh as you lean further back into the couch, “Just.. sometimes… he reminds me of your brother in a way. I mean, I haven’t seen him since he was.. what like seventeen? But still..”

She’s quiet for a moment, “Imagine it’s him.”

You laugh at that, “Stop. I’d be… i don’t even know. Why would he lie though?”

“Probably cause he’s a druggie and been through shit, it’s his brains main path.” Hannah mutters.

“That’s mean.. but I guess. I dunno.” You say gently, turning your head toward the glass sliding doors that lead to your backyard. You stare, observing the smoke that trials up into the clouds, coming from Carson’s backyard.

“I’m gonna go, okay? Thanks for calling me.” You say softly, eyes still stuck. You stand.

“Okay, girl. Love you.” She says simply, you return the kind word then end the call.

You make your way out of your house.

“Carson?” 

He spins his head toward the sound of your voice, and smiles. A bonfire sits a few feet infront of him, and he’s squatting beside it, adding more sticks.

“Hey, Y/N! I was actually about to send you a text and ask if you wanted to have a fire with me.” He smirks, standing up as he swipes his hands against each other.

You laugh a little, glancing at the fire, then the two lawn chairs that are placed a few feet away. “I’m honored.”

He smiles at that and gestures his head toward the chair closest to you, then steps back and lowers himself into the chair next to it with a sigh. “I finally finished unpacking, so I wanted to reward myself with a little nature. I haven’t had a fire like this since I was little.”

You turn your head toward him as you sit in the lawn chair, and smile softly. “Really? Wow. Must be nostalgic.”

He laughs, “You won’t believe it.”

You beam, running your hands down your bare thighs. You adjust your sweat shorts, making something to do with the silence.

“I’m really sorry about the freak out I had.” He says calmly, and you look over to meet his gaze, that sits comfortably on you. “I got really nervous, and didn’t know how to handle it.”

You shrug, pursing your lips. “No big deal. I rushed it, so I get it.”

He smiles, and nods. 

“You’re an amazing friend.” He says calmly, staring down at the fire. “My only.” 

Your heart kind of drops at that, not cause it’s kind— which it is— but friend? I mean, you cant be surprised. You only met like two months ago. Plus, things are weird.. so you mentally decide not to dig into it.

“Same with you. Except from the only part, you’re kind of a loser.” You tease, and laugh softly as his snicker.

He turns back toward you, and watch as his teeth catch on his bottom lip— gently chewing. You unconsciously lick your own, glancing away. You feel the tension, again. The same feeling that’s been present the past like.. six times you’ve hung out.

You feel a gentle tug on a strand of your hair, and guide your gaze to notice his hand running through your hair. 

“You’ve always been so beautiful,” He mutters softly, kindly.

The compliment first warms your heart, the heat spreading all throughout your body. You’re about to return the compliment, until you notice it.

Always. Always? What does he even mean by always? 

Before you can continue to even question it, your lips are enveloped by a familiar heat. Your eyes close involuntarily, and you hum softly. 

Your guys’ rhythm moves consecutively, one you already got used to last time. His hand sits on your cheek, gently caressing the skin with his thumb. You raise an arm, your hand tugging on the neckline of his shirt, pulling him closer.

You’re really not like this.. but shit. He’s got to be an exception.

A sound from deep in his throat escapes as you pull him close to you, and it makes you smile subtly against his mouth. You pull away, smiling as you stand up and switch from your chair, to his. You lower yourself onto his lap, straddling him.

His eyes are dark, swallowed in pure hunger and desire. His plump lips are a dark pink, and you could swear they grew in size from the kissing. (if they can even grow any bigger)

He runs his hands gently along your arms, and you just smile softly as you watch him, while his gaze follows his exploring hands. You gently push his chin up with the tips of your fingers, and his eyes quickly move from his hands to your face. He looks up at you, the height difference being superior for you now that you’re on his lap.

He can’t help but continue to stare, but you lean in and remind him of the warmth that your lips possess. (also because the staring was beginning to drive you crazy)

He hums, his mouth moving expertly against yours. As you kiss passionately, your hips can’t help but move in the same rhythm as your kiss. Soft moans escape his mouth at that sensation, and you tilt your head to deepen the kiss.

His hands slide from your arms to your hips, digging tight as the makeout session becomes even more heated— shared moans and grinding being present.

He finally pulls away, but only to drag his lips along a line he’s painted for himself. The corner of your mouth, your cheek, jaw, neck, the nape of your neck, then back up. 

All while he does that, you tangle your fingers in his blonde hair, humming softly.

He raises his kiss, nipping gently at your earlobe, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. He whispers, “Do you want to do this here?”

Not forcing, not suggesting, genuinely making sure you’re okay with the setting choice.

“I can take you to”—

“No, it’s okay. I like this.” You reply softly. He smiles against your neck at that, then trails his kiss to your jaw. He nips softly, then licks and sucks over the surface, and you absolutely know there will be mark after that.

You roll your hips again, to remind him of the swirling heat that’s been building at your core. He hums at that, lifting his lips to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“Excited, are we?” He asks gently.

You just smile, angling his head toward your lips as you meet his mouth again. His hands slide from your hips to the hem of your shirt, guiding it upward.

You pull back, lifting your arms as he removes your t shirt. Leaving you in your shorts and a white, laced bra. He replaces where his hands were, putting them on your hips as you roll them against his growing bulge.

And shit, the fact that you can already feel it from under his jeans excites you even more.

He leans his head down to your chest, and you arch your back as you lean away, giving him better access. He licks a long stripe from the top of your breast to your collarbone, and you whimper softly. He bites down.

One hand since then has slipped under the waist band of your shorts, slowly and cautiously moving toward your core. Once he gets there, he lifts his head from your neck and glances up at you, a silent question.

So you roll your hips against his hand as a response.

He moans at the feeling of your slickness rubbing on his hand just from a roll of your hips, and he slowly pushes a finger into your core. 

You whimper, your head dropping down to look at where his hand is lost under your shorts. You grind your hips against his hand, and let a moan escape when he curls his finger. 

Your grip in his hair tightens when he adds another finger, curling them professionally inside you. A whimper leaves your throat, and you drop your head on his shoulder. Your lips sit on the nape of his neck as he curls his fingers against the spot that makes your whole stomach fill with heat, and you roll your hips against him to chase that feeling.

“Do you feel good, baby?” He whispers from above you, and you just nod quietly. “Tell me how good I make you feel, Y/N.”

You whine, lifting your head and pressing a sloppy kiss to his neck.

“So good, I feel so good.” You mutter softly against where you just kissed.

He continues curling his fingers, occasionally pumping them in and out with the same curl. A few continuous minutes of that and you feel the warmth bubbling up, and is about to overflow.

You grip around his fingers, and whimper. But before you can finish, his fingers leave you. You gasp at the sudden emptiness, and groan.

He just laughs, “Sorry, honey. Not yet.”

He lifts his fingers, wrapping his lips around the two that were just inside of you, and sucking quietly. He removes them with a pop, and you just blink.

He smiles, and you can’t help but return it at the sigh of his. You lean down, pressing a wet kiss to his jaw, and nipping gently as your hands move down and fumble at his belt.

After removing it, you unbutton and unzip his jeans. You lift your hands, sliding them up his shirt. He pulls it off and you smile against his jaw, pressing another kiss before you step off of him. 

You set your hands on his shoulders as he stares up at you, and you slowly lower yourself onto your knees. Right there, in his backyard.

“Wait,” He says quickly, and you stop your movement while just on one knee. 

He grabs his shirt that he threw to the side, and lifts you up off your knee with a tug on your arm. He drops the shirt in front of him, covering a large patch of grass and sticks.

You lower yourself back down, your knees now protected.

What the fuck, that is so nice. You are about to give him the best head of his life bro damn.

You reach your hand into his pants, feeling for the stiffness that you’ve been feeling this whole makeout sesh. Once you wrap your hand around it, he hisses. You pull it out, and holy shit it’s a monster.

You’re lowkey kinda scared.

Freshly shaven, his cock is long and full of girth, his balls sit pretty right underneath it. Is anything about him flawed? You’re mad.

Instead of expressing your annoyance to his perfect self, you run your thumb along the tip of his cock, spreading his precum that continues its beading out from the slit at his cockhead.

Jesus.

You lean in, spitting on the tip of his cock, eliciting a groan from his plump lips. You spread the spit along his girth, pumping your hand up and down. A whimper escapes him and you genuinely think you came right then.

Once the spit is spread, you stick out your tongue and lick along the head of his cock, tasting the slight tint of pre. His hand flies up to your head, gathering your hair back like the kind gentleman this guy is. 

You hollow your cheeks, sucking the tip as if your job was to just suck all the cum from right there.

Then you guide your head down, then back up. You repeat the process, bobbing your head up and down on your beautiful neighbors cock. He groans so loudly, throwing his head back as his grip on your hair tightens. His other hand flies to the top of your head, gently encouraging the movement of your head.

He hisses, humming as if fighting back a moan. You continue the relentless sucking, your tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Once he draws close, he whimpers.

“Wait, no—“ He whines, and you remove your mouth from his cock. A string of spit follows you.

You pant quietly, looking up at him from between your lashes. He lets go of your hair, the hand dragging gently down the side of your face. “Jesus, you’re so beautiful.”

“‘M sorry, I don’t want to come yet.” He chuckles, and you smile, standing up. Your legs wobble at the long amount of time you were on your knees, and he tucks himself back in before standing up. “Please let me take you to my room, baby.”

You smile, “Okay.” Then your legs are swung from under you, and he picks you up. You yelp at the suddenness, and laugh.

Once you get to his room, it is in-fact unpacked. It looks great, and your about to express that but your cut off with the press of his lips against yours. He pulls off your shorts and underwear, leaving your bottom half bare. He presses one more kiss to your jaw, then leans back. He pulls off his pants and boxers completely, and you watch— before you decide to remove your bra aswell.

You both are left vulnerable and bare, but feel no unfamiliarity. He kisses you deeply, his hardened cock pressing against your stomach. He grabs it, moaning quietly against your mouth. He pumps it a few times, then guides the head to your soaked core.

The head presses in ever so slightly, and you let out a whimper. He strokes your cheek at that sound, and continues to gently push forward.

“It’s okay, baby. I got you. Doing so good f’me, beautiful.” He mutters, his voice gravely with a hint of pleasure.

Once he bottoms out, he groans. His breathing quickens, and he presses a kiss to your jaw once more. Your cunt tightens around his girth as a plea for movement, and his hand flies to your hip with a groan.

“Fuck, don’t do that. Jesus.” He whimpers, panting.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours. Above, you guys kiss passionately, your rhythms working together. Below, he begins his pace. He starts slow, pulling back almost completely, then bottoming back in with a hiss against your lips.

“You feel so good,” He mutters against your mouth, and you moan quietly.

After his slow pace, he begins to quicken. Chasing his own growing warmth, and allowing you to build your own.

His pace is relentless now, his hips snacking against your own with each thrust. Your lips set against his cheek, and he nuzzles his face against your shoulder. He bites down, his hand guiding up to gently place against your breast. His thumb and pointer finger press your nipple, gently rolling it between his fingers.

At that, you let go completely. With a loud moan of his name, your grip tightens and you come. Your release leaves you, and instead goes on him. 

At the feeling of your tightened grip, he chases his own. With a few desperate, sloppy thrusts, he pulls out quickly and pumps his cock, his cum shooting out onto your stomach. Some even making its way to your chest.

At that, he pants quietly, one hand set beside your head as he leans over you.

“Shit,” He says softly, and you smile. You gently lift your head, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He smiles against your lips, and hums as you pull away. Then he stands up, grabbing a washcloth from his connected bathroom. You cannot help but stare at his ass.

That is the most beautiful man ass you’ve ever seen. It may even be more beautiful than yours, you’re pissed once again. But then distracted at his gentle wipe on your body to clean his release off of you.

After cleaning up, he gave you a shirt and shorts of his own. Once he walks back in his room, now dressed, from washing his hands in the bathroom, he smiles at the sight of you sitting down in his clothes.

“Well damn. I could fuck you again at that sight.” He smiles, lowering himself beside you. He presses a kiss to your temple, then you both lower your bodies in his bed.

He lays on his back, one arm under you with his hand sitting on your head, occasionally playing with your hair. 

You lay beside him, body turned toward him. Your arms are wrapped around him, and your top leg is swung over his own. Your head rests on his chest.

It’s just quiet comfortability. You’re smiling gently against his chest, your eyes trailing around his room.

You never really got to look at it, so you finally take the chance as your eyes dart around.

You wish you never did that.

Cause your eyes land on a framed photo. It looks like a little boy, and his dog. But.. a familiar little boy.. a familiar dog.

That’s Mutt, Hannah’s childhood dog. Then that’s..

What the fuck?

Why does he have photos of Chris and his and Hannah’s— Oh my fucking God. No.

You sit up impossibly quickly. 

“Y/N?” Carson.. Carson? Is it even fucking Carson?.. Chris says reluctantly, staring up at you.

You ignore him, and instead stand up. You grab your phone and clothes from the bedside table, since he kindly went out there earlier to grab it for you.

Your eyes stay locked on the photo framed. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

Your feet patter against the floor, as you run out. You hear him call your name repeatedly from behind you, but you don’t care.

In his room, Chris glances toward where your eyes had been glued to. His expression drops. “Fuck,” He says quietly as he lowers the photo frame— as if it’d fix anything—, throwing the blanket off of him.

ouu shi👀 he’s in trouble. thank yew for support! this section was hard to write and make interesting, cause it was just smut then a cliffhanger.

but dw guys, next chapter i literally loved to write.

tags: @tpwkzoey101 @irikara @skzswife @starlletsblog @matchaafterhours @vixensss @nostalgicartemis @l-0-tje @chansalwayswatching @moonyxivy

[papawolfchris]

How do you resist those eyes?

[mrsx-alberich]

Watch me snap

relationships: Lee Know x female!Reader

cws: smut, unprotected sex (I planned this to be protected, I SWEAR), fingering, riding, dry humping, handjobs, oral sex (f! and m! receiving), squirting, cum eating, throatfucking, love confessions, a bit of fluff, virgin!Reader, virginity loss, virginity kink, corruption kink but with a twist, dom!Lee Know, service top!Lee Know

word count: 6686

summary: minho was the perfect boyfriend - sweet, caring but with a deep dark desire inside of him. When he finds out you’re so inexperienced, he can’t hold it back anymore

a/n: I actually had this idea for so long now and it was sitting in my drafts halfway done for literal months! I’m so glad I can finally present it to you

Your relationship with Minho had been effortless, almost perfect even.

He was considerate, a sweetie behind his sometimes stoic nature. He was a true gentleman, kind, caring and got along well with your family.

And well, you would probably describe his whole being as endearing.

He hugged you while he was asleep, pulling you against his chest, but would deny doing that the next morning.

He made you a cup of coffee first thing after getting up, even before he got the first sip himself, he would bring it to you when you refused to get up early.

He kissed you goodbye before heading to practice, lingering breaths left on your skin, his scent still burnt into your memory.

He texted you in every break, sending you a quick pic because he knew you were interested in his work.

He brought your favorite snacks with him when he came back home, telling you he thought you probably craved it all day.

But what you didn’t know about him were his desires deep down. When you smiled at him, eyes literally lighting up as soon as he did one of these things, there were these thoughts that almost plagued him.

When he held you close at night, his thoughts drifted off to a space where he imagined him pinning you down underneath him and fuck you into the mattress until you couldn’t speak, think or walk properly anymore.

When he made you breakfast in bed, there was this weird itch he had and it could only be properly smothered if he would fuck your face first thing in the morning instead.

When he kissed you before heading off to work, he always fantasized about pushing you against the wall and making you watch him ruin you all over in the broad mirror in the hallway.

When he sent you a selfie of him when he had a few minutes for himself, he had to fight the urge to facetime you and order you to show yourself to him in your entirety while he talked you through an orgasm.

When he stepped into your apartment in the evening, he wanted to jump at you so badly, his whole body screaming for him to bend you over the nearest surface.

But he did none of these things because he was kinda afraid to scare you off with it. Not all of his thoughts were that dark but all of them were full of filth. The two of you hadn’t been intimate yet, although your relationship was so fulfilling. It just hadn’t been the right time yet.

But in this very moment, your snuggle session on the couch while watching a movie had turned to him leaning over to you, kissing you slowly.

Your hands were so cutely braced against his chest, not shoving him away but feeling him. God, he really wanted to eat you whole - or eat you out, whatever happened first.

He moved his lips against yours, hand at the back of your neck to hold you in place like this. It wasn’t possessive, but firm and wanting. You let him, your heart fluttering and your stomach flipping out of excitement.

Minhos other hand ran up your thigh, squeezing your leg there before he cupped your core. Just for a second though, because your surprised gasp seemed to wake him out of his trance and he ended the kiss abruptly.

With his hands leaving you and him scooting away an inch, you felt your whole body tense up because of the loss of touch. This has been new but you wanted more, goosebumps formed on your skin.

“Sorry, I- uhhmm.. got a bit carried away”.

He looked at you so apologetically, shifting in his position as if it suddenly was uncomfortable to sit on the couch. You tilted your head in confusion, while in reality, he had to internally admit that the little sound you made just went straight to his cock.

“I liked it”, you finally said, voice trembling more than you had anticipated.

His face turned back to you.

“You did?”, he asked.

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap, his gaze made your body heat up. You felt weird, but in a good way.

“So- you want me to continue?”.

There was a pause, dead silence hung thick in the air between you. Your heart was so loud in your chest, it was the only thing you were hearing right now. You were nervous, but you knew this was right. Maybe you should have told him your secret sooner, though. You weren’t just inexperienced, you had no experience at all.

With your next nod, Minho immediately pulled you towards him, guiding you to sit on his lap and straddle him. You couldn’t describe the sensation, everything was so new and scary, but so good. Minho on the other hand felt like he was hitting the jackpot, he knew he possibly couldn’t indulge in all of his desires, but finally having the person he loved - yes, he indeed loved you - on top of him, was better than he had dreamed.

His hands were wrapped around your waist now, fingers digging into your flesh as he applied pressure to your form, urging you to move on top of him. But well, you were clueless, clumsy. You didn’t know what to do.

“Move, Jagi. Please”, his voice was broken, he wanted to pull your face down to kiss you, but your breathing hitched - he stopped.

“I don’t know how”.

At first, he didn’t really know how to react to that, he just looked up to you.

“I’ve never done something like that before”, you quietly admitted, avoiding eye contact, “I’m- uhmm”.

You felt tears already forming in your eyes so you squeezed them shut. It was embarrassing, you thought, and it probably weirded him out.

But poor Minho just tried so hard to sort his thoughts because oh my god, he could be your first. It was scaring him, to be honest. He wanted your first time to be something you would happily look back to. But deep inside, something told him to taint you. To ruin you for everyone else. To make you his own forever.

His silence was making you anxious and the tears started rolling. The sting in your chest was humbling, you felt incredibly dumb that you let this get so close to you. You couldn’t stop it even if you tried, but when you tried to get off of him, his grip just got stronger.

“No no no no. Don’t cry, Jagi”, his arms wrapped around you to pull you closer, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pressured you”.

You froze, your heart beating against your ribcage relentlessly.

“You’re not.. appalled by the fact I’m a virgin?”.

Oh god, you said it. He wanted to hiss, to moan, to press you down onto his cock, to rip off all of your clothes at this instant.

He needed to take a breath, all of these thoughts were not helping in his wish to make you feel as best as possible.

“No, of course not”, he said, voice as calm as he could muster, “Just under pressure”.

Although your body was still shivering and you couldn’t yet stop your sobs, his gentle and soft expression was soothing, so you leaned against him in need of the comfort he was trying to provide.

“What do you mean?”.

His hand moved to the back of your head, slowly stroking your hair.

“Well, the first time can be- a bit much? I wouldn’t want you to get overwhelmed by me accidentally hurting you”.

He still was just being a sweetheart, face nuzzling into your neck, placing a careless kiss there. It sent a little spark down your spine, letting something bloom inside you. You started thinking. You liked how he had touched you, even with clothes on. He was so considerate, immediately stopping when you felt uncomfortable.

You were sure he would be the right one, you were sure that he would take care of you.

“I want it”, you whispered, “With you”.

He flinched, physically jolted and made a noise you couldn’t quite understand the meaning of, but when you sat up, you saw his pupils dilate. He trembled, whole body vibrating, his lips were parted.

Minho looked incredibly hot like this, more than he usually did. You smiled through the anxiety, raising a hand to stroke the hair out of his face.

“But you’ll have to guide me”.

It seemed like he wanted to say something, but no word came out, his fingers scrunched up the fabric of your hoodie.

“Are you sure?”, he asked softly.

You nodded, cupping his face gently, there was no hesitation. Sure, you were a bit afraid, nervous, curious, but you didn’t hesitate a second.

“You need to tell me what you like, okay? And give me a sign when anything feels off”, he said, hands gliding back down and resting on your hips, “And we’re only going as far as you feel like”.

It was so endearing, how nervous he seemed to be as well. He was lucky you couldn’t read his mind, because he was so fucking scared he couldn’t resist. He was scared he couldn’t fight the urge to choke you, to pull your hair, to throatfuck you, to humiliate you, to use words he would later regret. Scaring you away was the last thing he wanted but god, the idea of being your first and sculpting you the way he liked was so tempting. And he hated how toxic that sounded.

“I trust you”.

“I trust you, too”, he sighed.

It felt like a love confession, something that also didn’t happen out loud in your relationship. But it made your heart flutter either way.

“You want me to show you how to move- on.. top of me?”, his gaze was strong, you felt something inside you tighten involuntarily at it.

You nodded, his grip on you getting a bit tighter. Minho took a deep breath.

“Okay, with clothes on it’s- it’s about the friction”, he explained and pushed you away a bit, but pulled you back in quickly after that, “How does that feel?”.

The fabric of your jeans rubbed over your clit like this, your breath got stuck in your throat at the feeling. It was unfamiliar, but it pulled a little mewl out of you.

“Good”, you managed to get out.

“You can also like- move like this”, his hands guided you to gyrate your hips.

Oh, that was even better. The sensation was making you dizzy, you let your head fall back, hands on his shoulders gripping the fabric of his shirt harshly until your knuckles turned white.

You could feel him getting harder underneath you and it empowered you, it encouraged you to try and move a bit on your own.

“Yeah, just like that-“, he gasped through gritted teeth, clasping you desperately, “Kiss me”.

You leaned forward, connecting your lips and sighing in relief. The kiss was cautious at first, the both of you holding back before he sat up a bit, his erection bumping into your clit like this. You moaned at the same time and he used the opportunity to let his tongue swipe in between your lips.

It was oddly addicting, his taste so sweet that you immediately wanted more as soon as your tongues touched.

His hands bunched up your hoodie to touch your bare skin on your waist. The contact made you arch your back and break the kiss involuntarily. Minho hummed, shoving the fabric up some more, looking at you in a pleading way and silently asking you to take it off.

You did in a hurry, his hands frantically helping you to pull it over your head. It was discarded somewhere on the floor, completely forgotten. Minho had seen you just in a bra before, but he still looked at you in awe, taking you in and growling quietly. This made you feel confident enough to reach back and unclasp it. Minho died on the inside.

“Can you like- touch me? Like you did before?”, you felt your ears flush at this, newly gained confidence gone in an instant as soon as you had said these words.

He smirked, something mischievous glinting in those pretty eyes. His hands were roaming over your body, enjoying the feeling of your skin. Your breath hitched when his fingers danced over the curve right under your boobs.

“You did like that, huh, kitten?”.

He froze in his movements. Did he really just call you that? That was a momentarily slip of his deeper desires, he didn’t mean to do that. But the way you were still looking at him, so innocent, so precious, it just made sense in his distracted mind. The distraction being you, asking him this while you are sitting on his hardened dick like that. He threatened to fuck up.

But when he saw you nod, something inside him stirred. He stood up, lifting you with him to spread you out on the couch underneath him. There was a bit of hesitation before opening your pants and pulling them off completely. It was exciting, actually a bit scary, to be completely bare in front of him.

“I’ll start nice and slow, yeah?”, Minho cooed, “Or- tell me how you like it”.

“I-“, you hesitated.

And he stopped, before even reaching your thighs properly he had stopped mid movement.

“Have you never touched yourself?”, he asked then, voice dropping.

Once more, you felt humiliated. Not by him, but by yourself. You were an adult, yet, you knew nothing about stuff like this. A slow shake of your head made him move again, still leaning over you, but getting more distance between you to look down at you.

“I’m gonna teach you, yeah? I’ll show you how to make you feel good”.

Minho reached for your hand instead, placing it low on your stomach and gently shoved it down some more, your fingertips slightly gracing your folds like this.

“Starting easy, slow”, he muttered under his breath, dark eyes searching for your gaze and holding it.

He guided you to part them, going deeper so torturously slow. You reached your entrance, feeling the wetness and flushing heavily when you realized.

“Gather it, you can push the tip in if you want to”, he instructed you and you did as you were told, “Good- good girl, use it. Will feel better when it’s wet”.

You moved your hand up again, touching your clit and jolting immediately. It felt insanely good, little electric shocks and sparks rushing through your body whenever you rubbed your finger over it just slightly.

Minho watched you with an open mouth. You tried setting up a show for him, empowered by the lustful stare he had. He gripped the cushion of the couch, nails digging in. He was holding on for dear life, this was the most sinful scene he had ever witnessed. He wasn’t even touching you anymore, you were doing it all by yourself, but you still had him panting heavily.

“How does it feel, kitten? Tell me”, his voice was raspy, hoarse.

“It’s- so good”, you got out, your body reacting on its own and your hips bucking into your hand.

One of his hands touched you, pinning your hips down onto the couch to keep you in place.

“Push your finger in, slowly”.

You did, blindly following his instructions and shoving your middle finger in. You gasped at the intrusion - the sound turning into a whimper as soon as you heard his groan.

“Curl your finger- like this“, he showed you and you tried to mimic it, “Search for the spot. Go in deeper”.

You were so clumsy, not really knowing what he meant. You tried to, you really did, but failed miserably.

“Min-“.

“You want me to find it?”, he asked gently.

And you nodded. God, why did you nod? Minho was shivering, he was about to combust just by watching you eagerly trying to find your g-spot and now he had to do the same? Fuck.

But he couldn’t deny it to you now. Not with those pleading eyes. He sighed, his hand moving once you removed your own, your legs instinctively spreading wider for him. Minho had to bite his lip to keep his mouth shut - fearing he would drool if he didn’t.

He let his fingers slide through your juices, coating his fingers thoroughly before pushing one of them in. Your back arched off almost immediately. This felt so much better than your own attempt, your lack of experience once more humiliating you.

Minho was knuckles deep in, turning his wrist and- you moaned so loud, he thought he would cum into his pants if you did that again. He obviously had found it, your legs shaking at the intense feeling.

“Oh god-“, you choked.

You tried to memorize his movements, tried to picture what he was doing inside of you - but your brain stopped working for good.

“Feels good, yeah?”, he had the audacity to stroke the spot with the tip of his finger, pushing into it and bully your nerves with it.

“Min-“, all you could say was his name and damn, he loved it.

His mind drifted off. This wasn’t enough. He needed more. And when you even begged for more without him needing to say something, he felt like he was on cloud nine.

“What do you want, kitten? Another finger? Or my tongue? You’d let me taste you?”.

He hadn’t planned on suggesting things by himself. He wanted you to have the reins so nothing out of your comfort zone happened, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. This was everything he had ever dreamed of.

“Taste me? How?”, your voice was so shaky, so innocent.

Minho hummed, his thumb gently pressing onto your clit. Your hands shot forward, gripping his arm, but he didn’t budge. He rubbed quick little circles onto your clit with utmost care - the strong pull in your stomach made you moan again.

“I can eat you out, if you want me to”.

“Huh?”, you asked, mind still empty.

He grinned, he couldn’t stop anymore. He was addicted to the power he had over you.

“You want me to do this with my tongue?”, he tried again.

“Huh?”.

God, he had you this dumb with just his fingers? He was in heaven.

“I need you to say yes or no”, he mused, he wasn’t even able to fight off the next sentence, “Or I’ll stop”.

“Yes-“, you thrashed, squirming because of the sensation, “Do it, please”.

Minho had to hold his breath for a second, composing himself. He just froze before he removed his hands from you completely. And for a moment, you thought you had said something wrong. But he sank down on his stomach, hands gripping the outside of your thighs to press you closer.

Minho took his sweet time with it, leaning in and letting his nose slide through your wetness, eyes not leaving you for a second. Honestly, he never had looked better than in this moment - between your legs, pupils so heavily dilated and vibrating from sheer lust overwhelming him.

You noticed how embarrassingly fast you were breathing, your bare chest heaving quickly and glistening in a thin layer of sweat.

He kissed the spot right above your clit, going deeper, caressing your folds very gently before darting his tongue out. He was easing you into the sensation, letting his tongue ghost over your skin before he gave your entrance a soft and short lick.

“Relax, kitten”, his voice was a low rumble that vibrated through your whole body.

Minho was fighting for his life right now, but he tried to keep himself grounded. He tried to be slow, to be gentle. But all he wanted was to devour you, fuck your pussy with his tongue and drive you into overstimulation. This was torture for him.

And it got harder the more sounds fell out of your mouth - he got bold enough to rub his nose along the sensitive bundle of nerves before latching his mouth onto it.

You jolted, hard. He definitely knew what he was doing, alternating between licking flat stripes over it and sucking your clit into his mouth and making you wail heavily.

There was a strong pressure in your pelvis, an unfamiliar tug that let your legs shake uncontrollably around his head. He relished in your reactions, your sounds, being completely lost in it. One of his hands left your thighs, his middle finger finding your entrance in no time to push in gently.

“Min- hahh- Minho, wait-“, your fingers entangled in his hair and you didn’t know if you wanted to pull him off or urge him closer in between your legs, “I- feels weird”.

“Ohh-“, Minho groaned, only momentarily being able to detach his mouth from your dripping pussy, “You’re close already? Fuck- this gonna be your first orgasm?”.

You nodded weakly. You were still thankful he wasn’t weirded out by the fact you were so inexperienced. It only spurred him on to make you feel even better, to give you the best release you’ll ever have and love to think back to it.

He inserted another finger, pulling them out and fucking them back in gently but quickly. The pull in your lower stomach made you gasp out in shock and you wanted to close your legs instinctively, but he held them open, a strong hand even pushing one of them up a bit.

“Don’t worry, kitten. I got you. Just relax and let go for me, yeah?”, he muttered, licking up from your entrance to your most sensitive spot, “Cum all over my face, jagi”.

You couldn’t stop the explosion of built up anticipation, the knot in your stomach ripped apart with a blinding force and you lost control over your body completely. You seized up, eyes rolling back into your skull and god no, you weren’t moaning anymore. You were screaming his name so loudly, it echoed off the walls, pulling at his hair so harshly, you could hear him grunt and hiss both in pleasure and pain whenever you needed to gasp for air.

His fingers continued to fuck into you, pulling the orgasm into an excruciating length. You gushed around them, soaking the sheets beneath you and Minho was more than happy to lap it all up as if it was the best meal he ever had.

“Fuck”, he grunted, still not done, still too fixed onto your used pussy, “That’s it, kitten. Good fucking girl for me”.

It was too much, you were so sensitive. You weakly pushed at his shoulders, trying to signal him to give you a break. It worked, he slowly snapped out of his daze, but it was so hard to do so. Minho really had to remind himself to keep it easy, to not overwhelm you too much, but he needed more than that.

His heart and cock ached all the same for you, he wished he could manhandle you onto your knees and-

God, he had to stop thinking about it.

He retracted his fingers, shivering. Your ears probably turned beet red when you saw his glistening face, some of your mess still dripping from his chin. There was a smug grin on his wet lips when he noticed, he leaned back over you, face hovering over yours.

“You want a taste, huh? Admiring your work?”.

He kissed you, his tongue swiping over your lower lip and prying your mouth open with it. You gasped heavily, your hands cupping his cheeks and pulling him in deeper.

Minho groaned, he couldn’t help it. He needed relief so badly and you were there, fully naked right there underneath him. Your soft body so close, full on display.

He rocked his hips forward once, just once. And he was gone. Another groan from him, muffled by your own mouth. It just felt so good, he pressed his twitching cock against your core over and over again, thinking about how it would possibly feel like to sink into your tight heat. How it would feel like when he pinned you down. How it would feel to fold you in half just to hear you scream his name like that again.

“Min-“.

“Huh?”, he made.

He forced himself to still, but his whole body was vibrating. He really hoped you wanted to tell him that you needed a break. Or wanted to stop right there. He wouldn’t be able to control himself if you kept this pace up.

“Can I touch you now?”, you asked reluctantly.

Minhos brain short circuited.

“You- why?”.

“I don’t know- I want to make you feel good”, you said, your hands settling in his shoulders, “But you’ll have to show me how”.

Minho was about to burst. You were so innocent, adorable. He sighed deeply, sitting back against the backrest.

You crawled over to him, but instead decided to get up and kneel on the floor in between his spread legs to have better access. This would be Minhos downfall, he knew it. The way you looked up at him so patiently, waiting for him to guide you.

The bulge of his cock pressing against his pants was impressive, you thought. You reached for it, cautiously wrapping your fingers around the curve.

“Ohh- fuck-“, he gasped.

You weren’t even properly touching him, no skin on skin. But it was enough to make him lean back, slump against the cushions and let his mouth hang open.

Your eyes were watching him attentively, searching for any kind of discomfort you would make him feel with your lack of experience. But you could clearly see he found that endearing. His gaze was so fondly yet so lustful, every little hesitating twitch of your fingers made him gasp.

For the first time this evening, you noticed that Minho was turned on by it. And that changed everything for you.

“Can I pull it out?”, you asked, tilting your head.

He nodded, his fingers digging into the couch on each side of him.

Just like he did, your actions were slow. You remembered how exciting the anticipation had felt and you wanted him to experience the same. And Minho loved how bold you were with it, how much courage you seemed to muster, but also how you seemed to get behind the things he liked.

You unbuttoned his pants, pulled down the zipper. You were still nervous, you had to bite your tongue slightly before you reached into his boxer briefs while pulling the waistband down a bit. Minho lifted his hips to help you, gasping softly when you finally touched him.

It was a bit intimidating to see his cock up close. He was hard, in a deep red color and a drop of liquid was already daring to drip down.

“You can- wrap your hand around it. Gentle”, Minho said, taking your hand into his to guide your fingers around it.

You squeezed him once, earning a hiss from him. He bucked his hips up, couldn’t stop himself from tucking into your hand with leisure and shallow little thrusts.

“Fuck- sorry”, he groaned, “Move your hand, yeah? You can twist it a little”.

He moved with you, showing you how he liked it, but let his hand fall to his side when you slowly got the hang of it. Seeing him falling apart like this probably was the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Minho let his head fall back, every breath he took shaking and in uncontrolled gasps.

“Does that feel good?”, you asked.

Minho grinned, laughing a bit hoarsely.

You really knew what you were doing to him. You knew and you were teasing him. Little brat.

“Feels amazing, kitten”, he huffed, “Wanna taste it?”.

Minho hadn’t planned on asking you that - he hadn’t planned any of it. But he could see that little mischievous glint in your eyes. He wondered what made you so bold, although you had no experience. Either way, this was a dream come true for him.

“You’d let me?”, your head tilted a bit.

Minho wanted to bite his fist.

You leaned in, darting your tongue out to lap up the drop of pre cum.

God, how was he supposed to stop himself from fucking your mouth like this? You were so hesitant and unsure, but you still kissed the tip of his cock and licked over it so slowly, his eyes rolled back into his skull.

“Fuck-“, it was barely a sound, muttered under his breath.

“Tell me what feels good“, you demanded, your hand still on his base.

“Hahh- just- take it into your mouth first”.

You parted your lips obediently, sinking down and taking him inch by inch. Minho trembled, digging his fingers deep into the cushions to fight the urge to grab your head and hold it in place to fuck you into the wet heat.

“We can try that if you want to”, you said, “Why not?”.

Oh god.

Did he really just say that out loud?

“I- no”, Minho stuttered, but couldn’t contain the next groan when you licked the underside of his cock up to the head.

“I trust you, baby”, you said again.

“Don’t”, he laughed, “I don’t think I could handle this if you let me”.

There was a little whimper on his lips when you sucked on the tip for a second, that urged you to take his hand - pry it off the cushions to guide it to your cheek.

“I want you to show me how to properly do it. Show me exactly how you want it, Min”.

“Fuck- but- you gotta-”, he couldn’t control his body, his hand slipping to the back of your head before he roughly thrusted up into your mouth.

You gagged around his length, but still found a lot of appeal in the feeling of it reaching so far inside, you could feel it hitting the back of your throat. Minho groaned with a very broken sound.

“Sorry, kitten, it just feels so-“.

Should he do it again? Damn, it felt so good, but-

“Do it again”, you gasped.

Something snapped inside of Minho. He felt it. You did too. You saw it in his eyes, the way he stared down at you - he held his breath, there was silence for a second.

Then, his other hand crept towards you, fingers gripping your hair to push your head all the way down once, twice. He grunted again.

“Fuck, take it then”.

Your hands grabbed his thighs, bracing yourself. Although you were struggling, trying hard to keep your body as slack as possible so he could push you down whenever he liked it - you couldn’t deny how hot this was.

Minhos face was scrunched up in the darkest and deepest form of pleasure, brows furrowed and eyes half lidded as he moaned loudly every time you gasped. You felt your pussy dripping, ruining the carpet underneath you.

“Kitten-“, Minho cooed breathlessly, “If I had known your pretty mouth takes my cock so well- God”.

His movements were erratic, frantic, but still had some kind of rhythm in it. It helped you breathe more constantly through your nose and you couldn’t hold back your own moans as this scene in front of you was too good to look away unaffected.

He alternated between pushing your head down and pulling it back up by your hair and thrusting up in quick snaps of his hips.

You wondered how his cock would feel like when it was inside your pussy, you imagined it hitting the same spot he had shown you with his fingers - just like it was now hitting your throat every single time.

It was impossible to try and fight the urge to let one of your hands slip in between your legs. It was hard to concentrate and memorize what he had told you, how his fingers had curled inside of you. It was embarrassing how wet you were, your own arousal mixing with his saliva into a sinful liquid that you used to rub over your clit with a more intense feeling.

“You look so fucked out, kitten. So pretty. You like when I fuck your mouth like this? You like being used for my pleasure?”.

He pulled you up far enough so his cock slipped out of your mouth, a harsh grip angling your head up to look up at him.

“Tell me. You enjoy choking on that dick?”, he asked, his thumb gently removing your spit from your lower lip in a heavy contrast to his previous actions.

“Yes- I love it”.

“Are you touching yourself? Getting off to being throatfucked? Am I really turning you into such a filthy slut? Damn-“, he mocked you and your pussy acted accordingly by throbbing against your hand.

You nodded hastily, the friction against your clit felt so good, your mind was so empty.

“You’d let me cum into your mouth? Be a good girl and swallow it for me?”.

He wasn’t afraid of going overboard anymore. Not with your bright grin and enthusiastic nod.

“I’m already close, kitten. You’re doing so well. Just a little longer, yeah?”, his voice was hoarse but gentle.

You took him back into your mouth by yourself, but proceeded to let him do as he pleased again. His cock twitched heavily and relentlessly against your tongue. The circles on your clit got faster, trying to find the same rhythm he had chosen, but his thrusts were uncontrolled and messy.

The amounts of groans and moans were getting more and more with every passing second, and he was right, he was very close.

One last push on your head, combined with him burying his dick as deep as possible to force his cum down your throat. You gagged, swallowed around him and it only seemed to make his orgasm even more intense.

His grip on your hair was rough, pulling at it to smother down the intense feeling and you were almost finishing yourself when the pain mixed with the pleasure. But he let you breathe as soon as he stopped spilling inside of you, his hands leaving you completely as you came up again.

Minho was certain. You had never looked hotter than in this moment. Your eyes were almost crossing, breathing heavily as his cum was still dripping from your lips.

His cum tasted salty, it was heavy on your tongue, but also kinda addicting. The reminder that you actually managed to make him feel that good.

This has been more than Minho had expected, more than he even dreamed to ever happen. His heart soared, felt light.

“I love you”, he muttered.

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I love you too”.

You climbed into his lap without thinking, wrapping your arms around him and pulling close. He was still incredibly hard, pressing against your core and making both of you gasp.

“I love you”, he whispered again, leaning in some more to kiss you chastely, “I love you so much”.

“I’ve waited so long for you to say that”, you mused, combing his hair back and out of his face.

“I know”, his hands wrapped around your waist, gently rubbing you, feeling you, “And I’m sorry about that”.

You shook your head, signaling him he didn’t need to. You looked at each other and you could clearly see how enamored Minho was. His gaze was so soft, so gentle after what just had happened.

“I want to feel you-”, you said quietly, hands searching for his skin under his shirt, which he quickly discarded, “Inside of me”.

Minhos grin was silly.

“Kitten, I don’t know if I can last that long”, he chuckled, “We don’t have to do it right now, you know?”.

But your body and your mind were so certain. You were sure you wanted this. Maybe - it was more of a need than a want. And to be honest, you probably would reach another orgasm very quick as well, you were still all riled up.

“I don’t care”, you said, feeling bold enough to grind down on him and making him gasp in surprise.

“Damn- I really did that to you”, he shook his head, “Let me get a condom, I’ll be right back”.

You shook your head.

“I said I wanted to feel you”.

He swallowed audibly before he groaned. You felt him twitch underneath you, urging you to rock your hips forward - just like he had shown you.

“Kitten- I don’t know what to say”, he huffed.

“Don’t say anything- just- fuck me”.

Your hands came up his chest, reaching for his pecs and letting your nails graze over the skin.

“Fuck- you’re going to be the death of me”, he helped you lifting yourself up, a hand around his cock guided himself to your entrance, “Go slow, yeah? You decide the pace”.

You nodded, letting him sink in slowly. He hissed, eyes closed in a concentrated and pleasure twisted face. Your heart was loud, you could hear it ring in your ears and it drowned out every other sound - you almost missed Minhos choked out moan.

“God- you feel- so fucking tight”, a hand left you, balling into a fist so he could dug his teeth into it, “Slow down-“.

But you didn’t even think of it, your pussy sucked him in greedily. It didn’t want you to go any slower. You arched your back, the feeling of his cock reaching so deep and dragging against your walls was mind blowing.

“I said fucking slow down-“, his hands squeezed your hips to make you stop right when he bottomed out, “I’m gonna cum- stop”.

“You- Min”, you were already trembling, already on the verge of your release, “You’re filling me up so good”.

The sound he made led to you clenching down on his length. The feeling of his cock stretching you out wasn’t even hurtful, it was grounding, intense and breathtaking.

“Don’t say shit like that- makes me want to-“.

“Do whatever you want with me”, you breathed, letting your head fall back while you gripped his shoulders and held on for dear life, “Please, fuck me”.

He didn’t even answer, he grabbed you and flipped you over - just like he had done it before when you had been in this position. He held himself up on his knees, his hands holding onto the lower part of your hips for leverage. His thrusts were harsh, relentless, but already stuttering.

“Min- hahh-“.

You didn’t even know what you wanted to say, but you weren’t able to speak either way. He was fucking you into the couch, making it squeak underneath you and punching every thought out of your brain with every snap of his hips.

It sent you over the edge immediately. This orgasm was even more intense, crushing your lungs as you tried to gasp for air.

“Fuck- fuck- you wanted this, gonna fill you up, make you mine”.

His cock was probably bruising your insides, marking you in the best way possible and claiming your pussy for good when he came inside of you with a guttural moan. You felt him twitch as he reached his peak, spilling as deep inside of you as possible and fucking his cum in every crevice of your walls. You whimpered, whined loudly out of overstimulation, but you didn’t want him to stop. The waves of endorphins were paralyzing your whole body, every muscle was seizing and relaxing in sync with his thrusts and your heartbeat.

It took him some time to come down, to even realize he was still moving - as if your pussy had entranced him and made him drunk on the sensation.

God, Minho really hoped this wasn’t a dream. Because now, when he had you like this once - he would make sure to fulfill every single one of his darkest thoughts. He was certain you’d love it.

@isa-mi-aldini @rianzysworld @mieuracha @simpdemon1 @babybutterballl @deaddcrow @burntbang @rory-cakes @straystar-8 @honeyyyy21 @karlee10261990 @aiyanotfound @alex-rabbit @angelstarsthings @pineapple-burgah @a2dkive @smuttaburger @st4rprincess @rikibabyyy @kloversung @staarflowerr @yessirfelix @minniebitesfr @vernorica123 @imoosgnaj @ye0lkkot @aziaraei @geni-627 @alexeclipse18 @rafesbunniebby @ghost-cas @vxyselectric @lizal1cious @spicypeppers143 @qxlvslx @floofeh-purpi @purdey-08 @angelstarsworld @ariaaleelynn @becrazy--beyou @hyunjinswife4ever @lostinmymind-daydreaming @ylstacy @hyunniesprincess @zerefdragn33l @bee-gremlin @evanesc3nce @sammhisphere @pineappleonmyburger

masterlist | red symphony | no mercy, no saints | feral series 2

[ksmutaudio]

Hyunjin smut audio

Full ver

[hyunvom]

bury me

synopsis: When you becomes stray kids’ ninth member Hyunjin makes sure to make your life a living hell, but beneath the hatred burns something far more intense.

pairing: idol hyunjin x 9th member, idol yn

word count: 10k

cw: enemies to lovers, detailed explicit smut, sexual tension!!!! semi-public sex, panic attack, hyunjin is really mean at first

You were going to be the ninth member of Stray Kids.

It had been six months since JYP announced the addition, six months since your life flipped from trainee to idol overnight.

The fans called it revolutionary. The company called it “perfect synergy.” The eight boys called it… complicated.

Especially him.

Hyunjin.

From the first day you stepped into the dorm he made his position crystal clear: he didn’t want you there. He never said it outright in front of the other members or the staff, but the cold silences, the sharp glares and the constant passive aggressive comments during practice told everyone everything they needed to know.

The other members tried to mediate. They really did. But nothing worked. Hyunjin’s resentment ran deep, and every attempt to fix it only seemed to make it worse. You still didn’t fully understand why. You worked just as hard, harder, sometimes. You hit every mark, learned the choreography faster than expected and kept your mouth shut during most of his outbursts. Yet he looked at you like you were stealing something precious from him. From them. From the group he’d bled for since pre debut. And today, like most days, that tension was about to boil over again.

-

You woke up to the soft hum of the dorm’s air conditioner and the distant sound of someone already moving around in the kitchen. Your room was small but private, the only single room in the entire dorm. The boys were split four and four: Chan, Minho, Changbin, and Hyunjin in one, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin in the other. At least here you could breathe without feeling like an intruder.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and checked your phone. 6:47. Practice started at 8:30. You had time.

Slipping out of bed you padded over to your closet. You chose a simple oversized hoodie and loose practice shorts, comfortable enough to move in but not sloppy. You looked at yourself in the mirror for a second. Don’t let him get to you today, you told yourself. Just dance.

You grabbed your water bottle and bag ghen stepped out into the hallway. The bathroom door was closed, the light on. Someone was already inside. You leaned against the wall, waiting. A minute passed.

The door finally opened and Hyunjin stepped out, shirtless, towel slung low around his hips, damp hair falling into his eyes. He froze for half a second when he saw you, then his expression hardened.

You nodded politely. “Morning.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he muttered under his breath as he brushed past you, voice low and venomous enough for only you to hear.

“Always in the fucking way…”

Your stomach twisted. You turned. “What did you just say?”

Hyunjin paused in the hallway, back still to you. “You heard me.”

The tension in the narrow corridor was suffocating. You could smell his shampoo, see the water still clinging to his shoulder blades. He was beautiful even when he was being cruel and that somehow made it worse.

Before you could snap back Changbin’s door opened and he poked his head out, clearly sensing trouble. “Yah, it’s too early for this. Save it for practice.”

Hyunjin scoffed and disappeared into his room without another word. You stood there, jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms.

Why does he hate you so much? What did you ever do to him?

-

Practice started like any other day.

The choreographer was running you through the new title track for the upcoming comeback. The formation had been adjusted multiple times to make sure everyone's visible, but Hyunjin kept “accidentally” stepping on your marks or cutting you off during transitions.

“Again,” the choreographer called. “From the chorus.”

You were sweating, chest heaving. Your body ached, but you pushed through. During the bridge you moved into position beside Hyunjin for the partner section. His hand brushed your waist, too rough, fingers digging in harder than necessary as he spun you.

“Watch it” he hissed under the music, voice barely audible. You whipped your head toward him.

“You’re the one grabbing too hard!” you replied.

“Focus!” the choreographer shouted.

But it was too late. The move fell apart. Hyunjin let go of you abruptly, and you stumbled, catching yourself at the last second. Chan immediately stepped forward.

“Okay, let’s take five.”

“No,” Hyunjin said loudly, eyes locked on you. “Let’s not. Maybe if she actually knew what she was doing we wouldn’t need five.”

The room went dead silent and you felt heat and embarrassment rush to your face. “I know the choreography better than you right now, Hyunjin. Maybe if you stopped trying to sabotage me every five seconds—”

“Sabotage?” He laughed bitterly, stepping closer. “You waltz in here like you belong, take up space, take up time, and we’re all supposed to smile and pretend it’s fine? This group was perfect before you.”

“Hyunjin just fucking stop this man.” Minho warned quietly.

“No. I’m sick of pretending.” His voice rose. “Every practice now she’s just here, breathing down our necks, messing up formations that worked for years. Just admit it, she’s a dead weight.”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt. Anger and humiliation burned behind your eyes but you refused to cry in front of them.

“I work just as hard as any of you,” you shot back, voice shaking with fury. “I didn’t ask to be added, but I’m here now. Deal with it or keep acting like a spoiled child who can’t share his toys.”

Hyunjin’s eyes flashed. He took another step forward, towering over you. Chan moved fast, stepping between you.

“Enough! Both of you!”

But Hyunjin wasn’t done.

“She shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet she is,” Chan said sharply. “We all voted. The company decided. You don’t get to throw a tantrum every day and ruin practice.”

Hyunjin stared at Chan for a long second, chest rising and falling. Then he turned on his heel, grabbed his bag, and stormed out of the practice room, slamming the door so hard the mirrors rattled.

Silence.

You stood there, fists clenched, trying to steady your breathing. The other members looked between you and the door, obviously uncomfortable. Felix came over and gently touched your shoulder.

“You okay? I’m so sorry”

You nodded, even though you were far from that. Chan sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair

“Let’s call it for today. We’ll pick this up tomorrow when everyone’s calmer.”

-

Back at the dorm the atmosphere was just beyond heavy.

You stayed in your room for hours, replaying the fight in your head. Why does he hate me? What did I do? The questions looped endlessly, feeding the anger simmering in your chest. You hated how much space he took up in your mind.

It was around 2 am now and you just couldn’t sleep. Your stomach growled, so you slipped out quietly toward the kitchen for water and maybe a snack.

The light was already on, and Hyunjin stood at the counter in a black tank top and sweatpants, drinking from a bottle of water. He looked up when you entered. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You moved to the fridge, pretending he wasn’t there, but every nerve in your body was aware of him. He set the bottle down.

“...I shouldn’t have said that stuff today.”

You froze, back still to him. Hyunjin continued, voice low. “In front of everyone. That was too far.”

You turned slowly. “But you meant it.”

He didn’t deny it. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable. “I don’t want you here. That hasn’t changed. I’m not going to lie and say we’re going to be best friends or some crap like that.”

The words hit like a slap, even though you had expected them. You laughed bitterly, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.

“Wow. Great apology.”

“It’s not an apology for how I feel,” he said flatly. “It’s an apology for losing control in practice. There’s a difference.”

You stepped closer and you could see the faint redness still in his eyes from earlier anger, the way his jaw was still tight. He was beautiful and infuriating, and you wanted to scream at him and shove him and ask him what the fuck his problem is. You wanted to yell at him and hurt him the same way he was hurting you.

“I don’t understand you,” you whispered instead. “I never did anything to you. I admire this group. I respect what you built. And you treat me like poison.”

You were a hundred percent sure you caught his gaze drop to your lips for a split second before flicking back up.

What the fuck was that?

“Maybe you are.”

The silence stretched, heavy. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You hated how he made you feel small and furious and seen all at once. He pushed off the counter. “Stay out of my way. I’ll stay out of yours as much as I can.”

Then he walked past you and you stood alone in the kitchen, fists clenched, breathing hard. Fuck him for making you feel like shit every day.

-

You barely slept.

Every time you closed your eyes you heard his low voice in the kitchen.

“Maybe you are”

By the time your alarm went off at 6:30 am you felt exhausted and irritated with yourself. You got ready quickly, choosing a cropped hoodie and black practice shorts this time. When you stepped into the kitchen the atmosphere was already heavy once again.

Hyunjin was there, leaning against the counter with a protein shake in hand. He didn’t look at you. Not even a glance. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the wall like you weren’t even in the room. Changbin said something to him and he only gave a small hum in response. When Felix tried cracking a joke his reply was short, almost curt. The only people he actually seemed to be speaking to and interacting with normally were Jeongin and Jisung. Was he just mad at everyone now? Seriously?

You ate your yogurt in silence, trying not to let it bother you. Good, you told yourself. At least he’s finally leaving you alone. That’s something! But what you didn’t expect was that the complete lack of acknowledgment somehow felt worse than his cruelty.

-

The van ride to the company was even more suffocating. You sat in the back row. Hyunjin sat in the middle, laughing quietly at something Jisung whispered to him. He never once turned his head in your direction. Not when you shifted in your seat, not when you reached for your water bottle. It was like you didn’t exist.

Practice Room – 9:15 am

The choreographer seemed relieved that today was calmer. Hyunjin was… perfect. He hit every mark. He didn’t step on your spots. He didn’t hiss comments under his breath. When the partner section came his hands were professional, firm but not rough, exactly on beat, then gone.

It should have felt like a relief.

Instead it made your skin crawl.

Because even though he was behaving, you could see the anger simmering under his skin. The way his jaw stayed clenched. The way his eyes looked darker than usual. The way his movements were sharp, almost aggressive, even when they weren’t directed at you.

During a five minute water break, you sat against the mirror, knees pulled up. Your eyes kept drifting to him no matter how hard you tried to stop. You wanted to read him so bad. What the fuck was his problem?

Why did you look at my lips last night?

The question kept circling in your head.

Why did your voice get so low when you said I was poison?

You watched as he tilted his head back to drink from his bottle, throat working, sweat already glistening on his neck and collarbones. The black tank top clung to his chest. Your gaze dropped lower without permission, down his torso, over the loose gray sweatpants.

Your stomach dropped.

Is he.. hard? He was hard.

The outline was straining against the fabric. He shifted his hips slightly, angling his body away from the rest of the guys, casually tugging the hem of his tank top lower to hide it. He was so subtle but you couldn’t take your eyes away from him, so you obviously fucking saw it.

Disgust crashed over you like ice water. What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

You ripped your eyes away so fast your neck ached. Heat burned your cheeks and shame twisted so violently in your chest you felt nauseous. He humiliated you yesterday in front of the entire group. He said you’re dead weight. He wants you gone. And you’re sitting here staring at his dick like a pathetic, desperate slut?

You dug your nails into your palms until it hurt.

You’re disgusting. He treats you like garbage and your body still reacts? What kind of weak, masochistic idiot are you?

You pressed your forehead hard against your knees, breathing through your mouth. The worst part wasn’t even noticing, it was the low throb between your legs that followed. The way your thighs instinctively pressed together. The way your mind flashed to what he might feel like under that fabric.

You wanted to throw up.

He’s probably hard because he’s so fucking pissed off that you’re here. He’s so fucking angry at you his body doesn’t even know what to do.

You felt filthy. Revolted by your own body. By your own thoughts.

“Back to places!” the choreographer called.

You pushed yourself off the floor, legs a little shaky. The group reformed, and the music started again. You forced your focus onto the choreography, counting beats in your head.

But then, barely one minute in, Hyunjin suddenly stopped dancing.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice tight. “I need to use the bathroom.”

The choreographer paused the music and nodded. Hyunjin didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked out of the practice room quickly, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

You stared at the closed door.

Hyunjin hated stopping practice. He was usually the one pushing everyone to keep going even when people were dying.

You tried to focus on the formation again, but your mind kept spinning. Ten minutes passed. The choreographer had everyone run the chorus without the partner sections while they waited.

When the door finally opened again, Hyunjin stepped back inside.

His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, almost red. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead that wasn’t there before. His breathing looked a little too controlled, like he was trying to slow it down. His black tank top was slightly rumpled, and he kept his eyes lowered as he walked back to his position.

No one else seemed to notice. Changbin teased him lightly about taking too long and he only muttered something short in reply, voice lower than usual.

But you knew.

The second you saw those flushed cheeks and the way he avoided looking at anyone, your stomach twisted violently.

He went to jerk off.

The realization hit you like a slap. He’d been hard, painfully hard, for whatever fucking reason. Maybe because he was so fucking angry. And instead of dealing with it, he’d gone to the bathroom and gotten himself off just so he could finish practice without his dick straining against his sweats.

Your face burned with humiliation.

God, you really are so disgusting. What kind of fucked up person gets turned on by someone who can’t stand them? He fucking hates your guts, and besides that he’s your bandmate. This was all so inappropriate and gross but what were you supposed to do with your fucked up brain. You wish you could control it.

Hyunjin moved back into formation beside you for the partner section. This time when his hand landed on your waist, his fingers felt hotter than before. His skin was still slightly damp. You could smell the faint scent of the practice room soap on him.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t look at you. Not once. His jaw was clenched even tighter now. The flush on his cheeks hadn’t fully faded.

And you?

You felt sick with self loathing… and so unbearably turned on that it made you want to scream. Fuck him for making you feel like this, fucking asshole.

-

The dorm was silent at 3.38 am.

You’d given up on sleep hours ago. This had become your new normal, lying in bed replaying everything that went down, how you did at practice, what was said to you, mistakes, all of it.

Tonight was worse. Your body felt restless.

You slipped out of your room in an oversized t shirt and tiny sleep shorts, hoping a glass of water and the dark living room might calm you down.

But of course, just like last night, he was already there.

Hyunjin was sprawled on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped over his eyes. The only light came from the small lamp in the corner. He didn’t move when you entered but you saw his shoulders tense.

You froze for half a second, then walked to the kitchen anyway, pretending he wasn’t there. You filled your glass slowly.

“You really can’t sleep either, huh?” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

He didn’t answer at first. Then his low voice cut through the quiet.

“…I sleep fine when certain people aren’t ruining everything.”

You turned around, leaning against the counter, looking at him through the open kitchen door. “Right. Everything was perfect before I showed up. Must be so hard for you.”

Hyunjin slowly sat up, eyes finally meeting yours. The look in them was dark, exhausted. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days either.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice rough. “How fucking exhausting it is to have you around. Constantly.”

“Still singing that same song?” you scoffed. “It’s been months, Hyunjin. Get over it.”

You were in the living room now, standing in front of him.

“I didn’t ask for this either. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. So maybe stop acting like a spoiled little prince who can’t handle change.”

Hyunjin stood up from the couch.

“You think this is just about change?” His voice dropped, low and venomous. “This is about watching everything we built get diluted because the company wanted a gimmick. And now I have to look at you every single day. Touch you during partner work. Pretend I don’t want to—”

He cut himself off, jaw clenching so hard it looked painful.

“Pretend you don’t want to what?” you pushed, heart hammering. “Say it.”

He was breathing hard through his nose. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your bare thighs, the hem of your shirt, the way your chest rose and fell, before snapping back to your face.

“Pretend I don’t fucking hate how much space you take up in my head” he finished, almost snarling.

The confession hung between you. He hated you so fucking bad you were all he could think about.

You laughed bitterly. “Is that why you look so tense all the time, Hyunjin? Why you wake up every day walking around like you’re one second away from snapping.”

He was towering over you “Maybe it’s because I have to pretend I don’t want to throw you out every single day.”

You stepped closer, unable to stop yourself. “Then why don’t you? Why do you just glare and sulk and disappear into the bathroom like a coward?”

His eyes flashed.

You knew you were crossing a line, you should not have brought this up but your stupid fucking mouth spit it out, and the frustration had been building for too long.

“Or was that not what you were doing today?” you continued, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “When you came back with your cheeks all red and your dick finally soft? Did it feel good, getting off in the middle of practice because you were so fucking angry?”

The second the words left your mouth the atmosphere changed completely.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened in genuine shock. For a split second he looked almost vulnerable, exposed. Then pure rage took over.

He moved fast.

He directed you back against the kitchen counter, almost pushing you there as you walked backwards. His hand slammed down beside your hip on the counter, caging you in. His other hand came up, fingers gripping your jaw tightly.

“You little fucking bitch,” he hissed, voice low. His face was inches from yours, breathing hard. “You really just said that to my face?”

You could feel the heat radiating off his body. His chest was almost touching yours. His grip on your jaw tightened slightly as he tilted your face up, forcing you to look at him.

“You watched me?” His voice shook with fury and something darker. “You saw me hard and instead of minding your own damn business, you use it to humiliate me?”

His thumb pressed harder against your cheek. His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering there too fucking long this time for it to be a delusion. You could feel how fast he was breathing, how tight his entire body was.

“Say it again,” he growled, voice dropping even lower. “I fucking dare you.”

The tension was so thick it felt like the room was shrinking. His hips were barely an inch from pressing into you. You could smell his skin, feel the barely contained violence and lust rolling off him in waves.

Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.

You were so turned on it was humiliating, your nipples tight under your thin shirt, heat throbbing between your legs, breath coming out shaky. But underneath that heat was pure panic.

This was Hyunjin.

The same man who had spent months making your life hell. You didn’t actually know him. Not really. You’d seen his anger, his cold silences, his sharp tongue, but never this version. Never him shaking with rage while pinning you against the counter, eyes almost black. He was so much bigger and stronger than you and suddenly it was all you could think about.

What if he actually hurts you?

You’d pushed him too far. You were alone with him while no one else was awake and you’d just thrown the most humiliating thing possible in his face.

“I—” Your voice cracked. Your face burned hot with shame and fear, eyes starting to sting. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have said that.”

Tears welled up before you could stop them, making your vision glassy. You looked small and terrified under his grip, cheeks flushed deep red, lips trembling.

“I’m really sorry Hyunjin,” you whispered, voice shaking. “That was fucked up. I was angry and I— I’m sorry.”

But the second he saw the tears something in him shattered. His eyes widened, the fury draining from his face in an instant. His grip on your jaw loosened completely, hand dropping like he’d been burned.

“Fuck…” he breathed, stepping back so fast he almost stumbled. “Fuck, sorry.”

He looked horrified at himself, running a hand through his hair roughly, eyes darting away from your teary face.

“I didn’t mean to— shit.” His voice was hoarse, laced with guilt. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I just… fuck.”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The sight of you looking scared and tearing up because of him seemed to completely break whatever anger he had left.

Without another word he turned and practically fled down the hallway toward his room. You heard the door shut firmly behind him, leaving the dorm in heavy silence.

You stood there frozen, back still against the counter, heart racing wildly. Your jaw tingled where his fingers had been. Your thighs were embarrassingly slick. Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you didn’t know if they were from fear, shame, or the overwhelming frustration still burning in your body.

You felt disgusting.

You’re such an idiot, you thought, wiping your face with shaking hands. You pushed him until he snapped and then cried like a child. And the most unsettling part wasn’t even his anger… it was how scared he looked the second he realized what he was doing. The flash of genuine fear in his eyes when he saw you tearing up and realized he was scaring you.

What the fuck were you two even doing?

-

The next day was a rare off day with no schedules. All nine of you were gathered in the living room, sprawled across the couches and floor discussing the upcoming award show performance, your first stage together as nine.

“It’s Mnet Asian Music Awards,” Chan said, leaning forward with his notebook open. “We’re closing the show with the new title track. This is huge. The first time the world sees us as nine.”

Felix nodded excitedly. “The formations are solid now. We just need to sell the energy. Especially the bridge part where we all come together.”

You sat on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest, nodding along, but your stomach was in knots. This performance felt like massive pressure. One mistake and people would say you were a weak link and apparently a mistake. That you didn’t deserve to be there. The corset they’d fitted you for the stage outfit was already haunting you, tight, restrictive, suffocating.

You kept fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie, barely speaking.

Hyunjin sat on the opposite couch, unusually quiet. He wasn’t glaring. There was no coldness in his expression today. Instead he looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it all night. He kept staring at you. Not angry stares. Just heavy, unreadable ones. Every time you glanced up, his eyes were already on you.

You looked away quickly each time.

Jeongin asked a question about the ending pose, and the conversation flowed for a while, talking about camera angles, how to make the new formations look even more natural, and how to handle the live vocals during the bridge.

After about thirty minutes the guys started to scatter. Changbin and Minho headed out to grab food with Seungmin and Felix. Chan went to his room to work on music. Jisung and Jeongin disappeared to play games.

Suddenly, it was just you and Hyunjin left in the living room. Again.

The silence was torturous. It’s like you both wanted to say something but just didn’t.

Hyunjin sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor for a long moment before he finally spoke, voice low and rough.

“I… need to say this properly.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first. “Last night. What I did… grabbing you like that, cornering you… that was completely fucked up. I lost control and I scared you. I saw your face, the way you looked at me like I might actually hurt you.” His voice cracked slightly. “I’ve never hated myself more than when I saw you like that. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. No matter how angry I was, no matter how much I… feel about you being here, that was wrong. I crossed a line.”

He was spiraling, words coming faster now, full of self disgust. And you were looking at him in complete shock.

“I’ve been treating you like shit for months and then I put my hands on you. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I couldn’t even sleep last night because I kept seeing your face. I really am disgusted with myself. I—”

“Hyunjin, stop,” you cut in gently, your own voice soft. “Please.”

He finally looked at you, eyes tired and conflicted.

You took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry too. What I said about… what happened yesterday, that was way out of line. I had no right to look at you like that, and I definitely had no right to throw it in your face just to hurt you. It was childish and mean and completely inappropriate. I’m really sorry.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you.

Hyunjin nodded slowly, rubbing his face with both hands.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “What I did was beyond fucked, but we’re both sorry. That’s something.”

You felt a small, stupid flicker of hope. Maybe things could finally start getting better. Maybe you could at least be civil.

But then he continued, voice low and tired.

“Let’s just… ignore each other completely from now on. No fighting. No talking. We stay out of each other’s way as much as possible. That’s the only way this group thing is going to work.”

Your chest tightened with disappointment.

You had thought, after the apologies, after seeing that vulnerable side of him, that maybe things would shift toward something friendlier. But he was suggesting going back to zero. Worse than zero. Complete erasure.

You forced a small, tight smile and nodded.

“Yeah… sure. Whatever you think is best.”

Hyunjin stood up without another word, gave you one last unreadable look, and walked toward his room.

You stayed on the floor, staring at the empty space where he’d been sitting, feeling strangely hollow.

-

The van was buzzing with nervous energy as it pulled up to the massive venue. This was it, your first performance as the ninth member of Stray Kids. The pressure felt like a vice around your throat.

You were shaking.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the chatter in the van taking you to the venue.

Chan immediately turned around from the front seat. “Hey, hey, breathe. You’ve got this. We all do.”

Felix reached over and squeezed your hand. “You’ve been killing it in practice. We’re gonna shine together, yeah?”

Minho gave you a small, reassuring smile. “You’re one of us now. Just perform like you always do.”

Hyunjin sat diagonally across from you, silent. He hadn’t said a single word to you since that night. He kept his promise, complete ignorance. But he couldn’t stop staring. His eyes were heavy with worry, jaw tight, fingers tapping restlessly on his thigh. He once again looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Just before the van door opened as everyone started gathering their things, Hyunjin spoke for the first time. His voice was low but steady.

“Hey guys, let’s just do what we do best, we’ll fucking kill it!”

Everyone nodded, but his eyes were locked only on you.

-

Inside the venue, chaos reigned.

Makeup artists and stylists swarmed the dressing room. Hairdryers buzzed, clothes hangers clattered, stylists shouted instructions. The energy just too overwhelming. Your stage outfit was breathtaking but brutal, a sharp, fitted concept with a very tight black corset that cinched your waist dramatically, pushing your chest up and restricting every breath.

You kept tugging at the corset as you had your makeup done, feeling more and more claustrophobic as the minutes ticked by. Your chest felt too tight. The room was too loud and your mind kept screaming that you were going to mess up, that you’d embarrass the entire group.

Suddenly you shot up from your chair.

“I— I need air,” you choked out, then bolted from the room before anyone could stop you.

The members looked shocked. Chan stood up, but Minho gently held him back. “Give her a minute. She’s overwhelmed. Let her breathe.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet, but his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, and after two torturous minutes of watching the door something in his chest twisted painfully.

This feels wrong.

He stood up without a word and slipped out. He wandered the backstage hallways, heart pounding. Looking round like crazy, opening doors, getting in rooms he was probably not allowed to. And then he saw it, a slim storage door slightly ajar, with a piece of familiar black fabric sticking out from underneath.

He pushed the door open.

It was a tiny, cramped room filled with spare costumes and shelves of makeup, and you were crouched in the corner, gasping desperately, tears streaming down your face. The corset was visibly crushing you.

Your panic attack was in full force.

You were hyperventilating, short, shallow gasps that weren’t bringing in enough oxygen. Your hands clawed at the front of the corset, nails digging into the stiff fabric. Your vision was tunneling. A crushing weight sat on your chest like someone was standing on it. You felt like you were dying, like the world was closing in and you were trapped inside your own body.

“I c-can’t— breathe— I can’t— fuck—” you sobbed, voice breaking.

Hyunjin’s face went pale looking down at you.

“Hey— hey, look at me,” he said urgently, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands hovered, unsure. “You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m right here.”

You kept tugging frantically at the corset, eyes wide with terror. “It’s too tight— I can’t— get it off—”

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate.

“Fuck it” he muttered. He grabbed the front of the corset and ripped hard. The hooks and laces gave way with a sharp tearing sound. The restrictive fabric split open, freeing your chest.

You weren’t wearing anything underneath.

Your breasts spilled out, nipples hardening instantly in the cool air. You gasped in relief as fresh oxygen flooded your lungs, but you were still shaking violently, still crying.

Hyunjin immediately turned his head away, cheeks burning. “Shit— I’m sorry, I didn’t— fuck. I didn’t know you were naked underneath that. It’s kind of dark here I didn’t see anything”

You grabbed his wrist after a minute of him just being turned around, facing the door and not you, your breathing still ragged but much clearer now as you were coming down.

“Thank you…” you whispered.

He looked back at you carefully, eyes dark with concern. “Is there anything else I can do? Tell me what you need.”

The panic was slowly ebbing, replaced by something raw and desperate.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lips trembling. The months of tension, the hatred, the want, the frustration, everything exploded.

“I need this stress out of me,” you breathed, voice shaking. “Right now. I need you to fuck it out of me.”

The air in the tiny room turned molten.

Hyunjin stared at you in shock, lips parted. You didn’t wait. Your hand slid between your legs pushing your safe shorts under your skirt and panties aside, and you teased yourself looking straight in his eyes, at his lips, and back at his eyes again. You were already so wet. His mare existence had you wet in seconds. You sank two fingers into your pussy with a broken moan.

“Fuck… look what you do to me,” you whimpered, pumping your fingers faster, eyes locked on his. “I’m so fucking wet. I’ve been soaked for days because of you, you asshole.”

Hyunjin’s breath hitched. His cock hardened rapidly in his stage pants, and he looked completely dazed watching you fuck yourself right in front of him.

You reached out with your free hand and yanked him closer by his shirt. “Take your cock out. Let me use you.”

He obeyed instantly, shoving his pants down as his cock sprang free, long, thick, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.

You pushed him down onto the floor, straddled him, and sank down in one desperate motion.

“Oh my god— fuck—” you moaned loudly as he stretched you open. “Your cock is so fucking big… shit— it’s splitting me open.”

You slowed your hips for a moment, still fully seated on his cock, panting as you looked down at him. Your hands braced on his chest.

“Tell me something,” you breathed, voice husky. “That day in practice… when you got so hard you had to go jerk off in the bathroom… was it because you were angry at me?”

Hyunjin looked like he couldn’t speak. He was sweating so much and he was so flushed, mouth open, chest going up and down so fast as he was breathing way too hard. His hands gripped your waist tighter, fingers digging into your skin as his cock twitched deep inside you.

“No,” he admitted, voice rough and low. “I looked up during the dance and you bent over right in front of me… ass up, back arched in those tight shorts. I got so fucking hard I couldn’t think straight, it hurt. I hated it. I hated you for making me react like that.”

His confession sent a fresh wave of heat through you. You clenched around him involuntarily.

“So it wasn’t hate…” you whispered, starting to move again, rolling your hips slowly, teasingly.

Hyunjin groaned, head falling back for a second before his eyes locked on yours again, burning.

“It was hate and want,” he growled. “Both. I wanted to fuck the frustration out of both of us.”

You started riding him hard and fast, using him like a toy, hips slamming down aggressively. Your tits bounced wildly with every brutal movement. You grabbed his hands and slapped them onto your breasts, making him squeeze them as you rode him.

“Harder,” you gasped. “Squeeze my tits while I fuck you— yes, like that— fuck, Hyunjin—”

He was a moaning, whimpering mess underneath you, hips jerking up instinctively.

“Fuck— you’re so tight— so fucking wet—”

You rode him even faster, grinding your clit against him with every thrust, moaning shamelessly. The wet sounds of your pussy taking his cock filled the small room.

After a few minutes of this position your thighs started to burn and you climbed off, turned around and bent over, bracing your hands on one of the low shelves.

“Get up. Fuck me from behind like you hate me. Hard.”

Hyunjin was on his feet in a second. He grabbed your hips and slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself in your pussy.

“Fuck— yes—” you cried out.

He fucked you like he was possessed, deep, fast, punishing strokes that made your eyes roll back. All the months of frustration poured out of him with every snap of his hips.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “So tight— shit—”

He reached around and rubbed your clit roughly. Your moans got louder, more desperate.

“I’m gonna— fuck— I’m gonna cum— Hyunjin!”

“Let go,” he panted, voice breaking into a whimper. “Cum on my cock— please—”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your whole body seized up as intense pleasure ripped through you and you squirted so hard for the first time in your life, clear fluid gushing down your thighs and onto the floor with every brutal thrust.

“I— what the fuck — oh my god—” you sobbed in shock, legs shaking violently.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened and immediately rolled back, but he didn’t stop. “It’s okay, it’s normal— fuck, that’s so hot, just let it happen baby let go, keep squirting on me”

The sight and feeling of you squirting around him pushed him over the edge. He pulled out with a broken moan and came hard, thick ropes of cum painting the floor beneath you as he stroked himself through it, whimpering your name.

Both of you collapsed against the shelves, panting, sweating, trembling.

The tiny room smelled like sex and panic.

For a long moment the only sound was your heavy breathing. Then reality started crashing down.

Hyunjin sat back against the wall, eyes wide. “…Fuck. What the hell did we just do?”

You slid down to the floor beside him, legs trembling, cum and your own wetness dripping down your thighs. You stared at the mess on the floor, then at him.

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I just— I needed it so bad.”

Hyunjin ran a hand through his messy hair, looking completely dazed. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You nodded shakily. “Yeah… I think so. Are you?”

He let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “I don’t even know.”

A heavy silence settled between you.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, pulling your ruined shorts back up. “I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that. I was panicking and I just—”

“Don’t,” Hyunjin cut you off, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. I wanted it. I was just… caught off guard. I didn’t expect any of this.” He looked at you, eyes conflicted. “But I didn’t want you to stop.”

You opened your mouth to speak again, but he stood up and gently grabbed your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but urgent. “We have to go back right now. They’re probably looking for us and going crazy. We’ll talk about this later. Okay?”

You nodded quickly.

Your stage outfits were completely ruined, wrinkled, the corset was torn apart, stained with sweat and other fluids. Hyunjin grabbed two backup outfits from the clothing rack in the corner, a slightly different version of the male stage fit for him and a looser, alternative top and skirt set for you.

You both changed as fast as possible.

When you stepped back into the main dressing room, the stylists immediately panicked.

“What happened?!” one of them gasped.

“We spilled coffee all over ourselves,” Hyunjin lied confidently, voice calm. “Sorry. We were rushing and I just pushed a tray and it got all over our outfits, it was just too messy. We had to change.”

The stylists grumbled but quickly got to work, helping you both into the backup outfits and doing emergency touch ups on your makeup and hair.

When they brought out the original tight corset again for you, you visibly tensed up, staring at it with lingering fear, and your breathing started to pick up again.

“She’s not wearing that,” Hyunjin said firmly as he noticed your reaction, stepping forward.

The head stylist blinked. “But this is the concept—”

“I don’t care,” Hyunjin interrupted, voice steady and authoritative. “She obviously feels uncomfortable in it. It’s too tight and she can’t breathe properly. Give her the other top. The loose one. She has to be able to dance, more important that the stupid concept”

The stylists tried to push back. “But the choreographer wanted the visual—”

Hyunjin stood his ground, eyes sharp. “I said no. We’re not risking her health on stage. Give her something else. Now.”

You stood there in shock at him defending you like this. His tone left no room for argument, and eventually the stylists sighed and brought you the looser black top instead. You shot Hyunjin a grateful look, and he gave you a small, almost shy nod in return.

-

All nine of you stood in a tight circle backstage, hands stacked together, hearts pounding.

Chan spoke first, voice full of fire “This is our moment. Let’s show them what nine can do. Stray Kids!”

“Stray Kids!” everyone shouted.

As you pulled your hands back, Hyunjin’s hand lingered on your shoulder, and he gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, his fingers warm and steady against your skin. You looked up at him. For a second something soft and complicated passed between you.

Then the lights hit.

You stepped onto the stage and performed like your life depended on it.

The crowd went feral.

Every move was sharp. Every look was on point. The chemistry between all nine of you crackled. Even with the last minute outfit change, the performance was powerful, maybe even better because you could finally breathe.

And you killed it.

-

The ride back to the dorm was loud and celebratory. Everyone was buzzing from the successful performance, passing around drinks and replaying the best moments. You smiled and laughed along, but your eyes kept finding Hyunjin’s across the van. He was quieter than the rest, staring at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

When you all finally got home and started heading to your rooms, exhausted but so full of light and happiness, Hyunjin paused in the hallway. His gaze locked on yours for a long second, and you gave him a small, almost nervous nod.

An hour and a half later, a faint knock on your door.

You opened it quickly. Hyunjin slipped inside in one smooth motion, closing the door silently behind him and locking it. He was wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants, hair slightly messy. He looked so unbelievably beautiful.. as he always did.

The second the door clicked shut, all your bravery from earlier disappeared. You couldn’t even look at him. You stared at the floor, cheeks burning.

Hyunjin stepped closer, voice low and teasing.

“Hey… look at me.”

You shook your head, biting your lip. He let out a soft, amused chuckle and gently tilted your chin up with two fingers.

“You’re all shy on me now?” he murmured, eyes dark. “After you rode me like you were trying to break my dick earlier? That’s cute.”

You finally met his eyes, heart racing. “Don’t say that out loud like that..”

Hyunjin’s smirk deepened, clearly enjoying how flustered you were. He stepped closer, backing you up until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

“Why not?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “You weren’t shy when you were moaning about how big I felt.”

Your face burned. You covered it with both hands, letting out a embarrassed whine.

“Hyunjin, stop—”

He chuckled softly, pulling your hands away from your face. He leaned in until his lips brushed against your ear.

“I made you feel so good didn’t I? I fucked you just the way you wanted. I did everything you told me to like a fucking dog. And i’d do it again if you asked me.”

You shivered hard, thighs pressing together instinctively. The contrast between his filthy words and the soft, teasing tone of his voice was making you dizzy.

“I hate you,” you mumbled.

Hyunjin hummed, clearly amused. He tilted your chin up again so you had no choice but to look at him.

“No you don’t,” he whispered, lips hovering dangerously close to yours, but not touching.

You both sat on your bed, close but not touching.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Then Hyunjin broke the silence.

“What are we doing?” he asked quietly. “This, this is dangarous, whatever this is.”

You nodded, throat tight.

“I know,” you whispered.

Hyunjin exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair.

“I fought it so hard,” he admitted, voice raw. “I was so angry at you for coming in and changing everything. Every time we danced together, every time I touched you during practice… I wanted you so badly it made me sick. I hated how much I wanted you. That’s why I wanted you fucking gone yn, because I can’t be attracted to you, this is way too complicated..”

You felt your eyes starting to sting.

“I’m scared,” you confessed, voice cracking. “We shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s terrifying how much I want you. Even with how cruel you were to me, I just — I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Yn.. what the fuck are we doing to do? Do we even tell the guys? I think they’d freak out so bad.”

“No, definitely don’t tell them..”

“Right..”

“Can we just keep this between us for now? We don’t even fully know what this is, right?”

“Right, yes. Let’s just keep it to ourselves. If anyone finds out we’re like beyond fucked, and I can’t pretend this didn’t happen either, so we’re kind of trapped here.”

“Yes” you replied, spacing out.

Tears slipped down your cheeks. The weight of the situation, the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming attraction, finally hit you all at once.

Hyunjin’s expression softened. He leaned in slowly and pressed his lips to yours for the first time.

The kiss was gentle at first, then deeper. His lips were even softer than you imagined, full, pillow like, warm. You melted into it, letting out a tiny whimper against his mouth.

When he pulled back slightly, you breathed out without thinking.

“I always wondered what your lips would feel like…”

“You did?” he asked, voice husky.

“Yeah…” you whispered, still shy. “They’re so big… so soft looking. I used to stare at them when you were yelling at me. It made me hate myself even more.”

He let out a low groan and kissed you again, harder this time. His hand slid to the back of your neck as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless.

“I hate myself for yelling at you, I wish I could just take it all back.”

“It’s okay. It’s behind us. Just kiss me now.”

And he did, he kissed you so deeply, so deliciously. And then he pulled back just enough to smirk against your lips.

“Want round two?” he asked, voice dripping with lust.

You nodded desperately.

Hyunjin gently pushed you back onto the bed. He peeled your shorts and panties down your legs slowly, eyes locked on your already glistening pussy. Now able to see it.

“Fuck… look at you,” he whispered, spreading your thighs wide. “Already dripping for me again. So pretty. pretty girl, pretty cunt.”

He settled between your legs, hooked his arms around your thighs, and leaned in.

The first slow lick from your entrance up to your clit made your back arch. Hyunjin moaned at your taste, the sound vibrating against your core.

“Oh my god—” you whimpered.

He didn’t tease for long. He dove in like a starved man, licking, sucking, and fucking you with his tongue in messy, hungry strokes. His perfect pillow lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicked rapidly over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans.

“Hyunjin— fuck— ” you gasped, trying to grab his head by his hair.

He ate you out like he was making up for every cruel word he’d ever said to you. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as he licked broad stripes through your folds, then focused on your clit again, sucking harder. Two long fingers slid inside you, curling perfectly against your g spot while his mouth worked you relentlessly.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned against your pussy, voice muffled. “I could eat this pretty cunt for hours.”

A loud moan escaped your mouth and he immediately brought his hand up to close it for you.

“Keep it down honey.”

The pet name hit your ears like an explosion, and your hips started grinding against his face. He let you, pressing his tongue flat so you could ride his mouth. His nose bumped against your clit with every roll of your hips, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“Hyun— I’m gonna cum— please don’t stop— your lips— fuck—”

He sucked your clit hard, moaning as low as he could into you, and that was it.

You came with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head as intense waves of pleasure crashed through you. Hyunjin kept licking you through it, gentler now, savoring every twitch and tremble until you were a shaking, oversensitive mess.

He finally pulled back, lips shiny and swollen, looking extremely satisfied with himself.

Hyunjin finally pulled back from between your thighs, his lips and chin glistening with your cum. His eyes dark, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you like he wanted to devour you whole.

You were still panting, legs trembling, when he climbed up your body and crashed his mouth against yours.

The kiss was messy and filthy. You could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet, tangy, slick. He groaned deeply into your mouth, pushing his tongue against yours so you could taste even more of what he’d just eaten, and the lewdness of it made you whimper pathetically.

“Fuck… you taste so good, don’t you?” he murmured against your lips, licking into your mouth again.

You kissed him harder, sucking on his tongue, addicted to the filthy intimacy of tasting yourself on him.

His cock was painfully hard. He was a mess, flushed cheeks, messy hair and visibly desperate. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask for more. He just stared at you like he was trying to control himself.

You sat up slowly, still breathing heavily and put your hand on his cock, stroking through his sweatpants, felling how wet they are from how much he’s leaking. Something possessive and hungry stirred inside you.

“Take your hoodie off,” you said softly. “These sweatpants too.”

He obeyed, pulling them off and tossing them aside. His toned chest and abs were glistening with a light layer of sweat, and you reached down, grabbed the hem of your own top, and pulled it off in one smooth motion. Your big, heavy breasts spilled out, soft and full, nipples hard.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened, mouth falling open slightly. He couldn’t see nearly anything in that tiny room, he could only feel you, so his surprised face right now was so fucking hot.

“I want to make you cum too,” you whispered, voice sweet but filthy. “Come here, baby.”

You shifted back against the headboard, fluffing a pillow behind your back so you were half sitting up. Then you cupped your breasts from the sides and pushed them together invitingly, creating a soft, deep valley between them.

“Have you ever fucked tits before?” you asked.

Hyunjin shook his head slowly, looking stunned and ridiculously turned on. “No… never.”

You smiled, voice low and coaxing.

“It’s gonna feel really fucking good, I promise.”

You reached out and wrapped your hand around his throbbing cock, giving it a few slow strokes. He hissed, hips jerking forward.

“Straddle me,” you instructed. “Put your knees on either side of my ribs… yeah, like that. Good boy.”

His cock switched with the pet name you used, so turned on that you were so comfortable with taking the lead, and he carefully moved into position, hovering over your chest. His heavy cock rested between your breasts, the heat of it making you moan softly.

“Spit on it,” you told him.

He did, letting a thick string of spit fall onto his cock and your cleavage. You spread it around with your hand, making everything messy and slick.

“Now push them together around your cock,” you guided, your own hands pressing your soft tits tightly around his length. “Like this.”

The moment your warm, plush breasts enveloped his cock, Hyunjin let out a broken moan, eyes rolling as his head fell back.

“Fuuuuck— oh my god…”

“Start moving,” you whispered. “Fuck my tits, Hyunjin. Nice and slow at first.”

He rolled his hips forward experimentally. His thick cock slid smoothly between your soft flesh, the head poking out from the top of your cleavage with every thrust. The sight was obscene, and he was holding himself back from moaning loud as fuck right now.

“Harder,” you encouraged, looking up at him. “You can be rougher. Squeeze my tits tighter around you if you want.”

Hyunjin groaned deeply and replaced your hands with his own, gripping your soft breasts firmly and pressing them together even tighter around his cock. He started thrusting faster, hips snapping as he fucked your tits with wet, filthy sounds.

“Shit— it feels so good,” he panted, voice wrecked. “Your tits are so fucking soft… so warm… fuck—”

You stuck your tongue out, licking the tip of his cock every time it thrust up toward your face. The combination of your tongue and the tight pressure of your breasts made his thighs shake.

“You like that?” you asked teasingly, licking the leaking head again. “You like fucking my big tits?”

“Yes— fuck yes—” he moaned, losing control. His thrusts grew faster, more desperate. “I’m gonna cum so fast like this…—”

You kept your eyes on him, watching his face twist in pleasure while you continued licking and sucking on the head of his cock whenever it appeared.

“Cum for me baby,” you purred. “Cover my tits. I want to feel you explode all over them.”

Hyunjin’s hips stuttered. With a loud, broken whimper, and he came so hard.

Thick, hot ropes of cum shot across your chest, painting your breasts, collarbones, and neck. Some even landed on your lips and chin. He kept thrusting weakly between your cum covered tits, riding out his orgasm with shaky moans.

And when he finally stopped he was breathing like he’d just run a marathon, staring down at the mess he made on your chest with pure lust and disbelief.

He then collapsed beside you on the bed, chest heaving. Without thinking, you reached up and gently brushed his damp hair away from his forehead, and he leaned into your touch, eyes half closed, and let out a contented sigh.

You kept playing with his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands, and he smiled and pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you. His bare chest was warm against your skin.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispered after a while, voice soft and sincere. “For how I treated you all these months. I was so awful to you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

You nuzzled closer into his neck, breathing him in.

“I forgive you.”

He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, slow, gentle, sweet kisses that felt completely different from the raw hunger earlier. You melted into him, kissing him back with the same softness.

You eventually pulled away just long enough to grab his hoodie from the floor and slip it on. It was big on you, warm, and smelled like him. Hyunjin smiled lazily at the sight, pulling you back into his arms.

“You look good in my clothes” he mumbled, voice sleepy as he stroked your back under the hoodie.

You both kept talking quietly, soft little confessions, shy compliments, gentle kisses. His fingers played with your hair while yours traced patterns on his chest. The tension that had lived between you for months slowly dissolved into something warm and comforting.

Neither of you realized when you drifted off.

-

Your alarm blared at 6:45 am.

You jolted awake at the same time as him. For a second, you both stared at each other in sleepy confusion. Then reality hit like a truck.

“Shit!” you whisper yelled.

“Fuck!” Hyunjin hissed at the same time, eyes wide with panic.

He was still topless in just his boxers in your bed and you were wearing nothing but his hoodie. The sun was already starting to come up and the dorm would be waking up any minute.

Hyunjin jumped out of bed and frantically searched for his pants, hair sticking up in every direction.

“How the hell am I supposed to get out without them seeing me?” he whispered, pulling on his sweatpants quickly. “They are right across the hall. If they notice I didn’t sleep in my bed—”

You sat up, biting your lip. “Maybe wait until someone goes to the bathroom and make a run for it?”

Just then you heard movement in the hallway, someone walking toward the kitchen. Hyunjin froze like a deer in headlights. You quickly fixed your hair and peeked out the door. Felix was heading to the kitchen, still half asleep.

“Now!” you whispered.

Hyunjin slipped out of your room, moving silently down the hallway. But right as he reached his own door Changbin’s voice rang out from the living room:

“Yah, Hyunjin! Where were you? I woke up at like 4 AM to get water and your bed was empty.”

Hyunjin froze mid step.

You watched from the crack in your door, trying not to laugh but also feeling anxious about the situation. It hasn’t even been 24 hours and you’ve already fucked up being careful about this.

Hyunjin turned around with surprising confidence and shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep so I went to the practice room downstairs for a bit. Cleared my head after the performance.”

Changbin narrowed his eyes suspiciously but eventually shrugged. “Weirdo. Were you out meeting a girl or something? I don’t even cafe dude just, next time at least leave a note or something.”

Hyunjin nodded quickly and slipped into his room before Changbin could ask more questions. The second his door closed, you let out a quiet laugh and shut your own door, heart still racing.

A few seconds later your phone buzzed with a text from Hyunjin.

Hyunjin: I almost had a heart attack. Worth it though… see you at breakfast, hoodie thief

You smiled down at your phone, cheeks warm, already wondering when you could steal him away again.

-

Over the next few weeks things between you and Hyunjin changed.

On the surface, nothing looked different. During practice you were still mostly professional. He still kept his distance when the other guys were around. But now there were secret glances, hidden smiles, and late night texts that filled your stomach with butterflies, the beautiful kind, making up for lost time.

Some nights he’d sneak into your room. Sometimes when you’d go weeks without meeting at night it or when one of you was stressed and frustrated with work it was desperate and fast like that first time in that tiny room of the venue. Other times it was slow, sweet, and full of whispered sweet nothings and soft kisses.

The group slowly noticed that the hostility between you two had disappeared. Chan was relieved. Felix teased you both constantly. No one suspected the truth of course, they just thought you were finally civil and co existing.

One night, months later, Hyunjin was lying in your bed with you tucked against his chest, his fingers gently playing with your hair.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “I still think you’re annoying for joining the group.”

You laughed and lightly smacked his chest. “And you’re still an asshole.”

He grinned, then kissed the top of your head.

“But I’m really glad you’re here,” he added softly. “I don’t want to do this without you anymore.”

You looked up at him, heart full and kissed him slowly.

“Me neither.”

[namtan]

[hyunjinhoexxx]

Can anyone tag Hyunjin x reader (she/her implied) smut fics? I swear I see none and I’ve read all the ones I find! Please help a hyunjinhoeee out 🙏

[hyunjinhoexxx]

The moment we all died went to hell (don’t deserve heaven). Thanks

[jj-one]

DRAW ME LIKE ONE OF YOUR (HENTAI) GIRLS !

this is smut, do not interact if under 18

— you were supposed to be his muse. turns out you were his obsession.

pairing: manga artist!hyunjin x f!reader, roommates to lovers ? genre/tags: college au, smut, mentions of masturbation, soft dom!hyunjin, fingering, some degradation/praise kink, orgasm control, unprotected s*x, creampie words: 4.8k (this was supposed to be shorter idk what happened lmaoo)

[ note. ] — uhhh surprise, i’m back….? (we’ll see how long this’ll last) but i’ve had this idea in my brain for a while now and i js finished it so i’m hoping you guys enjoy this one ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

cross posted to AO3

you don’t even remember how you ended up roommates with hyunjin. maybe someone dropped the ball in housing. it’s possible your brain skipped over the part of the application that said co-ed artist dorms only. or it could just be the universe decided you were getting a little too comfortable with life and needed to be humbled, violently.

either way, it’s been six months.

and at this point, hyunjin’s presence is as constant and familiar as the hum of your desk fan. always there, in the background— sketching, scribbling, perpetually shirtless, sprawled out like a tragic oil painting across your shared living room floor in a sea of crumpled paper, tangled wires, pastel smudges, and broken pencil tips. graphite dust clings to his fingers, to his cheekbones, to the cuffs of his sweats like he’s more sketch than human.

he mumbles under his breath about deadlines and “noodle anatomy,” so softly you almost think you imagined it. at other times, he just stares at the ceiling, unmoving, as if some divine inspiration might drip down from the drywall. and every now and then, he groans so dramatically it sounds like he’s dying, only for you to find out he’s just trying to draw a bent knee.

he’s quiet. not shy, and not in a way that makes you feel obligated to fill the silence. just… contained. coiled. the kind of quiet that holds weight— his thoughts are vivid and volatile, too loud to voice, so he seals them between the pages of his sketchbooks. it’s safer that way. nothing escapes. nothing catches fire.

you’ve never seen him bring anyone home.

not once. not even after those late-night figure drawing classes, or the weekend studio exhibitions where people tend to get a little too wine drunk and giggly. you’ve never heard him talk about crushes or hookups or even eye someone on the quad. never even caught him flirting. he barely acknowledges strangers in passing, doesn’t register compliments from the girls who sometimes stop to peek through the dorm windows and whisper about “that one hot art guy.”

he doesn’t go out much either, never really parties, barely shows up to campus events, and treats grocery runs like hostile field missions. most of the time, he’s holed up in his room with the door cracked open, back hunched over his tablet or sketchpad, headphones in, eyes glazed over with focus.

there are moments he doesn’t respond when you speak. you’ll knock, pass his room more than once, and the only hint he’s still breathing is the dim glow of his monitor. you pause, staring in, wondering— not for the first time— how long he’s been cooped up in there. whether he’s eaten. whether he’s slept. whether he’s working on something normal, or… something else entirely.

because you know what he draws.

he told you. casually. one night, when you were both cross-legged on the floor, splitting leftover takeout and surrounded by plastic chopsticks and empty bubble tea cups. you asked what his senior portfolio theme was, expecting something pretentious, or maybe poetic.

“manga,” he said, chewing absently.

“oh, cool,” you replied. “what genre?”

“ecchi.”

you raise a brow, confused. “…what’s that?”

he looked up slowly, eyes wide, expression borderline unreadable. “tasteful porn.”

you immediately choked on your noodles.

and that was that.

you never brought it up again. but the image of him calmly saying “tasteful porn” with the straightest face lives in your head rent free. still makes your ears burn if you think about it too long.

what’s worse is that you shouldn’t even be surprised.

but you were. maybe because hyunjin doesn’t quite fit the mold of some guy who spends most his nights hunched over his tablet, painstakingly rendering the way sheer fabric sticks to flushed skin. the way lips part, the way spines arch. he’s too pretty, ethereal even— too clean to be that filthy in private. soft jawline, delicate wrists, lips always stained pink from strawberry pocky. he uses cherry blossom shampoo. wears fuzzy socks. once, you caught him microwaving hot chocolate at two in the morning while humming the sailor moon theme song under his breath.

by all logic, he should be drowning in girls. flirty art majors, clumsy lit students, curious econ girls who like the idea of a mysterious artist boyfriend. he should have people throwing themselves at him, sliding into his dms, leaving their numbers on napkins.

but he’s not.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s because hyunjin is a total, certified goon.

the type of guy who probably jerks off to his own hentai panels with one hand in his sweats and the other still holding his apple pencil so he can make edits mid-stroke.

the type who’s too obsessed with his imaginary girls to even look at a real one.

and unfortunately for you— you’re one of them.

+

you agreed to model for his senior art portfolio last month.

he’d asked you during one of your late-night kitchen run-ins, voice low and uncertain, sketchpad balanced on one knee while he waited for his ramen to finish spinning in the microwave.

“it’s not explicit explicit,” he said, peeking up at you from under his lashes, his thumb absently smudging the corner of a half-finished eye on the page. “it’s more suggestive. tasteful.” his tone wavered between hopeful and rehearsed, like he’d been planning to ask you for a while but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve until now.

“think… moody lighting,” he added, as if that would somehow soften the blow. “lace. maybe a garter belt.”

you blinked. “a garter belt?” the words came out with an airy laugh, light and teasing, a little incredulous but not entirely opposed.

he didn’t flinch. instead, he perked up with faux earnestness, flipping his pencil between his fingers like a conductor’s baton, brows lifted in dramatic flourish. “it’s for the drama,” he insisted, as if that explained anything at all. as if drama alone justified sketching someone in lingerie.

yet somehow… you ended up agreeing.

you needed the extra cash, your campus job barely covered groceries, and your last textbook rental had drained what little remained in your savings. but part of you was flattered, too. no one had ever asked to draw you before, and definitely not like that.

but if you were really being honest, a small part of you liked the way he looked at you when you posed.

he made you feel like art. something worth preserving, not just for the shape of your body or the softness of your skin, but for the way you existed in stillness. the rhythm of your breath, the curve of your spine, the light pooling into the hollows of your collarbones. he watched with quiet fixation, eyes moving from page to skin, jaw clenched in concentration, and everytime his pencil scratched against the paper, it’d sent a phantom shiver down your spine.

he made you feel beautiful.

you hadn’t realized you were making a mistake.

not until tonight, when he’d left for his night class and you were rummaging behind his desk in search of your charger, the one you always forgot in his room. you’d been reaching behind a pile of books and folders when your elbow bumped something, knocking it to the floor with a dull, soft thud.

a sketchbook.

black, unmarked, a little worn around the edges. it didn’t look important or any different from the others he always left lying around. you bent down without thinking, planning to toss it back where it came from.

but it had fallen open.

you froze. you told yourself you wouldn’t look, that it wasn’t yours to see.

and then you looked anyway.

curiosity, or something worse, pulled you toward the page.

and there you were.

not soft. not modest. not the dimly lit, “tasteful” pose you’d assumed he’d capture.

you were drawn sprawled out, every inch of you on display. legs spread wide, toes curling into fabric you recognized as your own sheets. your back arched off a pillow from your bed. one hand gripping the edge of the blanket. the other buried deep between your thighs. your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes hazy, mouth frozen in a moan that felt way too specific to be imagined.

and it was detailed. painfully so.

you could see the shading where sweat would gather. the tension in your calves. the wrinkle in your brow. your own hair drawn strand by strand, fanned out like a halo.

your stomach flipped. heat bloomed somewhere low and unsteady.

you turned the page, almost on instinct, heart already pounding.

there were more.

you on your knees, spine arched, wrists tucked behind your back. your head tilted at just the right angle to show off your throat, the delicate notch above your collarbone. the lingerie you wore last week— sheer lace cups, dainty silk bows, garters clipped to thigh-highs—recreated in uncanny, microscopic detail. every clasp, dimple in your skin, subtle ripple of imagined pleasure inked in with a hunger that felt… dangerous.

you stared at the pages, transfixed. breath caught somewhere in your chest, hands beginning to tremble. you hadn’t meant to look, hadn’t planned to turn the first page, let alone the second… but once you did, you couldn’t stop. every drawing felt intimate, obsessive, memorized. the way he rendered you with such aching precision—each curve of your body, every fold of lace, every imagined tremble of your thighs, made it nearly impossible to look away.

it was clear he hadn’t just sketched you from reference; he’d studied you, remembered you. poured hours into capturing the parting of your mouth when you sigh, the subtle shift of your hips in that particular set of lingerie, the way your body folds, stretches, and exists on the page, alive and familiar.

you were still staring when you heard the jingle of his keys at the door. your heart clenched instantly, breath stuttering as you snapped upright, hands suddenly clammy and slick with heat. your thighs instinctively pressed together before you could stop yourself. there was panic, yes, caught red-handed with something you were never meant to see— but tangled beneath it, humming in your veins like a low, slow current, was something far darker. not dread or guilt. something warmer. hungrier. the realization bloomed slowly and thickly at the back of your throat, and you swallowed it down like a secret; what you felt wasn’t entirely fear. it was want.

the door clicks open behind you, followed by the soft creak of the hinge, the muted scuff of sneakers hitting hardwood, and some more indistinct shuffling near the entryway as he drops his things. hyunjin steps inside, expression dulled with exhaustion, shoulders loose, hoodie slipping off one side of his frame. he moves like he always does after a long day— quiet, fluid, like he’s still half inside his head.

until he sees what’s in your lap.

his sketchbook.

his secret.

you.

he halts mid-step.

for a second, he doesn’t say anything. no words, no movement, not even a blink. his eyes trace the shape of the moleskin cover, the way your fingers are curled around the edge of a page, your gaze is wide and locked onto his, like you’ve been caught doing something unspeakable. maybe, because you have.

but the reaction you expect never comes. there’s no stammering apology, flustered excuses, desperate attempt at backpedaling or some pathetic plea to forget what you saw.

instead, he smiles.

and it’s not the kind of nervous, sheepish grin you might’ve imagined if this moment had played out in your head. no. it’s something far more sinister. cooler. slow-spreading and deeply smug, as if this was inevitable and he’s known all along.

“you weren’t supposed to see that,” he says, voice low and smooth, like he’s just commenting on the weather.

he walks toward you with the kind of unhurried confidence that makes your throat go instantly dry, his footsteps soft against the floorboards, eyes never leaving yours. he stops just in front you where you’re still frozen, sketchbook heavy in your hands, heart beating loud enough to feel it in your teeth.

“but…”

his head tilts slightly as he crouches in front of you, long fingers curling over the edge of the cushion near your knee. the shift in posture shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but it roots you in place. he’s close— close enough that you can see the faint flecks of lead still dusted on his fingertips, the faint ink smudge on the side of his hand, the crescent of dried eraser shavings caught beneath his nail.

“…since you have…”

his voice dips even lower now, almost playful. like he’s testing you and he knows you’re too curious to say no.

“do you wanna see the rest?”

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but you nod.

and something in him clicks.

he reaches for the book, knuckles brushing your thigh as he takes it gently from your lap. doesn’t ask again or give you time to second-guess. just shifts his weight to sit beside you, so close your knees bump, and flips to the next page with the ease of someone completely unashamed.

the next drawing makes your breath catch.

you— on your stomach, wrists bound above your head with a ribbon that trails off the page. your thighs are spread wide open, panties pushed to the side, one heel still hooked halfway off your foot. you can see your expression sketched in detail, mouth parted, brows drawn tight, eyes looking up with something caught between desperation and bliss.

he turns another page.

this one’s rougher. messier lines, heavier shading. you’re riding something, someone, but only the vague silhouette of a figure is visible beneath you. the focus is all on your body. the way your tits bounce. the tremble in your thighs. the glint of a tongue drawn wet and flicking out from behind your lips. your head is thrown back, hair wild, and between your legs— slick. so much slick. rendered in obsessive strokes that make you shiver.

you blink. “hyunjin, what the fuck—”

“what?” he says lightly, not even looking at you. “it’s art.”

he’s already on the next page.

you reach for it instinctively, trying to stop him, but he only laughs, quiet and amused, and tilts the book slightly so you can see better.

“thought you wanted to see the rest.”

your stomach twists. “how many are there?”

“depends,” he shrugs. “just the ones of you?”

you freeze.

he turns another page. this one’s so filthy your face burns.

you’re gagging on something thick, your hands gripping at the base, tears drawn in delicate lines down your cheeks. your mascara is smudged. your spit is dripping off your chin. there are notes in the margin, little technical observations. ‘make angle of throat curve more exaggerated,’ ‘adjust hand position,’ ‘redraw drool line thicker.’

you glance at him, stunned, but he’s completely calm. flipping through pages like this is the normal shit ever and he’s showing off a vacation album, not a growing collection of depraved, hyper-detailed hentai of you.

“why..” your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. “why me?”

he finally looks at you then.

really looks.

there’s no hesitation in his face. no shame. just a flicker of something deep and unwavering.

“you said yes,” he says simply. “you stood in front of me in that stupid lace and let me stare. what did you think i was gonna do? draw a fucking fruit bowl?”

“i thought it was for your portfolio—”

“it is,” he says, smiling again. “you’re the whole thing.”

you swallow hard. “you should’ve told me.”

he laughs, dry and low.

“would you have still posed?”

you don’t answer. because you don’t know.

he proceeds to turn another page.

this time, you’re bent over the kitchen counter in this one. there’s cum dripping down your thighs.

“you didn’t tell me to stop,” he says softly.

your pulse jumps. “i didn’t know what you were doing.”

“you never asked.”

the silence stretches.

he flips another page. then another. each sketch more obscene than the last. erotic positions you’ve never even imagined. angles that make your skin burn. and he narrates them all with a kind of detached pride, fingers gliding over each line like he’s showing off fine china.

“this one took me all night,” he murmurs, turning the book slightly so you can see the details. “couldn’t get the way your mouth stretches quite right. ended up using a mirror.”

“jesus,” you whisper, barely able to look away. “hyunjin, you’re insane.”

he grins, leaning closer. “and you let me draw you.”

his voice is low. warm. full of something dangerous.

“so what does that make you?”

you don’t answer.

you literally can’t.

because you’re still staring at the next page, and your thighs are pressing together before you even realize it.

+

it’s hard to say who came onto who first.

whether it was you, him, or the invisible thread between you finally pulled taut and snapped— you aren’t sure. but the sketchbook lands somewhere on the floor long forgotten, and then hyunjin’s hands are suddenly on your thighs, warm and steady. the next thing you know, you’re pressed into the mattress of his bed, his body hovering close, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

you’re still breathing hard, dizzy from everything you saw. your body’s betraying you, flushed and prickled with heat, and he sees it. god, he sees everything.

his voice is low, right beside your ear. “you’re still looking at me like i’ve done something wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into the soft flesh just above your knees, parting them further until your legs fall open around him. “but you haven’t said stop.”

you should. you could. your lips fall open like you want to say something, but the words never physically come out.

he chuckles.

“that’s what i thought.”

his fingers trail up your bare thigh with an artist’s touch, slow and reverent, tracing invisible lines like he’s mentally drafting his next sketch. his eyes never stray, just stays locked on your face. not your lips, not your chest, but your eyes— studying every twitch and flicker as if he’s trying to memorize how your shame turns into arousal.

and fuck, it’s working…

“do you know,” he says, almost idly, as though it’s just casual conversation. “how many nights i’ve spent drawing you from memory?”

his hand slides higher, dips beneath the hem of your shorts, brushes against the dampened fabric of your panties. his smile sharpens.

“you always wear the cutest little things. i couldn’t help it.”

you choke on your breath when he presses the heel of his palm against your cunt. not enough to relieve anything, but enough to remind you who’s touching you. who’s seen you like this, over and over again, in his head and on paper and in every single fucked-up sketch you were too horrified, and too curious, to stop looking at.

he leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“you don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, “to spend hours perfecting the way your lips wrap around something thick. or the way your thighs shake when you’re close. i studied that. every twitch. every fold. every drip.”

his tone darkens, the words clinging to you like sweat.

“and it still wasn’t enough.”

he pulls back to look at you, fingers still nestled between your legs, his hand heavy and possessive like he owns what he drew— and maybe he does. he always has.

“you wanna know the real reason i never bring anyone home?”

you blink, mind hazy. “what?”

he slides your panties to the side with maddening precision, but his fingers stay light, barely ghosting over your folds.

“because i didn’t need anyone else.”

you whimper when the pad of his middle finger circles your clit, featherlight and cruel.

“i had you.”

a slow exhale leaves your chest, shaky and broken, and he watches you unravel, patient and quiet, savoring it the way someone might linger on the best part of a page.

then he kisses you without warning.

his mouth is soft at first, almost deceptively gentle. but the moment you lean into it and give in, he deepens it, tongue sliding over yours with the same practiced hunger he puts into his art. he kisses the way he draws: greedy, precise, a little filthy.

your hands fist into his hoodie, and he grins against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you taste better than i imagined.”

he pushes his fingers deeper between your folds, finally giving you the pressure you need. your hips jolt, a whine slipping from your throat, and that’s when you feel it.

his other hand has moved to your wrist.

he’s guiding it down.

and, fuck, he’s so hard.

you palm him through his sweats, wide-eyed and breathless, and he shudders, grinding into your touch shamelessly.

“you did this,” he says through a clenched jaw. “you and your fucking poses and that look on your face like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.” his hand moves with more purpose now, two fingers pressing inside you slow and deep while his thumb rubs tight, messy circles against your clit. he groans when you clench around him.

“this tight already?” he whispers, nose brushing yours. “and i haven’t even started drawing tonight.”

you try to reply— something, anything— but all that comes out is a pathetic, broken litttle moan.

he smirks, biting your bottom lip.

“so desperate. is this why you went snooping? hoping to find something to get off to?”

you shake your head. “i didn’t- i didn’t mean to—”

he laughs. “no?”

he curls his fingers just right and your whole body jerks, hips stuttering. he hits that gummy spot inside you that already has you seeing stars, mouth falling open around a breathless moan.

“then why’re you dripping all over my hand, sweetheart?”

your face contorts with pleasure, heat rushing to your cheeks as his fingers slowly withdraw, slick and shining. he raises them between you, holding the evidence up for you to see.

“look at that,” he murmurs, softly.

your arousal glistens in the low light, coating his fingers, dripping down his wrist. he slides them into his mouth and moans, eyes fluttering shut for just a second before they snap open again, dark and hungry.

“better than i imagined,” he breathes, already sounding wrecked.

“but we’ll keep going, yeah?”

his hand finds yours again, guiding it back to the bulge straining in his pants— heat pulsing through the fabric, through your palm, through the space between your bodies that’s disappearing by the second.

“you’ve only seen the sketches.”

+

you were half-expecting him to crumble when you climb into his lap.

at least, you wanted him to.

he’d spent the past thirty minutes sounding like the world’s most depraved art school simp, flipping through sketch after sketch like some perverted little museum curator. and now? after everything he’s admitted. you’re wet, twitchy, and riding the high of control. he’s throbbing under you, eyes wide, flushed to the tips of his ears. you think maybe he’ll let you ruin him. maybe he wants that.

but then his fingers dig into your hips. hard.

and the shift is immediate.

his back straightens. his mouth parts, but no breathy little beg ever comes out.

just a low, measured murmur in your ear:

“take your panties off.”

your brain short circuits.

“what—?”

he grips your jaw and tilts your face toward him, gently, never rough, but his touch is firm. decisive.

“you wanna climb into my lap, ride my cock like some spoiled little muse?” he says, tone deceptively calm. “fine. but you’re gonna do it the way i imagined it.”

your breath catches. your heart pounds. your cunt pulses.

fuck.

you strip without thinking. panties discarded somewhere on the floor, shorts shoved down past your knees. he watches, shamelessly, licking his lips once as his eyes drag down your body.

“there,” he says, like you’re finally arranged the way he likes.

he strokes a palm up your inner thigh, fingers ghosting over your folds, smearing slick deliberately. your hips twitch forward, chasing his touch.

he tuts. “so needy. bet you soaked the pages of my sketchbook, didn’t you?”

“hyunjin—”

“don’t act shy now,” he murmurs, voice darker. “you flipped through every page. stared at every filthy little pose i drew you in. legs spread, gagging, dripping.”

his fingers part your folds. dragging through them.

“this wet for me already, and i haven’t even put it in?”

you gasp when he presses the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing, just teasing, smearing precum over your folds like he’s painting.

“beg,” he says softly.

“hyun—”

“you were bold enough to go through my stuff,” he cuts you off, thumb pressing against your clit in painfully slow circles. “now beg.”

and god, you do.

you don’t even try to hold onto what little pride you had left. not when he’s touching you like that, looking at you like he already owns you, like he’s just recreating a scene he’s drawn a thousand times.

“please,” you whisper. “i want it.”

“say it properly.”

“please, let me ride your cock.”

he grins, smug and breathless, and finally, finally, lets you sink down on him.

and it’s perfect.

so thick you swear it stretches something deeper. you brace against his chest, gasping as he fills you up, each inch a slow, merciless press that has you trembling, mouth agape, nails biting into his skin.

“shiiit,” you whimper. “feels so—”

“tight,” he grits out. “fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight.”

he lets you sit there for a second, fully seated on him, cunt fluttering as your body adjusts, becoming more attuned to his length. you were expecting him to move, to take over.

but he doesn’t.

“go on then,” he instructs. “ride me. show me what you learned from those drawings.”

you start moving, tentatively at first, slow little rolls of your hips— and his hands were simply there to guide you. firm and assured, shaping the rhythm as if he’s sculpting the moment himself, dragging pleasure from you at the exact pace he wants.

“there,” he hisses. “that’s it, just like that, bounce for me- yeah, baby, just like that.”

you ride him harder, chasing the friction, hips grinding down with more purpose as your moans rise in volume, ragged and desperate. and then his hand wraps around the base of your throat. not enough to block any major airways, just holding you there as an anchor.

“don’t cum yet,” he whispers.

you nearly sob.

“hyunjin- fuck, ’m so close—”

his hips buck up into you and your whole body jerks, another sharp gasp leaving your throat as your cunt clamps down hard, tight, pulsing around him, overwhelmed by the sudden depth and force.

“not yet.”

you clench your fists against his chest, thighs quivering, the ache mounting unbearably.

“please, please, i need—”

he shifts, arm wrapping around your waist, and slams you down onto him as he thrusts up again, harder this time, hitting your walls so deep you couldn’t help but scream.

“you think you get to snoop through my private sketchbook, make me beg, and then cum on my cock whenever you want?”

he flips you before you even get the chance to answer. he moves fast, smooth, overwhelming. now you’re flat on your back, and he’s towering above you, hand gripping your thigh, shoving it up against your chest as he sinks right back into you.

“you’re mine now,” he groans. “gonna fuck you until you forget your own name. gonna redraw you like this- cumming around me, crying for me.”

he thrusts deep and sharp and mean.

“gonna sketch you full of my cum.”

“hyun, fuck, please—”

he leans down, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips, almost sweet even as he rails you into the mattress.

“i got you,” he pants. “fuck, baby, i got you. you can cum now.”

and when you do, practically shaking and crying, cunt gripping him so tightly he’s nearly on the verge of blacking out. he follows immediately, moaning against your neck as he spills his thick, hot seed inside you.

he stays there for a moment, still buried deep, panting hard, chest pressed to yours and rising with each unsteady inhale. then he pulls out slowly, eyes fixed on the way his cum spills from you and drips down your thighs, letting out a satisfied hum.

“don’t move,” he says, already reaching for his sketchbook that was left abandoned on the floor.

“hyunjin—”

“shhh,” he coos, “you’re perfect. let me draw you like this.”

he pauses, glancing down at the creamy mess between your legs.

“maybe from memory again.”

guys this is first hyunjin fic ever so my apolocheese if it’s not that good but i rlly tried fhdhsh 😓 pls be nice or i’ll cri </3 (it’s litr 1 am and i can’t sleep omg someone help me)

[hyunjinhoexxx]

This one of the best works I’ve read in a while! Please need more 🙏

[hyunjinhoexxx]

18+ only see below to see unblurred version.

l just know Chan fks like this 😛

[hanjinology]

YOU'RE TWISTED : featuring christopher chan bang

— stalker!bang chan x fem!reader in which, chan had this obsession over you for the past 6 months. knows everything about you, your schedule, your habbits, your mannerism, even the smallest thing about you like your usual order of morning coffee. his overflowing affection and love towards you ends him at where he became insane and had you stalked. but there's one small secret he doesn't know about you, and had it find out.

content warning: this piece contains a lot problematic behavior from chan including violence and psychopatic tendencies, please note that i do not associate bang chan in any of this personalities and that i only wrote this for entertainment consumption only. please separate fiction from reality. includes detailed scenes of rough sex, manhandling, stalking, spitting, hair pulling, slight violence, con-sensual sex, slapping, slight bdsm that includes shibari and sensory play that might be not suitable for some readers. please proceed with cautions. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

a/n: Hi! I have started writing this one as soon as I have posted the update for prim and proper. This is a one ahot fiction tha will be divided into two separate point of views. First will be Chan's POV and second will be reader's POV, so stay tuned for the second version and hoping this won't confuse anyone! < 3

HIS POV

YOUR POV

CONCLUSION

a/n: finally posting this after so many years /jj putting this first before the actual fic < 3 for easier access. to those part of the taglist, wait for the second mention for the first part of the fic! MWAAA!

taglist: @hime-honne, @nicolemgo, @starlightsigot7, @nessia-pttwo, @franaby, @skz-crumbs, @tsumiyaa, @bunbunbl0gs, @kloversung, @bellaglover18, @jaymiwrld, @foppishitudinality, @helawho, @syraxnyra, @wobblewobble822, @putlonghatdog, @mayberriesg, @channies-babygurl, @lobstertuxedo, @my0hmary, @illsiren, @atinyiri, @p3achreads, @ebnabi, @lynsbng

(for those who still wanna be a part of the taglist, feel free to comment down < 3. some y'all can't be tagged properly. please make sure your settings for tags and mentions are open.)

all rights reserved © 2026 sitri. none of my works shall be produced or reproduced in any form without consent and proper asking.

[sithskz]

『 the revenge game 』

୨୧ summary: you hate chan because your boyfriend hates chan, and you’re pretty sure he hates you too. so when he proposes a fake dating arrangement after you get cheated on, you accept only for the revenge plot. but that doesn’t exactly go as planned, because maybe you two never really hated each other after all. ୨୧ pairing: student!bang chan x fem!student!reader ୨୧ genre: college!au, enemies to lovers / fake dating, a lil fluff, a lil angst, smut MINORS DNI ୨୧ word count: 20.6k ୨୧ featuring: jaehyun of nct and mina & jihyo of twice ୨୧ warnings: 18+, cheating (not between reader and chan), mentions of alcohol, explicit language, poor communication, some arguing, overuse of italics (sorry!), oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (pls dont do it), breast play (+ one slap !), creampie, multiple orgasms, spitting, dirty talk, teasing, pet names (baby, princess), afab reader ୨୧ author's note: let's play a game of how many tropes can i fit into one fic! i did all of my college courses online so not too much on me and my unrealistic depictions pls… also obviously this is not an accurate portrayal of jaehyun, i love that man down okay!! and i got a lil lazy midway through this and rushed it to get to the smut lmao sorry!

You hated parties.

You hated parties because they were loud, because spaces with that many bodies on top of each other were too suffocating, because men always tried to hit on you with boozy breath and wandering eyes.

Now you hated parties because they made your boyfriend want to stick his tongue down other girls’ throats.

Jaehyun had managed to destroy nine months within three minutes – that’s the length of time you’d convinced yourself you’d spent standing there, unable to avert your gaze from the horror unfolding in front of you. Three whole minutes that he hadn’t even noticed your presence, too preoccupied. Too focused on kissing this random girl like he had something to claim, as if you weren’t enough. And worst of all, he hadn’t even cared enough to bring it somewhere private. They were in a corner of the living room, tucked away but not hidden. It had only taken a little bit of squeezing between partygoers and quick apologies to make your way to them. 

They had gathered a crowd, too. A few spectators, voices meant to be whispers – drunk people can’t seem to mind their own volume. 

“Yo, is that Y/N?” 

“Nah, I just saw her getting a drink.” 

“Shit…she’s gonna be so pissed.”

At least the alcohol hadn’t made them completely brainless. You were, in fact, pissed. There was the unmistakable heartbreak too, but you weren’t going to let anyone see that. Instead, you blinked back your tears and cleared your throat to make sure the words didn’t get stuck. Each step you took towards him made it more real, until you were close enough that you knew he could hear you over the raging music.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, far from an actual question. Your voice still broke on the last word, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed. As soon as he registers that it’s your voice, his girlfriend, Jaehyun tries to push the girl away, feigning disgust. It’s almost pathetic in a way, his little act. 

“Shit, Y/N,” he curses. “I didn’t mean to – fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just – ”

He stumbles on his words as if his mouth wasn’t working perfectly fine just seconds before. When he tries to inch towards you, you step back, refusing to allow him the comfort. 

“You’re fucked, Jaehyun,” you say flatly. That’s as much of your energy as you would give him, at least for now. He’d embarrassed you enough by kissing another woman in the middle of a party; you decided against escalating your humiliation by shouting at him and causing a scene. You turn on your heels and begin pushing through bodies again, away from him, and you can tell he’s following. You can hear your name, barely reaching your ears but definitely there. 

Once you make it out of the most concentrated pool of people, he staggers soon after and latches onto your wrist. The same fingertips that used to run across your skin so gently now felt like betrayal and poison. 

“Let me go,” you snap. His grip loosens slightly, but he still holds you there, determined to defend himself. 

“I fucked up, I know, but please just hear me out,” he begs, as if he has the right to. His excuses are the last thing you want to hear right now, and you know that’s all they would be. Stupid excuses for a stupid “mistake,” and it makes you sick to even think about listening to him explain why and how he ended up making out with another woman in the corner of a party he asked you to go with him to.

“No! Fuck you, seriously,” you spit, words laced with venom you prayed would hurt him even a fraction of the way he hurt you. 

And perhaps they did, or at the very least stunned him, because he drops your arm entirely. Now, you take the final steps towards the door, reaching for the handle. He tries to follow you again, unsatisfied, unrelenting. “And if you follow me out this door, I promise you I’ll never speak to you again.”

That stops him in his tracks. Maybe gives him some hope that if he just lets you cool off for the night, you’ll let him explain in the morning. Regardless of how he perceives it, you lunge at the opportunity to escape, finally making it out the door and into the crisp night air. It hits your skin viciously, your skirt and halter top offering little protection from its bite. You’re cold, heartbroken, and, worst of all, not even nearly drunk enough to mask it. 

Without the vivaciousness of the party, you can only see Jaehyun kissing her in your mind, can only hear the hushed whispers of the onlookers, replaying on a torturous loop. You’d only made it down the steps of the house before the tears began to fall. Now you let them, assuming you were away from prying eyes. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed someone standing right next to the door while you and Jaehyun had your little spat. A certain someone who would get far too much enjoyment out of such a scene. You had been followed once more, but this time not by your stupid cheating ex boyfriend, but by his equally as stupid “rival.” It was still a mystery to you why they hated each other, and at this point, you didn’t care at all to find out.

“Those were some harsh words,” he chuckles, and you don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice. The same way you don’t need to turn around to know he’s smirking. You hurriedly wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup; the last thing you need is him to see you crying, another thing for him to derive sick pleasure in. You wouldn’t dare grant him that.

Because it was an unspoken relationship rule that an enemy of your partner is an enemy of your own. So, for no real reason other than the fact that Jaehyun hated him, you hated Bang Chan. 

“Fuck off, Chan,” you snarl, quickening your pace. It doesn’t matter, since he catches up to you in a few short strides. “Why the hell did you even follow me out here?”

He steps in rhythm with you, making it clear he had no intentions of leaving. Not until he got what he wanted, whatever that may be. The satisfaction of seeing you broken? The chance to remind you how shitty Jaehyun is and how great he is? You aren’t sure, but you keep walking anyway.

“I just didn’t expect to hear you say such things to your boyfriend,” he answers. His emphasis of “boyfriend” makes you both angry and repulsed, then bitter and devastated. Nine months of your life gone in minutes, and now you had the displeasure of dealing with Chan on top of it.

You scoff and finally stop, turning to face him for the first time. His eyes twinkle with something devious, and it infuriates you. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”

“Oh?” he draws his head back in shock. He’s silent for a moment, and you fold your arms across your chest, glaring at him in a way he finds cute more than intimidating. “I’m surprised you two lasted this long, actually. Figured it was about time for Jaehyun to do what he does best.”

You blink at him incredulously, his careless words cutting deep. There’s no reason anything he says should bother you, but there’s something about it that stings. And Chan notices, too, watching your entire face shift from rage to sorrow. Your features soften in a way he’d never seen before – you’d only ever looked at him with hatred and annoyance – and it deflates him. 

“I don’t know why you two don’t get along. Seems like you should be best friends – you’re both fucked up,” you retort quickly, though it comes out as a strained whisper. 

Chan hates being grouped with him, especially in your mind where Jaehyun now seems to be synonymous with evil. He never expected to be giving you of all people an apology, but he figures he needs to. For his own consciousness, of course. Definitely not because he felt an odd pang in his chest when you looked at him with something other than disdain for once.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. Are you alright?” he asks cautiously. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see someone roll their eyes, but when you do, he swears he feels ten times lighter. Your hostility he could navigate, but your sadness was uncharted territory; he was glad to be back to familiarity. And since you hadn’t walked away from him yet, he takes the chance to dig deeper. “What did he do?”

“Like I’d want to talk to you about it. Just give it a few hours, you’ll hear about it from someone, I’m sure,” you shrug, trying to pretend that you’re unbothered. That you don’t care that you’ll likely be the talk of campus, the woeful ex-girlfriend people will look at in that pitiful way they look at small, broken things. 

As much as you hate Chan, you’re grateful he isn’t looking at you like you’re small or broken. He’s looking at you the same as always, like you’re a challenge, a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. Maybe that’s why you decided to keep standing there, holding more of a conversation with him than you’d likely ever had before.

“Probably. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me, what happened?” he asks again.

He doesn’t say it with demand or snark. It sounds almost unsettlingly genuine. It sounds like someone that isn’t Chan, or at least the Chan you’re familiar with. You hesitate, conjuring up another smart remark, but you let it die in your throat. 

“He fucking cheated on me. He was making out with some girl in front of everyone. Can you believe that?” you chuckle sarcastically, forgetting who exactly is standing before you. “Nevermind…I’m sure you can believe it. God, I’m so stupid.” 

“No, you’re not stupid,” he says adamantly. “He’s stupid. An even bigger idiot than I thought, actually.”

It angers him more than it should that you’re degrading yourself over Jaehyun’s horrible decisions, and he has a fleeting thought of going back and telling him off for it. And as the thought passes, he can’t understand why. He knows you hate him. He knows you have likely been fed lies and half-truths by Jaehyun for months. He knows he shouldn’t care about any of this. He can’t seem to figure out why he does. 

“I just can’t get that image out of my head. It’s making me sick,” you mumble, and it replays all over again. The ear-splitting music, the crowd, his lips on hers, that look on his face when he saw you. All your emotions bubble back up to the surface and come out as a loud groan, though internally you just want to scream until your throat is raw. “I wish I could make him feel even half of what I feel right now.”

The idea that pops up sounds ridiculous in his head and likely even more so said aloud, but his mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Well, maybe you could,” he trails. 

“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m actually a good person,” you sneer. “I would never cheat.” 

He laughs dryly and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, awaiting an explanation. “Believe me, I know you’re just a perfect princess,” he mocks, and you’re certain if you roll your eyes any harder they’ll get stuck like that. “But who said anything about cheating? Besides, you’re not together anymore,” he reminds. “And there’s only one thing I can think of that would drive him just as mad.”

You’re intrigued now, though doubtful there’s anything that could reflect the same level of hurt you currently felt. Anything rational, at least. Still, you wanted to hear whatever silly idea Chan had, if not for your own amusement. 

“Which is what?” you question.

“Being with me,” he answers, too quickly, too plainly, as if it was something entirely normal and not an absolutely insane statement. When your eyes widen, he continues, waving his hands urgently to indicate you had gotten the wrong impression. “Okay, not for real, Jesus. Like faking it, you know? Just for him to see and lose his mind.” 

That was quite possibly the last thing you expected, and you’re forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. You wait for him to join in, to tell you he was joking just to fuck with you. That would have been the Chan thing to do. Instead, he stares at you, a half-smile playing on his lips. 

“Yeah, okay, you’re insane,” you scoff. 

“Is it that insane?” he says smugly, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Think about it, imagine how pissed he’d be seeing us together.”

For a moment, you can’t help but realize how attractive he actually is. It’s not that you hadn’t noticed before – you had perfectly functional eyes – but now being single and also inches away from him, it was an unavoidable fact. It made you almost begin to consider his idea. Almost.

“Yes, it’s insane! Just because I gave you five minutes of my time on a shitty night doesn’t mean I want to talk to you ever again, let alone pretend to date you.”

“Oh, Princess Y/N gave me five minutes of her precious time, thank you so much,” he quips, and this time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Whatever, I gave you a guy’s perspective on how to get back at him. You’re not gonna get any better revenge than that.”

“And what do you get from it?” you ask, certain there must be some mutually beneficial aspect beneath it. There’s no way he would suggest something so outlandish without thinking of his own gain, and you know that’s true when he grins wickedly.

“Just the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realizes he lost his girl to the one person he hates more than anything.”

You aren’t sure why you hadn’t grasped that from the beginning. All Chan wanted, as always, was to get under Jaehyun’s skin, to take something of his, to win. The idea is still crazy, and far more theatrical than you’d usually approve of, but you’re a lover scorned.

Then, you think back to the unspoken rule, the sole reason and origin of your hatred for Chan. Jaehyun hadn’t even followed relationship rule number fucking one: don’t cheat on your girlfriend. So, you figured you could break some rules and allow some theatrics.

“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll fake date you or whatever,” you huff, trying to ignore his triumphant smirk. “But nothing weird, alright? And once it’s all over, we go back to hating each other.”

He throws his hands up like it’s offensive you’d even insinuated it. “Believe me, that’ll be no problem,” he agrees.

“Good,” you say simply, a forced tight-lipped smile on your face.

“Good,” he repeats.

The silence that falls over you two is uncomfortable, only disrupted by the sound of the wind lifting leaves along the sidewalk and the faint thumping of music. You can still see the house down the road, and it makes you wonder if Jaehyun is still inside and if he went right back to her. Suddenly, you feel the need to get home and cry in the shower with your carefully-curated sad music playlist. 

 “Well…I’m gonna go back to my dorm now,” you finally speak, shifting on your feet awkwardly.

“I’ll walk you,” he offers without a second thought. 

You can’t help the way you exhale a little too harshly. Truthfully, you just wanted a short walk on your own to process all of the nights’ events, including the proposal you’d just accepted. And you had already spent more time than you’d like with Chan for one night (although you know you’ll have to spend much more now).

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think we need to start the whole fake dating thing right now,” you reject bluntly. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, trying to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s just trying to do a nice thing, the right thing, but you have a way of getting under his skin. The next few weeks are surely going to be a challenge. “It’s not for that, Y/N,” he sighs. “It’s late and dark out. Just let me make sure you get home safe, please?”

The roads are lit only by streetlights and the moon shining above, and you shiver from both the chilly air and the thought of making the walk to your dorm alone. You’d expected to be going home with Jaehyun, definitely not on your own in the middle of the night. 

“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. “But can we just walk in silence? Not really in the mood to talk anymore.”

You deliberately exclude that you feel like if you keep talking, you’re going to break. You’d kept a relatively strong front – far stronger than you thought you’d be after being cheated on – but it was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was all the adrenaline that kept your emotions contained, because now everything was slowing down and soaking in. 

“Sure,” he nods, following closely behind when you turn and begin taking steps forward. Your dorm is ten minutes away, and you walk side by side, arms occasionally brushing against each others. You only make it about two minutes in before he stops, shrugging off his jacket. Then, he holds his hand out, gesturing to it when you stare dumbly. 

“Here,” he offers. “You’re freezing.”

There’s no denying that he’s right, but that didn’t mean you were going to wear his jacket. You could survive a few more minutes of the cold, even though your skin was covered with goosebumps that hadn’t gone away since you’d first left Jaehyun at the door. “I’m not wearing your jacket, Chan,” you shove his hand back. 

Before you can start walking again, he drapes it around your shoulders, ignoring the glares you send his way. 

“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” he groans. “You’re literally shaking, but God forbid you wear my jacket.”

You click your tongue and pull your arms through the sleeves anyway, mumbling a grudging “thank you.” The newfound warmth was a great comfort, and you’re so wrapped up in it you don’t notice the way he steals short glances over at you. His eyes drag down your body, drinking in how his jacket sits on your shoulders like it belongs there. How the sleeves fall past your wrists and the hem lines your thighs, still mostly exposed from your skirt length of choice. How you look good wearing something of his.

And then he curses himself for even thinking it, tearing his eyes away even though he really doesn’t want to. He clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, trying to ground himself, and you look over wordlessly. Any words you were going to say get caught in your throat when you notice how muscular his arms are now that they’re no longer covered. 

Still, neither of you speak again, both thinking silent thoughts that you’d never let the other know. Once you arrive at your dorm building, he walks you all the way to your door despite your protests, muttering something about you being stubborn yet again. 

“Thank you for walking me home,” you force out, gratitude sounding like exasperation. Your back is pressed against the door, hand wrapped around the handle. All you want is to throw yourself in bed and sob and sleep at this point, but Chan’s presence keeps you in the hallway.

He nods, combing a hand through his hair, wondering when it became so difficult to think of the right words to say to you. “Try not to think about him too much tonight, alright?” he sighs. “I know that’s hard, but just try to get some sleep or something.”

Such gentle advice sounds odd coming from his mouth, and he waits for your sarcastic reply. Counts on it, actually. 

It doesn’t come. Instead, you smile at him weakly, telling yourself you simply don’t have the mental capacity to go back and forth with him anymore. Not that you were actually hating him a little less. 

“I’ll try,” you assure. “Oh, yeah. Here.” 

You pull off his jacket, the one that had begun to feel a little too comfortable, and fold it over your arms towards him. 

“Keep it. You can wear it around or whatever,” he suggests indifferently. It would make your fake relationship more believable, but beyond that, it would appeal to that small part of him that enjoyed seeing you in it. 

Fuck, what had gotten into him?

“I won’t,” you sass, bringing the jacket back to your chest anyways. 

He runs his tongue along his teeth, chuckling. “Of course you won’t. So stubborn.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop being that,” he shoots back.

Seemingly, you’d met your match. Someone who could keep up with your quick retorts, your mouthiness. And it came in the form of a man your ex boyfriend hated, a man you hated. You weren’t sure why that made it all the more exciting for you. 

His gaze lingered, a curious glint in his eyes. He was trying to piece you together bit by bit, but you were a more difficult puzzle than most. 

“Have a good night, Chan,” you say, finally turning the handle. When the door swings open, he finds himself looking around unintentionally, another opportunity to figure you out. He can see a few plushies on your bed, posters lined on the walls, and framed photos he can’t quite make out. There’s probably some of you and Jaehyun, and he hopes those are long gone by the next time he ends up at your dorm.

You slip inside hastily, and he realizes he’d been too engrossed in examining your room to respond. The door comes to a close in front of him.

“Yeah, you too,” he breathes out when you can’t hear, standing there just a few moments longer.

Once inside, you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps padding away, and when you do, you crack. The pictures of you and Jaehyun sit on your bedside dresser, mocking you, and you slam them down against the wood. You’re partially inclined to throw them against the wall and hope they shatter, but you don’t particularly feel like cleaning up glass shards through tears. 

At least you let the teddy bear he gifted you stay on your bed, unharmed. An innocent soul caught in the crossfire, a child of divorce even. 

“Fuck Jaehyun, fuck parties, and fuck this whole night,” you curse, though it comes out in choked sobs. And fuck Chan, your brain wants to say, but you bite it back. He had walked you home, given you his jacket…and become your fake boyfriend (soon to be, anyways) within the span of thirty minutes. Still, he was annoying, arrogant, impossible-to-deal-with Chan.

 As much as every fiber of your being yearned for the soft comfort of your bed, you trudge to your bathroom and start the shower, making sure to put on your playlist while the water warms. Because if you were going to be heartbroken, you were at least going to be heartbroken while listening to Cigarettes After Sex.

After thirty minutes of crying and scrubbing your body of any traces of Jaehyun, you finally step out and decide to check your phone for the first time since everything had completely unraveled. Apparently getting cheated on was all you needed to reduce your screen time, so maybe that was a positive?

Naturally, there’s a few texts from people you could hardly consider friends but would now act like you were with feigned sympathy, full nosiness. Among them, however, is a text from a number you hadn’t saved.

y/n? 

who’s this?

I’d say the guy you hate the most but i think someone else might’ve taken that spot

Chan. It was almost impressive that he managed to sound annoying even through texts.

ha. and how’d you get my number…?

I asked someone for it. you think they’ll take the bait?

they’ll probably just think you’re a freak who goes for recently heartbroken girls.

Nah. that’s not really my type.

oh yeah? what’s your type then?

You watch as the typing bubble pops up and disappears a few moments later, and then nothing. Minutes pass and you assume he’s leaving you on read, and that’s fine. It’s late, anyway, and after such a thorough cleansing and crying session, you’re exhausted.

So it’s no surprise when your phone buzzes again just as you manage to get comfortable in bed. 

Just because that’s not my type doesn’t mean i have a type

“Liar,” you mumble to yourself. Whatever, it’s not like you care who or what he’s into. In fact, you’re glad he didn’t answer. Who knows what kind of weird things he’d come up with, if not just to irritate you. 

okay, boring

What about you then? what’s your type?

You’re torn between giving him a genuine answer or something along the lines of “basically the antithesis of you.” Then, you realize you can probably do both at once, since you don’t consider Chan to align with any of your dating criteria.

i like someone who’s warm, attentive, and can make me laugh. someone who notices the little things, too

Yeah, definitely not Chan. But then again….

That can’t be right. i mean, you ended up with jaehyun

Also not Jaehyun. That was something you could admit now, but it was different coming from someone else. Like you were the only one who couldn’t see the flaws, the incompatibility. You feel stupid all over again, trying to ignore the way your throat began to tighten once more.

i’m going to sleep.

Hahaha Aw man. i was having fun.

goodnight, chan.

Goodnight princess

The nickname might’ve been a term of endearment from anyone else, but from Chan, it was a thinly veiled taunt. You save his contact with a very fitting eyeroll emoji just to spite him, finally drifting off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep soon after. 

“What an asshole,” Jihyo hisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you know I would have ripped into him.”

With all the craziness of the night, you hadn’t even thought to text any of your friends. It was one of the rare times none of them could make it out with you, and now you were being inundated with questions over lunch.

You wave her off, poking at your plate idly. “It’s fine, I promise,” you sigh. 

“Has he texted you today?” Mina asks, glancing down at your phone on the table. You look down too, half-expecting to see another flurry of messages from Jaehyun – he’d already sent about twenty since the morning, all going unanswered. 

“Yes,” you groan, unlocking your phone and passing it to the two girls for them to read the same desperate pleas you’d been spammed with. They scroll through, mouths slightly agape. “Should I answer? I’m worried he’s gonna end up showing up at my dorm if I don’t.”

“Here, let me answer,” Jihyo says, and you reach over and snatch the phone out of her hands before she can type. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve whatever insults she’d send his way, but that you worried any response would entice him at this point. 

To satisfy her, you finally text him back, telling him to leave you alone and that you would let him know when you were ready to talk. You truly had no idea when that would be, but any more silence from your end would inevitably have him tracking you down on campus. 

Then, you remembered the other half of the night, the part where you agreed to fake date the same man your friends had heard you complain about more than once. There was no way you were going to keep that from them, nor would you be able to, but you weren’t even sure how to approach the subject. 

Hey, by the way, I’m pretending to date that guy I hate. For the revenge plot of course.

“There’s actually something else that happened last night,” you begin, studying their reactions. They wait expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity. “Chan heard us arguing and we…talked a little.”

“Yeah, well, that sounds like Chan. He basically feeds off of Jaehyun’s misery,” Jihyo chuckles.

Mina catches onto the end of your sentence, the words you had said just a little too quickly and quietly. Intentionally so. “What do you mean you talked? You can’t stand him.”

Now, both girls are staring at you, disbelief etched on their faces. You and Chan had never talked. You insulted, glared, and mocked. Talking? They weren’t even sure you two were capable of holding a conversation without spitting names at each other.

“It’s stupid…” you trail. “He had this idea, and…I don’t know, I guess I just agreed to it because I was so angry and emotional.”

You’re stalling, obviously, and they’re growing more impatient with each delayed sentence.

“He suggested we pretend to be together to get back at Jaehyun.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Jihyo laughs, a full-body laugh that has tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Mina just blinks at you, unamused. “Y/N! You can’t make me laugh like that while I’m eating, you know,” Jihyo scolds, still releasing occasional giggles.

“You’re not joking,” Mina says flatly. “Are you?”

Realization strikes both their faces when you don’t answer, swirling your straw around absentmindedly. Next comes their looks of disapproval. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan. But what did you expect? You had just thrown into question a fact they knew more concretely than grass being green or the sky being blue: you hate Chan. So did your need for revenge trump your hatred, or was your hatred truly never that deep after all? They suspected the latter – they always did, especially when you would go on about how insufferable he was while eyeing him from across a room.

“Like what? Like you’re crazy? Because clearly, you’re crazy,” Jihyo whisper-shouts.

“And with Chan of all people, seriously?” Mina adds. 

Okay, neither of them were wrong, but they’d also never been cheated on to understand all the complex thoughts and feelings you’re experiencing right now. And yes, with Chan, because the plan simply wouldn’t work with anyone else (nor would anyone else be stupid enough to go along with it). It just had to be your ex boyfriend’s worst enemy.

“I know it’s crazy and you know I’d never agree to something like this, but – ” 

“ – but she just couldn’t resist me,” someone interjects from behind you. Then, he throws himself next to you, leaning back against the table on his elbows.

You aren’t sure how long he’s been there or how much he heard, though you guess not much since one of them definitely would have warned you. Either way, add his stupidly good timing to the list of things that piss you off about him. 

He hadn’t texted you in the morning –  not that he was supposed to, or that you expected him to –  and it almost made you wonder if the whole night was a fever dream. Evidently not, seeing as he was sitting a few inches away with a wide grin plastered on his dumb face.

“Are you stalking me across campus?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He huffs out a hollow laugh. “You wish. You guys sit in the same spot almost every day.”

Is he right? Yes. Does it make sense for him to know that? Not really. Unless he’d been paying more attention to you than you thought, which also didn’t make sense. 

“Okay, so you’re not stalking me,” you conclude. “Just watching me.”

“Why does it have to be you? There’s two other lovely ladies here.” 

“Ew,” Mina says.

“Don’t be gross,” Jihyo adds.

Now it’s your turn to laugh, though Chan is unamused. You want to poke him further, to find out why he knows the specific time and place your friends typically eat lunch, but you decide to save it for another time. Especially since those two are sitting right across from you and would hang onto every stupid thing he says, pestering you about it later. 

Chan spins forward, now facing Jihyo and Mina. “Do you girls mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?”

“I mind,” you scoff, but he ignores you entirely.

The two girls look at each other suspiciously, knowingly. Then, Mina shakes her head, basically sending you off to your demise (another uncomfortable walk with Chan  – two in less than twenty-four hours has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment). “Sure,” she shrugs. “We were just finishing up, anyways.”

Were you, though? The conversation hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down until he arrived. 

With the approval of your friends, not yours, he clasps his hand around yours and stands up, trying to bring you with him. You can’t move, you can’t function at all with his hand holding your own, and once it hits you, you yank it away from him. 

And then you stand anyway, as if your body was betraying you and doing everything your brain said not to. 

“I hope you don’t plan on hurting her, too,” Jihyo cautions, an unspoken threat behind her words. 

Her intentions are sweet, but you can’t help but feel the need to chide her for making it seem like you two are actually together.

“I’m not going to cheat on her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he jeers, picking up your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, you’re the only fake girlfriend in my life.” 

He must think he’s so funny, putting on a show in front of your friends, but you’re not laughing. However, Mina and Jihyo are. Snickering under their breath, actually, and probably going to gush all about this odd interaction after you leave. 

The three of you exchange goodbyes, Chan already walking away from the table. You have to take larger strides to catch up to him, and when you do, you reach for your bag, trying to pry it from his arm. 

“Is it going to kill you if you let me be nice and carry your stuff?” he huffs, readjusting the strap. 

“It might,” you glare, but you can tell he’s not budging, so you resign. You wait for him to speak, to offer an explanation. Instead, he scans your face like he’s looking for something beneath the surface. “Is there a reason you took me from my friends just now?” 

“Are you okay?” he asks, answering your question with…a question? So. Annoying. 

But it sounds sincere coming from him, unlike how everyone else had asked you since last night. You can tell the difference now between girls who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with Jaehyun, guys who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with you, the complete randoms who asked just to be in the know, and now…this. Someone who genuinely wanted to know if you were okay, nothing more, nothing less, no underlying motives. 

“I’m alright,” you shrug, “just numb, I think.”

He swallows hard, then nods. And suddenly the Chan you recognize is back. “Well, you look good for someone who just got cheated on.”

Maybe the compliment would have felt good if he hadn’t tacked on the last part. You had enough reminders throughout the day, so much so that your phone had been on DND for hours. And the reminders came in other forms, too, like your lonely walk to your first class in the morning, the one Jaehyun would always accompany you on. Or the song that came on shuffle that you two had once added to a shared playlist (which you now had sole custody of). 

“Do you know how to give an actual compliment?” you snap, already knowing the answer. Chan would probably drop dead before he complimented you. 

“So you’d rather I just say you look good?” he questions.

Yes, yes you most certainly would. But there was no way in hell you would tell him that and make him think his words actually mean something to you. You can just picture his smug look of satisfaction already. 

So you lie through your teeth.

“No.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, carefully mulling over what he says next. “You do though. Look good, I mean,” he states matter-of-factly. And to your surprise, he doesn’t drop dead afterwards. 

What should you say in return? Thank you? No, that implies you’re appreciative, grateful he complimented you, which you aren’t. You look good too? Absolutely not, unless you want to have him use that against you for the foreseeable future. Ew, don’t say those things? You’re not even sure you can feign disgust like that. 

You end up not saying anything at all, but your face says a lot. Too much. It heats up and your cheeks dust with red, a far worse response than any of the others you’d contemplated. 

“Aw, you’re blushing,” Chan teases, bumping against your shoulder lightly. “Getting all shy on me, where’s that smart mouth?” 

“Shut up,” you grumble, and then you realize you’ve been following him blindly for the past minutes. You see that he’s led you to the heart of campus, the vast field of green where couples, friends, and classmates alike all congregate. He heads straight for a bench, pulling you down next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“When’s your next class?” 

You don’t answer.

“You took me away from my friends to bring me here?” And then you look around, convincing yourself everyone’s eyes are on you. “People are staring.” 

He looks over at you, your bag now acting as a barrier between your bodies, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“Yeah, well, newsflash, princess. We’re doing this so they do get the wrong idea,” he reminds, tucking your bag by his side. With the new space, he hooks his arms around your thighs and shifts you towards him, pulling your legs onto the bench and draping them over his lap.

“Chan!” you hiss, trying to move, but he holds you there. 

If you thought people were staring before, they must be drilling holes through you now. Realistically, you’re just being dramatic  – everyone is too entrenched in their own problems, their own conversations, their own world to really notice you. But you know people will talk, because that’s what people do, especially when it involves two individuals who are quite well-known on campus. 

“Relax. The more obvious we make this, the quicker people will see, the quicker Jaehyun will see. And then it can all be over, right?” he explains, and you huff in response. You sit there like that long enough that it becomes comfortable, his fingers tapping idly on your leg while he scrolls on his phone. At the same time, you trace mindless shapes onto the bench, pretending you weren’t melting into him slowly. 

No.

Being like this with Chan shouldn’t feel this normal, and you refuse to accept that it does. So, naturally, you have to say something to ruin it. Almost like an innate reflex.

“I should’ve just stepped out in a revenge dress, but nooo, I had to agree to your stupidity,” you mumble. He laughs, and then his face contorts to something more serious.

“You have a revenge dress?”

He says it hopefully, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. 

“If I do,” you begin, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “you’ll never get to see it.”

His entire body deflates, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself off of him. You had a class across campus to get to and also needed a serious mental debrief to process the last twenty minutes. He hands over your bag, lifting off the bench as well. “Do you want me to like, walk you to your classes and stuff?” 

“Nope,” you decline easily. “Unless you’re willing to walk me to my 8:30 on Tuesdays.” 

It’s supposed to be a joke, and he must know it because he scoffs, shaking his head like you’d just said the most egregious thing ever. You laugh and start in the direction of your class, the feeling of his body so close to yours still lingering.

The weekend comes and goes quickly, with you swearing off any more parties for the time being despite Mina and Jihyo’s pleas. They both mention something about alcohol and loud music being the perfect remedy for a break up. But you already only really went to parties to appease your friends (and Jaehyun, previously), who dubbed them an “essential part of the college experience.” Now, you had the perfect excuse not to. Even Chan texts you to ask if you’ll be going out, though he doesn’t have nearly the same level of disappointment as your friends when you say no.

Instead, you spend your days clearing your camera roll of pictures of your cheating ex boyfriend and boxing up all the things of his you no longer wanted to have in your possession. Maybe you could get Chan to burn it all for you (except for the teddy bear, of course). 

And then Tuesday morning rolls around and there’s an incessant knocking on your door, which is not only irritating but unusual, given the time. You’re in the middle of getting dressed when you answer, top half still in a tank top, bottom half in jeans. 

This person is about to feel all your morning wrath, until you blink a few times and register that it’s Chan of all people.

“What the hell?” 

“8:30, right?” he confirms, leaning against the doorframe. 

You fold your arms across your chest, resisting his charm as best as you can. “That was a joke,” you groan, opening the door wider. “I’m not done getting ready and it’s gonna look weird if you’re waiting outside.”

He steps inside happily, immediately noticing the now barren space on your dresser. You had gotten rid of the pictures, good. He also recognizes his jacket draped along the back of your chair in a way he knows you’ve worn it, or at least moved it recently. It hangs off a little unevenly, one of the sleeves wrinkled in on itself. 

“Yeah, because it’ll look so much better if we come out of your dorm together at eight in the morning,” he chuckles while you walk into the bathroom to change shirts in peace.

“Don’t even think like that,” you shout. Then, you walk out, throwing the tank top at him (which he catches, unfortunately), feeling emboldened. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you.”

The smirk on your face is wiped away immediately when he grabs your wrist as you bend down to reach your bag. “Yeah? Do you know that?” he whispers. His whole demeanor shifts, gaze intense, grip strong but not painful. You attempt to force out a stammered reply, but admittedly, you’re flustered. Your own body is a traitor, clearly. 

Thankfully, he releases your wrist and breaks the tension with a devilish laugh. “You’re so easy to fuck with,” he says, sounding completely like his usual irksome self. 

Now that you had a glimpse of a different, enticing side of Chan, you craved more and hated yourself for it. After all, you had just said you would never fuck him. And you wouldn’t. 

But can’t a girl just think about it?

You grabbed your bag successfully this time and slipped on a pair of shoes, heading out the door with him right behind. 

“So why did you do this, exactly?” you question, still fighting off sleep yourself. 

“When I commit to something, I go hard,” he explains, though it sounds like a double entendre. “So if we’re going to fake date, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had.”

How wonderful. You thought you were agreeing to get revenge against Jaehyun, not to fuel Chan’s ego. Maybe you’d need another fake boyfriend down the line just to knock him from the top spot.

“Well, good thing we probably won’t need to keep this up for very long. I’ve already had people text me asking what’s going on between us,” you click your tongue. “No Jaehyun though.”

“Poor guy’s probably losing his mind thinking his fuck-up made you realize you had repressed feelings for me all along.”

“Oh, I had feelings for you?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That’s how my story goes, anyways.”

When you make it outside, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you just a little bit closer. And now that you understand there’s no reasoning with him, you let him. It’s too early to argue, anyways, but you still roll your eyes where he can’t see. 

“God, you’re insufferable. Can’t even give me some dignity in our fake love story,” you sneer. 

“Okay, fine, I had feelings for you,” he relents, and for a second, it sounds like a fact, not a fabrication. “That sound better?”

You hum in approval, satisfied with the change. Whether he would actually follow through with it, you weren’t sure. 

“So, are you gonna stay cooped up in your dorm this weekend, or are you going out?” Chan wonders, seemingly forgetting why you didn’t want to go to another party in the first place. They were kind of ruined for you at the moment, especially when you never really enjoyed them to begin with. 

“I’m put off of parties for a while,” you wave your hands. “And I need to study, anyway.” 

He squeezes your shoulder, displeased with your answer. “C’mon, Y/N, don’t let him ruin your fun,” he urges.

It was too late for that, though; all “fun” had been sucked out the moment you caught your boyfriend sucking face, and you knew he would probably be there, too. Just because he was playing the regretful, devastated ex in your texts didn’t mean he was depriving himself of his favorite pastime. You wouldn’t even be surprised if one of his “please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I miss you so much” texts had come while he was balls-deep in another woman.

“I’ll have plenty of fun in the library, thank you,” you shoot back.

“Oh? In public? Wow, princess, I didn’t know you were into stuff like that,” he grins, and you shove his arm off of you, staring at him in disgust.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking freak!”

“I’m the freak? You’re the one that’s going to – ”

“Chan. Stop talking.”

“Okay, okay,” he throws his hands up defensively. “But just so you know, I don’t judge, and if you want some company…”

Fuck this smug bastard, and more importantly, fuck the way he was starting to get into your head. 

The rest of the walk is relatively normal, at least in the sense there’s no more talk about public sex, and you reach your class promptly at 8:28. 

“Well, have a good day,” he says a little awkwardly. “Let me know when you’re planning on grabbing lunch?”

“Unlikely,” you scoff, leaving him open-mouthed as you head inside.

So how you end up with Mina, Jihyo, and Chan at your usual lunch spot, you’re not sure. 

“You guys missed it. Then she goes ‘fuck you, Jaehyun!’ and he looked terrified,” Chan laughs, and your friends join in, loving the cheater lashings. 

“He did not look terrified,” you correct. 

“She’s being modest. Even I felt a little intimidated,” he draws in a sharp breath, “but it was kinda hot, too.”

You’re not sure where that came from, and you kick his foot under the table where Mina and Jihyo can’t see. In return, he places his hand on your thigh, squeezing. 

“You guys sure you’re faking this?” Jihyo questions, her chin resting on her hand while her eyes flicker between the two of you. Like she would be able to figure you out if she just looked hard enough. Impossible, considering you couldn’t even figure out what was going on at this point. He was still annoying, painfully so, but he was also alluring, and the heat between your legs was starting to do most of the thinking.

“Yes,” you and Chan say simultaneously, almost rehearsed. 

“Right,” Mina nods, drawing out the word. “As long as you believe that.”

His hand moves now, rubbing along your thigh softly, and you have to grit your teeth to not snap at him. “I do believe it, because it’s true,” you say harshly (but not convincingly). “I’d rather drink a jean jacket through a fucking straw than actually date him.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his wandering hand; in fact, it only pushes him further, now sliding lower until his fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh. You shift awkwardly, keeping your eyes locked on your friends. You wouldn’t let him see that he was undoing you. 

“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but a jean jacket through a straw is insane,” he smirks, finding enjoyment in your fidgeting. 

“Then I guess it does a good job of conveying how much I can’t stand you.”

This time, you do snap your head towards him, eyes shooting daggers into him. They gave a silent warning, a threat he didn’t quite think you truly meant. After all, your body had a different message with the way your thighs clenched and shoulders stiffened. 

“So sweet, isn’t she?” Chan smiles sarcastically, drawing his hand back. And you’re grateful – at least, that’s what you tell yourself, ignoring the small voice that said you wanted more. He reads something on his phone before typing quickly and rising from his seat. 

“Anyway, thanks for the invite Y/N, but Minho’s locked himself out of the apartment, so I’ve gotta swing by before class,” he sighs dramatically.

“I absolutely didn’t invite you.”

“Sure you didn’t,” he winks, already gone before you can argue. 

Once he’s out of earshot, Jihyo groans, covering her face with her hands. “God, I think if I’m subjected to that level of sexual tension again, I’ll actually pass away,” she huffs, muffled. 

Bad time to take a sip of your drink. 

“Sexual tension?!” you repeat, nearly choking, completely stunned by her words. 

“We weren’t sure of it when you were with Jaehyun, but now it practically radiates through the air whenever you’re around each other. It’s suffocating,” Mina agrees, only adding to your embarrassment. Your face is heating up quickly, and it makes it hard to deny their accusations. 

“Can you just hate-fuck and get it over with? Maybe you’ll find out you actually do get along in some ways,” Jihyo adds, exasperated. 

You laugh dryly. “Oh my god, do you guys hear yourselves? I’m not having sex with Chan, that’s disgusting.”

“Well then can you two at least not make lunch feel like the build-up of a porno?”

Needless to say you would be informing him he could not join you and your friends for lunch anymore, lest you get lectured again on your “radiating” sexual tension. 

By the time Friday comes, things have quieted. Chan listens when you tell him Mina and Jihyo requested your lunches stay reserved for the three of you (it’s not quite true, but the best excuse you could come up with without mentioning that your friends think you two want to fuck each other). So, you don’t see him much, aside from the couple of times he shows up outside your classes.

His texts, however, are frequent. They’ve developed into something expected, a normal part of your days. You talk about mundane things like grades and annoying lab partners. You talk about personal things like favorite songs and future goals. Each conversation is still filled with sarcastic quips and quick insults, but they don’t hold the same edge they once did. It felt more like comfort – like if you kept up the hatred act, you could protect yourself from what it was becoming.

And at the same time, the texts from Jaehyun had resumed because, although he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he had heard that you and Chan were seen together. On multiple occasions. He had even shown up at your dorm finally (the week of freedom you’d had was far longer than you’d expected), and you had slammed the door in his face, telling him it wasn’t any of his business who you hung out with anymore. 

After that encounter, you were grateful for some peace – which was becoming rare in your life – throwing yourself nose-deep in your notebook. With your headphones on and such intense focus, you don’t notice anyone else’s presence.

Until someone makes their presence impossible to ignore. 

“Hey, princess,” Chan greets, a cup of coffee in hand. He slips into the seat in front of you, placing the cup down and sliding it over. You have to pull your headphones back to hear him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

He shrugs. “You said you were studying, I thought I would bring you some coffee to help your brain.”

He says it so calmly, and you have to fight against the way your heart swells at the simple act of service. Though really, it wasn’t so simple, because this was Chan showing up to the library unannounced on a Friday night, when he would usually be far away from anything academic. For you.

“Well, thanks, because I feel like my brain has basically disintegrated,” you complain, taking a sip. It was your favorite, too – he must’ve asked Mina or Jihyo for your order. “Did you skip out on the party?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. Kinda just wanted to chill tonight. I thought a library date might be fun,” he muses.

You scoff, watching his lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Date?” 

Chan blinks at you like you’ve wounded him, although you know it’s all part of his (perfected) act to get into your head. 

“You wouldn’t call it that?” he says, disappointedly, leaning his head against the palm of his hand. 

“No, I’d call it me studying for hours and losing my mind and you showing up uninvited.”

He points behind him with his thumb, turning halfway in his seat, an empty threat. “So, should I leave then?” he challenges.

This is probably the part where you should say yes. You should demand it, actually. But he had brought you coffee, liquid gold for your overloaded brain, and the chances of him listening to your request were slim to none regardless. 

“It’s fine,” you concede, hoping it sounded indifferent. You even shift your focus back to your laptop to play up the act, writing down “notes” that don’t quite make sense. Chan accepts this, tapping his fingers on the table obnoxiously, purposely so. After a few minutes, he straightens in his chair, leaning forward against the table.

“I must say,” he whispers, “I’m a little disappointed to find you actually studying. You had my hopes up the other day.”

It takes you a moment to recall that conversation, and once you do, the realization spreads across your face in red hues. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” you frown.

And there may have been something seriously wrong with you for enjoying it.

“Maybe. But I think you like it. You were basically writhing when I touched you at lunch.”

Now you know you definitely should have told him to leave. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, in that way that could drive you crazy if you let it (which you weren’t). 

“No, I wasn’t,” you argue weakly.

He finds your denial cute, truly, since he remembers your body’s responsiveness so vividly. It was essentially engrained in his mind, spinning it in circles. He could elicit that reaction from just touching your clothed thigh, and it made him feel powerful. And curious.

“Oh, you weren’t?” he chuckles. “So if I come sit next to you now, that’d be fine? And if I touch you like that again, you wouldn’t start to melt under my fingers?”

“I did not melt under your fingers.”

“But you would have,” he says confidently. He drops his voice to a whisper again. “If your friends weren’t there, and I kept going, you would have.”

You’re staring at each other now, wondering who will break first, though his eyes shine with excitement and yours narrow with annoyance. Or rather, desire that you try to disguise as annoyance. 

“You think too highly of yourself,” you snort, scribbling gibberish into the margin of your notebook. 

He releases a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to think it,” he corrects. “You’ve shown me.”

You snap now, slamming your laptop shut a little too aggressively. Because you refused to allow him to continue talking with so much confidence, like he knew what you were thinking better than you did.

“I’m sorry, did you forget the part where none of this is real? All of your little touches and stupid remarks have nothing to do with what we agreed on.”

But your boldness only encourages him, biting his lip subconsciously. “No, they don’t. That’s just for my enjoyment. Like I said, you’re easy to fuck with.”

“That's why you decided to come see me in the library on a Friday night instead of going out? To ‘fuck with me?’” you say pointedly, to emphasize how unreasonable it sounded. 

“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave.”

“I asked a question.”

Chan drags his hand along his face, suddenly far less arrogant. For once, he looked like he was struggling to conjure up a smart response. And he was. But you were refusing to back down, finally having a sense of control. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you glare at him. “Really, I don’t. I just wanted to see you.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t be dumb.”

Because there was no way he meant it. Or maybe you had misheard him entirely. But his whole demeanor had changed, and you no longer recognized the Chan that sat before you without his smugness.

“Right. If I tease you, I’m ‘insufferable,’” he recites, “if I’m honest with you, I’m dumb. Tell me, princess, what can I do then?”

You swallow harshly, trying to ignore what his words entailed. Honest. He said that he wanted to see you and he meant it. The air around you had shifted now, thicker, heavier, falling on your chest in a way that almost made your voice get caught in your throat.

“Are you fucking with me again?” you grimace, waiting for him to laugh in your face. To snap back into the version of him you’re familiar with.

But he doesn’t laugh. “You tell me. Am I?”

“You can’t do that!” you groan, exasperated. “You can’t say these things and then act all cryptic after.”

You cross your arms across your chest, and he relents. “Okay. Yes, I wanted to see you. Is that bad?”

“Yes.”

Yes, it was bad. Very bad, actually. Because you were supposed to hate him, and you thought he hated you. Because none of this was supposed to be real, and once you’d gotten vengeance against your shitty ex boyfriend (however dramatic it may be), things would go on like nothing had ever happened.

But is that what you wanted? It should be. It had to be. 

“Huh. I guess I don’t care,” he breathes. “Do you?”

He awaits your answer, though he already knows what it will be. You had become easy for him to read now; he had studied you like you were his favorite subject. The unsolved puzzle he had finally pieced together. 

And though you try to force yourself to lie and say yes, you simply cannot. All your resolve has vanished since he made such an unexpected confession, leaving you dazed.

“No,” you mumble, and your breath hitches. 

His smirk returns, though it’s different now. Less of an attempt to get under your skin, more of an acknowledgement that one day he’ll get to touch every inch of it. 

“Didn’t think so,” he reaches across the table, trailing his fingers along your hand. You snatch it back, ignoring his snickers. 

He would be the death of you, you were certain. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking that it may not be such a terrible way to go out.

Neither of you are sure how to proceed after that night in the library, an obvious tension lingering between the two of you. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to address it, but you were growing exhausted with pretending that it had never happened. 

It seemed like Chan was perfectly content with that, however. He hadn’t even mentioned it once, continuing to text you and show up outside your dorm and classes like it was all still part of a plan. And maybe it was. Maybe he was a great liar, but that didn’t explain the rift that had settled between you two. If he had lied that night, why could he hardly meet your eyes now?

You didn’t ask, because you feared the answer – both possibilities. Though when you turned to Mina and Jihyo for advice, they were adamant. They were convinced they were right all along, that there was a budding romance beneath the hatred. So, it was quite hard to get any sort of unbiased guidance from them. This was something you’d have to navigate on your own.

And by navigate, you meant continuing to avoid it. Hopefully Chan would crack before you did.

After almost two weeks of letting the unspoken words nearly suffocate you, you had begun to believe you really would have to forget it had ever happened. If he wanted to speak on it, he would. Nevermind that he could say the same thing about you; it was him that had started it, so he had to be the one to acknowledge it. It was only fair.

Your phone rings in the middle of the afternoon, during your thirty minute interval between classes. It’s Chan, which isn’t the surprising part (he had learned your entire schedule by now). 

“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he says only a few seconds after you pick up. 

You roll your eyes, hardly registering his proposal. “A ‘hello’ might be nice.”

“Hi,” he utters. “Let me take you to dinner.”

If you agree too easily, he’ll know you had been waiting for him to say something like this. And with how straightforwardly he had asked (or stated, rather), he clearly expected your agreement. You could make him grovel just a little bit. 

“You wanna see me again?” you quip, the most you’d allude to the library incident. 

But Chan could match your attitude ten times over, so he has a quick retort. “I just figured if we go to dinner you could post a picture on your story, really commit to the bit,” he explains flatly, and then laughs when you’re silent. “What? You wanted me to say I want to see you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You said you wouldn’t,” he reminds. “Remember?”

If he could see you, he would undoubtedly point out how flustered you were, then follow it up with a dumb joke about how the offer was always open. And you would have to hold back from taking him up on it. 

“Really doing a good job of making me want to say yes,” you chide.

“Please let me take you to dinner. I’ve been thinking about our library date, and I wanna take you on a real one.”

You huff loud enough for him to hear over the phone. “That wasn’t a date,” you correct. “And I’m busy tonight.”

A lie, but he didn’t need to know that yet. There’s shuffling on his end, and then his voice comes out sharply. 

“Busy with what?”

“That’s really none of your concern,” you can’t help but grin at your own mischief. “But if you must know, I’m seeing someone tonight.”

“Y/N,” he growls, and it’s hot. You try to imagine the look on his face (why couldn’t he have FaceTimed you?), and it makes you weak. 

“So, what time are you picking me up?” you ask, voice syrupy sweet despite your antics. Like honey masking poison. 

He exhales loudly, and you can hear all the unease release from his body. If he was going to be so wound up about you even potentially seeing someone else, why had he taken so long to address your ever-present tension?

Maybe he was just as confused as you. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “I’ll be there at seven.”

He hangs up before you can hound him about the first half, not even sparing a second to confirm the time. No, you don’t know what you do to him, but it was inevitable that you would find out. And he would make sure that you understood to the fullest extent. 

It’s difficult for you to decide on an outfit for dinner with Chan, one, because you’re still tossing with the idea internally and two, because you aren’t sure what’s an “appropriate” amount of dressed-up. If you look too good, he’ll think you’re trying too hard to impress him, and you’ll never hear the end of that.

Though, you had already agreed to going to dinner with him, so you probably wouldn’t hear the end of that, either.

Mina and Jihyo choose an outfit over FaceTime (and so kindly remind you to “at least make him wear a condom”), one that teeters right in the middle of simple and dressy, and you’ve fixed your hair at least a dozen times by the time he’s knocking on your door.

When you open it, he stares at you, and then tears his eyes away to roam all over your body. He draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Wow,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful.”

The compliment comes with no snarky follow-up, and he doesn’t even tease you when you feel your face heating up. He takes your hand and holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you; you would have never taken him for such a gentleman.

He doesn’t tell you which restaurant he’s picked, but the drive isn’t long before you arrive and are seated, his hand finding its way back to yours while you walk through the aisles.

As you sit there scanning the menu, you can’t help but realize you’re at fucking dinner with Bang Christopher Chan. And he’s staring at you like you wouldn’t notice.

“What?” you question, and he drops his head, chuckling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just can’t believe how much things have changed.”

“You’re still annoying, don’t get it twisted.”

“Yeah, well, you still agreed to get dinner with me,” he shrugs.

He thinks he’s won with that, turning his attention to the menu. But even if he’s right, you aren’t letting him shame you so easily. “You would’ve begged me if I didn’t,” you smirk.

His eyes snap back to yours, the mischievous glint forcing him to fight back the more impure thoughts. “You know, that mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”

“Yeah? By who?”

“Careful, Y/N,” he warns, words coming out through clenched teeth. 

You flash him an exaggerated smile, thanking the waitress when she returns with your drinks, and Chan curses himself for being turned on by how quickly you switch from a temptress to the sweetest angel. He stumbles over his words while giving his order, and you giggle softly without even knowing you’re the cause of it. 

Considering Chan had brought you to dinner, you felt confident enough to bring up the subject of what the hell was going on between you two. Specifically the Friday night you’d left unaddressed. “So, is it finally time we talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“This,” you motion between the two of you.

He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “We’re having dinner,” he replies coyly.

You figure admonishing him for his feigned ignorance won’t bring you closer to an answer, so instead you push further. 

“But why?”

“I told you, you can post it on your story or whatever. I’m sure Jaehyun still stalks your socials.”

You’d seen quite a few random spam names in your story viewers, so you knew it to be true, but you also knew that couldn’t be his reasoning. 

“You also told me you wanted to take me on a ‘real date,’” you mention, and he throws his head back against the booth.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just have a nice dinner and worry about the semantics later?”

Obviously, the answer was a resounding no, which he should have expected since he understood your stubbornness better than anyone. “Oh, for you to pretend it never happened and leave me wondering for weeks? Sure thing, Chan,” you sneer.

You probably should have excluded the part where you admitted you’d still been thinking about that night, because he latches onto it and uses it to evade answering any more questions.

“I really get in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he grins.

“Or maybe I get in yours,” you shoot back. “What did you say? Something about ‘I don’t know what I do to you’?”

He rubs his jaw, exhaling through his nose loudly. Because you really didn’t know what you do to him.

“Princess, you don’t get into my head. You’ve never fucking left it.”

Your food is brought over moments later, right on cue, leaving you sitting idly, stunned. Chan pretends not to notice, already moving past his previous admission. 

“God, I am starving,” he groans. He takes a bite of his meal, and then blinks at you when you haven’t even slightly shifted. “What’s wrong? You wanna take that picture for your story now?” 

If you heard the word “story” one more time, you were convinced you’d actually implode. And you’d take him with you, just to annoy him in the afterlife. 

“Don’t do that,” you hiss. “Don’t act clueless.”

“Well sorry for trying to be a believable fake boyfriend.”

Nothing about this felt fake anymore, and when he says it, it feels like a harsh reminder. That vicious awakening from the middle of a good dream, pulled to the surface of reality when you’re in such a deep slumber. 

“That’s all you are, right? My fake boyfriend? So why do you say and do all these things that make it feel so real?” you demand. 

Your meals are all but forgotten now, and the booths around you are probably getting more of your argument than any of you would like. You swear you can see the lady in the booth to your right staring at you and then leaning over to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Hopefully she’d give her some advice to never get involved with idiotic men like Chan. 

He rubs his temples, growing more exhausted by the minute. “I’m trying to figure that out. I came up with a stupid plan, and somewhere along the way the lines got blurred.”

“You blurred them!” you whisper-shout, eyes widening in disbelief.

“You let me,” he says simply, and you can’t deny it. Though he’s still far more culpable for your current situation. “Listen, we can talk about it more on the way home, yeah?”

It’s his cop-out, and you should know this, yet you relent anyway. You aren’t surprised when he refuses to discuss it further in the car, either, and when he tries to put his hand on your thigh, you push it away. 

He deserves that, but it still makes him sulk internally. If he couldn’t offer you answers, you wouldn’t offer him any more of yourself. At least, you’d try your best not to (easy to say, harder to do). 

When he drops you off, you hardly give him a goodbye, so he knows he’s fucked up. His chest tightens at the thought of not being able to make it right. Of letting you go without telling you everything he’s been thinking for the last month. 

He isn’t even sure you’ll give him another chance, but he figures he needs to sort his mind out before he faces you again, for both of your sakes. 

The texts slow and then stop altogether, and you don’t see him at all for another week. Maybe you had pushed him enough that he had been scared off (still, he could at least fake break up with you). Though you had never taken Chan for someone who could be scared of anything, especially with his constant arrogance. 

“That’s just how men are. They run when shit gets too real,” Jihyo says, fixing her top. 

The three of you were currently getting ready in your dorm, because the minute you had texted the groupchat stating that you were desperate for a night out, they were basically busting your door down. And you couldn’t blame them, because you were never the one to initiate, but right now, it seems like the only distraction you have left. 

“I think he’s just a little confused,” Mina adds with more eloquence. “I mean, do you even know what you want?”

“Yes,” you grin. “I want to go out, have a good time, and forget about all of this.”

Mina rolls her eyes at your avoidance, and Jihyo clutches her heart dramatically. “My Y/N is so back, I could cry right now.”

You know very well that a party is not the magical cure for all your problems – in fact, it’s the indirect cause of nearly all of them – but your other option was to spend another weekend in your dorm preparing an internal monologue about Chan’s cowardice. So, yes, you were going to a party. 

“You know they’re both probably going to be there, right?” Mina advises. Both of the banes of your existence, though for drastically different reasons. 

“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I won’t even notice that they’re there”

Between the three of you, there’s not a soul that believes your lie, but nobody questions it. 

Though perhaps they should have, because maybe it would have made you reconsider before you ended up in your current situation. Which was searching through a sea of bodies for one particular person, even if you weren’t sure what you would do if you found him. 

Mina notices, too, watching as your eyes sweep all along the room while nodding every once in a while, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. You really hadn’t caught a single word she’d said for the past three minutes. 

And although there were plenty of people there, you were confident you’d be able to spot Chan out of a crowd. But so far, there was no sign of him, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed. 

Unfortunately, however, you had spotted Jaehyun. In the back of the room, looking completely untouched, sipping on a drink with his friends on one side and a girl on the other. But he looked disinterested, not paying her any mind, nodding along indifferently. He looked like you, searching for someone amidst the chaos.

“Y/N!” Mina barks, and you turn to her immediately. “Are you even listening at all?”

“Uh, yeah,” you lie. 

She throws her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Really? So what do you think, should I go over there and talk to him?”

She points to the left of you, but there’s at least five guys in the general vicinity she could be referring to. Of course, you’d know who she meant if you hadn’t been so checked out while looking for Chan.

“Um, who?” you ask carefully, and she groans, frustrated. “I’m sorry! I think I need another drink. To clear my head.”

You take off for the kitchen before she can argue, the counters covered in discarded solo cups and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Tempting. Instead, you open the fridge, pulling out one of the remaining unopened cans. 

When you turn around, you’re stuck in place, a firm chest blocking you from walking away. You’re about to complain, to remind whoever it is that there’s a thing called personal space, but one look up has the words refusing to come out. It’s Jaehyun, of course. 

“Y/N,” he falters, studying your face as if he’d forgotten your features. 

Your heart races, not from anything other than the discomfort of confronting someone who you once thought the world of.

“Leave me alone, Jaehyun,” you spit, and he steps back, granting you some space and the freedom to walk away if you so choose. But you don’t, not yet. 

He takes note of your stillness, encouraging him to speak again. “I will,” he nods. “But you haven’t given me a chance to explain, and I need you to know how much I regret what I did.”

“Yeah, well, good for you.”

He sighs, and a quiet moment passes between you, one that makes you picture him kissing that girl all over again. 

“Are you with him?” he asks, under his breath. You stare at him with feigned confusion, lips pressed in a taut line. This time, he speaks louder, intentionally. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N, please. Are you with Chan?”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t. But I owe you an explanation, and if you’re with Chan…” he trails, and it sends you over the edge. You tell yourself your anger rises up solely because of Jaehyun, but it’s undeniable that half of it comes from all you’d bottled up during the days without Chan around.

“Then what? Then it doesn’t matter? You cheating on me just gets justified because I’m with Chan?” you snap, voice increasing in volume with each word. “Guess what, Jaehyun, your fuck-up is to blame for all of it.”

Even with the thumping music, your voice carries throughout the room, and a few people glance over, intrigued. Someone pushes through the crowd, entering the kitchen right as Jaehyun opens his mouth to argue back.

“Is everything okay over here?”

Both of you look over, though you don’t need to to recognize the voice. It had become your favorite, even when it was teasing you or whispering innuendos just to unnerve you. 

“Chan,” you whisper, and he heads straight for you, ignoring Jaehyun’s unwavering glare. 

In a few quick steps, he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him like he hadn’t ignored you for a week. “Hey, baby. Are you alright?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Baby. That was a new one. He had called you princess more times than you could count, but it had started as a taunt and never really felt like anything more than that. Baby, however, had your heart pounding and mind racing. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you swallow, finding more interest in the ground now. For a second, you forget all about Jaehyun in front of you, and it reminds you that Chan’s actions are probably directly correlated. After all, the original plan was to get back at Jaehyun, and what better moment than right now? The final act to your months-long play.

“So you two are together,” Jaehyun concludes, frowning.

“Don’t look so upset,” Chan grins wickedly. “I’ll treat her better than you ever could.”

Try not to take his words seriously, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. This is all for show. But as always, he makes them sound real, adding a layer of intensity you can’t ignore. 

“You’re not good enough for her.”

You’re about to chime in, to remind him he has no say in what or who is good enough for you, and that it was rich hearing that from him of all people.  

“And you were?” Chan laughs humorlessly. “C’mon, baby, let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He squeezes your shoulder, looking down at you, waiting for your agreement. And as you glance between him and Jaehyun, something takes over you entirely. You pull his face towards yours, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. When he closes the final inches, your eyes flutter closed, his lips crashing onto yours.

It’s quick, soft, restrained, and not at all like what you expected (or wanted) kissing Chan to be, but it serves its purpose. 

Jaehyun stands there, wordlessly, the most satisfying look of outrage plastered on his face. Chan sees it, too, a small chuckle leaving his parted lips. He’ll probably burn the image in his mind to remember it whenever he needs a pick-me-up. 

And while you’re a blend of emotions between the kiss, facing Jaehyun, and Chan’s declaration, you keep yourself together for now, yanking Chan’s hand to lead him away. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You maneuver through bodies, making it to a noticeably more empty section of the house before you finally release his hand. If you’re lucky, he’ll go back to ignoring you, and you won’t have to discuss whatever just unfolded.

Unfortunately, you haven’t had much luck recently.

“Bold move there, baby,” he quips.

There it was again. Only this time, Jaehyun’s not around, so there’s no explaining away the pet name. Does that make it better or worse? You aren’t sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble, “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”

Your night out had been ruined, and you swore you’d be done with parties for good. At least in your dorm you could save yourself from running face to face with anyone who either cheated on you or refused to share their feelings. 

“I’ll take you home,” Chan states, not offers. 

“I’m not getting in a car with you. You’ve been drinking.” 

It was an assumption, but a reasonable one. Though clearly incorrect, because he quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head immediately. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, actually,” he refutes, now pulling his keys out of his pocket and swinging them around his finger. 

So much for that excuse. 

“Whatever.”

He takes this as your reluctant surrender, now grabbing your hand and leading you to his car which was only a little ways down the street. And despite the kiss, you still had nothing to say to him –  or rather, way too much to say to him, and no desire to say it if he wouldn’t talk first. So a thick silence falls between you, leaving you with just the lingering feeling of his lips on yours.

“Quiet today,” he comments, stealing a glance you don’t return. You keep your head pressed against the window, a dull headache already forming from the night’s events and the alcohol. 

“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble. 

His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I know,” he mutters. 

“And I think I hate you again.”

“Well, the ‘again’ gives me some hope,” the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Means I had you on my side for a little, at least.”

“You did. Until you wouldn’t talk to me and ran like a coward,” you insult, watching his shoulders drop and smile fade as fast as it had come. You almost regret saying it. Because all your insults before had been quick, meaningless jabs that he could brush off. This one came with intent, a bitterness that wouldn’t be forgotten seconds later. 

“Yeah, I deserve that,” he sighs. “We’ll talk soon, okay? When you’re not tipsy and overwhelmed.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say flatly, still not lifting your head from the glass. 

He reaches across the console for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I mean it this time. Because I’ve been going crazy without you. And that kiss just sealed the deal.”

“Please,” you scoff, forced. “It was hardly a kiss.” Hardly. Your minimization of it wasn’t wrong in a literal sense; it was short-lived, lacking the passion you knew you both had within. But regardless, it had completely hijacked your brain, so clearly it wasn’t hardly anything. 

“I know. That’s the problem. I need more.”

Now, you turn towards him, trying to decipher his expression. It’s unreadable for once, devoid of that familiar smirk. You want to tell him if he needs more to take it, that he can have everything he wants if he just says the words. But those words don’t come, not tonight, and you close your eyes against the window once more.

Before you leave for your dorm, he reaches for your hand again, pulling it to his lips. 

“Soon, I promise.”

You nod, trying to believe him, though you wonder if it would hurt less if you don’t. 

You didn’t particularly like loose ends.

That’s why after weeks of dangling a fake relationship in Jaehyun’s face and the culmination of it all at the party the night prior, you decided to confront him fully and at least hear what he had to say before you closed the chapter for good. You didn’t owe that to him, certainly not, but you felt like you owed it to yourself. An explanation for why he did it to quell the thoughts that had never completely gone away. Which he also said he owed you, anyways. 

And perhaps this was all amplified by the fact that most of the day had passed and there was no text, no call, no anything from Chan. He had only said “soon,” not “tomorrow,” but still. Some form of acknowledgement would be enough to placate you, but he hadn’t even spared you that.

So, with a final layer of lipgloss, you considered your makeup complete and mentally prepared yourself for the impending doom. You looked irresistible at least, everything Jaehyun could never have again. 

But nothing could ever go to plan (once again, luck hadn’t exactly been on your side), so you aren’t shocked when a knock on your door disrupts your evening. 

“Hi, princess,” Chan grins when you swing it open. Then, his eyes trail down your body, tugging his lip between his teeth subconsciously. “You look good.”

Well fuck. Why did he have to show up now? A text in advance might have saved you from unintentionally double-booking yourself, or maybe you’re at fault for assuming Chan was ghosting you again today.

“Thanks,” you smile half-heartedly, heading back to your mirror to look yourself over once more. It’s far too awkward to face Chan knowing you’re about to go see your ex, especially when you and Chan had almost established…something. Something real, beyond the pseudo-relationship. 

He senses that you’re withholding something, watching you suspiciously. “Going out?” he questions, and you curse under your breath. Bracing for the storm.

“Something like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His tone is already accusatory and you hadn’t even dropped the bomb yet, so you really had to prepare yourself for his reaction. At best, he would storm out and you could deal with it later, after you had dealt with Jaehyun. At worst, you’d have a full-blown argument in your dorm right before the other inevitable argument you’d have with Jaehyun. 

“I’m going over to Jaehyun’s,” you say softly, guilt washing over you when his face drops instantly. But you didn’t need to feel guilty – you were allowed to seek closure, especially when Chan hadn’t yet granted you transparency. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you were making the right choice.

Chan’s blood runs cold, and he waits for you to laugh in his face, to tell him how dumb he looks when he’s angry. Something snarky, something annoying. Something. Anything. He doesn’t care, as long as it means you aren’t currently getting dolled up to go see your cheating fuck of an ex boyfriend.

Instead, you say nothing, shifting on your feet uncomfortably.

“Y/N, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m just hearing him out,” you say flatly. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“No, it’s not a crime, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re looking like that to go ‘hear him out?’”

You look down at yourself, a lacy bodysuit and skirt adorning your body – not to appeal to him, not at all, but to remind him what he had lost. Was it a little melodramatic? Maybe. Were you allowed to be melodramatic when confronting someone who had made you question if you weren’t enough? Definitely.

“Yes! What’s wrong with that?!” 

“Everything is wrong with that!”

“Oh my god, Chan, you got what you wanted,” you throw your hands up in frustration, “I’m sure you’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw us kiss last night.”

“You think his face is what I was thinking about after we kissed, Y/N?” he asks incredulously. “I was thinking about you, only you, and how right it felt.”

Was this his confession? It was beginning to feel like it. If only it hadn’t come at such a horrible time and in such a horrible way, maybe you would be happier. Now, the words sucked the air out of your lungs, leaving you speechless and uncertain. 

“So fuck what I wanted back then. What I want right now is for you to realize you deserve better than someone who broke your heart and your trust in the worst way possible,” he finishes, holding himself back from pulling you into his arms and screaming that it’s him. He’s the one who will give you everything you deserve; he’ll make it his life’s purpose to do so.

“I’m just hearing him out,” you repeat again, emphatically, though no matter how true it was or how believable you made it sound, Chan refuses to accept it. 

“Right,” he scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you two all over each other in the corner of every party again.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already heading for the door, unable to take another second of seeing your face and knowing you won’t be his. 

“Hope it works out, Y/N.”

The door rattles as he slams it shut, and the room feels colder, emptier. And not just because of Chan’s physical absence, but because of what it entails. The same man who you hated - and who you swore hated you - had made you feel more seen and valued in not even two months than Jaehyun had in nine. He had put more effort into a fake relationship than Jaehyun had put in a real one. You were letting that go for some semblance of closure from someone who broke you.

Previously, you had tried to convince yourself your feelings had never become real. That of course your heart would beat a little faster when Chan would remember things about you, that of course you would like the way pet names fell from his lips, that of course you couldn’t stop thinking about him in every single way possible, from pure to downright filthy. This all made sense, of course, because he was the hot guy you were faking a relationship with. It had nothing to do with Chan, and everything to do with your body and mind being too receptive of what you’d been deprived of before.

But you simply couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. And that’s why, for once, you knew what you needed to do. You type out another message to Jaehyun, deliberating each word carefully. It would be the last you’d ever give him, at least in this capacity, where he still felt like he had a small chance at getting you back.

actually, i’m not coming over. i thought about it, and nothing you say can make me forget what you did…i didn’t deserve that, jaehyun.

i know what i deserve now.

i hope you learn from this and treat the next girl better. 

His texts come in quick succession, frantic pleas and apologies and then the angry ones regarding Chan. You don’t answer him or even give him the solace of knowing you’d read them. Instead, you turn your phone on DND and throw it behind you, hoping it’ll get lost in your bed sheets. 

And though you’ve done the right thing, there’s still the unavoidable grief over something that once was. The only person you want comfort from right now is Chan, but you know you should give yourself the space to reflect and process properly. He probably wants some time away from you, anyways. 

So you don’t call or text him. You avoid all the spots you know he frequents. You make yourself as nonexistent to him as possible. And worst of all, he doesn’t even come searching. 

There’s no way for you to know how badly he wants to see your name pop up at the top of his screen, or how he waits for you outside the library on days he knows you usually study. You don’t know that he stayed up late that first night, hoping you’d call him. Each notification made his heart jump, and after the eighth one that wasn’t from you, he finally turned his phone off completely. 

He didn’t want space, nor time. He wanted you. And beyond that, he wanted you to know you deserved more - that he would give you more. But he can’t fault you for any of this; he can only blame himself for not telling you sooner. 

When a week goes by and it’s still silence on your end, he figures you’d forgiven Jaehyun and taken him back. And that’s just something he’d have to live with. 

The days pass by slowly, monotonously, and though you argue with Mina and Jihyo that it’s healing, they complain that you’re just wallowing in needless despair (“Girl, get your man,” had been the phrase of the week). 

And you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to face him after the way you’d left things. There was a gnawing worry that he wouldn’t answer your calls or texts, so you don’t even try. No, you decide you’ll just have to show up at his apartment, and yes at nine o’clock at night, because you couldn’t put it off any longer. The yearning was almost consuming you. 

Though Chan had been to your dorm multiple times, you had never been to his apartment; it was way less convenient to go off-campus where he lived. You had to get Chan’s address from his roommate, Minho, who you had already known from a shared class last semester. And he had also texted you a few times begging you to do something about Chan’s moping, because it was “making his life miserable.” 

While it was off-campus, it wasn’t far, and your determination was enough to ward off the apprehension of walking alone at night (though Chan would definitely not be pleased). Still, you kept Jihyo on the phone for the whole fifteen minutes, slight reassurance for both of you. 

You can barely bring yourself to knock when you arrive, feeling much less composed now that you were actually there, separated from Chan by only a door and thin walls. Your fist meets the wood without you fully realizing it, and it swings open with ferocity moments later. 

“Hi,” you choke out, all of your composure gone when he’s standing before you.

“Y/N?” he asks, blinking in awe to confirm that you’re real. He’d started to accept that your presence in his life was a thing of the past, a treasured memory he’d hold onto. “What are you – Jesus, it’s so dark out. Come on, get inside.”

He reaches for your arm and drags you inside, leading you all the way to his room; Minho’s home, and Chan doesn’t quite want him to hear the moment the girl he’s been losing his mind over ends things for good. Is “end things” even the right term, since there had never been a defined “thing” in the first place? 

His room is not much different from any other college student’s room, with books and papers sprawled on the desk and empty energy drink cans filling the trashcan. But it’s his, and that makes your heart swell a little. 

“I can’t believe you walked all the way here this late,” he scolds. He gestures for you to take a seat on his bed, and when he sits in his chair across from you, you deflate a little at the distance.

“I had to see you,” you whisper.

He clicks his tongue, trying not to melt at your words. Because to him, you’re with Jaehyun, and there’s probably some other rational explanation for why you’d shown up at his apartment at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what it could be, but it exists, surely. “You know if you had texted me I would’ve been there in minutes,” he asserts.

“Actually, I didn’t know that,” you correct, folding your arms over your chest, “considering the way you stormed out last time we saw each other.” Which may have been justified, but still. 

“Can you blame me? You told me you were going to see your ex boyfriend who cheated on you, by the way. And then you didn’t even bother to call or text, so what was I supposed to think?”

“You could’ve called or texted me!” 

“I thought you went back to him!” 

He stands, chest rising and falling heavily, and he looks so distraught your anger fades. “I didn’t,” you say, softer now. “I didn’t even see him that night. We haven’t even spoken since. Or I guess that’s not totally true, he’s spammed me and I’ve ignored him.”

His eyes soften, and he crosses those few feet to sit beside you, mattress dipping under the added weight. “Why?”

There’s a million ways to answer that question, and you aren’t sure which is the right one. So you go with what flows naturally, not giving it a second thought.

“Because I realized I need more too,” you confess. “No more pretending, no more lies.”

Though your chest feels lighter with the confession, the room feels smaller and your throat tighter because Chan doesn’t speak, or move, you don’t even think he blinks. He doesn’t mean to stare at you like this, but you’ve left him stunned with words he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and he worries if he speaks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. 

You start to rise from the bed, fighting back tears of rejection and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come  – ” 

His hand latches around your wrist, gently yet firmly, and you fall back to the bed with a quiet gasp.

“I haven’t been pretending. Not for a while now,” he breathes, and now you’re the silent one. “You’re right, I was a coward. I’ve wanted you so badly and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along the skin faintly, confirmation that you and this moment are very real. “I should’ve told you everything. How much I think about you, how much I hate it when you’re not here.”

There’s hardly any space between you now, foreheads nearly touching, breaths intertwining. 

“How I can’t get that kiss out of my head,” he exhales. “How selfish I feel for wanting more.” 

You shake your head. “You’re not selfish,” you whisper, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. 

“I am, because I want you all to myself.”

“Then you have me,” you say simply, as though such a claim wouldn’t change everything. You’ve had me without even knowing. 

He can’t hold back anymore – he’s done enough of that over the past month – because those words are his absolute undoing. 

“Can I kiss you right this time?” His eyes drop to your lips, awaiting, begging for your permission. 

You nod eagerly, and that’s all it takes for him to place his hand along your jaw and draw your face towards his. His lips melt into your own, this time with all the passion you’d both held back before. 

And while the kiss starts soft, tender, moving against each other with the carefulness of a blooming love, it quickly plunges into desperate desire. Your fingers thread through his hair, delicately at first, until you tug at the roots and he groans into your mouth.

That sound. That devilish, sinful sound. It causes the heat within your core to grow tenfold, and you kiss him more fervently now, tongues swirling together. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, then drops his head to your neck.

And when your head tilts instinctively, offering him more skin to mark as his, he can’t help but smirk because he loves having this effect on you. He’d realized it that day at lunch, when he couldn’t do anything but skim your thigh under the table. But you were offering, so who was he not to take? He nips at the skin and runs his tongue along each spot afterwards, soothing, claiming. 

“Mine,” he mumbles against your neck, and then he kisses his way back up to your lips, mouth hovering over your own.

“Chan,” you rasp, “I want you.”

His lips crash against yours once more, because he can’t help himself when you’ve just said you want him so desperately. “Yeah? You want me, baby?” he asks, breathless.

You shiver when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles along your waist. “Yes,” you sigh, and then louder, “yes, God, I want you.”

He grips your waist, only sheer will keeping him from ripping off your clothes and fucking you right then and there. Because he wants to savor every last moment of this, but some small part of him is going feral – not a devil on his shoulder, but his throbbing cock trying to push through the seams of his boxers. So actually not a small part, because he’s big, you can see the imprint in his sweatpants.

 “Are you sure?” he questions. “Because if you want me, that’s it. There’s no more Jaehyun, no more anyone else.” 

Was he genuinely asking, or just trying to make you fall apart? You can’t tell, but you’re so needy, you answer regardless. 

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His hands hook under your shirt while he guides you onto his lap, and you raise your arms for him to pull it off while you settle against him. He pauses, drinking in the sight – you haven’t even taken your bra off yet – and then his palms find your breasts, massaging through the fabric.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, thumbs flicking over your covered nipples. The moan it elicits is so delicious that he does it again, and then again, cock twitching in his sweatpants.

“You only think that ‘cause I’m shirtless,” you quip, toying with the hem of his like you needed to make things even.

“No,” he says firmly. “Always thought you were the prettiest fucking girl ever.” He reaches behind his neck, yanking his tank top up and over his head, and you swear your breathing stops momentarily. This is what he’d hidden behind t-shirts and hoodies (and that jacket you still hadn’t given back to him), and honestly, how dare he?

But you can’t focus on that a moment longer, because he dips his head down to press his lips against the tops of your breasts hungrily, dragging wet kisses all the way to your sternum. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats, fingers unclasping your bra and tugging the straps down. 

His mouth is on you again before it even hits the ground, like he’ll keel over and die if he isn’t tasting you, and right now, he really thinks he might. So, for survival, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, tongue swirling around it, then flicking. 

Each careful movement of his tongue causes your breath to hitch, hips rutting against him for any sort of friction, and he moans against you. His hands grip your waist, stilling your movements, and as a punishment – if you could call it that – he bites gently and tugs the sensitive bud between his teeth.

“Chan,” you moan, and when you feel the curl of that signature smirk, you become emboldened. “Who knew your mouth could actually be useful?”

Because although you definitely didn’t hate him now, you could at least reflect on that history, if not just to drive him a little wild. And hopefully he’d fuck you just a little bit harder. 

He growls then, his hand sweeping along your side to squeeze your other breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm. And when you least expect it, his hand comes down, slapping your breast with enough force to make you gasp.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss that smart mouth of yours. Always thought it was so hot the way you’d act like you actually hated me,” he chuckles, now massaging the skin.

“I did hate you,” you rasp. You aren’t even sure if that’s true anymore, because you can’t think. His cock pressing into you has your mind in a frenzy. One where your only thoughts are of having him inside you, stretching you open, filling you up. 

When he lifts his head from your breasts, his eyes are dark, lidded, and boring right through you. Daring you to say it again. To lie and see where it gets you.

“You sure?” he whispers, tauntingly. “Because I always saw that look in your eyes.” His fingers dip lower, slipping into your panties, and he laughs when you shudder. “Deep down, you wanted to know all the filthy things I could do to this gorgeous body.”

Maybe you did. It matters little what you wanted back then, because you could only think of what you wanted right now, and his fingers were drifting dangerously close to it. But he was playing with you, not bringing them any further, waiting for your admission. 

“You flatter yourself,” you whisper. The wrong answer, clearly, because he pulls his fingers away, gripping your chin now. Forcing you to look at him, because he knows you won’t be able to keep up the act if he’s staring at you so intensely. 

“Say it’s not true then,” he orders.

You should be able to say it. You should be able to look him in the eyes and tell him he was once everything you wanted no part of. But he starts peppering open-mouthed kisses along your neck again, unfairly, and your voice betrays you. “It’s not true,” you mumble weakly.

Your fingers fly to his hair and tangle at the strands, but he won’t let you off that easily. Of course not. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers. 

“No,” he growls. “Say it like you mean it.” 

His commands only add to the ache between your legs, and you accept that you can’t win. Your silence tells him everything, and he releases, hand patting your cheek like he pitied you. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, satisfied.

Your breathing becomes ragged when his hand trails down again, and this time you’re sure that he’ll relent and give you what your body was craving. Or maybe that was just you trying to convince yourself. 

“You never hated me. You hated that you knew I was better than your boyfriend,” he smirks, slipping his fingers into your jeans. They drag down, slowly, finally stopping right at your core. “You hated that you wanted to know what it would feel like if I touched you here,” he taunts, rubbing your pussy through the soaked fabric of your panties. 

“Shit, you’re this wet for me?” he groans, fingers gliding up and down, pressing harder when they pause at your clit. “I guess I was right, then.”

Any other time you would have been able to throw something sarcastic right back at him, but not now, not when he was teasing you like this. It was the closest he’d gotten to touching you where you so desperately needed him, and your hips buck unwittingly again. “Please, Chan. Need you,” you moan.

“Yeah, I know baby,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you everything I’ve been dreaming about doing to you.”

And then you’re pushed off of him and onto the bed, hitting the sheets with a quiet squeal. The same fingers that had been rubbing your clothed pussy now hurriedly unbutton your jeans, and you lift off the bed slightly to help him drag them down along with your panties.

Once you’re completely naked before him, his movements lull, now taking in every inch of exposed skin. 

You feel like you’re drowning under his eyes, because the last person to see you like this had betrayed you, had touched someone that wasn’t you. This was the reality of infidelity – the insecurity, the nagging, cruel insecurity that seeped into places it shouldn’t. Because Chan would never.

And he sees it, too. The way you begin to falter and drift elsewhere. Your head turning against the pillow, refusing to face him.

“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your jaw, pulling your face back towards him. “Where’d you go, baby? Don’t hide from me, please.”

You swallow harshly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not hiding. Just…worried I’m not enough,” you mumble, and the words break him. He hated Jaehyun before, but he despises him now, because he made you  – who he considered the most beautiful girl to ever grace the earth, even when you were calling him an idiot – feel less than. And that’s something Chan would spend the rest of his life undoing if he had to.

His thumb strokes your skin now, trying to wipe away the remnants of anyone’s touch that wasn’t his. “No, stop that. You’re more than enough. You’re perfect,” he says. 

Your cheeks heat up from the affirmations, and he kisses you to cement them. But it's short, subdued, as he moves further down, lips grazing your neck, your chest, then your navel. He sinks lower, hovering right above your cunt, spreading your legs apart. 

“So perfect for me,” he breathes, and you can feel the air hitting against you. “You’re mine now. You won’t have to worry about anyone else ever again.” 

The words can barely sink in before his tongue is on you, licking a slow, tantalizing stripe between your folds. It’s so sudden that your hips lift off the bed, and his hands come quick, wrapping around your thigh and pinning you down. He swipes his tongue again, and then he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, devouring what had been kept from him for too long.

“Fuck, Chan, please,” you moan, grabbing at his hair for something to ground you. He groans into you, both from your fingers tugging and the sound of you moaning his name like that. 

“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard, tugging, releasing. Then, he swirls his tongue, creating a pattern that has your back arching, threatening to come undone. 

You’d thought about this. Lonely nights in your dorm, touching yourself at the thought of how he would look between your legs, about how his tongue would feel against you. But there was no way to anticipate this. He lapped at your pussy like he was starved and you were the only meal he’d get again. He’d like that, truthfully.

Your body is trembling by the time he draws his head back, and the lack of his warm tongue causes you to whine. “Patience, princess,” he coos. 

Before you can beg him to touch you again, he spits directly onto your cunt, letting his fingers spread it as if your slick wasn’t enough. And the action is so erotic, so filthy that your thighs clench involuntarily and he has to hold them open.

Two fingers push inside you, and his tongue is back, flicking your clit with urgency. He pumps them languidly, curling them against your g-spot and then pulling back until you’re almost empty. His name leaves your mouth through choked cries and it only drives him further, because he needs you to unravel just like this. His tongue circles your clit in rhythm with his fingers, hitting your sweet spot with each pump, and his pace quickens when he can tell you’re close. 

“Chan, please don’t stop!” you pant. “Fuck, I’m so close.” 

It’s all too much - his fingers, his tongue, the lewd noises of them bringing you to the edge. “Go on, baby, give it to me,” he coaxes. “Come on my tongue for me, just like that.”

With his permission (which was much more of a plea), you let go, throwing your head back against the pillow. Your whole body comes alive with the intensity of your orgasm, ripping through you in currents while he continues lapping at your pussy lazily. It’s only when he pulls his fingers out for the final time and sucks them clean that you come down, chest heaving. 

“My mouth sure is useful, huh?” he teases, laughing when you roll your eyes. 

His laughter is cut short when you sit up on your knees and tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, head lowering. Your intentions are clear, but he grips your shoulder, halting your movements. 

“No, no, princess, it’s okay,” he huffs, using his last bit of self-restraint. He can’t believe he’s turning down head from you, but right now, being buried inside you is his priority. 

You can’t believe it either, blinking up at him sweetly, eyes wide with confusion. “But I wanna return the favor,” you pout.

Jesus, were you an angel from above or a succubus from the depths of hell, he wonders?

“Fuck, I know, baby,” he groans. “But I need to be inside you, right now.”

He sounds so desperate that you feel like you’re in control now, and you reach for his cock through his sweatpants. Wrapping your fingers around it, stroking softly. “You wanna fuck me, Channie?” you purr. 

“Yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist – all your control, gone. “You want it too, don’t you baby?” He stands, ridding himself of his sweats and boxers at once. His cock springs free, precum beading on the tip, and he cages you against the bed. “Or can you not take it? Hm? Is one all this pretty pussy can give me?”

The flip switches in you instantly, arms slithering around his neck, yanking him to you. His lips crash onto yours, all teeth and tongue, both of you at your neediest. When your hand slips down to stroke him, thumb spreading precum along his length, he lets out a low guttural sound into your mouth. 

“Baby, shit, you’re killing me,” he rasps.

“Can you die inside me, at least?” 

That he could do. Happily. Willingly. He reaches over you, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside. And though you shouldn’t, you bring your hand to his wrist, stopping him. 

“I’m on the pill, if that helps,” you whisper. “I need to feel you, nothing else.” Your words are sinful but your eyes are so sweet, looking up at him like you’d break if he denied you. 

“Fuck, princess, you’re trouble,” he groans, shoving the drawer closed and bringing his hand to your cheek instead. He swipes away a few strands of hair that had fallen, trying to soak in every inch of your perfect face. 

“You love it,” you giggle.

“God, yes I do.”

He grasps his cock and fists it a few short times, then guides it along your pussy. Your slick coats his shaft immediately, slow drags making your head spin. And when he slaps the tip against your clit, you know he’s doing it just for that. To drive you crazy, to hear your whines, to see you writhing for it. For him. Would it be appropriate to call him a smug bastard again?

“Stop teasing,” you beg, your voice a strained whisper.

“But you’re so cute like this,” he says. “What’d you say again? ‘Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you?’”

You buck your hips against him, a poor retaliation, and he laughs, positioning himself at your entrance. “Well look at you now, princess.”

He presses into you just the smallest bit, enough for the tip to slip inside, still teasing when all you wanted was for him to plunge inside you and fuck you senseless. That small amount of pressure is gone in an instant, leaving you empty once more. 

“Chan,” you whimper. “Please just fuck me, I can’t take it.”

You might cry if he keeps this up, still sensitive from your last orgasm but so desperate for another. And while he wouldn’t mind driving you to that point, his cock is painfully hard. Even he’s at his limit. 

“Oh, baby, you’re gonna take it,” he taunts, thrusting forward in one swift motion. He bottoms out and stays there, immobile, reveling in your cunt stretching around him. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”

“Would feel more amazing if you would move,” you hiss, and he actually listens. His hips snap against you with a purpose, slow and deep, watching every inch sink further. 

Each thrust reaches that sweet spot that has your back arching and nails digging into him. You can already feel the fire building inside you again, clenching around him in a way that has him wondering if you’re a dream. “Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, hips bucking faster now. Less restraining and savoring, more adhering to his primal urge to fill you up entirely.

“Funny. Jaehyun said the same thing,” you pant. You aren’t sure where the confidence comes from, especially when he’s the one pounding into you; maybe he’s fucking the attitude back into you. But you know it’ll get you into trouble, the good kind of trouble, the kind where Chan wrecks you mercilessly. 

And oh, he does. He thrusts wilder, rougher, almost carelessly, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room. 

“Yeah? Well he fucking lied, baby,” he growls. “Because you feel that?” His hand presses down on your stomach. “That’s all me. My cock you’re squeezing like a fucking vice.”

His hand slides down, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit. The added sensation brings you closer to the edge, and he’s nearly there as well. “Chan, oh my god,” you moan, nails dragging along his bicep. 

“You’re so tight,” he grunts. “Did he ever fuck you right?” He won’t even say the name, because it holds no meaning now. You’re his, and he’ll fuck you enough times that you won’t remember anyone else. 

Your walls clench harder around him, his thumb circling relentlessly. “No,” you cry. “Not like you. Not like this.” That answer satisfies him, and he pulls back all the way just to slam into you harder.

“I didn’t think so,” he muses. He leans down, nipping at your neck. “Forget about him. All you need to remember is me and my cock ruining you like this.” 

You’d already forgotten, only able to think about how Chan was the one currently fucking into you like he had something to prove. You’re so close to release, strangled cries of his name escaping your lips while your thighs clench around him. “Ah, Chan, I’m gonna come!” you whimper.

“Fuck, me too, baby,” he grunts. “You want me to fill you up? Leave your pussy leaking with my cum?”

His words are your final propulsion, and he emphasizes them with each rut of his hips. Your back arches off the bed, face contorting in pure euphoria, and Chan commits the image to memory. It matters little that he knows he’ll see it many, many more times; he wants to watch you ride every single high until the end of time. 

Your orgasm washes over you, setting every inch of your body aflame, and you want more. More of him. All of him. “Yes! Please fill me up, please,” you beg, voice breaking from the overstimulation. 

He can’t deny you, doesn’t want to deny you, and he couldn’t anyways. You’ve basically sucked him in, legs keeping him held in place. He thrusts into you one final time, a low groan emitting from someplace deep within, hips jerking erratically as thick, white strings of cum spurt inside of you.

When you’ve milked every last drop from him, he pulls out from your spent heat and falls to the bed dramatically, limbs flopping as if he’s dead. And maybe he is, because that was definitely heaven. 

You lay there side by side, chests rising and falling in sync, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation for what just happened. How you ended up like this, his cum dripping from you, your scratches welting along his back, when just months ago you couldn’t stand each other. Supposedly. 

Then comes a knock on the door, and you both are struck with the realization that you’d forgotten Minho was home, in another room, hearing everything. Or rather, Chan had forgotten, and you’d never known. Never even considered it. 

“Are you two done in there?” he calls from outside. You lift your head and look at Chan with wide eyes, and he shrugs like he’s just as clueless.

“Uh, yeah,” Chan shouts back. You bury yourself under the sheets, expecting the door to swing open. Thankfully, it doesn’t. But the alternative might be worse.

“Y/N, when I asked you for help, I didn’t mean by moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors in my apartment.”

Minho’s footsteps pad away from the door, and you pull back the sheets, horrified. “Was I really that loud?!” you exclaim. He hadn’t said anything about your volume or even tried to quiet you, and you were far too consumed to notice. 

“A little…” Chan rubs his neck sheepishly.

You wish you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, because how would you ever face Minho again? And their poor neighbors, no less. The walk of shame was going to be unbearable. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing!” you groan. 

He shakes his head vehemently and kisses your forehead, a small reassurance. “No! No, baby, it was so hot,” he coos. And then it hits him. “Wait. Minho asked you for help?”

“I guess you were going crazy without me,” you smirk. This time he groans, and you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me now.”

“Like I’d ever want to,” he whispers. 

His lips press into your hair, and you can’t help but sigh against him. Because any remnants of hatred, if they even truly existed, are gone, and you’re left only with the peaceful acceptance that this was a glimpse of countless days to come.

[leriexoxo]

The Things We Never Said

Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: 18+ (minors DNI), heavy emotional angst, rejection, heartbreak, sexual content (soft & rough, mirror sex, aftercare, etc.), swearing, crying, pining, miscommunication, Slow burn, angst, friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 9k

Summary: You’d been in love with Hyunjin for years, always stuck somewhere between friendship and almost. When you finally confessed, he rejected you—and then tried to pretend nothing happened. You did your best to move on, even let someone else in… until Hyunjin realized too late that he loved you too. Now he’s at your door in the rain, desperate for a second chance—and you don’t know if your heart is ready to break all over again.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You met Hyunjin the summer after high school ended.

He was loud. That was the first thing you noticed. He laughed with his whole chest, talked with his hands, and never seemed to run out of things to say, even when no one was listening. You’d been dragged to a bonfire by your childhood friend, Jiyeon, and suddenly there he was—sitting cross-legged in the grass with his hair tied up and his head tilted back as he tried to balance a beer can on his forehead.

You didn’t say much to him that night. But he noticed you. You knew, because he kept trying to make you laugh.

He succeeded, a little. And then again. And again.

And by the end of the night, when Jiyeon shouted, “We’re getting ramen after this, let’s go!” and you instinctively began to gather your things, Hyunjin turned to you and said, “You’re coming too, right?”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. Just a smile. A light in his voice.

And somehow, without even realizing it, you became part of the group.

He was the kind of person who pulled people in without trying. Messy and ridiculous and disarmingly soft around the edges. He made the quiet ones talk. Made the serious ones laugh. And you—he made you feel like maybe it wasn’t so bad, being seen.

You became friends slowly. Not all at once, not in that immediate, magnetic way some people describe. It was more like… a comfort you grew used to. Like warm socks in winter. Like the sound of the microwave at 2am.

You sat next to him at game nights. He always offered you the last slice of pizza, even when he obviously wanted it. He texted you the dumbest memes at 3am. Brought you coffee without asking what you liked. He just guessed. He was right.

He remembered things you didn’t expect anyone to remember—your cousin’s name, your pet peeves, the exact date you said you were dreading a dentist appointment.

You never let yourself overthink it.

He was like that with everyone.

It didn’t mean anything.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But then came the long drives.

The ones where you sat shotgun, feet on the dash, window cracked open, his playlist humming low between the silence. The ones where he’d ask questions like, “Do you think people always know when they’re falling for someone?” with a weird little smile, and you’d pretend it didn’t send your heart into overdrive.

You didn’t know when it happened. When liking him stopped being a quiet crush and became a permanent ache under your ribs.

But by the time you realized it, it was already too late.

It didn’t happen all at once, but looking back, you could see the moment things started to shift.

It was a Wednesday. Rainy. One of those days where everything felt half-slow and half-noisy, like the world couldn’t decide if it wanted to rest or scream. You had been late to dinner—group dinner, as usual. Everyone had already ordered. Someone had stolen your usual seat.

Without missing a beat, Hyunjin scooted over, patted the bench beside him, and said, “Sit here.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. It wasn’t even that significant. But when you sat, when your knee pressed against his, and he didn’t move an inch—you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

His shoulder bumped yours every time he laughed. You felt it in your bones.

And when he leaned down to whisper something only meant for you—something stupid and irrelevant about the waiter’s mustache—you laughed too loudly, too quickly, just to distract yourself from how warm his breath felt against your cheek.

Jiyeon gave you a look. The kind that said oh.

You didn’t want to talk about it.

From then on, everything became sharp-edged.

Every car ride. Every lazy afternoon curled on his couch. Every group hangout that ended with the two of you lingering after everyone else left.

You stopped seeing your friends. You started seeing him.

You memorized the way his fingers looked when he was focused—thumb tucked under his chin, brows drawn. The way he fidgeted when he was nervous, like during that open mic night when his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. The way he whispered your name when you drifted off during late movies, like it meant more than just waking you up.

You knew it didn’t. Not to him.

But it was starting to mean everything to you.

You tried to tell yourself it would pass.

You tried to flirt with someone else at Jiyeon’s party—a guy who was sweet and cute and definitely into you. But then you caught Hyunjin watching from the kitchen, eyebrows slightly furrowed, his cup clutched too tightly in his hand.

Later that night, when the guy asked for your number, you hesitated.

And Hyunjin—who hadn’t spoken a word about it—offered to walk you home.

You let him. Of course you did.

And as you walked side by side in silence, your jacket tucked beneath his arm like a second thought, you wondered what it would be like to reach over. To grab his hand. To say it out loud, right then.

But you didn’t.

Because you were still scared of the answer.

⸻

The moment came two weeks later.

Another rooftop, another night, another group hangout gone late. Everyone had gone back downstairs. Only you and Hyunjin remained, curled under a blanket, half-drunk, half-exhausted, watching the city blink in soft, slow pulses.

You felt full and empty all at once.

And then he said, “You’ve been quiet lately. Like… inside-your-head quiet.”

You blinked. “Have I?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You do that when something’s eating you.”

You laughed softly. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me, yeah.”

And just like that, the words pushed up your throat like they’d been waiting.

“I like you.”

It came out too fast. Too raw. You didn’t look at him when you said it. You stared at the skyline like it could save you.

He went still beside you.

You felt it. The pause. The absence.

Then—

“…Don’t.”

Silence. Loud silence.

Your heart crumpled in real time.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it,” he said softly. “Please.”

You turned then. Looked him in the face.

He wasn’t angry. Wasn’t mocking you. Just… heartbroken in a way that made no sense.

“I didn’t want this to change anything,” he whispered.

You laughed once. Just a breath. Just enough to keep from crying.

“Well,” you said. “Too late for that.”

—

You didn’t cry that night.

Not when he reached for your hand and you pulled away.

Not when you stood up too fast and nearly tripped over the blanket.

Not when he said your name like he didn’t know how to say anything else. Like it could still fix it.

You just left.

You went down the stairs and out the door and didn’t stop walking until the city swallowed the rooftop behind you. And when you got home, you showered like you were trying to wash it off. The rooftop, the night, the words. Him.

You climbed into bed in a pair of socks that didn’t match and stared at the ceiling until your eyes stopped burning.

And even then, you didn’t cry.

You just hurt.

You thought maybe he’d give you space.

That he’d let the silence stretch between you until it thinned into distance—polite, painful, but necessary. That was what people did when they didn’t feel the same, wasn’t it? They stepped back. Gave you room to breathe. To grieve.

But Hyunjin didn’t.

The very next morning, he texted you like nothing happened.

hyunjin:

“u up?”

hyunjin:

“wanna get coffee before you go to class?”

hyunjin:

“or not. either way i hope you slept okay.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you wanted to be dramatic—but because you didn’t know how to be normal around him anymore.

Because nothing felt normal.

That weekend, you saw him again—against your better judgment. Jiyeon had begged you to come to their little movie night, the usual group, just “lowkey and chill.” She’d even promised to make your favorite dumplings.

You told yourself you could handle it.

You were wrong.

He looked up the second you walked in. Said your name with that same soft inflection, like the last three days hadn’t shattered you. Like your confession had been a dream and not a detonation.

You sat on the far end of the couch. He noticed. Didn’t say anything.

Halfway through the movie, he leaned over the armrest and whispered, “You okay?”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t answer.

You just smiled at the TV screen and hoped no one could see how tightly your hands were clenched in your lap.

⸻

You tried to pull away.

Not just from Hyunjin—but from everything. The group chat, the hangouts, the drop-by visits. You skipped brunches. You started sitting in new spots during class. You made yourself busy with things that didn’t include him.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But instead of leaving you alone, he chased harder.

He started showing up in ways he never had before. More texts. More “hey, haven’t seen you in a while” messages in the group. Random pictures sent to you privately—funny signs, cats that looked like yours, memes he used to tag you in without asking.

He still made you coffee sometimes. Left it at your door with a note that said nothing more than “You still like oat milk, right?”

It broke you.

Not because he was cruel. But because he was still kind. Because his version of “normal” made it impossible for you to move on.

⸻

Jiyeon called you one night after another canceled invite.

“You okay?”

You paused. Then, “Yeah. Just been tired.”

“You and Hyunjin haven’t talked.”

“I know.”

There was a quiet moment.

Then she said, softly, “You know he thinks everything’s fine, right? That he didn’t break anything.”

You didn’t know how to answer that.

So you didn’t.

—

You made it twelve days.

Twelve days of answering texts with forced emojis.

Twelve days of dodging hangouts, rerouting your walk to class, pretending you weren’t constantly bracing for the next time he’d show up.

You were holding yourself together with duct tape and denial—and Hyunjin kept peeling it off with every well-meaning smile, every gesture that used to feel like comfort and now felt like cruelty.

So when Jiyeon’s birthday rolled around, you told yourself you could survive it.

One night. One dinner. You could smile for a few hours, eat some cake, laugh at a few jokes, and go home.

But then he sat next to you. And that was the beginning of the end.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Walked in with that warm, open energy that had once made you feel safe and now just made your heart twist the wrong way. He saw you across the table, grinned like nothing was wrong, and dropped into the empty seat beside you like it belonged to him.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “You look nice.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You forced a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He tilted his head. “Haven’t seen you all week. You ghosted me again.”

Again.

Like it was a joke. Like it was cute.

You blinked down at your plate. Your heart was pounding. He kept going.

“You still mad at me?” he teased gently. “Come on. I know I’m annoying, but I’m not that bad.”

You laughed. Not because it was funny.

Because something inside you snapped.

You stood up.

He blinked at you, confused, one hand reaching slightly like he thought you might fall. “Wait—”

“I need some air.”

You didn’t look at him as you walked out.

The street was quiet. Cold. A relief.

You leaned against the wall of the restaurant and closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. Not here. Not now. Not because of him.

But then the door creaked open behind you, and you knew.

Of course he followed.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Did I… did I do something?”

You turned, finally. Looked him in the face.

And you couldn’t do it anymore.

“I told you I liked you,” you said, voice cracking. “And you rejected me. Which—I get it, okay? That’s fine. You didn’t owe me anything.”

“…I never meant to—”

“But then you kept showing up,” you went on, too fast now, too full. “You kept texting, kept smiling, kept acting like nothing changed. Like it didn’t wreck me to be around you.”

He went still.

“I needed space, Hyunjin. I needed time. But you—you just kept being you. And that made it worse.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said finally.

“You could’ve let me go.”

The silence between you was unbearable.

You took a step back.

“I’m not mad at you,” you whispered. “But I can’t be your friend right now. I’m sorry.”

And then you left him standing there, under the soft glow of the restaurant lights, with nothing but the echo of your voice and the pieces you hadn’t been able to hold onto anymore.

—

He didn’t text the next day.

Or the one after.

For the first time in weeks, your phone stayed silent—no morning messages, no dumb inside jokes, no pictures of dogs in sunglasses or bad street poetry. You thought it would feel like relief.

It didn’t. It felt like absence.

Like a door finally closing after weeks of creaking on its hinges.

And part of you wanted to pry it open again—just to make sure he was still there. Still existing in the same world, breathing the same air. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You had meant what you said.

You couldn’t be his friend. Not like this.

The group chat slowed without you.

Or maybe you just stopped checking. Muted it. Let the messages pile up without opening them. Jiyeon texted once or twice—“are you okay?” and “you don’t have to explain, just letting you know I’m here”—but even she understood.

You weren’t ready to talk. Not about it. Not about him.

You weren’t even sure what about him meant anymore.

It had been easier when you were just friends. Easier to joke, to sit close, to share blankets and drinks and late-night walks without wondering if it meant something.

Now you couldn’t look at your favorite coffee shop without remembering how he used to order your drink before you got there.

Couldn’t listen to certain songs without hearing the way he hummed under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.

Couldn’t step onto the rooftop without your chest tightening like it was still holding the echo of your confession.

⸻

Hyunjin didn’t come looking for you.

Not at first.

You heard from Jiyeon that he was “laying low.” That he’d been quieter, less involved, skipping a few hangouts here and there. He wasn’t himself, she said.

You wanted to tell her neither were you.

But what good would it do?

The damage was already done. And unlike him, you couldn’t keep pretending you hadn’t bled for it.

One week later, you ran into him.

Not dramatically—not on a rainy street or in a dark hallway—but in line at the grocery store, both of you clutching baskets filled with microwave meals and snacks you didn’t need.

You saw him before he saw you.

And for a moment, you thought about leaving your cart and walking out.

But he turned.

He blinked. Paused. Said your name like a question.

“Hey.”

You swallowed. “Hey.”

It was awful.

Awkward in a way that made your skin itch. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, looked down at your basket like it was easier than looking at your face.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

You could’ve lied. You should’ve.

But you shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

Something in his face twisted.

“I miss you,” he said quietly. No preamble. No smile.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Because hearing it didn’t fix anything.

It didn’t pull the broken pieces back together or rewrite the moment on the rooftop or un-crack the parts of you that had already started healing from the silence.

All it did was ache.

Even after that quiet moment at the grocery store, even after his eyes followed you all the way to the exit like he still had something left to say. You didn’t reach out.

Because missing you wasn’t the same as wanting you.

And you were done trying to read between lines he wasn’t brave enough to cross.

So, you made yourself move on.

Not out of spite, but out of survival.

You said yes to more invitations, even if it meant sitting in circles he’d never touched. You started spending time with people who didn’t already know your story—or worse, the part where your story had ended.

You met a boy named Minho through your literature elective. He made snide comments about every poem you read in class, and sometimes he offered you half of his protein bar even when you didn’t ask.

He was safe. He didn’t look at you like he remembered every time your heart had cracked open.

He didn’t remind you of anything.

You went for coffee once. Then again. He made you laugh.

It didn’t make your heart race.

But it made the ache dull.

And that was enough.

⸻

Jiyeon noticed the change in you before you did.

“You’re glowing,” she teased one night as the two of you walked home from a dinner that didn’t include Hyunjin for the first time in months.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” she grinned. “It’s like… you’re coming back to life a little.”

You smiled softly. You didn’t say it, but you felt it too.

The quiet felt less suffocating.

Your chest didn’t tighten every time you heard his name.

You weren’t happy—not all the way. But you weren’t drowning anymore.

That was something.

You saw Hyunjin again two weeks later. Unplanned. At a gallery opening hosted by a mutual friend.

He was standing by the window with a drink in hand, talking to someone you didn’t recognize.

He looked… different.

Tired, maybe. Older somehow. Like he’d finally started carrying the weight you’d been dragging alone.

You tried not to look at him. Tried harder not to feel anything. But the moment he saw you—really saw you—his whole body shifted.

He excused himself from the conversation and made his way over before you had time to turn.

“Hey.”

You stared at him for a long beat. “Hey.”

“I heard about your reading,” he said, a little breathless. “Jiyeon said you’re submitting that short story to the contest next month.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

His smile was proud, but his eyes were careful. “That’s… really cool. You always talked about writing more.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Because yeah, you did.

And he used to be the person you shared your rough drafts with.

You sipped your drink.

He hesitated. Then, “Can we talk?”

You blinked. “We are talking.”

“No, I mean… actually talk. About everything. About what I did—or didn’t do. I know I hurt you.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he said. “But I did anyway.”

He paused.

“I didn’t say what you needed to hear that night. Not because I didn’t care, but because I panicked. I thought if I said it wrong, I’d lose you completely.”

You laughed, bitter. “Newsflash.”

“I know,” he said again. Quiet. “I didn’t know how to be honest with you without breaking something. And then I broke it anyway.”

There was a beat of silence between you.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And for the first time, you saw guilt.

Not just regret. Not just nostalgia.

Real guilt. Like he finally understood what it meant to be the one who got to walk away clean.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve let you go when you asked me to. I should’ve respected the space you needed. I thought staying close meant I still mattered to you.”

“You did,” you whispered. “But it hurt too much.”

“I get that now.”

You nodded.

“I’m not asking to fix things,” he added. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But I wanted you to know—I see it. Everything I ignored. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t reach for him, didn’t tell him it was okay.

Because it wasn’t. Not really.

But hearing it? It helped.

—

You kept seeing Minho.

Not often. Not seriously. But enough.

Enough to make people start asking. Enough to let the idea hang in the air—like a question you were never quite ready to answer.

He was calm where Hyunjin had been chaotic.

Confident without being loud.

Sharp-tongued, but thoughtful when it counted.

You didn’t burn for him, not in the way you had for Hyunjin.

But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Minho made it easy to breathe. Easy to exist without constantly trying to guess what came next.

And for a while, that was enough.

You started smiling again. Real ones.

You stopped checking your phone for messages that never came.

Stopped wondering what Hyunjin was doing on a Friday night or who he was laughing with or if he ever thought about the rooftop and the way you’d looked at him like you had something left to lose.

You stopped bleeding, even if you still bruised.

And when Minho asked if you wanted to get dinner—just the two of you this time—you said yes.

Because you wanted to try.

Even if your heart still twitched at the sound of someone else’s name.

⸻

You didn’t mean for Hyunjin to find out about Minho that way.

But the world was small, and the friend group smaller.

He saw you across the quad one day—Minho beside you, walking close, laughing low at something you said. You didn’t notice Hyunjin sitting on the low wall by the fountain, earbuds in but music off, eyes catching on you like a hook in water.

You didn’t see the way he stilled.

Didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Minho leaned in to adjust the strap of your bag.

Didn’t hear the breath he held until it burned.

But later that night, you got a message.

[10:03 PM] Hyunjin: so it’s real? you and him?

You stared at it for a long time.

Your fingers hovered over the screen. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

[10:09 PM] You: I’m trying to move on.

No reply came.

Not that night. Not the next day.

But Jiyeon texted you the morning after: Did something happen with Hyunjin? He was weird today. Like really weird.

You didn’t answer.

Because you knew exactly what happened.

—

Hyunjin didn’t understand it.

Not at first.

He thought the ache in his chest was guilt. Maybe even jealousy in the shallow way—like possessiveness, like territorial instinct. The kind of pang you feel when someone you used to be close with starts laughing a little too freely without you.

But it wasn’t that.

It was something deeper. Wilder.

More like grief.

Because you weren’t just someone anymore.

You weren’t even his almost.

You were someone else’s maybe.

And that was what shattered him.

Because when you left, he missed the way you looked at him. Missed your laugh, your stupid overthinking texts, the way you always brought him snacks when he forgot to eat. He missed your presence.

But now—now he missed your possibility.

Now he missed what he never let himself want.

He started spiraling quietly.

He didn’t bring you up. Not to anyone. Not even Jiyeon.

But he was short-tempered, restless. Said no to hangouts, stayed up too late doing nothing, stared at half-written texts he never sent.

He kept seeing you in crowded rooms—never alone, always glowing a little too much beside someone else.

Minho touched you gently. Laughed easily. Didn’t flinch when your arm brushed his.

And Hyunjin hated it.

Because Minho hadn’t hesitated.

Minho didn’t push you away and then regret it after.

Minho got to hold the part of you that Hyunjin threw away out of fear.

It took him two weeks to admit it to himself.

Not just the feelings. But the failure.

He hadn’t been confused. He’d been a coward.

He let you fall while he stood on the edge, too afraid to jump.

And now someone else was learning all the soft, sacred pieces of you he never deserved.

—

You weren’t expecting anyone that night.

It was raining. The kind of rain that didn’t come with thunder—just a quiet, steady fall that wrapped the city in soft gray noise. You had a hoodie on, socks mismatched, fingers curled around a mug of tea gone cold on your desk.

Your phone lit up twice—one from Minho, one from Jiyeon—but you didn’t open either.

Some nights were like this. Still on the surface, but storming underneath.

You didn’t think anything of the knock at your door.

Just a neighbor, maybe. A package. Maybe Jiyeon needing to vent.

But when you opened it—

Your whole body froze.

There he was.

Hyunjin.

Soaked to the bone, hood pushed back, hair dripping onto the collar of his jacket. His eyes looked darker than usual—not angry, not cold.

Just… raw.

Like he hadn’t slept.

Like he hadn’t smiled in days.

You couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t even move.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges.

“Just—can you let me talk? Please.”

You stepped back.

Barely. A breath of space.

And he took it like it was a lifeline.

He stood in your entryway dripping water onto your rug, shivering slightly, looking around like it was all unfamiliar.

But you both knew it wasn’t.

“You’re still drinking that chamomile stuff,” he murmured, eyes catching the mug on your desk. “I always hated the way it smelled.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him you started drinking it more after he stopped texting you.

Didn’t tell him Minho liked it. Said it suited you.

Hyunjin swallowed. “I’ve been an idiot.”

You crossed your arms.

“I don’t mean the usual kind of idiot,” he added quickly. “I mean… the kind who gets handed something rare—something real—and is too scared to hold onto it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I told myself I didn’t want to risk losing you,” he went on. “But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

You said nothing.

Because the pain was still there. The crack. The weight. The memory of the rooftop and the way his silence felt like your own body turning against you.

“I saw you with Minho,” he admitted, eyes searching yours now. “And it hurt. God, it fucking hurt. Not because he did anything wrong—he didn’t. He’s good to you. I could see it. That’s what scared me.”

You looked down.

He took a step closer.

“Because I realized I didn’t want you to move on,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

A breath caught in your chest.

“I wanted to be the one who made you laugh like that. The one who made you feel seen. But I gave that up, didn’t I? I gave it up because I was too much of a coward to admit I loved you.”

The silence rang loud.

Too loud.

You blinked, voice breaking. “Loved?”

His face crumpled—gently, like he was unraveling all at once.

“Love,” he corrected. “I love you. Present tense.”

A pause.

And then, softer:

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to take me back. But if there’s even a piece of you that still feels something… I had to come. I had to try. Because if I lose you forever without telling you how I feel, I won’t survive it.”

You stared at him. At the boy who once shattered your heart and then stood there hoping you’d pretend it never happened.

Only now, he wasn’t asking you to pretend.

He was asking you to believe him.

To believe this mattered. To believe you mattered.

Even after everything.

You stood there trembling.

His words echoed through the room, too loud and too soft all at once. You hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears were already sliding down your face—slow, silent, uninvited. You didn’t even try to stop them.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because you had wanted this. You had dreamed of this.

And now that it was here, it didn’t feel real.

Your fingers clenched at your sides.

You still loved him. God, you loved him so much it hurt.

That was the problem. That had always been the problem.

You had never stopped.

You turned away before he could see your face break completely. Your voice came out thin.

“Your clothes are soaked. You’re gonna get sick.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

You went to your drawer and pulled out a hoodie—his, ironically, one he’d left at your place months ago and probably forgotten. You hadn’t. You wore it once when the world felt especially heavy.

You walked back and handed it to him, not meeting his eyes.

“There’s towels in the bathroom,” you mumbled. “You can dry off in there.”

He hesitated. Then nodded, quiet. “Thanks.”

You didn’t say anything else.

—

The rain got heavier.

It pounded against your windows, against the balcony outside your room. The whole apartment felt suspended in that stormy cocoon—like time had been paused by the sky itself.

You stood by your bed, arms around yourself, chest aching.

How many times had you imagined this moment?

How many times had you told yourself it would never come?

And now he was here.

In your bathroom. Wearing the hoodie you used to cry in. Telling you he loved you.

Your knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.

When he stepped out again, hair damp but drying, hoodie slung over his frame like it still belonged to him, he looked… softer.

Not small. Just real.

Your gaze lifted. Locked with his.

Neither of you spoke.

But something shifted.

In the stretch of silence. In the sound of the storm. In the space between your heart and his.

And then, he moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like he wanted to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t. You didn’t move an inch.

Not even when he reached out, thumb brushing just under your eye to catch a tear you hadn’t noticed was still falling.

“Still hurts?” he whispered.

You nodded. A breath.

“Me too.”

Then—

His hand slid to your jaw, gentle, reverent.

And he kissed you.

It wasn’t hungry or desperate.

It was slow. Careful. Terrified.

Like he was asking.

Please. Let me back in.

And you— You let him.

Because your heart had never been Minho’s.

Because you never stopped waiting for this.

For Hyunjin.

For this kiss.

For him.

His lips moved like he was afraid to touch you fully.

Not because he didn’t want to—because he did, you could feel it, the trembling in his fingers, the way his breath stuttered against your cheek—but because he was terrified of breaking you again.

And maybe he already had.

Maybe you were already in pieces, just standing there, letting him kiss you.

But your hands found his hoodie, your fingers curling tight into the fabric at his chest, and you tilted your head into him, letting the kiss deepen. Just slightly. Just enough.

He gasped when you kissed back.

A sound so full of relief, you nearly choked on it.

His arms came around you in a rush then, like he’d been holding back every instinct for weeks and couldn’t anymore—like he was suddenly starving and you were the only thing that could fill him.

You clung to him just as desperately.

It was messy. It was soaked in heartbreak. It tasted like too much and not enough.

He kissed you like he was scared this would be the last time.

And maybe it would be, if you didn’t speak now.

You broke the kiss with a trembling breath, forehead pressed to his, his hands still cradling your face.

Your voice cracked.

“I waited for you.”

His whole body stilled.

“I waited, and you didn’t come.”

“God,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “I know.”

You were crying again. Quiet. Angry at yourself for still loving him. Angry at him for giving you this only after you’d shattered trying to forget.

“I couldn’t even look at Minho without thinking of you,” you said. “I tried. I wanted to move on. But you—” your voice broke, “you were everywhere.”

Hyunjin’s eyes opened. Bloodshot. Glistening.

“You should hate me,” he said. “I hate me.”

“Then why didn’t you just say yes?” you asked, choking on it. “On that rooftop. Why did you make me beg for a rejection?”

“I was scared,” he confessed, so broken it hurt to hear. “You were real. You were everything. I didn’t know how to be the person who deserved you.”

“Then why now?” you whispered. “Why come back?”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek again, voice shaking.

“Because I couldn’t breathe without you. I thought I could live with letting you go, but I couldn’t. I tried. I tried so hard. But seeing you with him—” he swallowed hard—“I lost my mind. Not because of jealousy. Because I knew he could give you what I threw away.”

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

You leaned into him, both of you trembling.

And then his mouth was on yours again—more desperate this time, more raw, like the floodgates had broken and neither of you knew how to stop.

His hands cupped your face, then tangled in your hair.

Yours slid under the hoodie, fingers curling into his shirt like he’d disappear if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

It wasn’t about sex.

It wasn’t even about comfort.

It was grief.

It was love.

It was apology.

And it was need.

You kissed like you were trying to put all the broken pieces back in each other.

And for a moment, maybe you did.

—

The next morning, the world was hushed.

Golden light streamed through the blinds, soft and warm, like the universe was trying to offer you a gentle landing after the storm.

Hyunjin was still asleep on your couch, one arm draped over his eyes, the borrowed hoodie rising and falling with each breath. He looked peaceful. Tired. Like someone who had cried himself to sleep in someone else’s arms.

Because he had.

And you… you were wide awake.

Your heart felt like a tender bruise. Not aching in the same sharp way it used to, but sore with memory. With love. With everything you still hadn’t unpacked.

And there was still one thing you had to do.

You sat in the café before Minho arrived, nursing a coffee you barely touched. Your hands were cold, even with the cup between them.

He spotted you from the door, gave you a soft, tired smile.

He already knew.

Minho sat down across from you like it wasn’t the end of something. He didn’t even make you start.

“You let him in.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, then looked out the window for a long moment.

“I figured it would happen,” he said, tone light, but not careless. “He had that look in his eyes when he saw us. Like someone waking up too late.”

“I never tried to use you,” you whispered. “I promise. I just… didn’t want to keep bleeding over him forever.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched. Comfortable. Sad.

“I liked you,” he said. “A lot. Still do, in a way. But I could never get to the place he had in you. You looked at me and I always saw him sitting behind your eyes.”

Tears welled again. You didn’t want to cry—not for this. Not for hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

But Minho smiled.

“I’m not mad. Heartbreak’s messy. And I’d rather lose like this than keep you with me when your heart’s still somewhere else.”

You blinked, stunned.

“You’re kind of perfect,” you muttered, wiping a tear.

Minho grinned. “Don’t forget it.”

And just like that, he stood, patted your head, and said goodbye.

⸻

Hyunjin waited until you were ready.

For a week, he gave you space. Checked in gently. No pressure. Just warmth. Just patience.

And then— He asked if he could take you out. On a real date.

You stared at the message for a long time before smiling.

Yes.

It was an easy answer.

He took you to the planetarium.

It was quiet, empty enough that your footsteps echoed as you walked side by side into the main observatory dome. The room was dark, filled with a slow-spinning map of the stars across the curved ceiling. Everything glowed faintly blue and silver.

You stood there in the dark, hand brushing against his.

He turned to you with a soft smile. “When I was a kid, I used to think people became stars when they died.”

You looked at him, heart full.

“I think people are stars,” you said. “We just don’t always shine the same.”

He stared at you, eyes wide, something fragile flickering behind them.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered.

You reached for his hand fully this time. “So are you.”

He kissed you under a sky of constellations, hand on your waist, lips soft and sure. There was no rush, no storm.

Just you. And him.

And something whole blooming between you.

You didn’t say it out loud that night, but you felt it so deeply it poured out of you anyway—through your smile, your kiss, your laughter, your joy.

You were smitten.

So in love it made your chest ache in the best way.

He looked at you like he was seeing the stars for the first time.

And for the first time in a long time…

You felt complete.

—

The special moments started small.

A look that lingered too long.

A touch that lasted a heartbeat more than it should.

A silence that simmered.

You noticed it the second time he kissed you.

The night after the planetarium, when he walked you home again and kissed you outside your door like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. You had your hands tangled in the front of his coat, half on your tiptoes, the warmth of his breath brushing against your lips even after the kiss ended.

You’d pulled away first. Barely.

And he’d looked at you like that—like his control was fraying.

“I should go,” he murmured, but he didn’t move.

Your fingers had clenched tighter in his coat.

So close. So warm. So real.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice too soft, too unsure. “Probably.”

He kissed you again anyway. Deeper this time.

It kept happening.

Little moments that crackled with heat.

Moments that made your skin tingle and your thoughts spiral.

He’d tuck your hair behind your ear and let his fingers trail just a little too long against your jaw.

You’d lie on your couch watching a movie and realize his thumb was drawing slow circles into the back of your hand without even thinking about it.

He’d lean in to whisper something and you’d feel his breath on your neck, and your body would ache.

You never said it.

But he felt it too.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when you wore shorts around him. The way he looked away fast, and then looked back, like he couldn’t stop himself. The way his fingers would twitch in his lap like they were remembering the shape of your hips.

Neither of you pushed it.

It was careful. Respectful.

But it burned.

⸻

One night, you ended up at his place after dinner. Nothing dramatic. Just takeout, music, the glow of his living room lamp.

You were in one of his hoodies again. Legs folded on his couch.

He was beside you, thigh pressed to yours, half-laughing at a story you told about Minho getting kicked out of a bookstore for sneezing too dramatically.

And then the laughter faded.

And there was quiet.

And you were looking at each other.

His smile softened. Melted.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“I know,” you whispered, heart stuttering.

He reached for you, one hand brushing your knee, then your hip, then your waist. His fingers curled there like they belonged.

“I think about you all the time,” he murmured. “Not just like this. I mean… everything. I think about waking up beside you. Cooking with you. Fighting over what movie to watch. I think about what it would be like to make love to someone I actually care about.”

Your breath caught.

You could feel your pulse in your throat.

“And I think about touching you,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “More than I should. Sometimes it drives me crazy.”

You swallowed hard. “Hyunjin…”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“I don’t wanna rush you. I don’t want to fuck this up. But… if you ever want me, really want me—”

“I do,” you whispered. “I do.”

He kissed you again.

And this time, it wasn’t soft.

It was hot and aching and honest.

A kiss that shook the air out of your lungs, that made you whimper into his mouth.

A kiss that told you he had been waiting.

His hand slid under the hem of your hoodie—slow, careful, worshipful. You felt his palm press against the bare skin of your lower back, and your entire body lit up.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, legs shifting to straddle him without thinking.

You needed him.

Not just physically.

Fully.

And for the first time, you saw it in his eyes—how much he needed you too.

His breath trembled against your lips as he kissed you, deeper now—slow and searching, like he was committing you to memory.

You straddled his lap, knees tucked against the couch cushions, hoodie sliding up your thighs as his hands gripped your waist like he’d dreamt of this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it was real.

Your hips tilted into him and god, he groaned—low, guttural, like the sound had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him harder, dizzy with how much you wanted him. With how long you’d ached for this exact feeling—his hands on you, his mouth devouring you like he was starving.

“I’ve wanted this,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “Hyunjin, I’ve wanted you so bad—”

He surged up, catching your lips again, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other slid under your hoodie—warm palm pressing flat against your bare back. His touch burned, delicate and firm at once, like he didn’t know whether to cherish you or ruin you.

Maybe both.

You rolled your hips into him again and he lost it—his grip on you tightening, his mouth trailing fire down your jaw to your throat.

“Let me take you to my bed,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please. I need to see you—all of you.”

You nodded, breathless. “Take me.”

You barely made it to the room.

He kissed you the whole way there, backing you into the doorway, pulling your hoodie over your head and moaning when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Holy shit, baby…”

His hands roamed, reverent, worshipful—fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your breasts, kissed your collarbone, trailed down your ribs like he wanted to map every inch of you.

You undressed him too, slow and needy. Shirt first. Then pants. You couldn’t stop touching him—his lean lines, the muscles under smooth skin, the way his breath caught when your hands slid below his waistband.

And when you finally reached the bed, he laid you down so gently, like you were something precious. Then he hovered over you, eyes locked to yours, full of heat and vulnerability.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice cracked. “So fucking beautiful.”

You pulled him down into another kiss, and then—

His hand slipped between your thighs.

He touched you slowly at first, lips brushing your cheek as his fingers slid through your folds, testing, teasing—until your hips bucked and you whimpered his name.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered. “You’ve been like this for me all night, haven’t you?”

“Longer,” you gasped. “Weeks. Months.”

He cursed under his breath and slipped two fingers inside you, curling just right, dragging moans out of you before you could stop them.

“Hyunjin, please—”

He kissed your temple. “I got you.”

And then he was lining up, breathing hard, pushing in slow.

Your back arched.

He filled you completely.

Deep and thick and hot and perfect.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Only feel.

He groaned into your neck, holding himself still for a second while your body adjusted.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped. “Fuck—so warm. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Move,” you begged. “Please, Hyunjin—”

And he did.

He fucked you like a man unraveling.

Deep strokes, slow at first—but with every sound you made, every time you gasped his name or dug your nails into his back—he got rougher. Desperate. Unhinged.

“Been dreaming about this,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Fantasizing about being inside you, hearing you moan for me—mine, baby, you’re mine—”

“Yes,” you choked out. “I’m yours. God, I’m yours.”

That snapped something in him.

He grabbed your thighs, threw them over his shoulders, and started pounding.

You cried out—head tilted back, fingers clawing at the sheets, the rhythm obscene, filthy, delicious.

“You take me so well,” he groaned, driving in harder. “Look at you, fucking trembling—this is what we were meant for.”

You were gone. Ruined. Drenched in sweat and tears and love.

It was everything.

The heartbreak. The longing. The second chance. All of it crashed into this moment—two people finding each other again in the most primal, vulnerable way.

And when you came, you screamed.

Tears streaming, thighs shaking, sobbing his name.

He followed seconds later, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you, his body curling around yours, trembling.

⸻

After, he didn’t move for a long time.

He just held you. Tight. Like you were the center of his universe.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing hair from your face.

You nodded, still breathless. “I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

He smiled—soft, shy, proud.

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

You’d barely caught your breath.

Still tangled in the sheets, your chest rising and falling with each slow inhale, skin flushed and sticky with sweat. Hyunjin was quiet beside you—his fingers tracing lazy lines over your bare back, lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your jaw.

“I should clean you up,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and hoarse and wrecked from all the moaning.

You smiled, dazed. “I’m not sure I can stand.”

His laugh was quiet. Tender. “Then I’ll carry you.”

And he did—arms under your thighs and back, cradling you to his chest like you were fragile. Like he wanted to take care of every part of you.

The bathroom was warm. Dim. Steamy from the shower he turned on.

You sat on the counter while he grabbed a warm towel, gently wiping between your legs with a tenderness that made you melt all over again. His hair was a mess, his chest peppered with bite marks, but his eyes never left yours—soft and so full of something it made your chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, cupping his cheek. “I’m more than okay.”

He leaned into your touch, lips brushing your palm—and that’s when it changed.

His hand slid to your thigh, slow and deliberate.

His eyes flicked down. Then up. Then to the mirror behind you.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “You’re fucking glowing.”

You felt it, too.

The heat between your legs rising again.

The tension sparking all over your body.

“Hyunjin…”

He didn’t kiss you this time. Not at first.

He turned you around.

Gently. Slowly. Until your palms were pressed flat against the cool marble counter, your back arched just slightly, and your eyes locked to his through the reflection.

He stood behind you, hands running down your arms, then your sides, then gripping your hips from behind.

The mirror caught everything.

Your parted lips. Your flushed skin. The way your thighs clenched at the way he looked at you.

“You’re so fucking sexy like this,” he murmured into your ear, grinding against your ass with a low groan. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You whimpered. “Then show me.”

And he did.

You felt him again—hard, hot, thick—pressing into your entrance, slow and unbearable, until he was buried deep inside you once more.

Your mouth dropped open. His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the mirror made it so much worse.

You could see the way his brows furrowed, the way his lip curled when he pulled back and slammed in again—your body jolting forward, your eyes fluttering shut as your moan echoed off the tile walls.

“Open your eyes,” he growled, fucking into you harder now. “Watch.”

And when you did—

You saw it all.

The way his body curved into yours.

The way your tits bounced with every thrust.

The way his jaw clenched, desperate, possessive, lost in you.

“You look so good like this,” he groaned. “Letting me fuck you in front of a mirror like a filthy little angel.”

You moaned. “Hyunjin—fuck—”

He reached around to grab your throat, just enough pressure to tilt your chin up—forcing you to hold the eye contact, to see the mess he was making of you.

“You love this,” he hissed. “Being ruined like this. Being mine.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I love you—Hyunjin, I love you so much—”

That shattered him.

He bent over you, caged you in with his arms, and pounded harder—deeper—his teeth scraping against your neck, his moans falling ragged against your ear.

“I love you too,” he choked. “I’m so in love with you—fuck, baby, I can’t hold back—”

Your body clenched. Your thighs trembled.

And when you came this time, you saw yourself unravel.

You watched the moment your face broke apart in the mirror—watched Hyunjin’s eyes lock to yours as he fucked you through it, whispering your name like a prayer as he came inside you again, deep and pulsing and perfect.

You collapsed against the counter, boneless and spent. He held you up, breathing hard, his chest pressed to your back as he kissed your shoulder softly.

“You wreck me,” he whispered.

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good,” you breathed. “Because I’m not done wrecking you either.”

After the second round, your body was jelly.

Warm, aching, full of him—so full of him you could still feel the echo of his thrusts hours later.

Hyunjin carried you back to bed, wet towel slung over his shoulder, your skin freshly cleaned but your cheeks still flushed, your lips swollen from all the kissing. He tucked you into the sheets like you were sacred, brushing damp strands of hair from your face, placing the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You curled into his chest, and for the first time in forever, your body truly relaxed.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered, stroking your spine with featherlight fingers.

You shook your head, half-asleep. “You made me feel everything.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer until you were tangled up in him again, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat.

He nuzzled into your hair. “Thinking back, I was so scared you wouldn’t let me in.”

“I almost didn’t,” you murmured, drowsy. “You really fucked up, Hyunjin.”

“I know,” he said, his voice low with guilt. “I was a coward. I thought pushing you away would protect me from messing it up, but I ended up hurting you worse. Hurting myself too.”

You shifted just enough to look up at him. His eyes were soft and open now. No walls. No distance.

“I never stopped loving you,” you said quietly.

His lips parted. “Even when I broke your heart?”

“Especially then,” you whispered.

The weight of that landed hard between you—and then he was kissing you again. Soft and slow, all emotion. No rush, no hunger this time. Just pure devotion. You moaned into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he hovered over you, chest to chest, lips to lips.

He kissed your nose. Your eyelids. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. He worshipped every inch like he was making up for lost time.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured. “I never want to be without you again.”

“Then don’t be,” you said. “I’m yours. Always.”

⸻

Spring came slowly that year.

The trees bloomed in soft pinks and pale greens, and everything felt like it was waking up again. You too.

It had been three months since that rainy night. Three months since Hyunjin stood in your doorway with his heart on his sleeve and yours clenched in his hands. Since you let him in—into your apartment, your bed, your life.

And now?

You were his.

Not in the possessive way he used to fear, but in the gentle, deliberate way that felt real. Solid. Like something that had been growing quietly beneath the surface all along, just waiting for the right season to bloom.

“Here,” Hyunjin said, setting a cup of tea on your desk as you buried yourself in editing your thesis. “Made it just the way you like it.”

You blinked up at him, smiling. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “You deserve it.”

He meant it. Every word. You could see it in his eyes now—no hesitation, no deflection. Just warmth. Confidence. Love.

Sometimes, you caught him staring when he thought you wouldn’t notice. His chin resting on his hand, gaze soft and open. Like he still couldn’t believe you were here, his. Like he was trying to memorize your face a hundred different ways.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you teased one night, sprawled on his couch with popcorn in your lap and your feet in his.

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said simply. “Still not over it.”

⸻

Your friend group got used to the change quickly.

Jiyeon called you “disgustingly cute” with a fake gag, but kept smiling after. Minho never said much—just gave Hyunjin a knowing look whenever they passed by each other and nodded once, like they had an understanding. No bad blood. Just quiet grace.

And the sex?

Still toe-curling. Still addictive.

But now it came with pillow talk. Inside jokes. Morning kisses and shared playlists. Him dancing you around the kitchen with pancake batter on your nose, hands on your hips, forehead against yours.

It came with safety. Intimacy. The kind of closeness that felt earned.

You’d been through every version of heartache with Hyunjin.

And now you were building every version of healing.

⸻

He took you on a picnic for your six-month anniversary.

Cherry blossoms in full bloom, a checkered blanket under the trees, his sketchbook in his lap as he tried to draw you mid-laugh—messy and imperfect, but so full of love.

“You know,” he said, glancing over the top of the page, “I used to be scared I’d ruin us if I ever crossed the line.”

You reached for his hand. “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m scared I’ll never be able to love anyone the way I love you.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. Soft. Sure. Smitten.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because you’ll never have to.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Guys 🥹 I think I fell in love with Hyunjin all over again!!! And lord knows I TESTED myself with the amount of fluff a d emotions in this lmao.. anyway guys, we are hitting 1k soon and I’m so excited! 😭❤️ its been 3 months of writing back to back and there’s already so many fics in the masterlist! Thanks for all the support, love you guys!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki

[leriexoxo]

Certified Gay Bestie™: Terms and Conditions Apply

Bestfriend! Chan x Fem Reader

Tags: smut, explicit sex, unprotected sex/creampie, no condoms mentioned, fingering, clitoral stimulation, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, masturbation, mutual masturbation, voyeurism/exhibitionism, light dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, size kink, impulsive friends-to-lovers intimacy, misassumption of sexual orientation, brief hentai porn mention, strong language/swearing during sex, morning-after cuddling and kissing, emotional aftercare/check-ins

Word count: 6.2k

Summary: For years, you were certain your best friend Chan was gay—too kind, too gorgeous, too perfectly unattached to women. You shared keys, late nights, and every detail of your dating disasters, never noticing the way he always chose you first. One frustrated night alone with a new toy goes spectacularly wrong… until Chan lets himself in and accidentally catches you at your most vulnerable. What starts as an mortifying interruption quickly turns into a hands-on lesson you never knew you needed—and suddenly every assumption you had about him (and about yourself) comes crashing down in the hottest way possible.

🎄: This fic was requested by @peach-nyoung

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You had known Chan for what felt like forever, since those awkward college days when you’d both been fumbling through late-night study sessions and cheap ramen dinners. He was the kind of friend who slipped into your life so seamlessly that you couldn’t quite remember a time without him. He lived two blocks away, in his modern high-rise with sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that made everything feel a little more polished, a little less lived-in, he was your constant.

You had a key to his place, tucked into your wallet like a lucky charm, and he had one to yours, a cozy, slightly cluttered apartment with its mismatched furniture and endless stacks of vinyl records. Sleepovers were routine: crashing on each other’s couches after movie marathons or bad days, no questions asked, no boundaries crossed. It was easy, effortless, the way best friends should be.

Chan himself was a walking contradiction, or at least that’s how you saw him in those quiet, introspective moments when you let your mind wander. He was undeniably sexy; broad shoulders that filled out his shirts just right, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and those dimples that flashed when he laughed, pulling you in like a secret. His hair was always a bit tousled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and his eyes held this quiet intensity that made people stare. You’d seen it happen countless times: heads turning in coffee shops, lingering glances at parties. He attracted everyone; men, women, anyone with a pulse, but from what you’d observed, it was always the handsome boys who caught his eye. You’d been around for a few of those fleeting encounters, overhearing snippets of conversation or catching him mid-laugh with some charming guy at a bar.

His closest friend besides you was Han, unapologetically gay and head-over-heels for his boyfriend Minho, and the way Chan fit into their world so naturally only confirmed what you’d assumed. He was gay, through and through, always too kind, too attentive, too green a flag to be anything else. Straight men didn’t carry themselves with that effortless grace, that quiet confidence that never veered into arrogance.

You never pried into his love life, though. It wasn’t your place. But yours? Oh, you rambled endlessly about your dates, your flings, the highs and lows of it all, assuming he was your gay bestie, the perfect sounding board. He listened with that patient smile, offering advice that was always spot-on, never judgmental.

“Sounds like he wasn’t worth your time,” he’d say, or “You deserve someone who makes you feel alive.”

And you’d nod, feeling seen, even if a tiny part of you wondered why he never shared his own stories. Not that it mattered. But you weren’t blind though, In the privacy of your thoughts, you’d admit he was one of the sexiest men you’d ever laid eyes on, a fact that simmered low in your mind like background heat, never boiling over into anything more.

Lately, though, things had shifted just a touch. It had been two months since Chan had shown up unannounced at your place, his sneakers kicked off by the door, raiding your fridge like he owned it. You hadn’t thought much of it, life got busy, runs turned into routines, and you both had your own orbits. But in that quiet space, your curiosity had turned inward. Your girlfriends had been on you about it for weeks:

“Girl, you need to try some toys. You’ve never made yourself cum? That’s criminal.” You’d laughed it off at first, but the seed was planted. You’d never been one for self-exploration like that, relationships had always been about the other person, the chase, the connection. But alone in your apartment, with the city lights flickering through your windows, the idea took root. What would it feel like to chase your own pleasure, to unravel without an audience?

You’d ordered a vibrator discreetly, a sleek little thing that arrived in plain packaging, and tucked it away until the moment felt right. Tonight was that moment. The air in your bedroom was thick with anticipation, the silk robe you’d slipped into earlier now feeling like a second skin, soft and teasing against your body. You dimmed the lights, letting the glow from your laptop screen cast shadows across the room. You put on some Hentai; it was your guilty pleasure, the exaggerated animations pulling you in faster than anything else, stirring that heat low in your belly. You hit play, the sounds filling the space: soft gasps, exaggerated pleas, the kind of fantasy that made your pulse quicken.

Settling back against the pillows, you untied the robe slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric peel open like an invitation. Cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hips. You bit your lip, a mix of nerves and excitement twisting inside you as you reached for the vibrator. It hummed to life in your hand, a low vibration that sent a shiver up your arm.

You didn’t know the first thing about this… your friends’ advice echoed vaguely: start slow, find what feels good. But as you pressed it against yourself, tentative at first, then with more intent, frustration crept in. It wasn’t clicking, not the way you’d hoped. The rhythm felt off, your mind wandering despite the hentai playing out on screen, those illustrated bodies twisting in ecstasy that seemed so far from your grasp. You shifted, spreading your legs wider, arching your back slightly as you tried to focus, to build some momentum. Your breaths came shorter, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you chased that elusive spark, the tension coiling tighter but never quite snapping.

Unbeknownst to you, your phone sat silent on the nightstand, set to Do Not Disturb, oblivious to the barrage of calls lighting up the screen. Chan had been trying to reach you, at first casually, then with growing worry when you didn’t pick up. He was out on his evening run, sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his chest, earbuds blasting a playlist to match his steady pace. But concern gnawed at him, pulling him off course. Your building was just two blocks away, after all. It was nothing to swing by, use his key, check in. That’s what friends did.

The door clicked open quietly as he let himself in, kicking off his shoes out of habit, his breathing still a little ragged from the run.

“Hey, it’s me,” he called out softly, not wanting to startle you if you were home. But the apartment felt still, the only sound a faint, muffled hum from down the hall.

He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios—were you okay? Had something happened? He moved toward your bedroom, the door slightly ajar, and pushed it open without a second thought.

And there you were.

Time seemed to fracture in that instant, the world narrowing to the sliver of space between you and the doorway. Chan froze, his hand still on the knob, his wide frame silhouetted against the hallway light like some unintended intruder in a dream you hadn’t meant to share. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the sweat from his run glistening on his skin, making the thin fabric of his tank top cling in ways that accentuated the hard lines of his muscles, the kind of detail your mind latched onto even as heat flooded your cheeks. You didn’t move, couldn’t, your body splayed open on the bed, robe fallen away like forgotten silk, the vibrator still humming faintly in your hand, its vibration a traitorous echo in the sudden silence.

His eyes; those dark, intense eyes that you’d always thought held secrets, widened just a fraction, a flicker of shock rippling across his features before he schooled them into something unreadable. But you saw it, that raw, unguarded moment: the way his gaze dipped involuntarily, tracing the curve of your exposed breast, the arch of your hip, the vulnerability of your spread thighs. It wasn’t leering, nor crude, but there was hunger there, a spark that ignited low in your gut despite the mortification clawing at you. He’d seen you like this; intimate, frustrated, chasing something alone and the air thickened with it, charged like the calm before a storm.

Chan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tore his eyes away, fixing them on the floor, the wall, anywhere but you.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it, laced with an edge that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t disgust; no, it was something deeper, more tangled; regret for barging in, maybe, or surprise at the heat that mirrored your own. His hand flexed on the door, knuckles whitening, as if debating whether to bolt or step closer.

You could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his body leaned forward just a touch, betraying the pull he fought against. He’d always been so composed, your steady best friend, the one who listened to your rambles about lovers without a hint of jealousy or want. But now, in this suspended breath, you wondered if you’d misread him all along. Was that flush creeping up his neck from the run, or something else?

You shifted then, finally, pulling the robe closed with trembling fingers, the vibrator silenced with a click that echoed too loudly. Your heart hammered, a mix of embarrassment and an unexpected thrill…had he really just seen you like that? And why did the thought of his eyes on you make your skin tingle, heat pooling anew despite the interruption?

“Chan,” you breathed, your voice a whisper that broke the spell, pulling his gaze back to yours. There was no judgment in it, only a quiet storm brewing, questions unspoken hanging between you like smoke.

He took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck, his dimples absent, replaced by a tight line of his mouth.

“I… I called. You didn’t answer. I got worried.” His words tumbled out, excuses wrapped in concern, but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking down for the briefest second before snapping away. The room felt smaller, the distance between you electric, as if one wrong move could bridge it in ways neither of you had anticipated.

Your face burned hotter than you thought possible, a wildfire spreading from your cheeks down your neck as you clutched the edges of your silk robe, pulling it tighter around yourself like it could shield you from the raw exposure humming in the air. You tried to speak, anything to break the suffocating silence, but the words tangled in your throat, coming out in fractured stutters.

“I—I didn’t… Ch-Chan, I’m s-sorry, you weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, and you curled inward, drawing your knees up to your chest on the bed, hugging them as if they could anchor you against the embarrassment crashing over you in waves.

But beneath the mortification, something darker and unexpected stirred. Your body, still thrumming from the interrupted attempt, reacted to him in a way the hentai never could. Watching Chan’s face; those chaotic emotions flickering across his usually steady features, shock giving way to something raw and unguarded, lifted a veil you hadn’t even known was there.

For years you’d slotted him neatly into the role of gay best friend, safe and sexless in your mind. Yet now, seeing the flush on his skin, the way his eyes darkened as they briefly met yours before darting away, you looked at him anew. He wasn’t just handsome; he was magnetic, potent, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, making you shift uncomfortably against the sheets.

Chan cleared his throat, the sound rough, and took a half-step back toward the door. “I—I should go,” he said quickly, ever the green flag, trying to salvage the moment with kindness. “Pretend I was never here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, wait—” The words burst out of you before you could stop them, desperate and unfiltered. “I was… I was trying to do it for the first time. Like, really trying. And it… it wasn’t working.” You buried your face against your knees for a second, the confession hanging heavy in the air, making your skin prickle with fresh shame.

Why had you said that? But you couldn’t take it back now, so you forced yourself to look up, voice smaller. “It just… wasn’t working at all.”

He froze mid-turn, his hand still on the doorknob, mouth parting as if to speak but no words coming. Slowly, he let go of the door and faced you fully again, his gaze dropping to where you sat huddled on the bed, robe clutched tight, looking small and undone. Silence stretched between you, thick and electric, until something shifted in his expression; hesitation warring with concern, and beneath it, that same unreadable heat you’d glimpsed earlier.

Then he did the unthinkable.

His voice came low, tentative, almost swallowed by the quiet room, but it hit you like a spark to dry tinder.

“Can I… can I see what you’re doing wrong?” The words were careful, edged with disbelief as if he couldn’t believe he’d said them aloud. His face was flushed deep red, ears burning, but he didn’t look away this time. He took one small, deliberate step into the room, lingering just inside the threshold, body tense like he was giving you every chance to shut this down.

Your breath caught. Your mind screamed that this was insane—your best friend, the one you’d assumed was gay, asking to watch you touch yourself? But your body betrayed you utterly. A sharp, involuntary pulse throbbed between your legs at the mere suggestion, foreign and dizzying, like a door you hadn’t known existed had swung wide open. You should say no. You should laugh it off, tell him to leave. Instead, you found your grip on the robe loosening, your knees uncurling just slightly as a strange, hazy obedience took over.

Chan noticed. His shoulders eased a fraction, the tension in his stance softening as he watched you visibly relax, or at least stop fighting the pull. His eyes, dark and intent, stayed fixed on you, no longer fleeing.

Emboldened by the shift in the air, by the way he looked at you now, like you were something he’d been denying himself for longer than you could fathom, you let the robe fall open again, slower this time. Not all at once, but enough to bare the smooth plane of your lower body, thighs parting shyly as you reached for the vibrator on the sheets.

A subconscious performance crept in, your movements languid, almost teasing, as if testing the waters of this new, charged space between you. You switched it on, the low hum filling the room again, and pressed it where you had before, repeating the same frustrated motions—circling, pressing, chasing that elusive rhythm—your breath hitching softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He watched, unmoving at first, but you saw the way his chest rose faster, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. The room felt smaller, warmer, every second stretching into eternity.

Then his voice cut through, deeper than you’d ever heard it, gravel-rough and commanding in a way that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Stop.”

You froze, the vibrator still buzzing against you, eyes wide as they locked on his.

“Try with your fingers first,” he said, the words low and steady despite the flush still staining his cheeks. And then—God—he took another step closer, closing some of the distance between the door and your bed, his gaze never leaving your body.

Your heart raced in a dizzying cocktail of confusion, shock, and an arousal so potent it bordered on delirium, as if you’d stumbled into a dream where boundaries blurred and desires you hadn’t named came alive. Without a second thought, you obeyed his command, setting the vibrator aside entirely, its hum silenced like an afterthought. Your fingers trembling but eager, slid down your body, parting your thighs wider under his unwavering gaze.

Chan’s eyes locked onto the intimate dance of your hand, tracing every tentative stroke along the slick folds of your pussy, circling the sensitive swell of your clit with a hesitancy born of inexperience. Self-consciousness burned in your chest, making you hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin, every shallow breath that escaped your lips, but it only fueled the fire. This felt like devouring the forbidden fruit; sweet, sinful, and utterly intoxicating, your best friend watching you unravel, peeling back layers you’d kept hidden even from yourself.

The first moan slipped out unbidden, a soft, breathy sound that hung in the air like a confession. It was involuntary, pulled from you as your fingers found a fleeting rhythm, and the effect on Chan was electric. His eyes darkened further, a spark igniting behind them as if that single noise had shattered whatever restraint he’d been clinging to. It was like he awoke, the composed facade cracking to reveal something primal beneath. He leaned forward slightly, his voice emerging soft yet laced with an undeniable dominance that sent shivers cascading down your spine.

“That’s it,” he murmured, the words a gentle command. “Slow down a little—feel it, don’t rush.”

He edged closer then, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat at the foot of the bed, his presence a magnetic pull that drew you in without conscious effort. You shifted toward him, your body moving on instinct, knees parting further as if inviting him into this sacred space. Your eyes stayed glued to his face, those sharp features softened by arousal, dimples hidden behind a focused intensity as he watched you intently, your fingers rolling and pinching your clit under his guidance.

“Circle it lighter,” he directed, his tone steady but deepening, “build it up. You’re doing so good—look at how wet you are already.” It felt better, undeniably, his words weaving through your mind like threads of silk, heightening every sensation, coaxing sparks of pleasure that had eluded you before. But still, it wasn’t quite enough; the edge remained just out of reach, a frustrating tease that left you whimpering softly, hips twitching in search of more.

Chan’s breath hitched audibly, his gaze dropping to where your fingers worked, and when you dared to glance down, you saw the unmistakable tent straining against his gym shorts, massive and insistent, a visual testament to the effect you were having on him. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you, your core clenching in response. His voice turned huskier then, thick with arousal that mirrored your own, rough around the edges like velvet dragged over gravel.

“Let me help,” he whispered, the words hanging heavy, a question wrapped in inevitability.

Before you could process, before doubt could creep in, his hand reached out, long fingers, warm and sure, brushing yours aside with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. The moment he touched you, every nerve in your body ignited, a electric jolt that arched your back and drew a gasp from your throat. It was forbidden, this shift from spectator to participant, your assumed-gay best friend now exploring you with an intimacy that shattered all your preconceptions. But God, it was hot… so achingly good, his skin against yours sending ripples of pleasure outward like waves from a stone dropped in still water.

He took over slowly, deliberately, his touch a masterclass in restraint and tease. First, he traced the outer edges of your folds with the pads of his fingers, gathering the leaking juices that betrayed your arousal, spreading them with languid strokes that made you slicker, needier.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble close enough to feel his breath fan across your thigh.

“You’re so responsive, listen to how your body wants this.” He circled your clit then, not directly at first, but around it, building pressure in widening spirals that had your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained now, filling the room as he rubbed with just the right firmness, alternating between feather-light flicks that teased the sensitive bud and firmer presses that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He played with you like he knew your body better than you did, dipping lower to collect more of your essence, slicking his fingers before returning to your clit, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger with a precision that drew out whimpers you couldn’t contain.

“Shh, breathe through it,” he coached, his free hand resting on your inner thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his other hand drove you higher. “Let it build, I’m right here, I’ve got you.” The tension coiled tighter, your body trembling under his ministrations, moans escalating into desperate pleas as he stimulated every inch, rubbing your folds open, playing with the pooling juices until you were drenched, the wet sounds mingling with your cries. It was exquisite torture, the slow burn of his touch unraveling you thread by thread, making you forget the shock, the confusion, lost in the haze of how right it felt.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, when the pleasure hovered on the brink, intoxicating but not quite tipping over, his movements shifted. A single long finger, slick from your arousal, pressed at your entrance, teasing the soaked heat before sinking in slowly, inch by deliberate inch. The stretch was perfect, filling you in a way your own fingers never could, curling just so to brush against that spot inside that made your vision blur and a loud, keening moan tear from your lips.

“Chan—” His name tore from your lips in a broken cry as that single long finger fully seated inside you, your walls fluttering and clenching greedily around the intrusion. The raw and desperate sound of it, seemed to hit him like a physical blow.

“Holy fuck!” A low, ragged curse escaped him, something filthy and reverent under his breath, his jaw clenching so tight you could see the muscle jump. You felt the tremor in his hand, the way he held himself perfectly still for a heartbeat, as if one wrong move would unravel whatever thin thread of control he was clinging to.

But you were already too far gone to care about restraint. The emptiness you’d chased for so long was suddenly filled, stretched, owned by him, and it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” you whimpered shamelessly, hips rocking up to meet the slow, deliberate pump of his finger. “More—Chan, please, I need more.”

His eyes snapped to yours, dark and blazing, and the intensity of his stare sent goosebumps racing across your skin. He looked wrecked, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, silently pleading for something you couldn’t yet name. Without a word, he slid a second finger alongside the first, the added thickness making you gasp as he stretched you open further, curling them just right to drag against that devastating spot inside. Your hand flew to his forearm, nails digging into the flexed muscle there for anchor as he picked up the pace, thrusting deeper, faster, the wet sounds of your arousal obscene in the quiet room.

You were climbing, spiraling, so close and then, cruelly, he slowed. His fingers stilled, then withdrew entirely, leaving you empty and aching. A broken whine escaped you, hips chasing his hand on instinct.

“Do exactly what I did,” he said, voice low and rough, though it shook at the edges. “Finish yourself. Show me you can.”

It was like he’d yanked you both back from the edge, reminding both you and himself why this had started: to help you, not to lose control. You wanted to protest, to pull him back, but the command in his tone rooted itself in you. Whimpering, you obeyed, one hand sliding down to pump two fingers into your soaked heat the way he had; slow at first, then deeper and curling while the other returned to your clit, rubbing in those firm, perfect circles he’d shown you.

He didn’t move away. He stayed right there, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his eyes never leaving your face, your body.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice velvet and gravel. “Just like that—fuck, you’re so beautiful. Keep going, let it build. You’re so close, I can feel it.”

And this time, you got it right. The pleasure coiled tight and hot, then snapped, your orgasm crashing over you in relentless waves that bowed your back and tore his name from your throat again and again. Your forehead fell against his shoulder as you shuddered through it, breath coming in ragged gasps, his low praises—“Good girl, just like that, let it take you”—vibrating against your skin.

When the aftershocks finally ebbed, you stayed there, face tucked into the curve of his neck, inhaling the salt-sweat scent of him. That’s when you felt it, really felt it… the massive, straining bulge pressing against his gym shorts, the damp spot darkening the fabric where he’d leaked through. He was huge, impossibly so, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat through your spent body.

Without thinking, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his.

Chan froze for half a second, a sharp curse spilling against your mouth—“Fuck”—before he surged forward, kissing you back twice as hard, twice as hungry. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made you moan into him. The kiss turned filthy fast; teeth and desperation, years of unspoken something igniting all at once. He kept swearing under his breath between kisses, the words muffled against your lips, turning you on all over again.

Your hand drifted down, cupping the thick length of him through the fabric. He jolted like he’d been shocked, fingers wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist to still you.

“You don’t have to,” he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t want us to do anything stupid or anything you’ll regret.”

You looked up at him, chest heaving, and asked the only question that mattered.

“Do you want me, Channie?”

Something fractured behind his eyes. The dam broke.

He kissed you again hard, swallowing the soft laugh that escaped you as you added, breathlessly, “Let’s worry about the questions later.”

The words hung between you like a match struck in the dark and Chan’s restraint snapped with an audible groan. He crushed his mouth to yours again, the kiss no longer exploratory but devouring, years of quiet tension pouring out in the slant of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. You tasted salt and heat and something uniquely him, and it made you dizzy. His hands; those careful, talented hands, slid up your thighs, pushing the silk robe fully open until it pooled beneath you like spilled ink, leaving you bare to the cool air and to him.

He pulled back only far enough to look at you, eyes dark with want, chest heaving. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice shredded, “and I will. Anytime.” But his thumb was already tracing the inside of your knee, a silent plea for the opposite.

You answered by arching into him, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his tank top. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took.

Chan surged forward, guiding you back against the pillows with a gentleness that contrasted the urgency in his kiss. He peeled his tank top off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside, and the sight of him; broad shoulders, defined chest glistening with the remnants of his run, the cut of muscle disappearing into low-slung shorts, stole what little breath you had left. You reached for him, palms skating over warm skin, feeling the tremor that ran through him at your touch.

He settled between your thighs, the heavy weight of his arousal pressing against you through the thin barrier of his shorts. A slow roll of his hips dragged the length of him along your slick folds, and you both moaned at the contact. His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged.

“You feel—” He broke off with a curse as you lifted your hips to meet him again, chasing the friction.

Impatient now, you tugged at the waistband of his shorts. He helped you, rising just enough to shove them down and kick them off, and then he was bare against you, hot skin on skin, the thick, leaking length of him sliding along your stomach as he lowered himself again. You wrapped your hand around him instinctively, marveling at the size, the velvet heat, the way he jerked and swore into your neck when your fingers tightened experimentally.

“Later,” he growled against your throat, nipping the skin there. “I need to be inside you now.”

He reached between you, guiding himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging through your wetness in a slow, deliberate press. You gasped at the stretch, it was much much more than his fingers, fuller and perfect… and your nails dug into his shoulders. He stilled instantly, letting you adjust, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Breathe,” he whispered, voice trembling with the effort of holding back. “I’ve got you.”

When you rocked up against him, taking him deeper, he exhaled shakily and pushed forward in one smooth glide until he was seated fully inside you. The sensation was overwhelming, yet intimate in a way that went beyond bodies, like every unspoken moment between you had led to this. He stayed buried for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing each other in.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first; long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside you, drawing soft cries from your throat. His hand slipped between you again, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, circling in time with his thrusts. The rhythm built gradually, unhurried but relentless, pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He obliged, pace quickening, the slap of skin on skin mingling with your shared gasps and moans. His mouth found yours again, swallowing every sound you made, kissing you like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Chan—” you whimpered against his lips, feeling the edge approaching fast. “I’m—”

“I know,” he panted, voice rough and reverent. “Let go. I’m right here.”

The coil snapped, and you came undone around him; walls pulsing, back arching, his name a broken prayer on your tongue. He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, spilling inside you in hot pulses that left you both trembling.

For a long minute, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, arms braced on either side of your head, breathing hard against your neck. Eventually he softened, slipping out gently, but he didn’t go far, just shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into his chest. You curled into him instinctively, ear over his racing heart, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

The room was quiet except for your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. Questions lingered in the air; about assumptions, about labels, about what this meant, but for now they stayed unspoken. You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone instead, feeling his arms tighten around you.

Later, you’d talk. Later, you’d untangle everything.

But tonight, there was only the warmth of his body against yours, the lingering ache of pleasure, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

——

Morning light filtered softly through the half-drawn blinds, painting pale gold stripes across the tangled sheets and the bare skin of Chan’s back. You’d been awake for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling, then at him, then back at the ceiling again, as if the plaster might offer some explanation for how everything had shifted overnight. His arm was still slung heavily across your waist, his body curled behind yours, and you could feel him still thick, half-hard even in sleep, nestled warm and heavy between your thighs where he’d stayed most of the night. Every small shift sent a quiet, delicious ache through you, a reminder that last night had been real. Mind-blowing, earth-tilting, assumption-shattering real.

You turned your head carefully on the pillow to look at him. He was beautiful like this…peaceful, unguarded, lips slightly parted as he breathed out the softest little snore. Those full lips you’d kissed a hundred times last night in the dark, now soft and inviting in daylight. You couldn’t stop yourself. You leaned in and brushed your mouth against his, feather-light, just once.

He stirred immediately, a quiet hum in his throat. His eyes fluttered open, confusion flickering for half a second before recognition flooded in. A slow, sleepy smile curved his mouth as he registered you, and then his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep, and kissed you properly, lazy but deep, like he’d been dreaming about doing exactly this. Your brain short-circuited all over again, warmth pooling low in your belly as his tongue teased yours, slow and unhurried. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little harder, foreheads still touching.

He searched your face, the smile fading into something softer, more careful. “Hey… you okay?” His thumb stroked along your cheek. “No regrets?”

You shook your head without hesitation, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “None. Not even a little.”

Relief flashed across his features, and he pressed another quick kiss to your lips, like he couldn’t help himself. Then you took a breath, the question that had been circling your mind all morning finally spilling out.

“Channie… I thought you were gay.” You bit your lip, half-laughing at how ridiculous it sounded now. “Did I, like… break you?”

He blinked once, twice, then burst into genuine deep laughter, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his dimples appear. He rolled onto his back, dragging a hand over his face, still chuckling.

“Why would you even think that?”

You propped yourself up on an elbow, suddenly feeling a little sheepish.

“I mean… Han and Minho are literally your closest friends besides me, and they’re together. You’re always hanging out with them. And I’ve never once seen you with a girl. Ever. You never talk about hooking up with anyone, never bring anyone around, never even mention crushes. Every gender on the planet throws themselves at you, and you just… smile and move on. It added up in my head.”

He turned his head to look at you, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “That’s pure coincidence, babe.” The pet name slipped out so naturally it made your heart skip. “I’ve had girls over. Plenty. Parties, hookups, whatever. Just never anything serious enough to turn into conversation. I didn’t think you needed the play-by-play.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And Han and Minho?”

“I love those idiots,” he said fondly. “And I don’t give a damn who they date. My little sister’s pan, actually she came out years ago. So yeah, I’m an ally. Always have been. Doesn’t mean I’m in the community myself.”

You groaned, dropping your face into the pillow beside him. “I feel so stupid.”

He laughed again, softer this time, and tugged you until you were half-draped over his chest. “You’re not stupid. You just never asked.” His fingers threaded through your hair, soothing. “And honestly? I kind of liked that you didn’t. You’d come over all flustered about some guy who ghosted you or whatever, and you’d ramble for an hour, and I’d just sit there thinking how cute you were when you got worked up. I never wanted to interrupt that.”

You lifted your head, cheeks warm. “So all this time…”

“All this time,” he confirmed, eyes steady on yours, “I’ve been into girls. Into you, if we’re being honest. But every time I got close to someone, they’d get weird about how much time I spent with you. How I’d drop everything if you needed me. Apparently that’s a red flag.” He shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “So I stopped trying for anything serious. Friends-with-benefits, one-night stands—easy, no strings. I didn’t mind. I had you anyway.”

The words settled between you, heavy and sweet. You’d been the reason without even knowing it.

You leaned down and kissed him again, softer this time, pouring everything you couldn’t quite say into it. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, that familiar heat flickering back to life.

“So,” you whispered against his lips, “now that we’ve cleared that up… what do we do about it?”

Chan’s smile turned slow and devastating. He rolled you gently beneath him, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he murmured, and kissed you until talking was no longer an option.

🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶🤶

Authors note: MERRY CHRISTMAS FINE SHYTS!!! 😍🤩❤️🎄🎄

You didn’t think I was gonna let the year end without dropping something in December, did you? 🌝 I do have one more lined up before the end of the year still so stay tuned! Drop a comment too if you wanna be added to the new taglist! And to my new followers… ✨Hiiiii ✨ I promise I’m not always this tardy with uploads but my first book is finished yaaay!! Its going through the editors right now before i publish! I’m actually so excited about it! Anywho, if you made it to this point, follow me and check out my masterlist for more of these!!

New taglist

@ocean-glacierblue @nojerama-writes @monkeyshua @stewpidcheezcat0427 @sillylittlecat1 @lexlikesbts @hanjisunnnng @foppishitudinality @notmeneo @rebelmooon @straykitten88

[leriexoxo]

Wait, Aren’t You Gay?

Bestfriend! Leeknow x Reader

“You crossed a line, He burned the rest”

Tags: Smut, groping, Mutual pining, phone sex, oral (f , m receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, begging, praise, soft dom Minho, tension snapping like a wire, domestic fluff, aftercare, post-sex vulnerability, tit play, friends to lovers

Word count: 8k

Summary: You always thought Minho was gay—so you never held back. Tiny tops, unfiltered stories, late-night cuddles… harmless, right?Until he sees you soaked through one day and finally snaps. And suddenly, your best friend isn’t looking at you like a friend anymore. Until one late-night phone call changed everything. Now you’re at his door—no bra, no excuse—buzzing from the sound of his voice and the filthy things he made you do. He opens the door. He sees you. And just like that, it’s over. The line is crossed.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You’d known Lee Minho since you were barely old enough to walk without holding onto his shirt.

Back then, he was just that loud kid who shared his snacks and shoved you into mud puddles. Now? He was your best friend. Constant. Loyal. Always down to pick you up when you were drunk or kill spiders or fake-boyfriend you out of awkward situations.

And also—totally not into girls.

At least, that’s what you’d always assumed.

He never talked about hookups. Never ogled girls. Never so much as blinked when you pranced around in your tiny shorts or ranted about your latest sex-related disaster. You figured he was either the most respectful man alive—or playing for a different team.

So you got reckless. Comfortable.

And today?

You were about to find out just how wrong you’d been.

It started with the kitchen sink.

You were washing dishes, half-dancing to your playlist, wearing nothing but those soft cotton shorts and an oversized white tank with no bra underneath. Your wet hair clung to your neck, and you were humming through a verse when the faucet burst—literally—spraying a jet of cold water straight at your chest.

“FUCK—shit, fuck—” You stumbled back, grabbing at the handle, slipping on the tile as water drenched you from neck to stomach.

And that’s when Minho walked in.

“Yo, I got the charger you—”

He froze.

You blinked at him, soaked and panting, hair plastered to your cheeks.

Water trickled down the front of your now see-through top. The fabric clung to every inch of your skin. And your nipples? Standing out like full spotlight, front row through the sheer cotton. You had no idea though, no time to even think about it before he had appeared.

“Oh.” You laughed, awkward. “Um—hi. Broken faucet. Don’t mind the wet t-shirt contest.”

He didn’t answer.

Just stood there.

Eyes glued to your chest, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he was trying to hold his breath.

Your smile faded.

“Min?”

His gaze finally snapped to your face.

Too late.

You saw it—the tension. The fire.

The unmistakable flicker of hunger.

And suddenly your stomach flipped.

“…Minho?”

He swallowed hard, voice low. Rough.

“Put something on. Now.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said—” His eyes dropped again before yanking back up. “Go change. Now. Before I do something really fucking stupid.”

Your heart skipped.

Because that? That didn’t sound like your best friend.

You stood there in wet silence, your soaked top clinging to your skin like a second damn layer, Minho couldn’t meet your eyes.

He turned his back to you—turned his back—and gripped the edge of your countertop like he was grounding himself. His shoulders rose with each breath, tense as hell, like someone trying not to explode.

You’d never seen him like this. Not with you.

“I wasn’t—Min, I didn’t mean—” you stammered, brain short-circuiting. “I didn’t know you were coming over yet.”

His voice was clipped. “You knew the faucet was broken.”

“I didn’t know it was gonna blast me in the tits!”

Silence.

A beat.

Then, quietly—so quietly—you heard it:

“Jesus Christ…”

That’s when something finally clicked.

You looked down at yourself—at the sheer fabric sticking to your breasts, nipples hard, outline of your curves totally exposed. And for the first time in all the years of being this careless around him, you suddenly felt self-conscious.

You reached for a dish towel and held it over your chest.

“…Are you mad at me?” you asked, voice small.

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

You stepped closer.

“Then what’s going on?”

He shook his head, still facing away. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl, and when he finally turned around, you caught it again—that look. Raw, unfiltered restraint. His gaze flicked down to the towel you’d pressed to your chest, then back to your face.

You watched him like he was someone else.

Like the Minho you grew up with had peeled off his skin and left something sharper underneath. His jaw was tight, arms folded, eyes still avoiding yours—but you felt it now. That edge. That static charge that had been humming under the surface for who knows how long.

“I’ll fix the faucet later,” he muttered, stepping past you—carefully. Like you were made of glass. Or fire.

You turned as he moved, towel still clutched to your chest.

“You didn’t answer me,” you said.

“About what?”

“Why you told me to change.”

He stopped at the door.

Didn’t turn around.

For a long second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, quietly, he replied:

“Because if I’d kept looking at you, I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when he walked out of the kitchen, just like that, it was like the whole room shifted.

The air changed.

Everything felt warmer. Tighter. Thinner.

You didn’t move for a while. Not until the cold in your soaked top finally made your skin sting.

⸻

The rest of the day passed weirdly.

Minho didn’t leave, of course. He stayed like he always did, lounging on your couch, bickering over what to order for dinner, side-eyeing you every time you grabbed your phone.

But the energy between you?

Completely different.

He didn’t look at you the way he usually did. Didn’t tease you like normal. Didn’t even touch you when he passed you the remote—just tossed it like it might burn him otherwise.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about his voice in the kitchen.

“I don’t think I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Kept it shut about what, exactly?

What he was thinking?

What he wanted to do?

You were still thinking about it when you came out of your room later in a sleep shirt that barely skimmed your thighs. No bra. Nothing underneath. The usual you-in-your-element vibe.

Except… this time?

You caught him looking.

Not accidentally.

Not briefly.

He looked—and kept looking.

From your legs to your hips to the faint hint of nipple under the thin fabric, straight to your face.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t apologize.

He didn’t blink.

He just raised a brow—almost like a dare—and said, “Your sink’s still fucked.”

You nodded, slowly.

“So are you gonna fix it?”

He stood up.

And as he passed by, way too close, his hand brushed the curve of your lower back.

Just a touch.

Too casual to be called a grab. Too deliberate to be innocent.

And then he was gone again, heading into the kitchen.

Like it hadn’t just happened at all.

⸻

He always crashed in your bed. That wasn’t new.

Late movie nights, sleepy arguments, limbs tangled and breathing synced—just best friends, just comfort.

Except tonight?

You felt everything.

His warmth at your back. The heaviness of his arm draped around your waist. The intentional silence of him pretending to be asleep, even though you could feel how tense he was.

You’d turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but your body was still buzzing. Hyperaware of every inch of skin not covered by your flimsy sleep shirt. Every inch of him pressed against you in the dark.

And you knew—you knew—he hadn’t stopped thinking about earlier.

About how you’d looked dripping wet, nipples hard, shirt transparent and clinging to your curves like a second skin.

You should’ve felt awkward.

But instead, your thighs were clenched.

And then—His hand moved.

Just a little.

At first, it was nothing. A small adjustment. His fingers splayed over your stomach like they were stretching in his sleep. But then his palm drifted higher.

Slow.

Barely grazing the underside of your breast through your shirt.

Your breath caught.

His did too.

Like he just realized what his body was doing.

He didn’t pull away.

Not immediately.

His fingers twitched, tips brushing right beneath the curve of your boob—soft, tentative. Still pretending it was nothing. That he was asleep. That this wasn’t completely out of bounds.

Your chest rose and fell faster now.

He still didn’t speak.

But his hand stayed there.

Hovering. Teasing. The edge of a full touch, like he was testing himself. Or punishing himself.

And you?

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t even breathe.

You just pressed back into him slightly—so slightly—and felt the undeniable shape of him, hard and restrained against the swell of your ass.

He exhaled shakily behind you.

Shit.

You’d never heard him make a sound like that before. Not around you.

Not around anyone.

You didn’t move for a while.

Didn’t even blink. Not when his fingers hovered beneath your breast, not when you felt his cock pressed firm and restrained against the curve of your ass. You just stayed still—heart hammering, skin burning—like your body was listening for his next move.

But when none came…

You shifted.

Just a little. Barely a breath of movement. Just enough to arch your back, push your chest forward, and guide the soft swell of your breast right into his palm.

His fingers twitched again.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t say your name. Didn’t jerk back in shock or guilt. He just stayed there—completely still behind you, breathing shallow and slow like he was holding onto sleep as a defense.

Your nipples were hard beneath the thin cotton, the heat of his palm sinking through the fabric like an electric brand. It was barely a touch—but it felt filthy. Loaded. More intimate than anything you’d done with someone you were actually sleeping with.

And still, you stayed quiet.

Still.

Sleeping.

His thumb brushed the soft curve below your nipple. Just once. Barely there. Like a reflex.

And this time, his hips shifted too.

The press of him against your ass sharpened—more deliberate now. Less restrained. Like his body had stopped asking for permission and started taking what you weren’t stopping.

His hand tightened—slightly.

He was pretending to be asleep, you realized.

Just like you were.

If either of you acknowledged it, the world would crack open.

So you didn’t.

You just let it happen.

Let his hand cup your breast like it was meant to be there. Let his hips roll forward in the slowest, tiniest grind. Let your legs shift apart just enough that your thighs stopped brushing—and instead, welcomed.

He let out another one of those breaths—low, shaky, wrecked.

You smiled into the pillow.

Still not breathing.

Still “asleep.”

And behind you, your best friend since diapers was losing his last scrap of composure.

—

The morning came too fast.

Sunlight crept through your curtains like it knew what happened. Like it saw every second of that not-a-dream moment where his hand cupped your breast and his hips rolled into yours like it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined it.

He was already in the kitchen when you woke up.

Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, acting like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t spent the night wrapped around you with his cock pressed to your ass and his hand full of your tit.

You padded out barefoot, keeping your face unreadable.

He handed you a mug. “You were out cold.”

Liar.

You took it, fingers brushing his, watching him too closely.

“So were you.”

A flicker—barely there—but his eyes twitched toward you for a split second. Like he was trying to see if you meant something more.

You let him sit with the tension.

You drank your coffee slow.

“You ever think…” you began softly, “maybe I’ve just been really fucking stupid?”

He looked up from his cereal. “Since when?”

You tilted your head. “Since assuming you weren’t into girls.”

He blinked. Slowly. Carefully.

That… got his attention.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat there—silent—and then brought the spoon to his mouth like nothing had happened.

But his voice, when he finally answered, was low. Controlled.

“What makes you ask that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. You never dated any. Never flirted. You never reacted when I walked around like—” you gestured vaguely at yourself—“this. So I figured, you know. Must be the reason.”

Another pause.

His eyes dropped to your thighs.

You were wearing the same sleep shirt.

No bra still.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t give you that satisfaction. He set the spoon down and leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily like his body hadn’t betrayed him eight hours ago in your bed.

“Maybe I’m just good at not talking about certain things,” he said.

That hit harder than it should have.

You stared at him.

And for the first time in a long time—you didn’t see your best friend.

You saw a man who’d been holding himself back for years.

You’d never stared at his crotch before.

That was the first red flag.

You weren’t even trying to. Just sitting across from him on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, hoodie riding up slightly, grey sweatpants loose and slung criminally low on his hips. You weren’t supposed to notice the shape beneath. The outline. The fact that you recognized the pressure of it against your ass last night because it had left an imprint on your nervous system.

You blinked away quickly.

Jesus.

You sipped your water like it could douse whatever fire had started in your chest—and your thighs.

He didn’t notice.

Of course he didn’t.

Lee Minho was the king of unreadable faces. That man could watch you strip naked and probably wouldn’t flinch. It was part of the reason you’d always felt safe around him. And the same reason you were losing your mind now.

You needed to know.

If you were wrong. If he’d just been hiding in plain sight. If that touch last night had been a fluke. A dream. Or something darker.

So you tested it.

That evening, while he sat on the floor building a shelf you couldn’t be bothered to finish, you leaned in behind him.

Loose tank top. Braless as usual. Intentional bend.

He turned slightly. Saw your chest from the side—too close, too exposed, one nipple practically peeking through the armhole.

His jaw clenched.

But he said nothing.

Strike one.

You tried again.

Pulled your hair up messily, exposing your neck, your back. Made small, breathy sounds when you stretched. Loud enough to hear. Soft enough to pass as innocent.

Still nothing.

Strike two.

You were practically writhing at this point. Trying to piss him off or fluster him, something.

But Lee Minho stayed quiet.

You weren’t sure what exactly you were trying to prove anymore.

That he wasn’t gay? That he wanted you? That you could still control this friendship even when everything was shifting beneath your feet?

Maybe it was all of it.

But you were already halfway in his lap before you had time to second guess it.

“You’re not good at building shit,” you teased, voice sweet as sugar while you hovered close, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Lucky I’m cute enough to get away with watching instead of helping.”

He grunted—low, disinterested. But his eyes betrayed him. You saw the flicker—straight to your chest, to the deep dip of cleavage you’d made extra sure he’d notice.

Bingo.

You leaned closer. Pretending to inspect a screw on the shelf. Your tits brushed his upper arm.

He went still.

“You okay there, Min?” you asked softly. Coy.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“This,” he said. He didn’t look at you. “Whatever game you’re playing right now.”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

You tilted your head. “What are you talking about?”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’m warning you.”

Oh, that did something to you.

He sounded like he meant it. Like he was afraid of himself more than you. And maybe he should’ve been—because you were reckless now. Hyped up on the taste of your own power, drunk on the image of him with your tit in his hand last night.

You pulled your tank top aside from the arm hole just a little. No bra. Just the soft swell of skin—more than enough to tempt. His eyes snapped to it instantly.

“Go ahead,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

He swallowed.

Didn’t move.

So you took his hand yourself—slowly, deliberately—and pressed it to your breast.

Flesh to palm.

He exhaled sharp. Visibly flinched. But he didn’t pull away.

You arched into his touch.

“You’ve never been curious?” you asked, voice lower now, almost daring. “Never once wondered what they felt like? You’ve known me your whole life, Minho…”

His thumb twitched. Brushed the underside like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

You smiled faintly.

But then he tightened his grip—just slightly—and your breath caught.

“You think I’ve been ignoring you all these years?” he asked, voice dark now. Steady. Dangerous. “You think I don’t notice when you walk around half naked? You think I don’t see the way your tits bounce when you laugh?”

You froze.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“You think I don’t feel them when you’re sleeping pressed against me?” His thumb brushed up now—barely grazing your nipple. It stiffened instantly. So did you.

“Minho…”

His hand dropped away suddenly, like he was snapping out of it.

“You need to stop,” he said, standing up too fast. “Before you push me too far.”

You stared up at him from the floor, dazed.

For the first time… you realized you might’ve already pushed too far.

—

It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed.

He was already in it—lying on his side, facing away, blanket riding low on his waist and exposing the tight line of muscle up his back.

Your heart was still pounding.

He hadn’t said a single thing after storming out earlier. Not during dinner. Not while you cleaned the mess from the half-finished shelf. Not while you avoided looking at him like he hadn’t cupped your tit like a stress ball.

And now you were lying beside him again, like nothing had changed.

You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or disappointed.

You turned your back to him, the usual position when you shared a bed, but the air felt different tonight. Dense. Stifling.

“Hey,” you whispered in the dark. “Are we… okay?”

His voice came low. Controlled. “You tell me.”

You swallowed. “You seemed… upset earlier.”

“I was,” he said. “I’m not anymore.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Then, casually:

“You looked at my dick today.”

You choked. “What?! No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

You rolled onto your back, flustered. “You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t need to. I know your face. I’ve known it since you had baby teeth.”

You blinked at the ceiling. Your face was burning.

He shifted then—closer. The bed dipped behind you. His chest met your back.

And something else pressed against your ass.

Hard. Solid. Undeniable.

You gasped.

His lips brushed your ear. Calm. Evil.

“That’s payback,” he said softly, “for putting your tits in my hand.”

You forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

The air between you was molten now, and his cock—fuck, that was his cock—was still heavy and pulsing against your ass like he was proud of it.

“Minho…”

“You wanted to know,” he said, voice silk and fire. “You’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me all day. So now you’ve got one.”

You felt him smirk.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Too much?”

You couldn’t answer.

Not when your thighs were squeezing together like they had a mind of their own. Not when your heart was a drum and your skin burned where it touched his.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just stayed frozen in place, his cock pressed thick and solid against the soft curve of your ass, your entire body vibrating with heat.

Your lips moved before your brain could stop them.

“…Can I touch it?”

Silence.

Not even a breath behind you.

Then— “What?”

You swallowed, your voice weirdly calm now. “I just… I wanna feel it. Like—actually feel it. With my hand.”

A sound escaped his throat. Sharp. Choked.

“You’re kidding.”

You turned around slowly, facing him in the dark. His eyes locked on yours—blown, stunned, like you’d slapped him with a brick made of sin.

You didn’t wait for another answer.

Your eyes dropped straight to his crotch.

And your hand followed.

The blanket shifted just enough as you slipped beneath it, and your palm found him right where he’d pressed up against you before—still just as thick, still painfully hard, straining beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

You cupped him gently.

Minho jerked.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, face twisting. “What the hell are you doing…”

“Just curious,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the shape of him under your hand. “You’re so… big.”

He groaned, head dropping back into the pillow.

Your fingers squeezed lightly. You were sure you felt him twitch.

“You’ve been like this all night?” you asked, eyes wide.

He hissed through his teeth. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?” you teased, still stroking. “It’s not like I’m doing anything serious.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he gritted out, hips twitching into your hand.

You explored him like you were learning something new, weighing the heft of him through his pants, tracing the long, thick outline up and down.

He was breathing heavier now. Jaw clenched. Eyes shut.

“You can tell me to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

So you slipped your hand inside.

No warning.

Just fingers beneath the waistband, sliding inside until you were wrapping your hand around bare, hot skin.

Minho choked.

“Fuck—fuck—”

You stroked slowly, palm tight around the base, sliding up to the head and back again. He was massive. Velvet over steel. Already leaking a little at the tip.

He bucked into your hand before he could stop himself, hips twitching under the weight of your touch.

“Is this payback too?” you asked, lips barely moving.

His eyes flew open.

“Keep talking and I’ll fuck your throat instead.”

Your hand froze.

Your heart flipped.

Your thighs clenched so hard it hurt.

But then, you looked up at him. Still holding him. Still stroking him.

His cock twitched in your hand, thick and aching, as you slowly dragged your fingers up the shaft and back down, your touch featherlight—teasing.

Minho’s eyes were glassy now, dark and stormy and wild, like he was barely keeping himself together. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

You felt powerful. Dangerous.

So you looked up at him—bold, daring—and said, “So? Still want me to stop?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. His voice came hoarse and wrecked.

“Are you crazy?”

You tilted your head. “Maybe.”

“This is—” He swallowed. “We’re—”

“Friends?” you offered, sliding your hand again, slower now. “Childhood besties? Practically siblings?”

He winced. “God, don’t say that.”

You smiled.

And then, without another word, you sat up on your knees and tugged your oversized sleep shirt over your head—bare underneath. Just skin and heat and those same soft breasts he’d felt in his hands earlier.

They bounced slightly as you moved, and the room went still.

His breath hitched. His eyes dropped—dragged—to your chest.

It was the second time he’d seen them that night.

“I’m sure,” you said simply.

Something broke in him.

He sat up so fast the mattress shook, one hand grabbing your wrist, the other threading hard into your hair. He yanked you forward, his mouth crashing into yours with so much heat it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You gasped into the kiss, and he devoured it—biting, claiming, groaning into your mouth like he’d been starving for years.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, lips trailing down your neck, teeth dragging over your collarbone. “You really wanted to see what I’d do?”

You whimpered, nodding, fingers already clawing at the waistband of his sweats.

“Too late to take it back now,” he muttered against your skin, before ducking down and wrapping his lips around your nipple—hard.

Your back arched. His tongue flicked, sucked, bit.

“Minho—”

“I’ve dreamed about these,” he groaned, switching to the other breast, kneading the first one in his palm like he was worshiping it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to me.”

Your whole body was trembling, his hands now everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down your back, yanking you flush against his chest as he rutted up into you, his cock still trapped in his sweats, still throbbing.

“Need to feel you,” he rasped. “Need to have you.”

“Then take me,” you breathed. Without even thinking about it.

And for a second, Minho froze.

Not because he didn’t want to—his hands were already sliding lower, gripping your hips with bruising force—but because the way you’d said it… so open, so needy, so real… it shook him.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw, trembling. “Because if I start, I won’t stop this time.”

Your chest heaved against his, nipples dragging over his skin, and his self-control nearly snapped again right there. You could feel him under you, thick and hot through the fabric of his sweats, the tip pressed right against your soaked panties. One shift of your hips and—

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you whispered back.

He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been buried in his chest for years. You kissed him again—slow, deep, your tongues tangling like this wasn’t the first time. Like your bodies already knew the steps.

And maybe they did.

His hand slid between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right where you were aching most. Your hips jerked.

“Already soaked,” he rasped, biting down on your lip. “Fuck—have you always been like this around me?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, brushing over your soaked folds through your underwear—just enough to make you moan.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, mouth now at your ear, voice shaking. “You keep tempting me like this, and I swear—”

“Then burn me,” you whispered, grinding down on his hand.

He snapped again—grabbing your ass and flipping you onto your back like he’d been holding back all his life. The sudden dominance in his movements made your breath hitch.

Minho hovered over you, both of you half-naked now, tangled in sweatpants and damp underwear and a thousand repressed thoughts.

His hand moved with purpose now, cupping your mound, rubbing slow circles over your clit, lips pressed to your neck.

You whimpered, bucked.

“Don’t tease,” you begged.

He chuckled darkly. “Says the one who’s been waving her tits in my face for years.”

You gasped—half embarrassed, half turned on—and he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly. “Or I’m going to ruin your sleep.”

You stared at him, panting. You wanted him. Needed him. But something inside you whispered—not yet. Not like this. Not while everything was still unraveling too fast.

“Not tonight,” you murmured, heart racing.

His expression shifted, softening in a way that made your chest ache.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

But his fingers didn’t move right away. He gave you one last teasing brush, slow and aching.

“For the record,” he added, voice like gravel, “this is me trying to behave.”

You giggled, breathless.

“I can tell.”

And then he pulled you into his chest, kissed your forehead, and let the fire between you simmer.

You didn’t have sex that night.

But neither of you slept much, either.

⸻

It had only been three days.

Three days since Minho had slipped out with nothing but a cryptic, “I’ll see you later,” and a soft kiss to your temple. Two days since you’d almost let your best friend finger you into oblivion under the safety of your shared covers. And now he was gone.

Well, not gone-gone. Just back at his apartment. Just out of reach. Just far enough to not risk really doing what your bodies had been begging for.

He hadn’t ghosted. Not exactly. Just a little space, a few texts. “Sorry, been busy.” “Work’s a lot this week.” “I’ll come by soon.”

But soon wasn’t now. And now… was when you were sprawled out on your bed, fingers between your thighs, a familiar silicone toy buzzing softly inside you—desperate to chase that same friction you almost got from him.

It wasn’t the same. Nothing could be. But the thoughts in your head? Those were filthy enough to get the job done.

Your mind kept flashing back to the night before he left: his voice in your ear, his thick cock pressed to your core, the way he’d looked at you like he’d been starving. You whined as your hips rolled, tightening your grip on the toy buried inside you.

Then your phone lit up.

Minho calling.

You froze, heart skipping. Fuck.

You hesitated just long enough for it to ring again—and then answered, trying to level your breath.

“Hey,” you managed, voice just a bit too airy.

“Hey,” he said, voice casual, low. “Were you sleeping?”

“Nope.” You exhaled hard through your nose, the vibrator still inside you, pulsing away like it knew your secrets. “Just… relaxing.”

“Mmm.” His voice dropped, curious. “You sound out of breath.”

You swallowed. Hard. “Tired day. I was just—y’know. Lying down.”

The vibrator kicked up just a notch, and your thighs jerked. He kept talking.

“Sorry I’ve been MIA. Been thinking about you, though.” His voice was warm, familiar. God, his voice. “A lot, actually.”

A sharp breath escaped you. You hoped it sounded natural. It didn’t.

“…You okay?” he asked, his tone shifting just slightly. “You sound—off.”

You could barely think anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your thighs were trembling. And you didn’t dare stop.

“I’m fine,” you rasped.

But then you whimpered. Barely. Just a little hitch in your throat.

He paused. “Wait. Are you—are you doing something?”

Your whole body froze.

“No,” you lied, voice high.

He went quiet. Too quiet.

“…Are you touching yourself right now?” His voice came low, dangerous. “While on the phone with me?”

Silence.

Then, another breathy whimper.

He growled. “Fuck. You are.”

You felt heat shoot up your spine.

“Keep going,” he said, voice gravel now. “Don’t stop. You started this.”

Your hips rolled again—slower this time, more deliberate—as you listened to him breathe, listened to the weight behind his words.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he demanded. “While you fuck yourself to my voice.”

You bit down on your lower lip, squeezing your eyes shut as his words settled under your skin like molten honey.

“Tell me,” he said again, voice a touch lower, rougher now. “What were you thinking about?”

You whimpered. “You.”

He chuckled. Dark. Breathless.

“Yeah? What about me?”

You hesitated, hips twitching as your toy nudged just right inside you. “The way you felt that night,” you gasped. “The way you pressed into me from behind… the way your cock felt against me, even through the sheets—”

“Fuck.”

His reaction was sharp and immediate, a barely controlled groan through clenched teeth. You knew his hand was probably fisting the sheets or his thigh right now, trying to stop himself from touching the one thing he couldn’t have—yet.

“Are you still touching yourself?” he asked, voice thick.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Faster.”

The single command shot straight to your gut. Your fingers moved in rhythm with the toy now, chasing the heat blooming deep in your belly. You didn’t even care if he heard your wetness or the whines building in your throat anymore.

“Wish I could see you,” he breathed. “Wish I could have my hand over your mouth. You’re too loud, babe. You’d wake the whole damn building if I fucked you right now.”

“Minho—”

“Not yet,” he cut in. “You’ll come when I say so. Not a second sooner.”

You squeezed around the toy, aching, desperate, toes curling.

“Keep going. Just like that.” His voice was pure sin now, molten and slow. “You’ll come with my voice in your ear and my name on your lips, just like you should’ve that night.”

You whimpered.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say my name.”

“Minho—”

“Louder.”

“Minho.”

“Good girl,” he rasped. “Now come.”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the bed, thighs quaking, moan spilling raw and unfiltered from your lips as your body pulsed around the toy. You didn’t even try to hold it in anymore—he needed to hear it. He deserved to.

Silence stretched on the line after, only your wrecked breathing and the distant rasp of his own breath filling the space between you.

When he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man barely holding back his hunger.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he said softly, deadly. “Next time I get my hands on you… I’m not stopping until you forget anyone else ever made you come.”

The call ended.

You blinked at the screen, dazed, thighs still trembling.

But you didn’t sleep.

You changed into the first half-decent outfit you could find, tugged your hoodie over your head, and grabbed your keys with your heart hammering in your throat.

If he wasn’t going to come to you?

You’d damn well go to him.

—

You almost turned around three times. Once at the stoplight. Again when you parked in front of his building. And one last time while standing at his door, staring at the stupid number you’d memorized when you were ten.

You shouldn’t have been here.

But your body didn’t care. Not when it was still buzzing, still throbbing from the orgasm he commanded out of you through the phone not ten minutes ago. Your thighs were sticky, your bottom lip sore from how hard you’d been biting it in the car, nerves coiling in your belly like a wire about to snap.

Showing up like this—unannounced, in shorts that barely passed as clothing, no bra under your thin hoodie—wasn’t just reckless. It was deliberate. Dangerous.

You raised your hand and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.

Footsteps came quickly. Heavy. The door flew open seconds later, and there he was.

Minho.

Still shirtless.

Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair a mess like he’d been pacing. His jaw was tense, chest rising like he hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. His eyes found yours and locked in like he could see through you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just looked at you.

Slow. Hungry. His gaze dragged from your flushed face to the zipper of your hoodie and lower—lingering on your bare thighs.

You shifted, suddenly feeling way too exposed.

“Say something,” you whispered.

His voice came out hoarse.

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

Another pause. The air between you tightened.

He stepped forward. Just one step—and you backed up, your breath hitching.

“No bra?” he muttered like it hurt him. “You show up like this after what just happened—fuck—”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” You bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t want to wait.”

That was it.

He snapped.

You didn’t even see him move—just felt the door slam shut behind you as he pushed you up against it, one arm shooting out to lock it without looking. His hands came to either side of your head, bracing himself like he was seconds away from self-destruction.

His breath hit your lips.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like he was holding back something feral.

“Last chance,” he growled. “If you tell me right now you’re not sure, I’ll let you go. I’ll jerk off in the shower until my knees give out and pretend you never begged to come in my ear.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry. Deep. Unapologetic. It hit you like a wave—his tongue sliding in, his grip tightening, his body pressing flush against yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head, while the other found your waist and gripped—like he was claiming territory.

A moan escaped into his mouth as you clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the storm that was him.

Minho’s mouth was still glistening with you when he picked you up—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back. He didn’t even blink. Just carried you down the hall like it was nothing, your head pressed to his neck, body boneless from how hard he’d made you come.

His bed was unmade.

Sheets tossed. Pillows scattered. And you were in them seconds later, back hitting the mattress with a bounce.

Minho stood at the edge of the bed and looked at you.

Like he’d waited years for this moment. Like you were a fantasy come to life and he was deciding whether to kneel at your feet or tear you apart.

“You still want this?” he asked, voice low—gravel and smoke.

You didn’t answer. You showed him—legs spreading wider, hips tilting, your hand sliding down to part your slick folds. His eyes darkened.

“Fuck, okay,” he breathed, like he was short-circuiting. “Okay, baby.”

He crawled over you like a shadow, slow and heavy, his mouth finding your jaw first—then your neck, then your collarbone, biting as he went.

“You’ve been mine since we were kids,” he murmured into your skin, tongue flicking over a mark he’d just left. “You just didn’t know it.”

You gasped when his hips rolled against yours, his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, huge and leaking and so hot against your cunt.

“You feel that?” he asked, dragging it up and down—your body arching, chasing it. “You’ve had me like this for years. All those skirts. All that attitude.”

He gripped your jaw, making you look at him.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you got careless around me?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out—just a broken breath as he lined up, pressing just the tip in.

Your nails dug into his arms.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I know.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow. Deep. Relentless.

And holy fuck.

Your eyes slammed shut, jaw dropping in a silent scream as he stretched you open. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside—until his hips were flush with yours and your cunt was full.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned into your neck. “So fucking tight.”

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

He pulled back just enough to drive back in—and again—again—building a rhythm that knocked the sanity right out of your head.

Minho fucked like he was carving his name into your body.

He was everywhere—teeth on your throat, hands on your tits, hips snapping hard and deep like he needed to ruin you.

And he was talking, too. Filthy. Possessive. All in that growly voice that made your toes curl.

“You gonna let me fill you up, baby?”

“Gonna fuck you so full you feel me for days.”

“You were made for this. For me. For my cock.”

You cried out when he grabbed your thigh and folded you in half, slamming deeper, finding that spot that made your entire body lock up.

“Right there?” he growled, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s your spot.”

You were sobbing now—wet, broken sounds as your second orgasm raced up your spine.

“Minho, please—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he snapped. “Right now. All over my cock. Let me feel it.”

And you did. Harder than before—louder, messier, more intense.

You clenched around him like a vice, and he lost it—groaning loud as he slammed in one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking, body trembling above yours.

He stayed like that—deep and twitching inside you, sweat dripping down his temple, lips ghosting over yours as you both tried to come down.

You didn’t know how long you laid there—legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were afraid of floating away.

Minho hadn’t moved much either.

He was still inside you, chest to chest, your noses brushing each time he inhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw as he watched you with those warm, sleepy eyes—eyes that held none of the fury or possessiveness from before.

Just softness. Almost guilt.

“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but gentler now.

You nodded, but your throat was tight. And when you blinked up at him, he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your temple.

“Did I go too far?” he murmured.

“No,” you whispered, your voice small. “I liked it. I liked all of it.”

That made his lips twitch.

“Yeah?” he said, brushing his knuckles across your tits—lingering when your breath caught. “Even when I told you to shut up and take it?”

You swallowed hard. “Especially then.”

He chuckled under his breath and finally pulled out, making both of you hiss. You whined at the emptiness—at how sore and stretched you felt—and Minho’s gaze immediately dropped between your legs.

“Shit,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Look at that mess.”

You flushed, shifting your legs, but he pressed a hand to your thigh to stop you.

“Don’t hide,” he murmured. “You look so good like this. All ruined because of me.”

Then, to your surprise, he slid down the bed and kissed your inner thigh. Just once. Then again. Then right next to your sensitive center.

You flinched. “Minho—too much—”

He smiled and looked up at you from between your legs.

“Alright, baby,” he said. “I’ll be good.”

And he was.

For about two minutes.

Then he kissed his way up your body—lingering on your nipples, dragging his tongue across them until they stiffened again. You whimpered as he sucked softly, then bit gently—making your hips buck.

“I just wanna taste them,” he murmured. “You kept arching for me earlier like they needed attention.”

“They still do,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He smirked. “Then don’t move.”

He licked and sucked until your chest was wet with his spit and your thighs pressed together again—need building back up in the pit of your stomach like a slow flame.

“Fuck,” you mumbled. “You’re gonna break me.”

He pulled back to look at you.

“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “But you did say you liked sucking cock, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “I—yeah—why—?”

He rolled off you and onto his back, cock already hard again—thick and flushed, still glistening from earlier.

“Then get over here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You crawled down the bed and straddled his thighs, eyes locked on the way he stroked himself, slow and heavy.

He tapped the tip against your lips. “Open up, baby.”

You did.

And he groaned the moment you took him in—just the head at first, tongue swirling around it, your lips tight and wet. He filled your mouth so easily, and you loved the way he shuddered when you gagged on him.

“That’s it,” he breathed, hand sliding into your hair. “So fucking pretty when you’re drooling on my cock.”

You moaned around him, and he twitched.

“You gonna swallow it all?” he asked, voice breaking a little. “You want me to come in your mouth this time?”

You sucked harder, nodding with tears in your eyes, and that was it.

He cursed—hips jerking, cock thickening—and seconds later he was spilling down your throat, one hand on your head as his other clutched the sheets.

You swallowed everything.

Every drop.

When you finally pulled off, eyes glassy and lips swollen, Minho reached for you and pulled you into his chest, kissing your forehead like he hadn’t just fucked your mouth like a man possessed.

“Now,” he whispered, pulling the blanket over both of you, “lets get some sleep.”

⸻

The morning light slipped in through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting lazy patterns across the room.

You blinked awake slowly, body aching in the most indulgent way, wrapped in the scent of skin and sweat and fabric softener. The hoodie you had worn here last night was still crumpled somewhere on the floor—probably next to your shorts, your underwear, your dignity.

Minho’s arm was heavy around your waist. His chest was warm against your back. His breath ghosted over your shoulder in quiet puffs, slow and steady.

It didn’t feel real. It felt like one of those fantasies you used to jerk yourself off to in the dark, flushed and breathless, thinking about what it would feel like to fall asleep tangled up in him like this—after.

You stayed still as long as you could, just… absorbing it.

And then, of course, he ruined it by murmuring against your neck, voice still thick with sleep.

“Your thighs are twitching.”

You groaned. “Maybe because you almost broke them last night.”

He chuckled, low and pleased, then slid his hand over your hip and gave your inner thigh a light squeeze. “You came here cause you wanted me to do exactly that.”

Your cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why not? It’s my favorite memory now.”

You rolled over to face him, hair a mess, eyes still sleep-fogged. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the morning. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. The roughness from last night completely gone, replaced by something almost too gentle to be him.

He looked at you like he was thinking way too hard.

“What?” you asked quietly.

He reached up, brushed some hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.

“You know this isn’t just sex for me, right?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean…” he licked his lips, eyes searching yours. “It can be, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think I can go back to just being your best friend. Not after this.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him, trying to collect your heart off the floor where it had just dropped.

Finally, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back either.”

Minho exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath all night.

Then he leaned in and kissed you—soft and slow and sweet, like the question was already answered.

You melted into it. Into him. Into the shift.

Later, you’d get up. He’d make coffee. You’d steal one of his shirts. He’d tease you about the bite marks on your thighs. And you’d both pretend not to notice how domestic it already felt.

But for now, you stayed in bed—best friends turned something more—with his arms around you and your future somewhere in the spaces between his kisses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: hi guys! Ok so the poll results from the Leeknow angry boy fic came out and it was a really close one. So instead of changing whats already written i decided to upload this to make it up to you guys! This is not an angst story or the angry boy replacement but this is a story for my romantics ❤️ Thanks alot for all your feedback really love you guys!

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