r/roommateproblems · 3mo ago
ilikepineapplesverymuch
NSFW
Iâm madly in love with my roommate, and Iâm so ashamed of how much I want her
I donât know why Iâm typing this to a bunch of strangers online but maybe someone has gone through this and can give me advice.
Itâs basically what it is in the title. I have very strong feelings for my roommate, and some of it is deeply sexual. Itâs not an inevitable infatuation just because Iâm living with a woman. Sheâs insanely cool, we click like puzzle pieces, and just talking to her makes my day a thousand times better. I want to yell from the rooftops when I hear her laugh. I canât explain how or why, but I just know sheâs the love of my life, and itâs killing me that I canât make a move. What if I do and she says no, and then weâll be forced to part ways? Also like⊠I donât want her to think of me as some creep that gets horny just because there is a woman in the house, but thatâs not even the worst part. We share a fucking wall, I hear things. I canât stop imagining itâs me in bed with her even though I KNOW I SHOULDNâT but I canât help it. I want her so much that sometimes she just SMILES at me and I get so hard. But even in the best-case scenario, I feel so self-conscious because Iâve never been with anyone before. Iâm betting good money I wonât be able to âperformâ at a level that can satisfy her, and Iâm terrified of being a letdown to the woman Iâd die for.
What do I do? Do I move out and try to get over this? Or risk it all and have no regrets? Itâs driving me fucking crazy that I canât decide which is worse: living with her but never being WITH her, or not being able to see her ever again.
âŹïž 103 âŹïž đŹ 23 đ âïž Share
bassboostedjiscake · 3mo ago
have you tried a trainer?
âŹïž 20 âŹïž
âbinsanity · 3mo ago
bro i dont think my man can touch
another woman even for training
he down so bad hes perpendicular
âŹïž 118 âŹïž
âilikepineapplesverymuch OP · 3mo ago
and that is?
âŹïž 1 âŹïž
âbassboostedjiscake · 3mo ago
it's like a fleshlight that teaches you
how to fuck and eat pussy basically.
needs wet contact on clit and it
squirts if you do it right.
âŹïž 915 âŹïž
âilikepineapplesverymuch OP · 3mo ago
you can't just say something like that
and not drop the link
âŹïž 1412 âŹïž
âbassboostedjiscake · 3mo ago
i'll dm u
âŹïž -292 âŹïž
âgooglehwangouts · 3mo ago
HAVEN'T U HEARD THE MAN?
LINK!!!
âŹïž 320 âŹïž
r/roommateproblems · 3mo ago
ilikepineapplesverymuch
NSFW
Iâm madly in love with my roommate, and Iâm so ashamed of how much I want her
I donât know why Iâm typing this to a bunch of strangers online but maybe someone has gone through this and can give me advice.
Itâs basically what it is in the title. I have very strong feelings for my roommate, and some of it is deeply sexual. Itâs not an inevitable infatuation just because Iâm living with a woman. Sheâs insanely cool, we click like puzzle pieces, and just talking to her makes my day a thousand times better. I want to yell from the rooftops when I hear her laugh. I canât explain how or why, but I just know sheâs the love of my life, and itâs killing me that I canât make a move. What if I do and she says no, and then weâll be forced to part ways? Also like⊠I donât want her to think of me as some creep that gets horny just because there is a woman in the house, but thatâs not even the worst part. We share a fucking wall, I hear things. I canât stop imagining itâs me in bed with her even though I KNOW I SHOULDNâT but I canât help it. I want her so much that sometimes she just SMILES at me and I get so hard. But even in the best-case scenario, I feel so self-conscious because Iâve never been with anyone before. Iâm betting good money I wonât be able to âperformâ at a level that can satisfy her, and Iâm terrified of being a letdown to the woman Iâd die for.
What do I do? Do I move out and try to get over this? Or risk it all and have no regrets? Itâs driving me fucking crazy that I canât decide which is worse: living with her but never being WITH her, or not being able to see her ever again.
âŹïž 103 âŹïž đŹ 23 đ âïž Share
bassboostedjiscake · 3mo ago
have you tried a trainer?
âŹïž 20 âŹïž
âbinsanity · 3mo ago
bro i dont think my man can touch
another woman even for training
he down so bad hes perpendicular
âŹïž 118 âŹïž
âilikepineapplesverymuch OP · 3mo ago
and that is?
âŹïž 1 âŹïž
âbassboostedjiscake · 3mo ago
it's like a fleshlight that teaches you
how to fuck and eat pussy basically.
needs wet contact on clit and it
squirts if you do it right.
âŹïž 915 âŹïž
âilikepineapplesverymuch OP · 3mo ago
you can't just say something like that
and not drop the link
âŹïž 1412 âŹïž
âbassboostedjiscake · 3mo ago
i'll dm u
âŹïž -292 âŹïž
âgooglehwangouts · 3mo ago
HAVEN'T U HEARD THE MAN?
LINK!!!
âŹïž 320 âŹïž
pairing: college student!bangchan x college student!reader
genre: drama / angst / hurt/comfort / mystery / slow burn
status: finished!
You meet Chan for the first time at your late boyfriendâs grave. He says he barely knew Hyunjin. On campus, your lives tangle around the ghost youâre both still grievingâuntil the truth about that night, and what it cost, has nowhere left to hide.
taglist: closed!
notes: three months after i posted the final chapter...the epilogue is finally here. honestly, i struggled a lot writing this because it never felt quite right and i wish i could say that i'm completely happy with it now, but i dont know that i am, to be honest. but it was about time i gave these characters the ending they deserve. thank you guys for coming on this crazy journey with me, i know it wasn't easy. i hope you guys like it and i can't wait to hear what you guys think :) also! i was thinking of writing two bonus chapters, one of hyunjin's letter and the other of how hyunjin and reader met. anyone interested?
masterpost | previous |
[TWO YEARS LATER]
"The auction is next month. If youâre considering it, I need to know by Friday. The catalog goes to print soon."
You spin in your chair, swiveling away from the window overlooking the street below. The phone is pressed against your ear. Professor Jungâs voice is the same as it has always been. Calm. Steady. Reasonable
It is a good voice to hear on a Tuesday afternoon.
"A hello would've been nice," You muse. "Maybe a 'How have you been, my favorite former student?' and I would say, 'I'm doing well, thank you for asking, Professor. Are your knees bothering you in this humidity?'" You grin a little as you spin back towards the window, leaning your shoulder against the cool glass. The city moves in its usual rhythm of indifferent motion.
Professor Jung makes a disgruntled noise, the sound crackling slightly over the line. "My knees are fine. And you were never my favorite student. You were my most infuriatingly talented student who refused to believe in her own talent, which is a different category entirely."
You hum noncommittally, watching a bicycle messenger weave through traffic with the kind of suicidal confidence you've only ever seen in this city. "I still say that's just a long way of saying favorite."
He sighs, and you can picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose, the way he always did when he was trying to be stern with you and failing. "It's not a compliment if it's based on a lie, you know."
"Everything is a compliment if you say it with the right inflection," you counter, a smile still touching your lips. "It's in the textbook somewhere, I'm sure of it. Chapter seven: Artful Deflection as a Survival Mechanism."
There's a pause, and when he speaks again, something in his tone has softened. "How have you been, then? Properly?"
The question lands differently when he asks it like that. You turn from the window, your gaze landing on the small stack of mail on your kitchen counter. Bills. A postcard from your cousin. A flyer for a new restaurant that will probably close in six months.
Normal things.
Things that exist in a life that is, by most metrics, moving forward.
"I'm good, Professor," you say, and it's true. "Some days are better than others. But I'm good." You trace the rim of a coffee mug with your fingertip. "Mostly I'm just tired of my own melodrama."
"Melodrama is the fuel of all great art," he says. "You should know that."
"I don't make art anymore," you remind him.
"I know." There's another pause, longer this time. The connection crackles softly with the space between your words. "That doesn't mean you've stopped being an artist."
You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't.
"Which brings me back to my original point," he continues, sensing your retreat. "The auction. The catalog goes to print Friday."
You lean back in your chair, swiveling again to face the window. The afternoon sun is beginning to angle, painting the edges of buildings in gold. Across the street, a woman stands outside a cafe, laughing at something someone said inside. You watch her for a moment before looking away.
"I don't have anything to put up for auction," You say firmly.
Professor Jung is quiet for a beat. "You do."
"I told youâ"
"âyou don't paint anymore. I heard you." He interrupts gently. "But that doesn't mean you don't have pieces. We both know you do."
You close your eyes.
Hyunjin's work.
Tucked away in the back of your closet. Rolled in protective paper. Heavy with memory and history and the ghost of his hands mixing color on canvas. Pieces you haven't been able to look at for years. Pieces you haven't been able to bring yourself to give away.
"They're not mine to sell," you say, and your throat is tight.
"Did he leave them to you?" Professor Jung asks, already knowing the answer.
"That's not the same."
"It is," he says, not unkindly. "They're in your possession. Which means you get to decide what becomes of them. Keeping them hidden away in a closet serves no one. Least of all his memory."
The sun shifts, casting a rectangle of light across your floor. Dust motes dance in it, tiny, carefree things.
You think of the paintings. Not with the old, familiar ache of something lost, but with a different kind of awareness now. The quiet, steady understanding that Hyunjin's art does not belong only to grief anymore than he did. It belongs to light. To color. To the way he could turn a blank canvas into something that made you feel less alone in the world.
It belongs to the world.
And maybe it's time you let the world have it.
"If I were to do this," you begin, your voice steadier than you expect, "Who would the proceeds go to?"
There is a soft, relieved exhale on the other end of the line. "That's up to you. The artist always chooses the charity."
You trace the grain of your wooden tabletop, thinking.
A name comes to you. An organization you found late one night, months ago, when insomnia and curiosity had led you down a rabbit hole of resources for young people struggling with abuse, addiction and mental health. A place that offers free counseling, support groups, and harm reduction services. A place that might have made a difference for Hyunjin.
For Chan.
For Jisung.
For Minho, even, with all his bitterness and grief. A place that understands that some stories are too complicated for simple fixes, but that doesn't mean they're not worth trying to help.
"There's a place," you say. "Safe Horizon."
You can almost hear Professor Jung nodding. "They do good work."
You hadn't expected him to know it, but then again, you should have. Professor Jung always knows.
"Yeah," you agree. "They do."
"So," he says, a thread of optimism weaving through his tone. "Will you do it?"
You take a breath.
The afternoon light has shifted again, deepening into gold. Outside, the city keeps moving, indifferent to your small, private revolutions. But inside your apartment, in the quiet space of your own mind, something is settling. A decision. A step forward.
Not away from the past, but through it. Into whatever comes next.
"I'll do it," you say.
The gallery is still and cool when you arrive.
High ceilings. Polished concrete floors. A woman with a clipboard greets you at the door, her name tag reading 'Soomin'. Sheâs all business, her smile polite but perfunctory as she checks your name against her list.
"Ah, yes. The Hwang pieces." She makes a checkmark. "We've reserved Wall C for you. Down the hall, to the right. You'll see the placards are already up."
You nod, murmuring a thanks as you step past her.
The canvases are heavy in your arms. Heavier than they should be, weighted down by more than just wood and paint. You move carefully through the quiet space, the soles of your shoes making soft, sticky sounds against the polished floor. Wall C is exactly where she said it would be. A large expanse of white, already prepped with hooks and lighting, waiting.
For a moment, you just stand there, looking at the empty wall.
At the blank space where Hyunjin will soon hang again.
Where strangers will look at him. Where they will see the world through his eyes, feel the chaos of his colors, the yearning in his lines. Where they will see the art without ever knowing the cost of it.
You exhale slowly, a controlled release of breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
"Um. Excuse me?"
You turn, startled.
A boy stands a few feet away, looking at you with wide, uncertain eyes. He's lanky, all limbs and angles, with hair that flops into his face and an earnestness that radiates off him in gentle waves. He's holding a clipboard
"Sorry," he says quickly, taking a half step back as if he's afraid he's startled you. "I just..Are you here for the auction?"
You nod. "I am."
His gaze shifts to the canvases leaning against the wall beside you, and a flicker of recognition lights up his face. "Oh. Oh. You'reâyou're the one with the Hwang pieces. Professor Jung mentioned you'd be coming."
He extends a hand, then seems to think better of it and awkwardly tucks it back into his pocket. "I'm Yang Jeongin. I'mâwell, I'm one of Professor Jung's students. He asked me to help out with the setup today."
"Nice to meet you, Jeongin." You shift your weight, the canvases still heavy in your arms. "I'mâ"
"I know who you are," He interrupts, a blush rising on his cheeks. "Sorry. That sounded creepy. I just mean... Anyway, I'll help you set those up." He gestures toward the paintings. "That's what I'm here for."
You can't help but smile, a small, genuine curve of your lips that feels unfamiliar and almost rusty. There's something about himâa blend of earnestness and social clumsinessâthat's disarming. The way he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks slightly on his heels reminds you, with a sudden, sharp pang, of Chan. The memory hits you like a physical blow. Chan's awkward smile. The way he'd look at you from under his lashes when he was feeling shy. The gentle, protective way he'd always try to make things easier for you.
You miss him so much it's a physical ache. A hollow space in your chest that aches with a dull, persistent throb.
"I could use the help," you admit, your voice a little rougher than you intended. "They're heavier than they look."
Jeongin visibly brightens, grateful for a concrete task. "Right. Of course." He steps forward, carefully taking one of the canvases from you. His movements are a little too eager, a little too quick, and for a second you think he's going to drop it. But he adjusts, shifting his grip with a soft grunt of effort.
Jeongin adjusts the canvas against his hip with exaggerated care, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek in concentration.
"There," he says once it's leaning safely against the wall. "See? No dropping. Professor Jung made me promise I wouldn't break anything expensive today."
You laugh quietly. "Was that a real concern?"
"...Maybe." His ears redden. "I knocked over a sculpture last semester."
You blink.
"It wasn't entirely my fault," he says quickly. "Okay, it was mostly my fault, but it was abstract, so technically nobody could really tell if I'd changed it or not. Professor Jung definitely could, though." He winces at the memory. "He stared at me for, like... thirty whole seconds. Didn't even yell. Just stared."
"That sounds terrifying."
"It was horrible."
You smile as you unwrap another painting.
"I would've preferred if he'd yelled."
"I can imagine."
"He just sighed." Jeongin mimics it with surprising accuracy, shoulders slumping. "'Yang Jeongin.' That's all he said. Full government name." He shudders dramatically. "I've been trying to redeem myself ever since."
You shake your head, amused.
"So now I volunteer for everything. Hanging exhibitions. Cleaning brushes. Organizing storage. Last week I spent three hours alphabetizing paint tubes."
"...Paint tubes?"
"I don't even know why."
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "Do you always talk this much?"
His blush deepens. "Only when I'm nervous. And I tend to get nervous around pretty girls."
The compliment hangs in the air for a moment, unexpected and endearingly clumsy. Jeongin's eyes go wide, as if he can't believe the words just came out of his own mouth. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again.
"I meanânot thatâ" He flounders, hands gesturing vaguely. "I just... you're... and I... oh god."
You watch him self-destruct with a fondness that catches you off guard. There's something so genuine about him, so unpracticed in the art of pretense, that it feels like a breath of fresh air in a world you've spent years navigating through layers of subtext and unspoken histories.
"Jeongin," a familiar voice cuts through the boy's panicked monologue. "If you're going to flirt with our guest artist, at least try to be coherent about it."
You turn to see Professor Jung approaching, a wry smile playing on his lips. He's carrying a tablet and a mug that reads 'WORLD'S OKAYEST PROFESSOR'.
Jeongin's face goes from flushed to scarlet. "Professor! I wasn'tâI was justâ"
"Having a minor stroke, by the looks of it," Jung finishes for him, before glancing at you. "What are you wearing?"
You look down at your simple attire, an old sweater and skirt, before looking back up at him. "Are you actually allergic to saying hello?"
He sniffs. "I'm allergic to mediocrity." He gestures vaguely at you. "This is a prestigious event. Not a laundromat."
You roll your eyes, but there's no sting in it. "Hello, Professor. You look well. I see your hairline has receded any further since I last saw you."
Professor Jung's hand instinctively goes to his hair. "It's the stress of dealing with delinquents like you who refuse to pursue their calling." He lets his hand fall. "It's good to see you."
"You too," you say, and you mean it.
Jeongin stands there looking relieved that he's no longer the sole focus of the conversation.
Jung turns to him. "You've got the placards, right?"
Jeongin nods, holding up his clipboard like a shield.
"Good. Go make sure they're all in the right place. And don't touch anything."
"Right," Jeongin says, already backing away. "No touching. Got it. Nice to meet you again!" The last part is directed at you, before he turns and nearly collides with a portable display stand, stumbling out of the room with all the grace of a newborn deer.
You watch him go, a smile touching your lips.
"He's a good kid," Jung says. "No talent to speak of, but he's got heart."
"That's a terrible thing to say about your student."
"It's not terrible if it's true." He takes a sip from his mug. "Some people are meant to appreciate art, not create it. It's a noble calling."
"And where do you fall in that hierarchy?"
"Me?" He sniffs. "I'm a genius, obviously. Now, are you going to let me help you with those, or are you going to stand there making jokes at my expense?"
You shrug. "I could be persuaded."
The two of you work in companionable silence, the easy rhythm of your movements a testament to years of familiarity. He steadies the canvases while you adjust the height, your fingers brushing against his as you secure the paintings to the wall. They are heavy. Substantial. Hyunjin's work was never meant to be ephemeral.
The first piece goes up. A riot of blue and gold, abstract and full of movement, with hints of figures caught in the swirl of colorâlovers, perhaps, or ghosts. The second is quieter. A landscape of a city at night, the streetlights blurred into pools of luminescence, the buildings dark and imposing against a bruised-purple sky. The last is a self-portrait, but not in the traditional sense. Hyunjin's face is obscured, turned away from the viewer, leaving only the line of his jaw, the fall of his hair, the vulnerable curve of his neck.
You step back to look at them, a triptych of a life lived in vibrant, aching color. A truth spoken in a language only the two of you ever fully understood.
Professor Jung stands beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. "They look good," he says, his voice quiet. "He'd be proud."
You nod, not trusting your own voice. The lump in your throat is sudden and unexpected. You swallow it down.
The gallery begins to fill.
Artists drift in with their piecesâsculptors carrying delicate works wrapped in muslin, photographers with large, framed prints, painters with canvases of varying sizes and styles. The air becomes a buzz of polite conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft rustle of program pages being turned. Jeongin zips back and forth, a whirlwind of awkward efficiency, directing people to their designated spaces, adjusting lighting, occasionally apologizing profusely for bumping into someone.
You find a corner to watch from, nursing a glass of sparkling water you accepted from a passing waiter. The room transforms from a quiet space of creation to a stage for commerce and celebration. It feels strange. To see Hyunjin's work hanging alongside so many other pieces, no longer a private dialogue between the two of you, but part of a larger conversation. A public one.
At seven-thirty, the lights dim slightly, and a hush falls over the crowd. Professor Jung walks to the small stage set up at the front of the gallery. He adjusts the microphone, the feedback screeching briefly before he clears it.
He looks out at the assembled guests, at the sea of faces turned toward him, and for a moment, you see him as he must have appeared to you on your first day of classâimposing, exacting, a little bit terrifying.
Then he smiles. A rare, genuine smile that softens the sharp lines of his face.
"Good evening," he begins, his voice carrying easily through the room. "Thank you for being here. For supporting our students, our artists, and the incredibly important causes they've chosen to champion tonight."
He pauses, scanning the crowd.
"Every year, I stand up here and talk about art. I talk about technique, about theory, about the importance of pushing boundaries and challenging perceptions. I use words like 'composition' and ' chiaroscuro' and 'postmodern deconstruction,' and I watch your eyes glaze over, and I pretend not to notice."
A ripple of laughter moves through the audience.
"But tonight," he continues, his tone shifting, becoming more intimate, "I want to talk about something else. I want to talk about why we do it. Why any of usâartists, patrons, curators, enthusiastsâwhy we bother to fill blank spaces with color and shape and meaning. In a world that often feels overwhelming and chaotic and sometimes crushingly sad, why do we create more of it? More beauty? More feeling?"
He leans slightly into the microphone, his gaze distant, as if looking at something beyond the gallery walls.
"I think it's because art is how we make sense of the unspeakable. It's how we translate the messy, complicated, painful parts of being human into something that can be looked at. Held. Understood. It's a way of saying, 'I was here. I felt this. And you are not alone in feeling it too.'"
You find yourself holding your breath, your fingers tightening around your water glass. This is not the Professor Jung you know. The cynic who tears apart sloppy composition, the pragmatist who talks about the business of art as much as the beauty of it. This is someone else. Someone the grief in this roomâthe quiet, unspoken grief of every artist who has ever tried to capture a pain that didn't have wordsâhas managed to reach.
"We often think of art as a luxury," he says. "As something decorative. Optional. But it's not. It's essential. It's the evidence of our humanity. It's the proof that even in our darkest moments, we have the capacity to create light. To find beauty in the broken places. To tell the truth about our lives, even when that truth is ugly.
"Tonight, we have an extraordinary collection of work," he continues, his voice regaining some of its usual professorial cadence. "Work that challenges, that provokes, that delights. Work that speaks to the full spectrum of human experience. And each piece supports a cause that the artist believes in. A cause that matters."
He gestures toward the walls.
"So I ask you not just to bid generously, though of course, I hope you will. I ask you to look closely. To engage with what these artists are trying to say. To remember that behind every brushstroke, every chisel mark, every shutter click, is a human being who looked out at the world and felt compelled to respond. Who felt something so deeply that they had to make it visible."
He pauses again, letting the words settle in the quiet room. The spotlight catches the silver in his hair, the worn leather of his shoes.
"That is the magic of art. It allows us to see through another's eyes. To feel another's heart. It reminds us that we are not alone."
And with that, he raises his glass.
"To the artists," he says, his voice filled with a sincerity that takes you by surprise. "And to the art that saves us."
The room erupts in applause, a wave of sound that washes over you. You watch as Professor Jung gives a small nod before stepping away from the microphone, the moment of raw vulnerability sealed away once more behind his usual, impervious demeanor.
Jeongin appears at your elbow, looking flushed with excitement.
"Wasn't that amazing?" he whispers, his eyes bright. "I've never heard him talk like that before. He usually just complains about the lighting."
"He has his moments," you murmur, your gaze still fixed on the stage where Professor Jung is now engaged in conversation with a woman in a severe pantsuit.
The auction begins.
A professional auctioneer takes the stage, her voice a rapid-fire cadence of numbers and encouragements. Pieces are sold one by one. A sculpture of twisted metal goes for a price that makes you wince. A series of black and white photographs of urban decay fetches a respectable sum. The room is a strange mix of socialite chatter and focused bidding, of champagne flutes and credit cards and the quiet, serious business of philanthropy.
You find yourself holding your breath as the auctioneer announces the first of Hyunjin's pieces. The one with the riot of blue and gold.
"We have Lot 17, an untitled abstract piece by the late Hwang Hyunjin," the auctioneer says, her voice crisp and efficient. "We'll start the bidding at five thousand dollars."
A hand goes up immediately. Then another. The numbers climb in dizzying increments. Seven thousand. Ten thousand. Fifteen. You watch, mesmerized, as complete strangers compete for a piece of a soul they never knew. A fragment of a history that was once so intensely, painfully private.
The bidding finally stalls at twenty-two thousand. A woman in the front row, dripping with diamonds, secures the piece with a decisive nod to the auctioneer. The hammer falls with a sharp crack. Sold.
You feel a strange mix of pride and sorrow. Of relief and loss. The painting will go to a good home, you tell yourself. It will be admired. It will live on. But it is no longer yours. It belongs to someone else now. Someone who will look at it and see a beautiful arrangement of color and form, not the ghost of a boy laughing in a patch of sunlight.
The second piece, the city nightscape, sells for eighteen thousand to the same woman. The self-portrait, with its face turned away, is the last of his work to be auctioned. There's a hesitation before the bidding starts. The piece is more intimate, more ambiguous. It requires more from the viewer.
"We'll start the bidding at five thousand," the auctioneer says again.
There's a beat of silence. Then, a quiet, confident voice cuts through the room.
"Ten thousand."
You turn, scanning the crowd for the source of the bid. It's a man standing near the back, half-hidden by a pillar. He's well-dressed in a simple, dark suit. You can't see his face clearly from this distance, can't see any of his features, save for bleached blonde hair cut close to his skull, tufts of hair pointing every which way.
Another bid comes in. Twelve thousand. The blonde man counters immediately. Fifteen thousand. The bidding becomes a duel between him and another bidder near the front, a woman with a sharp, determined chin. The numbers climb again. Twenty thousand. Twenty-five. Thirty. The room is buzzing with the tension of it, with the spectacle of such a fierce battle over a single piece of art.
The woman finally drops out at thirty-five thousand, shaking her head with a small, reluctant smile. The auctioneer's gaze is fixed on the back of the room.
"Thirty-five thousand. Going once. Going twice." She pauses, her gavel poised. "Sold."
The hammer falls again. A final, definitive crack that seals the fate of Hyunjin's last piece on display.
There's a ripple of applause, more subdued this time. Respectful. You feel a strange sense of detachment. The prices are absurd, almost surreal. They represent a value you never could have assigned to Hyunjin's work, to the fragments of his soul he left behind. But the money will go to a good cause. To a place that might help someone else avoid the same tragic end. That's what you focus on. That's the point of all this.
Professor Jung appears at your side, looking pleased. "Well," he says, a little smugly. "That went well."
"You're just happy you were right," you say, a smile playing on your lips.
"I'm always happy I'm right," he counters. "And I'm always right. Therefore, I'm always happy. It's one of life's simple pleasures." He gestures toward the back of the gallery. "They'll be setting up a private area for the transactions. You'll need to go back there to sign off on everything."
"Wait," you turn to him. "I don't get to watch the rest of the auction?"
He gives you a look. "Why the sudden interest? I was under the impression you didn't want to be here at all. So we had to spend thirty minutes on the phone last week while you hemmed and hawed and pretended you were thinking when really you were just looking for an excuse to say yes."
"I was genuinely on the fence."
"Liar." He glances back to the stage. "Besides, I've seen enough art to last me a lifetime. I'd rather go eat something greasy and complain about the youth. But I can't, because I have to stay here and pretend I'm sophisticated." He shudders dramatically. "It's a burden, I know."
You laugh. "Poor you."
"Poor me indeed. You on the other hand have no such obligation. You can go sign the papers and collect the checks and then you're free. Do what you want. Go to a bar, go home, go sit on a park bench and stare at strangers. The world is your oyster."
"I think that's the most enthusiasm you've ever shown about my post-graduation life choices."
"Your post-graduation life choices have been, to put it mildly, uninspiring," he says, but there's no bite to it. He claps a hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Go. I'll see you later."
He turns, walking a few steps away before stopping and looking back at you. His expression is different now. Softer. He's Professor Jung, your mentor, but he's also the man who stood on a stage tonight and talked about art saving lives.
"It was a good thing you did," he says, quietly. "A really good thing."
And then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you standing there with the echo of his words and the lingering warmth of his hand on your shoulder.
You make your way through the thinning crowd, the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations fading behind you as you head toward the designated area cordoned off by velvet ropes. A few other artists are already there, shaking hands with buyers, signing receipts. The air is thick with the scent of money and expensive perfume.
Jeongin is there, too, looking slightly overwhelmed but diligently managing a small table with forms and a card reader. He sees you approach and straightens up, trying to look professional.
"Hi," he says, a little breathlessly. "I'm, uh, I'm handling the paperwork for Professor Jung's section."
"Looks like you've been promoted," you say, taking a place beside him.
He grins, a flash of white teeth in a still-flushed face. "Don't tell him, but I think he's just trying to get out of doing it himself." He shuffles some papers. "Okay, so... we just need you to sign here. And here. And initial this page." He points with a pen that has a fluffy cat topper.
You follow his instructions, the scratching of the pen against paper the only sound between you. The numbers on the forms are still staggering. Seventy-five thousand dollars. A small fortune, born from Hyunjin's talent and your grief. It feels strange. Abstract. Like the numbers belong to someone else's life.
"Everything seems to be in order," Jeongin says, squinting at the forms. "Usually the artist hands over their work to the buyer, but since these are... well, if you want, I can do it." He looks up at you, his expression earnest. "The donation receipts for..." He checks the form. "Safe Horizon."
"I'll do it." You say. You need to. "Thanks, Jeongin. You've been a huge help."
He ducks his head, pleased. "It's the least I could do. After the whole... you know... not hitting on you properly thing."
You laugh, a real, unguarded laugh that feels good. "You're forgiven."
"Good," he says, looking relieved. "Because I was worried I'd ruined my chances of asking you to get coffee sometime. As a thank you. For donating the art.
The offer hangs in the air between you, sweet and genuine. He looks at you with hopeful, earnest eyes, and for a fleeting moment, you consider it. You imagine a quiet coffee shop, easy conversation about art and classes and nothing heavier than the foam on a latte. It would be simple. It would be uncomplicated. It would be safe.
But it would also be a lie.
"Jeongin," you begin, trying to find the words that won't crush him. "That's really kind of you. Butâ"
"Say no more," he interrupts, holding up a hand, a small smile on his face. "I get it. The pretty girl with the tragic backstory never goes for the clumsy art student. It's a classic trope."
"I did, actually," You can't help but smile back. There was just something so likeable about him. "Fall for a clumsy art student, that is. Though I wasn't quite so tragic then. Or since."
His grin widens. "Guess you were always pretty then."
You shake your head, amused. "Okay, smooth talker. Now what?"
"Now," he says, consulting the forms again. "You need to give the pieces to the buyers. The woman who bought the first two is right over there." He points to a cluster of people near the exit, the woman in the diamonds impossible to miss. "And the other buyer... uh..."
He scans the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. "He was right here a second ago. Bleached blonde hair. Paid way too much for a painting. Should be hard to miss." He shrugs. "He'll turn up, probably. I'll call over the first buyer."
He scurries away, leaving you standing by the table. The crowd has thinned considerably now. The buzz of the auction has been replaced by the quieter hum of conversations concluding, coats being collected, goodbyes being said. The gallery feels vast and empty now that it's mostly cleared out.
You take a moment to look at Hyunjin's paintings on the wall. They look different now. Not like personal possessions, but like public artifacts. Their purpose fulfilled. You feel a strange sense of calm settle over you. A quiet satisfaction. You did the right thing. You're sure of it.
The woman with the diamonds approaches, her perfume preceding her. She's elegant, poised, and looks at you with an appraising gaze. "You're the one who consigned them?" she asks, her voice smooth, cultured.
"I am," you confirm.
"They're extraordinary," she says, her eyes on the paintings. "A real talent. It's a tragedy, what happened."
"It is," you agree, your voice neutral.
"I have a wall in my study that's been begging for something with this much life," she says, gesturing to the abstract blue and gold piece. "I'm glad I was able to acquire it." She turns back to you, extending a hand. "I'm Song Eunae."
You take her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin cool. "A pleasure."
Jeongin returns with a clipboard and a roll of bubble wrap.
The transaction is surprisingly simple. A few signatures. A receipt. You help Jeongin carefully wrap the two paintings in layers of bubble wrap, the plastic crackling and popping under your fingers. The scent of Hyunjin's oil paints, a familiar mix of linseed and turpentine and something uniquely him, still clings faintly to the canvases. You breathe it in, one last time.
Then you hand them over.
To her.
To a stranger.
For a moment, you expect a pang of grief, a wrenching sense of loss. But it doesn't come. Instead, you feel... light. The heaviness you've carried for so long, the responsibility of being the sole keeper of Hyunjin's legacy, lifts. Watching Song Eunae's assistant carry the wrapped paintings away, you realize you were wrong. You weren't the only one who could appreciate them. You were just the only one who had the chance to.
Now, others do too.
And that's okay.
It's more than okay. It's right.
"All that's left is the self-portrait," Jeongin says, consulting his list again. "And the mystery buyer." He cranes his neck, scanning the dwindling crowd. "I really don't see him. He's probably in the restroom or something. We can wait."
"It's fine," you say, leaning against the table. "I'm not in a rush."
You and Jeongin stand by the table in companionable silence as the gallery empties. The last of the guests trickle out, their laughter and conversation fading down the corridor, leaving behind a cavernous space filled with the echoes of the evening. The cleaning crew begins to move through the room, quiet and efficient, stacking chairs and wiping down tables, their movements methodical.
Professor Jung reappears, looking tired but satisfied. He shrugs on a long wool coat that makes him look even more professorial than usual.
"You're still here," he notes, glancing from you to Jeongin. "I thought you'd have fled the scene by now. That's usually your M.O."
"The mystery buyer for the self-portrait is a no-show," you explain.
He frowns. "He paid. The transaction went through. Why wouldn't he collect it?"
"Maybe he got lost?" Jeongin suggests helpfully.
"In a gallery with three rooms and a single corridor?" Professor Jung arches a skeptical eyebrow. "Even you couldn't manage that, Jeongin."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Jeongin mutters under his breath.
Professor Jung ignores him, turning to you. "Listen, I've got to go. I'm meeting some... colleagues. For drinks." The slight hesitation before "colleagues" makes you suspect it's someone far more interesting than that. "You shouldn't have to wait here all night. I'll talk to the gallery manager. If he doesn't show up in the next thirty minutes, just take the painting back. They can arrange delivery tomorrow."
"Okay," you agree. "Thanks, Professor."
He gives you a long look, his expression unreadable for a moment. "Take care of yourself," he says, his tone softer than you've heard it all night. "I mean it."
And with that, he's gone, swallowed by the darkness of the corridor.
Jeongin shuffles his feet. "I guess I should go too. My bus leaves in twenty minutes." He looks at you with genuine concern. "Are you going to be okay here alone?"
"I'll be fine," you assure him. "It's a public gallery. I think I can handle a missing art collector."
"Right." He hesitates, then pulls a slightly crumpled business card from his wallet and scribbles a number on the back. "My cell. Just in case. You know. In case the art collector turns out to be a secret serial killer and you need backup."
You take the card, a smile touching your lips. "I'll be sure to call you first. Maybe you can drop something on him for me."
"I'm your man," he says, looking both relieved and disappointed to be leaving. He backs away, nearly tripping over a cleaning bucket. "Nice meeting you! Again! Don't get murdered!"
And then he, too, is gone.
And then you are alone.
The only sounds are the gentle swoosh of the cleaning crew's vacuums in the next room, the quiet clink of them stacking the last of the champagne glasses. The gallery feels immense now, a cavern of white walls and polished floors. The spotlights have been dimmed, bathing the remaining artwork in a soft, ethereal glow. Hyunjin's self-portrait hangs on the wall, a solitary sentinel. The faceless figure, the line of the jaw, the vulnerable curve of the neck. It seems to watch you, a silent question in its obscurity.
"I thought they would never leave."
You freeze.
The world stops. The hum of the vacuums, the distant city sounds filtering through the windows, the beat of your own heartâeverything ceases. There is only the sound of that voice. A voice you haven't heard in years. A voice that lives in the deepest, most guarded parts of your memory. A voice that once could calm the most jagged edges of your anxiety and ignite the most hidden parts of your desire.
Slowly, you turn.
He stands there, just beyond the velvet ropes that now section off this area from the rest of the gallery. He's wearing a dark suit, but it doesn't look quite right on him, as if he's wearing a costume. The jacket is a little too formal, the tie a little too tight. It's the same man who sat in the back of the auction, the man who paid thirty-five thousand dollars for a piece of your soul.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," Chan says softly, taking a hesitant step forward. His hair, bleached blonde, catches the dim light, the tufts sticking up at odd angles. He looks different, and yet exactly the same. The same earnest, guarded expression in his dark eyes. The same slight uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He looks at you as if you're a wild animal he's trying to approach, one that might bolt at any sudden movement. "I thought it would be better if we were alone."
You just stare at him. A million questions form in your head. What are doing here? When did you get out of prison? How did you know I've be here? Why did you buy that painting? How did you afford that painting? Your lips part but the first thing that comes out is:
"I was there," Your voice comes out breathless even though you're standing still. "At the courthouse that day, I was there. Did you see me?"
His composure cracks at that. He had clearly rehearsed whatever it is he was planning to say, and this was not part of the script. His shoulders drop and he looks at you with an expression so fond and so familiar that it nearly brings you to your knees. "My eyes search for you wherever I go."
The fragile composure you've managed to build over the years shatters. The careful walls you've constructed around your heart crumble into dust. A sob wrenches itself from your throat, raw and ragged. It's not a gentle weeping. It's the sound of a dam breaking, of a wound you thought had scarred over tearing open anew.
You close the distance between you in three strides. You don't think. You don't hesitate. You collide with him, your body crashing against his with the force of all the years you spent apart. Your arms wrap around him, clutching at the fine fabric of his suit jacket, fisting in the material as if you're afraid he might disappear.
His arms come around you instantly, pulling you flush against him. He's solid. Real. His body is warm against yours. His hold is impossibly tight, one hand splayed across your back, the other tangling in your hair, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.
"You did so well," He murmurs, petting your hair, which only makes you cry harder. "I'm so proud of you."
You can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest, a deep, resonant vibration that echoes through your own body. You cry until your body aches with it, until the fabric of his jacket is damp with your tears. He just holds you through it, rocking you slightly, a steady, silent presence in the midst of your storm. He doesn't try to shush you or tell you it's going to be okay. He just lets you fall apart, and he holds you together while you do.
Finally, the storm subsides, leaving you trembling and spent in his arms. You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still clutching his jacket. His face is a mess of emotion. Relief and sorrow and a deep, aching tenderness that makes your chest hurt. He gently thumbs the tears from your cheeks, his touch achingly familiar.
"Hi," he says, his voice rough.
"Hi," you whisper back.
It's absurd. The banality of it after everything. After the years, the silence, the unspoken grief that hangs between you like a shroud.
"I thought you'd be mad," he admits, his gaze searching yours.
"Me too," you say, a watery laugh escaping your lips. "I'm trying to be. It's not working."
"Thank god," he breathes, and leans in to press his forehead against yours. It's an intimacy so profound, so laden with shared history, that it feels more dangerous than a kiss. You can feel the warmth of his skin, the gentle puff of his breath against your lips.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, the question barely a whisper. "That you were coming home."
"I didn't know if you'd want to see me," he says, his eyes closed. "I didn't know if I had the right. I still don't."
"You paid thirty-five thousand dollars for a painting you could have had for free."
"Maybe I wanted to pay penance," he murmurs. "Or maybe I wanted to make sure no one else could have him. Not that last piece."
You understand. You do. The selfishness of it.
"Did you know? That I'd be here?"
He shakes his head slightly, the movement a gentle friction against your skin. "I got out early for good behavior about three weeks ago. I've been staying with a friend, just... trying to figure out how to do this. How to live again. I wanted to see you as soon as I got out, but I didn't know if you'd want to see me. I also had no idea where to start looking for you. Then someone mailed me the auction catalog. I saw Hyunjin's name. I saw your name listed as the consignor. I didn't know if you'd be here, but I had to try. I had to see you."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes full of a raw, unguarded honesty that takes your breath away. "I thought if I bought it, maybe it would be an excuse to talk to you. A reason to stay. If you told me to go to hell, at least I'd have heard your voice."
Your heart clenches. All this time, you've been nursing your grief in quiet isolation, and he's been out there, in the world, carrying his own. You were never as alone as you thought.
"And if I hadn't come tonight?"
"I would have found another way," he says, without a hint of doubt. "I'll always find another way."
You release your grip on his jacket, your hands flattening against his chest. You can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart under your palm. A heart that 's still beating. A life that's still being lived.
"Two years," he says. "It felt like a lifetime. And then it felt like no time at all. A lot of it was good, actually. Lots of quiet. Lots of therapy. Lots of forced introspection. Did me good. I think. I hope."
You trace the line of his tie with your finger, the silk smooth and cool. You notice the way he holds his breath, the way the muscles in his jaw tense, as if your touch is an electric current. The air between you crackles with all the things unsaid, with two years of silence pressing in on this single, charged moment.
"This suit," you murmur, "it doesn't feel like you."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Yeah, well. My friend who's letting me crash with him said I needed to look the part." He glances down at himself, a little self-consciously.
"Generous friend," you say, keeping your tone light, casual. Your fingers move from his tie to the lapel of his jacket, idly smoothing a non-existent wrinkle.
"He is," Chan agrees, his gaze fixed on your face. "He... Well he's an old friend of my father's. Park Jinyoung. He runs some sort of talent agency, or something. He's also kinda the reason I could blow thirty-five thousand on a painting I could've had for free.Iâll be paying him back for the rest of my life, probably."
A wave of stupid relief washes over you, so potent it makes you feel dizzy. Jinyoung. A name you don't recognize. Not a girlfriend. Not someone he's building a new life with. You know it's petty, a selfish little spike of joy in the midst of all this complicated grief, but you can't help it. "So...no prison flings I should know about?"
A genuine, breathless laugh escapes him, a sound you haven't heard in what feels like a lifetime. "My love life has been... nonexistent. A vast, desolate wasteland of solitude and self-reflection. The last person I kissed was you."
His gaze drops to your lips, just for a second, but it's long enough to send a jolt of electricity through you, a current that ignites every nerve ending.
"Then I'm guessing you're a little out of practice," you whisper.
"Maybe a little," he admits, his voice a low rumble. He doesn't pull away. He leans into it, just slightly. "You'll have to let me know if I'm doing it right."
His thumb strokes gently over your cheekbone, a slow, deliberate caress that sends a shiver down your spine. He's giving you an out. A chance to pull away, to slow this down, to think. But you don't want to think. You've spent years thinking, trapped in the circular labyrinth of your own grief. For the first time in a long time, you want to feel.
"Are you going to kiss me or are you just going to talk about it?" you ask, your voice barely audible.
A slow smile spreads across his face, a real one this time, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I'm trying to savor the moment."
"Savor faster," you breathe.
His lips are soft against yours, a tentative press that's both a question and an answer. It's a hello. It's a welcome home. It's the taste of salt from your tears and the faint, clean scent of him that you remember from a lifetime ago. There's no hunger in it, no desperate urgency, just a quiet, profound sense of coming home.
Your hand slides up from his chest to the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the short, bleached strands of his hair. His other arm wraps more securely around your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. The kiss deepens, but it remains achingly gentle, an exploration, a reacquaintance. It's the slow, deliberate mapping of a familiar geography that has changed with time. He kisses you with the reverence of a pilgrim who has finally reached a sacred shrine, with the relief of a man who has been wandering in the desert and has finally found water.
When he pulls back, it's only by an inch. His forehead rests against yours again, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin. You can feel the rapid, fluttering beat of his heart against your palm, a frantic drum solo in the quiet of the empty gallery.
"We should probably..." he starts, then trails off, gesturing vaguely at the painting still hanging on the wall.
"Probably," you agree, but you make no move to pull away. Neither does he. You stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the rest of the world fading to a distant hum. The cleaning crew has moved on, their sounds receding further down the corridor, leaving you in a pocket of profound silence.
Finally, Chan takes a step back, his hands lingering on your waist before he reluctantly lets go. The sudden absence of his warmth is a palpable loss. He turns toward the painting, and for a moment, you just watch him.
"It's still my favorite," he says, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "Even after all this time."
You follow his gaze to the canvas. Hyunjin's self-portrait. The face turned away, the hint of a shoulder, the vulnerable line of the neck. You used to see it and feel only a sharp, piercing sorrow. A monument to what was lost.
But now, looking at it with Chan standing beside you, you see something different. You see the courage it took to create such an honest, unflinching piece of art. You see the beauty in the vulnerability. You see a story, not an ending.
"Yeah" you say. You reach over and lace your fingers with his. His hand is warm, solid, a grounding presence in the wake of so much uncertainty. "He'd be proud of us, I think."
Chan squeezes your hand gently. "I hope so," he says, turning to look at you. In the soft, gallery lighting, his eyes are dark and deep, full of a lifetime of unspoken words. "I hope so."
And that's how it ends. Or perhaps how it begins. With two people, haunted by the same ghost, standing in an empty gallery, holding hands. With the understanding that even in the deepest, darkest grief, there is the possibility of light. Of healing. Of a love that has survived the impossible.
The brochure that had been mailed to Chan has no return address, but if either of you had bothered to look closely at the stamp, you would have noticed it was postmarked from Japan. You would have recognized the careful, precise handwriting of Lee Minho, who was, at that very moment, thousands of miles away, nursing a glass of sake in Shibuya and finally, finally, scattering the ashes of his love into the Sumida River.
You never figure out who sent it. And perhaps that's for the best. Some things are better left as mysteries. As small, merciful miracles.
The painting remains on the wall, a silent witness to it all, a testament to the enduring power of art, and the resilient, unbreakable human heart.
Warnings: p in v, unprotected sex (condoms are good), oral (f. and m. receiving), handjob, face riding (and sitting obviously), mention of hickeys, praise kink, creampie, multiple orgasms, groping
âSo.. How did it go with that guy last night?â Hannah asked you, taking a sip from her coffee. You shrugged. How had that gone? Terribly. The poor guy just wanted to kiss you, and you ended up laughing at him. It wasnât your intention. You werenât mean. You were just awkward.
âIt went..â you started, pursing your lips. âNot good, Hann.â You said finally, glancing up at her. âI laughed at him when he tried to kiss me.â You admitted quietly, sighing heavily.
âWhy would you do that?!â Hannah asked, blinking at you.
âI donât know!â You exclaimed, burying your face in your hands. âSomethingâs wrong with me. I canât.. I canât function around men. I never could.â You sighed. âWhat the fuckâs wrong with me?â
âNothing is wrong with you, hun. You just havenât found the right one yet.â Hannah reassured you, rubbing your arm.
âYeah, but Iâm already twenty four. When will I find the right one, or when will the right one find me?â
âYou canât know that, it just.. Happens. When the time comes, youâll know!â She said, smiling.
âOkay, now you sound like my mom,â you said, glaring at her.
By 9:30 PM, you had managed to shower and get dressed to leave for Hannahâs house. You glanced at your reflection, sighing softly. âYouâre a mess.â You mumbled, brushing your hair gently.
Once outside Hannahâs house, you raised your hand, knocking on the door as you waited for her to open. Not even ten seconds later, the door opened, and Hannah grinned as she saw you. âHi!â She greeted, pulling you inside.
âWoahâHi,â you said, smiling. âEverything okay?â She nodded feverishly. âGuess whoâs coming to Sydney.â She said, biting her lip as she giggled. You furrowed your eyebrows. âWho?â
âChristopher!â She exclaimed, smiling like crazy as she showed you her calls. âHe called like ten minutes ago. He said heâs landing tonight.â
Christopher? âChristopher?â You asked, cocking your head to the side. âLike.. Christopher Bahng? Your brother? Your older brother?â You asked, blinking.
She nodded. âUh-huh!â
You hadnât seen him since you were little. The last time you saw him when you were twelve and he was sixteen, before he left to become a trainee. And now you were twenty four, meaning he would be twenty eight. You were always pretty close. He always treated you like a little sister, and you were always proud to have him protecting you all the time.
But as you grew, you didnât keep in touch. He barely visited Sydney, and when he did, you werenât there to meet with him.
But now, he was coming. And youâd be here. Youâd meet him. Christopher. After twelve years. âOh my god,â you whispered, running your fingers through your hair.
Hannah furrowed her eyebrows, noticing the slight trembling in your voice. âHey, câmon. Itâs just Christopher.â
âThatâs the problem, Hann.â You said quietly, taking a deep breath. âI havenât seen him in twelve years.â
âYeah, but still! Heâs still Chris! I promise you, he hasnât changed one bit.â
The doorbell rang at 11:47PM. Hannah had gone to the bathroom to shower, and you were left alone in the living room. When you heard the doorbell, you froze.
For a moment, you didnât move, because you knew that if you did, if you walked over to the door and opened it, youâd be met with Christopher.
But your feet moved on their own, padding quickly towards the door. When you opened it, you swore you felt your heart flutter. Was this what Hannah was talking about when she mentioned the feeling of falling in love?
Christopher blinked as he looked at you, his eyes darting all over your face. âUh.. Hey,â he greeted, low and steady. God, even his voice was attractive. His Australian accent was making your knees weak, and your panties wet, but you tried to not let it get to you.
âH-Hi.â You greeted back, your voice wavering slightly as tears formed in your eyes.
Chris bit his lip nervously, a habit he had since you were kids, and that dimple you loved so much popping at the side of his mouth. âY/N, Iââ you cut him off by jumping in his arms, throwing your arms around his neck as you buried your face in his neck.
He let out an âoofâ, before wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you up. âI missed you so much,â he mumbled, kissing your forehead.
You had been so worried that heâd be different, more cold and stern. But hearing him say that he missed you made those worries go away in an instant. âI missed you too.â You whispered, sniffling quietly.
âAnd then thereâs Jeongin, the youngest. Youâd love him. Heâs quiet but can be loud, he has the sweetest smile and personality, and heâs gentle.â Chris rambled on as he sat on your couch, in your apartment.
You nodded along as he talked, genuinely interested in what he was saying. Heâd told you about his members, their debut, how he produced the songs and how he wrote the lyrics.
âSo when are you leaving again?â You asked quietly, turning to face him fully. Chris paused, letting out a soft sigh. âIn a few days.â He said, pursing his lips.
You frowned at that. âOh.â
He looked at you then, a small, sad smile on his lips. âYah,â he said, reaching for your hand. âIâm here now, yeah?â He smiled. âWe have a few days to spend time together.â
You nodded, biting your lip.
âSo, how have you been holding up?â He asked gently, leaning back against the couch.
âIâm.. Iâm holding up fine.â You mumbled, glancing away.
âDefine âfineâ, Y/N.â
You let out a frustrated huff, sinking back into the couch. âI.. I guess my jobâs good,â you started. âI mean.. It doesnât exactly provide me good money, but I guess it could be worse.â
It couldnât have been worse. Sure, you had an apartment. But it wasnât big. It wasnât how you wanted it to be. It wasnât necessarily bad or not tidy, you actually kept it really clean. But the money you got werenât enough. You werenât broke, but it wasnât really convenient either.
You worked two jobs, and the only reason why you werenât at work right now was because it was Sunday.
âAnd you know, things get tough from time to time, but I manage. I mean, I.. I have Hannah! Sheâs great!â
âY/Nââ
âI hang out a lot at her house. Sheâs been helping meâNot financially, of course! I canât accept money. But sheâs there for me, you know.â
âY/N-ahââ
âAnd Iâm trying! Two jobs are exhausting, but at least I get paid, right? I meanââ
âY/N!â Chris finally managed to cut you off, grabbing your hands. âLook at me.â He said softly. You bit the inside of your cheek, turning your head to the side. Thatâs when he saw the tears. âHey, heyâNone of that,â he pulled you closer immediately, wiping away your tears with his thumbs.
You cried for quite a while in his chest before you pulled back, your eyes red and puffy, but you were feeling much better.
âTalk about something else,â you said quietly. âTell me about your love life.â
He laughed, throwing his head back. âSeriously?â You nodded. âMm, okay. Letâs see..â he trailed off.
He looked at you, a gentle smile on his face. âThereâs this girl I was really close with when we were younger,â he started, and you already knew he was talking about you. âThen we grew apart. And I was really sad that we did, because as I grew up, I developed feelings for her, even though I hadnât seen her in ages.â
He cupped your jaw gently, pulling your face closer to his. âAnd then I came back to Sydney. And she opened the door, and when I saw her, I realized I was in love.â
You didnât think of who initiated the kiss first. But what you thought of was the feeling of his lips on yours. The way his tongue was in your mouth, licking around before pressing flat against yours.
You hummed against his mouth, shifting on the couch until you were on his lap, your knees on either side of his muscular thighs as you started grinding shamelessly on his cock. He was already half-hard, but when you ground on him? He was a goner.
He broke the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer, pressing you tightly against him. âYou feel so good already,â he muttered, kissing down your neck. âWonder how you feel under those clothes..â
âMm, you should find out..â you encouraged, leaning back and lifting your arms so he could pull up your shirt. It hit the floor with a quiet thud, and his hands were immediately on your bare skin. âFuck, so beautiful..â
âCâmon, beautiful, donât be shy now.â Chris muttered, playfully slapping your ass. âSit on it.â He demanded, and fuck, it turned you on so fucking much. âI donât wanna hurt you, Channie..â you mumbled, but you were already pulling your panties down.
âChannie? You havenât called be that since we were kids.â He said with a smile. You smiled back softly. âMm, weâre not kids anymore though,â you whispered, crawling up his chest. âWeâre not.â He agreed, shifting back against the pillow to get more comfortable.
Once you were hovering over his face, you glanced down at him. He looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, winking at you once before pushed you down by gripping your ass.
He started slowly, taking his time dragging his tongue up your inner thighs, mouthing at your skin, leaving small hickeys. You tangled your fingers through his silver hair, tugging. âDonât tease..â you whined.
He hummed, but continued doing it anyway. âYou always had a thing fâmy nose,â he muttered against your soft skin. He finally titled his head up, licking a fat stripe up your folds, making your thighs clench and tighten around his face. You looked down at him. âIâmâFuck.. Iâm sorry, did I.. Hurt you..?â You panted, biting your lip.
He just shook his head, his eyes closing in pure bliss as he devoured you. Tongue twisting and flicking teasingly at your dripping hole, his hand rubbing your stomach gently while his thumb circled your clit, the other hand wrapping around your waist. âYou taste divine,â he murmured, moaning against your skin.
The vibration of it was enough to make your hips stutter, unconsciously grinding against his face as you felt his nose, that fucking nose, nudging your clit every time your hips rolled forward. âShitâChris..!â
You breathed out, gripping his hair tighter as you reached behind you with your free hand, sliding your hand down his body until it wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping it up and down. His hips jerked up immediately, his mouth opening against your skin to pant, his tongue never faltering, though.
âFuckfuck, Iâm comingâChris!â You moaned, your hand speeding up as your hips lifted in the air, but he held you down, tongue working you through your orgasm. He followed right after, your moans triggering his own release as he threw his head back, grunting when he felt his cum shooting out.
You were quick, turning around and leaning down, holding your hair back with one hand as you swiped your tongue over the tip, humming at the salty taste of him, before taking him in your mouth. He was definitely bigger than average, your throat struggling slightly to relax, but eventually, it did.
âFuckâY/N, you donât have to..â he trailed off, letting out a breathy chuckle as he gathered your hair up with his hands, stroking it gently as he pushed your head down. âDonât stopâJust like that, ma..â he sighed.
He was a mess. He had already cum once, but he was about to do it again on your tongue. You started bobbing faster, your free hand cupping his balls. You pulled back just slightly, making him whine. âNeed it inside me,â you mumbled, pushing yourself up. You crawled up in his lap, wrapping your legs and arms around him.
âPut it in, pretty.â He muttered, hands groping and squeezing your flesh. He helped you lift up slightly, before helping you lower down. âFuuuck.â He moaned, his forehead falling to rest against yours. âFuck, Y/N.â
You moaned the moment you rolled your hips, your one arm wrapped around his neck, the other resting on the back of his head as you started to move, slowly at first to savor the feeling of him inside you. âOh, Chris..â you moaned, your eyes rolling back in your head as you felt his warm palms squeeze your ass cheeks, stroking them and spreading them apart.
âThatâs it, ride me love.â He breathed against your ear, leaving a trail of wet kisses down to your chest. âI could stay in you foreverâFuck, youâre squeezing me so tight..â he murmured, muttering praises between kisses.
Eventually, your hips sped up as the warmth inside your lower stomach spread, chasing your second orgasm. âChris, Iâm.. Fuck!â You moaned, head falling to his shoulder. He started thrusting upwards, his owns movements fast and desperate. âYeah? Go on, milk my cock like the good girl you are. Wanna.. Fuuck, wanna it.â He panted, pulling you by your hair to kiss you.
You were both a moaning mess now, panting and moaning into each otherâs mouth, your hands gripping his hair, shoulders, nails digging into his skin, leaving faint scratches as his hands kneaded your ass, your waist, your breasts, everywhere he could, until a shallow thrust and a twitch of your hips broke the both of you, reaching your peak as you whimpered into his mouth, his owns eyes rolling back as he released inside you.
âYouâll stay at my house,â he started gently, rubbing your arm up and down. âIâll lend you as much money as you need until everything is settled. Until youâre financially stable.â He muttered against your hair, closing his eyes as he inhaled your scent.
You stiffened against his chest, your fingers pausing their movements on his skin. âChrisââ
âThatâs final.â He interrupted, tilting your face up. âI make billions, Y/N. Lending you money is no problem.â He reassured you, leaning down to kiss you gently. You exhaled shakily against his lips before you both pulled back.
âLet me be here fâyou.â He muttered, stroking your cheek. You bit your lip, blinking slowly as you nodded. âThank you so much.â You said softly, shifting to hug him. âI donât know how to repay you.â He chuckled.
âWell.. You can start by letting me fuck you again.â
genre: werewolf hybrid au (?), fluff, slice of life, slight slight hurt/comfort
ss count: 4
tw: one mention of food
a.n. : i say im gonna post one thing and then i post smth elseđ dont take my word for anythingđ also tried out new genre lmk what you think should i make more hybrid smaus? p.s. the werewolf idea was inspired by the skzoos
After an exhausted win against Yonsei University, Chan wasn't expecting anything interesting to happen. Boy was he wrong
Contains - Sub!Chan, Dom Male!Reader, Non Idol!Au, Smut MDNI, Nipple play, Masturbation (Chan rec), Unprotected sex (wrap it up), Multiple orgasms, slight over stimulation (lmk if i missed anything!)
Wc - 2k
a/n; Heyooo, this is my first fic in a while! Sorry for any spelling errors or shitty pacing, I mostly wrote this in my spare time. But I do hope you guys enjoy!
Chan still felt the buzz of excitement running through his veins as he stood within the In-goal area. Cheers erupted from the bleachers and from his teammates currently swarming him. It had been a very, very long uphill battle, but finally, the Korea University Rugby team had managed to beat the Yonsei University Rugby team. It had been an exhilarating and long game with many injuries and hardship, but finally they came out on top.
It was decently late, about 8:32 p.m. The sky had darkened into twilight and most spectators had gone back to their homes. The team captain decided to host a celebration at his house, and since he was one of the popular guys at school, it was pretty packed.
People were jammed into the main area of the house, spilling out of both the front and back doors. The music was turned up high, the bass heavy enough to vibrate the ground and peoples bones. The whole place smelt of cheap booze, sweat and cigarette smoke.
It was mostly students from Korea University at the party (and their team of course), but some students from Yonsei were also mingling with them. It didn't really bother Chan, he was really there to just rehydrate and forget the ache running throughout his whole body. And at the beginning of the party, that was what happened.
Chan wandered around, chatting to people, laughing and messing around with friends, and even got into a small drinking game. At this point he wasn't hammered in any way, but of course misfortunes do happen. He was by a table, leaning against a wall when someone bumped into him. He looked up and was met with one of his teammates, Changbin, who was grinning ear to ear and clearly up to something.
"Yo, we're about to do another game. Come join!"
"Nah, I don't wanna. I wanna get to my dorm thank you very much."
"C'mon man! We just won one of our biggest games yet! The captain won't mind if you crash here."
Chan sighed faintly, but Changbin did have a point; the captain did say the team could crash for the night as long as they help with cleaning up in the morning. "Finee."
The two of them weaved through the crowd, heading to a group who were sitting on the floor in a circle. Ohh⊠probably just a game of spin the bottle - He had done this before, so it wouldn't be that bad; either a simple kiss, or truth or dare. Changbin tugged him down to sit as well.
But he couldn't have picked a worse spot.
To his left was obviously Changbin, but to his right⊠You.
Star player on Yonsei's Rugby team, and his one life long rival ever since middle school - yes it had been that long. Chan tried to switch spots, but Changbin wasn't budging, complaining his legs hurt so he finally gave up with a groan.
Finally, the game started, and Chan had been right; it was the truth or dare version, though if someone didn't want to do the dare they could drink instead. It went on for a while, everyone getting drunker and drunker, just normal party stuff. That was until it was the captain's turn and it landed on Chan. He leaned in, face flushed redder than a cherry, but he was still surprisingly coherent.
"Chan-ah, you spin the bottle, and whoever it lands on you gotta go to the closet and play seven minutes in heaven... or until you wanna leave. No one's gonna stop you if you wanna stay longer." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, a smirk playing on his lips
Chan thought about taking another drink, but he thought about it. He didn't necessarily have to do anything with them. But that would be boring. He shrugged, reaching out and spun the bottle. Round and round it went, the strobe light reflected in the glass. It started slowing down, just enough for Chan's eyes to widen in dismay as it passed every other person in that circle and landed on you.
Oh fan-fucking-tastic.
He buried his face in his hands as cheers and wolf whistles came from everyone around them. To your credit, you looked bewildered and flustered. Though the two of them had no time to think as they were ushered down the hall and into a closet.
"You gotta stay in there for at least 7 minutes!" The captain gave them one last grin, then closed the closet, plunging them into darkness.
It was incredibly awkward at first, the tension so thick Chan nearly choked on it. The closet was empty, but so damn small, to the point that they were packed like sardines.
Chan could almost feel your breath hitting his skin, and if he reached out, his hand would land on your chest. He could feel your eyes practically burning holes into his head, and it made something treacherous in his heart flutter, though he tried to shove it down. Unfortunately, the shots he had taken earlier were really starting to affect him, making his hate for you fold faster than a collapsing building.
For the first 3 minutes, nothing happened. Everything in Chan told him not to move, to not make a single sound. But he was in an awkward position, and his leg was starting to fall asleep. He tried to shift slightly, and that's when he stumbled. His dead leg gave out awkwardly, and he fell face first into your chest.
"Hey," your voice was right next to his ear, a sinful whisper, "be careful, yeah?"
Chan felt warm all over, pressing his thighs together as something electric coiled in his gut. His hands suddenly gripped your arm, both steadying himself and moving closer to you.
"MmnhâŠY/n.." The pathetic whine slipped out his lips before he could stop himself, and it only made his heart beat faster.
"Chan?" Your hands lifted slightly, resting on his hips and squeezing lightly.
"Don't call me thatâŠ" He pressed his face to your chest, inhaling deeply to catch your unique scent and the cologne you wear. His hips moved forward until they touched your thigh, and there was no mistaking the growing bulge in his pants. "PleaseâŠ"
Something shifted in your demeanor, as you pulled him closer suddenly, no hesitation. "Please what? Use your words."
Chan looked away, his face definitely as red as a cherry. His lips parted and for a moment, he couldn't speak. But he finally mustered the courage. "I need you.. Y/n." He pressed his hips forward again, grinding against your thigh.
In response? Your fingers threaded through the hairs as the nape of his neck and pulled him closer until their breaths mingled. "You sure? You think you can handle me?" A final chance to back out.
Chan had never been more sure in his life about what he wanted. He didn't care that you were the guy who had been clashing heads with him since forever.
He wanted you to ruin him.
He wanted you to ruin him until he couldn't say anything else, until all he could feel was you and your presence. So he leaned up and smashed his lips against yours, sealing his final answer.
A groan left you as you reciprocated eagerly, kissing back with the passion of a starving man. You pushed him against the opposite wall, biting his lower lip and pushing your tongue into him roughly. He wrapped his arms around your neck, nails digging into your shoulders slightly.
They pulled back for a moment, and you quickly started unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it off in one smooth motion.
"Too bad we're in the dark." You hummed, fingers trailing down his bare chest until they reached one of his nipples. Chan inhaled sharply as you rolled the hard nub between your thumb and pointer finger, and he couldn't help but arch into the touch. "Eager, aren't ya?"
That gasp turned to a high pitched moan as he felt your mouth lock around his nipple, your free hand palming his growing bulge through his pants. His hips bucked upward, and he could feel a damp spot forming. It wasn't long before your hands hooked into the waist band for both his boxers and pants, then yanked down until it dropped to the floor.
Chan's dick sprung up, precum already beading on his tip. He heard a belt buckle flip, and heard more fabric dropping. He let out a faint whimper as he felt your dick press against his thigh - hard and pulsing - as your hand grabbed his.
"A-ah fuckâŠ" He breathed, jerking into the touch. You didn't jerk him off immediately, just a slow stroke from the base up to his tip. Your thumb swiped over his slit, smearing precum all over.
"Don't tease me⊠ya twat." Chan knew he had absolutely no authority right now, but he still had a little bit in him. You didn't like that one bit.
"Not teasing you. Just giving you a little taste of what's to come." You started moving your hand up and down, and all the brattiness from earlier dissolved instantly.
He whimpered faintly, biting his bottom lip as you picked up pace, hand moving rhythmically along his shaft, and tracing the vein along the underside. He could feel his stomach tighten embarrassingly fast, and did shoot his first load all over your hands. He pants harshly, his stamina already brought down significantly, but his libido was still high.
You hummed faintly, stealing one more rough kiss before moving your hand. He swore he could hear you licking your fingers, but when he asked, all he got was a light hit to his thigh that made him whimper.
You moved so you could hike one of his legs up and around your waist. The new position made it so you could slot your dick right between his thighs, and nudge your tip against his entrance.
No warning came as you sank the first inch in, and both of you let out twin groans. It was a tight fit and since there was no foreplay beforehand to loosen him up, you waited a moment, letting his fluttering hole adjust.
Oh how he wished you could see his face; probably wreaked beyond comprehension. Chan was already so close to cumming, his breathing ragged and hitching constantly. The moment you started moving, he nearly wailed.
The burn from earlier was already giving way as your hips snapped up roughly, skin-hitting-skin echoed within the tiny space of the closet. The pleasure outweighed the pain, and Chan's only concern was how long he would last at this pace.
Which apparently wasn't long.
His nails scrabbled frantically at your shoulders as his dick bounced up and down with each thrust, heat coiling low in his gut and ready to snap. He bit down on the junction between your neck and shoulder, but it didn't do much.
"Y/n.. y/n.. hnghhâŠOh fuck, oh fuck!" He moaned out shamelessly, just as you nailed him right in the prostate, sending a sharp ringing through his whole body.
Chan's mouth opened in a silent scream as he came untouched this time, ropes of cum flying from his dick and probably all over both his and your abs. His legs quivered and he nearly fell, but your arms caught the back of his thighs, hoisting him up.
Chan barely had the strength to wrap his legs around your waist as you pinned him up against the wall.
"You good?" Your voice was hoarse, but it cared a worried undertone. He felt your breath hit his face as you leaned in, kissing at the corner of his mouth.
"Y-yeahâŠ" He managed weakly, head lolling slightly.
"You think you could go another round?"
"H-hah?!"
Chan blinked rapidly, making sure he heard that right. But he could feel your dick deep inside him. Still hard and throbbing, and it was clear you hadn't climaxed. He was sensitive as hell, having come two times already, but the fire wasn't going down anytime soonâŠ
"Y-yeah, sure-" Was all he got out before you were on him again, and it was clear there would be more than just one extra round.
Ahhh hope you guys enjoyed it!! I hope to post something else this week maybe!
All Divders are made by @cafekitsune Please support and check them out!!
Synopsys: uhm, it's my birthday today, so I wanted to post something with all the boys. I'm trying out this twitter smau format, so if it's not the best, just please be patient with me hahaha
The pairing here is chan (romantic) x fem. reader x rest of skz (platonic)
Summary: They've been looking for the final member of their pack for years, a ache that never fades and always exists. Only, when they finally find you, they find a version of you that has been broken. Will they be able to make you whole again?
Bonus Chapter Summary: Han invites you to watch a movie with him in his nest, only you can't focus on the movie when all you can smell is him.
Pairing: Stray Kids OT8 x F!Reader
A/N: Okay, ya'll, here we are. The first bit of smut that I'll be doing for this series. I don't usually write smut and I still think I won't, but something about this story feels important that I do. I want to take it slow and do it in a respectful manner towards the readers trauma, so there will be more in the future, but paced out.
(Also, since I don't write smut often, excuse me if this is awful đ )
Anyways, I hope you enjoy <3
This is a chapter for the Han lovers!
Chapter TW. Smut! Han eats you out, but its completely consensual and on your terms!
You're trying not to be obvious, and really, you barely even notice it, too lost in your own thoughts as you barely pay attention to the movie playing. It's just, the scents around you from Han's nest are so strong and they're making you feel...â
"Are you okay, Y/Nnie?"
Pulled from your thoughts at the sound of Han's soft, concerned voice, you turn to him with wide eyes. He's already looking at you, brows furrowed and lips curled down into a soft frown. It's then you realize he's paused the movie, the light from the TV bathing you both in a soft light.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, inhaling sharply. "Yeah, I'm okay."
And even you know you're not convincing. Han's eyes narrow as he takes you in closer, eyes flickering across your body, clearly not convinced.
"You sure?" He asks, "you've been shifting all night. Did you... We don't have to finish the movie if you don't want."
"It's not that," you say, fast and before you can properly think. You just don't want Han to think you don't want to spend time with him or you're annoyed he'd asked you to watch a movie with him. When he'd come home from work, practically bouncing on the spot as he asked if you wanted to watch the new anime movie that had just been released on stream with him, you'd been ecstatic.
And you'd had every intention of paying attention. Cuddling with Han in his nest watching a movie together was the perfect night.
Then, you'd crawled into his bed, and that... scent had hit you.
"Y/N?"
Sighing, your shoulders fall. You let your eyes fall on Han again, his body turned towards you, dressed in nothing more than grey sweats and a loose shirt.
Omega.
Safe.
You know Han's safe. All the boys are.
Still didn't mean it wasn't hard.
"Y/N," Han calls again when you've yet to say anything. "You're scaring me. What's going on?"
Your lips part, hesitating. Is it something you want to bring up? The answer is obvious. Your omega is screaming at you, reassuring you that it's okay, that Han is safe, and truthfully, you've been thinking about this for a while.
"Can..." And you hesitate, struggling to find the words. "Can we... try something?"
Han's brows furrow; "try something?"
You huff, struggling to find the words. You want to explain yourself properly, but you don't know how.
You try to remember what Hyunjin had said to you, two weeks ago, heading home from the art gala.
Y/N, as long as you want it, really want it, it'd be more than okay
That's right. As long as you wanted it, it'd be okay. Hyunjin may have been the one to say it, but you know that any of the boys would feel the same. Of course they would. And you wanted to take this step, wanted to take control of your own pleasure.
"I don't think I could go all the way," you start, turning back to meet Han's gaze. "But I want to try something with you."
And Han stares at you for one long moment, before it finally clicks just what you mean. You see the realization dawn on him, his eyes widening, body straightening.
"With me?" He asks, pointing at his chest.
"Yes," you nod, sure in your answer. It's the one thing you're sure of. "I feel safe with you. You're an omega too and... and ever since I stepped into your nest, your scent has been driving me crazy."
Han's cheeks flush at that; "it has?"
Feeling your cheeks warm as well, you nod, shy. "Yeah."
"Oh," Han exhales, heavy and thick with the charged tension that has filled the room. "O-Of course we can. What... What do you want?"
To feel good.
Your omega whispers the words to you, charged with desire. Biting your lip, you turn to Han.
"Can you make me feel good?"
You never would've asked the question to Seojun. With him, your wants never mattered, especially not with sex. It was about what he wanted, it was about making sure he was satisfied. He took and took and never cared to give back or ask.
The boys have been making you feel all sorts of things over the past few months. Things you haven't felt in a long time. And you know that you want to make them feel good too, but it feels important to you in that moment, that you're able to take back something Seojun stole from you.
Control of your body. Of your pleasure.
And as you turn to look back at Han, you take note of the way his eyes have darkened, his lids growing heavy as his scent spikes with excitement. You can tell he's trying to hold back and be respectful of your boundaries, but it warms your heart he's so happily willing to do so.
"Of course," Han says, voice heavy. "I know you said you're not ready for the whole thing. That's okay. But I still want you to be in control of the whole thing, okay, baby?"
Licking your lips, you hesitate; "in control?"
"I'll make you feel good," he reassures. "This whole thing will be about making you feel good. But you tell me what you want me to do, okay? I won't do anything you don't want me to."
That makes your racing heart settle, just a little. You know none of the boys would force you to do anything, but it's still nice to be reassured.
"And if you want me to stop, you just tell me, okay?"
You nod.
"Words, baby."
"Okay."
"Okay," Han smiles. "So, what do you need, honey?"
Shifting against his pillows, you pause in thought. "I want... I want you to touch me... down there." Cheeks warm, heart racing, you gesture to your lower body, nervous.
"Touch?" Han echoes, moving so he's in front of you rather than beside you. "Just touch? Or do you want my mouth too?"
Your scent spikes at that, arousal coursing through you.
"Y-Your mouth," you whisper.
"Yeah?" Han asks.
"Yeah."
He nods, still smiling, moving closer so he's hovering over you. It takes you a moment, not used to seeing Han in this light. You know he likes to be told what to do, just because you've watched it happened time and time again with the alphas, mainly Minho. You've even seen it between Felix and him.
But in this moment now, so utterly sure of himself and being so receptive to your needs... it makes you feel a certain way.
"Can I take off your shorts, baby?"
Inhaling deeply, you nod. "Yeah," you tell him. "But can I keep my shirt on?"
Having your shirt, the one you stole from Hyunjin, brings you a comfort you think will help you.
"Of course, baby. You don't have to ask," Han smiles. "And remember, you can tell me to stop at any time, okay?"
"Okay."
And so he leans forward, reaching for you. He starts with a gentle kiss against your forehead that has your heart fluttering, before you feel his hands fall to the waistband of your shorts. You start at that, and Han meets your gaze, halting.
You nod a moment later.
It's not your first time doing anything with the boys, but that had been during your heart. And although they'd been just as careful and conscious of your needs then, it hadn't been because you were ready. Needing them during your heat was a lot different than wanting them now.
Slowly, Han pulls down your shorts and underwear. He's slow, not to tease but to make sure that if you change your mind, you have the time to. You keep your gaze on his own as he does, nodding when he asks you to lift your hips, and watching as he slips them off your sock-clad feet before setting them beside him.
The cold air hits you immediately, and there's a small, brief moment, where panic strikes you. But then you smell Han, all around you, and the faint scents of the rest of the pack from his nest. And then you catch his gaze, warm, loving and patient, and the panic fades away.
"Still okay?" Han asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Yeah, I'm okay."
He smiles, proud and gentle and it makes your heart flutter.
"Can I kiss you?"
"Please."
And so he does, leaning forward, hands braced on either side of you and presses his lips against your own. Han is gentle and caring, making sure to pour his love into the kiss so you know that's what this isânot sex, but love.
When he pulls back, the both of you breathless, Han meets your eyes once again.
"Can I touch you, Y/N?"
Your heart races, feeling that spike and hum out; "yes."
His hand is warm as it settles on your bare thigh, thumb rubbing circles into the skin as his other hand moves towards your vagina. Your breath catches as you watch him, stilling in the spot, and Han is slow and careful as spreads your lips, letting his middle finger drag across the inside of your pussy.
A shiver travels down your spine.
"Oh," you breathe.
"Too much?" Han asks, glancing up at you.
You shake your head; "no."
So, he continues. For a moment, his one hand rubs soft, soothing circles into your thigh as the other rubs at your clit, making the heat pool in your lower belly and you grow more wet by the moment.
"Can I put my finger in?"
It takes a moment to process Han's words, and then, as it clicks, you let out a shaky breath.
"Slowly," you whisper, "if that's okay?"
"Of course, Y/N," he assures, and he's true to his word, shifting forward as he now pulls his hand off your thigh, slowly pressing his middle finger towards your entrance. No one's touched there since Seojun, and it had always been forceful and without your consent.
It's terrifying, you realize, feeling Han there. But, it's also comforting. The undeniable trust you hold for these boys assures you that Han won't do anything you don't like, and it feels like a reclaiming of sorts.
He's only doing it because you've said yes. Because you've given permission.
You're in control.
It feels good. The intrusion is weird at first, but Han continues to rub circles at your clit as he slowly pushes his finger in, and the pressure feels nice.
A soft moan leaves your lips, feeling yourself grow more wet.
"It feels good, baby?"
"Yes," you shakily exhale. "Yes."
"I'm gonna use my mouth now, okay, Y/N?" Han says a moment later, still slowly thrusting his finger in and out. "Tell me if it's too much."
Inhaling sharply, you nod.
"Words, Y/Nnie."
"O-Okay," you say, head tilting back.
He pulls his hands away and you have to fight back the whine that threatens to leave your lips, your omega distressed at the loss of his hands. You can't dwell on it for long, though, because his hands move to your thighs, pushing them apart gently, and then you feel his breath hit your pussy directly.
"Oh," you breathe, eyes widening as you glance down at Han.
He smiles up at you, through your legs, squeezing your knees in his hands before he lowers his head. You can't look away, entranced by the sight, body unconsciously stilling as you feel his head grow closer to your heat.
And then, slowly, tentatively, he sticks his tongue out, dragging across your slit.
A gasp leaves your lips, head falling back as another moan of pleasure leaves your lips. Han hesitates a moment after the first lick, waiting for you to say it's too much, and when you don't, he lets himself continue.
It's unlike anything you've ever felt before.
The pleasure so powerful, almost too much, but in a good way. Han is slow as he swirls his tongue around your clit, but it's not in a teasing or painstaking wayârather, he does it to leave room for you to tell him to stop. It's comforting and so good all at that same time.
"Oh my," you breathe, voicing pitching. "Han!"
He seems spurred on by the moan of his name, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. It pulls another sharp gasp from your lips, body tensing as your head falls back, letting yourself fall into the comforting scent of your pack as Han continues to eat you out.
It's a few moments later when you feel the pleasure spike, the heat turning too much, and your muscles tense.
"Ha-Han-ah," you moan, fingers clasping his bed sheets tightly. "I'm gonnaâI'm gonnaâ"
Han seems to understand your meaning even if you can't find the words, because, still with his mouth pressed against your pussy, he says; "cum for me, Y/Nnie." And the vibrations have you spiraling, your vision dizzying for a moment as the pleasure coarses through your whole body.
It has you moaning, louder than you mean to, eyes clenching shut as you ride out your orgasm. Han holds you, grip tight but assuring, as he helps you ride it out as well.
And then, when you finish, and your body lets out a trembling shake, he finally pulls his mouth away, sitting up to look at you.
Breathless, your chest rising and falling, you stare back at him, seeing your own wetness around his mouth, body still trembling from your orgasm, lost in the pure happiness in his eyes.
"You okay, baby?" Han asks after a moment, leaning forward to brush back your hair from your face as he wipes at his face. "It wasn't too much, was it?"
You shake your head, "no," you breathe. "No, that was... That was amazing, Hannie."
"Yeah?" He smiles.
"Yeah," you confirm. "It felt really good."
Han's grin brightens. "I'm glad. Here." He's shifting before you can say anything, climbing off the bed. A small whine leaves your lips as you watch him, wanting him close, but Han just smiles at you, moving quickly as he grabs some sweats from his closet and a towel.
"I'm gonna clean you, okay?" He says, moving back towards the bed.
You nod, shifting so he can clean you properly. He's gentle as he does, movements slow and tentative, and then, when he's done, he grabs the sweats.
"For you," he grins, "I thought you might like the smell of them."
You do. They smell like Han which is exactly what you want right now.
Han helps you slip the sweats on, telling you to lift your hips as he pulls them up. They're a little big, but you don't mind. Then, with that, he finally moves back beside you, moving to pull you into his arms.
It's then you catch sight of his hard-on.
"Oh," you breathe, "Hannie, you're..."
He catches your meaning. "It's fine."
"But don't youâ"
"Do you want to?" He cuts in gently, meeting your gaze.
You hesitate, and the answer is obvious enough.
"Then you don't have to," he smiles. "Tonight was about you."
He pulls you into his chest and you fall into his embrace, licking your lips. "It's really okay?"
"It is," Han assures, squeezing you closer against him. "I know it wasn't like that before, but you never have to do anything for us just because you think you should or as some sort of repayment, Y/N. I'm not saying I wouldn't like it, but I want it to be on your terms and your terms only, okay?"
Glancing up, you meet his eyes, smiling softly. "Okay, Hannie."
Pressing his cheek into the top of your head, Han hums lightly. "You promise that felt good?"
"I promise," you whisper, playing with his fingers. "I've never felt that good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you smile, nodding. "It felt good. The o-orgasm and being able to reclaim my own pleasure like that."
"I'm glad," Han says. "And thank you for trusting me with that."
You lean closer into him. "There's no one I'd trust more."
about: you start dating your old school's biggest fuck boy, someone doesn't seem to be happy about it.
warnings: smau, cursing, humor, fluff, angst. Bang Chan x Fem!Reader. James x Fem!Reader. Mentions of other idols: James - CORTIS, Martin - CORTIS, Giselle- AESPA.
a/n: ahhhh I finally made a slightly longer part (and changed the colors hehe) I hope you enjoy it!
disclaimer: This smau is fictional and written for entertainment only. The characters are not meant to represent the real people. Their actions and personalities in this story do not reflect who they are in real life or how I see them!
please do not interact with my posts or blog if you're a minor.
Hey, I know it says you're not taking requests right now, but I really need some comfort. My grandma died on the 4th of July and my cat died today and it was my fault and I want bangchan to tell me that it wasn't, so I feel less fucking guilty you can ignore this I know this is very very depressing. Thank you
grief
genre: hurt/comfort
warnings: mentions of death and crying, pet names.
masterlist
⥠⥠⥠⥠âĄ
you were stood in the kitchen when he came home. you were staring at the broken dish on the floor, wondering if anything else could possibly go wrong. this last month had been hell and chan was there for you every step of the way. he knew how much losing your grandma had upset you. has helped you grieve over these past weeks. and when your cat passed just yesterday, it felt like the whole world was falling apart.
you struggled to function. struggled to do anything other than lay in bed and cry. and he let you. it was only healthy to cry and let it out in times of grief. he just held you, gingerly rubbed your back, hummed a soft tune of something he and the boys had been working on recently. he would wipe your nose and hold you close and bring you food.
but today was different. today you actually felt good enough to get out of bed. well good isnât really the right word. everything still fuckin hurt. your heart was still broken. but you got up anyway. you took the longest shower and that helped you feel better a little bit more. âbaby stepsâ you told yourself. and with chan helping you do everything, some chores had fallen to the wayside. the sink was full of dishes.
you had decided while he was out, you would do them. it would be a way for you to feel useful again. for you to feel like youâre not burdening him. for you to get back to some form of normality. but of course, you dropped a dish. it shattered on the floor, the pieces sliding across the tile around your feet.
and you stood there and just stared at it. tears brimming your eyes again for what felt like the millionth time. the lock turned on the front door and chan stepped inside. his face lit up at the sight of you out of bed and in the kitchen. âhey baby. itâs good to see you up.â
your back was to him so he couldnât see your face. and the counter was blocking the view of the shattered dish. but he heard your sniffle. âbaby?â he asked. he walked around the counter and saw the sharp pieces around your feet. and just in time for him to catch you as you sobbed and your body crumpled.
âhey hey.. careful baby. donât step on that.â he lifted you effortlessly and spun you around to a safe part of the floor. he sat you down gingerly and you fell into his chest. he soothed you the best he could, his gentle fingers running up and down your back, his soft voice shushing you. âshh baby. youâre okay.â
âi am not okay.â you argued through your tears. âeverything i touch ends up destroyed.â
his heart broke at your words. he squeezed you tighter. âthatâs not true. youâre touching me right now. feel me? feel my heartbeat? iâm here with you. fully intact and not destroyed.â
âitâs all my fault..â you whispered. you looked up at him, wobbly lip and glassy eyes. âitâs all.. my fault.â
his thumb brushed across your cheek, catching the tears before they could drip on your shirt. âno itâs not.â he said softly. âunfortunately, life and death go hand in hand. you canât have one without the other. and it hurts. i know it hurts so so much. but it absolutely is not your fault. itâs just a part of life. but you have people to lean on. you have me to lean on. and we will get through it. together. but under no circumstances is this your fault.â
your head fell against his chest again, fresh sobs washing over you. you felt bad for soaking his shirt. felt sad that you couldnât smell his scent because your nose was so clogged. it felt like your life was falling apart and here you are, worried about crying on his shirt. you felt silly.
âletâs go lay down.â he suggested. âlet me tuck you in and then iâll come clean this up and get you a snack. yeah?â
you nodded. thankful for him.
âi love you baby. youâre gonna be okay. i promise.â
and you wanted to believe him. you chest hurt so bad, your nose was so clogged and your eyes burned. but you knew that the pain was temporary. that as long as you were with him, everything would be okay.
healing is hard. and grief is harder. but if you lean on the people who love you, let them help you carry the weight, things will get brighter.
⥠⥠⥠⥠âĄ
an: anon, i am so so terribly sorry that youâre going through this. i really hope this helps in some small way. if itâs any form of comfort, i believe that when itâs our time to go, whether human or animal, then thatâs our time. thereâs nothing to be done about it. itâs out of our control. itâs not your fault. if you need, my dms are always open. iâm here for you. everything is going to be okay.
ââșâč . ( fwb!chan ) being secretly fuck buddies with the most insufferable man in your friend group is undeniably messyâ and so, so good.
chan should be grateful that his dick is as big as his massive fucking ego.
itâs probably the only thing saving his ass from getting blockedâ or from you coming up with some lame excuse to never show up at the same group hangouts again. because god, what is it about him that just makes him unbearable? heâs cocky, loud, and has this stupid little smirk that drives you up the wall everytime he opens his mouth and says something smug or patronizing.
heâs like a walking reminder of everything that annoys you about peopleâ except that unfortunately, heâs also packing well below the waist. so fucking well.
youâre convinced the universe has some deep, twisted sense of humor for saddling you with mutual friends and a far better than expected sexual arrangement with the one guy you canât stand. no one knows about it, which is exactly how you like it.
you and chan make a mutual point of pretending not to give two shits about each other in public. you roll your eyes at his jokes, call him âchrisâ with that condescending tone that makes his nostrils flare, and he gives it back just as good: teasing you over everything from your choice of iced coffee to how long it takes you to get ready whenever the group plans a night out.
it works. the whole casual disdain thing keeps everything simple. boundaries unblurred. no feelings, no slippingâ just sex.
until youâre alone. until the door closes and he pushes you up against it, and itâs like all that mutual irritation boils over into something raw and unfiltered.
and you hate that youâre thinking about that very thing right now, awkwardly perched on your couch at midnight, scrolling through socials and trying not to think about how everyoneâs group chat plans for the weekend ended hours ago, leaving you bored as hell and way too aware of who you could text to fix it.
annoyingly, your pussy always betrays you first.
- - -
you sigh and glance at his contact.
your thumbs hover over the keyboard for all of ten seconds before your libido wins out:
you: you up? [1:11 am]
his reply buzzes in near instantly, which only confirms that heâs as irritatingly predictable as you figured.
your reply is flipping him off in spirit. but you donât send it. instead, you toss your phone onto the couch and head to check your reflection.
- - -
chan doesnât bother knocking anymore. the first time he did, you yanked open the door and told him to keep it the fuck down before a neighbor saw him. ever since, he just shoots you a text when heâs two minutes outâ his way of barely complying with your demands.
so when the door creaks open and you hear the heavy sigh of his exhale and the shuffle of his sneakers slipping off, you donât bother looking up from where youâre sitting on the armrest of the couch, legs crossed.
âtook you long enough,â you say in a bored tone, your eyes scanning him briefly. his loose gray hoodie hangs a little too perfectly off his shoulders, the fabric slung low enough to expose his collarbones just slightly, and his sweats hug him dangerously low on the hips. he looks too good, and you hate him for it.
âyou texted me, sweetheart,â he replies nonchalantly, rubbing the back of his neck. âitâs not like i planned this.â
you scoff. âyeah, keep telling yourself that. pretty sure i couldâve offered to meet you in a dumpster and you still wouldâve shown up.â
chan laughs at that, shaking his head as he steps closer, towering over where youâre seated. âsuch a brat,â he mutters, his tone carrying just a faint edge.
âbig words for someone who practically just sprinted here because he wanted to fuck me so bad,â you say, standing up slowly to match his energy.
his jaw ticks slightly, a small smirk turns up the corner of his lips. ânah, you might want to double-check. youâre the one who texted me.â
your nails brush over the front of his hoodie as you lean in, mock sweet. âand you still showed up, didnât you?â
his dark brown eyes flash. âyouâve got one hell of a mouth on you, y/n. gonna do something about it tonight?â
you laugh, shoving lightly at his chest. âgonna cry if i donât?â you sneer.
his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist before you can pull back, yanking you flush against him. the sudden movement makes your stomach flip, and his cocky grin only grows wider at the way you falter for all of half a second before regaining your composure.
ânah,â he hums lowly. âbut you will.â
your eyes narrow at the bold claim, irritation bubbling faintly in your chest as his condescending tone makes your thighs clench.
âall talk, chris,â you snap back.
âyou sure about that, sweetheart?â he murmurs, pressing your wrist back gently enough to pin you against the edge of the couch, your lower back bumping against the armrest.
âyeah,â you say defiantly, even as you feel the burn of smug satisfaction sizzle beneath your skin.
his smirk tightens further.
âguess iâll have to shut you up, then.â
- - -
you hadnât planned to fold so fastâ you always make him work for it, finding at least three more ways to drag out the inevitable just to see him get impatient.
but heâs strong. so much stronger than youâll ever admit to him, and itâs hard to stay cocky when his hands are skimming your thighs, lifting you onto the couch with ease and forcing your legs apart with unrelenting patience.
âall this attitude, but youâre already dripping all over me,â chan teases lowly, his palm brushing roughly against the damp patch clinging to your panties. you squirm, fire licking every inch of your body as his fingers press more firmly against your core, the friction making your head spin.
âfuck off,â you snap, still stubborn despite how much your bodyâs trembling under his touch.
he laughs, deep and low, with this devastating rasp that makes you see red. ânah, baby. you need to be fucked,â he taunts, his thumb circling your puffy clit now, his free hand pinning your hips down to keep you from jerking away.
you bite your lip, refusing to make a sound even when molten heat shoots through you at his precision, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
but chan sees right through you.
âwhatâs wrong, princess?â he coos mockingly, his lips inching closer to yours. âtoo stubborn to beg for what you want?â his thumb presses down harder, rubbing insistently as your hips jerk into his hand.
the teasing is too much now, his cocky tone fanning the flames in your stomach until thereâs no escape.
âfuck you, chris,â you finally spit out, grinding against his hand, but the words are a little breathless now and less convincing.
his lips slam into yours before you can fight back, the kiss rough and heated, his teeth dragging against your bottom lip before biting down gently and pulling back.
âfine. iâll fuck you any way you want, baby- but keep acting like a brat, and donât be surprised when you get treated like one,â chan growls, snapping your panties to the side to drag his cock through your soaked folds.
your breath catches, something sharp twisting through your chest as his tip glides over your clit, every nerve ending firing all at once.
âyouâre fucking insufferable,â you mutter, even as youâre spreading your legs wider for him.
âyou love it,â he says smugly, and youâd snap back if he didnât suddenly drive his cock into you so roughly you choke on your own gasp of pure pleasure.
your head tilts back against the cushion, every inch of his thick cock dragging through your walls slowly, deliberately stretching you out in that way that never fails to knock the breath out of you.
âshiiiit, princess- you always feel so good,â chan groans low in his chest, his fingers bruising against your thighs as he holds them apart.
all talk, you thinkâ or you try to thinkâ right before he pulls out completely and slams his hips back into yours with enough force to make your body jolt, a broken moan spilling from your mouth before you can bite it back.
âwhatâs that? not so mouthy now, are you?â his words are sharp, teasing, filthy. you claw for some semblance of control, but itâs ripped away everytime his cock drives against your g-spot, hitting so deep itâs got you squirming and gasping just to keep up.
and by the time his hand snakes to your throat, squeezing gently just to quiet the cries spilling from your lips, heâs already got you exactly where he wants you.
ik some ppl donât like when others write chan as mean or an asshole but i gen donât care bc this is #fiction and i also have free will so >.< (also um, thanks for 200 alrdy ?? very cool, thank u random horny strangers)
