᭙ʜᴇɴ ⸝⸝ chan finally decides to make a move on his recent crush, his friends convinced him he could have a chance. except you turn him down thinking he was a fake account pretending to be him.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ │ smau, humor, fluff, cursing, very romantic chan, very chaotic reader
⟶ [ 𝐤𝐚𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ] kinda inspired by that lady who did like a 9 part series about thinking she was messaging chan… ♡ ︎ [ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢 ]
authors note: oh i had way too much fun writing this 🥹 i just keep imagining chan as a dad in the future and him getting cuteness aggression DAILY. ugh adorable 😭💕 happy reading!
summary: Bang Chan completely loses his composure to overwhelming cuteness aggression when he sees his daughter dressed as a little wolf, melting into a soft, protective dad as he cherishes their little family moment.
warnings: none just pure fluff and chan getting cuteness aggression 😆
Masterlist.
Bang Chan liked to think he was a composed man.
As a leader, as a producer, as a father—he prided himself on being dependable, steady, in control.
But that image shattered instantly the moment he walked into the living room that evening.
Because standing there—no, wobbling there—was his daughter.
Dressed as a little wolf.
Specifically his own beloved character, Wolf Chan.
“…What.”
His voice came out quieter than he intended, like the air had been punched out of him.
You stood beside her, phone already in hand, clearly waiting for this exact reaction. “Surprise?”
Chan blinked once.
Twice.
He looked at his daughter again.
She had on a soft gray onesie with little paw mittens, a fluffy tail sewn onto the back, and—God help him—a hood with small wolf ears that kept slipping slightly over her eyes.
“…What,” he repeated, this time with more emotion.
“Baby Wolf Chan,” you said proudly, crouching down to adjust the hood. “Do you like it?”
Your daughter let out a tiny, proud “Awooo!” that sounded more like a confused squeak.
Chan physically staggered back a step.
“No,” he said immediately.
You frowned. “No?”
He pressed a hand to his chest like he was in pain. “I don’t like it.”
Your heart dropped for half a second—
—and then he lunged forward, scooping your daughter into his arms so fast she squealed.
“I love it,” he groaned, nuzzling his face into her cheek. “I love it too much. This is dangerous. This is actually dangerous.”
You snorted. “Cuteness aggression?”
“I’m going to explode,” he said seriously, hugging her tighter—but still gentle, always gentle. “I’m actually going to explode. Why is she like this?”
Your daughter giggled, grabbing onto his hoodie strings with her mitten paws.
“Because she’s your daughter,” you said.
“That’s exactly the problem,” Chan replied, staring at her like she’d personally ruined his life.
-
Chan sat down on the couch with her still in his arms, staring at her like he was trying to memorize every single detail.
“She has a tail,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“She has paws.”
“Yes, Chan.”
“She just barked at me.”
“That was an awooo.”
He looked at you, eyes wide. “She awooo’d at me.”
Your daughter, as if understanding she was the center of attention, lifted her arms and made another tiny “Awoo!”
Chan made a strangled noise.
“Oh my God.”
He buried his face into her shoulder, mumbling something incoherent.
You laughed. “You’re not handling this well.”
“I’m handling this too well,” he shot back, lifting his head. “That’s the issue. I have too much love in my body right now.”
He poked her little mitten paw.
“Look at this. Look at her. Why is she so small?”
“She’s literally a toddler.”
“She’s smaller today.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is,” he insisted. “She got smaller. And fluffier. And—” he squeezed his eyes shut—“I can’t do this.”
Your daughter leaned forward and bonked her forehead against his chin.
Chan froze.
“…She just headbutted me.”
You grinned. “Wolf behavior.”
“I raised her wrong,” he said immediately, but his voice was full of fondness.
-
“Okay, okay,” you said, clapping your hands. “Stand up. We’re doing a photoshoot.”
Chan didn’t even argue. That’s how you knew he was completely gone.
“Do I get props?” he asked, already adjusting her hood again.
“Yes,” you said, tossing him a small Wolf Chan. “Hold this.”
He took it carefully, placing it in your daughter’s lap.
She immediately tried to eat its ear.
“Accurate,” Chan nodded.
You started snapping pictures.
“Chan, look here—”
He turned, but not before kissing her cheek.
Click.
“Chan, serious face—”
He tried. He really did. But your daughter grabbed his nose with both mitten paws.
Click.
You burst out laughing. “That’s the one.”
“I can’t be serious,” he complained. “She’s holding my nose hostage.”
Your daughter squealed triumphantly.
“Say awooo!” you encouraged.
“Awoo!” she chirped.
Chan lost it again.
“I’m done. I’m actually done. I’m not surviving this.”
He hugged her tightly, rocking slightly side to side.
“You’re too cute,” he mumbled. “You’re illegally cute. I’m calling the authorities.”
-
At some point, Chan just… stopped functioning normally.
He sat on the floor with her between his legs, hands hovering around her like she might suddenly vanish.
“Don’t let anyone see her,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“They’ll steal her.”
“Chan.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “If anyone sees this—this tiny wolf situation—they’re going to try to take her. I would.”
You laughed. “You already have her.”
“I would take her again.”
“That’s kidnapping.”
“It’s worth it.”
You shook your head, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”
He looked down at her again.
She was busy trying to chase her own tail.
“…She doesn’t even know she’s cute,” he whispered.
“That’s the cutest part.”
“I can’t handle that,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s too much.”
-
“Okay,” Chan suddenly said, sitting up straighter. “We need to train her properly.”
You blinked. “Train her?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “She’s a wolf. She needs to awooo correctly.”
Your daughter looked up at him like she understood.
“Awoo,” he demonstrated, softly.
She blinked.
“Awoo,” he repeated.
“Awoo!” she replied, louder this time.
Chan gasped.
“Did you hear that?!”
“I heard it,” you said, laughing.
“She’s learning so fast,” he said, voice full of pride. “She’s a genius.”
“She said one word.”
“It’s an important word.”
Your daughter clapped for herself.
Chan clapped too.
“Good job, baby,” he said, kissing her head. “Best awooo ever.”
-
It happened when she got sleepy.
One moment she was running around in her little Wolf Chan outfit, the next she was waddling back toward Chan, rubbing her eyes with her mitten paws.
“Up,” she mumbled.
Chan froze.
“You want me?” he asked softly.
She nodded, reaching for him.
That was it.
That was the moment.
He picked her up gently, cradling her against his chest.
She immediately tucked her face into his shoulder, her little tail resting against his arm.
Chan didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t speak.
You watched quietly.
“…She’s falling asleep,” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
“In the Wolf Chan costume.”
“Yeah.”
He swallowed.
“This is the cutest thing that’s ever happened in human history.”
You smiled.
“She trusts me,” he said, voice softer now.
“She does.”
He looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
“I don’t deserve this.”
“Hey,” you said gently.
He shook his head. “No, I mean it. Look at her. She’s so small. And she’s mine.”
“And mine,” you added.
“And yours,” he corrected quickly.
There was a pause.
“She’s our little wolf.”
You nodded.
“Our little wolf.”
-
Later, after you changed her out of the costume and put her to bed, Chan stayed in her room longer than usual.
He stood by the crib, just watching her sleep.
You leaned against the doorframe.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
He nodded, but didn’t look away.
“She was so happy today,” he said.
“She was.”
“She loves you,” he added.
“And you.”
He smiled slightly.
“I think I love her more every day.”
“That’s how it works.”
He finally turned to you.
“…What if I run out of space?”
You blinked. “What?”
“For loving her,” he said, completely serious. “What if there’s too much?”
You walked over, taking his hand.
“That’s not how love works.”
He squeezed your hand.
“Good,” he said softly.
-
As you both turned to leave, a tiny voice stopped you.
“…Awoo.”
You both froze.
Slowly, you turned back.
Your daughter was still asleep.
But somehow—half-dreaming—she had made the softest little awooo sound.
Chan covered his mouth.
“No,” he whispered. “No, she didn’t just do that.”
You laughed quietly. “She did.”
He looked like he might cry.
“I’m not strong enough for this,” he said.
“Yes, you are.”
He shook his head, smiling helplessly.
“…Our little wolf.”
You leaned against him.
“Our little wolf.”
And from that day on, Chan never fully recovered from the cuteness aggression.
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which you haven’t seen your rockstar boyfriend in months thanks to your conflicting schedules, so you decide to surprise him at his show.
or… two people. an empty dressing room. one couch. the room’s getting a little hotter… isn’t it?
rockstar! bang chan x volleyball captain f! reader · category : smut & fluff · contents : a sequel to ‘LOVERS ROCK’. feat. itzy’s ryujin and chaeryeong. cameo(s) : changbin and han. soft!dom chan. strong language. unprotected sex. making out. fingering. size kink. dirty talk. breast play. praise kink. hickeys. implied multiple rounds. this story is purely a work of fiction and for entertainment purposes only. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 8.7k
💬 … lynsbng speaking ⸝⸝ this fic is dedicated to @kloversung and her immense love for rockstar!chan. 😛
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THE THING ABOUT FAME… your version of it, anyway… was that it followed you everywhere. it didn’t announce itself with trumpets or fanfare. it just… accumulated. like dust settling on untouched surfaces, like static humming beneath the silence, like something that had been stitched to your skin so long ago you had stopped noticing the threads, stopped pulling the pull, stopped feeling the pull stopped remembering what it felt like to move through the world without it.
even on your days off. even in the dark. even… here, in the shadows of a concert hall where you had hoped, naively, perhaps, to simply disappear into the crowd and watch the man you love do what he was born to do.
you were learning this now, weaving through the crowd outside the venue with ryujin on your left and chaeryeong on your right, acting as your unofficial bodyguards. they moved with the easy awareness of athletes; shoulders back, eyes scanning, creating a pocket of space around you that felt almost like privacy. ryujin’s hand hovered near your elbow, ready to steer, while chaeryeong’s gaze tracked the crowd like she was reading a defense, looking for openings, for threats, for the quickest path through.
it had been three months since the national championships. three months since that final point, that perfect spike, that suspended moment when the ball left your hand and you knew, with the bone-deep certainty that only years of practice could bring, that it was over. three months since the arena erupted, since your teammates buried you under a pile of bodies and screams, since your face ended up on every sports broadcast in the country.
three months of this… the recognition, the requests, the constant, exhausting being seen.
a girl in the crowd caught your eye and froze, her mouth falling open in recognition. you looked away just in time, letting ryujin's shoulder block her line of sight, and kept moving toward the doors. the bass from inside vibrated through the concrete, a low thrum you felt in your teeth.
you almost made it.
"y/n! oh my god, y/n, can we get a photo?"
you stopped. closed your eyes for half a second. then you turned, and you smiled.
it was genuine, mostly—you were grateful, really, you were. grateful for the support, for the fans who had watched you climb your way to the top, for the strangers who screamed your name like you mattered to them. but there was a thread of exhaustion woven through that smile, thin but undeniable, a weariness that three months of this had knitted into your bones.
“of course! c’mere, kiddo!”
ryujin stepped back to give you space, her eyes still scanning, still vigilant. she had done this a hundred times—on courts, in arenas, in the chaos of victory and defeat. she knew how to protect without hovering, how to guard without suffocating. chaeryeong was already on her phone, probably documenting this for posterity, because that was just who she was. your own personal historian, recording everything for reasons she never quite explained.
the girl who asked—barely sixteen, trembling with the kind of excitement that made you feel impossibly old, held up her phone. you leaned in, smiled, counted to three. the flash bloomed white behind your eyes, leaving spots in your vision.
"thank you so much! i'm your biggest fan! i watched every match of the tournament!"
"that means so much," you beamed, and it did. it always did. every fan was a reminder that you weren't just playing for yourself, that your sport meant something to people, that the hours of sweat and pain and sacrifice had built something larger than a trophy.
however, they were over thirty other people now, drawn by the commotion like moths to flame, and you could feel the crowd pressing in.
more photos. more signatures. more smiles. a boy asked you to sign his arm, and you did, your sharpie squeaking against his skin in a way that made you wince internally. a girl wanted a selfie for her lock screen, then burst into tears afterward. a couple asked if you'd record a video congratulating their friend on his birthday… and you did, your voice bright and warm even as your throat began to ache.
you did all of it. the whole performance. your face ached from the effort of holding the same pleasant expression, your voice grew hoarse from repeating the same grateful phrases, and somewhere inside you, a small, tired part of yourself wondered if this was what it felt like to be eaten alive.
not that you were alone in this. ryujin and chaeryeong moved through the crowd with the same practiced ease, the same automatic smiles, the same weary grace. they had been here just as long as you had; three months of interviews and endorsements and strangers wanting pieces of them. three months of being recognized in grocery stores, of having their meals interrupted for photos, of watching their private lives become public property.
chaeryeong appeared at your elbow like an answer to a prayer you hadn't quite dared to voice. her hand found the small of your back, a brief pressure, a signal, an anchor, and when she spoke, her voice carried that particular calm that came from years of navigating chaos alongside you, "we should head in. show starts in twenty."
you nodded, careful not to let the relief bleed too visibly into your features. "i'm so sorry," you murmured to the crowd, and your voice carried that warm, honeyed quality that interviewers always fawned over–genuine, they called it. approachable. the girl next door who happens to be a national champion. "we have to go. thank you all, really."
they let you pass, mostly, though hands reached out to touch your arms, your shoulders, like you were something sacred. you had gotten used to this too… the way people wanted to claim a piece of you, as if proximity alone might transfer some of whatever it was they saw in you. a woman grabbed your wrist, her nails digging in, and you had to gently extract yourself. a man shouted something about your legs, about the skirt you were wearing, and you pretended not to hear.
you'd learned that too. the art of selective deafness. the way to let comments slide off your skin like water drops, like they hadn't landed at all, like you couldn't feel them burrowing under your flesh and nesting there for later, for 3 a.m., for the moments when you were alone. you couldn’t quite understand the enormous hype over you. you were just an athlete, not some a-list celebrity.
inside, the hall was cavernous and dim, the kind of dark that made you feel like you could finally exhale. the opening act's equipment was still being cleared from the stage; roadies moving with practiced efficiency, coiling cables, breaking down drum kits, vanishing into the wings with armfuls of gear.
you followed your teammates into the vip standing pit, letting them carve a path through the packed floor until you found your pocket of space. it was close, so close you could see the wires snaking across the stage, the gaffer tape holding them down, the tiny leds blinking on the pedalboard. up close, the magic of a rock concert was just… infrastructure. just cables, monitors, and the scuffed floor where roadies had walked a thousand times, back and forth.
however, you knew better. you knew what happened when the lights hit. when he, along with his band, appeared.
"you okay?" ryujin asked, settling beside you. she was wearing a cropped jacket and high-waisted pants, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. she always looked put together, even in casual moments. you envied that about her.
"just tired." you ran a hand through your hair, careful not to mess it up too much. you had spent an hour getting ready tonight, and not just because you hadn't seen chan in months. you wanted to make an impact. wanted him to look at you and forget, for just a moment, that he was standing in front of fifteen thousand people.
the black tube top was new. a purchase you'd made on a whim last week, something silky and stretchy that hugged your curves in all the right places. it had caught your eye in a boutique window, mannequin staring blankly at the street, and you walked in before you could talk yourself out of it.
for what? a voice in your head had asked, the one that sounded suspiciously like your mother, always complaining about the entirety of your life decisions. you had never worn something like this before. never had the nerve, never really had the occasion–
eh, whatever. it looks good on me anyway.
and it did. you had to give yourself that. self love at its finest.
the skirt was scandalous, even by your standards: a tiny thing in dark denim that rode high on your thighs, leaving little to the imagination, the hem grazing the midpoint of your upper legs. you had paired it with heeled boots that laced up to your knees, making your legs look impossibly long. you had looked at yourself in the mirror before leaving your apartment and thought: this should do it.
you had also thought about chan's hands on your thighs. about the way he used to look at you when you wore anything that screamed you—that slow, appreciative gaze that started at your face and traveled down, down, down, like he was memorizing every inch. about the things he would whisper later, when it was just the two of you, his lips pressed against your skin and his hands exactly where you wanted them—
okay, stop. you’re in public. be normal for once.
chaeryeong leaned past ryujin to look at you. her eyes traveled down your body, and she let out a low whistle. "you look amazing, by the way. like… damn! chan’s really lucky to bag this baddie! he's going to lose his entire mind."
"that's the goal," you tried to sound casual, like you hadn’t spent an hour freaking out over this exact outcome.
"you didn't tell him you were coming?" ryujin inquired, catching on.
you shook your head. "wanted to surprise him."
ryujin raised an eyebrow, that single arch doing more than words ever could. a mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, "you think he'll be surprised?"
you thought about chan. about the way he noticed everything—the way your smile changed when you were tired, the way you chewed your lip when you were nervous, the way you moved through a room like you owned it even when you felt like you didn't. you thought about the months apart, the phone calls at odd hours, the way his voice went soft when he said your name.
you thought about the skirt, the boots, and the top… it was a carefully planned seduction.
"i think…” a tiny simper slowly spread across your lips, “he’ll be something.”
chaeryeong cackled, loud and bright, earning a few glances from the people around you. "oh, he'll definitely be something,” she mimed, fanning herself, “something that is definitely not family friendly.”
you laughed despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. this was why you brought them everywhere. this was why you loved them.
before you could continue your friendly banter, the lights went down.
it wasn’t gradual, no slow fade, no gentle dimming. one moment the stage was bathed in the warm glow of house lights, revealing empty monitors and waiting instruments. the next, complete and total darkness, so absolute it felt like being swallowed whole.
the crowd screamed.
fifteen thousand voices, rising as one, a single living creature with fifteen thousand throats. the sound hit you like a wave, a physical force, pushing against your chest, vibrating in your ears. around you, bodies pressed closer, phones lifted high, recording a moment that would live forever in pixels and memories.
and then—
a single guitar note, ringing out in the darkness. pure. clean. suspended in the air like a held breath.
another. different this time, lower, a promise of what was coming.
the drummer, seo changbin, counted in; four beats, sharp and precise, that you felt in your bones before you heard them with your ears. the bassist, han jisung, joined, low and thrumming, and you could feel it vibrating through the floor, up through the soles of your boots, settling somewhere deep in your chest where it tangled with your heartbeat.
the crowd screamed even louder. you swore your eardrums were pretty much damaged at this point.
then the lights came up… and there he was.
bang chan. your beloved, obviously hot boyfriend. the man you hadn't touched in two months, two weeks, and three days.
he stood center stage, guitar slung low on his hips, one hand raised in acknowledgment of the roar that greeted him. the lights hit him from every angle, catching the sweat already beading on his forehead, his gorgeous blonde hair falling in perfect disarray, along with the sharp line of his jaw.
he was wearing black jeans, ripped at the knees, the fabric frayed and soft-looking from years of wear, from countless performances. a silver chain hung around his neck, catching the light with every movement, drawing your eye to the hollow of his throat, to the collarbone you had kissed and sucked a thousand times.
and a vest… just a vest, hanging over his chest, unbuttoned, revealing the entire expanse of his godly built torso.
no shirt underneath. you could see everything.
the cut of his abs, the way the muscles moved beneath his skin as he shifted his weight, as his fingers found the strings, as his body fell into the rhythm of the opening song; a living map of strength and grace, every flex and release of a language you had once been fluent in. the smooth expanse of his chest rose and fell with each breath, unmarked, untouched, waiting.
he looked like a god.
he looked like yours.
girl fucking dinner.
"seoul!" his voice filled the space, rough and electric, amplified by speakers the size of small cars. it bounced off the walls, off the ceiling, off the twenty thousand screaming fans who answered him with a roar that shook the floor beneath your feet. "how we feeling tonight?"
the crowd answered. fifteen thousand voices, screaming as one; a wall of sound so intense you felt it in your teeth, in your bones, in the places where your heartbeat had taken up residence.
and then the first song hit, and you forgot to think at all.
he was magnetic. you knew this, of course—you had known it since the first time you saw him on stage, approximately a year ago, before you even knew his name, before he became the person you texted good morning and good night. you had been at that concert with friends, just another face in the crowd, and you had watched him perform and thought: that man is going to be super famous. that man is going to be something… a world-renowned rockstar.
you hadn't known then that he would become yours.
but watching him now, after months apart, was like seeing him for the first time all over again.
he moved across the stage like he owned it, like he was born for this exact moment, in this exact light. his body was a weapon and an instrument all at once, every gesture precise and powerful. when he jumped, you could see the muscles in his thighs bunch and release. when he dropped to his knees at the edge of the stage, you could see the sweat dripping down his chest, catching the spotlights, glittering like diamonds.
you found yourself gripping the metal railing before you too hard, your knuckles white.
down, girl, you thought. there are children present.
you shoved her back, but you couldn't stop staring. couldn't tear your eyes away from the way he moved, the way he commanded the stage, the way his voice wrapped around every note like it was born there. fifteen thousand people screamed his name, and all you could think was how lucky you are to be his. how you can’t wait to reunite with him.
how you can’t wait to—
ahem, moving on.
the set continued. song after song, each one better than the last. he addressed the crowd between tracks, his voice breathless and intimate, like he was sharing secrets instead of performing for thousands. he told a story about writing one of the songs at 3 am, alone in his studio, missing someone.
you knew that someone was you.
your heart clenched.
at one point he crouched at the edge of the stage, reaching out to touch hands in the front row. you watched the way fans nearly fainted at the contact, the way their faces transformed with the sheer impossibility of being close to him. a girl was crying. a boy was screaming so hard his voice cracked. chan smiled at theml, and you felt a surge of something complicated—pride, yes, but also a fierce protectiveness. he was yours, and you had to share him with all these people.
however, that was the deal. you had known it from the beginning.
and then—
he was mid-song, halfway through a track you recognized as one he had written late at night in his studio, with you curled up on the couch behind him. you remembered that night: the way he had kept turning around to look at you, as if checking that you were still there. the way he had played the same chord progression over and over until it was perfect. the way he had finally given up and crossed the room to kiss you, pulling you onto his lap, burying his face in your neck.
the lyrics were about longing, about distance, about wanting someone you couldn't reach. you had heard it a hundred times, in recordings and soundchecks and quiet acoustic versions played just for you. but tonight, in this context, it hit differently.
it hit like a fist to the chest.
his eyes scanned the crowd as he sang. casual at first, the way performers did; sweeping across the sea of faces, never landing anywhere for long.
and then they landed on you.
you saw the exact moment he registered what he was seeing. his eyes widened—just slightly, just for a fraction of a second, a flicker so brief that anyone else would have missed it. but you had been watching him for years. you knew every micro-expression, every subtle shift, every tiny tell that gave away what he was really thinking.
his mouth opened to form the next word, but there was a beat of silence before it came out. a hitch. a stumble. a pause so small it barely existed, but you felt it like a skip in your own heartbeat.
he recovered instantly, because he was a professional, because he had been doing this long enough that muscle memory carried him through. however, his gaze stayed on you, and you watched something shift in his expression.
hunger. that was the only word for it. a raw, undisguised hunger that made your breath catch and your skin prickle with awareness. he was devouring you with his eyes, the top that hugged your perfect curves, the boots, and the fucking skirt… he was cataloging every detail, every inch of skin, every choice you had made for him.
and of course, you were letting him. you indulged in it.
the song continued. he kept singing, kept performing, kept doing the thing he was born to do. however, his attention was fractured now, split between the twenty thousand people screaming his name and the one person in the vip pit who mattered most. every few lines, his eyes found you again. lingering. burning. traveling down your body in a way that made you feel stripped bare, even though you were fully clothed.
two months, two weeks, and three days of texting, video calls, and i miss yous. two months, two weeks, and three days of sleeping alone, of reaching for someone who wasn't there, of pretending that distance didn't feel like a small death every single day.
and now he was looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive.
you could technically, shamelessly, feel the gush of wetness between your legs.
pushing certain feelings aside, you lifted your hand to your lips, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his eyes followed the movement. you pressed your fingers to your mouth, held them there for just a moment, before blowing
his jaw tightened. you watched the muscle jump beneath his skin, watched him physically restrain himself from whatever instinct was screaming through him. he turned away, facing the other side of the stage, but not before you saw the smirk tugging at his mouth.
oh, you were in huge trouble.
ryujin was losing her mind beside you. you could hear it in the high-pitched wheeze of her laughter, feel it in the way she gripped your arm hard enough to bruise. chaeryeong had her phone out, because of course she did, because this was the kind of moment that demanded documentation, that would live forever in their group chat, that would be pulled out at parties, weddings, and funerals for the rest of your lives.
you didn't care.
you were too busy watching the back of his head, the line of his shoulders, the way he held himself differently now that he knew you were here. the performance continued—he was too professional for it not to, yet there was something else threading through it now. something sharper. hungrier.
something that belonged only to you.
THREE MORE SONGS, you counted them. each one felt like foreplay.
he performed a track that required him to lie on the stage, his chest heaving, his eyes closed, one arm thrown over his face. you watched the way his stomach moved with each breath, the way the sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. when he sat up, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and he pushed it back with a gesture that was so casual, so unconscious, that it felt almost private.
he performed a song that required him to stand at the front of the stage, gripping the mic stand like he was holding on for dear life, his voice raw and beautiful and cracking just enough at the edges to make it real. you remembered him singing this one to you in the dark, his lips against your ear, his hands on your hips, the words meant for you and you alone. you shifted where you stood, suddenly aware of how warm it was in here, of how the skirt felt shorter than it had an hour ago, of how his eyes kept finding you even as he sang to everyone.
and then, near the end of the set, he stepped to the front of the stage and raised a hand.
the crowd muted, anticipatory. fifteen people, silent in an instant, hanging on his next word.
"i wanna talk about something," he said, his voice softer now. intimate. the lights dimmed around him, leaving him in a single spotlight, isolated, and vulnerable. "this next song is about someone special. someone who's been with me through a lot of late nights and early mornings. someone who…"
he paused, and his eyes found you again. "i haven't seen in way too long."
the crowd murmured, a wave of curiosity rippling through the arena. phones rose in the air, a constellation of screens recording a moment none of them fully understood.
"she's here tonight."
the scream that went up was deafening. you felt ryujin grab your arm, shaking you hard enough to rattle your teeth, and chaeryeong was screaming too, high-pitched and delighted, her phone now definitely pointed at you instead of the stage, capturing every second of this moment that would live forever in your shared history.
people were looking around, trying to figure out who, where, which one of us; heads turning, phones swiveling, a wave of confusion and curiosity sweeping through the vip pit.
and then—
"y/n."
he said your name like it was a prayer. like it was the only word that mattered in any language, in any world, in any lifetime. it dropped into the silence between his sentences and landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through the crowd.
"my girlfriend." his voice was warm, intimate, even amplified to twenty thousand people. "my national champion. the most beautiful woman in this room.”
the screaming intensified. you could feel your face heating, could feel every eye in the venue turning toward you—not just the vip pit now, but the entire arena, fifteen thousand people all looking in the same direction, all searching for the woman who had just been named.
“can we get her up here?”
the spotlight swung.
it found you, blinding you for a moment, white light searing against your retinas. you blinked against it, raised a hand to shield your eyes, and then you found yourself walking towards the stage (when had you started walking?), your heart pounding in your throat so hard you could taste it, metallic and electric.
the aisle seemed endless. each step stretched into eternity, the distance between you and him both agonizing and exquisite. people reached out to touch you as you passed, and you let them, your hand brushing against theirs, fingers grazing fingers, but you couldn't look away from him. couldn't tear your gaze from the man waiting at the edge of the stage, one hand extended toward you like an invitation, like a promise, like a homecoming.
security helped you up the side steps. hands guided you, steadying you as you climbed, but you barely registered them; barely registered anything except the figure waiting for you at the top, silhouetted against the lights, his hand extended toward you like a lifeline.
the stage was brighter than you had expected. hotter. the lights beat down like a second sun, pressing against your skin, making everything feel slightly surreal. you could see the crowd now, spread out before you like an ocean, endless and overwhelming in a way you hadn't anticipated. fifteen thousand faces, all looking at you. fifteen thousand phones, all recording. fifteen thousand strangers, witnessing something you had thought would always remain private.
and then chan's hand closed around your wrist and pulled you to him.
he was real. he was real. you could feel the heat of him through your clothes, could smell the sweat, his cologne, and the something that was just him that you had been missing for months. his skin was slick under your palms. his heart hammered against your chest, a wild rhythm that matched your own. and he was smiling down at you like you were the answer to every question he had ever asked, like the universe had finally given him exactly what he wanted, like all the waiting and the distance and the late-night phone calls had been worth it just for this moment.
his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. you could feel every inch of him: the hard planes of his chest, the solid warmth of his thigh against yours, the way his fingers dug into your hip like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. like he was still convincing himself you were real.
he then tossed his microphone.
you heard it clatter somewhere behind him, heard the crowd's surprised laughter ripple through the arena, but you couldn't look away from him. couldn't tear your gaze from his face, from his eyes, from the way he was looking at you like nothing else in the world existed.
and then he kissed you.
it was soft. gentle, even. his lips were warm and slightly salty from sweat, and he cradled your face in his hands like you were something precious, something breakable, something he had been waiting his entire life to hold. his thumbs traced your cheekbones as he kissed you, slow and sweet, and you could feel him smiling against your mouth—that smile, the one that was just for you, the one that meant he was exactly where he wanted to be.
the crowd lost its collective mind.
you couldn't hear them. couldn't hear anything except the rush of blood in your ears and the soft sound of his breath against your lips. the fifteen thousand screaming fans faded into white noise, into static, into nothing at all. there was only him. only his mouth on yours, only the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the universe, only the desperate, aching relief of finally being able to touch him again.
you reciprocated his kiss with everything you had—two months, two weeks, and three days of longing poured into a single moment. your hands palmed against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath your palms, feeling the heat of his skin through the open vest, feeling every rapid breath he took against your lips.
his hand slid into your hair, tilting your head back just slightly, and he deepened the kiss just enough to make your knees weak. just enough to remind you what you had been missing. just enough to make promises that words couldn't carry.
when you finally pulled apart (breathing was still a thing humans needed to do), he rested his forehead against yours. his breath came in hard, uneven gasps, mingling with yours in the small space between you. his eyes were bright, almost wet, and you could see the promise in them.
later, that look said. clear as words, clear as a vow, clear as everything you had been waiting for. just wait.
THE CONCERT ENDED TOO FAST. one moment, you were on stage, wrapped in his arms, the taste of him still on your tongue. the next, the lights were coming up and the band was taking their final bows.
you had found your way back to your friends. the crowd filtered out slowly, still buzzing, still screaming, still riding the high of a performance that had been nothing short of transcendent. you found ryujin and chaeryeong in the aftermath, pushed to the edge of the chaos, both of them vibrating with excitement. ryujin's hair had escaped its ponytail, dark strands framing her face in sweaty disarray. chaeryeong's cheeks were flushed with the effort of screaming for two hours straight, but her grin was absolutely feral.
"go," ryujin said, before you could even ask. she was already pushing you toward the backstage entrance, her hands firm against your shoulders. "we'll find our own way back. go see your boyfriend."
"you sure?" you looked between them, guilt flickering even through the haze of longing. they had come with you, after all. they had helped you navigate through the crowd, protected you from the chaos, and stood by your side at all cost. leaving them felt almost wrong.
chaeryeong waved her phone vaguely. “just go!"
you hugged them both, quick and fierce, breathing in their familiar scents—ryujin's expensive perfume, chaeryeong's vanilla lotion, and you were already moving through the chaos backstage, following a staff member who led you through a maze of corridors.
the backstage area was a different world: concrete floors and bare bulbs, cables snaking along the walls, road cases stacked in corners with stickers from a hundred different venues. you passed crew members carrying equipment, people on headsets murmuring instructions, exhausted-looking staff who nodded at you with the blank acknowledgment of those who had been working for eighteen hours straight. no one stopped you. no one asked for credentials. maybe they knew who you were. maybe they just didn't care.
"his dressing room is down that hall." the staff member gestured vaguely towards a corridor that looked exactly like every other corridor… very helpful, you mentally face-palmed yourself. "last door on the left. he should be there in a few minutes. he's still doing meet and greets."
you nodded, throat tight, "thank you."
she smiled, small yet genuine, and disappeared back the way you came, leaving you alone in the hushed stillness of the backstage corridor.
the hallway was empty now, quiet in a way that felt almost surreal after the chaos of the last few hours. the sound of the crowd had faded to a distant hum, muffled by concrete walls and closed doors and the strange, suspended quiet that existed backstage. your heels clicked against the concrete floor, each step echoing off the walls, a rhythmic counterpoint to your heart—which was pounding louder, harder, faster with every step toward that unremarkable door at the end of the hall.
you were suddenly, acutely aware of everything.
how short your skirt was. how much skin it left exposed—thighs bare, hips bare, the hem riding higher with each step. how the black tube top hugged every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination. how the boots made your legs look impossibly long, how they clicked against the floor with a confidence you weren't sure you actually felt.
how the air felt cool against your heated skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.
you were halfway down the hall—maybe a little more, maybe twenty feet from his door, when arms wrapped around your waist from behind.
you knew it was him before you even felt it. before the warmth registered, before the familiar shape of him pressed against your back, before his breath ghosted warm against your ear. you just knew, the way you always knew, the way you had known since the first moment you met him.
he fit against you like he had been made to. like the universe had designed him specifically to wrap around you, to hold you, to be your home. his chest pressed against your back, solid and warm. his arms locked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. his face buried in your hair, and you felt him breathe you in, deep, slow, and desperate.
you leaned back into him, a smile spreading across your face before you could stop it. your eyes fell closed, and for a moment, there was nothing but this. nothing but his arms, his warmth, his presence after so long.
"hi," you breathed.
he didn't answer.
instead, he spun you around and pressed you against the wall.
the concrete was cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat of him as he crowded into your space, as his hands found your hips, as his body pinned you exactly where he wanted you. your eyes flew open just in time to see his—dark, hungry, burning with something that made your breath catch.
and then his mouth found yours.
this was the kiss you had been waiting for. not the soft, gentle thing on stage, the one meant for publicity. this was private. this was desperate. this was the one that stole your breath, that made your knees weak, that reminded you exactly what you had been missing.
his hands were in your hair, tangling in it, pulling gently just the way you liked. his body pressed against yours, solid and real and there in a way that video calls could never replicate. you could feel every inch of him, the hard planes of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the way his thighs bracketed yours and pinned you in place.
he kissed you like he was starving. like you were the first meal he'd had in months, like he had been wandering in a desert and you were water. his lips were urgent, demanding, and you opened for him without thinking, your tongue meeting his, your hands fisting in his vest and pulling him closer.
he tasted like sweat and the energy drink he always had on stage, something citrus and sharp… and underneath it, that familiar something that was just him. the taste you had dreamed about, had longed for, had tried to conjure in empty moments when the distance felt unbearable.
you couldn’t get enough of it. couldn’t get enough of him.
his hands left your hair, traveled down your body, gripped your hips. he pulled you closer, and you could feel how much he had missed you, could feel the growing bulge pressing against your thigh.
"fuck," he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his chest heaving. "you have no idea…"
he stopped, shook his head. his gaze traveled down your body, from your eyes to your lips, down the curve of your throat, over the black tube top that hugged every line of you, lingering on the tiny skirt that rode high on your thighs, following the long line of your legs in those heeled boots. you watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched his jaw tighten, watched the man unraveling before your eyes. you couldn’t help the smirk on your lips.
"that skirt." his voice was rough, barely controlled. "that top." another swallow. "what were you thinking?"
"that i missed you."
the words hung in the air between you, simple, true, and somehow more vulnerable than anything you could have planned. his expression softened—just for a moment, just a flicker of something tender beneath the heat, before the hunger returned, sharper now, edged with something that looked almost like desperation.
"come on."
he grabbed your hand, his fingers warm and familiar as they wrapped around yours, and pulled you down the hall. past a few unmarked doors, past a stack of equipment cases, past a crew member who quickly looked away. his grip was firm, insistent, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
he stopped at the last door on the left. a piece of paper taped to it read BANG CHAN in messy marker.
he pushed it open and dragged you inside.
THE DOOR LOCKED SHUT BEHIND YOU, and suddenly the world outside ceased to exist. there was only this small room, cluttered with tour debris: a rack of clothes, an open suitcase, empty water bottles, and a couch pushed against the wall. there was only him, backing you towards that couch, his hands on your waist, his mouth ravaging yours with an urgency that had always made your head spin; dizzy with an overwhelming need to feel more of him.
your hands fisted in his vest, dragging him closer, closer, impossibly closer—as if you could collapse two months of distance through sheer force of will. the fabric bunched beneath your fingers, and you felt the heat of him bleeding through it, the frantic rise and fall of his chest, the way his heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape his body and find its way into yours.
his tongue moved against yours, claiming your mouth with a desperation that answered your own. he kissed you like a man starved, like you were oxygen and he had been drowning in the depths, like every second apart had been its own small death and this… this… was finally, impossibly, being resurrected.
one of his hands slid up your spine, fingers pressing into the tender skin between your shoulder blades, pulling you flush against the solid warmth of his chest. you felt everything—the hard planes of muscle, the frantic rhythm of his heart, the way your body fit against his like it had been designed for exactly this purpose. his other hand gripped your hip, fingers dimpling the flesh just enough to make you gasp against his mouth.
and as the back of your knees met the edge of the couch, he pulled you down with him, the momentum shifting, rearranging, until you found yourself straddling his thighs, him perching you against the thickness of his legs.
“channie…” you softly gasped as his mouth latched onto your neck, sucking greedily at the sensitive skin. he lavished attention at one spot, both lips and tongue creating a perfect storm of pleasure and pain until he was sure a dark purple mark would bloom there tomorrow. then another, and another. your fingers would find their way to his blonde hair, tightening the moment you felt his mouthwatering bulge against your clothed heat.
“i miss you so much, baby…” between your legs at his romances, you could feel it—the wetness seeping through your thin lace panties, soaking into the fabric of his jeans. chan couldn’t help the groan against your skin, his lips travelling back to savor your lips once more.
the kiss deepened, becoming messier; all tongue, saliva, and heat, more urgent as your hands roamed each other’s bodies. his hands slipped under your skirt, pushing the fabric up against your thighs as his fingers dug into the soft skin.
his chest rose and fell rapidly as you helped him discard his vest, pushing the fabric off his shoulders and letting it fall somewhere behind him on the couch. the garment joined the growing pile of things that no longer mattered, abandoned without a second thought, without a single glance, because the only thing worth looking at was right in front of you.
your hands found his chest, palms pressing flat against the warmth of him, feeling his heart hammer beneath your touch. he felt you explore, felt your fingers trace the lines of muscle, felt you relearn the body you had been separated from for far too long.
but you wanted more. you needed more.
“i miss you too—oh…” the moan that left your throat was immediately swallowed by his mouth, his tongue dominating yours whilst you felt one of his hands squeezing and massaging one of your breasts through the fabric of your tube top.
another breathless moan escaped you as his thumb circled your nipple through the thin material of your top, your teeth slightly dragging on his lower lip. your back arched into his touch, pressing your breast more firmly into his palm.
“fuck… you’re insane for this baby,” he breathed against your lips, pulling away just slightly to look at you. without warning—not that you were complaining, his hand pushed your tube top down to free your breasts. you whimpered at the sudden cold sensation overriding your senses, the chill raising goosebumps across your skin, and you instinctively pressed closer to the warmth of his hand.
both his thumb and forefinger found a pert nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers. he squeezed your breast once again, testing its weight, before leaning in to capture the other in his mouth, giving it a solid suck.
“oh!” before you could catch your breath, his other hand snuck into your skirt, his fingers rubbing against your clothed heat. the fabric of your underwear was completely soaked now, and you could feel every rasp of his fingers against your clit. the dual stimulation had you gasping, “chan—mmph…”
“you like that, baby?” he mumbled against your breast, fingers rubbing faster, applying more pressure exactly where you needed it. your breath hitched, hips bucking slightly against his hand. you could feel a wet muscle circling and tasting each of your breasts, making sure the both of them got the same exact attention they deserved.
“channie… please..” and that was how easy it was to drive a man feral. a gentleman he was to fulfill your wishes, he finally hooked his fingers into the side of your underwear and pulled it aside, wasting no time in sinking two fingers to the hilt in your clenching walls. you were immediately a moaning mess under his touch, his fingers sloppily slithered their way through your velvet walls, curling his fingers against the spongy tissue.
“fuck,” he groaned, feeling how easily you took him deep. your hands gripped on to his broad shoulders, anchoring yourself as you angled your hips so that you could take more of him. his lips would eventually leave your breasts, his lust-filled eyes watching how your face contorted with pleasure, how your breasts bounce slightly with the movement.
“you’re so beautiful,” he started to fuck you with his fingers, his palm pressing against your clit with each trust. your eyes rolled back as his fingers deliciously hit your spot, wet, lewd sounds of your cunt filling the room, “so fucking beautiful.”
“chan… i can’t—” you could feel yourself getting closer to your peak embarrassingly quickly, your fingernails imprinting scratch marks upon the soft canvas of his skin, “i need you—ah… so bad…”
“shh…” he soothed, his thumb pressing down hard on your sensitive clitoris as he continued to finger you. your body was shuddering, your thighs quivering around his hand. you welcomed his fingers in contrast to your words, legs opening wider and wider as he continued, “stay a little longer for me.”
your breath hitched the moment your walls clenched around his fingers as your orgasm built rapidly, threatening to consume you. you moaned his name once again, feeling yourself teetering on the edge as his fingers.
“baby i’m—”
before you could even process anything, he suddenly pulled his fingers away completely, leaving you gasping and empty.
a frown appeared on your lips, brows furrowing, “what are you—”
before you could complain, your eyes travelled down to his hand. he deftly popped the button of his jeans with one hand, pulling down his pants as he freed his cock with one shift motion. it sprang out thick and heavy, already glistening with pre-cum. you were practically, shamelessly, drooling over the sight.
“can’t help it, beautiful,” he exhaled a deep breath, now guiding you from his thigh to his lap, and your body shuddered when you felt the tip of his cock rubbing against your entrance, yet not pushing in yet, “i need to fuck you, right this instant.”
fucking hell. you swore you could literally cum right this instant.
a tiny smirk sprawled on his face as he read your expression, enjoying the way your dirty thoughts flickered across your face like an open book. he always could read you, always knew exactly what you were thinking, and right now he was taking immense pleasure in watching you try to form a word that he had already anticipated.
“wh…what are you waiting for, then?” you managed, the question coming out half-challenge, half-plea, your arms wrapping around his neck, your grip tightening as he kept dragging his cock painfully slow across your labia, utilizing your juices as natural lube.
“as you wish,” his smirk faltered as he slowly lowered you down onto his cock, letting you feel every inch slide inside your needy cunt. both of your mouths fall open to let out a satisfied moan, your fingers gripping his hair tightly. chan held you still for a moment, an arm securely wrapped around your waist, allowing you to adjust to the deep penetration.
the way his cock filled you deliciously did not help—an overwhelming pulse of pleasure crawling down your spine as his thick cock began pistoning into your slick cunt with a wet slap.
one. two… his hands gripping your hips as he began rocking you, his cock effortlessly hitting that oversensitive spot inside you one at a time. you could only moan in response, your fingernails raking against his back whilst holding him close to your chest, your breasts pressed onto his chest.
“oh… chan… you’re so big…”
your remark elicited a grunt from him—encouraging him to slam you down harder, making you moan louder as his fingers dug into the curve of your ass, spreading you wider to take him deeper.
“fuck… take it…” his lips attacked your neck once again, kissing and sucking as he continued to pound into you from below, his hips snapping up to meet yours. his tongue swiping at your sore skin, “take it… this dick is yours…”
you knew damn well that the world outside didn’t exist right now, you knew that people could be eavesdropping… yet you simply didn’t care. the only thing mattered was the way he filled you, the way his hands owned your body, the way his lips branded your skin. you were more than proud to taste his name on your tongue, your voice a rasp of devotion every time his cock hit your deepest spot.
your mind barely registered anything when he lifted his free hand to his mouth, his tongue wetting his fingers thoroughly. you could hear the slick of him coating them with saliva, your body instinctively clenching around him as you waited for what was coming next.
“ch—chan…” you threw your head back in pure bliss, your strands cascading down your spine as your body convulsed around him. his slick fingers had traced lower, teasing your clitoris once again.
“come on, pretty girl…” he panted against your ear, his huge cock stretching you to your limits, “cum for me… i wanna see this pussy cum.”
your stomach tightened as you felt the pressure building, his words pushing you closer to your edge. you decided to ride him faster, colliding with his own thrusts; your breasts delightfully bouncing by the impact, a sight for sore eyes. his fingers would then find the base of your neck, wrapping around them gently.
“ so good…” you cried out against the pressure, ears tuning into the sound of your skin slapping. you were basically cock-drunk at this point, “so fucking good—harder, please…”
“anything for you, gorgeous,” your desperate plea made his hips move faster, his huge length slamming into you with a much brutal force. the couch was shaking violently beneath you, letting out a loud, protesting creak with every thrust. “i don’t think i could ever live without this pussy of yours—fuck…”
your body began to tremble uncontrollably as you felt your own orgasm building deep within you. you were going to come, and somehow, chan could tell just by the furrow of your brows.
“come on, baby,” he pulled you down for another kiss. your mouths crashed together messily, all tongue and heat as he continued to hammer into you. his tongue invaded your mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his cock, “cum with me.”
just as you thought you couldn’t take anymore, your back arched sharply off the couch. a sharp cry escaped your throat, swallowed by his hungry mouth as your body finally crumbled. your pussy clamped down on his thick cock like a vice, squeezing, and pulsing around him. he kept fucking you through it, his thrusts becoming sloppy and erratic as he chased his own release, "fuck y/n… good girl."
the praise shattered what was left of your composure, your pussy clenching around him in rhythmic waves as you milked his cock greedily. he felt your walls fluttering and pulsing, drawing his own release out like you were made to pleasure him. that single phrase—good girl, was his undoing.
"fuck—i’m gonna fill you up, baby..." his voice cracked as he was close to his orgasm. with a final thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his thick member throbbing as he released stream after stream of hot semen into your waiting pussy. you moaned against his mouth, your own body shaking as you felt your boyfriend’s essence filled you up completely.
chan continued to grind into you slowly, his softening length still buried inside your swollen cunt as he kissed you deeply, tongue lazily exploring your mouth.
“fuck, baby…” he panted, his arm wrapped around your sweating figure possessively, pulling you closer to him. you pulled away and rested your head on his shoulder, taking your time to adjust your breathing, “i love you so fucking much…”
his kiss was light and tender upon your neck, his nose inhaling your scent as he buried his face against your shoulder, “i fucking do… i love you…”
you chuffed out a laugh, pressing a light kiss on his bare shoulder, “i love you more….” pant. “that was so hot.”
“you’re the one who’s hot. so fucking hot,” he mirrored your laugh, his hand squeezing your ass gently, remembering how tightly your pussy was clenching around his cock just moments ago. “could basically do this a few more times.”
hearing this, a mischievous plan came up to your cock-drunk mind. you pulled away from his embrace, your eyes meeting him once again, “what’s stopping you, handsome?”
his eyes darkened with renewed desire, taking in your sweaty, satisfied expression. he loved seeing you like this… all fucked out and still wanting more. a slow smirk spread across his face as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips, "not a damn thing, babe..."
can I request a nasty makeout session with chan? Maybe clothes come off, but there's a lot of groping, grinding, "we shouldn't be doing this" type of thing. Maybe they work together, maybe it happens at chan's studio... thanks for your service to the stay community 🫡🫧
after hours
MDNI!
or: working with chan at the studio late one night after everyone had left was sure to break the rising tensions between you two—you arent complaining, though!
the tension was unbareable, everyone noticed—it's not like seeing you and chan eyefuck each other all day was something easy to avoid.
so when he'd pulled you aside and asked you to stay a while after everyone left to help him with a track, how could you refuse? after all why wouldnt you want an excuse to stay and help a coworker out.
you should've known his intentions with you were more than just work though, because the moment the coast was clear, he practically threw you into the studio couch, his lips mashed with yours in a lust filled kiss.
one of his hands lays heavy against your hip as he holds himself above you, a forearm pressed into the couch cushion next to your head. lips meld against each other, want and need and lust mixing and creating a concoction that renders you both dizzy and craving more, more, more.
pressed flush against your center, his clothed cock grows harder and harder as hands tug at shirts and squeeze at bare skin. his fingers find your hips, sliding around to the globes of your ass and squeezing while he grinds you against him. you emit a breathy moan against his lips, a sigh of his name. the friction is addicting, the thin fabric of your panties rubbing against your clit. the fabric clings to your folds as you grow even wetter.
both of your movements grow increasingly desperate as the seconds tick by. he mouths and nips at your neck, his tongue not far behind to sooth the marred skin, groaning as you curl your fingers into his hair, tugging at the dark strands. his head removes itself from your neck so he is able to lock your gaze to his, his pupils dilating at the messy sight of you. furrowed brows, eyes snapped shut, swollen lips coated in spit, bitten oh so hard to muffle your cries. your oversized shirt is slipping from your shoulder, revealing the strap of your bra and the bare skin of your shoudler. "I've wanted to do this for so long, shit-"
you can only whine in response, his hand remains on your ass, continuing to guide you against him, while the other reaches up to hold your chin. your eyes flutter open, only to avoid his gaze. with a deep, shuddering breath, he squeezes your chin.
"eyes on me," he orders, his voice deep and commanding. visibly shivering above him, you obey. his eyes bear into yours, hypnotizing—and while you want to bury your head back into his chest and hide, you simply can't. he smirks at your slack-jawed expression. "such a good girl. shit, feels good?"
"y-yeah," you squeak out, panting. you've drifted somewhere far away, lost in the pleasure he's so generously giving you. your vision goes fuzzy around the edges as his hand slides down to wrap around your throat, squeezing jussst enough for you to lose your breath.
"yeah?" he asks, the lilt in his voice condescending. "you like my cock grinding into your pretty pussy, my hand around your throat? bet you're so wet already, hm? are you?"
with a rapid nod of your head and a whine, your eyes shut again, hips grinding down even faster. when they blink back open, you find his cocky demeanor has lessened, groaning and cursing under his breath.
"god. fuck, baby," he breathes, starting to thrust up into you to meet you halfway. you squeal at the sensation. "y'feel so good. gonna make me cum-"
you scramble forward to kiss him, muffling your moans and his groans. your fingertips press into his shoulders as you feel your peak approaching. the rustle of clothes mix with the obscene sounds.
and then you're shoved straight over the edge.
you cry his name as your thighs quake, trying to close but being halted by his own. your lips leave his as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, riding out the pleasure. chan ruts into you once, twice before his torso shudders beneath you. he hisses out a quiet "fuck" as his release stains his boxers.
slowly, the two of you come down, his head lifting from the crook of your neck, he can feel the heat radiating off of your cheeks when he cups them to bring you in for a gentle, slow kiss. the desperation that previously filled the air has all but dissipated, replaced by soft adoration—and slight embarrassment.
"that...was so fucking hot," he mumbles once he pulls away, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "can't believe you made me cum in my pants."
you giggle despite your hazy state "i guess i just have that effect."
he pinches your waist, smirking nonetheless, "brat."
OH, SIMPLE THING • BC • the moon was a lover's solace; princess and knight au; angst; death; brief mentions of blood; 685 words.
“Do you think the moon will mourn us?”
“Hmm?” Chan’s voice was but a whisper on the bitter breeze, barely hanging on its cruel whims. You felt its vibrations in your chest, limp as you were against him. Your own murmurs were fleeting.
“It’s only that—she watched over us all along.”
You turned your head a fraction, cheek meeting his soft tunic. The cold had settled in your fingertips and toes, a stubborn chill that defied all the warmth enveloping you both.
“Back when you trained under my uncle. You spent your nights swinging that wooden sword around,” you recollected the hazy memories. Precious, little things. A lifetime so far away.
Chan must have smiled. You could not see his face very well from where he had wrapped you in his arms, through you desperately wished you could. “I remember.”
“And when I confronted you one night for all the noise you were making, and you said—” you imagined him then, the starry-eyed squire, with his shorn hair and battered practice sword, and breathed out, “You promised to become the strongest knight in the realm. You told me to keep watching you.”
“So, you did.”
And it had been your greatest joy all those years. “I did.
“And when we exchanged letters in the dead of the night. When we shared our secrets under the stars. The first time and every night after that when you snuck me out to town,” you smiled at the memory of his tentative touch, the feel of cobblestone against your feet, the cedar scent of the cloak he had covered your nightgown with. The faint memory of a town that had once been was a stark contrast to your current surroundings.
“We danced.” Chan’s hands found yours where you had bundled them in your skirts. Fingers loosely intertwined, you heard the lilting music again and whispered back. A secret among many.
“We danced.”
A wolf howled in the distance. A call to its kin, you surmised with a shiver, nestling yourself deeper into Chan’s embrace. With your ear to his heart, you listened to its faint song.
“And then, I was finally assigned to you,” he sighed.
“Finally.” you squeezed his hands, gentle as the confession escaped you. “It was the happiest I’d ever been.”
“Me too.” you felt the weight of Chan’s head against the crown of your head. His words wandered in the tousled strands of your hair, short puffs of air that left you breathless. “I was always the happiest with you.”
Silence yawned in the wake of his voice. You let his feelings settle in your heart, at home next to yours. Too late did you notice your eyes burning.
“I think she will mourn us,” Chan muttered finally, and a tear slipped down your cheek. The thought knelled in the murky depths of your mind.
Because no one left alive will.
You gasped against the words tearing through, desperate, and foolish in their desperation. Tears like molten iron blurred your vision. “I don’t want to die, Chan.”
Strength had left your knight long ago. All you felt of him now was a whisper of breath, and a trickle of tears against your hair, searing, like the crimson soaking your fine dress, gluing the two of you together.
Two halves of a tragic whole.
“Forgive me,” was all he could utter, his knight’s oath broken.
Around the two of you, the bodies of your guards lay massacred. Saving you had been a futile endeavor. The sword of your enemy was merciless, sparing no town, no home, no soul but the dignity of dying under the canopy of the stars.
Chan’s breath stilled first, quietly stealing your knight, your champion, your soulmate away. You didn’t have the strength to pry his fingers from yours, wailing in protest of the deafening silence, the numbing pain, the great misfortune of your cruel fates.
But your sobs soon faltered, and so did your time.
Beat by slowing beat, under the shade of an old cedar and the moon’s watchful gaze, your heart chased his into the abyss.
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ “i only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain…”
in which you recently passed away in an accident, and you must board a train to the end of forever.
or… your trip to the afterlife happens to be incongruously soothing as death just so happens to wear the face of the one who got away.
grim reaper! bang chan x spirit f! reader · category : angst with a tiny pinch of fluff · contents : ex lovers. reader is referred as y/n. grief. mourning. mentions of terminal illness. blood. character death. kissing. this story is purely a work of fiction and for entertainment purposes only. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 15k
💬 … lynsbng speaking ⸝⸝ i’m not crying, you are!
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THE FIRST THING YOU BECAME AWARE OF WAS THE SILENCE. not the absence of sound–no, that would have been too simple, too clean. this was a silence with texture, thick and velvety as mourning cloth, pressing against your eardrums like the weight of water at impossible depths. it had presence, it had intent. the stillness wrapped around you, and held you the way grief holds the living; gentle, relentless, impossible to escape.
then came the cold.
it started at your shoulder, a point of pressure so familiar it bypassed your confusion entirely and spoke directly to something older, something buried beneath years of practiced composure and carefully constructed walls. the cold seeped through the fabric of your blouse—was it always this thin?—and settled into your epidermis like a brand, like a benediction, like the memory of a hand that once knew the geography of your anatomy better than you knew it yourself.
and then the voice.
“y/n.”
your name, spoken the way only one person had ever spoken it. it sounded like a prayer, a secret, and the answer to a question you never expected to inquire yet again.
you would have known that voice in the wreckage of the world. you would have known it at the bottom of the ocean, in the heart of a fire, at the moment of your death. you had known it at the moment of your death, you realized dimly, though the thought slid off your consciousness like water off wax—slick, fleeting, impossible to grasp.
it was the voice that once whispered terrible, beautiful poetry into your hair at three in the morning, when the rest of the world slept and you two were the only people alive. it was the voice that laughed—that bright, breathless sound like sunrise breaking over the ocean. every time you pulled him away from his producing dungeon by the earlobe, scolding him for forgetting to eat again. it was the voice that promised you forever in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers, and you had believed him because how could you not? how could you not believe in forever when he looked at you like you had invented the concept just for him?
your eyes opened.
the world was grey. not the grey of depression, not the grey of rainy days or old photographs. this was a grey that existed between things—between light and shadow, between life and whatever came after, between the person you were five minutes ago and the person you were now. it was the grey of liminal spaces, of train stations at midnight, of hotel rooms in cities you would never visit again. it was the grey of almost and not quite and still waiting.
you were lying on cold asphalt. the surface was rough against your back, gritty with the debris of a thousand passing tires. the smell that filled your nostrils was an unholy cocktail of burnt rubber, gasoline, and something else… something metallic and sweet that your mind refused to categorize.
copper. iron. the building blocks of ichor. the taste of it lingered at the back of your throat, coppery and wrong, and you wondered vaguely if this was what dying tasted like.
above you, a figure stood silhouetted against lights that flashed and swirled; blue and red, blue and red, the colors of emergency, of urgency, of too late. the lights washed over him in rhythmic pulse, painting him in colors that seemed out of this world, and yet—
and yet, it was him.
…it was… him.
chan stood over you like a fallen angel, like a prayer answered in the worst possible way, like every dream you ever had and every nightmare you couldn;t admit to wanting. his face was exactly as you remembered it: the soft, kind curve of his cheeks that made him look younger than his years, the worried downturn of his lips that appeared every time you so much as stubbed your toe, those deep, expressive eyes that once held your entire universe in their dark depths and refused to let go.
however, something was wrong.
something was deeply, fundamentally wrong, and it took you a long, suspended moment to understand what it was.
his skin. it was perfect; flawless, unblemished, the same neutral winter tone you used to trace with your fingertips for hours, memorizing every mole, every freckle, every tint imperfection that made him him–yet it glowed. not with the healthy radiance of life, not with the flush of exertion or emotion, but with an ethereal, internal light. the light of things that existed beyond the veil. the lights of moon, deep sea creatures, and concepts that were never meant to take human form.
and his eyes.
his eyes were the most… peculiar.
they were still his eyes… the shape, the set, the way they focused on you with that familiar devastating intensity. however, the color had drained away, replaced by something vest, something endless. they were voids now, his eyes, starless, hollow, and deep as the space between galaxies, and when you looked into them you felt yourself falling, falling, falling into an infinity that had no bottom, no top, and no sides, just the terrible, beautiful forever of oblivion.
he reached down and pulled you to your feet.
his hand was cold… so cold, impossibly cold, the cold of winter graves and forgotten attics and the dark side of the moon—but it was real. present. in this grey, shifting world where nothing felt quite anchored, his grip was the one constant thing. the only thing you could trust.
you looked down.
your car was gone—no, not exactly gone. that was the wrong word. your car was there, but it no longer looked like a car.
it was a sculpture of violence, a testament to physics, momentum, and the terrible fragility of human engineering. metal had been folded like origami paper, wrapped around a lamppost that stood utterly unimpressed by the destruction it had wrought. glass sparkled across the road in a million crystalline fragments, each one catching the flashing lights and throwing them back like tiny, cruel stars.
the driver's side door was... somewhere else. you spotted it twenty feet away, torn from its hinges and lying crumpled against a parked car. the steering wheel had been pushed through what used to be the dashboard. and there, still partially inside, still strapped into the seat by a seatbelt that had done its job even when everything else failed—
there was a figure, covered by a sheet.
white, pristine, untouched by the blood that pooled beneath the wreckage in a dark, spreading stain that seemed to grow even as you watched. the sheet had been placed with care, with reverence, with the particular gentleness of people who did this for a living and had learned that the dead deserved dignity even when the living couldn't give it to them.
you looked at it. you looked at it for a long, long time. the sheet rose and fell with nothing—no breath, no movement, no life. just the terrible stillness of something that would never move again.
and somewhere in the deep, survival part of your brain that had kept you alive for twenty-seven years, a switch flipped. a door closed. an understanding settled into your bones like cold water filling a grave.
oh, you thought, with a strange, distant clarity that felt almost peaceful. oh, that's me.
you turned back to him—to the man who wore your lost love's face like a mask, like a mercy, like the cruelest joke the universe could possibly play.
"chan?" you heard yourself ask, and your voice sounded wrong, thin and echoey, like it was traveling from very far away, like it belonged to someone else entirely.
he tilted his head.
it was such a small gesture, such a him gesture—the slight cant to the left, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way his lips parted as if he was about to speak—that your heart (did your heart still beat? you don’t know. you couldn't really feel it anymore) clenched in your chest with a pain that was almost physical.
“i beg your pardon?”
his voice was his. it was his. the same timber, the same resonance, the same quality that used to make you close your eyes and just listen when he spoke, drinking in the sound of him like water in a desert. however, there was something layered beneath it now, an echo that hadn't been there before, a vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once rather than from a single throat. it was the voice of something ancient, something eternal, something that had existed long before humans walked the earth and would exist long after they were gone.
“for i am death, miss y/l/n.”
his introduction hung in the grey air between you, heavy as headstones, final as a closed casket.
“y/n y/l/n, you have met the end of life,” he paused, and something flickered in those moonless eyes; something that might have been gentleness, if gentleness could exist in a being of finality, “time, 14:43 pm.”
you stared at him.
the words bounced off your understanding like coins off frozen ground–pinging, skittering, refusing to find purchase. you knew what they meant. you weren't stupid, you had a brain, you could process language. you knew what each word signified, individually, as a sentence.
however, the meaning of them, the weight, the implication, refused to settle. it was like trying to pour water into a cup that was already full. there was simply no room left in your consciousness for this information.
“what are you saying?” a huff of disbelief slithered through your lips, thin, and reedy. “this isn’t funny, chan.”
for a heartbeat—or whatever passed for a heartbeat in this place, something shifted in his expression.
it was there and gone so fast you might have imagined it, a crack in the perfect, still mask of his features, a glimpse of something raw and wounded beneath the surface of divine indifference. his eyes flickered for just a moment, the void replaced by something warm, brown, and achingly familiar.
and then it was gone, sealed over like ice forming on a lake.
or maybe… you were just being delusional. maybe this was your brain’s last desperate attempt to find comfort in the face of the incomprehensible, projecting familiarity on a stranger who happened to share the same exact features with your past lover.
maybe you wanted so badly for him to still be present that you were seeing thing that weren’t real.
“...please come along with me, miss y/l/n.”
he extended his hand towards you. it was the hand that had pulled you into countless embraces, that had brushed strands from your face when you were sick, that had gripped yours so tightly during horror movies. it looked the same. the same long fingers, the same slight calluses from years of producing music.
a laugh bubbled up in your throat.
it wasn't a happy sound. it wasn't even a sad sound, really. it was the sound of a mind pushed past its breaking point, of a soul that had encountered something so fundamentally absurd that laughter was the only possible response. you laughed, and the sound echoed in the grey space around you, bouncing off buildings you couldn't see and returning to you distorted, wrong, like a funhouse mirror version of itself.
this was a dream. it had to be a dream. a hallucination brought on by the impact, by the blood loss, by the chemicals your dying brain was releasing in its final moments. any second now, you would wake up in a hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and worried nurses, and this would all be a story you told people at parties.
i saw my dead ex-boyfriend as the grim reaper when i died. can you believe it? god forbid a girl to die in peace.
to prove it—to prove that none of this was real, that you were still alive, that the universe hadn't actually become this cruel, you turned away from him, declining his hand, and started walking toward the crowd of onlookers gathered at the edge of the wreckage.
a man in a heavy coat ran straight through you.
there was no impact. no resistance. just a fleeting sensation of cold, like stepping through a curtain of ice water, and then he was on the other side, stumbling to a halt, his face pale as he stared at the wreckage with the particular horror of someone who had just realized they were witnessing something they would never be able to unsee.
he pulled out his phone with trembling hands and started filming. of course he did. everyone filmed everything these days. your death would probably be on the internet within the hour, viewed by strangers who would scroll past it with the same detachment they used for everything else.
you turned, slowly, and looked at the scene properly for the first time.
the flashing lights weren't just ambiance; they belonged to real vehicles, solid vehicles, fire trucks and police cars and an ambulance that had arrived too late. officers in crisp uniforms were redirecting traffic, their faces professionally blank, their movements efficient and practiced. paramedics stood in a small cluster near the wreckage, their postures slack with the particular exhaustion of people who had done everything they could and watched it amount to nothing.
one of them, a young woman with tired eyes and hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, was talking to a police officer, shaking her head. you drifted closer, drawn by some invisible current, and heard fragments of her report.
"...died on impact. nothing we could have done. the steering column... massive internal injuries... probably didn't feel anything."
probably didn’t feel anything.
you wanted to laugh again, or cry, or scream. you had felt everything. you had felt the headlights blinding you through the windshield, the screech of tires that wasn't yours, the terrible suspended moment of knowing what was about to happen and being utterly powerless to stop it. you had felt the impact, the shattering, the brief, bright flare of pain that was almost beautiful in its intensity before everything went grey and quiet.
however, you hadn't felt this. this floating, this weightlessness, this strange detachment from the body that was yours only minutes ago. this was new. this was different. this was what came after.
the paramedic walked away, and you followed her gaze to the wreckage, to the sheet-covered form still strapped into the driver's seat.
no one was rushing to help. no one was prying open the door, cutting through the metal, trying to reach the person inside. there was no point. the person inside was gone. the person inside was you, and you were standing ten feet away, watching yourself be dead.
you exhaled a long, slow breath.
and instead of grief, instead of horror, instead of any of the emotions you were supposed to feel at the moment of your own death, a strange, profound relief washed over you.
it started in your chest—a warmth, a loosening, a release of tension you hadn't even known you'd been carrying. it spread outward, through your arms and legs, up into your face, until every part of you felt lighter, freer, easier than you had in years.
you were tired.
god, you were so tired.
you were tired of the life that you had to continue. you were tired of the career you had to pursue. you were tired of the impossible deadlines, the passive-aggressive emails, the endless meetings that could have been emails, the emails that could have been a single text message. you were tired of coming home to an empty apartment at 11 p.m., too exhausted to cook, too drained to do anything but fall into bed and do it all over again the next day.
you were tired of the silence.
the silence of a bed meant for two that only held one. the silence of a dinner table set for one, eaten alone, cleaned up alone. the silence of weekends stretching out before you like an endless grey desert, with no one to fill them, no one to share them, no one to make them mean anything.
you were tired of being alone.
and now… now you weren't alone anymore, were you? now there was someone here, someone who looked at you with eyes that might be empty but still saw you, still focused on you, still made you feel, for the first time in five years, like you existed in the same universe as another person.
death, it seemed, was a vacation you never knew you needed.
you turned back to him.
to death. to the being who wore your lost love's face like a second skin, like a gift, like a punishment.
“…okay," you said, and your voice was calm now, steady, the voice of someone who had made peace with something they couldn't change. "okay."
something flickered beneath that stone-cold demeanor. it was there and gone so fast you couldn't name it, couldn't categorize it, could only feel its passing like the brush of a ghost's fingers against your consciousness. surprise, maybe. curiosity. interest in a soul that didn't fight, didn't bargain, didn't scream.
he glanced down at his hand, and you watched as a pocket watch materialized in his palm—silver, antique, etched with symbols you didn't recognize but somehow understood. the hands didn't point to hours or minutes. they pointed to something else entirely, something beyond the reach of mortal timekeeping.
he looked back at you, and for a moment… just a moment… his expression softened into something gentle, almost human.
“it’s time,” he announced, the words fell into the silence like stones into deep water, sending ripples through the grey.
he offered his hand once again.
this time, you took it.
his fingers closed around yours, cold, solid, and real, and in the space between one breath and the next, the world dissolved.
THE TRANSITION WAS SEAMLESS… one moment you were standing on a rain-slicked street, surrounded by the wreckage of your mortal life and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles that could no longer touch you; a tableau of tragedy you had already cited, akin to an actor watching the final scene of a play they had once starred in. the next moment, your feet found purchase on polished, grimy floor tiles, and the world reformed itself around you like water settling after a stone had been dropped into it.
you were in a train station—at least, you thought it was just an ordinary train station. the architecture was right, the high, arched ceilings ribbed with iron, the long platforms stretching into darkness like fingers reaching for something just beyond sight, the tracks gleaming dully in the low light, twin silver ribbons leading nowhere and everywhere.
this was like no train station you had ever seen. the ceiling vanished into shadow so complete it felt solid, a weight of darkness pressing down from above like the lid of a closed casket. you could stare into it for hours, for days, for eternities, and never find its end. the tiles underfoot were white, or had been once; now they were veined with cracks, stained with the grime of decades, of centuries, of something that predated time itself. here and there, tiles were missing entirely, revealing only more darkness beneath.
the air was cool and still, carrying the faint, mineral scent of places underground; the breath of caves, of catacombs, of all the places where light feared to tread. it was the smell of buried things, of secrets kept, of journeys that had no return ticket.
and the silence… it was different from the silence of the accident site. the silence of the crime scene had been thick, muffled, the silence of shock and aftermath–a blanket thrown over chaos. the silence here was active. it hummed with a frequency just below hearing, a vibration you felt in your teeth, in your bones, in the place where your soul used to anchor to your body. it breathed in slow, patient rhythms, the breath of something vast and ancient that had been waiting here for longer than mountains. it listened. you could feel its attention on you, curious and detached, like a curator examining an art.
in the center of the platform, sitting motionless on the tracks, was a train.
it was old—no, ancient might be the right word. the kind of ancient that spoke of craftsmanship that no longer existed, of an era when things were built to last forever because forever was understood to be a real and present concept, a destination rather than a word. the metal was dark, polished to a deep gleam that caught the light and held it hostage, refusing to let go. the windows were tall and arched, filled with glass that was slightly rippled, slightly imperfect. along the sides, brass fixtures glowed with a warm, muted light, their surfaces worn smooth fingers that had touched them across centuries.
and at the front, a single lantern burned with a flame that never flickered, never wavered, never died; a flame that had been burning since before your ancestors first walked upright, that would still be burning when the last star in the universe guttered into darkness.
it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen… and the most terrifying.
beauty and terror, you were learning, were not opposites. they were two sides of the same coin, two faces of the same god. to truly see one was to glimpse the other, standing just behind it, waiting to be acknowledged.
“this way,” death led you towards a small booth at the edge of the platform. it resembled the kind of ticket booth you might find in an european train station, the kind with a curved window and a little ledge for setting down your fare, the kind that had once been staffed by an old man with spectacles and patient eyes. however, there was no one inside. there was just a slot, dark and waiting, and above it, words covered into the wood with a permanence that felt like law:
PRESENT YOUR TICKET
you looked down at your hand.
a ticket lay across your palm.
you hadn't felt it appear. you hadn’t seen it materialize. but there it was, as real as anything in this unreal place–a small rectangle of heavy cream paper, the kind that felt expensive between your fingers, the kind that had been made to last. text ran across it in elegant, flowing script:
PLATFORM 9
DESTINATION: █████
VALID FOR: ONE SOUL
NON-REFUNDABLE
beneath the text, in smaller letters, was your name. your full name, the one your mother had given you, the one that appeared on your birth certificate, your driver’s license, and the headstone that would soon be carved in your memory.
you stared at it for a long moment.
then, without quite knowing why, you stepped forward and slid the ticket into the slot.
for a heartbeat, nothing happened. the ticket disappeared into the darkness of the booth, and you were left standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you had just made a terrible mistake.
then a soft click chimed from somewhere deep in the mechanism. a small barrier beside the booth, a wooden turnstile, old and ornate, swung open, inviting you through.
you had been approved. you wouldn’t be a wandering spirit, trapped between worlds, unable to move forward or back. you had a destination. you had a place. you had, for the first time since waking up from a bloodbath, a purpose.
you stepped through the turnstile and onto the platform proper. the train had waited long for your arrival.
death walked beside you, his presence a constant coolness at your shoulder. he didn't speak, didn’t guide, didn’t direct. he simply was, a shadow that accompanied you without demanding anything, without expecting anything, without asking for anything in return, and you didn’t mind. you were, instead, grateful.
the doors of the train slid open as you approached, noiseless and smooth, revealing a corridor of warm wood and soft velvet. you stepped inside, and the door closed behind you with a gentle hiss.
the interior looked even more pleasing than the exterior.
you stood in the corridor, taking in the details that your eyes had skimmed over in that first moment of entrance. each compartment was a small room unto itself, with seats of deep burgundy velvet arranged around small tables of polished mahogany. lamps glowed on the walls, casting long shadows that danced and swayed with the movement of the train—although the train itself wasn’t moving yet.
death stood beside you, waiting.
after a moment, he gestured towards one of the compartments, “you may choose any seat. they’re all reserved for you.”
you moved into the nearest compartment, sliding into a seat by the window. the velvet was soft against your back, cooler than you expected yet not that uncomfortable, like sitting on a cloud that had been left in the shade. it yielded to your weight perfectly, cradling you in a way that felt almost intentional, as if the seat itself had been waiting for you, had been shaped specifically for your soul.
death sat across from you.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke. your gaze remained on him, drinking him in. the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way arms were crossed above his chest, the particular set of his mouth that used to mean he was deep into his thinking. and he reciprocated yours, watching you with those dark, dark eyes that held nothing of the warmth they had once carried.
the silence between you was torture. you searched his face like a diver searching for air, desperate for some sign, some crack in the façade, some flicker of the man who had once held you through panic attacks and whispered that everything would be okay. you looked for the crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the adorable dimples when he smiled. for the way his lips used to be pressed against yours in the rain, in the studio, in the hospital when there were no words left to say. for the softness that would bloom across his features when he looked at you, like flowers opening to the sun.
and there was… nothing.
nothing but that quiet, detached curiosity, like a false god examining a mortal prayer they do not intend to answer. like a scholar studying an interesting specimen. like a cat watching a bird through a window—mildly engaged, fundamentally unmoved.
this was not the silence of comfort, because there was nothing comfortable about this. about being trapped in an endless train ride with the face of your dead lover and the hollow eyes of something you had never known you feared until this moment. the train hummed beneath you, a low, constant vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the world outside the windows was only darkness, only void, only the absence of everything you had ever known.
he didn't recognize you. you figured it out in a harsh way, the way you figure out that a limb is broken when you try to use it and the pain tells you everything you need to know. there was no recognition in his gaze. no familiarity. no emotion at all, beyond that mild, academic interest. you were a soul. one of billions. one in a trillion. a face in an endless crowd of faces, all of them eventually forgotten, all of them eventually reduced to the same grey nothing.
it was the silence of a love that existed solely on one side now, a bridge that had collapsed halfway, leaving you stranded on the edge with nothing but memory to hold onto. you could still see the other side, still remember what it looked like, still feel the phantom weight of footsteps that would never cross again.
but he was gone... the man you had loved—still loved, would always love, could not stop loving no matter how many years passed, he had been gone for three years and seemed to remain that way. succumbed to his illness, to the terminal disease that had eaten him slowly from the inside while you sat helplessly by his bedside, holding his hand, pretending you couldn’t feel it growing colder. you had kissed him one last time. you had accompanied him the whole time in his death bed. you had watched the light leave his eyes. you had stood at his grave and promised to move on, to live, to carry him with you without letting his absence destroy you.
and you had failed. you had failed so completely. you had just been too stubborn to accept it until now.
and this… this ancient being sitting across from you was making things far worse.
he tilted his head.
it was such a small gesture, such a him gesture—the slight cant to the left, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way his lips parted as if he was about to speak. it was a ghost of the person he used to be, a muscle memory that had survived the transformation, a remnant of humanity that even the gods hadn't been able to erase completely.
it sent a knife through your heart.
"you're quiet," he observed. his voice was soft, curious, the voice of someone examining an interesting specimen. "most souls talk. they ask questions. they bargain. they beg. they weep. they try to run. you just... sit there. staring at me.”
"you look like someone i used to know," you replied almost instantly, and your voice was steady, surprisingly steady, even though you felt like you were crumbling inside, even though every word felt like glass in your throat.
"ah." he nodded, as if this explained something, as if this was a phenomenon he encountered regularly. "…that happens. the form death takes… it's drawn from the soul death is guiding. whatever face will bring the most comfort, the most peace. sometimes it's a parent. sometimes a child. sometimes a beloved pet." a pause. "sometimes, i'm told, it's a lover.”
you flinched. the word lover, spoken in his voice—chan's voice, applied to someone else, to some hypothetical soul who wasn't you, who had never been you, who would never matter the way you had mattered to the man in the hospital bed.
“you’re not him,” you declared, the words landing like a verdict.
“…no,” he said simply, his expression devoid of any of the things a human might have felt in that moment… or so you thought. however, there was something in the way he held himself, something in the almost-imperceptible pause before he spoke again, that made you wonder if the emptiness ran as deep as it appeared. if perhaps, beneath that void, something was listening. something was watching. something was waiting for you to say more.
“i am… the end of life,” he continued, his voice touched by something that might have been gentleness, might have been curiosity, might have been the faintest echo of the humanity he had lost, “your… temporary friend, if you must.”
temporary friend.
the words lodged in your chest like shards of glass.
because he wasn't your friend—he didn't feel like a friend. he was a stranger wearing your lover's face, a specter dressed in the skin of your most precious memories, a void disguised as the man who had once held your heart in his hands and promised to keep it safe forever. every familiar line of him was a lie. every gesture that echoed the past was an accident, a coincidence, a trick of the light. the being sitting across from you had never held you in the dark. had never whispered that everything would be okay. had never traced idle patterns on your skin while the world slept.
but he was also all you had, at this exact moment.
in this place between places, on this train to the end of forever, he was the only presence that felt real. the only voice that spoke. the only eyes that looked at you and saw something, even if that something was just another soul to be guided, another name on an endless list, another brief flicker of consciousness on its way to oblivion. he was a stranger, yes. a void wearing a familiar shape. but he was here, and you were here, and in the absence of everything else you had ever known, that had to be enough.
"temporary friend," you repeated, testing the weight of the words on your tongue. "that's what you are? to all of them? to all the souls you guide?"
"to all of them," he confirmed. "for the journey, at least. some want to talk. some want silence..." he paused, and something shifted in those eyes—something that might have been the faintest stirring of interest. "i don't know what you want.”
i want you to be him, you thought. i want you to remember. i want you to hold me the way you used to hold me, to look at me the way you used to look at me, to love me the way you promised you would love me forever.
of course, you didn’t say any of that.
because what would be the point?
"i don't know what i want either," you admitted, and the honesty of it surprised you. "i thought i did. i thought i wanted to live. i thought i wanted to go back, to keep fighting, to keep existing in that world that was slowly killing me. but when i saw my body, along all those people standing around doing nothing—"
you shook your head. "i felt relieved. i felt free. for the first time in three years, i felt like i could breathe."
his silence was loud, boisterous, and terrifying. his stare sent shivers cascading down your spine, forcing you to avert your gaze to the ground.
"…three years," he repeated. "that's how long you've been waiting."
it wasn't a question, but you answered anyway.
"that's how long since he died. since chan died." you looked at him, at the face that was and wasn't his, at the eyes that held nothing of the love you remembered. "since i lost the only person who ever made me feel like i mattered."
the words hung in the air between you, heavy as stones dropped into deep water. you watched them sink, watched them disappear into the vast emptiness of his gaze, and wondered if they would reach anything at all. if there was anything to reach, beneath that void, beneath that eternal stillness.
before death could open his mouth, before he could offer whatever response he might have offered; comfort, perhaps, or curiosity, or that strange, detached interest that was the closest thing to warmth he seemed capable of, the train began to move.
it was not the gentle lurch you had expected.
it was a shudder, deep and resonant, like the waking of some ancient beast from slumber deeper than time. a sound rolled through the carriage, low and vibrational, the kind of sound you felt in your bones before you heard it with your ears—a subsonic thrum that seemed to bypass hearing entirely and speak directly to something primal, something buried in the oldest part of your brain. the floor trembled beneath your feet. the lights flickered once, twice, and then steadied, their glow somehow dimmer than before, as if the train itself had drawn on their strength to fuel its awakening.
and through the window, the world began to change.
you turned, instinctively, drawn by the movement, by the shift in light, by something deeper and older than conscious thought. your reflection stared back at you for a moment; pale, hollow-eyed, a ghost even to yourself, and then it dissolved, replaced by something else entirely.
the memories.
they came not as images, not as scenes played out on a screen, but as presences. as if the walls of the train had become transparent, as if you were looking not at a window but at a door into your own past, your own heart, your own self. they pressed against you from all sides, not visually but viscerally, flooding the compartment with the weight of everything you had been.
the first memory was simple. small. almost insignificant.
a kitchen, bathed in afternoon light so golden it seemed liquid, pouring through the windows like honey. your mother's hands, dusted with flour, shaping dough into imperfect circles on a worn wooden counter. your father's laughter from somewhere off-screen, the distant drone of a football match on television, the smell of something baking: bread, maybe, or cookies, that particular warmth that meant home. you were small—seven, maybe eight, sitting at the kitchen table with crayons spread before you like treasure, coloring a picture of a house with a rainbow arched above it like a promise.
you remembered this.
you remembered the way the sun felt on your arms. the way your mother hummed while she worked, some old song you didn't know the name of. the way your father would come in at halftime and kiss the top of your head, his lips warm against your hair, and say, "that's beautiful, sweetheart. the best one yet."
you had been loved.
so deeply, so completely, so unquestioningly loved that you had taken it for granted, had assumed it would always be there, had never once considered that love was a thing that could be lost.
the memory shifted, dissolved, reformed.
now you were older–eleven, maybe twelve, standing on a stage in a school auditorium. the lights were hot against your face, too bright to see the audience, but you could hear them. the rustle of programs, the coughs and whispers, the expectant silence that fell just before you opened your mouth to sing. your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird throwing itself against its cage.
you sang.
your voice, high and clear and pure, filled the space. you didn't remember the song… something from a musical, maybe, something you had practiced for weeks until the notes lived in your bones. however, you remembered the feeling. the way your heart soared with every note, lighter than air, lighter than anything you had felt since. the way the music seemed to flow through you rather than from you, as if you were just a vessel, just a channel for something larger than yourself, something ancient and eternal that had been using human throats to sing since before words existed.
when you finished, the applause was like thunder. like rain after drought. like proof that you existed, that you mattered, that you had touched something in them that they couldn't touch themselves.
you had been good at this, once. you had been alive.
more memories came, faster now, a cascade of moments that built the architecture of your life like bricks in a wall. your first boyfriend, awkward and sweet, holding your hand at the movies with palms so sweaty you couldn't tell where his ended and yours began. your first heartbreak, curled on your bedroom floor while your mother brought you tea and didn't ask questions, just sat with you in the silence until the worst of it passed. graduation, your cap tilted at a jaunty angle, your friends' arms around your shoulders, the future stretching out before you like an unwritten book. university, the nervous excitement of moving into dorms, the terror and thrill of being on your own for the first time, the slow realization that you were becoming someone new.
and then—
him.
the memory slowed, lingered, breathed.
a lecture hall, the projectors, the drone of a professor's voice. you were taking notes, or trying to, your attention wandering to the window, to the grey sky beyond, to anything other than the lecture you had heard a hundred times before. your pen moved automatically, scratching out words your brain wasn't processing.
a shadow fell across your desk.
"mind if i sit here?"
you looked up, and there he was.
bang chan.
twenty years old, with eyes that held depths you couldn't yet fathom and a smile that seemed to suggest he knew something you didn't, something wonderful, something that was about to change your life in ways you couldn't yet imagine.
"it's free," you said, and gestured to the empty seat beside you.
he sat, and the world shifted on its axis.
you watched the memory unfold like a story you had told yourself a thousand times, in the dark, when sleep wouldn't come. late nights in the studio, you at the microphone, him at the mixing board, both of you so absorbed in the music that hours passed like minutes, that time became meaningless, that the only thing that existed was the sound you were building together. the first time he played you something he had produced; a track built around your voice, your melody, your soul, and the way your heart had stopped when you realized what it meant. what he was telling you without words.
the first time he kissed you.
under fairy lights he had strung up in the studio, "for ambiance," he said, but you had known. his lips were tentative at first, sweet, questioning—and then, when you didn't pull away, when you leaned into him instead, they became something else. something certain. something forever. the world outside ceased to exist. there was only his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, the quiet sound he made against your lips that sounded like coming home.
two years.
two years of laughter, arguments, and making up. two years of learning each other's bodies, each other's minds, each other's souls. two years of building a future together, brick by brick, dream by dream, until the architecture of your life was so intertwined with his that you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.
and then—
the hospital room.
you knew what was coming. you had lived it once, and you had just finished telling him about it, just finished spilling the story of your grief into the void of his attention. but knowing didn't prepare you. knowing didn't protect you. knowing just meant you had time to brace yourself before the blow fell.
the machines. the tubes. the antiseptic smell that clung to everything, that would cling to your memories forever, that would haunt you in unexpected moments for the rest of your life.
and chan in the bed, so thin, so pale, so wrong. the man who had glowed with life, who had burned so bright you sometimes had to look away, was reduced to this—a skeleton draped in skin, a ghost before his time.
you watched yourself walk into that room, your face blotchy from crying, your hands trembling at your sides. you watched his eyes light up when he saw you, as if your presence could somehow override the reality of his situation, could somehow make everything okay. as if love alone could cheat death.
"hey," he whispered. "you came."
"of course i came." your memory-self's voice cracked, broke, reformed. "i'll always come. i'll always be here."
his hand, reaching for yours. his fingers, cold against your skin—that particular cold you now recognized, that cold you now knew belonged to the dead and the dying and the in-between.
"promise me something."
"anything."
"don't stop singing."
you blinked at the memory; you, at the confusion on your face, at the tears streaming down your cheeks like rivers that would never run dry.
"promise me." his grip tightened, desperate despite its weakness. "when i'm gone—don't stop. the world needs your voice. i need your voice. even if i can't hear it anymore, i'll know. i'll know somehow. i'll be listening."
"i promise."
the words echoed in the train compartment, overlapping with your memory-self's voice, creating a dissonance that hurt to hear, that cut through you like glass.
"i promise. i won't stop singing. i promise."
and then—
the flat line.
the sound of it. you had long forgotten the sound of it; that endless, horrible tone that signified the end of everything–the man that you loved most, he was everything. it went on and on, a needle through your eardrums, a knife through your heart.
“chan…? chan, no… please…”
your voice, high, thin, and desperate, similar to a child’s voice, a voice that did’;t understand why the world kept turning when it had just ended.
“chan… chris.. christopher, please wake up.”
you watched yourself grab his hand, his cold, still hand, and press it so your cheek as if warmth could be forced back into him by sheer force of will. as if love could resurrect. as if promises meant anything at all in the face of this.
“CHRISTOPHER, PLEASE–DOCTOR! ANYONE PLEASE!”
the scream went on and on, even after the nurses came, even after the hands pulled you away, even after you had no air left to fuel it. It went on in your memory, in your bones, in the part of you that would never stop screaming, not really, not ever.
“GOD, WHY?! BABY, PLEASE! WAKE UP! I CAN’T LOSE YOU!”
the sheet, being drawn up, over his face, over the face of the man you loved, the man who had promised you forever, the man who had left you alone in a world that didn't care, that kept spinning, kept turning, kept existing as if nothing had changed.
the memory held on that image. the sheet. the stillness. the terrible, absolute finality of it. the way his hand had looked, lying on the bed beside him, no longer reaching for anything.
and then it dissolved.
you were left staring at your own reflection in the train window, your face wet with tears you hadn't realized you were crying, your body shaking with sobs you hadn't noticed escaping.
across from you, death was silent.
you didn't turn to look at him. you couldn't. if you turned, if you saw his face—your beloved chan's face, wearing that empty expression, those pale eyes, that terrible, beautiful indifference, you would break. you would shatter into a thousand pieces and never be able to put yourself back together. the shards of you would scatter across this impossible train, across this journey to the end of everything, and there would be no one left to gather them. not even him. especially not him.
so you stared at your reflection, at the ghost you had become, and you let yourself feel it. all of it. the grief you had been carrying for three years like a stone in your chest, heavy and smooth and worn by constant handling. the loneliness that had become your only companion, that slept in your bed beside you, that sat across from you at dinner tables meant for two. the exhaustion of waking up every morning to a world that expected you to keep living when half of you had already died. the desperate, aching need for something you could never have again, for a hand you would never hold, for a voice you would never hear—except here, except now, except in this cruel parody of return.
the confession came out before you could stop it, raw, ugly and true.
"i didn't keep my promise."
the words fell into the silence like bodies into graves. you watched them land in your reflection's eyes, watched the ghost of you absorb their weight.
"i tried." a laugh escaped you, bitter and broken. "god, i tried. for a few months after, i sang every day. i have tried auditions after auditions, training after training. i sang until my throat was raw, until i had no voice left, until the sound that came out of me was nothing but scraping and air."
your hands were trembling. you watched them tremble in the reflection, watched the ghost of you fall apart in slow motion.
"but it hurt too much. every time i opened my mouth to sing, i heard his voice in my head… telling me i was good, telling me the world needed to hear me, telling me he loved me. and i couldn't—" your voice cracked, splintered, bled. "i couldn't carry that weight. i couldn't carry him anymore. so i stopped."
the silence that followed was boisterous.
"i stopped singing," you whispered. a tear slid down your reflection’s cheek. you watched it fall, watched it catch the dim light of the train, watched it disappear into the collar of your shirt. "i stopped everything. i went to work, i came home, i slept, i did it all again. i’ve tried so hard to forget him.”
the words hung in the air between you like smoke from a fire that had finally burned itself out.
you had said it. after three years of carrying this secret, this shame, this failure, you had finally spoken it aloud. you had broken the promise. you had let him down. you had taken the one thing he had asked of you—the only thing he had ever asked of you—and you had abandoned it because you were too weak, too broken, too human to bear the weight of it.
across from you, death was motionless.
for a long, terrible moment, he simply looked at you with those grey eyes, and you braced yourself for whatever came next. judgment, perhaps. disappointment. that quiet, detached curiosity that seemed to be his default state, observing your pain like a scientist observing a specimen.
but none of those things came.
instead, he moved.
it was slow, deliberate, as if he was giving you time to pull away, time to refuse, time to build your walls back up before he could reach you. he rose from his seat across from you and crossed the small space between you in two silent steps. then, without a word, without asking permission, without any of the things a human might have done in this moment, he lowered himself onto the velvet seat beside you.
and he took your hand.
his fingers were wintry, akin to the cold of winter graves and forgotten attics and the space between stars. however, they wrapped around yours with a gentleness that stole your breath. not the grip of someone trying to hold on. not the clutch of someone afraid you might disappear. just... presence. just here. just a hand, holding yours, in the darkness.
then softly, so softly, you almost didn’t hear it over the pounding of your own grief in your ears, “...i’m sorry.”
the words landed like snowflakes on warm skin—there and gone, melting into nothing, but leaving behind a trace of cold that you felt all the way down to your bones.
i’m sorry. two words from a being who had existed for eternity, who had guided countless souls to their final destinations, who had worn a thousand faces and would wear a thousand more. two words that meant nothing and everything, that should have been empty yet somehow weren't.
you gazed up at him, at this stranger wearing your lover's face, at these ashen eyes that held no memory of you but somehow, impossibly, seemed to see you. really see you. not as another soul to be processed, another name on an endless list, but as something more. something that had caught his attention. something that made him, for the first time in perhaps millennia, feel something other than the endless, weightless drift of eternity.
"what are you sorry for?" you whispered.
“you have been alone, you have been hurting… i’m sorry for everything you have lost, for everything you are still losing. consider this as my act of…”
he trailed off, his brow slightly furrowing in that achingly familiar way; the same expression chan used to wear when he was searching for the right word, the right note, the right way to say something that mattered. the silence stretched between you, fragile as spun glass, and you found yourself holding your breath, waiting for something you couldn’t name.
“kindness,” he finished finally, and the word seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised you,. his lips parted slightly, as if he was testing the weight of it, the shape of it in his mouth. “perhaps, of all the ways to lose a person, death is the kindness.”
the words sank into you like anchors finding the ocean floor, disturbing depths you hadn't known existed.
death was kind.
this cold, empty, eternal thing was offering you kindness. not because he had to. not because it was his duty. but because he wanted to. because something in you, something in your grief, something in the way you had loved and lost and kept loving anyway, had seemed to reach him in a way nothing else ever had.
“...i understand,” you swallowed, the words scraped past the thickness in your throat, past the tears you were still crying, past the part of you that wanted to scream, the part that simply wanted to rest, the part that wanted to end everything, “i suppose that’s how life works–nothing lasts forever.”
nothing lasts forever.
the admission hung in the air between you, heavy as a funeral shroud, cold as the hand that still held yours. you had heard them before, of course—spoken at funerals, printed in sympathy cards, murmured by well-meaning friends who didn't know what else to say. but you had never truly felt them until now. never understood them in your bones, in the marrow of you, in the place where grief lived like a second heart.
not love. not grief. not even life itself.
not even the man who had promised you forever in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers.
death went silent. he didn’t speak, didn’t offer comfort, wisdom, or any of the things a human might have said in this moment… no platitudes about moving on, no gentle reminders that grief was the price of love, no assurances that time would heal what had been broken. perhaps he knew, better than anyone, that such words were hollow. perhaps he had said them so many times across so many millennia that they had lost all meaning, worn smooth as river stones by endless repetition.
or perhaps, you thought as you watched his face shift through expressions you couldn't quite name, he simply ran out of words.
instead, his thumb began to move.
slow, rhythmic circles against the skin of your hand, tracing patterns that seemed to mean something even if you couldn't understand them. the motion was unconscious, you realized—he wasn't looking at what he was doing, wasn't thinking about it, wasn't even aware that he had started. it was simply... happening. flowing from him like water from a spring, like breath from lungs, like something his body remembered even if his mind did not.
it was such a small thing. such a human thing. the kind of absent-minded gesture someone made when they were lost in thought, when words failed them, when they didn't know how to say what they were feeling. the kind of thing chan used to do when you were curled up together on the couch, watching movies, existing in the same space without needing to fill it with sound.
your throat tightened.
of course, he had led an endless amount of souls, including you, to the afterlife… he must be used to comforting the living, the dying, the in-between. this was routine for him. another day, another soul, another brief moment of connection before moving on to the next. the thumb circling your hand meant nothing. it was just muscle memory. just habit. just the accumulated weight of millennia of practice.
and yet.
and yet it felt like something. it felt like care. like presence. like… warmth.
the tears came again, silent and hot, tracing warm paths down your cold cheeks.
you didn't know why you were still crying. you had cried so much already—enough tears to fill oceans, to drown in, to lose yourself in. but they kept coming, kept falling, kept being, and through it all, his thumb never stopped its slow, steady rhythm against your skin.
circle. circle. circle. a heartbeat made of motion. a promise made of touch. the only constant in a world that had dissolved into chaos and memory and the wreckage of everything you had ever loved.
minutes passed. or hours. or moments. time didn't matter here, didn't exist here, didn't mean anything in this place between places. the train continued its endless journey through darkness, and the memories continued their slow dance beyond the window, and you continued to cry, and he continued to hold your hand and trace those impossible circles against your skin.
you watched them with a kind of detached wonder, seeing yourself from the outside for the first time, understanding things about your own story that had never been clear before.
the years after chan's death. the grey apartment. the empty bed. the job that drained you, the nights that stretched on forever, the slow erosion of everything that had made you you. you watched yourself fade, day by day, month by month, year by year, until there was almost nothing left.
and then the accident. the headlights. the impact. the end.
you should have felt sad, watching it. you should have felt regret, or fear, or longing for the life you had left behind. you should have wept for the woman who had died alone on a rain-slicked street, for all the things she would never do, all the people she would never meet, all the possibilities that died with her.
but instead, all you felt was peace.
a deep, quiet peace that settled into your bones and made you feel, for the first time in three years, like you could finally rest. like the struggle was over. like you had been released from something that had been holding you captive, something you hadn't even known was a prison until the door swung open.
the tears were still on your cheeks, but they were old tears now. cooling. drying. the last remnants of a grief that had finally, finally run its course.
you took a breath. then another. then you reached up with your free hand and forcibly wiped the tears away with the back of it, smearing them across your skin like the last traces of a storm that had finally passed.
"i'm ready," the words came out steady, settling into the space between you like stones finding their resting place at the bottom of the river, finally still, after so long tumbling in the current.
the words came out steady. calm. certain in a way you hadn't been certain of anything in years.
his thumb stilled against your hand for just a moment–a pause, a question, a silent check, before resuming its slow, steady rhythm, “ready?”
"to go. to wherever i'm going." you turned from the window to face him, and for the first time, you didn't flinch at the sight of his face. didn't feel that sharp stab of grief at seeing chan's features on a stranger. "i've been running from this for so long. from death, from loss, from feeling. but i'm not running anymore."
it was still strange. it would probably always be strange. however, the pain had softened, somehow, during this impossible journey. blunted by time and tears and the simple presence of this ancient being who had sat with you in the dark and held your hand while you fell apart.
christopher chahn bahng was gone. he had been gone for three years, and no amount of wishing, no amount of crying, no amount of broken promises would bring him back. yet this entity, this death, this guide, this ‘temporary friend’, had given you something you hadn't known you needed.
permission to stop.
permission to let go.
permission to finally, after all this time, be ready.
death nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes—not the understanding of someone who had lived through what you had lived through, but the understanding of a ancient god who had witnessed it a million times. who had seen every variation of grief, every shade of loss, every possible way a soul could approach the end. the angry ones and the peaceful ones. the ones who fought until their last breath and the ones who surrendered with grace. the ones who clung to memories like lifelines and the ones who let go so completely they seemed to disappear before they'd even left.
you were neither, and you were both. you were something in between: a soul who had held on too long and was only now learning how to release.
"…it is time, then," he said. his voice was gentle, almost tender—the voice of someone delivering news they wished they didn't have to deliver, "the journey is almost over. beyond this train, beyond these memories, there is something waiting for you. i cannot tell you what it is. i cannot tell you what you will find. every soul experiences it differently, and the only thing i know for certain is that i do not know."
he paused, and something flickered in those soulless eyes.
"but i can tell you this: you will not be alone. whatever comes next, you will face it with everything you have ever been, everyone you have ever loved, every moment that has ever mattered. they are part of you now. they will always be part of you."
your heart, that phantom organ that still somehow managed to beat in your chest, swelled with something that felt almost like hope.
"will i see him again?" you whispered. "chan? will i—"
death's expression softened. it was the first truly soft thing you had seen on his face since this journey began.
"i cannot promise you… that. i do not know what waits beyond this threshold. but i can promise you this: if he is there… he will be waiting. and if he is not—" he reached out and took your hand again, his cold fingers wrapping around yours. "you will carry him with you. and that will be enough. it will have to be enough."
you nodded, swallowing against the thickness in your throat.
"okay," you breathed. "okay.”
his lips curved into something that might have been a smile, if smiles could exist on the face of death, despite crooked, “you’re braver than most. most souls fight until the very last moment. they scream. they bargain. they beg for more time, for second chances, for anything that might let them go back. but you…”
he shook his head, something like wonder in his voice; as if, after millennia of guiding souls, you had still managed to surprise him, “you just… accepted it.”
“maybe i’m just tired.”
"maybe." the edges of his lips twitched slightly, that same feigned simper. "or maybe you've already done all the fighting you needed to do. maybe this is just... rest."
you liked that. rest. not an ending, not a finality, just... rest. the kind of rest you had been craving for three years, the kind you had never been able to find in that grey apartment with its empty bed and its crushing silence. the kind that had eluded you no matter how many hours you slept, no matter how many days you spent pretending to be fine.
"thank you… death.”
"for what?"
"for being kind. for listening. for—" you gestured vaguely at him, at the train, at everything. "for wearing his face. it made this easier. and harder. but mostly easier, i think. it felt like he was here with me, one last time."
something shifted in his expression. too fast to name, too quick to understand. but you felt it. you felt him, beneath the mask, beneath the centuries of solitude and duty and emptiness. you felt something reaching for you, something that wanted to hold on, something that was fighting against its own nature to be present with you in this moment.
"can i ask you for something?" the words came out before you could stop them, before you could think about whether they were appropriate or fair or kind.
"anything."
you hesitated. the train was slowing now, the memories fading from the windows, a soft light beginning to glow in the distance—warm and golden and somehow inviting, like a home you had never seen but somehow recognized. you were running out of time.
"can you…" you stopped. swallowed. started again. "can you hold me? just for a moment? i know you're not him–i just... i want to be held one last time. by someone who looks like him."
he was quiet for a long moment, and you braced yourself for refusal. for the gentle explanation that this wasn't appropriate, wasn't allowed, wasn't what death was supposed to do. for the polite but firm rejection that would send you into the light alone, still hungry for a touch you would never feel again.
however, instead, he moved.
slowly. carefully. giving you every chance to change your mind, to pull away, to take back the request. his arms lifted, opened, offered—a question more than an answer, an invitation more than an assumption. his haunting eyes held yours, asking permission, waiting for consent, refusing to assume anything.
you rose up from your own seat, moving forward to the spot beside him. the train hummed softly around you, the memories flickered beyond the window, and the light grew steadily brighter—yet none of it mattered. none of it existed. there was only him, and his open arms, and the moment stretching between you like a held breath.
you leaned into death himself.
when his arms finally closed around you, they were hesitant at first, as if he had forgotten how. the cold seeped through your clothes, through your skin, through to the bone—yet beneath that chill was something steady. something present. he held you with a gentleness that made your heart ache with recognition, that reminded your body of what it felt like to be held by someone who loved you.
it was slightly different from his.
his hugs had been warm, full-bodied, all-encompassing. he had held you like you were the most precious thing in the universe, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. he had pressed his face into your hair and breathed you in, and you had felt, in those moments, like nothing could ever hurt you. like the world outside could burn and you would still be safe, still be loved, still be home.
yet it still felt safe.
in death’s arms, encased in his cold, cradled in his careful tenderness, you found safety for the first time in three years. the first time since chan's fingers had slackened in your grip. the first time since that endless, terrible tone had sliced through the hospital room and carved everything away.
"thank you," you whispered into his chest. the words were muffled, swallowed by the fabric of his black coat, by the cold, by the sheer impossibility of this moment.
his arms tightened. just slightly. just enough to let you know he had heard, he understood, he was here. "…you're welcome."
you stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the train slowing around you, the light growing brighter beyond the windows. you didn't want to let go. you didn't want this moment to end. but you knew… you knew… that all moments ended eventually. that was the nature of moments. that was the nature of everything. even this. even him. even the impossible, fleeting connection between a soul and the being who guided it into whatever came next.
"your ‘temporary friend’," you murmured, remembering his words from earlier. the phrase had stuck with you, lodged itself somewhere in your chest. "that's what you said you were."
this entity who had existed since before time had a name, who had guided more souls than there were stars in the sky. the light from beyond the windows caught his features, softening them, gilding the sharp edges of his cheekbones, warming the cold planes of his face. it made him look almost human. almost like chan. almost like someone you could keep.
in another life, perhaps. in another world.
"i think," you said slowly, "that you're the best ‘temporary friend’ i've ever had."
his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to respond, wanted to offer some words in return.
however, before he could, before the moment could stretch any further, the train came to a halt.
it was not the gentle stop of a train arriving at a station. it was a cessation, a stillness, an absolute end of movement. one moment the world was sliding past in a blur of light and memory; the next, everything was perfectly, utterly still.
THE LIGHT OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS WAS NOW SOFT, pearlescent, beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. through the glass, you could see a platform, not the abandoned, grimy platform from before, but something else. something more. it was bathed in that same soft light, and at the end of it, you could see…
a gate.
it was wrought iron, old and beautiful, covered in flowers that seemed to bloom even as you watched. beyond it, you could see a garden—the most beautiful garden you had ever imagined, with colors that didn't exist in the living world and light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
the afterlife.
your final destination.
death rose from the seat beside you, and the motion drew your eyes to his face one last time. then his hand was there, waiting. you took it confidently, letting him pull you gently to your feet. frost enveloped your fingers, yet beneath it was something solid, something steady, something that made you feel, even now, even at the end, like you weren't alone. he led you forward, through the train, down the corridor, towards the door that would open onto forever.
the doors slid open silently, revealing the platform beyond.
you stepped out together, hand in hand, and the light washed over you like warm water, like a blessing, like coming home after a long, hard journey. it was beautiful. it was peaceful. it was everything you had hoped for and more.
death stopped at the edge of the platform, just before the gate. his hand released yours, and you turned to face him, to say goodbye, to thank him one last time for everything he had done—for the kindness, for the patience, for holding you while you fell apart. the words were gathering in your throat, lining up like soldiers ready to march: thank you, i'll never forget you, i hope you find peace too–
however, before you could speak, before you could form the words that were gathering in your throat, he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.
this was not the careful, hesitant embrace from before. this was not the gentle holding of a being learning to touch for the first time. this one was desperate. this one was fierce. this one held you like he was drowning and you were air, like he had been waiting for this moment for longer than you could imagine, like letting you go would kill him in a way that even death couldn't survive.
you froze, confused, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides.
"death—" you started, your voice muffled against his chest. but before you could finish, before you could ask what was happening, before you could process any of the emotions flooding through you—
he kissed you.
his lips pressed against yours; cold as starlight, cold as the space between heartbeats, cold as everything he had ever been—yet they were familiar. they fit against yours the way they had always fit, the way they had fit in the studio under fairy lights three years ago, the way they had fit in the hospital room when there were no words left to say, when all that remained was touch, tears, and the desperate need to hold on just a little longer.
and without thinking, without understanding, without knowing why…
you reciprocated his kiss.
your arms came up around him, pulling him closer, holding him the way you used to hold chan, the way you had held him a thousand times in a thousand different moments. your lips moved against his like they had never stopped, like the three years of silence and grief had never happened, like you were still the person you had been before everything fell apart.
but it was him.
somewhere in the back of your mind, in the depths of your soul, you knew. you had always known. the way he held you, the way he kissed you, the way his presence made you feel seen in a way that nothing else ever had—it had always been him.
and this broke you.
because you were kissing chan. you were kissing chan one last time, and you hadn't known, hadn't realized, hadn't understood until this moment what you had been missing, what you had lost, what you had been given back for just a handful of heartbeats. three years of emptiness, three years of searching for him in every face, in every crowd, in every quiet moment when the world went still.
and he had been here all along. he had been holding you. he had been guiding you home.
tears streamed down your face, hot and endless, mixing with the cold of his lips, with the salt of three years of grief finally released. they fell between you, onto your joined mouths, onto the hands that clutched at each other like lifelines. he held you close until there were no space left, chest to chest, heart to heart, his hands familiar on your waist.
when you finally broke apart, when you finally pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes were no longer moonless grey.
they were brown.
they were his brown… warm, genuine, and full of a love so vast it seemed to confine everything. they were the eyes that had held you together when everything else was falling apart, the eyes that haunted you in your dreams. they were the eyes you had searched for in every stranger's face, the eyes you had been so afraid you would never see again.
"chan," you breathed, and the word was a prayer, a question, a desperate hope. "chan, it's you. it's really you."
he smiled, that smile, the one that creased his cheeks with dimples, the one that had made you fall in love with him, the one you had dreamed about for three years, and nodded slowly.
"but you said–you…" you couldn't form the words, couldn't process the betrayal, couldn't understand why he had let you suffer, why he had let you grieve, why he had let you believe he was a stranger.
"i know." his hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek, wiping away tears that wouldn't stop falling. "i know what i said. i know what you believed. and i'm sorry–i'm so, so sorry… i had to. i had to guide you. i had to be here for you, just for a little while, because if i had shown you who i really was from the beginning, you would never have been able to let go."
"let go?" you shook your head, confusion and grief and desperate love all tangled together in your chest, a knot so tight you didn't think it would ever come undone. "let go of what? let go of you? i've been letting go of you for three years, chan. i've been trying so hard to forget you, to move on, to live, and i couldn't! i couldn't do any of it because you were everywhere, in everything, and now you're here, and you're telling me—"
"i'm telling you goodbye."
the words landed like a blade between your ribs.
the world stopped. the light behind you dimmed. the train, the platform, the gate—all of it faded into background noise, into static, into nothing at all. there was only him, and his brown eyes full of love, and the words that had just carved themselves into your heart.
"what?"
"goodbye." his voice was soft, so soft, but it held the weight of eternity. "this is it, baby. this is the end. and i…" his voice cracked, and he had to pause, had to gather himself, had to find the strength to continue. "i have to let you go."
"no." you grabbed his arms, held onto him with a desperation that surprised you both. "no, you can't. you can't do this. you can't come back to me just to leave again. you can't—"
"i have to." tears were falling from his eyes now—not the clear tears of before, but something darker, something that looked almost like ink, trailing black paths down his pale cheeks. "i'm death, y/n. i have a duty, a purpose, a function. i can't leave the train. i can't cross through that gate. but you…" he looked past her, at the garden beyond, at the light, the peace, and the judgement that was waiting. "you can. you will. and you'll be happy there. you'll be at peace. you'll finally rest."
"i don't want to rest." the words came out fierce, desperate, angry. "i want you. i've always wanted you. i waited for you for three years, chan. i died waiting for you. and now you're telling me—"
"i'm telling you that i love you." his voice was steady now, certain, the voice of someone who had made peace with something impossible. "i'm telling you that i've loved you since the moment i saw you, and i'll love you until the end of everything. i'm telling you that i will wait for you–not just in this life, but in every life. when your soul is ready to be reborn, when you return to the world in a new body with a new identity and a new face, i will be here. waiting. and when your time comes again—whenever that may be, however long it takes… i will be the one who comes for you. i will be the one who guides you home."
"you can't promise that."
"i can." he beamed through his tears—black tears, ink tears, the tears of a being who had existed for eternity and was feeling, for the first time, what it meant to lose something. “some connections are too strong to be broken by death, time or the whims of gods. you and i…" he paused, and his eyes held yours with an intensity that took your breath away. "you and i are bound, y/n. we have been since the moment we met, and we will be until the end of everything. that's not something they can take away. that's not something anyone can take away."
he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead; a kiss so gentle, so tender, so full of love that it felt like a benediction.
"goodbye, my love," he whispered against your skin. "i'm more than grateful to see you one last time, to send you off one last time. i will wait for you. always."
he stepped back, out of your arms, out of your reach, and walked toward the train with a slowness that felt like torture.
each step was a slow death. each movement of his body away from you was another wound, another cut, another piece of your heart carved out and left to bleed on the platform.
you tried to follow.
you tried.
your legs moved before your mind could catch up, before you could think, before you could process what was happening. you took a step toward him, then another, your hand reaching out, reaching for him, reaching for chan—
and stopped.
not because you chose to. not because you changed your mind. but because something stopped you.
an invisible barrier, warm and soft but utterly impassable, rose between you and the platform. between you and the train. between you and him.
"CHAN!" you screamed, and the sound tore from your throat like something living, like something dying, like something that would never stop echoing. you slammed your fists aggressively against the invisible barrier, desperate, "chan, please! don't do this! don't leave me again!"
he stopped at the door of the train and turned to look at you one last time.
his face was wet with those raven tears, those tears that spoke of a grief too deep for words. but he was smiling—that smile, the one you had fallen in love with, the one you would carry with you through every life, every death, every rebirth.
"you're a cruel man, christopher chahn bahng!" you screamed, using his full name, the name only you had ever used, the name that held all your love and all your anger and all your desperate, impossible hope. "how can you do this to me? how can you bring me back to you just to let me go again?"
his smile dropped, just slightly, just enough to let you know that he heard you, that he understood, that he loved you even in this, especially in this.
"i’m sorry… i love you, y/n, " he called, his voice carrying across the impossible distance between you. "i always have. i always will."
the train doors began to close.
you pressed against the invisible barrier, your hands flat against nothing, your body straining toward him even though you knew… you knew… you couldn't reach him.
"i love you so much," you called out, and your voice broke on the last word, dissolved into sobs, into tears, into the thousand pieces of your heart that were scattering across the space between you. "i love you so much, chan. i never stopped. i never stopped."
through the closing doors, through the gap that was getting smaller and smaller, you saw him.
those onyx tears, streaming down his cheeks like ink, like grief, like love made visible. that smile, still there, still his, still holding all the warmth and love that had sustained you through three years of darkness.
and then, as the doors sealed shut, as the train began to move in reverse, sliding away from the platform, away from you, away into the darkness from which it had come—he blew you a kiss.
the doors closed.
the train began to move, not forward, towards some unknown destination, but in reverse, sliding away from the platform, away from the gate, away from you.
you slid down against the invisible barrier, your knees crashing against the cold floor with a force you couldn't feel—because what was physical pain compared to this? what were bruises and breaks compared to the sight of him disappearing, of him leaving again, of him choosing to go when every fiber of your being was screaming at him to stay?
your heart shattered even more. you would die the second time due to this.
then, ludicrously, it pieced itself back together… only to shatter again, and again, and again, an endless cycle of breaking, and mending and breaking, each wave of grief more brutal than the last.
through the windows of the train, you could see him.
standing in one of the compartments, his hand pressed to the glass. his eyes remained on yours as the train began to move faster, locked onto yours with an intensity that burned through the distance, through the darkness, through the impossible space between you.
his lips were moving. words you couldn't hear, couldn't catch, couldn't hold onto… but somehow, you were able to comprehend.
i love you. forgive me.
the train slid further into darkness, and his hand stayed pressed to the glass, as if he could reach through it, as if he could touch you one last time, as if he could bridge the impossible distance with nothing but will, want, and love.
his abnormal, inky tears… you could see them even from here, even through the gathering dark, even as the train carried him away from you. rivers of night, pouring from the eyes of the only person you had ever truly loved.
the train was smaller now, a shrinking shape in the endless void, a light growing dimmer with each passing second.
you pressed your hand against the barrier, matching his gesture, reaching for him even though you knew you couldn't touch, couldn't hold, couldn't keep.
and then it was gone.
behind you, the gates to the afterlife blazed with light—warm, welcoming, patient. the garden beyond called to you with its color, its peace, and its promise of rest. yet you couldn’t move towards it. not yet. not while the last image of him still burned behind your eyes… his hand on the glass, his lips that you would kiss a thousand times, his tears falling like the universe itself was mourning with him.
i'll wait for you.
and somewhere, in the darkness between worlds, on a train that ran forever through the spaces between life and death, someone was waiting for you.
Description: Y/N fits into the pack easily during her preheat and the others are completely obsessed with her. Chan becomes a bit of a voyeur (and a bit possessive too).
[warnings: oral (female-recieving), voyuerism, knotting (but he knots into a hand, so not really yet) filthy kissing, mini orgy, male x male both implied and direct, alphas: Chan, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jeongin/omegas: Minho, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, general omega verse antics]
read part 1 here!!
a/n: hi again! wanted to stop it before it got too long AGAIN, so if you guys want another part, the next will be her actual heat and a full blown orgy haha. Again, to Chan Felix is Felix, and the others are on their canon Yongbokkie business once again. Also this is my first time doing a tag list!! So idk if I did it right. Anywayyyy let me know if you want another part
(6.2k words)
Chan isn't sure when he'd become such a voyeur.
Like, he'd always liked to watch to some degree. Not just when things were sexual; if his mates were snuggling or existing with one another, he liked to pay attention. If Minho was teaching Changbin a new recipe while Chan washed dishes, he'd get distracted following them with his gaze, while the same plate got scrubbed, rinsed, and rescrubbed because he wasn't focusing. When Seungmin was journaling and had allowed Chan into his room while he did it, he liked to watch the way his fingers fit around his pen and how delicately the tip ran across the paper. He liked to watch the way Seungmin's body moved as he wrote, the relaxed posture, the soft sighs he'd breathe out every so often, or how he'd hum softly.
And, sure, if Jeongin was pressing his face into Felix's chest and lulling his tongue over his nipples while Felix whimpered and squirmed -- Chan would probably stop by to watch for a while (and probably join). Yeah, maybe if he stumbles on Changbin hoisting Hyunjin into his lap and slipping his fingers past the cute little mole on his belly, to dip below the waistband of his too-tight underwear, he'd slow to a halt and keep his gaze on them (and probably join that too).
So, okay, yeah, Chan has always been a little bit of a voyeur—sue him. He can't help but like to watch his attractive mates spend time with each other, whether it be innocent or otherwise. They all knew he did it too -- it was no secret that he was always watching. It was always only a matter of time before they invited him to participate, if he hadn't got worked up enough to just join by himself.
Still, it's different when it comes to watching them with Y/N. Maybe it was because she wasn't technically his, but it always felt like he was interrupting something. Stumbling on a visual that wasn't meant for his eyes. That doesn't necessarily mean he won't stop to watch, it just means there's a little more guilt. . .and dare he say excitement. . .when he happens to witness it.
For as shy as she was when she first got here, all sense of introversion and sheepishness flew right out the window. Y/N didn't care if she was in the living room, in the kitchen, in one of the bathrooms, or in the nesting room. Chan thinks that if they were in public, for whatever reason, she wouldn't care either. Not the state of undress she was in, how she was scenting everyone, and certainly not what she was doing with her mouth -- she really didn't seem to mind an audience. If she even realized there was an audience. He'd seen from that first day with Minho that if she was scent drunk enough, she was so blissed out that numbers didn't even make sense.
So when he comes home from the gym, set on taking a shower and then maybe a nap if he can force it (he'd woken up early, after being up pretty late -- it isn't uncommon for him, but having an unmated omega, in heat, in the house is definitely making it harder to rest), he isn't surprised to see Y/N in the living room with Seungmin. He'd smelled them before he really stumbled on them, which was. . .different. Y/N was close to Seungmin, sure, but Seungmin -- albeit encouraging her to stay with them -- hadn't been all over her like the others were. Chan knew it was just because his Seungminnie was a bit more reserved with skinship, and sometimes the scent of someone else's heat could be overwhelming for him. For this reason, he'd imagined he wouldn't be crowding her much, though he was preemptively scenting things for the nest.
But what Chan smells as he walks in doesn't seem like he's being reserved at all. Where he usually reigns in his scent, it is mixing with Y/N's, oozing into the foyer, and probably up the stairs. Once again, he finds himself rounding the corner to see Y/N on the sofa between someone's legs, only this time he doesn't see her face. Actually, her head is stuffed completely under Seungmin's shirt, but it doesn't seem like she's doing anything. Her head isn't moving, and the rest of her body is relaxed like she might be asleep. Her back rises and falls evenly with each slow, measured breath. Her arms are stretched up and around, her hands resting on either side of him.
And Seungmin seems quite content. His eyes are closed, and his hand is resting over Y/N's head above his shirt. His hair is soft and mussed, fluffy like he'd just showered and dried it. There are the soft, rumbling purrs that have been filling the house lately that reach Chan's ears.
The vision was. . .calming. Tranquil. Chan felt his eyes grow heavy as he lingered.
Felix appears behind him suddenly, almost startling a yell out of him when his cold, small fingers snake around Chan's body and sneak beneath his tank top (they had made up, after Felix's general distaste for Chan's initial opinion on letting Y/N spend her heat with them -- it took a lot of coaxing, kisses, and cuddles, but he did finally return to Felix's good graces). "She's been scenting Seungminnie all morning," the omega tells him softly, rubbing the tip of his nose between his shoulder blades, not caring that he was all sweaty still ("Yongbokkie is a little gross after I work out," he remembers Changbin saying once, "He's always trying to take a whiff of me, the creep."), "He's so scent drunk, he's been puckering his lips for kisses from anyone who's passing."
Chan's brows raise, grabbing for Felix's hands beneath his shirt -- not to remove them, but just to hold, "Hm," he hums softly, his voice quiet, "Has he been kissing her too?" He doesn't really ask in a possessive way. Really, he's intrigued, and a little turned on by the thought of Seungmin kissing Y/N unrestrained and needy. He gets so cute and pink in the face when he's been kissing for too long.
Felix chuckles, airy, "Till her lips were swollen. S'cute. I haven't had the heart to pull them off each other, but I wanna spend time with her too -- everyone else has been hogging her."
Chan knows that's a lie. Felix has actually been the main culprit of hogging, even going so far as to growl when Changbin and Jeongin followed her pretty sounding purrs to his room and found them cuddling. He's always been quite the possessive omega, and he seems to have staked his claim on her. If Felix could give her a mating mark, Chan thinks he probably would have a couple of times by now. That's his baby, or so he keeps telling them.
Still, Chan is weak to all of Felix's whims. So he is the one who carefully peels Seungmin's shirt up to reveal Y/N, who squints up looking at them. Her purrs slow to a stop, and in return, Seungmin's eyes start to open, "Felix wants a turn with her, baby. Do you want to cuddle with Hyung?"
He's definitely scent drunk, because there is no snide comment or grumbled remark. He goes as easily as he does with Changbin, when he thinks nobody is watching them, while Felix pulls Y/N into his arms and Chan pulls Seungmin to himself. His eyes are swimming and dreamy, glossy. He laughs a little, melting into Chan's side, "She cuddles, like a hamster."
There's a soft whine from the doorway Chan was just in, and when they all turn their heads, they see Hyunjin, pouting, "Yongbokkie, you said it was my turn after she was finished cuddling Seungmin."
"You snooze, you lose." Felix replied, lifting his shirt at the bottom and squirming with a giggle when Y/N burrowed beneath it, "Besides, you got her out of bed early this morning to scent each other. I heard you sneaking around."
Hyunjin defends himself, "Because Hyung told me I was on breakfast duty since he had to teach an early class. Anyway, we only got to scent each other for like 10 minutes after she ate before Changbin stole her from me."
"After you stuffed your face between her legs."
"What, I can't eat the poor thing out? She was dripping slick on my tongue, she clearly --"
"Okay," Chan finally cut them off, despite the banter being playful and their scents not noting any sour change like they were actually upset -- they still had an omega in preheat with them. One who may or may not be able to tell that they're just playing around and not actually mad at each other. The last thing he would want was for her to be distressed in any sense of the word, especially when she came here to make her time spent in heat easier, "You guys are talking about her like she's some stuffed animal you co-own. Why are you passing her around and 'stealing' her from each other?"
Hyunjin and Felix look at each other, then they look at scent-drunk Seungmin, who, in turn, sighs.
"You clearly haven't cuddled with her," Seungmin murmurs.
"Is it that serious?" Chan inquires, "Obviously, she's a sweet thing, I get it, but --"
"It is that serious," Felix tells him, eyes wide -- Chan can tell by his face he isn't over exaggerating, "Seriously, Chris, she purrs. Her scent is so good, and she's so soft, and being with her like this is like. . .stress relieving. She zaps all the thoughts right out of you."
"And she purrs," Hyunjin repeats, this time much closer, clearly on his way to smuggle some time with her, even with her buried under Felix's shirt.
"You already said that."
"Plus, even Minho Hyung has been monopolizing his time with her. And he starts hitting if you try to take her away."
"She isn't an object though, so --"
"We know she isn't," Felix stretched his foot out and nudged him with his sock-covered toes, before keeping it there so they could touch, "But you won't get it until you spend time with her. You should do it before she's actually deep in her heat, because I'm starting to suspect she's going to be a menace. Isn't that right, Sweetheart?"
Y/N, for the first time, makes any indication that she might be listening. "Mm," is all she says, which could be her agreeing, Chan thinks -- honestly, he has no clue. It's muffled beneath Felix's shirt.
Hyunjin crawled onto the sofa as well, snaking his arm beneath Y/N's shirt. . .which Chan is starting to realize is not her shirt at all, but is actually one of Changbin's. He doesn't do anything with his hands, just leaves them against her belly, and Y/N's purrs start up again. It must feel good against her -- he knows that some omegas cramp pretty badly before the heat sets in fully. Y/N wiggles a little, then completely melts. Chan can tell she'll be where she is for a while if they allow it.
For the most part, Y/N's been pretty nonverbal, so everyone has been relying on physical (or purring) cues to see if she liked what they were doing. Every so often, she would speak though, and now seemed to be one of those moments, her voice a little croaky when she murmurs, all muffled by her face smushed against Felix's belly, "Alpha -- Jinnie," Chan feels his eyes widen, "Thank you."
Chan knows what that can do -- the instinctual satisfaction that runs bone deep when an omega refers to you as such. So he knows why Hyunjin bends down and nips softly at the back of her thigh, "I'm g'na cum in my pants."
It does linger on his mind that maybe he should seek her out and cuddle with her. He's still feeling so. . .different, about everything, and a little guilty. Should he be able to indulge in this? In her? It feels irresponsible, as the pack alpha. He doesn't mind if his mates want to tend to her, to take care of her, to get her off, feed her, scent her -- but for him, it's just as Minho said. He feels like he shouldn't be able to. Like, he already has 7 mates to take care of -- it seems greedy, no?
Still, he understands why Y/N needed this. With how needy she is for affection -- for as much as she loves being snuggled close and scenting, he can only imagine what it was like to be alone. Along with the pain, the neediness without relief, the emotions that leave her feeling unloved and useless. All she wanted was to be close with someone, and the thought of her not having that before makes his heart ache.
So he gets it, why the doctor suggested a pack. He's never witnessed an unmated omega so at peace before, he thinks, even his own mates before he gave them their bites were never so settled during their preheat. This is all she must have wanted. The thought of it makes his heart feel heavy in his chest, squeezing tightly. How horrible it must have felt for her.
Seungmin squeezes Chan's pec and drags his attention from where he'd been staring off, thinking. Y/N has flipped around, her head popped out of Felix's shirt, and her legs have fallen open. She's still lying on Felix, though, her head on his belly, and his fingers slide into her mouth. Hyunjin has already fit two fingers inside of her, but Chan is certain he hadn't been zoned out for that long. The scent of her slick fills the living room once more, and Chan's mouth waters with it, citrusy and sweet. He can admit that he's jealous of how close Hyunjin is to it, only mere centimeters from his mouth, colliding with her slit.
"Little honey pot," Hyunjin hums, curling his fingers, but keeping her spread open despite how her legs try to snap shut around them, "Want alpha to make you feel good? I'll suck your slick right out of you."
"Gross, Jinnie," Felix hums, and with his hand that isn't preoccupied with keeping his fingers in her mouth, he rubs her head, smoothing her hair back, "Alphas are so gross, aren't they, baby? I think you just need omegas to make you feel good."
"Don't be a brat, Yongbokkie," Hyunjin bites Y/N's knee, and her hips twitch toward his hand, "Why not work together, hm? I think she'd like that."
She very much would, it seemed. Chan could tell from the blissed out look on her face. Her eyelids flutter closed, but her legs fall open even further for him. From the angle Chan is sitting, Hyunjin's shoulders block the view of her holes stretched around his fingers, but Chan can hear it. How she squelches around him, the soft trills that leave her throat, and her hands curl up in Felix's shirt, fingers twisted up and pulling.
"S'it feel good?" Felix asks, voice soft, then reaching down and lulling his index finger around her clit, "Hm? Is Jinnie forgetting about your swollen little button?"
Hyunjin sighs out, "I could never," he lowers, takes her into his mouth from between Felix’s index and middle fingers, and Chan has never been so stressed out to not be able to see what's happening. Especially when the sounds are so wet, her scent is oozing from her in intense waves, her arousal sweetening it, and the pretty muffle of her voice around his fingers. Felix plays with her tongue; he can tell, up until Y/N uses one of her hands to grip his wrist, pulling until they leave her mouth.
Saliva clings to his fingers and her lips, looking soft and wet, "Mouth," she whines, hips twitching, and Hyunjin moans too. His scent swells as well, all Alpha, sure, but tinged with the sweetness that is just their Jinnie, "Felix, Yongbokkie, mouth please."
Felix's eyes soften, "My lips?" He murmurs, "My cock?"
"Both," she whines, and Felix giggles, slipping from underneath her and smearing his lips with her own. Nobody mentions how that would be impossible for her to have both at the same time, but she shivers when Felix suckles her tongue into his mouth while Hyunjin suckles at her clit.
This is a lot. Even in her preheat, her scent is hot and sticky on the back of Chan's throat. There's a soft nudge and prod against the throbbing bulge in his workout shorts. His hips twitch, canting upward toward the touch that he soon finds is Seungmin's index finger. He sucks in a soft breath, expecting Seungmin to go further, but he doesn't. Just a poke, like he wanted Chan to know that his cock was hard and that Seungmin noticed it, so he couldn't even keep it a secret.
Chan squeezes Seungmin's shoulder, humming softly, like a suggestion that Seungmin reads easily, before shaking his head.
"No," he clicks his tongue, "Nobody's touching you properly until you touch Y/N."
Chan scoffs softly, "Wha --"
Hyunjin slurps, then detaches from Y/N with a soft pop, "Yeah," he twists to look at Chan, his lips glossy from Y/N's slick, and Chan wants to lean forward and lick it off his mouth, "Minho's orders. He said this is what he had to do for you to finally touch Jisungie after he presented."
"Yeah," Seungmin clicked his tongue, pressing away from his snuggled position in Chan's side, stretching out his arms toward the sky, his back arched, "Because you want to touch her but you're avoiding it from whatever weird sense of pack alpha guilt you have."
"I'm not avoiding it," Chan disagrees, pouting, "I'm just -- there just hasn't been a chance or anything." He motions towards her, and feels a little whiny when he says, "It's not like she's coming to me either. I was just. . .waiting. Shouldn't I let her seek me out?"
"She probably thinks you want nothing to do with her," Seungmin replies, shrugging, "Which -- you really haven't given her any reason to think you do. Besides watching her and stinking up the place -- we can tell you're horny, and you're feeling possessive over all of us, including her, but she's probably interpreting it that you are feeling possessive only of us, because of her. Get it?" He pressed himself up from the couch and began to lope away, "Stupid Alpha."
It is a lot to think about. He'd already come to terms with his weird, guilt complex, but he's now realizing that just because his mates know what he's doing, Y/N wouldn't. Not unless he explicitly told her. And now she's in a state where being explicitly told probably wouldn't help much of anything. She's working off instincts right now, sure, so she's relying on scent, on sounds, on the general vibe of the room she's in. If the scent isn't inviting, then why should she think she was allowed to approach it? It only made sense.
Did Chan want her to approach him? He's not sure about that either. He doesn't want her to not approach him, but he also doesn't know what he'll do if she does. All of his mates seemed so encouraging of him indulging in this omega in heat, like she was a little treat for all of them to share. So what was he worried about, exactly? That he wouldn't like it? That he would like it too much? That, once he'd had a taste of her, he'd have settled in his heart that she was his? Would he be able to stomach her going on dates, or showing up with someone to parties, or leaving the club with someone that wasn't tied to him with a mark? With someone that wasn't him?
"Channie," Felix's voice is syrupy sweet, coaxing him from his head again. When his pupils focus on the scene before him once again, instead of the way Seungmin had just left the room, Hyunjin has buried his face between her legs once more. The way he's moving his head and the noises emerging, he's practically making out with her pussy. Chan's head feels full of cotton, his nose is stuffed with citrus, and he can practically taste it. He's jealous, he thinks -- how easily his mates can do this without overthinking everything. Chan wants to lick Hyunjin's mouth, taste her from his tongue, before smearing his face against where she's all slicked up. He wants to sniff at her scent gland like a dog and cover her in his scent, he thinks. He doesn't know, for sure, his head's a mess right now. Chan could rarely ever stay clear-minded when heat pheromones are filling up the room. Hell, he could rarely stay clear-minded when any sort of pheromones meant to draw him in are doing their job.
Felix repeats his name, "Come kiss her," he demands, and with ring-decorated fingers, holds Y/N's face by her cheeks like an offering, puckering her mouth, "Just a little one, hm? Doesn't have to be anything big. I can smell that you want to."
Again, Chan is always subject to Felix's whims. Despite how soft he looks, Felix runs the show most of the time spent together. He bosses Chan around, and Chan listens, because that's his Lixie, all freckled and sweet, with soft hands, soft lips, and a filthy tongue. He thinks Felix bosses most of them around in bed, besides maybe Minho, but even with him, Felix usually gets what he wants.
He moves from his space on the sofa, slipping down to the floor on his knees and walking on them up to the space beside the three of them. From this close, Chan can actually see her pussy -- how swollen and slicked up she was. The way her lips hugged around Hyunjin's mouth fixed against her folds, sucking with his eyes fluttering shut, drinking and lapping her in to his heart's content. If he hadn't just been given direct orders from Felix, he might have snuggled his way beside Hyunjin's face and tried to taste too, if that was okay. If Y/N wanted him to, he would. Did she even want him to kiss her?
Like he could read his mind, Felix clicks his tongue, "Ask him nicely, baby," he murmurs to her, loosening his grip on her cheeks before he runs the pad of his thumb across one gently, "Go on, just how we practiced."
Practiced?
Y/N seems to know what to do, her lips wet, swollen, and pouted at first before she opens them, "Please taste my mouth, alpha," she asks politely, then adds, "Now." Which is remarkably much less polite (and very much like his Lix), but she opens her mouth and presses the tip of her tongue to the inside of her bottom lip. It's very clear she is not looking for the little kiss that Felix told him he could do, but Chan had a feeling that wouldn't have lasted anyway. Just a little kiss, when she was looking like this? He'd actually have to be celibate to keep up his "respectful" distance from her.
Chan leans in, touching his tongue with hers almost immediately. He melts against her as he licks into her mouth, rubbing their tongues together in something wet and messy. Y/N moans against him like kissing him is the best thing that could have happened to her, her lips soft pushed to his when they finally do meet. Y/N seems rather obsessed with his bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, digging her front teeth into the plushness of it, and plucking and pulling. Then, she equally seems obsessed with his upper lip, pressing kisses where she's got it pressed between her two.
He feels his face heat up -- his ears must be bright red right now, and he wouldn't be surprised if his face matched. Y/N mewls into his mouth, and Chan has to keep himself steady, one hand gripping Felix's thigh and the other bracing himself on the couch. She is twitchy and jumpy, and every time her hips buck up, she presses herself harder into Hyunjin's mouth.
Chan feels fingers thread through his hair, but he remembers Felix's hands were preoccupied with Y/N. So were Hyunjin's, because his arms were wrapped around her thighs, keeping her still (or trying to) while he ate her. Y/N's scent is overpowering this close up, so he hadn't realized someone else had approached them.
"There you go," Minho's voice rings from above them, his fingers scratching at his scalp carefully, "Are you making your omega feel good?"
His? His. Yeah, she's his, right now -- in this house. No, no, she's. . .she's theirs. Yeah -- he's making their omega feel good. He and Hyunjin, Felix is helping too, and Minho being nearby is probably just as satisfying to her. He can't really think while he kisses her, but he feels his chest rumble with a growl -- something possessive and wanting. Felix and Minho chuckle warmly, and he thinks Hyunjin breathes a laugh, but it's muffled pressed against her. He feels a little bit like a needy mutt that they picked up off the street to knot and breed their precious darling. All they would need was collars, and he could visualize it.
Y/N cums. He feels her whole body shake with it, and she splits away from him with a gasp. Strings of spit stretch, bow, and snap between their mouths when they part. Chan thinks he'd chase after her if not for the hand in his hair, gripping him.
Why had he been keeping himself from her again? It seems stupid now, after tasting her mouth. It seems like he needs to get her into their nest and take care of her as she deserves. Who should knot her first? Should he? Or -- well, he kind of wants to watch his mates fuck her first. He likes to watch and then get involved. He wonders how many times they could make her cum.
"Jesus," Minho squats behind him, fishing Chan's cock out of his shorts and squeezing tightly, "See, I knew we just had to have her extra filthy in front of him. He's just a dumb dog, at the end of the day," Chan's panting as Minho starts his pace, quick and firm, though Chan still bucks and rocks into his palm. His words make Chan's face feel even warmer, and his cock even harder, especially when fingers are prodding at his spit-slicked mouth. He splits them, feels the softness of them on his tongue, and the cold, metallic taste of the rings Felix is wearing.
"Mm, wanna taste her off Hyunjin's lips, Channie? Think you deserve it?"
"Please," his voice just barely scrapes past his throat, as Hyunjin peppers kisses around her slick-covered thighs. He nuzzles one last deep, slow breath from her scent gland before finally lifting away, twisting his head, and puckering his lips in Chan's direction. He all but lunges toward him -- Hyunjin tastes good in general, but the thought of his taste mixed with Y/N's? He was almost trembling with the need for it.
Their kiss is even filthier than his and Y/N's, all wet tongues, and Chan sucking on Hyunjin's while he whimpers and moans into his mouth. It must be even more naughty than he thought because he hears a low, murmured, "Fuck," from behind him before the hand around his cock starts to speed up, the base extra sensitive, "Jesus Christ, Channie, are you about to pop a knot?"
It was swelling rapidly with the curl of arousal deep in his belly. He hadn't even realized it, too mixed up with everything happening, but now that he knows, he's trying to fuck his knot into the hole Minho provides with his hand. It's desperate and needy, and he thinks he's just panting with his tongue pressed against Hyunjin's at this point, completely useless to the kiss. When he cums, the orgasm is explosive, rippling through his body like lightning strikes, but it hurts -- Minho tries his best to help by milking his knot with his hand. Chan fills up his bottoms with cum, so much of it that it starts to ooze out of the thin, airy material of his workout shorts.
He's breathless after, panting. His body feels like an open-ended wire, twitching and sensitive, even as Minho presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Chan jumps and moans -- he can feel Minho's smile against his skin.
"I think she liked it," Minho murmured, and Chan opened his eyes that he hadn't realized he had closed. Y/N had reached over, run her fingers through some of the cum that had made its way through the fabric, and stuffed them into her mouth.
"Think we all liked it," Hyunjin murmured, "I came in my pants."
"That makes three of us," Felix admitted, leaning forward and pushing a kiss to Y/N's forehead, "C'mon, baby, let's take a bath, hm? Then maybe we'll cuddle with the other omegas -- Jisung wants to spend time with you." Hyunjin makes a sad noise in his throat, and Felix rolls his eyes playfully, "And Jinnie can come too."
"We'll get you cleaned up too," Minho says quietly to him, "You smell like the gym, and you're covered in cum. If your biceps were a little bigger, I'd mistake you for Seo Changbin."
. . .
Later that night, Chan tosses and turns.
Not being in the middle of a mini orgy does give him space to think again. Maybe too much space to think, actually. He'd had a thought, in the heat of it all, that maybe his distress came from worrying he'd like it too much, rather than not liking it at all. He worried that he'd want to bite her, mark her, claim her as his mate, and have her join his pack. He worried that this possessive feeling that has steadily been growing in his chest over the last couple of days would proliferate into something unignorable and uncontrollable.
And, above all, he worried that Y/N might not want that.
Sure, she wants it now. All heat-stricken and needy, to be surrounded by a pack seems to be settling something her omega has needed for a very long time. But outside of that? What if Y/N has no interest in being in their pack? Having 8 mates? Or, worse, what if Y/N just has no interest being with him? Her chemistry with the others at her most bare and instinctual self was amazing, beautiful, something that seemed predetermined -- almost fated. How easily they opened themselves up to her was how easily they'd opened themselves up to each other, all those years ago.
The problem lies in his relationship with her. Their dynamic -- he wouldn't have said anything was wrong with it before now. But since he'd spent absolutely no alone time with her, and the only interaction they've had besides his voyeuristic tendencies was spearheaded by Felix -- he worried. If she has no interest in him, then what if that's what would keep her from wanting to join the pack? What if he's keeping them from something beautiful and magical, merely because he doesn't fit what she wants in an alpha?
It makes his stomach turn. The idea of not involving her, and the idea of involving her but her being miserable with him as her alpha.
Why is he even wondering all of this right now, though? They would need to date, of course. It's important that she'd go out and spend time with each of the members before making it any sort of official. He couldn't just tag her into a pack so incredibly established without making sure, without a doubt, every single person is in agreement. It's just what his instincts are telling him to do; some predated notion that he needs to claim her before another alpha could, like a doe in the wild with two separate wolves after her.
There's a knock on his door. It's gentle and quiet, and he only barely gets out, "Come in," before the door is already opening. He's surprised to see Y/N there, standing with her hands in front of her, playing with her fingers, "Oh?" He pressed himself up from the bed, "Y/N?" He hadn't been expecting her. For the obvious reason that she doesn't seek him out, of course, but also because Changbin had sent a photo in the group chat of Hyunjin completely engulfing her in his arms. His cheek was smushed up against her head and they were both sleeping -- Hyunjin especially looked knocked out. That had only been a few hours ago, so he'd been certain that Y/N would be tied up for the rest of the night.
But instead here she stands, looking nervous to the toe across the threshold from the hallway to his room, "Uh," she clears her throat, "Um. . .hi."
His heart feels soft, "Hi baby," he says gently, trying it out, feeling the way it tastes on his tongue, and her eyes dart up to lock with his -- she must have liked it, "What are you doing, hm? It's cold out there."
It takes her a second to find the words, and he doesn't know if it's because she's nervous or because she hasn't really been talking. The others seem to know what she needs just by a look or a couple of words. So it must be hard for her to have to speak in a full sentence, so he's patient, waiting, trying to look as inviting as he possibly can. He projects his scent out in something calming and warm. He hopes it helps soothe her, even a little bit.
"I want to get in your bed," she told him, finally, "With you."
Chan's sternum might be rattling from how quickly his heart is beating, as he peels up the blanket, "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she nods, stepping into his room, "Can I lie on your belly?"
He smiles, "Of course you can," he murmurs, "I don't mind. You don't have to ask for things, you can just do them, yeah? How you do with the others."
Y/N was wearing what he recognized as Jeongin's shirt, and it hung over her body. She smelled like warm bread from him, and her own tangerine-y/peachy scent -- it reminded him of breakfast almost. Plus, her mixed with Jeongin -- besides his general love for omegas in preheat, Hyunjin must have been over the moon clingy with her, smelling how she does (he loves all of them, of course, but Jeongin always has a special soft space in Hyunjin's heart dedicated to him).
She crawls beneath the blanket, straddling his legs, but scooting down low enough that her cheek rests on his sternum. Chan thinks that if he were wearing a shirt, she would have been tucked up under it, as she had been with Seungmin (and then Felix), but he never wears clothes to bed. He seldom wears clothes at home, actually, and he'd never regret it more than right now, when she could have felt even safer and warmer underneath it.
Y/N takes his wrist and pushes it up against her nose, huffing him slowly, long, and deeply. After she seems to get her feel, she pulls it toward her neck to rub against her scent glands, effectively scenting herself, and when Chan finally gets the memo, he helps her out. This is the first time scenting her since she'd gotten here -- he wonders if she can hear his heart thumping right now.
He knows she's scent drunk when she completely melts into him, all of her weight like a blanket draped over his body. And then it starts. . .the thing that has them all so eager to cuddle her.
She purrs.
It's. . .nice. More than nice, actually. It's really, really fucking nice. It feels good, the vibrations buzz deep, working their way down to his bones. There are healing frequencies in cat purring, Minho had told him that once, but he wonders if that extends to omegas purring as well. The low, sweet murmur of it sure feels like it's undoing every knot in his muscles. Every worry that had been swirling through his brain completely disintegrates. His hands find her, one in her hair, one drawing circles on her back. It's like she'd cast a spell on him, almost.
How had she not already been brought into a pack? Chan can't help but think that she was meant to have multiple people doting on her, taking care of her. He'd feel sad again about how lonely she must have been for so long, if Chan could feel anything but contentment right now.
"Thank you," Y/N says, her breath tickling his skin, "For letting me come here."
"You don't have to thank me," he assures her, before adding, maybe a little sappy, "I wouldn't want you anywhere else."
Chan is almost asleep when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He reaches to grab for it, and through bleary eyes, reads the message. It's a picture of Jeongin and Hyunjin frowning.
Who took our omega?
Chan smiles, laughs at the image, then clicks out of the screen again.
— hard of hearing!bang chan x fem reader, in which an accident that left bang chan hard of hearing for the rest of his life starts to take a toll on him. and what good of a wife would you be than to gift him the thing that he had been missing through all these years.
a/n: okay i know i said i would update you caught my heart today, but i am not finished with it yet 😭. so here, have my short drabble of bang chan i had wrote years ago. i tweak some parts of it it make it a lot more realistic but please note that this is non-canon compliant. i just love something emotional and comfort it by the end of the story. so enjoy reading! < 3
word count: 1.5k words.
Christopher Chahn Bahng wasn’t born deaf.
He was born healthy—gifted, even. Music seemed to run through his veins from the moment he could hold a microphone. He climbed his way through the industry with relentless passion, eventually becoming part of a thriving group that took the world by storm. Even after retiring from performing, he never truly left music behind. He continued working behind the scenes as a producer, spending countless hours in recording studios, perfecting sounds only he seemed capable of hearing.
Until the accident happened.
Years of constant exposure to loud audio—headphones pressed against his ears for hours without proper breaks, overused earpieces during performances and recording sessions—finally caught up to him. What began as a persistent ringing soon turned into something far worse. An eardrum rupture.
The damage left him 70db hard of hearing.
From that moment on, everything in Christopher’s life began to crumble.
Conversations became exhausting puzzles. Words blurred together, fading before he could grasp them. Sounds he once relied on—music, laughter, voices—slowly slipped further and further away from him.
And the cruelest part of it all? Even your voice began to disappear from his world. He hadn’t heard it clearly since the rupture.
Watching him over the years, you knew the loss had begun to take its toll. His temper grew shorter. His voice, when he spoke, often came out louder than necessary—almost aggressive. Not because he meant to be, but because he could no longer judge the volume of his own words. People began avoiding him. Not out of cruelty, but out of discomfort. They didn’t know how to communicate with him. None of them knew sign language, and awkward misunderstandings often made conversations exhausting for everyone involved.
His bandmates still checked on him, of course. Most of the time through text messages, since many of them were busy with their own careers, families, and responsibilities. But when it came to truly adjusting to his new world, no one did it the way you did.
You learned sign language with him. Sat beside him night after night, practicing until your fingers moved naturally. You never made him feel like a burden, never allowed him to believe he was being left behind. Even when the world around him fell silent, you stayed.
Touching his arm when you approached so he’d know you were there. Resting your hand on his shoulder during conversations. Letting him feel the vibrations of your voice against your chest when you spoke. Reminding him, in every small way possible, that he was never alone.
Still, no matter how strong Christopher Chahn Bahng appeared to be—prideful, stubborn, resilient—there were moments when the vulnerability showed.
And you, of all people, knew exactly what those moments looked like. The way his jaw clenched when he saw people talking in the distance, unable to tell whether they were speaking about him or not. The crease forming between his brows when he missed pieces of conversations. The quiet frustration lingering in his eyes whenever the silence felt too heavy.
His hearing loss made him feel weak.
You once overheard Han Jisung gently asking him about hearing aids. The memory still lingered in your mind.
“Have you ever thought about using one?” Jisung had asked carefully.
Chan’s reaction was immediate. A deep frown formed on his face.
“I’m not putting some apparatus in my ear just to make myself look weak in front of people, Ji,” he muttered. “I’d rather not hear at all than be treated differently.”
The stubbornness in his voice left no room for argument. And for a long time, you respected that choice.
Until one moment changed everything.
One quiet evening, after returning home from work, you found him lying on the bed. A book rested in his hands as his eyes scanned across the pages, completely unaware of your arrival. He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t notice your footsteps. Only when the mattress dipped under your weight as you climbed onto the bed beside him did he finally realize you were there.
He looked up immediately.
“You’re home,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His expression softened as he placed the book on the bedside table.
He shifted closer, eyes studying your face. You tilted your head slightly, raising your hands.
“How was your day off?” you asked in sign language.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, he simply stared at you.
One second passed.
Then another.
A full minute slipped by before he finally moved closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head against your chest. His voice came out quiet. Almost hesitant.
“Can you talk for a little while?”
Your heart tightened.
“I want to feel you vibrate when you speak.”
It wasn’t a direct confession. He never said he missed your voice. But you knew. You knew how much it hurt him. Three years of silence had been slowly breaking something inside him. And every time Bang Chan shuddered slightly when your chest vibrated with your words… it broke something inside you too. You never pitied him. He hated pity. But the loneliness in his actions was impossible to ignore.
So when your fourth wedding anniversary arrived, you didn’t even have to think about what gift to give him.
The decision had been made long ago.
Now, sitting across from him in the restaurant, your fingers tightened around the small box hidden beneath the table. You watched quietly as your husband ate his meal.
Eventually, he noticed your staring. He paused mid-bite.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asked, confusion creasing his forehead.
You smiled. Then gently placed the small box in front of him.
“Open it,” you signed.
He did. His brows furrowed immediately when he saw what was inside.
A hearing aid.
He looked up at you, clearly questioning.
“What the hell is this for?”
You reached across the table.
“Just… wear it for me. Please.”
After a moment of hesitation, he sighed and placed the device into his ear. Once it was set, you reached for his hands. Your fingers intertwined with his across the table. For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then you tightened your grip slightly.
And spoke.
“Hi, Chris.”
Bang Chan flinched. His eyes widened instantly, shock flashing across his face as your voice suddenly filled his ears. His breath hitched. His hands began trembling. Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them. Then suddenly, he lowered his head onto your hands on the table—his shoulders shaking as sobs escaped him uncontrollably.
Your knuckles soon felt warm and wet.
He was crying.
“Chris… baby,” you murmured softly, your own voice beginning to crack. But he only tightened his grip around your hands, shaking his head as if asking for a moment longer.
So you gave it to him.
You waited quietly until his breathing slowly steadied. Then you spoke again, your voice softer.
“Channie… look at me.”
He lifted his head without hesitation. And in that moment, realization fully settled in. He could hear you. Not a faint vibration. Not a distant echo.
Your actual voice.
“I hear you,” he whispered, his voice breaking as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks.
You nodded, smiling through your own tears. Your hands gently cupped his face, thumbs brushing against his damp skin.
“God…” he breathed shakily. “I missed your voice so much. I can hear you again.”
You laughed softly.
“Can you say my name again?” he asked.
“Chris.”
His breath trembled as he closed his eyes, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist.
“Thank you, baby,” he whispered. “I could never ask for a better gift than hearing your voice again. If I knew it felt this good… I would’ve gotten one sooner.”
A small laugh escaped your lips as you ran your fingers through his hair.
“My ever-so-prideful husband,” you teased gently. “And you don’t have to thank me. You know I’d do anything for you.”
You leaned closer.
“I love you, Channie.”
A mischievous spark suddenly flickered in his eyes.
“Do you think we could use this hearing aid for something else?” he asked.
Your brows furrowed.
“Like what?”
His grin widened.
“Maybe… hearing you scream my name?”
Your eyes widened in shock before you smacked his shoulder.
“CHRISTOPHER!”
“I’m kidding!” he laughed—genuinely this time. A sound you hadn’t heard from him in years.
“I love you more, Y/N.”
And of course, you already knew that. Bang Chan had never exactly been subtle about his love for you.
After all—
He still turned off the hearing aid you gave him whenever someone else tried to talk to him. But the moment you spoke? He always turned it back on.
honestly, screw him for this. you bring him to your family so he can be introduced to them, and this is how he repays you? by forcing you to hush up your sounds of pleasure in your childhood bedroom?
he’s quite pleased with himself. you can feel his growled laughter against your puffy folds, his pupils wide and blown as he occasionally looks up at you. he flattens his tongue, running it from your spasming hole to your clit before he parts from you. chin dribbling and his plush lips curled into a smile. he’s made you come once, and he doesn’t plan on stopping now.
he loves a good personal record.
you can barely breathe, and he’s tormenting you. taking a delight in it. he sat there during dinner as the perfect spectacle of a man, helping your mother, impressing your father. and now he’s got your sweetness on his tongue like ambrosia. you knew that joke he made at the table about innocent “cream pies” for dessert was too good to be true.
he nudges his nose against your thigh, kissing the junction between your mound and leg crease.
“still with me…? silly girl, letting me eat you out in your cute little room you grew up in...”
you’d throw a curse at him if you had the energy, but his words make something churn delightfully in your stomach. a wanton sound bubbles up in your throat and escapes, making you slap your hand over your lips. his hands are snaked up your shirt, kneading at your breasts in his palms. warm and soft. just like the rest of you.
you did homework on this bed. gossiped to friends about who was doing what, the people you had crushes on. and here he is, the man of your dreams giving you a nice night cap involving his drooling tongue to end the perfect day.
he dives back in with good vigor and an obnoxious slurping sound. why does he get to be loud? with his lips closing around your sensitive bundle of nerves, chan’s own eyes close as your thighs squeeze around his head. it makes his head dizzy and his cock twitch against the mattress. he laps soft, gentle kitten licks, mimicking your whining and mewling back to you before laughing with a rolled out tongue.
“shh… don’t wanna wake up your family…”
chan blows cold air against your folds as you twitch, stifling your hiccuped little moans behind your hand. he grins and nudges your clit with his nose. you smell too good, he wants to burrow his face in you forever.
“slutty pussy… dripping all over your sheets…” and because chan can never degrade you without feeling like a monster if there’s no praise—
“so pretty down here… pretty everywhere… you taste so good, i could eat it for hours. will you let me, baby? let channie love on this pretty cunt all night?”
his hands slide up and down the sides of your torso, and you’re not even sure what he’s saying. your head is spinning, on cloud 9. but you nod, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on your childhood bedroom ceiling.
if you look down at him you swear you’ll come again. the sounds are already too much, his grunts and groans with the wet clicking and squelching every time his tongue laves down on your pussy. he’s painfully throbbing in his boxers. you have that affect on him.
“there she is… letting me do whatever i want… you worked so hard to make tonight go smooth… looked so sexy in your pretty outfit… let me treat my girl…”
chan purses his slick covered, thick lips and kisses your clit. a soft suck to it, drawing back. he can feel sinewy strings of your juices and his saliva connecting his lips to you. he repeats the feverish kisses, his hips rocking against the mattress every time your hips buck and you let out a little soft cry. “yeah? mm? like it when channie kisses your soft pussy? oh, look at you, darling… you must feel so good… precious little thing.”
you babble a slew of moans as he gathers saliva in his own mouth and rolls his tongue out, letting it fall onto your slit with his expression of pinched brows and a begging eyes. oh, he knows what he’s doing.
he flattens his tongue, licking a long, pressured stripe up from your perineum to your suck a kiss onto your throbbing clit with a dramatically drawn out moan of his own. chan repeats it a few more times, making sure the round tip of his nose catches under the hood of your cute little button.
your hole is clenching around nothing, hips writhing a bit. he’s got you, don’t worry. he laps at your folds, shaking his head around and moans at the taste of you once more before drawing back. chan rests his head against your thigh and brings a hand up to play with your pussy while he talks to you, finding it amusing how you gasp for air and try to keep quiet.
“so soft… so wet and warm f’me… you love my tongue, don’t you, baby? mmm… fuck yeah… my tongue loves you too, sweetheart.”
chan rubs three fingers in gentle, petting circles around your folds, making sure his middle finger catches on your clit with sticky sounds at every rounding gesture. he could play with you like a fidget toy all day and never get bored. call you in during studio sessions, he’d feel relaxed just from making you feel good. his mouth waters at how aroused he’s made you. chan’s breathless from both devouring you like a starved man and humping the corner of the bed to relieve himself.
but you haven’t come again yet. he’s been edging you on that peak for a while like a heartless man. in chan’s defense, he thinks he can get you to gush more for him. if it isn’t messy, he didn’t do his job. he loves making you feel good, and he’s obsessed with making you come as hard as possible. it’s his best devotion to you.
“you look exhausted… ‘s okay, you’re okay… so fuckin’ gorgeous like this, fuck me… ‘m gonna… ‘m gonna rock you to sleep… fall asleep full of me…”
all you do is nod, a squeak of a whine. your fucked out expression is all he needs to sit up on his haunches and stare down at you. you’re leaking like a broken faucet all over the sheets, staining them a darker patch under your ass. it’ll be easier to slide into you like that. all pliant and soaked and craving him inside of you—
“actually, baby… you wanna try something new? be my good girl…? you’re gonna sit that pretty pussy on my face.”
—
author’s note: thank you for 500 followers, i can’t believe it! i wanted to write something as a treat in between drafting requests ^-^*
authors note: my ig is tinybeansoup btw 👉👈 anyways think i got a little carried away with this one also i really had no idea how to set the layout so the beginning bit is exactly the same
summary: req. - 🍳 (alternate version to the ending of veins they’re happy yay !!)
story warnings: angst reader get injured blood yelling happy ending this time though
wc: 2,349
You had always loved Chan’s veins, not even in that way. Sure, it was very much appreciated then as well, but the way his blood flowed like rivers to create such unique and beautiful shapes on his porcelain skin. Like a river carving through rocky mountains, weaving its permanent testimony across him. Something alive beneath something beautiful.
Chan remembers the first night you stayed over. You had won your first gold in the competition you were in. As soon as you stepped off the ice, two warm arms immediately encapsulated you, lifting you, spinning you around. Chan’s dimpled smile mirrored yours, both of you breathless in different ways.
“I knew you could do it! I told you, baby! I’m so proud of you!” his words tumbled out, sweet and breathy, as he brought you down just enough to nuzzle his nose to yours. And then, like it was nothing, like it didn’t change everything, he gave you the most beautiful necklace you’d ever seen: a diamond encased in a silver heart, ‘CB97’ engraved on it.
You smiled like a fool, pressing kisses all over his face until he was laughing, cheeks rosy.
That night you ordered your favourite takeaway and curled on his sofa watching cheesy romcoms, his chest warm against your back, his hand intertwined with yours. You squeezed his forearm just to see his veins jump to life, tracing the lines with your eyes, not noticing the way he gazed at you with something far deeper.
“You know, kangaroo,” your soft voice pulled him from whatever dream he’d been in. He squeezed your hand, a silent prompt to go on.
“Sometimes with my routines…I try skating the way your veins go.”
He scoffed a soft laugh. “Really?”
You nodded sleepily. “Mhm. Reminds me you’re really here sometimes. Really mine…you know?”
He tilted your face up with a gentle hand beneath your jaw. “Always yours.” His lips brushed yours, barely there, until you closed the distance. He murmured into your mouth, “Stay?”
You smiled into the kiss.
So how did you end up here? Words hurled like grenades. Both of you bleeding in ways you couldn’t see yet.
It started with something stupid. They always do.
You were getting ready to leave, nerves buzzing so loud you could barely hear your own thoughts. Chan stood behind you, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“I’m just saying you’ve been…distracted,” he muttered.
“I have not,” you shot back immediately.
“Y/n, you didn’t hear me talking to you earlier. Twice.”
You exhaled, already worn thin. “Chan, I have a performance—”
“Yeah, I know,” he snapped. “Believe me, I know. You’ve mentioned it nonstop.”
Your frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means everything lately is about you and your routine. I’m trying to talk to you and you look straight through me.”
“No I don’t. That’s not fair.”
“That’s exactly fair.”
Your chest tightened. “Why are you making this into something it’s not?”
“Because you don’t listen to me anymore!” The crack in his voice startled even him.
Silence stretched. Your heart hammered. His eyes were glossy with anger, and something sadder.
“Chan,” you said carefully. “I’m doing my best.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“So now I’m a bad partner because I’m working? Because I’m nervous?”
“I said it doesn’t feel like it,” he repeated, voice sharp like he wanted it to hurt.
Your jaw clenched. “You’re acting like I’m abandoning you.”
“Aren’t you?” he said quietly.
The words felt like stepping on thin ice.
You felt something inside you fracture. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t love you? That I don’t want you there?”
“I think you don’t need me,” he threw back. “You never do.”
Your throat burned. “Why would you even say that?”
“Because at least when we fight,” he said bitterly, “you actually look at me.”
Your breath left you.
He rubbed his face, exhausted. “I miss you. I’ve been trying to tell you and you just—God, you don’t hear me anymore.”
You softened, but only for a second. Pride built itself back up.
“You could’ve just said that.”
“I did,” he snapped. “But you were too busy counting spins to notice!”
“Jesus, Chan—”
“Forget it.” He waved you away. “Just fuck off without me then. I don’t care, Y/n.”
You swallowed hard. Tonight was the final performance. He’d bragged for days that he’d be there, front row, cheering loudest, because you were all his.
“…What?”
“Just go without me. You don’t need me there, right?” His laugh was humourless. “It’s not like I impact your precious routines that much anyway.”
Chan barked a bitter laugh. “Yeah, fuck me! Always my fault!”
He scoffed when the door slammed behind you. The sound echoed longer than he expected.
You barely made it to your cue. Your chest was tight, head too full, vision too bright. Your blades should’ve carved the ice in perfect lines, steady and sure.
Instead it was your blood painting it.
The red spilled fast, filling the delicate valleys you created, lines turning into streams, streams into something more terrifying. Screams rang out around the arena, fading as your consciousness slipped.
Your fingers trembled toward the necklace at your collarbone.
Chan checked Twitter by chance.
And his heart fell like it was yanked out of his chest.
He moved before he even processed it. The venue was close; he’d planned to surprise you at your favourite café afterwards, planned to get rid of the box-shaped weight on his shoulders while he popped a certain question.
He ran like hell, shoving through crowds, ignoring yelling security, lungs burning.
Chan doesn’t remember crossing the rink.
One moment he’s standing behind a barricade of security guards and screaming spectators, and the next he’s on the ice.
Falling to his knees beside you.
Glass crunches under his palms. Something sharp bites into his skin, slicing through his hands as he skids toward you, but he barely feels it.
His priority is you, always you.
“Chan…?”
Your voice is thin and hoarse, like it’s been scraped raw. Your eyes flutter, struggling to focus through the pain.
Chan’s breath catches violently in his throat.
“Ye—yeah,” he stammers, dropping beside you. “Yeah, baby, it’s me.”
His hands hover helplessly before pressing down against the wound on your stomach. Blood seeps between his fingers, warm and terrifyingly real.
“You’re okay,” he rushes out, voice shaking. “It’s gonna be fine. I—I promise. You’re gonna be fine.”
Your eyelids flutter again.
A weak laugh escapes you, barely more than air.
“What’re you crying for…?” you mumble. “M’fine.”
Chan chokes on a broken laugh, tears already streaming down his face.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I know. Of course you are.”
But his hands are shaking.
And your blood is everywhere.
“I’m right here,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me, okay? Just—stay with me.”
Your fingers twitch weakly against the ice.
“Did I…mess up the routine?” you murmur.
Chan’s face crumples with guilt.
“No,” he whispers fiercely. “No. You were perfect. You’re always perfect.”
The wail of sirens grows closer.
Paramedics rush onto the rink, boots sliding across the ice as they reach you.
“Sir, we need space—”
“No—wait—Wait!” Chan protests.
But they’re already pulling him back.
Hands pry him away from you as they lift you onto a stretcher.
“Chan—”
Your voice breaks through the chaos.
His head snaps up.
“I’m here,” he calls desperately. “I’m right here!”
Your eyes try to follow him as they wheel you away.
Then the ambulance doors close.
And Chan is left standing there.
Covered in your blood.
The drive to the hospital is a blur of red and blue lights and shaking hands.
He doesn’t remember parking.
He doesn’t remember running inside.
He only remembers the waiting.
The pacing.
The awful silence outside the operating theatre.
At some point he ends up scrolling through Twitter with numb fingers, piecing together what happened.
A faulty wire in the lighting rig.
The fixture finally gave way during your opening spin.
A jagged support rod falling straight down.
Chan’s stomach twists violently.
“—lucky.”
He startles.
The doctor standing in front of him adjusts his glasses.
“Sorry?” Chan croaks.
“I said your partner was extremely lucky, Mr. Bahng.”
Chan’s throat tightens.
“Any deeper,” the doctor continues gently, “and the damage would have been…life threatening.”
The words hang in the air.
He nods weakly.
The doctor gives his shoulder a sympathetic pat before leaving.
And suddenly the room is quiet again.
Just you. And him. And the steady metronomic beep…beep…beep of the heart monitor.
Chan sinks into the chair beside your bed.
Carefully, like you might shatter, he takes your hand in his.
You look so small like this.
So still.
Your necklace glints softly against the hospital blanket—the silver heart with CB97 engraved inside.
Chan swallows hard.
“I didn’t mean any of it,” he whispers.
His thumb traces small circles across your knuckles.
“I didn’t mean a single word.”
His voice shakes.
“I was scared. I thought you were drifting away from me and I didn’t know how to say that without sounding…pathetic.”
A weak laugh escapes him.
“God, I’m so bad at talking about feelings.”
His shoulders tremble.
“I just miss you sometimes,” he admits quietly. “Even when you’re right in front of me.”
His voice cracks.
“I miss the way you ramble about choreography until three in the morning. I miss you stealing my hoodies and pretending you didn’t.” He sniffles. “I miss you tracing my veins like they’re some kind of map.”
His grip tightens around your hand.
“How am I supposed to live in a world where you’re not here to skate those stupid little patterns across the ice?” he chokes.
The tears come faster now.
“I love you,” he sobs. “So fucking much.”
His forehead presses against your hand.
“I was going to propose tonight, you know?”
The words barely make it out.
“I had the ring and everything. I was gonna take you to that café you like after the show and pretend it wasn’t a big deal and then—”
His voice shatters.
“Just come back to me,” he pleads. “Please.”
For a moment nothing happens.
Then—
Your fingers twitch.
Chan freezes.
“…hey.”
Your voice is scratchy and weak.
“Don’t cry.”
His head snaps up so fast the chair scrapes loudly across the floor.
“Oh my God,” he breathes. “Baby—”
Your eyes blink open slowly.
You look dazed.
But you’re looking at him.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.
You manage a tired smile.
Your hand squeezes his weakly.
“I’m still here,” you murmur.
Your eyes drift over his face, his red eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, trembling lips.
Your smile wobbles.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
Chan immediately shakes his head.
“No,” he says hoarsely. “No, don’t—don’t do that.”
“But I did,” you insist softly. “I was mean, so mean.”
“You were stressed,” he argues.
“You were trying to talk to me and I didn’t listen.”
“I said awful things.”
“You said honest things.”
The two of you stare at each other for a moment.
Then you both let out the same shaky laugh.
Chan wipes his eyes.
“God,” he mutters. “We’re a mess.”
“A little,” you admit.
Silence settles again.
Soft this time.
Chan leans forward, resting his forehead gently against yours.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Your eyes close for a moment.
“I love you too,” you breathe.
After a beat you murmur, “Hey…?”
“Yeah?”
“If you were going to propose tonight…”
Chan freezes.
“…does that mean I ruined the surprise?”
He laughs through his tears.
“You almost died and that’s your concern?”
“Well?”
Chan shakes his head, smiling helplessly.
“You’re unbelievable.”
You grin faintly.
“Still wanna marry me?”
Chan cups your face carefully, like you’re something fragile, something precious he’s terrified might break if he holds you too tightly.
“Always,” he says softly.
Then he kisses you.
At first it’s barely there.
A hesitant brush of his lips against yours, warm and trembling, like he’s still afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly. His thumb strokes gently along your cheek grounding himself.
You sigh softly into him.
The sound alone almost undoes him.
Chan presses his lips to yours again, a little firmer this time, pouring every ounce of relief he’s been holding inside his chest into the kiss. It’s slow and careful, mindful of the tubes, the monitors, the pain you must still be in.
You lift your hand weakly, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt.
He almost breaks again at that.
Your touch is barely there, but it’s enough to make his chest tighten painfully with emotion. For hours he thought he’d never feel it again.
When you pull back slightly for air, your foreheads rest together.
Chan’s nose brushes against yours the same way it had that first night you stayed over, back when everything had felt simple and endless.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur.
He huffs out a breath that’s half a laugh.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I think my body just realized I’m not about to lose you.”
Your thumb moves slowly against the back of his hand.
“Sorry to scare you.”
“Don’t,” he says immediately, pressing another kiss to your lips before you can say anything else.
This one lingers longer.
Not desperate nor frantic.
Just…full.
Full of the words neither of you can quite say yet. Full of the love that had been buried under stress and pride and stupid arguments. Full of the terrifying realization that everything you care about can disappear in a single moment.
When he finally pulls away, his lips brush against your forehead instead.
Then the corner of your mouth again.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin.
You smile softly, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
“I know.”
He chuckles quietly.
“That’s it? That’s the response I get after almost dying of emotional distress?”
You squeeze his hand.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
Chan leans down once more, pressing one last gentle kiss to your lips.
summary|| random moments between you and your mischievous boyfriend
gener|| flufffff, lots of fluff, leeknow being an absolute cutie, drabble
a/n|| idk how did i survive searching for leeknow pics, man i can drown in them he's sooooooo fucking cuuttteeeeeee raahhhhh, also I'm making this a series for all the members cause a cutie wanted one 🤭
every STAY at least once in their life has said leeknow would be the private kind of guy in a relationship, and they were not wrong he is quite private when he got in one, but have you ever thought about how would he be when he's all whipped and hooked?
one random evening minho was bored and stuck so he decided to go on bubble to talk there
"how are you doing"
"there's a huge cat sleeping on me so i can't move"
as soon as the fans read cat and minho in the same sentence everyone went insane begging him to take a selfie and show them, because a cat and minho in the same picture? it's a dangerous combination indeed. minho chuckled as he scrolled through STAYs messages, he decided to be sweet this time and send them a picture.
it was a shock to everyone when the picture he sent was of you sleeping on his lap while his hand tangled in your hair, and bubble exploded even more with some STAYs cooing at the sight, some laughing at his way of "flirting" with his partner.
"wake it up!" —"do you want me to die?" minho replied to one of the messages, he wasn't ready to deal with you being grumpy if he interrupted your nap, plus he really doesn't have anything to do and the feeling of you sleeping on him was the most adorable thing he would see in all of his life, so he was planning on keeping you like that as long as possible.
another noticeable thing about how much minho pride himself in you was how his instagram account changed, now instead of the black cover photo he put on his published pics sometimes you would be the cover, a cute or silly photo of you would be the first one before you swipe to his.
sometimes it'd be a cursed photo just to annoy you, on the other hand you'd do the same, publishing an "ugly" photo of him on your instagram story and a war would begin between you two, one time it stretch too long it was a trend on twitter for three days straight. #miny/nwar
one particular moment that made stay go feral for like months was when you walked on on him mid live, no one had to zoom to see how his eyes softened immediately, you leaned closer to the camera and said hi–waving your hand in front of the lens before walking back to your boyfriend.
as soon as you were within reach he lift his hand to rest it on your side as he looked up at you like you were the moon on the sky, "I'm going to get some grocery." you said softly, resting your hands on the armrest, "mhm" he only hummed in response, still looking at you with those soft eyes of his that you giggled shyly at when you noticed them "do you need anything from the store?" you asked "no" he replied simply and you leaned down, putting a peck on his lips before walking out, he let out a sigh when the door closed behind you as he returned his attention to the camera, acting like the STAYs didn't just see a scene from a k-drama right there.
OR — when chan meets his boiling point after your relationship is leaked, boundaries are crossed, and your wellbeing is on the line. nobody fucks with his baby.
idolbf!chan x girlfriend!reader
word count: 6.4k
content: fluff, fulfilling ending, mild angst (worries of forced breakup), angry leader mode chan, relationship is leaked and internet makes big deal of idols in love, reader is shoved around and touched in public, chan doubts himself A LOT, reader’s protection comes first, skinship (chan’s way of knowing reader his okay) lack of protection from security so chan takes things into his own hands, reader is hurt to the head, very very angry chan, eating food, chan kisses reader in between eating
author’s note: wrote up on this anon’s request, thank you so much for requesting! took a few creative liberties hope you don’t mind! writing this got me thinking about how chan deserves domestic life where he can do as he pleases without scrutiny :’) this was made with love and tender care as always <3
—
That feeling when you know the good streak is going to end soon. The suspicion that things are going too well. Chan felt it in his trainee days every time he got closer to success before being pushed back. He feels it when the day goes too perfectly in the studio and rehearsal, all for Chan to feel a sickness overtake him or one of the boys. He feels it in the sound of joy and the feeling that pairs with it, followed by the dread of knowing this high will wane off.
That dread followed him into sleep, and was only bated by the girl who he took into his arms each night.
Chan had once found comfort in the sound of an airplane engine from the inside seating. It meant he was doing something new, being somewhere new and exciting. Getting to see the world and explore what it had to offer was his specialty.
All that fills his stomach is that familiar dread. He finds himself wanting to hide from the world, because as of right now, you've fallen victim to his lifestyle.
Staff had informed Chan when the plane was refueling for the journey from Seoul to Milan of something out of nightmare. Of all the things that staff could've informed Chan of, he would've rather preferred that all of the luggage was lost in transit to the loading station.
They'd tried to be as calm and placating as possible, he'll give staff that. Not that Chan is easily angered so long as something can be resolved with communication. However, when he saw the look on their faces, it was all over.
You were on the plane, curled up in your seat in a cocoon of a throw blanket and his black distressed hoodie. Peaceful, an image of bliss with the hood drawn up over your face.
Staff had handed him a phone. Said phone had a simple picture. If it was a third party viewing, they'd have no idea what they were seeing. However, Chan knew better. That picture was taken from a strange angle, perverse and unbeknownst to the two subjects in the photo. A high angle from something like a building or a parking complex. Those subjects were you and Chan, a snapshot taken hours earlier when you and Chan were coming out of the company van before boarding.
It was unmistakably Chan in that photo, it couldn't be hidden. His blonde fringe was peaking out of his black Chrome Hearts beanie. There was a lack of people aside from staff and you-- sweet and innocuous to the photo as you clamber out of the van behind him. Empty handed, and Chan holding your carry on with a small Wolf-Chan keychain hanging off the zipper.
Worst of all, he's holding your hand. His eyes are forward, a small content look on his face. You look all sleepy and lax. It's such a simple action, barely anything that anyone should care for. But suddenly, your hand in his feels like the end of the world.
Not for him, but for you. Which you may never recover.
It's a dark photo. It's pixelated and rough and it still had Chan's heart sinking to stomach in such a fast decline, he'd rushed to the bathroom to dry heave over the bowl. He's thankful that Fendi had provided Chan with a private jet for Fashion Week. Chan doesn't know if he could've handled any more prying eyes than the one's on the internet who must've been dissecting that picture.
When he'd come back from the bathroom, and down the aisle to his seat, staff is already looking at him. He rubbed his clammy palms on his sweatpants and reclined in his seat. He hates the look on their faces, equal parts pity and "I knew this was a bad idea". Love was never a bad idea when it came to you.
You, who is still sleeping soundly. Who won’t wake up until Chan says so, to let you keep as much peace to yourself as possible.
You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of what is waiting after this flight.
That was hours ago. And naturally, Chan has been a ticking time bomb with his head in his hand against the armrest of his seat. He couldn’t work on his beats. Music was just a reminder of why he was in this situation in the first place. That was the cruelty of being an idol, a suffering he never thought he’d feel.
Chan yearned for love for so long, and you fell into his lap like a blessing. Would it be taken away? Would the damage be too much to mend?
The jet is landed on the private strip, but there’s a week ahead of him with interactions and paparazzi. There’s fans and detractors. News outlets and media and messages and—
“Sweetheart…? We’re landed.” Be a leader. Do it for her. Be her brave man.
Chan’s voice tries to coax you away, running a crooked finger over your cheek. That was something constant, his comfort. He’d never give that up, he felt he was doing something right in this moment of strife in his mind. He pulls the hood back of your, no, his hoodie and watches your eyes go back and forth under your eyelids before they crack open to the harsh interior lighting.
It makes his chest hurt and his throat ache. You’re too peaceful for the news he’s about to don on you.
“Hey…” you whisper, voice all tired and rasped with sleep. Chan smiles lopsided, a boyish grin that wavers at the corners of his mouth. Be brave.
“Sleeping beauty… All good?”
“All good…”
God, he feels like the biggest bastard on planet Earth. Does someone have information on you by now? Are there netizens wishing ill upon you? Do they even know who you are, maybe someone found your private socials. What if they found your family, your job—
“Channie…? Are you good?”
You’d sat more upright while Chan’s eyes turned vacant and distant, like he was looking past you. He realizes his smile is vanished, the tips of his ears feel hot and pounding with the rush of blood. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a liar. He can be cheeky. He can tease. But this? This isn’t something he can shield you from. And that terrifies him to his bones.
You repeat his name again, more serious as you say “Chris?” and put a hand over his. He’s shaking like he’s been left in sub-zero temperature. But his temperature feels hot and clammy.
The sound of staff unloading his and your carry ons is like white noise. He feels like his clothes are touching him funny. His knee is bouncing a bit. And you’re still looking at him with those heartbreakingly soft eyes.
Your eyes look to staff, men and women who refuse to meet eyes with you. And that speaks volumes. Something’s wrong, they just carry on as if they know this behavior of Chan’s will take a minute to recoup. Your hand finds his, remembering an off-time something similar to this happened before.
Chan had come off stage after a performance and just slumped against you. Shaking. Vacant eyes, like now. Like if he didn’t focus on breathing, he’d forget how.
So, there you go. Taking his hand into his and rubbing soothingly.
“Hey, hey… Chris, look at me… Breathe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You tell him to breathe, and Chan feels like it suddenly becomes harder. Because you can see he’s a wreck. You’re not supposed to see him like this, he’s supposed to take care of you, of everyone. He nods, hurried and childish, his eyes looking down at your hand. You said, “I’m not going anywhere”, but Chan doesn’t know if that’ll ring true in a few hours.
It’s just you and him, he ignores the sound of staff talking about him and what they should do with the situation in low voiced Korean.
“Chris… Talk to me, what happened?”
You’re such a sweetheart. Sweetheart. He knew he chose right in giving you that nickname years ago. You loved the Australian lilt in the way he said it, and he loved the way it made you permanent in his life. You’re so fucking sweet, you don’t even think for a second that something utterly terrible just happened.
Chan takes a deep breath, lungs filling and deflating in a few seconds. Rattling. How does he say this to you? How does he tell you that for the first time in his life, he might fail in protecting someone he loves? His voice comes out weaker than he expects it to, like a wince.
“There’s… they found out.”
He’s met with silence. A soft murmur from staff pretending to busy themselves with cleaning out the jet cabin. They’re really just making sure Chan doesn’t pass out on them.
You stop that sweeping motion of your thumb over his hand. He feels when you squeeze his hand for a millisecond. Such a sweetheart— you don’t need him to explain. Not when you’ve had conversations like this before. “Finding out”. It made it sound like the love that you both shared was something wrong. Illicit. Perverse.
Chan watches that fear spark in your face. He knows all your little tells, because now you’re not even looking at his own face anymore. But in a miracle from above, that little sweeping motion of your thumb starts up again. You’re comforting him.
“Alright… Okay, um… H-How did they… Walk me through it.”
He blinks twice. You’re an insane and stupidly amazing woman. He almost wants to laugh. He could’ve told you the sky was falling and you’d just… ask for the prognosis?
“Someone, um… took a, uh… a picture. At the airport, in the back lot… Staff is trying to trace the person back, um… Y-You can’t really see you very well, but I am holding your hands and luggage, which someone is totally going to research and stalk into—”
You coughed a laugh. A beautiful sound bubbling out of you that gives Chan a reprieve from his turmoil. A few heads of staff look at you warily. His eyes narrow, roving over you as a nervous, grimaced smile appears on his face.
“I’m sorry?” he says, voice cracking at the end.
“N-No, I’m… I’m sorry, even… Even when our relationship is leaked… you’re putting yourself first.”
“Don’t. Don’t start, sweetheart.”
Chan knows where you’re going with this, and you still sit upright all noble and so damn wonderful.
“You remember the first time we talked about this?”
How could he not? You’d been dating for 3 months, but Chan had already knew it was serious. Something built and crafted carefully to last. He wasn’t letting you get away. You were so insane, waking up at all sorts of odd hours to walk with him when the boys were asleep after he’d brainstormed some lyrics or instrumentals.
You’d walk side by side to the Han River. The city was quiet and lit up with city lights on the horizon that looked like stars reflected back on the water. He’d told you being with him wouldn’t be easy. Loving him wouldn’t be easy, was what he wanted to say.
You’d looked up at him like he’d said the dumbest thing ever, and said a cheesy line about “not wanting it if it’s easy”.
Chan grinned all square and dimpled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head to assuage his nerves. He’d then told you that he’d have to treat you like a secret. That he couldn’t love you as freely as he wanted, but he wanted you nonetheless. Told you he knew it wasn’t fair and he understood if you wanted a way out.
You’d flicked his nose and called him stupid. You said you knew what you got yourself into the moment that he said he was an idol. You made it clear in your little declaration that you weren’t going anywhere when you said jokingly, staring into the dark water of the river, “Someone will have to pry you from my cold, dead hands”.
Smitten. Absolutely in love with you. He knew you were serious, that’s how you loved. With pure intentions and strength.
So as he looks upon you now, and you ask him if he remembers the terms you’d both set up, the mutual understanding of how this would all go? He nods. A bit shy for even thinking you’d turn away and cower from this. You duck your head a bit to meet his gaze and smile when he averts his eyes again.
“Yes, this is scary. Believe me, Channie, I’m… I’m really scared right now—”
“Please don’t be scared, sweetheart.”
“Channie. Listen.”
That quiets him. Lips faltering for a rebuttal to quell you. He doesn’t like the thought of you being in fear. But he listens anyhow, even with the underlying discomfort.
“I’m scared right now. This very… finite moment. I told you I knew what I was getting into… It was bound to happen, okay? A-And yeah, we didn’t get to announce on our own terms, but… It feels kind of freeing, doesn’t it? Liberating.”
You truly are insane. Any other sane person would be hyperventilating at the idea of millions knowing of their relationship. Something seen as “taboo” in the industry yet here you are again. Calling the murder of your livelihood liberating.
Chan shakes his head, already tasking for the worst. “The second we get back home, I… I can’t even begin to prepare you for the shitstorm that’s on its way.”
“I know, Channie…”
“The company, I-I’ll— I’ll work this out over the week here, they’ll issue a statement, they’ll say I was just helping a staff member out of the van in the picture— We’ll be okay, you’re okay… Sweetheart, I can’t lose you.”
Chan is a rambling mess and you see his face turn a bit pink. His brain is picking through every worst scenario to prepare for it. He doesn’t even want to check his phone to see what people are saying about you. People claiming to be Stays wishing the worst for you. For him.
“You’re not losing me, I’m not going—”
“You can’t promise that. Not when… Not when they might force us apart.”
He’s not talking about distance people behind a screen. He means the company. Chan’s seen it his fair share of times before, and while Chan is more than welcome to date under his contract… This could get messy. What if the boys are dragged into this? If people started blaming his Kids for menial things, what if his relationship with you breaks their careers?
He studied your silent face. That familiar, pensive look. His clever girl, he knows it all too well. It’s the same face when you’re figuring out a board game with him, or deciphering the layers of music on his laptop when he shows you his proud work.
“No one has that power over us.”
Simple words. Chan swears his breathing stops for a moment before he releases it with a desperate whisper of your name.
“Sweetheart, I… I can barely protect myself in this situation…”
“Let me protect us for once… I-I can’t talk to masses or… your company, but let me fight for us. I’m not letting you slip away,” you whisper into his skin as your lips come down onto his cheek, pulling back to see a small determination in Chan’s eyes.
Staff alerts him that they have ten minutes of personal time left before it’s time to go to claim luggage and head to the hotel. Right, the Fashion Week event. He was allowed to invite you with him, even if you couldn’t be seen with him. Or next to him. Or talk to him.
It all felt like an even bigger slight against you. Sweetheart, darling girl, who he wants to declare his love from the rooftops.
Chan’s eyes meet yours, and you give him your signature, beautiful yet halfhearted smile. You’re trying to soothe him; and damn you, it’s working a bit. Even if it’s just a fraction. All he can do is endure. That’s what he does best.
He takes opens his backpack from under his seat, pulling out a medical grade disposable mask. His fingers ghost your skin as he places the loops around your ears securely. Even concealed like this he’d recognize you from a mile away. You say nothing as he tugs your hood back over your head, cupping the back gently with small little scratches.
“Just look forward. Don’t talk to anyone. Security should be around you, you’ll be behind me. If… If anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, say my name. I don’t care, baby, just… It’ll be fast. Customs. Bags. Van. Hotel. We’ll work it out there, yeah?”
A hastily formulated plan that is utterly him. Diagnostic.
A your lips tighten into a thin line before you exhale off nerves and exhaustion.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“I love you.”
Chan’s declaration is sudden and whispered. Like staff doesn’t deserve to hear it right now, his private tender moment. He doesn’t know why he says it other than the feeling that it fit right into the moment. You bring his knuckles up to your lips. A promise. You’ll be okay.
“I love you, Chris… I’ll be close by. Don’t worry about me.”
—
A shit show. Chan is familiar with those.
The first thing he sees through the glass after going through customs was a swarm of paparazzi, press, and fans welcoming him for the weeks ahead. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another airport arrival.
No, the problem was when you were spotted. And fuck, he’d forgotten that hoodie you were wearing was his.
Amidst the snapping of camera shutters and flashes, his heart is racing. He’s glad he too is wearing a mask on the lower half of his face, or you’d see how distraught he really was. Under the fabric of his tank top, his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.
Focus. Walk in silence. Make sure you’re safe.
The second thing Chan notices is that there’s more people than usual. Or maybe the walls of the airport in Milan are more narrow than he remembers. The provided security of four men suddenly seems like nothing. He does the math as he walks when his bags are handed to him:
You’re about 6 people away, tailing behind between staff and security. Don’t get distracted. I know you like sweets sweetheart, don’t look at the treats in the shops. God, I’ll buy you all the sweets you want when we’re at the hotel. Run you a bath and decompress to forget about this. Twenty minutes to the hotel, a ride should already be waiting.
The sound of people is louder. And the second Chan turns the corner and a guard opens the double doors of frosted glass, his heart sinks.
Cameras are naturally always on Chan. But for today especially, he wants them gone. Lenses, smartphones, all of it. Video equipment with recordings. A woman comes awfully close, to which he politely nods his head and continues walking.
More people swarm and he sees phones before he sees actual people. Security does their best to ward off these people, but he notices that with the amount of foot traffic, their entourage is moving slower. The sounds, the questions, the voices all grow more and more over time.
“Chris—”
His head is turned in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself, he’s stopped dead in his tracks and looking back for you with a bobbing head. His body is jostled by the movements of the tight fit, the arms of security banding away the swathes of onlookers.
Your head is down. You’re trying to move but you can’t. And someone has the audacity to grab at you by the arm? He’s cutting through his own people, ignoring how cameras are shoved into his face, ignoring how there’s so many bodies surrounding him as well. You’re being tossed around like nothing, a few phones trying to duck under your head, and Chan is with you in a millisecond.
“Don’t touch people, please,” he grits out as he forms a barrier between you and the people on your right side. Great. The crowd is held up, naturally as people wanted to convene to Chan. He has to add the formality of “please” as an afterthought. You’d want him to be polite. It’d be a meltdown if he said what he really wanted to.
What he wants to do is smack the phones out of every hand here and tuck you into his arms, walking out like a normal boyfriend would. He can’t afford that. Instead, his hand is ushered with a splayed palm between your shoulder blades. If Chan presses a bit into you to guide you further, he can feel the tension of your muscles.
The clamor of people asking him if this is staff or the “girl from the picture” irritates him to no end. Security was told by Chan himself to corral around you, not him. And for heavens sake, can someone figure out a way from this tight squeeze of a crowd?
Someone’s arm extends with a camera to catch a picture of Chan, and— SMACK! Right against the side of your head. The movement causes you to hiss in pain and fall into Chan. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows pinch in pain. And he’s seething.
“Absolutely not— We’re not gonna do that,” he mumbles under his breath as he gives a disapproving look to the man who is the culprit. His hand reaches out, rings on his fingers and all and shoves the camera lens away a bit roughly. It’s probably a thousand dollar camera lens, but you’re worth so much more. He can deal with the aftermath of that later.
I wanna smack that punk. Can I smack someone? Would you be okay with that? Probably not…
He’s then nodding a head to security to corral the man off. He keeps a tight arm around you, fingers itching to cradle your head to his chest. But he’s already doing so much, a display of affection would only make things descend further.
Nosy, mindless chatter about why Chan is being so protective of you. As if that should matter. He’d do that for any of the people around him. Instead, all that people care of is if this is his partner, either wanted to sneer or pry a glimpse into her.
Another hand reaches out with a phone and Chan doesn’t even think twice before wrapping an arm around your shoulder to shield you. It’s a bit forceful, and he’ll apologize profusely later, but it pulls you into his side. Chan mumbles a curse under his mask and his eyebrows turn taught together.
The motion of moving bodies in the cluster is much easier to maneuver now that they can pass through an opening directed by staff and security. He doesn’t look at you, but he keeps a steady hand on you. So much for laying low, but he could just stand by and let you get hurt.
The second the two of you get into the van that was sent outside of the airport, staff helping you in and loading luggage, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even stop for a photo-op. He doesn’t reply when staff asks if he wants water. White noise, an annoying pinching in the back of his ear.
And when the van is out of view, blacked out windows and all— Only then does he fuss over you, throwing off his mask.
He unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding across the back seat and hold you to him. Clammy hands cupping your face like a precious treasure. Your eyes frazzled and in shock, and it makes him whisper your name thrice into your hairline like a restoring prayer.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry— I was a total caveman back there, I had to grab you before anyone hurt you… You’re hurt aren’t you, from the cunt with the camera? Lemme see—”
Faster than the words can come out of him, Chan’s taking your mask off with gentle precision, but as fast as he can. Your hair is all mused when he draws back your hoodie, like a sleepy creature. But a few seconds ago you were just prey thrown into the den. He’s rifling his hands through your scalp, trying to see if you’ve got signs of bruising or bleeding where heavy equipment once stunned you.
“Tell me if it hurts— Fuck, fuck this shit. ‘M fucking pissed right now, sweetheart. I swear, if even a hair is missing here, I’m having words with everyone. Do you feel lightheaded… Can I get some water up here please?”
You look dazed, even with his soft touch, and Chan can’t tell if you’re going to sleep again or burst into a fit of nervous tears.
“Hey, hey, hey— Don’t do that, please— Talk to me, sweetheart.”
He brings his hands back down to cradle the sides of your face, keeping your eyes on him. That must’ve been intense and scary for you, he can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on in your head. You eventually clasp your hands over his wrists and let your forehead fall onto his shoulder, which makes Chan sigh in relief. At least you’re willing to be touched by him.
He slides his hands slowly up under the hoodie, under your shirt, to touch your bare skin. You’re safe. You’re okay. He doesn’t know if those internal words affirm him or you.
You lean into him, pressing your forehead into his neck. “I’m tired.”
“I know, my sweet girl… I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, lips pressed into his neck and trailing down to his shoulder as you rest your cheek flat. Chan feels your breath over his skin. Evened out and calm, though a bit stilted.
“This is on me.” So quick to blame, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, holding you tighter and smoothing his hands over your spine.
“On you…? Because someone took a picture when you couldn’t control it?”
“I wish I could.”
“But you can’t, Channie…”
And he knows that all too well. His perfectionism consumes him sometimes, it bleeds into your relationship. Never touching you, but seeping into the ways that he can shelter you from the public.
Not like a secret. But something sacred in the profane of his eclectic life.
But he can’t. Simple words from you always feel the strongest, like he’s seeing the world in a whole new light. Like you’re some wise sage.
You’re not this unattainable being who’s out of his grasp. You’re right here. In front of him, with raucous laughter in a crowd that’s as contagious as your smile. Animals come to you in the street, and you immediately bend down to coo and pet. You have a way of looking at the world that proves to Chan that good things are all around.
He can’t do it perfectly, but he’ll try. Try his damn hardest to protect you even more, starting with talking to the company once you’re both home again.
Chan pulls back with pitiful eyes, smoothing his hands carefully over your head as they slide out from your clothes.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt…? You took a hit, hm? Sweet, brave girl…” Chan says as he smacks a kiss firmly onto your hairline. You hum and nod your head, just reminding yourself that no one’s taking him from you. Not a messy breakup through a company mandated NDA. Not a public statement. Not through apologizing to upset fans for being in love.
You look up at him and see every reason why you fell in love with him in the first place. His tact and grit. The concern and worry in his eyes. His soothing touch. How he loves with his whole chest.
“I-I had a welcome dinner for the event, but… Honestly, fuck that right now… I’ll send someone to represent me. You need me more— I need you.”
The van drives over bumps and cracks in the road, and it sways you against Chan. A small noise breaks in his throat and he wraps his arms around you, chin atop your head as the ride continues to the hotel.
—
Staying in the hotel room with you meant a complete detachment from any obligation that wasn’t… well, just you.
Fendi brand representatives were more than understanding of the situation, offering a box of sweets to send up to the room as temporary remedial support. You’d thought it was silly, a third party apologizing for something that wasn’t due to them.
You still accepted the box of pastries and cake, though.
Chan ran you a nice bath, as he’d promised to himself for you, sitting on the closed toilet lid and tracing his fingers over your back. He didn’t want to take his hands off you, not without thinking of the hands that were on you prior. Chan’s index runs down the back of your arm, where someone had attempted to pull you in that crowd.
You’ve got your knees tucked up to you, a plethora of lavender scented suds in the porcelain basin. Chan’s hands rake through your scalp to check for damage one last time before helping you dry off in a fluffy robe.
When it was Chan’s turn in the shower to clear his head, all he could think of was what to do with his anger. Letting the hot spray of water hit over him while you were probably lazing on the bed no doubt. You wouldn’t want him to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t help it. When he was stripping to take his shower he was looking through all the buzz around you and him.
Photos from the airport. Saying Chan had a “meltdown”. Deep dives into who you might be, analyzing every minuscule detail to signs that you were always lingering under their noses. A clip of you getting hit in the head with the camera makes him want to gnaw on drywall until his teeth turn to sawdust.
He saunters out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, phone in hand and wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. Just as he presumed, you’re flipping through the room service menu, splayed out like a cloud.
You smile and turn a bit sheepish when you see his appearance. That lack of clothing that never fails to disarm you. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead, and it sticks up in wild directions. Biting your lip, you singsong a “Hey, handsome.”
The tips of his ears turn red, but he just stares at you. Eyes darkened and expression sullen. Tired. Maybe it was the hot water, but you know he’s still thinking of earlier. How could he not?
“No updates from me. They don’t get a lick of a word from me for a while.”
Bubble. It sounds silly, but you know that’s the best punishment Chan can offer. It sends a message… or in this case, a lack thereof. You snort and sit upright, musing, “You’re doing the whole “punish-the-entire-class-for-three-people’s-wrongdoings” shtick, huh?”
The corners of his lips quirk upright, a dimple craters his face. “I mean it. This was an overstep. You know how much I hate that shit, baby…”
Chan huffs as he throws himself onto the bed, purring like a cat as he feels your nails rake up and down his skin. He closes his eyes, sighing the tension out of his body. His cheek is pressed against his folded forearms as he speaks.
“Sent some messages. People need to learn… Told them off a bit, took my picture down—”
“Your profile picture?” you interrupt, a small laugh escaping you as he frowns.
“It’s the best I can do without completely losing it on everyone.”
“Okay… okay, what’d you say in your messages?”
Chan opens his eyes and looks up at you, grunting as he sits up on his elbows to give you his phone. He was already in the Bubble app when he’d come out of the bathroom:
🫧 260223
🐺: It does not matter if I am with staff, a friend, the kids, a lover, etc. You do not behave like this. These people know who they are. You should know better, and it pains me to have to write this.
🐺: On a personal level, leave the people around me alone ffs. You’re here for the kids and I, not to push around the people in our lives. Do not write editorials on the people I hold dear to my heart. Don’t say bad things about my loved ones lol. I know them and you don’t.
🐺: My choices. My decisions. Accept them or don’t bother being a fan.
🐺: Diabolical.
🐺: Don’t stick your camera right in my face
🐺: Respect boundaries please
You look up from the phone and Chan isn’t looking at you anymore. Like he’s mulling over the thought of saying more on the messages. He pinches the lobe of his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“As for you… I’ve already emailed the company. We’ll announce it properly that your my—”
“Christopher, are you serious—?”
“—That you’re the love of my life… You’re mine, and you’ve been mine, and this whole day has been insane, but I don’t want… I don’t want peace if it isn’t with you.”
Stunned to silence. This is a major step in his career, in his life. But it was bound to happen, even if it wasn’t on your own terms. He watches your mouth flounder for words and sits up on his elbows again, taking your hand in his.
“Sweetheart… You’re not some dirty secret, you never were… You’re not illicit, you’re mine. I’m tired of hiding the things I’m proud of. You’ve every piece of me, yeah? The ones that no one sees. They’ve just been for each other,” Chan leans against the headboard and brings your hand over his chest, your touch feeling how erratic his heart is beating. He’s just as nervous as you are, even when he’s taking the lead.
Your eyes soften, throat feeling a bit tight with emotion. “What if… What if it goes bad…?”
“Then it goes bad.”
You laugh, a bit of a wet sound now that glossy tears are starting to pool in your eyes. He smiles so delicately, closing his eyes as he gives you slow popcorn kisses on your cheek to make you feel better.
“I learned that from a girl once. She’s amazing. She taught me that sometimes things are out of my control.”
“She sounds badass.”
Chan grins, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he watches you wipe salty tears from your eyes in closed fists. “She is. And I’m gonna tell the whole world about her. But… there’s a few things I’m keeping private.”
His nose brushes yours as he chases your eyes for contact. You feel your face heats with his intensity. How does he still manage to look at you like you’re the only woman on planet Earth?
“What would that be, Christopher…?”
“Oh, it’s Christopher again now, is it?”
He playfully kisses under your jaw and brings you down to play with him on the bed, keeping his arms tethered around you as you writhe from the tickling of his wet hair on your face.
“Keeping these moments private. When I have you to myself… Just like this," he mumbles against your skin, breathing in the smell of your skin and expelling warm breath against it. You always smell like something fresh to him. Something cozy and intimate that he can't put into words. "They'll know you as my girlfriend. It'll be official. And Stay can get off my ass about me being lonely... Let's order some food, yeah? Think I finally built up an appetite."
The remainder of the night is spent with the hotel curtains drawn at the balcony. Ordering whatever sounds most appetizing on the room service menu, and cozying up next to each other while trying to figure out how the TV channels work.
All he's ever wanted is for your ultimate happiness. Sometimes factors of life get in the way of that, but you're a constant. His Kids are a constant.
Chan watches you happily munch on a burger on the bed, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pets your head a little before puckering his plush lips to kiss you on yours mid chew, much to your chagrin as you groan and pull away. He takes a bite of a pizza slice.
"Channie, 'm eating..."
"Okay? Swallow and kiss me."
"That's what she said."
"Minx..."
You finish your bite and turn your head properly, looking up at him with expectant wide eyes. It makes Chan want to squish your face until your eyes pop out. Cuteness aggression.
Instead he leans in a bit, closes his eyes, and brings a hand under your chin to direct your lips onto his. In his mind, he thinks there's nothing more perfect than this, and that's coming from the master perfectionist. He trusts that you enjoy this longing kiss as much as he does when your lips move against his.
A small sound escapes him, like pure want. He pulls back before it goes any further and he swipes all this food away so he can satiate his other hunger.
“You’re incredible,” he breathes out, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re his. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even realize it. You just cozy back into his side and continue to eat, watching stupid infomercials and snuggling against him.
Chan’s arm comes over your shoulder and stays. Pulling you closer, like he can fuse into you.
This is the best he can do. Chan’s nervous for the future, as he often is. But with you feeling like this against him, it’s an exciting kind of nervous. What was that word you’d said— liberating. You’re always right, aren’t you?
New terrain is exciting. Even if it terrifies him. Because you’re not going anywhere, even if he’s haunted by the prospect of seeing people come and go from his life. He knows you’re the one that locked him down.
No obligations for the week ahead. He’ll go through his ambassador work. Take some interviews and pictures, an editorial video. And at night, in the late hour of Milan, that’s when he’ll come alive. He’s going to take you to that small restaurant you wanted to go to so bad. To see architecture and cobbled streets in golden lamppost light.
Chan burrows his nose into your damp hair, whispers a sweet nothing, and closes his eyes. You’re the peace he strived for. Even when it comes with a storm, he’ll chase it away.
❛ 𝓢𝐘𝐍. ❜ silly dates with your children. [chan & jeongin separate]
❛ 𝓦𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒+𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. ❜ sosososo fluffy ⠀·⠀ no warnings it’s js cute af 😙🩷 ⠀·⠀⠀name of the child is mentioned (consider as oc?) bc it’s awkward to write ‘your daughter’ EVERY SINGLE line 😭 ⠀·⠀⠀ateez!wooyoung mentioned in jeongin’s ⠀·⠀⠀idol!reader 🤍
❛ 𝓝𝐎𝐓𝐄. ❜ feeding my dad!skz delusions w this ⠀·⠀⠀lwk i LOVE domestic!skz it just fills my heart 🫶 ⠀·⠀⠀gonna write a pt 2 with two more members trust ⭐️ ⠀·⠀⠀also lwk i had just started writing this and then i saw the skz code teaser and i was like THAT’S SO CUTE 😭
❛ 𝓦𝐂. ❜ 1.4k
chan ⭑ ft. your daughter, aeri. ꒰ idol!reader ꒱
“aeri-ya, come here,” he picked your daughter up and placed her on his lap. “appa’s got to work for a bit, and then he’ll give you cuddles and a good night story, all right? we’ll go home soon, i promise. i’m sorry you’re here late because of me,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her temple, turning back to his laptop to continue working on the unfinished track.
aeri giggled and placed both her hands on chan’s cheeks, and turned his face towards her. “appa!” she squeezed his cheeks and tumbled forward to press a wet kiss to his forehead.
chan sighed, melting into her, pulling her closer. “how can i work when my pretty little girl is distracting me like this? your eomma’s the same!” he pretended to complain, smiling at aeri.
she giggled again, as he turned the chair around to look at you sleepily scrolling through reels on your phone. you had told him to let you take care of aeri, but he insisted you both come to the studio and relax, maybe even sleep, if possible. the couch was wide enough for you and aeri.
he didn’t want you to overwork yourself while looking after your daughter alone. he wanted to help.
you looked up from your phone, and smiled softly at your chan and aeri.
he could see the tiredness in your face without looking twice. he knew you were pushing yourself to the edge with how much you stayed in the practice rooms for your group’s latest comeback. he loved that you choreographed the group’s dances, but in this moment, he kind of hated it because it meant you had to work extra hard.
he pulled his chair closer to the table, after watching you fall asleep slowly. he gently placed aeri beside the console and made sure she was comfortable, before he stood up and walked over to where you fell asleep on the couch. he adjusted your legs so you could lay comfortably.
“i love you,” he whispered.
he covered you with his jacket, and an extra blanket that he kept at the studio for exactly this reason. he kissed your cheek and moved a strand of your hair away from your face, before going back to aeri.
“aeri-ya, let’s quickly finish this track, okay? c’mon, you can help me,” he said, bringing her back into his lap.
“surprise eomma! with song!” she said. without waiting for his response, she started pushing buttons and moving sliders on the console.
chan paused for a moment before realising that whatever his daughter was doing was… working. lyrics flowed through his brain freely, allowing him to complete his unfinished track, as aeri continued playing with the console.
after a few more minutes of working on it, he clapped his hands once, signalling the end of it. aeri squealed, as if she understood.
she pointed at the mic in the recording booth, and then to herself. she even glared at chan to convince him, as if to say: ‘let me record a song too!’
he laughed at her, and nodded solemnly. “yes, master.” he giggled at her, picking her up. he opened the door to the recording booth, and placed her on a tiny chair, which was usually used to keep water bottles. he adjusted the mic to practically reach the floor her height. she nodded happily, and shooed chan away. he smiled and put the huge headphones on her head.
then, he laughed quietly, raising his hands in surrender. he moved back to the console, closing the door to the recording booth. he could see aeri if he leaned forward in his chair, which was the position he stayed in. he pressed play on the random beats aeri had been playing with.
music filled the room and aeri started giggling and saying stuff. chan could hear her squeals just from looking at her. he picked up his headphones and put them on as his daughter’s voice filled his head.
“eomma! appa! aeri! love!” she said, giggling. she placed both her hands on her own cheeks, squishing them together. it seemed to be her favourite action. “love! love!” she repeated, in-tune with the song she had just produced by mistake.
“aeri-ya, where did you learn that word?” he interrupted her while laughing.
“appa! you? eomma?” she said, eyes wide with glee. chan assumed she’d heard it all the times he’d said it to you, as well as to your daughter.
jeongin ⭑ ft. your daughter, nari. ꒰ idol!au ꒱
“stwawbewwy?” she repeated.
“strawberry,” jeongin corrected softly.
“st..raw..bewwy!”
“close enough,” he smiled at your daughter, picking her up from the floor where she was playing with her toys. “c’mon nari, let’s go to the supermarket with eomma! i’ll show you strawberries today.”
“soop..maawket?”
“yes, that,” he laughed, adjusting her in his arms. he turned towards you, looking at you finding your accessories and phone before walking towards him.
“sorry, i was getting my rings on,” you smiled sheepishly.
“don’t apologise,” he smiled softly. “i love your fashion, and i do hope nari’s inherited both of our styles,” he laughed.
“fashun!” nari repeated. you both laughed and nodded your heads. she was too cute to correct.
“oh, i was thinking… can she try strawberries today?” jeongin asked you slowly as you slipped two of his rings onto his fingers.
“oh my god, yes! i really wanna see if she’s got our strawberry-loving genes,” you said excitedly.
“that’s one of the top ten weirdest sentences i’ve ever heard you say,” jeongin laughed, pulling you closer by your waist. he pressed a deep kiss to your lips, and you couldn’t help but melt into him.
nari started fidgeting in his other hand, scratching against his bicep. “appa! stawbewwy!” she reminded. “eomma kissy after!” you both burst out laughing, apologising to your daughter.
“yes, nari-ya, your highness, we’ll go to your strawberries first,” you teased her. she smiled satisfactorily, wrapping her arms around jeongin’s neck and falling forward to nuzzle her face into his neck.
“she hugs exactly like you,” he said, bringing up the way you found comfort while hiding your face in his neck all the time. “it runs in the blood.”
you swatted his shoulder lightly. “whatever. you love it!”
“that i do.” he held your hand in his unoccupied one. the two of you stumbled out of the door with your daughter giggling excitedly in jeongin’s arms.
you locked the door behind you with your free hand, and pushed the keys into jeongin’s pocket.
“let’s gwo!” nari said, pumping up a hand in the air repeatedly.
“let’s give her to wooyoung and make her dance to adrenaline,” you joked.
“woo!” nari exclaimed, recognising the name. “ajhussi!”
“he’s gonna cry when he hears what she just called him,” jeongin cackled.
after a while, you took nari into your arms to give jeongin a rest. he argued that she weighed nothing, but you insisted… and how could he say no to his pretty wife?
upon reaching the supermarket, jeongin stole your daughter from you, making a beeline towards the strawberries. you laughed at them, taking out your phone to record nari’s first ever strawberry reaction video.
jeongin bought two packs of strawberries, paying for them quickly. nari was jumping around in his arms, buzzing with excitement. they looked like an ‘evil villain and his little evil helper’ duo, you couldn’t even unsee it anymore.
unwrapping the plastic cover with top speed, jeongin sat down on a bench in the park outside the market. he placed nari on his lap, making sure she wouldn’t fall backwards. she even held onto his wide shoulders for safety.
he holds up a single strawberry to the light, hoping to make it look cinematic but nari just stole it from his hands and took a small bite from the corner.
“ew!” her face exploded in disgust first. her nose scrunched sharply, eyebrows furrowing at the same time. her eyes were almost invisible with the way she was squinting.
you swear you’d never laughed so hard in your life, not even when jeongin had ripped his pants trying to show you some new dance he’d learnt.
“i can’t even blame her for not liking it,” he almost cried, eating the remaining strawberry. “she’s too cute!” he groaned.
before he could place the next strawberry in his mouth, nari pulled his hand away from his mouth and stole it. she plopped the whole thing into her mouth, puffing up her cheeks to fit it.
“twasty!” she said, mouth filled with a single strawberry.
Synopsys: Did I see the latest Racha Log where Hannie zoomed in on Chan's eye? Yes. Did I get cuteness aggression from his insanely long lashes? Also yes. Am I gonna make it everyone's problem by writing a 2k-word piece about it? Absolutely yes.
Warnings: the reader is mentioned to have worked out with Chan
Genre: FLUFF
ENJOOOOY!!!!!
Nights like this are rare. Chan is home early for once, after a workout he convinced you to join. Your bellies are full of kimchi jjigae, the good kind that warms you all the way to your fingertips.
Chan is still in the shower, and you're already tucked beneath the duvet, curled comfortably into the mattress. The lingering scent of vanilla from your lotion hangs softly in the air around you, mixing with the crisp smell of clean linen that wraps around your freshly moisturized skin. Your muscles feel heavy, pleasantly sore from the workout earlier, and the coziness of the room makes it dangerously easy to sink deeper into the pillows.
Everything is perfect, the only thing missing is the man of your dreams.
You reach for your phone, squinting slightly at the brightness. Thirteen minutes. Chan has been in the shower for thirteen minutes now. That's six minutes longer than his usual routine, which means he's either zoning out under the hot water again or overthinking something in that beautiful, busy brain of his.
All your body yearns for is to cuddle up to him, maybe put on your comfort series—something that always makes both of you laugh and giggle. You’ve seen it enough times that you wouldn’t even feel guilty if you ended up getting lost in each other or simply falling asleep.
Honestly, both of those outcomes feel very possible tonight.
Chan worked out extra hard today, and you followed his lead. Your body is exhausted in that satisfying, heavy way, though your limbs ache, and your eyes keep fluttering closed for longer stretches, the more time passes without him.
You’re nearly asleep when the bathroom door finally opens.
A small cloud of steam rolls out into the bedroom, and from the middle of it emerges a very shirtless Chris.
He looks hot and soft at the same time in a way that should probably be illegal. His hair is still damp, messy curls clinging to his forehead and falling loosely around his pretty face. Tiny droplets of water trail down his neck and across his shoulders, catching the candlelight and making his skin glow. His eyes are a little droopy, relaxed from the heat of the shower, and his lips curve into that easy, sleepy smile the moment his eyes find you.
You look tiny on the massive king-sized bed—ridiculously oversized, really. Big enough to fit the entirety of Stray Kids, as thoroughly proven during one particularly chaotic test.
Chan pauses for a second, just standing there, quietly taking in the sight of you tucked away in his bed like something small and precious. The sheets look impossibly soft, the duvet puffed up invitingly around you like a warm nest.
Anyone else might have approached gently.
But Chan is, unfortunately, a menace. Without warning, he suddenly sprints the last few steps and launches himself onto the bed. The mattress dips dramatically with a loud poof, and you shriek, scared he might crash land on you.
But even in his chaos, Chan is careful. There's so much space on the mattress—seriously, how big is this thing, and why did an insomniac think he needed this behemoth of a bed?—that he manages to land beside you instead of on top of you.
He's giggling and excitedly lifts the duvet just enough to slip under it, his long arms instantly reaching out for you, curling around your waist, pulling you so close to his bare chest that not even a needle could slip between the two of you.
Chan smells deliciously sweet.
His skin radiates comforting warmth, his heartbeat steady. One of his hands lazily caresses your stomach, the slow motion soothing your sore muscles. His plump lips rest against your forehead, while his other hand slips into your hair at the back of your head, gently keeping you close.
“Hello, little one,” he whispers.
His voice is rough—probably from singing and recording guides all day while finishing a few songs for their next album. But the usual tension in his shoulders is gone tonight. Tomorrow is one of his rare days off, a small reward for the work he’s put in. For once, he can fall asleep with you in his arms and sleep in without feeling even the tiniest bit guilty.
“Hi, honey,” you murmur. “How are you feeling?”
“Soooo good,” he mumbles, stretching the words as he sinks deeper into the mattress. “I could stay right here forever.”
He rolls onto his back, pulling you with him until you’re draped halfway over his chest. His breathing is slow and even beneath you, his chest rising and falling as the back of his head melts into the pillow. Loose curls fall messily around his face.
You tilt your head up to look at him, your chest filling with quiet contentment. Your heartbeat quickens as the familiar thought crosses your mind again—how lucky you are to have someone like him.
Your gaze lingers on the details of his face: the gentle curve of his nose, the small mole on his eyebrow, his soft, plump lips.
His eyes, his warm, chocolate coloured eyes, are closed. That’s when you notice something else - his eyelashes. Long and thick, they fan against his pale cheeks, fluttering slightly like tiny, feathery wings. It almost feels unfair how pretty they are—usually hidden beneath the smoky stage makeup they pile onto him. Up close like this, they look almost unreal.
Your hand moves before you even realize it. Carefully, so carefully, you lift your thumb and brush it against his cheek—just beneath those ridiculous lashes.
They flutter instantly. You gasp.
“Chan,” you whisper, voice already dissolving into a squeak.
His nose scrunches a little at the sound, but his eyes stay closed. “Mm?”
Your thumb brushes them again. Lightly. Just the faintest touch.
The lashes tickle your skin as they move. You let out a tiny, strangled giggle.
“Your eyelashes,” you whisper, like you’ve just discovered something groundbreaking. “They’re—”
Another giggle bursts out of you, higher this time.
Chan’s eyes crack open slowly, sleepy and confused. “What?”
You shake your head quickly, biting your lip as another squeaky laugh escapes you. Your thumb goes back to his cheek, tracing the soft line beneath his eye before tapping lightly against those soft, feathery lashes again.
They flutter. You squeak. Chan startles a little beneath you.
“What are you doing?” he asks, already starting to laugh, voice still raspy with sleep.
“They’re so fluffy!” you whisper-shout, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Look at them!”
He blinks up at you, lashes—traitorously—fluttering again. You make a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeal and gently poke them again with the tip of your thumb.
“Ah—!” Chan jerks his head back slightly, laughing now. “That tickles!”
“They’re so cute,” you whine softly, completely helpless as your fingers come up to cradle his face. Your thumbs hover near his cheeks like you’re restraining yourself from poking them again. “Chan, they’re literally like little wings.”
“What wings?” he snorts, cheeks already turning pink.
“Your eyelashes!” you squeak again, unable to stop smiling. “They’re so long!”
He lets out a shy, breathy laugh, one hand sliding up your back as if to hide his face in your shoulder—but he can’t, because you’re still half draped over him.
“You’re being weird,” he mumbles, embarrassed.
“I’m not!” you protest immediately, giggling again.
Your thumb sneaks forward one more time and lightly brushes the tips of his lashes. They flutter. Chan’s whole face scrunches as he breaks into helpless giggles, shoulders shaking beneath you.
“Stop!” he laughs, trying to turn his face away, but your hands hold him gently in place.
“I can’t!” you whine. “They’re so pretty!”
“Pretty?!” His voice squeaks a little as he laughs, clearly flustered now. “They’re just eyelashes!”
“No they’re not,” you insist softly, eyes shining as you admire them again like they’re the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. “They’re perfect.”
Chan groans quietly and drops his hands over his face for a second, laughter muffled behind his palms.
“You’re bullying me,” he accuses weakly.
You gasp dramatically. “I am not!”
He peeks at you through his fingers, cheeks flushed pink, curls messy against the pillow.
“You’re literally attacking my eyes.”
“I’m appreciating them,” you correct, completely serious.
Chan lets out another shy laugh, clearly unable to handle the attention. His hands slide back down to your waist, pulling you closer against him until your cheek presses against his chest.
“Stop looking at them,” he mutters, still giggling.
You tilt your head up immediately. His lashes flutter again when your eyes meet. You squeak. Chan groans and hides his face in the pillow this time, laughing helplessly while his arms tighten around you.
“You’re impossible,” he mumbles.
“There is one thing you can do for me,” you say coyly, a cheeky smile spreading across your face, “and I promise I’ll stop freaking out about your lashes, pretty boy.”
Chan narrows his eyes immediately.
“Oh, no…” he sighs dramatically. “I know that face. You cooked up some evil plan against me and my eyelashes that apparently give you cuteness aggression.”
“Hey!” you protest, lightly flicking his right pec.
He yelps softly.
“It’s not an evil plan, you doofus,” you huff. “I just want butterfly kisses.”
“...Butterfly kisses?” he repeats slowly, brows knitting together in confusion.
You stare at him.
“What, you have bunyips in Australia but no butterfly kisses?”
Chan bursts into loud laughter, instinctively throwing his head back. Your hand instantly flies behind his head so he doesn’t bump it against the headboard. His crinkled eyes flutter open, and you squeak again as you observe those otherworldly lashes flutter again.
“What do my eyelashes have to do with bunyips?” he asks through laughter.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” you say patiently, cupping his cheek. “But everything to do with butterfly kisses.”
“Okay,” he says, still smiling, curiosity softening his voice. “Could you explain to me what those are, little one? Because if they involve kisses, I can promise you I’ll gladly give you an infinite number of them.”
Your eyes widen with excitement.
“Well,” you explain eagerly, “butterfly kisses are when you flutter your eyelashes against the other person’s skin.”
Chan pauses. You can practically see the idea blooming in his head. Then his entire face lights up.
“Oh.”
Before you can even react, he uses his strength to roll the two of you over, suddenly hovering above you. His curls fall forward into his eyes, blending with those ridiculously long lashes that started this entire situation.
You stare up at him, already giggling.
“Well,” he announces proudly, “I shall deliver all the butterfly kisses I can, ma’am.”
And deliver he does. He leans down and gently presses his face close to your cheek, fluttering his eyelashes against your skin. You immediately squeal.
“Oh my God—!”
He starts laughing too, shoulders shaking as he keeps going. Next comes your other cheek. Then your collarbone. Then your tummy. Each time his lashes brush your skin, you burst into helpless giggles, squirming beneath him from the ticklish feeling. Chan is no better, laughing right along with you at how ridiculous—and adorable—this whole situation has become.
“You asked for this!” he giggles as he attacks your stomach with another round of fluttering lashes.
“I didn’t know it would tickle this much!” you protest between laughs.
Eventually, he makes his way back up, brushing butterfly kisses across your cheeks again, slower this time. Gentler. Finally, he lifts himself slightly, hovering over you. His eyes crinkle with the huge smile stretching across his face, curls messy, cheeks flushed from laughing.
“I love you so much,” he whispers softly. “You silly, silly girl.”
He doesn’t even wait for you to respond.
He just leans down and presses his lips to yours, warm and soft, melting closer against you as if he can’t quite get close enough.
"There won't be a day from now on when you're not getting a butterfly kiss from me, little one!" he states once your lips part, his voice soft, but oh so serious.
And as he presses one last butterfly kiss to your cheek, you realize with absolute certainty that you’ve created a monster—and you couldn’t possibly love him more for it.
warnings: unprotected sex; oral sex (m!receiving); slight dom!reader; dirty talk; ass smack (one mention); voyeurism
summary: you’ve been thinking about chan’s gym video ever since he posted it and when he gets home, you decide to make a video of your own
a/n: i haven’t been able to think about anything else since chan posted his gym video so i had to write this! i wrote this one quickly so it might not be my best work oops
the door to your apartment swings open as chan comes in, looking exhausted but irresistible after his gym session. you can see the sweat that still clings to his skin and also his tank top hugging his broad shoulders and defined chest and those workout shorts that do little to hide the powerful lines of his thighs.
before he can even kick off his shoes, you’re on him, launching yourself forward to crash your lips against his in a hungry, desperate kiss. his hands instinctively grab your waist, steadying himself as you press your body against his, your tongues tangling in a heated makeout that leaves you both breathless.
“babe, wait-”, he says, pulling back just enough to say against your lips, but you don’t give him a chance.
your fingers thread into his damp, short hair, tugging him closer as you back him towards your bedroom, your lips never leaving his.
“what’s got into you? i just got-”, he tries again, a chuckle rumbling in his throat, but it dissolves into a groan when you nip at his lower lip, your hands roaming down his back to squeeze his ass through his shorts.
he gives up fighting it, his resistance melting as he follows your lead and his strong arms wrap around you. the hallway blurs as you guide him, your mind racing back to just minutes ago. you had been scrolling through your phone when you saw the gym video he posted - his muscles flexing, sweat dripping down his body as he powered through reps that made your cunt clench.
you have been dripping wet ever since, your thighs rubbing together in anticipation, counting the seconds until he walked through that door. and now, he was here, and you weren’t waiting another minute.
you push him into your bedroom and then move him towards the bed. his eyes are dark with confusion and growing need, but he lets you take control, tumbling onto the mattress with a surprised laugh that turns into a groan when you straddle his hips.
“fuck, you look so hot like this”, he says, his voice dripping with lust.
before he can say anything else, you lean down and kiss him again and then move to stand up. you reach for your phone on the nightstand and then place it on top of the dresser against the wall. the angle is perfect - side view of the bed, capturing both your bodies in full frame. you start recording then, and you toss a wicked grin over your shoulder at him.
“let’s see if you post this video too”, you say, your voice low and teasing.
chan’s brows furrow, his head lifting slightly off the pillow.
“what? baby, what are you-”, he says but his question cuts off as you climb back on top of him, sealing his mouth with another deep kiss.
your hands are everywhere, yanking at the hem of his tank top, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion. he helps you, arching his back to take it off, revealing his abs carved from hours in the gym, and a light sheen of sweat that makes his skin glisten.
you break the kiss just long enough to take your own t-shirt off, tossing it aside, then you take off your shorts and panties, leaving you bare from the waist down. chan’s gaze rakes over you hungrily, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts through the bra before you unhook it and let it fall away.
“shit, you’re so fucking hot”, he says.
your fingers move to his shorts and you tug them down along with his boxers. his cock springs free, thick and half-hard already, twitching at the cool air and the sight of you. both of you are naked now, your skin hot where your bodies touch.
you slide down his body and settle between his spread legs as he props himself up on his elbows, watching you with wide eyes and his chest heaving. you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, giving it a slow and firm stroke that makes him buck his hips. leaning in, you maintain eye contact, locking your gaze with his as your tongue flicks out to trace the underside of his cock, from balls to tip.
“oh, fuck”, his breath hitches as a groan escapes his lips.
without breaking that intense stare, you take him into your mouth, your lips stretching as you suck him down. you hollow your cheeks, bobbing your head as your tongue swirls around the tip. chan’s head falls back against the pillow with a groan, one of his hands grabbing the sheets while the other reaches down to tangle in your hair.
“f-fuck, baby… k-keep going, don’t stop”
you hum around him, the vibration drawing a sharp curse from his throat and you feel him throb against your tongue, growing fully hard now. he doesn’t know the fire that video ignited in you, how it had you imagining this exact moment - his body under yours, surrendering to your mouth.
he looks at you again as you take him deeper, relaxing your throat to swallow around him, your eyes never leaving his as tears prick at the corners from the effort. he’s losing it, his hips jerking up involuntarily as his hand grips the headboard now.
“fuck, yes… just- just like that. your mouth feels so good wrapped around me. keep looking at me”
his words spur you on, and you can feel your cunt soaking and clenching around nothing. you can tell he’s close from the way his abs tense and the salty precum that leaks onto your tongue.
“baby, i’m gonna… fuck, i’m-”, he says, but you don’t let him finish.
as his grip tightens, you pull off with a wet pop, licking your lips as you crawl back up his body.
“not yet”, you whisper, positioning yourself over him.
his cock, slick from your saliva, nudges your entrance, and you sink down until he’s completely inside you. both of you moan at the stretch, your walls fluttering around his cock as you adjust to his size. his hands fly to your hips, his fingers digging in so hard you know you’re gonna have marks there the next day.
“fuck… you’re so wet, you’re soaking”, he moans.
you start moving, rolling your hips in a slow grind at first, savouring the drag of him inside you. then you start moving faster, bouncing on his cock, the bed creaking under your bodies. his eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over again.
“you’re taking my cock so well. you love it, don’t you? been thinking about this all day?”, he says, his voice rough with need as he thrusts up to meet you, “fuck, you’re dipping all over me, baby. tell me how good it feels”
“yes, chris… it feels so fucking good”, you moan, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest, your nails scratching his skin.
the angle hits deeper, his cock brushing that spot that almost makes you lose control completely. he’s relentless now, bucking up hard, one of his hands sliding up to pinch and twist your nipple while the other smacks your ass lightly, the sting sending jolts straight to your core.
“that’s it, ride me harder. i wanna fell you come on my cock”
his words push you closer to the edge and you clench around him, drawing a deep moan from his lips. the tension builds, coiling tight in your stomach, and you can feel him swelling inside you, almost on his breaking point.
“chris- i’m… i’m close, don’t stop”, you whine, grinding down faster.
“come with me, baby. fuck- now”
he thrusts up fiercely and then you tip over, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around his cock as you cry out his name. he breaks with you, his cum filling you up as he groans.
“yes, take it all… shit, you’re perfect”
you collapse against him, both of you panting, your bodies trembling. his cock softens inside you, but he doesn’t pull out yet, he just holds you close as he presses kisses to your shoulder. after a moment, he tilts your chin up, searching your flushed face with a puzzled smile.
“okay, seriously, not that i’m complaining, but what was that all about?”, he says.
you laugh breathlessly, nuzzling into his neck before lifting your head.
“it’s your fault and that stupid gym video you’ve posted. i’ve been soaked since i saw it. couldn’t wait to get you home and fuck you senseless”
his eyes widen in realisation, then crinkle with amusement.
“shit, that’s what this is about? damn, i should’ve known”, he glances towards your phone still recording, a spark of understanding lighting his gaze as he pieces together your earlier comment, “and you’ve recorded us? fuck, baby, that’s so damn hot. i’m not posting this anywhere, this one is just for me. i’m gonna watch it when i’m on tour, stroking my cock to the sight of you bouncing on me”
he kisses you hard, his hand sliding down your body, cupping your ass as his cock stretches faintly inside you, already stirring at the thought. you break the kiss and move, sliding off him with a wet sound, his cum trickling down your thighs as you stand up to get your phone, stopping the video. he watches you, propping himself on one elbow, his gaze lingering on the mess between your legs with a smirk.
you sit down beside him, your phone in your hand but before you can say anything, he pulls you in for a quick, teasing kiss.
“we should watch this together right now. i think it’ll recharge us both for another round”
he plays the video and the screen lights up, and as the video starts, his hand already wanders back down your body, as you get ready for another cardio session.
the library
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