You work part-time at a quiet, almost empty library that only he seems to visit. Every time he checks out books, he leaves small handwritten notes inside them—poems that feel too personal to be random. Eventually, you realize he isn’t just inspired by literature… he’s been writing about you without ever saying a word out loud.
The library sat on the edge of the city like a forgotten secret.
Not abandoned, exactly. There were still regular patrons, still children who came in after school to do homework, still elderly couples who wandered through the history section on quiet weekday mornings. But compared to the bright cafés and busy bookstores that crowded the streets downtown, it felt detached from everything else, tucked away beneath old trees whose branches scraped against the windows whenever the wind picked up.
You loved it for exactly that reason.
The silence never felt empty there.
It felt alive.
The rustle of pages. The soft hum of the heating system. The occasional creak of wooden shelves that had stood there longer than most of the staff had been alive.
And, for the past year, it included one very specific visitor.
Kim Namjoon.
At first, he had simply been another patron.
A polite man who always arrived alone.
Who spent absurd amounts of time browsing.
Who checked out more books than any human being should reasonably be capable of reading.
Who somehow managed to return every single one on time.
You knew who he was, of course.
Everyone did.
It would have been impossible not to.
Still, he seemed strangely ordinary inside the library.
No bodyguards hovering nearby.
No cameras.
No stage lights.
Just a man with glasses slipping down his nose as he stood between shelves, reading book jackets with intense concentration.
You didn't speak much.
Mostly greetings.
"Good morning."
"Good afternoon."
"Have a nice day."
Simple things.
The kind exchanged between librarian and patron.
Nothing more.
At least, that's what you thought.
Until the first note.
It happened completely by accident.
You were processing returned books near closing time when a folded piece of paper slipped from between the pages of a poetry collection and landed on the desk.
At first you assumed it was a bookmark.
Then you opened it.
The handwriting was neat.
Elegant.
The words were brief.
The woman at the desk smiles like she knows secrets the world forgot.
That was it.
No signature.
No explanation.
Just one sentence.
You stared at it for several seconds before laughing softly to yourself.
Someone's writing exercise, probably.
You tucked it aside.
Forgot about it.
Until two weeks later.
Another note.
Different book.
Different handwriting? No.
The same.
There is comfort in people who belong to quiet places.
Your brow furrowed.
Interesting.
You slipped the note into your pocket.
Then another appeared.
And another.
And another.
Weeks became months.
The notes kept coming.
Never long.
Never signed.
Always hidden inside books returned by the same patron.
Poetry collections.
Philosophy texts.
Novels.
Art books.
Every single one checked out by Kim Namjoon.
You never confronted him.
Partly because it felt ridiculous.
Partly because you weren't entirely certain the notes belonged to him.
Until one rainy afternoon.
The library was nearly empty.
The sky outside had turned silver.
Rain drummed softly against the windows.
Namjoon stood at the checkout desk with a stack of books balanced in his arms.
You scanned them one by one.
Neither of you spoke.
Comfortable silence.
Then a folded slip of paper peeked from the pages of one book.
You saw it.
He saw you see it.
And for the first time since you'd met him—
Kim Namjoon looked genuinely flustered.
His eyes widened.
His hand moved immediately.
Too late.
You had already noticed.
The silence stretched.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then he cleared his throat.
"...I forgot that was in there."
You looked at him.
Then at the paper.
Then back at him.
"You write notes in library books?"
A faint flush crept up his neck.
"Sometimes."
"That's technically a crime."
His lips twitched.
"A crime?"
"A literary crime."
His laugh escaped before he could stop it.
Deep.
Warm.
Unexpected.
And somehow that moment changed everything.
After that, conversations started happening naturally.
Small ones at first.
Recommendations.
Favorite authors.
Books neither of you liked.
Books both of you loved.
Then longer discussions.
Art.
Music.
History.
Poetry.
Life.
The strange loneliness that could exist even when surrounded by people.
You discovered quickly that Namjoon thought about everything.
Every subject became an exploration.
Every conversation wandered somewhere unexpected.
Hours slipped by without either of you noticing.
And through it all—
The notes continued.
Only now you knew who wrote them.
You just pretended not to.
Because he never mentioned them.
And neither did you.
Until the day everything changed.
It was late autumn.
The library had nearly closed.
The sun had disappeared hours earlier.
Most of the lights had been switched off.
You were shelving returned books when a familiar folded page slipped from a novel and landed at your feet.
You picked it up automatically.
Unfolded it.
Then froze.
Because this one wasn't like the others.
This one was longer.
Much longer.
Your eyes moved across the page.
I keep telling myself that inspiration is a harmless thing.
Writers observe people. We turn moments into words. We collect details.
The way someone laughs.
The way they tilt their head when reading.
The way they speak about books they love.
I thought that's all this was.
Observation.
But observation isn't supposed to make your heart race when someone walks into a room.
Your breath caught.
The library suddenly felt very quiet.
Observation isn't supposed to make you rearrange your schedule just to spend ten extra minutes somewhere.
Observation isn't supposed to make ordinary days feel brighter.
Your hands tightened around the paper.
I don't think I'm writing about a stranger anymore.
And that terrifies me.
You stopped reading.
Not because you wanted to.
Because your heart had started pounding too loudly.
You already knew.
Before reaching the end.
You knew.
The woman at the desk.
The quiet place.
The smiles.
The observations.
All of it.
Every note.
Every poem.
Every hidden line.
They had always been about you.
Not some imagined muse.
Not a fictional character.
You.
The realization hit with startling force.
Because somewhere along the way—
You had fallen for him too.
Not the celebrity.
Not the public figure.
Not the global icon.
The man who wandered through library aisles searching for books he probably didn't have time to read.
The man who remembered every recommendation you'd ever made.
The man who listened.
The man who looked at the world like it was made of stories waiting to be discovered.
The man who wrote poems and hid them where he thought nobody would ever find them.
Your chest ached.
And suddenly you needed answers.
Immediately.
You folded the note.
Set the book aside.
Then marched toward the philosophy section.
Because there was only one place he ever disappeared to when he was thinking.
Sure enough.
There he was.
Standing between shelves.
Book in hand.
Lost in thought.
Until he looked up.
Saw your expression.
And immediately knew.
His face went pale.
"...You read it."
Not a question.
A statement.
You held up the note.
"Yes."
Silence.
He closed the book slowly.
The air between you felt fragile.
Like glass.
One wrong move and it would shatter.
You watched him swallow.
Watched him struggle for words.
Which was somehow shocking.
Because Kim Namjoon always seemed to have words.
Yet now he looked completely lost.
"I wasn't planning for you to find that one."
"I gathered."
A nervous laugh escaped him.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
Looked away.
Then back at you.
"I know this sounds ridiculous."
"It probably does."
"It definitely does."
You smiled despite yourself.
That seemed to help.
Only a little.
He exhaled slowly.
Then said the thing neither of you had said for months.
"The notes were about you."
Your heart skipped.
There it was.
Out loud.
Real.
Visible.
No longer hidden inside books.
No longer tucked between pages.
Just truth.
Simple and terrifying.
"I know."
His gaze searched yours.
Waiting.
Bracing for rejection.
For embarrassment.
For something.
You could see it.
For all his confidence on stage.
For all his success.
For all the millions of people who adored him—
Right now he looked vulnerable.
Almost painfully so.
"I didn't mean for it to happen," he admitted quietly.
"I know."
"I just liked talking to you."
Your chest tightened.
"Namjoon—"
"And then I started looking forward to seeing you."
His voice softened.
"Then I started writing about seeing you."
A small laugh.
Self-deprecating.
Hopeless.
"And apparently I kept doing that."
You stared at him.
At the honesty in his eyes.
At the fear there too.
Then you took one step forward.
His words stopped immediately.
"You know what's funny?" you asked.
He blinked.
"What?"
"I thought I was imagining things."
His brow furrowed.
"What things?"
"The way you always picked the desk closest to mine."
A faint blush appeared.
You continued.
"The way you stayed longer than necessary."
Another blush.
"The way you kept checking out poetry books even when you clearly preferred philosophy."
Now he looked horrified.
"I was not that obvious."
"You were extremely obvious."
His groan echoed through the aisle.
You laughed.
And something shifted.
The tension broke.
The fear loosened.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough for him to smile.
Enough for you to move closer.
Enough for honesty.
"Namjoon."
"Yeah?"
"I like you too."
The words settled between you.
Soft.
Certain.
Real.
For a second he simply stared.
As though he wasn't entirely sure he'd heard correctly.
Then his eyes widened.
Then he laughed.
A genuine laugh.
Bright and disbelieving.
"You do?"
You couldn't help smiling.
"Yes."
His smile became breathtaking.
Not because it was perfect.
Because it was so completely happy.
The kind of happiness that couldn't be rehearsed.
Couldn't be performed.
Couldn't be hidden.
And for the first time since you'd met him, he looked utterly speechless.
Which felt like an accomplishment.
"You know," you said softly, "you could've just asked me out."
His laugh returned.
"I know."
"Instead you wrote poetry for almost a year."
"I know."
"You hid it in library books."
"I know."
"You made this significantly more complicated than necessary."
His grin widened.
"That does sound like something I'd do."
You shook your head.
Then, before you could lose your nerve, reached for his hand.
His fingers immediately intertwined with yours.
Like they'd been waiting to.
Like he'd been waiting to.
The library around you remained quiet.
The shelves stood unchanged.
The books remained exactly where they had always been.
Yet somehow everything felt different.
Because the story that had spent months hiding between pages had finally reached its ending.
Or perhaps its beginning.
And later, years afterward, when people asked how you met, Namjoon would always claim it happened through literature.
You would insist it happened because he committed repeated literary crimes.
And every time, without fail, he would laugh.
Then squeeze your hand.
Then look at you with the same affection that once filled countless hidden notes.
Request: so what if skz finding out their partner is a song writer / composer? bonus points if the skz members also found out that they wrote their favourite song :>
Warnings: reader is implied to write for Kpop most of the time, not proofread.
A/n: as a songwriter, I appreciate this request a whole lot lmao. Thank you for requesting, I hope you like it!
Bang Chan
Honestly, I think this is something he would find out before dating you
Man knows everyone in the whole entertainment industry
Ofc he knows who you are
If anything, the way you both got to know each other more was through working together to make a stray kids song
Overall, I think he would love to have a partner in the industry
Even if you never get to be on stage
Simply because you understand him more than other people do
You know how music is essential and demanding at the same time
Your job probably makes him feel more connected to you
He likes to joke that you're the newest member of 3Racha
Always sends you songs he made your you to listen
And wants you to do the same
You can send him an audio at 1AM and bro will listen to it right away, ready to give you his opinion and advice (and praise)
Lee Know
Poor stray kids and stay
They will be listening to the songs you worked on nonstop
He just happens to be your biggest supporter 🤷🏻♀️
Has a whole 10 hours playlist with all of your work
Knows every lyric even if they aren't Korean
And he also enjoys dancing to it very much
Even if the song doesn't have a choreo, he likes to make up his own by listening to what you did
Probably invented a few trends with your songs because of it lmao
He also listens to it a lot when he's on tour
Even if it's not your voice that he's listening to, it's still you somewhat
He just wants to feel close to you
Asks you to sing or play the songs you produced
Might or might not have a small compilation of audios of you singing when he's way too homesick
(And if you wrote his favourite song, he would definitely have an audio of you singing it)
Changbin
Sees you as a very big inspiration
The amount of times he listened to one of your songs so he could get out of creative block is crazy
If anything, he probably already saw you as a role model before even getting to personally know you
Imagine the seo changbin fan boying you
If you write for other K-pop groups/soloists, he's probably trying to make references of what you wrote in his own rap
Fans always think he's talking about a certain idol or something but he really is just trying to include you in his work😭
And he would beg to have at least one stray kids song cowrote by you
Like literally begging
He needs to have one small Collab with you at least once
And will get a little pouty every time you can't work with skz because you're with another group at the moment
Hyunjin
Loves to have songwriting dates with you
Usually releases the songs you both write (with your permission ofc) as a skz-recorder
Stays are starting to wonder who is that composer/songwriter who is behind every single song Hyunjin is in lmao
I remember he said that one of his goals for 2024 was to produce more
So he will 100% seek your advice and even ask for some particular lessons at times
And he is always a little bit shy when he's about to show you what he's been working on
Because he feels like you are THE songwriter
And you're also his partner so like
Your opinion is a very big deal
And he's also so excited when you let him listen to a preview of your newest work
Is always awestruck
(Any song of yours would be his favourite lmao, and the best part of it is that he means it)
Han
He would LOVE to have a partner in the industry
Or just connected to art somehow, even if it's just a hobbie
I mean, look at his lyrics
Bro inhales and exhales art
The fact that you understand this side of him and even share this interest is so what he needed
He's also very very helpful when you need to write songs
I see late night dates in the studio
Even when any of you is far away for whatever reason
It can be 2am in Korea, he will be on his phone more than willing to listen to you brainstorm
Brainstorming with Han would be very fun overall lmao
It's either going to be the most sentimental thing to ever exist or it's going to be complete nonsense lmao
Oh and he would also make a lot of references to things you wrote
And would be so so so so happy if you ever made a reference to a work of his
Felix
I remember he said once that if he wasn't an idol, he would like to be a professional songwriter
So the fact that YOU are a songwriter/producer
He kinda loves you a little bit too much
One thing he loves is to understand your thought process
If you ever let him see your notes,he will try his best to understand every little thing
Even if it's only words with no correlation all over the page
He loves to know how your mind works
And he wants to know where the inspiration comes from!
(If it's from him he will never shut up about it)
Loves to know the stories behind each one of your works
He feels like he gets to know you a little more every time he listens to something that is yours
Is always covering one of your songs on lives
Seungmin
Literally everything you could've asked for, both in the dating aspects and in professional aspects
He makes sure you never overwork but will never restrain you from your work
Like, he knows that sometimes the inspiration comes at 2AM. He won't shut off your notebook, he'll be up with you and guarantee you don't stress
And he's your most honest critic
If you need help with rhymes, structure, chords or whatever, he is there
(After dating him you rarely browse anything at Google anymore, seungmin always understands the specific vibes you want)
And if you are a songwriter/ composer who doesn't know how to sing (that's me criticising myself) he always volunteers to make the demo for your songs
As I said, everything you could've ever asked for in a partner and coworker
I.N
Now this one
The moment he discovered he was begging to see some of your work
It's crazy how many of your songs were included in the playlist he has of songs that remind him of you😭
Talk about soulmates
I also believe that he would love to help you with songs
Give him one chance and this man is already with a notebook open trying to come up with the best verse ever
But he really likes to hear you brainstorm as well
Just you in your comfort zone really makes him admire you
And he loves how he can feel closer to you
Just reading the lyrics you wrote ou listening to the beat you produced makes him feel like he is meeting you for the first time again
Always having a new impression of you
Will also sing any demos you want him to!
Masterlist | you'll probably like: if skz wrote a song for you
Ahh… why did this make me a little sad 🥲 After graduating, I was so focused on surviving that I took any job I could get and just completely lost the songwriter in me… I’ve been so disconnected from music these last few years but my soul still years for it… It’s truly the only thing that makes any sense to me🤍
There they sat on the entryway table, petals wilted— some fallen while others fought. Leaves disintegrated into crunchy nothingness as the water was sucked from the clear glass vase...a sign of the stems that were struggling to keep the roses alive. It was a futile fight for the stems. The roses soon shriveled away, their color muted against the too-bright morning just beyond the window.
You tossed them out and stared at the empty shelf with a disheartened scowl. You'd underestimated how much it would hurt not to see the flowers...to instead be forced to encounter a blank, empty, lonely space rather than one that made you feel adored and wanted.
You never fancied yourself a recluse, but despite the brevity of the relationship, it hurt worse than you had expected. He'd been the first guy in years to penetrate your tough exterior...the first one in years you'd let your guard down for both emotionally and physically, and yet, it hadn't been enough to ensure that there was a future for the two of you.
Days had gone by, and still you were confined to the couch. It had become your bed, your kitchen table, and your sole ship to another world as you read a book you'd been putting off as you hadn't wanted to escape real life in a while. The war in the story had just begun when there was a gentle knock at the door.
"(Y/N)," the familiar voice called, dripping in empathy and disdain for the man who'd hurt you.
You sat up a little, catching his shadow through the curtain that covered the very same window that once fed sunlight. You hoped that if you stayed quiet long enough, he'd go away.
"I know you're home. I have your location, remember?"
"Fuck," you cursed beneath your breath. You forced yourself to stand, ignoring the cracks in your knees and back from how stiff you were, and shuffled towards the front door.
You reluctantly pulled it open to find Chan on the other side with one arm extended to hug you and his other hand carrying a bag of Chinese food, its contents wafting through the front door.
You slid your arms around him, finding comfort in the familiarity of his presence. He kissed the top of your head, and you then pulled away to lead him inside, your stomach growling now that the scent of orange chicken had flooded your home.
"You never eat when you're upset," he complained while shaking his head. Chan had witnessed you undergo the worst of life's offerings. Breakups and near-death car accidents were only the beginning. He'd held you when they found your mother's body in a fire started by your father. He'd sorted through the ashes with you in search of family momentos. They were few and far between on the soot-covered foundation, but even with so little to hold onto, you were glad there'd been something left to find.
Chan set the dish down in front of you before taking a seat in the chair beside you. He knew better than to sit across from you when what you really needed was to lean against him...to let him hold you up when everything felt like it was crashing down.
"You weren't dating him that long, (Y/N)," he reminded you, trying to use logic when your brain was being anything but logical. "What's going on? Hmm?"
You shrugged and snagged the bite off your fork. It was a little too hot, but the scorching of your tongue felt weirdly nice. It reminded you that you were alive.
On the next bite, Chan intervened and snagged it away. You turned to him with a pout as he ate the chicken with a teasing smirk. There was still pity in his eyes, but it was clear he was trying to make you smile, so you fought it with your arms crossed until he returned the utensil.
"You'll find your person one day, (Y/N)," he offered reassuringly as his thumb brushed small circles on your shoulder. "It takes time."
You weren't convinced. "It took me years to find Mr. Sort-of-Right. I just hate the idea that I'll spend 3 more years dating and putting myself out there just to get another letdown."
"Then what makes a guy Mr. 100%-Right for you?" he inquired. His body angled more towards you in the way he unconsciously did as if to help him hear better.
"Well," you began before swallowing the chicken piece. "He has to be smart."
"Smart?" he grinned, amused that intelligence was your main concern in a partner.
"Yes! Smart," you replied definitively as a smile grew on your face while you imagined this theoretical perfect partner. "And they have to be cute and good with kids since I really want a family."
"Mhm," he interjected as if making a list in his head. "What about height?"
"That's not really important to me. I'd rather find someone who can make me laugh than someone who can reach the top shelf," you said.
"That's what ladders are for," he teased, eyes shining in adoration at you for perking up so quickly.
You laughed a little at his joke before continuing, "And I want someone who will take care of me as much as I'll take care of them. I don't want things to feel one-sided."
"Like someone who would bring you orange chicken just to make sure you eat," he said softly.
"Exactly!" you exclaimed, happy that he understood how necessary an equal partnership was.
"Exactly," he muttered, seemingly urging you towards a solution that you weren't able to grasp while gazing at you so intently that your heart fluttered.
"If I found a guy even half as perfect as you, I'd feel lucky," you told him, voice drenched in sorrow at the thought of your perfect future that seemed too out of reach.
"What about one as 100% perfect?" he asked as he inched forward.
"I mean...that's obviously ideal but I doubt I'll find anyone like you," you sighed.
"(Y/N)..." Chan suddenly exhaled in frustration, standing with one hand on his hip while looking at you in confusion. "Are you messing with me?"
"What? No!" you assured him. "Why? What's wrong?"
Chan suddenly sat back down and reached for your hands. His fingers traced yours while he took a deep breath before staring intently and asking, "What about me?"
You weren't sure if you were understanding what he was offering. Did he mean you to use him as a template for your spousal search or was he suggesting you date him?
"You're perfect, Channie," you answered carefully. "I want someone just like you."
Chan laughed now as if he found amusement in your confusion or inability to accept the conversation's point. "(Y/N). What's stopping you from just being with me?"
You blinked in surprise, your chest turning in excitement and wonder about this possibility that you'd never let yourself seriously consider. "You?"
"Yeah," Chan breathed as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "What if you were with me?"
He inched closer, and you closed your eyes for a second to imagine it...a life with someone so accepting of your needs and flaws...a life with someone who saw you even clearer than you saw yourself...a life with someone who had been by your side for so long through all of the good and bad times.
"It would be easy with you," you began, voice shaky from the nerves. It was a big leap to take with Chan. After all, he'd been your friend since middle school, and you didn't want to lose him.
"I would be so good to you," he promised just before pressing his forehead to yours. You'd never heard his voice sound so needy before. It caught you off guard, and you squeezed his hand to relay the shock.
Your breathing hastened more when he cupped your jaw and brushed his thumb across your cheek. It was as though your entire life had been building to this moment, and now that it was here, the room was charged in anticipation.
"I want to be with you," he confessed before finally allowing his lips to press to yours.
The shift was immediate.
You were no longer afraid or worried about losing him. Deep down, it was as if you knew you'd have him forever. "Channie," you whined as you abandoned your seat to straddle him in his. You tangled your fingers in his hair and darted your tongue across his bottom lip to taste his plump bottom lip that you often secretly thought about.
He pulled back with a dimpled smile and sparkling eyes to catch sight of your parted lips and lazy grin. You tried to kiss him again, but he leaned away with a teasing smirk.
"You want me," you reminded him playfully. You couldn't stop touching him. Your fingers danced across his shoulders and neck before squeezing his earlobe and caressing his cheek. Was this always how it should've been?
"Yes, I do," he laughed. You'd never seen him look so freely happy before. Chan was always stressed about something...work, his family, his ancient car he was fixing up... but not now. Now, he was relaxed.
"I want to be yours, too," you muttered shyly. Giving away your heart never came easily, but with Chan, anything felt possible.
When he stood with your legs wrapped around his waist, you squealed and held on to his neck. "Where are we going?"
He didn't answer and instead headed down the hall to your room. You hadn't expected company, so it was a mess thanks to the challenging week you'd had. With anyone else you would've felt ashamed, but Chan ignored it and kissed you as he laid you back on the bed.
You spread your legs for him to lean into, and frowned into the kiss, feeling slightly rejected, when he stayed beside you instead. Was he regretting it already?
"What's wrong, pretty girl?" he asked, when he noticed the change in your temperament.
You looped your leg over his waist and guided him to lean against you. He grunted in surprise, but sank into another kiss, this one soft and vulnerable. He ground himself against you, letting you feel more of him until the whimpers started.
"I didn't want to push you too far so soon," he explained when he moved on to your neck, leaving trails of love bites across your skin.
"I want you Chan," you told him again, as you tugged on the hem of his shirt, pulling it up to his chest and then taking it off completely when he raised his hands to permit you. "I want all of you," you promised as you kissed his chest and shoulders, exploring the parts of him you rarely ever saw.
His kisses turned needier, his body becoming urgent in its desire for you. You wanted him to see just how equally desperate you were and began by taking off your shirt to reveal your torso to him.
Chan abandoned your neck to kiss down your collarbone and shoulder until he reached your chest. You watched as he closed his eyes and took your nipple between his teeth. When you gasped, it only made him more determined to make you feel good. His now-hardened cock ran up and down the length of your clothes core, igniting the fire within you.
"More," you pleaded, body writhing against his.
Chan peeked up through his long, pretty lashes with flushed cheeks to find that you were trying to squirm out of your leggings. He kissed all the way back up your neck leaving goosebumps in his wake before taking your earlobe between his teeth and breathing, "Don't you dare deny me the pleasure of undressing you, baby."
Heat flooded through you not only from the nickname but the tone. Chan was a lot more controlling than you expected...and you loved it. He kissed your now-reddened cheek and began pulling your leggings down, stealing your underwear with them.
He tossed the fabric to the floor and eyed you hungrily before removing the rest of his clothes and letting his body sink against yours. You'd only gotten a glance at his cock, but it was larger than you would've guessed...surprisingly so.
Everywhere Chan touched felt warm. His cock continued riding up and down your slick, and he kissed you as though nothing else in the world mattered.
"You're so beautiful," he groaned while exploring your naked form. He grazed your chest then down your side until he reached your waist. You wanted him to touch you everywhere and pouted when he teased you by dragging his hand along your inner thigh.
"Touch me," you begged. Your voice sounded so strange and unexpected that you wondered if you'd ever truly been turned on before. Everything with Chan felt so new.
"I am touching you," he smirked, knowing he was denying you touch where you craved it most...where the fire was burning for extinguishment.
"Channie," you whined as you tried to wiggle your hips towards his hand.
"God I love how you say my name," he moaned before finally sliding his finger through your core.
You gasped and clutched his shoulders as the fire raged into a raging inferno. He stroked back and forth while being sure to circle your clit whenever he reached it. You kissed and nibbled his shoulder to urge him on, but went limp when the euphoric wave washed over you when he pushed his finger in.
"Channie," you cried as you ground against his finger, seeking more friction than it was capable of.
"Fuck (Y/N)," he sighed as he watched your desperate attempt to get off.
"Need you," you whimpered with a kiss. "Need all of you."
"I don't know if you're ready yet, baby. I think I should work you up more or maybe even..." he began, but you interjected with another kiss as you worked to align his cock with your cunt.
"Please. Please just try, Channie," you begged, again shocked by how unlike yourself you sounded. You were drunk on Chan, and he was doing everything to keep you from sobering up.
"If it hurts just tell me," he muttered softly while gazing down with worry.
"I promise," you whispered before playfully kissing the tip of his nose.
Chan stared at you a moment longer as if capturing the very second everything would change before finally thrusting forward.
Your head flew back in ecstasy as his size was that perfect amount of pain and pleasure. His lips on your neck spurred the high even more, and it wasn't long before he was pulling out and sinking in again.
"Fucking made for me," he groaned as he nipped at your skin, sucking and kissing little marks that you'd wear with pride.
"Feels so good, Channie. So fucking good."
He settled into a pace and pulled your jaw back so he could kiss you. You felt so connected to him, and placed your hand on his chest, certain that your hearts were beating together.
When he blindly guided your ankle over his shoulder you almost couldn't believe it. You were being bent for him like a pretzel...a soaking wet, needy little pretzel that nearly fell apart when he sank even deeper.
"Damn," he groaned when he felt your pussy throbbing around his cock. "Does that feel good?"
You couldn't even speak anymore. You nodded with parted lips as he buried himself inside you as deep as he could go. His waist hit yours, and he stayed there as you tensed around him. If a meteor struck, you'd die happy in this position knowing you were as close as humanly possible to one another.
He began to move faster, to rock the bed back and forth as moans turned to shaky exhales. You tried to reach for him...to pull him in for a kiss, but he pushed your hand back against the bed with threaded fingers. Your chest shook from the force of his thrusts and he glanced down briefly to watch before needing your needy gaze.
"I want to feel you cum," he urged between kisses. You were so close already that the words alone nearly undid you.
"I just need..." you began, though a kiss interrupted the thought.
"What do you need, baby? I'll do anything for you," he vowed in a tone that could only be described as desperate.
"Say it, Channie. I need to hear it or I can't cum," you confessed, watching as the wheels spun in his mind.
His eyes softened once he connected the dots, and he pressed his lips to yours before murmuring, "I love you, (Y/N)."
You kissed him back as you came, as you released years of subconscious thoughts and moments of tension onto him. Chan came when you did with stuttering hips and messy kisses. He squeezed your hand even tighter before letting go to take your ankle off his shoulder. You relaxed beneath him with soft breaths as a warmth flooded from your curled toes all the way to your dizzied mind.
You wrapped your hand around the nape of his neck to make sure he'd keep kissing you. He pulled out and dropped to the bed beside you with mouths still connected as neither of you was ready to part. He pulled you close with a firm hand to your lower back, your words catching in your throat when you finally told him, "I love you, too."
In hindsight, you should've known it was always meant to be Chan. When your family was taken from you, he'd been the only person to support you through the grief. Now, he could see all of the best parts of you—the parts that only existed because he kept your life full of light when it could've gone dark.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear again...a habit you found adorable.
"I feel stupid for not seeing it earlier," you told him. "It was always meant to be you, wasn't it?"
"You're not stupid at all," he corrected. "I didn't let myself believe this could happen either...not until you described me in your list of an ideal man," he grinned proudly, his dimple an indicator of just how pleased he really was.
"Aren't you a little worried?" you asked as you held your hand against his chest. It was a comfort to touch him like this...one you had denied yourself of for far too long.
"Not at all," he assured you. "We've spent the last dozen years together. Why not another 12?" he asked with a kiss to your cheek. "And then another," he hummed before pressing his lips to the tip of your nose. "And another..." he added with a kiss to your jaw. "And another..."
He finally kissed your lips, and in the kiss, you could feel all of the love coursing between you. Any doubt about the sustainability of the relationship vanished. "Until forever," you murmured.
─── 📁. Text messages between you and your sweet, but annoying classmate who only ever asks for your notes!
COLLEGE!AU once again bc i’m on a streak and i genuinely can’t be stopped. pls don’t stop me ok.. lowk blackcat!reader x goldenretriever!keeho SIGHHH + the pacing/timeline might be confusing let’s. Let’s not bring it up okay. ENJOY OKAY HAI! :p
A/N: me leaving my jongseob smau in the dust i’m crying hold on. anyway okay this was. OKAY THID WAS KINDA DRY IM HAVING A MOMENT JUST BEAR WITH ME
🏷️ @wonubug @endoll @chccnne @aesprn @wonwounds @kamxstar @cherryhazy @seonghwaswifeuuuu @hardbeingcasual @kamxstar @alienslostinworld @sullyswife @seraph1cfae @seomisaho (want tags for any and all things p1harmony? yoooooooo)
It's too hot to think, too hot to work, and definitely too hot for Namjoon to be left alone in his studio with you.
My masterlist!
Warnings: smut, PWP, established relationship, studio sex, implied oral (m receiving) mating press, creampie, dom Joon, cockdrunk sub reader, praise kink, aftercare <3
Namjoon should've known better.
In his defense, he thought inviting you to the studio would result in a productive afternoon.
In your defense, he looked way too good sitting in that chair.
Ten minutes later, the song remains unfinished as Namjoon’s fingers hook into the waistband of your little skirt and panties to tug them down.
"So pretty," he coos as he leans over you, his big body pressing you deeper into the couch as your bottoms lie discarded on the floor.
You whine his name shyly in response, cheeks pink and hair a mess on the cushion behind you. Namjoon's bare chest brushes your hardened nipples, and you moan at the contact.
"Love seeing you all flushed like this," he murmurs as he gazes down at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry. His thick cock stands hard against his stomach, the tip red and leaking in the stuffy air of his studio.
It's hot. Sickeningly so. Summers in Seoul are not for the weak, and with the AC busted and Namjoon’s warm body pressing against yours, you're slick with sweat and your mind is hazy.
But all the discomfort fades the moment Namjoon sinks his cock into your dripping pussy.
"Joon," you gasp, hands flying to his arms. You grip hard, nails leaving behind little crescent shaped indents in the skin.
You've been together for years, but every time you fuck, it feels like the first time all over again. You often tease Namjoon that his cock was made for you, but as your toes curl at the sensation of being filled, you don't think it's a joke anymore.
His cock is perfectly curved, hitting that spot inside you just enough for your thoughts to dissolve. The fat vein that runs along the underside of his only adds to the feeling of being split open.
"Baby," Namjoon groans back, hands smoothing up your sides instinctively. You shudder, incoherent gasps and whimpers leaving you as he presses in deeper.
"Ngh—Nam—" you mewl, his name dying on your tongue. Namjoon's eyes flutter at the feeling of your pussy tightening around him, and it only gets worse when he starts to move.
"Shit," he hisses, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. You cry out, clenching around him more and causing his hips to stutter.
"You're squeezing the life out of me," he breathes, rocking into you slowly. His damp hair sticks to his forehead as he gazes down at you, eyes flicking between your face and bouncing breasts.
The pace is torturous, and Namjoon knows it too. He smirks as a pathetic whimper slips from your still-swollen lips from when you'd sucked him off earlier. Your entire body trembles with anticipation as your hands slide to his chest, clawing at his skin desperately.
"Please," you manage, arching into him. "I need—" Your voice cuts into a garbled moan when his fingers graze your clit, featherlight.
"Hmm? Need what?" Namjoon teases, although he knows exactly what it is.
"More," you huff, fingers catching on the silver chain dangling from his neck. You grasp it, pulling him forward by the metal until his nose brushes yours. "Need more, Joonie." Your lips jut out in a soft pout, begging.
"Jesus, sweetheart," he groans, overwhelmed by the look on your face. Your eyes are soft and full, lips parted as you whine. His hands slide under your knees before you realize what he's doing.
"Oh—!"
Namjoon adjusts your position carefully, setting your legs over his shoulders so you're folded in half under him. The mating press drives his cock deeper, pressing the head firmly against that sensitive spot inside you.
"Ah—ah—" You've lost the ability to speak, eyes rolling into the back of your skull as Namjoon snaps his hips quickly, the couch shaking from the force of his movements.
"Look at you," Namjoon breathes, voice equally wrecked and awed. His forehead rests against your foot, sweat-slick skin sliding together. "Taking me so well. Every inch."
You try to respond, but all that comes out is a string of broken moans as his cock grinds deliciously against your sensitive walls. Stars burst behind your eyes.
"Yeah?" He kisses your ankle, gentle even as his thrusts grow harder. "You love this, don't you? Just letting me use this pretty pussy."
"Mmmyes." The syllables slur together as you blink through sudden tears, feeling so good that you can't help but cry.
Namjoon’s face softens briefly when he sees you crying over his dick, your lashes sitting heavy against your cheeks. "Aww." His thumb wipes lightly under your eyes. "Think I broke my girl."
Your response is something reminiscent of his name, and he chuckles lowly. He leans down, his chain tapping your chin as he captures your lips in a brusing kiss.
You gasp into it, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste your helplessness. When he breaks the kiss, his breath fans hot against your lips. "Soaking me like the good girl you are."
He doesn't even give you a chance to recover because his fingers find your clit again, rubbing firm circles. The sensation makes heat coil low in your belly before it spikes, making your vision blur at the edges.
"C-close!" you gasp weakly, nails raking down his back. The lewd sounds of his thrusts fill the studio, his heavy balls clapping loudly against your ass.
Thank God for soundproof walls.
"Already?" Namjoon teases lovingly, but his thrusts start to falter as your pussy flutters around him rhythmically. "Gonna fill you up. You want that, don't you?"
You nod frantically. "Uh-huh, pleasepleaseplease—"
He doesn't stop rubbing your clit, even after you let out a sob. "So perfect. So tight. Made for my cock."
The combination of his hands on you and his words pushes you over the edge. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your entire body locks up. All you can feel is the relentless clench and release of your pussy as you cream around his cock.
The moment your orgasm rips through you, Namjoon's composure shatters.
"Fuck—" he rasps, his rhythm falling into short, hard thrusts that steal the air from your lungs. "Thaaat's it. Gonna make me cum too."
You barely register his words, still drunk on your climax, the room fuzzy. The only sound you manage is a tiny, pleading whimper. That's all the answer he needs.
Groaning your name, Namjoon slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. He stills as his cock pulses, his cum coating your walls. You feel it filling you, thick and hot, warming your already hot body.
He's breathing hard, chest heaving as your legs shake around his shoulders. The weight of him practically melts you into the couch, your body pliant.
Namjoon's gaze is tender now despite the mess he's made of you. He strokes your cheekbone with his thumb, soothing.
"You good, sweetheart?"
You smile up at him, all teary-eyed and affectionate. Only Namjoon would get all soft after completely rearranging your insides.
He stays inside you for a long moment, letting the connection linger, before slowly pulling out. The loss of him followed by the trickle of cum down your thigh makes you shudder.
Namjoon’s already reaching for you, pulling you into his arms and pressing soft kisses to the top of your head.
"Joonie," you grumble, squirming in his arms. "I'm all sticky and hot."
"Still wanna take care of my girl, though," he replies immediately.
You can't even argue with that when you hear the smile in his voice.
Namjoon cleans you you up with a damp cloth from the bathroom down the hall, kissing your thighs every time they twitch in sensitivity. He strokes your hair back and gently blows cool air on your face, muttering about how he's already called maintenance twice about the AC.
And all you can do is grin like an idiot at Namjoon because hearing him rant about something as mundane as AC mechanics only makes you fall deeper in love with him.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! <3
synopsis: while you and chan are wrapping christmas presents, one thing leads to another until eventually he’s wrapped in ribbon and you’ve made yourself at home between his knees.
pairing: sub-ish!chan x f!reader
genre: smut
contains: ribbon used as a blindfold, ribbon used as hand restraints, kissing, pet names (baby, honey, sweetheart), reader calls chan ‘chris’ like- twice, blowjob, head pushing, face fucking (kinda)
word count: 5.4k
now playing: strings - taemin
event taglist is open!!
[a/n]: this one is for my subby chan enjoyers >:) did i go a lil overboard on this without even realizing… yeeeees. and what ab it? he’s fine as FAWK and i’m just appreciating fr :p this has not been proof read!!
the living room floor is a chaotic sprawl of wrapping paper and ribbons, gift boxes sprawled about in various states of completion.
you sit cross-legged amidst the festive mess, carefully folding a corner of silver paper over a rectangular box while chan hums along to the holiday playlist playing from a speaker somewhere to your right.
"i think we bought too little tape," chan mumbles as he holds up a nearly empty dispenser with a sheepish grin.
"that's because someone uses half a roll per present," you tease, eyeing toward the gift he'd just finished wrapping—a box of his own that’s more tape than wrapping paper.
your boyfriend is good at so many things, but gift wrapping unfortunately is not one of them.
you shake your head fondly and reach for a roll of red ribbon that rests between the two of you, measuring out a length of it against your forearm. the scissors make a satisfying snip as you cut it to your needed size. chan has already moved on to his next victim: a oddly-shaped item that he was attempting to wrap with increasing frustration.
"why would anyone make something this shape?" his complaint is grumbled, turning the object this way and that as wrapping paper crinkles, refusing to cooperate. "it's like... a weird triangle situation."
"here," you set aside your own project and scoot a little closer. "let me help, channie"
together, you manage to wrangle the paper around the awkward angles, your fingers brushing against his as you both reach for the same piece of tape. chan's hand lingers for just a moment, warm and gentle, before pulling back with a soft smile.
"thanks. you're better at this than me."
"practice," you reply, tying a neat bow on top of the newest wrapped present. "and patience."
"two things i apparently lack," chan manages with a laugh as he stretches his arms above his head. his sweater rides up slightly, and you can’t help the way your eyes gravitate to the sliver of skni.
the next hour passes you by in comfortable companionship.
you wrap presents with practiced efficiency while chan provides running commentary on everything from the optimal bow-tying technique (which he absolutely does not possess) to whether snowflake or reindeer paper is superior (an ongoing debate).
"your bows are so perfect," chan says with a tinge of awe, watching as you created another flawless loop. "how do you do that?"
"it's all in the wrist," you demonstrate, but when chan tries to mimic your movement his ribbon ended up in a lopsided knot.
"i think my wrists are broken," the announcement is a little dramatic and it’s promptly followed by him holding up his hands like they’ve betrayed him.
you laugh, reaching over to fix his attempt in only a matter of seconds. "they're perfect wrists. the ribbon is just being difficult."
chan's expression softens at that, something fond and warm flickering across his face. "you're always so nice about my complete lack of wrapping skills."
"well, that's because watching you struggle is entertaining." you hum.
"wow, using me for entertainment. i see how it is."
"would you rather wrap presents alone?"
"absolutely not," he says immediately, giving you one of his little looks—brow raised, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“no?”
"nah, this is the best part of the holidays. just... this." he gestures vaguely at the scene around you—the mess, the music, the two of you sitting close together on the floor. there's something so sincere in his voice that it makes your chest feel warm.
"yeah," you agree softly. "it really is."
chan picks up another ribbon and winds it absent mindedly around his fingers as he studies the remaining pile of gifts. "we're making good progress though. only... what, ten more?"
"twelve," you correct, "but who's counting?"
"apparently you are," he grins. before you can respond, he loops the ribbon loosely around your wrist like a bracelet. "there. now you're festive."
you look down at the makeshift decoration. when you glance up you’re met with a pleased expression, the sight of it making that warmth in your chest expand. "very stylish, channie"
"what can i say? i'm a trendsetter," chan declares with a shrug, already reaching for more wrapping paper, completely unaware of how endearing he is in this moment—hair slightly mussed, that bright smile. you say nothing, but you have a passing thought about how he seems brighter than the lights decorating the tree tucked in the corner.
you pick up your scissors and cut another length of ribbon, content to spend the rest of the evening exactly like this.
as chan returns to wrestling with another stubborn piece of wrapping paper, you eye the spool of ribbon beside you—the same one he’d used to fashion out your bracelet.
a cruel thought pops into your head, one you can’t be blamed for. he started it, after all... right??
"hey, chan?"
"mm?"
his head raises to spare you a glance, but before he can actually take in what’s happening you’ve vut a generous length of ribbon and leaned forward, carefully wrapping it around his head so it covers his eyes like a blindfold. you tie it loosely at the back, just secure enough to stay in place.
"there," you say, fighting back a laugh. "now you're festive."
chan's hands immediately come up to touch the ribbon, his mouth falling open in surprise before dissolving into laughter. "oh my god- are you serious right now?"
"completely serious. it's a great look on you."
"i can't see anything," he states the obvious while still laughing, his fingers tracing the edge of the ribbon carefully. "this is a safety hazard. what if i cut my finger off??”
"i’m sure you'll manage, baby" you hum, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. "consider it a challenge."
chan tilts his head, the ribbon shifting slightly with the movement but his smile is still there—bright and easy. "okay, okay. you got me. very clever."
he reaches up again, presumably to remove the ribbon, but his movements are slow, a little hesitant maybe. his hands hover near the knot at the back of his head.
"should i...?" he starts, but the question fizzles out into silence.
it’s that singular moment of hesitation that causes something in the air to shift
laughter fades, replaced by something heavier, quiet but tense. you're suddenly very aware of how close you're sitting. the way chan’s next breath comes a little heavier doesn’t go unnoticed.
"you could leave it," you hear yourself say, the words coming out without you even having to think about them. "just for a minute."
with that chan's hands drop slow back to his lap. "yeah?"
"yeah."
he's still for a moment, and you watch the way his throat works as he swallows.
without his eyes visible, every other detail becomes magnified—the slight part of his lips as he exhales, the faint blush that's been there earlier now spreading down the pretty column of his neck. his broad shoulders seem to curve inward just slightly, making him appear slightly smaller despite his arguably large frame.
"this is... different." chan’s voice comes quiet, something vulnerable lingering around the edges.
"good different?"
he huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so airy. "i don't know. i just- i can't see you, but i can feel you looking at me."
"…is that okay?"
"yeah." the word comes out too quickly, almost breathless. "yeah, it's... it's fine."
without really meaning to you find yourself scooting closer, drawn in by the way chan seems to be holding himself so perfectly still. it’s almsot like he's afraid any movement may shatter whatever spell has settled over you both.
"chan," his name falls soft from your mouth and is met with his hum of acknowledgement. "you can take it off whenever you want."
his hands twitch in his lap but he doesn't move to remove the ribbon. your lips pull into something deceivingly sweat as he breathes out slow, deliberate. he says nothing, only offering you a nod in confirmation.
you take his confirmation as the unspoken permission that it is, shifting forward slow and deliberate.
watching the way chan's chest rises and falls with each breath sends a dull heat thrumming alongside the blood in your veins.
he doesn't move away—doesn't even seem like he wants to. if anything, he seems to sink back slightly, his shoulders meeting the edge of the couch cushions behind him as you close the distance between you.
"comfortable?" you ask, your voice quiet in what little space remains between you.
once again chan doesn’t offer you words—just a sound that rolls low in his throat, one he pairs with another of those single nods. his hands are grip his own thighs like he needs something to hold onto before he snaps.
you let your fingertips ghost over his knee first. it’s barely there, testing, but it still makes chan's breath hitch. he doesn’t twitch away though, and that’s all you need to keep going.
encouraged, you let your palms flatten against his thighs, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his sweats as you drag your hands upward in a slow, deliberate path that you know makes his mind go blank.
"this okay?" you murmur even though you can see the answer in the way he's gone pliant under your touch, lips parting around a shaky exhale.
"more than," chan manages, his voice rough around the edges. "you’re- yeah. keep going."
there's something intoxicating about this—about the way he's letting you set the pace, letting you explore without question or hesitation. chan doesn't usually ask for this kind of attention, rarely lets himself be the center of it, and the knowledge that he's just… giving in sends a thrill of satisfaction straight through you and pools low in your stomach.
your hands travel higher, brushing over the planes of his stomach and feeling the way his muscles tense and release instinctively under your touch. you trace the lines of his chest through his sweater, slow and intentional, before letting your fingers drift up towards his shoulders and down the length of his arms.
chan shivers, head tipping back to rest against the couch cushion.
the ribbon shifts with the movement and you can see the flutter of his eyelashes beneath it, the way he's keeping them closed even though the fabric is doing the work for him.
"you're doing so well," your hands find their way back to his chest, feeling the way his heartbeat thunders beneath your palm. "just sitting here, letting me touch you."
chan's jaw tightens, and you watch the muscles work as he clearly fights to maintain some semblance of composure. "i can-" he starts, but his voice cracks slightly before he can stop it. he has to clear his throat before he continues. "i can handle it."
"i know you can," you purr, something teasing in your tone now. "you're always so good at staying in control, aren't you channie?"
his breath stutters at that, and you feel the way his chest expands unevenly under your touch.
chan is always the one who takes charge—in the studio, with the members, with you. he's steady, reliable, the foundation everyone else builds on. but right now, with that ribbon hiding his eyes and your hands mapping the geography of his body, he looks anything but stable.
"yeah," he agrees but it comes out strained. "always."
your following hum is a thoughtful, condescending thing. letting one hand drift lower, you let your fingertips graze along the line of his waistband. chan's hips shift almost imperceptibly, but you catch the movement, the way he's already fighting against himself to not react.
"what if you didn't have to be, though? just for a little while?"
chan's lips press together and for a moment you think he might protest, might pull the ribbon off and take back the reins like he always does.
instead, you watch as his hands flex against his thighs, fingers spreading wide before curling into loose fists.
he exhales slowly through his nose before speaking, or trying to, at least.
"i don't-" he pauses, swallows hard. "i'm not used to this."
"i know, baby"
"it's not that i don't want to, i just…" another shaky breath. "it's hard to let go."
"then don't let go all at once," you say, thumb stroking small circles just above his hip bone, trying to ease the tension coiled there. "just lemme take care of you, channie. one piece at a time. yeah?"
chan makes that same sound again—something caught between agreement and surrender—and the last bit of resistance seems to bleed out of his shoulders.
he sinks further back against the couch, his thighs spreading just slightly wider, and you take that as the invitation it is.
you move to position yourself between his legs properly, your knees digging against the carpet.
from the new angle, you can see everything—the way his chest is rising and falling faster now, the muscle twitching at the side his neck, the way his hands are gripping his own thighs so hard his knuckles have gone pale.
"breathe," you remind him gently, and it takes barely a second before chans drawing in a deep breath that makes his whole body expand and release.
"there you go," you praise, not missing the way his breath catches again at the word, expression shifting into something soft and sharp all at once.
you let your hands roam more freely now, tracing the lines of his torso with increasing confidence.
when your fingers find the hem of his sweater and slip beneath it, chan makes a soft sound—barely audible but, lucky you, you're just close enough to catch it.
his skin is warm, smooth, and you feel the way his abdomen jumps under your touch.
"cold.” the word is hissed through his teeth, the muscle along jaw ticking tight.
it’s at that moment that you know without a doubt that you hwve him right where you want him.
you smile, even though he can't see it, and push his sweater up slowly, exposing more skin inch by inch. chan lifts his arms automatically when you tug at the fabric, and you pull it over his head carefully, mindful of the ribbon still tied around his eyes.
the sweater joins the wrapping paper chaos somewhere to your left.
without the barrier of clothing, chan looks even more vulnerable—bare-chested, blindfolded, whole body taut with barely restrained tension.
you can see the rise and fall of his breathing more clearly now, can see the way his nipples have already pebbling under the cool air, the faint flush that has spread down from his cheeks to his chest.
"you're so handsome, chris…" the compliment is quiet bit so, so deserved.
because fuck, just look at him.
the red dusting his skin flushes deeper. chan turns his head slightly to the side like he's trying to hide from the compliment despite having nowherr to go. "you can't even see my face right now."
his deflection only makes you laugh.
"don't need to. i can see everything else."
that pulls a new sound from him, one that’s soft, maybe a little wounded.
you watch his adam's apple bob as he swallows hard.
you lean in, letting your breath ghost over his collarbone before pressing your lips there—just once, feather-light. chan's entire body goes rigid, back arching slightly off the couch before he can catch himself. when he realizes how easily he’s bent, he tries to sink back down.
"it's fine, baby," you murmur against his skin. "you don't gotta keep still."
"i'm-" his voice cracks again, and he has to stop, has to breathe before he can even think about continuing. "i'm trying."
"trying to what?"
"not fall apart," it’s a whisper. a whisper that has something so raw, something honest and unguarded that he probably wouldn't say if he could see you looking at him.
you press another kiss to his collarbone, then another to the hollow of his throat. you can’t keep from smiling when you feel his pulse hammering under your lips. "and what if i want you to fall apart?"
chan makes a choked sound, his hands closing into fists where they now rest against the floor. "that's- that’s not fucking fair, sweetheart.”
"no?" you trace your tongue along the line of his throat, tasting salt and something uniquely him. chan can’t help the full-body shudder that runs through him in response. "seems pretty fair to me."
"you're-" he gasps when your teeth graze his skin, gentle but present. "you're evil."
"and you're being so good for me," you counter, letting your hands sooth up his sides, thumbs brushing dangerously close to his nipples. "staying right here, letting me do what ever i want."
chan's breath punches out of him, hips jerk up involuntarily before he can stop them. you can feel him now—can feel exactly how much this is affecting him, the evidence of it tenting his sweatpants, unmistakable.
"that's it," you encourage, your voice dropping lower. "you don't have to hide it, honey."
"not trying to hide," chan manages. his voice is wrecked, all pretense of control completely shattered. "can't hide anything from you anyway."
you hum in agreement and finally, finally, let your thumbs drag across his nipples.
chan's reaction is immediate and visceral—his back bows off the couch again, harsher than before. his mouth falls open around a gasp that's so nearly a moan, his whole body trembling with the effort of not completely losing it.
"fuck." he breathes out, the curse barely audible, and you feel a surge of satisfaction at breaking through that careful composure.
"sensitive?" you ask, doing it again, watching the way his chest heaves and his fingers twitch to curl in the fabric at the side of his thighs.
"yes- fuck. yeah, i—" he can't seem to finish a sentence, can't seem to do anything except react, his body portraying every thought before he can have the chance to voice it.
when you lean down to replace your thumb with your mouth, chan makes a sound you've never heard from him before—high and desperate and completely unhinged. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding on like he needs the anchor.
but the moment his fingers graze your hair, you go completely still.
then you pull back. it’s not gently, not gradual—just away.
the space you put between the two of you is immediate and no doubt jarring. chan’s chest pushes forwards to try and chase your lips, his brows pinched in something close to frustration as cold air washes over where your warm lips had been only seconds ago.
chan's hand hovers for a moment before falling back to the ground, confused, and you can see the moment uncertainty crashes over his features.
"what.." he starts, breathless and disoriented. "did i- baby, did i do something?"
you don't answer.
you don't say a word, actually—just stand up from where you've been kneeling between his legs to leave him there—blindfolded, shirtless, hands braced against the floor as his chest rises and falls with rapid, uneven breaths.
"wait, sweetheart i'm sorry, i didn't mean to-" chan's voice cracks with genuine worry now, his head turning as if trying to track your movement by sound alone. "please, i shouldn't have—"
the silence stretches.
you count the seconds—ten, fifteen, twenty—letting him sit with it, letting him feel the absence of your touch, the weight of not knowing. chan shifts on the couch, his hands flexing uselessly, his whole body tense with the effort of staying put when every instinct is probably screaming at him to fix whatever he's broken.
"i'm sorry," he says again, quieter this time, and there's something devastating in his voice that almost makes you cave. "look,i won't touch you again, i promise, just please…"
chan's head snaps toward the sound of you shifting, his lips parting around what might be relief or another apology. whatever it is, you don’t give him the chance to say anything.
"hands," you say simply, voice calm. even. it make chan freeze.
"what?"
"give me your hands. in front of you."
there's a pause—confusion flickering across his features—before he gives in, hands lifting from where they’d been sitting useless at his side until their in front of him, wrists pressed together. his fingers tremble slightly.
you have another length of ribbon in your hands. a ribbon that you wind around his wrists carefully, not tight enough to hurt but secure enough that he'll feel it, that he'll know exactly what it means.
chan's breath hitches as you tie the knot, his whole body going very, very still. "oh," he breathes out, and it sounds like an understanding than a breath. "oh."
"you don't get to touch," you say quietly, finishing the binding and letting his bound wrists fall to rest in his lap. "not unless i say so."
chan swallows hard, his throat working around the words he can't quite seem to form. when he does find it in him to speak, it’s singular and barely above a whisper.
"okay."
"okay?"
"yeah," he says, a little stronger. "yeah, i understand."
you let your fingers trail along his jaw and the tension you feel there sends another wave of bone deep satisfaction through you. how could you not get off on the way he so clearly fights to not lean into the touch?
"good boy," you muse, taking chan’s chin between your fingers and shaking him gently once. chan chokes like all the air has been punched from his lungs.
his bound hands flex in his lap, instinctively trying to reach for something—for you, probably—before he remembers the ribbon that keep him from doing so.
you can see the effort it takes, can see the way his whole body is wound tight, torn between the need to touch and the determination not to.
chan's lips part, whether to say somethiing else’s or just to breathe you aren't sure, but you don't give him the chance to do much of either.
you lean in and kiss him properly—your mouth covering his, swallowing the surprised gasp that escapes him.
for a moment chan goes completely still, shocked into stillness before he’s melting into you with a desperation that makes your heart stutter. his lips move against yours with an urgency that borders on frantic, like he's trying to pour every ounce of want into this single point of contact since it's all he's allowed.
you can feel him straining forward, trying to deepen the kiss, and you let him—just for a moment.
you let him taste you, let him chase the warmth of your mouth with his own. his bound hands lift slightly from his lap, an instinctive movement he catches and stops immediately with a frustrated sound caught in his throat.
and then you pull back.
not far—just enough to break the kiss, to leave a breath of space between your lips and his. something deep rolls in chan’s throat as he leans forwards to try and follow you. you have to press a hand to his chest to stop him.
chan's chest is heaving beneath your palm, skin warm and slightly damp with sweat. you can feel his heartbeat—rapid, uneven—hammering against your fingertips as he tries to catch his breath.
"stay still," you say while applying just enough pressure to keep him pinned back against the cushions.
"please," he breathes out, and the way his voice is frayed around each syllable makes your thighs twitch. "please, don't. i need it, baby-"
"need what, chris?"
"more," chan admits, shameless now in his wanting. "please, just need more."
you hum thoughtfully, letting your fingers trace idle patterns on his chest while he sits there blindfolded and bound, lips still parted and kiss-swollen, waiting for mercy you have little intention of granting yet. "maybe later," you hum. "if you're good."
the sound chan makes is somewhere between a whimper and a groan, his head falling back against the couch in defeat. "you're killing me."
"you'll survive," you assure him, letting your hand drift lower. it skims down his sternum. chan's breath catches, whole body tensing in anticipation.
you take your time working your way down, pressing kisses to his chest—soft ones at first, barely there, until chan is practically vibrating with need.
when you finally reach his nipple again and close your lips around it, he jerks so hard you have to brace yourself against him.
"fuck-" the word punches out of him, desperate and harsh, and his bound hands clench into fists in his lap.
you work him over slow, thorough, alternating between gentle suction and the careful graze of teeth until chan is a trembling mess beneath you. every sound he makes goes straight through you—broken gasps and bitten-off moans and your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
"please," chan it over and over again though you aren't sure he even knows what he's pleading for anymore. "fuckin’ hell, please-"
you switch to the other side, giving it the same attention, and chan's hips buck up involuntarily.
you can see how hard he is now, how his sweats have grown tight and uncomfortable. you ignore it though—focusing instead on reducing him to nothing but sensation and want.
his bound hands lift again just to hover uselessly in the air for a moment before he forces them back down, shaking his head as if silently scolding himself. "i want to touch you so badly," he draws, voice broken. "want it so bad it hurts."
"i know," you murmur, your voice soft and soothing as you let your hands drift down to his thighs. "i know you do."
chan's breath hitches at the contact, his legs tensing under your palms.
it starts slow—just gentle pressure at first, your thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of his sweatpants. the muscles beneath your hands are coiled tight with tension, and you work at them patiently, massaging in slow, deliberate strokes.
"relax," you try and coax, applying more pressure as your hands move higher up his thighs. "just feel it."
chan makes a choked sound, his legs falling open slightly under your touch.
you encourage it, your hands spreading wider, pushing his thighs apart to your liking. he doesn't resist—can't resist, really. not when every touch seems to unravel him more and more..
"that's it," you praise, watching the way his chest flutters when you graze a hand over his dick print. "so good for me."
you shift yourself lower until you can ease yourself between his knees, pressing your lips to his stomach just above the waistband of his sweatpants. chan's whole body jerks at the contact, a gasp knocking out of him.
you take your time working your way down, trailing kisses across his abdomen—soft, open-mouthed things that make him tremble.
his stomach is taut beneath your lips, all hard muscle and definition that you take a moment to appreciate, letting your tongue dip along the defined lines of his stomach
"you're so beautiful," you murmur against his skin, and chan makes a sound like he's been stabbed instead of praised.
you hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug them down. it’s not all the way, just enough to expose the dark fabric of whatever designer boxers he’s wearing today.
the evidence of his arousal is impossible to miss now, and you let your breath ghost over him through the thin material.
chan's reaction is immediate and visceral, hips jerking up and a broken moan bubbling past his lips. "oh god-"
you press your mouth to him through his boxers, wrapping your lips around the wet spot where heads been leaking a steady steam of pre. chan practically sobs. his thighs tremble on either side of you, his whole body shaking with the effort of staying still and completely falling apart.
"fuck, please sweetheart." his voice is wrecked beyond recognition now, desperate and pleading. "please, i can't- i need—"
you mouth along the length of him, letting the wet heat of your mouth seep through the fabric.
chan is incoherent above you now, just broken sounds and half-formed words, his bound hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.
you pull back just enough to hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down slowly. chan lifts his hips to help, a desperate, eager movement that makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
when you finally free him he lets out a shuddering breath, cock hard and flushed against his stomach.
"so pretty," you mutter, wrapping a hand around him as you admire. chan's whole body jerks at the contact, a broken sound escaping his throat.
you don't make him wait any longer.
without warning, you lean in and take him into your mouth properly this time, no teasing, no barriers. just wet heat and suction that has chan crying out above you.
his bound hands fly up instinctively, and before you can process it, he's maneuvered them over your head despite the ribbon binding his wrists together.
suddenly his bound hands are behind your head, fingers tangling in your hair, and he's pushing—guiding you down down down until you can feel him hitting the back of your throat.
you could stop him. should stop him, maybe. but something about the desperation in the gesture, the way he's so far gone that even being bound and blind can't keep him from seeking what he wants. needs.
you let it happen. let him push you as far as you can take him, let him use your mouth the way he so clearly needs to.
"oh fuck-" chan's voice is airy and lost as his hips starting moving in shallow thrusts. "fuck, fuck baby, you feel so good, so perfect…"
his bound hands tighten in your hair, holding you in place while he fucks into your mouth with increasing desperation. you can feel him trembling, can hear the way each of his inhales are sucked in through clamped teeth, can taste the salt of him on your tongue.
you hum around him in permission, in encouragement, and chan makes a sound like he's dying.
his movements become more erratic, bound hands pulling you down harder as he chases release with single-minded focus.
"close," he warns, voice breaking on the word. "m’ so close"
that’s all you need to know for you to hollow your cheeks and suck harder.
apparently that’s all it takes for chan too, because in the next second he’s coming down your throat with a choked cry, hands holding you in place so he can use the warmth of your mouth to ride out his high.
when he finally releases you, his hands falling limply to his side.
it’s then that you pull back to look at him, and you can honestly say that it’s the most delicious sight you’ve ever seen.
chan is slumped against the couch, chest heaving in silent gasps. his head his hanging down, chin pressed hover right above his collarbones as he tries to get a grip on himself. the ribbons still covering his eyes and binding his wrists.
he looks completely undone—lips parted, skin flushed, trembling with aftershocks.
chan makes a soft, vulnerable sound and tries to lean into you when you move to perch on his thigh. his bound hands lift to hold yhou before he remembers and stops himself. "can i-" he starts, then hesitates. "take this shit off.. please."
it’s less of an ask and more of a statement.
you reach up and carefully untie the ribbon from his wrists first, then the one covering his eyes. when he can finally see again, when his hands are finally free, chan immediately wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, burying his face in your neck.
"thank you," he whispers against your skin, and you can feel him smiling. "that was…"
"good?" you supply, running your fingers through his hair.
"understatement of the century," chan murmurs, pressing a kiss to your throat. his hands are everywhere now, making up for lost time, and you let him—let him touch and hold and ground himself in the feel of you.
you know damn well that all other presents this season will be ruined for you. because honestly, how could anything one up pulling a blindfold off your lover?
Summary: An ancient Chinese proverb suggests a theory that an invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place and circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle. But it will never break. This theory is known as the "Red String Theory".
Pairing: Jongseob x reader (established relationship)
Genre: Fluff, slice of life, Cheesy but i love cheese so
Word count: 1.3k
Authors note: this may or may not lowkey suck because when I got the idea it seemed so good but idk if it was conveyed well.... anyways wanted to write it regardless so i hope u enjoy:')
—
"Oh my God! Is this you?" Jongseob held the glossy photo up with a wide smile.
There you were, a round-cheeked baby with soapy hair sticking up every which way, sitting in a tub full of bubbles. You were mid giggle, toothless and overjoyed by whatever was happening behind the camera.
"I was adorable," you said, trying to snatch it from him.
He pulled it back, holding it closer to his face. "No, please, look at those cheeks." He tapped the photo with his fingertip, his smile overly fond. "You were the cutest baby I've ever seen. What happened?"
You smacked his arm despite your laughter. "Rude."
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding." He finally let you take it only after memorizing every detail. "You're still cute. Just less... squishy."
"Wow. Thanks."
He was already digging back through the box of old photos your parents had passed onto you, on a mission to find more adorable baby photos while you continued sorting them into different piles.
From the corner of your eye you saw the smirk creep up on his face.
"What?" you asked, immediately suspicious.
"Oh, nothing," He said smugly, holding a photo just out of your line of sight. "I've just discovered gold."
When he flipped it around you felt your soul leave your body.
You were maybe twelve or thirteen, in what could only be described as your awkward phase. The glasses you wore were far too large for your face, and your hair was choppy and uneven from the craft scissors you'd used to secretly cut it. Not to mention the graphic tee you were wearing with an image of a stylized wolf on it, for reasons you still couldn't explain.
Your eyes widened in alarm, and you lunged.
"No!"
Jongseob scrambled backward just out of reach, clutching the photo above his head safely. "Wait, wait, I need to appreciate this properly—"
"Give it to me!"
"What's with the wolf—"
"I will end you!"
He was laughing so hard he could barely keep his arm up. You launched yourself at him again, landing successfully on his lap, your knees caging his hips as you stretched upward.
His free hand wrapped around your waist to steady you all while still laughing and trying to keep the photo just out of reach.
You finally managed to snatch it from his fingers, crumpling it against your chest as you slumped against him. "This is so embarrassing."
"Well, I think it's cute. Awkward you is still you."
You rolled your eyes at him, fighting to hold back a grin. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever..."
You climbed off of his lap and settled beside him on the floor. You placed the photo in the "don't let see the light of day" pile and continued sorting in silence.
As you neared the bottom of the box, your fingers closed around a photo that made your breath hitch.
It had a small tear at the corner, the colors slightly faded, but the memory of it was vivid in your mind. You were five, sunburned and grinning, standing knee-deep in turquoise water. You smiled at the photo, your chest aching with nostalgia, as Jongseob slid behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder to peer at the photo.
"What's that from?" Jongseob asked, noticing your far away expression.
"My first real trip," you said, the words coming out quitter than you'd intended. "The first one I can actually remember, I mean."
His heart swelled at the warmth in your eye. "You look happy."
"I was," You traced the edge of the photo with your thumb, a smile tugging at your lips. "Actually, I met this kid there. We spent the whole week together, building sandcastles and collecting seashells. I was so upset when we had to leave."
"Your first vacation romance," Jongseob teased, his voice gentle.
You laughed, shaking your head. "I was convinced I was in love with him. But I was like five, so that's unlikely. But I thought about him for months afterward. I kept asking my mom if we could go back because... maybe he'd be there still waiting for me."
You felt your cheeks warm at the memory of your childhood innocence, so earnest and heartbroken over a boy whose name you couldn't even remember.
"I used to make up stories about him. That he was a prince from a faraway land, searching for his lost princess. My mom probably still has the drawings I made."
Jongseob was quiet for a moment as he took in your story. "That's really sweet."
"Embarrassing is what it is." You dropped the photo onto the pile of keepers, your gaze still lingering on it. "Anyway, ancient history."
You didn't notice Jongseob frozen behind you, a different picture from the same trip clutched in his hand.
"Wait," he said.
You turned to see him staring at the photo with an expression you couldn't read, his face paled, his fingers gripping the edges tightly.
"What's wrong?"
Slowly, he turned it toward you. His finger tapped against a figure building a sandcastle at your feet; the boy from your vacation.
You smiled and hummed, "That's him."
"No, that's me."
You blinked at him with a frown. "What?"
"That's me," he said, eyes wide with disbelief. He jabbed the photo again, more insistently. "Look. That's me. Summer 2010. Jeju Island. My family went there for a week."
Jeju Island. You hadn't even mentioned that's where your vacation had been. You stared at the photo as your heart began racing faster.
"What?" you breathed. "A-are you sure—"
"Baby, that's me!" His voice was rising, excitement bleeding through the shock. "Was your trip also on the island?"
Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You grabbed the photo from him, holding it beside his face, searching to compare their features.
The shape of their eyes. The curve of their smiles.
"Oh my God," you whispered.
"See?" Jongseob was practically shaking beside you. "See? It's me. Oh my god... We—you and me—we—"
"We met when we were kids," you finished, the words barely audible. "Jongseob, I thought about you for months. I—" Your voice broke.
"You were my first love."
You couldn't fathom it. When you first met Jongseob, the connection was immediate. You'd never felt that comfortable with someone so quickly, so understood from just moments of being in each other's presence. There was a familiarity that made you feel safe, seen. Little had you known it was because you weren't meeting for the first time, you were simply reconnecting.
"It's fate," He said it—cutting off your train of thought—like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like there was no need for any other explanation because you were simply meant to be together. "It has to be."
You were crying. You hadn't even noticed when the tears started, but they were streaming down your cheeks, and you couldn't explain the overwhelming feeling that exploded in your chest.
Jongseob reached up and brushed them away with his thumb, his hand lingering against your skin.
"Why are you crying," he murmured, his bright eyes lighting up your own. "This is a good thing. It's incredible."
"I know," you managed. "I know, I just—I love you so much."
You shook your head and then your lips were on his. His hands cupped your face, tilting your head back as his mouth pushed against yours with a desperation to pour every ounce of his feelings into it.
He pulled you back onto his lap as everything but the warmth of his lips melted away.
"Meant to be," he murmured into the kiss. "You and me. We were always meant to be."
You sighed against his lips as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until he made a sound low in his throat that sent warmth cascading down your spine.
You pulled back with a smile, nuzzling against his chest as you held the photo out between you. He kissed your forehead then wrapped his arms around you, tucking you against him like you—and this moment—were the most precious of all the memories scattered across the floor.
Summary: You and Chan may have gotten away with sneaking off for a dangerous quickie in the kitchen—but you definitely didn’t get away with it quietly. When you return to a suspiciously quiet living room full of your friends, all eyes are on you. Spoiler alert: everyone knows. And Chan? He’s not shy about claiming what’s his.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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Weeks Later…
You still crashed at Chan’s. Still wore his shirts. Still stole his hoodies and helped him fold laundry on Sundays. He still touched you—more now, and far less innocently. His hand around your throat in the hallway, your legs over his shoulders in the shower, his voice wrecked in your ear when he whispered mine.
But when the sun was up and your friends were around, it was like nothing had changed.
Because neither of you had said anything.
Because technically, you weren’t… anything.
Just best friends who sometimes fucked each other dumb.
So, you didn’t overthink it when Jisung plopped down beside you at Chan’s house one night, slinging an arm over your shoulders like he always did.
You were curled up on the couch—legs stretched out over Jisung’s lap like you had no idea what your body was doing.
Which, of course, you did.
But it was harmless, right?
You and Ji had always been like this. Teasing. Playful. His hand on your calf, your fingers brushing the back of his neck when you leaned over to whisper something about the movie’s terrible dialogue. Laughing when he joked about running away with you if your dream man didn’t show up by thirty.
And Chan?
Chan was seated on the opposite side of the room, beer in hand, back slouched against the armrest of his own damn couch like he was trying not to break the bottle between his fingers.
You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Jisung casually reached to tug at a string on your hoodie.
You didn’t see how hard he gripped the cushion when you threw your head back laughing, swatting Jisung’s chest when he made some inappropriate quip about how “you were looking dangerously inviting tonight.”
But Binnie did.
Binnie was seated closest to Chan, and the energy was radiating. Like a storm behind a dam.
He peeked between Chan and you—then leaned closer, nudging Chan’s shoulder, voice low.
“You good?”
Chan didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on your face like a warning. Or a dare.
“Dude,” Binnie tried again. “You’re gonna snap that bottle.”
Then Jisung did it.
He leaned in, finger trailing your thigh playfully before he whispered something that made you laugh loud enough to turn heads.
That was it.
Chan’s jaw flexed.
When Jisung nudged your side and joked, “Damn, you’re really sweet today—what’d I do to deserve this kind of attention?” you laughed along, but something tensed inside you.
Because Chan was still watching. Still unsuccessfully pretending not to be bothered.
And when your gaze flicked to him—when your eyes met his—you saw it.
The jealousy.
The storm.
And something else.
Something ugly.
You didn’t get to think about it too long because the moment Jisung leaned a little closer to whisper something dumb in your ear, Chan’s voice sliced across the room.
“Yo, you good, Ji?”
You both looked up.
Jisung blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”
Chan’s smile was all teeth. “Cool. Then take your fucking arm off her.”
The room froze.
It wasn’t loud. But it hit like a slap.
You blinked.
Jisung’s arm dropped instantly. “Whoa. Chill, bro.”
Chan didn’t answer. Just turned and walked off—shoulders tense, hands shoved in his pockets.
You stood up.
Followed him down the hall.
Found him in the kitchen, staring out the window, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep from exploding.
“Chan…”
He didn’t turn around. “What?”
“What the hell was that?”
“What was that?” He finally turned. “You were all over him.”
You folded your arms. “We always joke like that.”
“Not like that.”
“Are you seriously jealous right now?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped, voice tight. “Am I allowed to be?”
That shut you up.
Because no. Not officially.
You weren’t his.
Not on paper.
But in every other way?
He was yours.
And you were his.
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You sleep in my bed. You moan my name. You suck my dick like you were born for it—and then I have to stand there and watch you flirt with someone else like I’m not in the room?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
He reached for you—gripped your waist like he needed to remind himself you were real.
“I am jealous,” he said quietly. “I’m fucking jealous. And I don’t even know if I have the right to be. Because we never said what this is.”
You looked up at him—heart in your throat.
“I don’t want you touching anyone else,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone else touching you. And I know that makes me sound like a possessive prick but—”
“Good,” you said, cutting him off.
His brow furrowed. “Good?”
You nodded slowly. “Because I don’t want anyone else but you.”
He stared at you.
And then? He kissed you.
Right there. In the kitchen. With his hand wrapped tight in your shirt and his mouth hot and desperate over yours like he couldn’t take one more second of uncertainty.
He kissed you like a man unhinged.
Hands fisting your shirt, mouth clashing with yours, dragging you backward until your hips bumped the edge of the counter. His tongue was deep, claiming, and when your fingers slipped into his hair—tugging hard—he moaned against your lips like he needed the pain.
“Mine,” he whispered into your mouth. “I don’t care if it’s selfish. I don’t care if it’s messy. I need you to be mine.”
You gasped as he lifted you—effortless—hoisting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing. The red solo cup tipped and spilled behind him. Neither of you noticed.
Your legs parted automatically. His hips slotted between them, his hands sliding down your back to pull you close, his forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to anchor himself.
“I can’t watch it again,” he panted. “You touching someone else. Laughing with them like that. Even if it means nothing—you mean everything to me.”
Your chest clenched.
And maybe it was the tension of weeks you’d danced around. Maybe it was the feel of his hands gripping your ass. Maybe it was just finally hearing the truth—his truth—but something in you broke open.
You cupped his cheeks. “Then say it.”
He blinked, breath catching.
“Say you want me. Say this is more than just sex.”
“I do,” he said immediately. “Fuck—I do. It was never just sex for me. You think I let anyone else sleep in my bed? Wear my clothes? Use my toothbrush like it’s nothing?”
You grinned. “Okay, that one’s still a little gross.”
He groaned, laughing against your throat before nipping it. “You know what I mean.”
You nodded, fingers stroking his hair, lips brushing his temple.
Then—because you couldn’t help it—you whispered, “You were kinda hot when you got mad.”
He froze.
You smirked.
“Don’t give me that look, Chris. You stormed off like a jealous ex and then growled at Ji like a possessive boyfriend. I was, like… kinda turned on.”
His head dropped to your shoulder with a wrecked groan. “You’re evil.”
You laughed—and then gasped when his hand slid under your thigh, gripping hard.
“You like testing me, huh?”
You shrugged. “You’re cute when you pout.”
He looked up, eyes gleaming. “And what am I when I fuck you into the kitchen counter so everyone knows you’re mine?”
Your breath hitched. “Dangerous… but you wouldn’t”
He licked into your mouth again—slow, deep, deliberate.
“Then don’t test me again,” he warned. “Because next time? I’ll bend you over right in front of them.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You wouldn’t.”
His voice was a growl. “Try me.”
You bit your lip.
And in that moment—your legs wrapped around his waist, his hair tangled between your fingers, the sound of your friends laughing faintly down the hall—you realized something:
You didn’t need a label. You had him.
His body. His voice. His possessiveness. His softness. His broken jealousy. His perfect rage.
And he had you.
All of you.
Even the bratty parts you hid from everyone else.
Especially those.
Which is why the kiss should’ve ended there.
It should’ve been the resolution, the wrap-up to a long overdue conversation—but when your back hit the fridge and his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth, you knew.
It wasn’t over.
Not even close.
His hands were wild, greedy. One on your waist, the other slipping under the hem of your skirt with a low groan like he couldn’t wait another second.
You gasped into his mouth, instinctively glancing toward the hallway—but Chan didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just mouthed hotly down your jaw as he muttered, “Be quiet for me, baby… You can do that, yeah?”
You nodded, already breathless.
He kissed you again—rough, possessive—and the next thing you felt was your panties snapping at the sides. The elastic gave way with a soft pop, fabric torn and tugged from between your legs so fast it made your knees buckle.
Your gasp was sharp.
“Shhh,” he whispered, holding you steady, already stuffing the torn panties into his hoodie pocket like a prize. “Be a good girl now.”
You whimpered.
He turned you around.
Hands flat on the counter, chest pressed to the cool marble as he shoved your skirt up and dragged his fingers between your thighs.
“Still so wet,” he groaned. “You fucking like this. You like knowing they’re all out there—thinking you’re so innocent.”
His fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing.
You bit down hard on your fist.
He lined up behind you—cock already out, flushed and heavy against your ass—and the second he pushed in, slow but deep, your mouth dropped open in a silent scream.
You clawed at the counter, legs shaking.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “This pussy…”
You tried to move—anything to brace yourself—but he clamped one hand over your mouth and gripped your hip with the other, pulling you back into every thrust.
“Don’t make a sound,” he breathed into your ear. “Not one fucking sound.”
It was brutal.
He was brutal.
Thrusting hard enough to jolt the counter, angled so deep you saw stars. Your body rocked with every snap of his hips, and the stretch burned in the best way, overwhelming and messy and silent only because you had to be.
“Should’ve fucked you like this the second you walked in tonight,” he growled. “Skirt all cute, acting like you wouldn’t be under me by the end of the night.”
You moaned against his palm.
He leaned closer, biting your ear. “You know who you belong to, right?”
You nodded frantically.
“Say it.”
He pulled his hand away for just a second, and you gasped, “Yours. Always yours.”
That was it.
He snapped.
One arm locked around your waist, the other clamped over your mouth again as he pounded into you like he needed to mark you from the inside out. The sounds of your skin slapping echoed far too loud in the kitchen—anyone could walk in, but neither of you could stop.
His breath was ragged against your neck, hips stuttering.
“Gonna come,” he warned, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Where do you want it, baby?”
You tried to answer—but all that came out was a broken, needy cry into his hand.
And then he buried himself one last time—deep, full, pulsing.
You felt it all.
Every twitch. Every drop.
His forehead dropped to your back, his entire body trembling.
And when he finally pulled out, panting, sweat-drenched, and completely wrecked?
He kissed the back of your neck. Still holding your ruined panties in his pocket.
—
You tried to fix your hair in the hallway mirror.
Chan didn’t even try to hide the smirk on his face as he tugged his hoodie back over his head, still smug with your ruined thong tucked in his pocket and your lipstick barely smudged off his throat. You were still catching your breath, still trying to remember how to walk, when he reached for the door to the living room.
“Act natural,” you whispered.
He snorted. “You just screamed into my hand like a porn star in my kitchen and now you want natural?”
You slapped his chest. “Shut up—just… act like we weren’t gone that long.”
You stepped in first.
The living room was too quiet.
Way too quiet.
Your eyes bounced from person to person—every single one of your friends was staring at you. The TV was on, but the volume was muted. The speakers were dead silent. Drinks half-lifted, conversations paused.
All of them watching.
You blinked.
Chan stepped in behind you, and the second the door clicked shut, a low wolf whistle cut through the silence.
“That was so fucking hot,” Jisung said.
“That was so fucking hot,” Hyunjin echoed at the same time.
Both of them turned to each other in shock. “Jinx,” they said in unison, then burst into laughter.
And just like that?
The room exploded.
“Oh my god—were you guys actually—”
“In the kitchen?”
“Bitch, we were out here!”
“Did you break anything?”
“I KNEW IT—I TOLD YOU THEY WERE FUCKING!”
“Wait, wait—back it up!” Jisung shouted, standing on the couch like a referee. “You left here acting like you were about to throw hands—how did it go from ‘we’re just best friends’ to raw-dogging next to the spice rack?”
The noise was chaos.
Everyone talking at once.
Seungmin was already miming pelvic thrusts. Someone else yelled “PLOT TWIST!” like they were live-tweeting it. Your face was on fire, and Chan?
Chan was thriving.
He let the chaos rise for a beat, then casually slid his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side like he’d done it a million times. His fingers curled possessively at your hip.
“Well,” he said, smirking at the group. “I don’t think I need more explanations, do I?”
The room erupted.
You covered your face with your hands, groaning, and Chan just laughed, tugging you closer, letting everyone else lose their minds while he leaned in and whispered, “You’re never living this down.”
You peeked at him from between your fingers. “Neither are you.”
“Good,” he murmured, voice low and cocky. “Let ‘em talk.”
He kissed your temple.
And just like that?
You weren’t hiding anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: There we have it!! Part two! Its short but i had to deliver since alot of you asked for it! Thanks for all the encouragement really, you guys are the best!
Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension
Word count : 9.6k
Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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There was no knock. There never was.
Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.
You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”
He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”
“You don’t know my life.”
“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”
You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”
He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”
Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.
Normal.
You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.
This was just how it had always been.
People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.
Not even close.
You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.
Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”
You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”
“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”
“You’re so unserious.”
“I’m efficient.”
You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”
He grinned. “Always.”
He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.
And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.
⸻
Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.
Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.
You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.
You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.
Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.
“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”
“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”
Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.
Then you felt it.
One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.
His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.
Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.
His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.
“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”
He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.
You didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?
You were choking.
Silently. Violently.
He had no idea.
He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.
But this?
This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.
The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.
You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.
“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”
You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.
Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.
Like it meant nothing.
And to him, it probably didn’t.
But to you?
You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.
⸻
The door shut with a final click.
Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.
Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”
You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”
He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”
You hesitated, but only for a beat.
This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.
So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.
At first, it was nothing.
Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.
“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”
“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”
You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.
Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.
It felt too good. Way too good.
But it was still safe.
Until his hands shifted.
Slid higher.
Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.
Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.
A sound left you.
High-pitched. Sharp.
Needy.
You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.
Chan stilled.
You didn’t breathe.
Then—
“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.
You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.
“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”
He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.
His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.
You were still. Too still.
“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”
You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”
His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.
You couldn’t look back at him.
Not yet.
Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…
Or if he definitely did.
You hadn’t mentioned it.
Neither had he.
Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.
If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.
“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.
He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”
And that was that.
Or so you thought.
—
The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.
“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.
“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”
You rolled your eyes, grinning.
It was easy again. Like nothing happened.
Until it wasn’t.
He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.
“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”
You glanced at him. “What?”
He didn’t speak right away.
Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.
Then he looked at you. Really looked.
“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”
Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.
You played dumb. “What sound?”
Chan tilted his head, amused.
“Don’t do that.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.
He followed. One step. Two.
“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”
Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”
“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”
You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”
“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”
You froze.
He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.
Your voice came out small. “So?”
“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”
Silence.
Heavy. Awkward. Charged.
You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Chan stepped a little closer.
You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.
He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.
Just… observing.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”
Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.
“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”
Your breath hitched.
He wasn’t teasing anymore.
He wasn’t joking.
You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.
And something else you couldn’t name yet.
You looked away.
“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”
He smirked. “So that’s a no?”
“That’s a goodnight.”
You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.
And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.
The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.
You felt it.
That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?
He had a thread.
And he was pulling it.
“Wait,” he said, quiet.
You kept walking.
“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”
The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.
Your breath hitched.
Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.
“Chan—”
He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.
Your breath caught.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”
You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.
“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.
“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”
You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.
“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”
His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.
You stopped breathing.
His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.
Then— He wrapped.
Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.
Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.
Everything in you went still.
Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.
Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”
You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”
His hand didn’t move.
“Then what’s it like?”
You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.
“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”
You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.
He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.
“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”
“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.
He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.
His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.
But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.
“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”
You blinked.
Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”
He glanced back with a smirk.
“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”
⸻
Dinner was a blur.
You barely tasted anything.
Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.
You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.
He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.
Not with intent.
Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.
You poked at your own noodles.
“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.
Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.
“Talk about what?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”
A beat of silence.
Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”
You stared at him.
Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.
And suddenly?
You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.
“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”
The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.
“…Now?”
You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”
Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”
His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.
You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”
“I know.”
“We said we wouldn’t.”
“I remember.”
“So why now?”
Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”
You flushed.
“Curious about what?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”
A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.
You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”
Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”
“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”
“I’m still your best friend.”
“And we don’t talk about sex.”
“We do now.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.
You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”
Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”
You blinked. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “Dead serious.”
You hesitated.
Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”
A pause.
Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”
“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”
His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”
You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”
He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”
Your thighs pressed together under the table.
You looked away. “You go. Say something.”
He was quiet for a second.
Then—casually—“I like brats.”
You choked.
“Excuse me?”
Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”
“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”
He laughed, head tipping back.
But the tension didn’t ease.
If anything—it twisted tighter.
You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”
He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”
You paused. “…Both?”
Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Another silence.
He watched you. “You like intense?”
You looked up.
His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.
You whispered, “Yeah.”
He stood.
You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.
Your breath caught.
“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”
“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”
His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.
“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”
His hand dipped.
Neck again.
Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.
And this time?
You didn’t pretend.
You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.
“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”
You should’ve walked away.
Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.
But you didn’t.
You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.
Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.
His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.
Not rough.
Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?
And God… you did.
“You’re really into this,” he murmured.
You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
He hummed.
Then leaned closer.
“But you’ve imagined it.”
You stiffened.
He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”
You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”
He pulled back.
Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.
“What?”
“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”
“I wasn’t being bratty.”
“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”
He let go.
The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.
Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.
Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.
You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”
Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”
Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”
“That I’ve been missing out.”
You blinked. “Missing out on what?”
He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”
Your heart thumped.
“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious.”
He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”
You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”
“Then what about Hyunjin?”
“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”
Chan laughed.
You didn’t.
“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”
You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”
“I know.”
“I just thought it’d be… weird.”
Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”
“You’re not freaked out?”
“Nope.”
You hesitated. “So what now?”
He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.
He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.
And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.
He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.
His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.
He traced.
Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.
You held perfectly still.
“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters now.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.
“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”
Your legs weakened.
Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.
He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”
You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”
“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”
“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.
That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.
“There she is.”
“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.
“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”
You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”
“Swear.”
You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”
Chan’s eyes darkened.
“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”
You blinked. “Your turn.”
He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.
Then leaned forward and said—
“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”
You froze.
“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”
Your breath hitched.
“Too much?” he asked, smiling.
You didn’t answer.
Because truthfully?
You didn’t know if it was.
You weren’t sure what had shifted.
The air, maybe.
Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.
But Chan didn’t back down.
He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.
“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”
You swallowed. “Me neither.”
“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”
“And now?”
His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.
“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”
You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.
He felt it.
His thumbs stilled.
“That bother you?” he asked softly.
You shook your head before you could stop yourself.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”
“I don’t know,” you breathed.
“Hmm.”
He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.
“Do you like when I talk like that?”
You hesitated.
Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”
Your lips parted, no sound coming out.
He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”
You flushed.
He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.
“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.
“What side?”
He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”
You shivered.
He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”
“I’m not quiet.”
“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”
He leaned in again.
Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.
“You always give this much control without realizing it?”
Your mouth went dry.
“I’m not—” you started.
But he shook his head.
“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
You were wet.
God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.
He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.
And that’s when you felt it.
Hard. Heavy.
Brushing your inner thigh.
Your breath stilled.
Chan didn’t move.
His lips quirked—just barely.
And that’s when you knew.
He felt it too.
Still, he played innocent.
“Something wrong?”
Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”
“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”
You blinked.
“No.”
“Because you’re hot?”
You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”
That made him pause.
“How?”
“You’ve never… acted like this.”
He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”
You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”
“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”
You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.
And still, you didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t say a word.
His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”
You nodded without thinking.
Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”
Your lips parted, breath catching.
“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”
He smirked, voice dipping lower.
“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”
You gasped again, this time audible.
He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.
And then—God help you—he moved just a little.
A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.
Just enough to feel how warm you were.
How ready.
Your jaw clenched.
Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.
And that was his breaking point.
Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.
Not squeezing. Not dominating.
Feeling.
Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.
You swallowed. “Then show me.”
His eyes snapped back to yours.
Dark.
Ravenous.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Didn’t push further.
Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”
That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.
But then his head dipped lower.
And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.
You jolted.
He smiled against you.
“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.
And then he bit you.
Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.
A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.
High. Desperate.
Sinful.
“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.
But he heard it.
God, he heard everything.
His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”
Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.
He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.
And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.
“…Chan.”
His name, like a prayer.
Choked. Shaken.
Raw.
He stilled.
Completely.
You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.
“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.
Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.
You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”
He shook his head once. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“My name.”
You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.
And that was it.
That broke him.
Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.
Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.
Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.
Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.
And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?
It shattered him.
Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.
You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.
“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
But you did.
You knew now.
And worse? You loved it.
You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.
Loud. Guttural.
You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.
And he didn’t even try to hide it.
His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.
Just holding.
Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.
“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”
You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.
Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.
“Not anymore.”
That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.
Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.
This wasn’t affection.
This was possession.
He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.
His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.
And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.
His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.
You could feel how hard he was.
And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.
He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”
“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.
His eyes flashed.
“Say less.”
His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.
Because you were soaked.
Dripping.
His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.
You gasped. Shuddered.
Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”
You whimpered.
His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.
You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.
“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”
You swallowed, chest heaving.
You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.
Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.
And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:
You were gone.
Undone. Open.
And he loved it.
His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.
You cried out, knees trembling.
He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.
“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”
You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”
He smirked.
And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.
You screamed.
Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.
He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.
“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”
You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”
You shook your head, biting your fist.
He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”
You moaned louder—desperate.
And then he stopped.
Just like that.
Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.
You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.
“What—?”
He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”
You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.
He kissed you again, rougher this time.
And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.
You stared.
You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?
This was feral.
Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.
“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.
You couldn’t even speak.
Just nodded.
Because the fire had already started, and now?
You wanted to burn.
You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.
He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.
His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”
You nodded again, swallowing hard.
He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.
“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”
And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.
“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”
Chan paused.
Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.
Bratty.
His brows lifted. “Oh?”
You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”
Chan blinked slowly.
Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.
“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”
You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.
“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”
He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”
You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”
And that was it.
That was all it took.
He snapped.
His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.
You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.
“Fuck—”
“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.
You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.
You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.
You weren’t used to being his.
Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.
Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”
You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”
He pulled out halfway.
“Say it right.”
“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.
He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.
“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”
“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”
He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”
And when you clenched around him at those words?
He lost it.
His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.
“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.
You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”
He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”
He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.
“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”
Your pride screamed no.
But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.
You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:
“Make me.”
Chan’s eyes blazed.
“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”
And from the way your legs shook?
You knew he already was.
You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.
Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.
But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.
He hadn’t stopped moving.
And he hadn’t stopped talking.
“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”
You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”
“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”
You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.
And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.
You damn near sobbed.
“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”
You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.
“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.
Chan stopped moving.
Dead still.
And grinned.
“Oh, baby girl.”
And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.
His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.
“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.
You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.
And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.
“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”
You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”
So he pulled out, flipped you again.
“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.
He didn’t move.
Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.
“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.
You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.
“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”
He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.
“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”
You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.
But you nodded.
You were gone.
Gone for him.
He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.
And then?
He moved you again.
He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.
Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.
And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.
“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”
You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”
He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.
“Come for me.”
And this time?
You did.
With a scream that could’ve broken glass.
Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.
Chan didn’t stop.
He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.
“Fucking—shit—”
You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.
And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.
“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”
Chan huffed against your cheek.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”
—-
Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.
You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.
Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.
The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.
He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.
The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.
Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.
“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.
You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”
He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”
But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And maybe that’s why you did it.
Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.
Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.
Why your lips didn’t stop there.
Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.
Not like this. Not yours.
He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.
You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.
“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”
You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.
“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”
His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.
You kissed lower.
And lower.
And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.
He groaned.
“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”
You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.
“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.
His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”
You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.
“I don’t have a gag reflex.”
Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.
“Jesus Christ.”
And then you took him in.
All of him.
Slow. Deep. Deliberate.
His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.
“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.
You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.
He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.
“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”
You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.
Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.
“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”
You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.
And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.
Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.
He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.
When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.
Chan stared.
Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”
You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”
He groaned, forehead against yours.
“We’re not sleeping tonight.”
And you knew he meant it.
—
The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.
You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.
Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.
A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.
“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.
You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”
He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.
He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.
You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”
Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”
“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”
His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”
You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.
“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”
You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”
Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”
You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”
“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”
His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.
Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”
“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”
You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”
His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.
“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”
“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.
He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”
You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”
“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”
You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”
Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.
“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”
Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”
He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.
“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”
He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.
“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”
And just like that, you knew.
You’d opened Pandora’s box.
And Chan had no plans to close it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!
Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!
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