chan’s hips have been snapping against yours for the latter half of the hour tonight. really, you shouldn’t have done what you did. it was a quick, off handed, self deprecating remark about yourself, and just like that, chan had enough.
he was already feeling on edge from the studio. and now he felt like he failed you to not reassure you enough. that’s how you got yourself here.
you can’t apologize. not because you’re being a brat or doing anything on purpose, but rather because chan has you laid prone on your stomach as his hips feverishly snap against your ass. making it quite literally impossible to reply outside of breathy moans being punched from your lungs. repeated motions that have had you crying into the pillow your face is sunken into.
“c’mon baby, you can do it… say “i’m sorry channie”… f-fuckin’ hell!”
chan’s body slowly comes down onto yours, his chest flush against your back as his arms ensnare around your shoulder. his head drops to the back of yours, his voice a low rasp of heavy breathing. his hips slow to grind against the plush of your ass, rocking and rutting into the wetness of your arousal. his panting turns into a low growl at your refusal.
“pretty girl… sweet baby, say it. say it and i’ll make you cum so good.”
meanwhile, you’re just a mess under him. head turned slightly as his bicep wraps under your chin, hands clawing at his strong arms. eyes bleary and wet with tears from how good it feels every time he quickly bottoms out and fills you so right. the sounds are obscene, salacious squelches as he drags every drop out of you. and you’ll do just the same to him if you keep fluttering around him like that.
“‘m s-sorry, cha— haah— channie! it feels so good, so good, please don’t stop!”
chan smiles to himself as he drags out a moan from his chest, laughing in a way that pinches off at the end in a high whine. his brows furrow and eyes close, slowing his movement down to fuck himself deeper.
“that wasn’t so h-hard now, was it, pretty thing…?” chan’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip to catch himself from drooling down your back. his hands pin your lower back down to the bed, forcing a nasty arch that makes you sob in equal parts relief and overstimulation.
“who’s my good girl, yeah? is that you? am i fucking my good girl stupid right now? huh? m-my beautiful good girl…”
chan’s sentences are punctuated with deep strokes, feeling his pelvis thrust and rock against you in languid motions. his words are overwhelming but that’s what he wants. you were just being so mean to the woman he loves, which is you.
“are you going to keep fighting with yourself or let me fuck you good, gorgeous?” chan heaves out, his chest pressing against your shoulder blades as he kisses into your hair. he ducks his head to lick a stripe up your spine to your neck, and chuckles a moan when he feels how squirmy and whiny you get. your moans are almost sobs from how his plush mushroom tip is kissing against that sensitive spot inside.
“sweetheart,” he drawls out, almost in a singsong voice. “you’re so… very precious… perfect girl, yeah? thank you f-for— fuck— sharing this perfect body.”
those deep strokes are reciprocated with your pussy squeezing him so tight chan swears he might be able to taste the stars. and because chan knows how to elevate your orgasm…
“sh-shit baby, breathe… breathe, just breathe, let it happen babygirl—”
a few inhales and exhales, and chan is wrapping that bicep around to grab your face. he loves that teary look in your eyes, like it feels too good to do anything but cry. your pussy is clenching on him like a vice, the sweet slapping and mixing of fluids…
he can’t help it, chan brings his lips hovering over yours, whispering, “i love you, sweetheart… cum for me.”
there’s a ringing in your ears when it happens, the churning of the knot builds so quick, you don’t even have time to think. chan’s groan bleeds into a whimper the second he feels your tight cunt shudder with shocks, milking him and causing his own release. the hiccuped sobs of moans you release have him praying the walls are thick enough to hide from neighbors. chan wants them all to himself.
he presses as deep as he can to flood you with hot cum, kissing all over your face from tears. your skin is tacky with sweat and stunning in the afterglow. chan runs his hands over your sweat slicked forehead, pushing back anything still sticking to you.
“don’t ever say that stuff again, baby… yeah…? you did such a good job, sweetheart… such a perfect and sweet girl…”
chan smacks a kiss to your temple, laying his weight down on your back. your eyes are already drooping from contentedness while he traces patterns onto your hip. his initials. little hearts. swirls that never end.
“i’m here to protect you from all of that… always.”
—
author's note: well… this is unexpected! thank you for 900 followers i love you guys so much :’) final exams are biting my ass right now
you tell a skinny person that fat people get bodyshamed and they conjure up this fantasy world where everybody around them is an eighteenth century vaguely european grandmother telling them they need to put some meat on their bones or they won't survive the winter
hyunjin x reader. f2l. (un)requited love. angry love confession, nye’s setting and a pinch (or three) of angst because well it’s me!!!!!! also hyunjin is down bad as he should be! bring back men that YEARN! 🔥
a.n: i haven’t written anything in an eternity so this is rusty and not much. but i rlly rlly wanted to post still. i really am trying to be back so please leave me your thoughts because that’s the biggest motivation ever. i love you guys. thank you to those of you who waited ❣️also thank YOU to @hwajin FOR GIVING ME THIS IDEA,,,, U ALREADY KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE U!!!!!!!!!!
the lights are dim.
dim enough for hyunjin not to recognize the blur of people passing by after his sixth shot into the night. he isn’t a heavy drinker, usually. but it’s new year’s eve—the marker of a new year and the closing of one already slipping away. hyunjin has never dealt well with the passage of time. nostalgia always finds him when the clock strikes midnight, fingers tightening around his throat like thorny vines.
it doesn’t help that he struggles to remember the details of his days– hours melding into one another like abstract paintstrokes. and that is precisely why he writes—everything, every small and mundane moment. they’re all pressed between the pages of his leather notebook. every word a screaming proof that he was here, that he existed.
hyunjin has commemorated two hundred and eighty-five additional days in the passing year. and somehow, in all of them, he found something to write about you.
the lights are dim, and hyunjin is tipsy now, swaying gently with the music as he leans against the kitchen counter. his white shirt hangs open at the collar, his cross necklace an oasis against his burning skin. sweat beads roll down his temple, heat pooling in his chest before spilling everywhere at once. he’s sure jisung has the heater turned up too high in his tiny apartment. or maybe it’s the rush of blood that swells at the mere symphony of you. maybe it’s his heart thudding to the memory of your perfume—the nerves, the damp palms that only ever betray him when you’re near.
and you are always near.
near, but never close. unattainable—like a mirage to a parched man, there only to taunt him, to remind him of what he craves and cannot have. you are hyunjin’s friend, but he wants more. no, needs more. no, yearns, dies, and is reborn for more.
the lights are dim, but somehow he can still see you. your silhouette, your shadow stretched against the white walls. the curve of your body, silk fabric moving like water when you walk. gold necklaces resting against your skin, fingers curling around the rim of your glass, eyeshadow glittering like scattered stars.
you’re here, yes, but you’re not looking at him. you’re smiling at jeongin instead, your hand dangerously close to his. hyunjin likes jeongin, he does, but the sight of him beside you feels like a knife lodged deep in the hollows of his ribs.
“come on, we’re playing truth and dare.”
hyunjin doesn’t know who grabs his hand, who pushes him into a makeshift circle on the floor. he scrunches his brows, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to quiet the buzzing in his head. an impossible task, it seems, that is until he opens his eyes and he finds you right across from him.
everything goes quiet for a moment.
you hold his gaze as you adjust your legs, draping someone’s sweater over your lap. you smile softly, saccharine, almost imperceptible, like a shared secret between the both of you. then you blink away, and the moment is gone, yet seared into hyunjin’s very atoms. he feels it then, the sudden, overwhelming urge to sob at your feet—to beg for a few seconds more. a minute, if he’s allowed to be greedy. just a little longer of you looking at him.
hyunjin doesn’t pay attention to who the bottle lands on. he sees from the side of his eye a blur of people laughing, then kissing, someone taking off their shirt, hollers and whistles at questions too outrageous if not for the alcohol streaming through everyone’s bloodstream. he cracks a smile here and then, half-heartedly laughs at jisung’s raunchy comment, but that is all he can muster in his state. not because he’s tipsy, drunk rather, but because his heart is bleeding, staining the eggshell tiles with a crimson that cannot be scrubbed away. and no one seems to notice.
then, the bottle lands on you.
and a millisecond later, it finds him.
hyunjin feels like he’s been electrocuted– jolted awake by a force grander than life. you meet his eyes and the noise of the room zeroes down to one sound– the air sucked away from his chest, the slight exhale you release in tandem.
fuck.
“kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!”
hyunjin moves on autopilot, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the closest empty room. he can hear screams trailing behind him, but he pays them no mind. you don’t seem to protest either, your hand never wilting in his.
“it’s quieter here,” he says as he closes the door.
“they’re childish,” you chuckle lowly, and he nods.
“yeah, it’s a stupid game.”
stupid. so stupid. because now, all hyunjin can think of is your lips on his, you inhaling his soul with every kiss, shattering his heart and stitching it all over again. pulling away only to meet, again, and again, and again, until he learns your taste, memorizes the sound of your breaths and their cadence.
stupid. stupid. stupid.
“what are you thinking of?” you ask, giggling slightly.
he’s too dumbfounded to respond. too drunk for this. he shouldn’t have had that last shot, or the three ones that preceded it. maybe then he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself in front of you. maybe then, he’d be able to tell you that he has fantasized about kissing you for months on end. of holding your hands. of painting you. of taking walks with you. and living. he has fantasized a lot about finally living, with you. for you.
his lips part to speak, yet close again. he moves one foot towards you, then backs up against the door. he’s hesitant, his hands are itching, his vocal cords unfolding and tightening to the shape of your name.
“you know, we don’t have to do this.” you suddenly say. your voice is high-pitched, and your next words come out in a sped-up manner, as if someone is chasing after you and you’re trying to run away.
from him, perhaps.
“here,” you hastily run your hands through his hair, ruffling his blonde strands. he’s motionless as your thumb smudges your ruby lipstick, then trails over the corner of his mouth. “it looks like we kissed, right? this will save us the teasing! ready to go?” you say, too hurried to even wait for his answer.
and then you leave.
the room is suddenly freezing. he should ask jisung to turn up the heater.
hyunjin has loved you the moment he saw you, exactly a year ago. it wasn’t love, per se. but his soul had recognized you. a blind man seeing the light for the first time, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon– a succession of irreversible acts, ones that time cannot take back, cannot erode. he has known you and he couldn't possibly go back to a world where he hasn’t.
he couldn’t understand your reaction, as he stood before the door left ajar, waiting for him to follow. did you hate the thought of kissing him so much? did you want to kiss someone else? were you cursed? like the ebb and flow of the sea, the rise and setting of the sun, the sea and sky, to exist so painstakingly close yet never meet as one.
the ensuing hour passes through hyunjin in silence. his mind is a raging battlefield, every thought of you akin to stepping on an unsuspecting mine. Midnight strikes then, and along it, his death, pronounced by your lips and jeongin’s moving against one another.
you’re kissing jeongin. or he is kissing you. he doesn’t know, doesn’t dare to think of it for a minute more. it’s a short kiss. it did not last for more than three seconds. but it was three seconds too long, enough to strip hyunjin from the very act of breathing, for his being to be held up not by a spine but a blazing fire.
perhaps he looks as distraught as he feels because when your eyes meet his, your eyebrows scrunch in worry. and you look so beautiful, as your eyes soften, as the light catches against your pupils. he’s jealous of it, jealous of whatever reflects upon you, touches you, becomes one with you. he’s jealous as you pull away from jeongin. he’s jealous as you step towards him and he retracts back– as if in a dance where the only outcome is you him away from you.
it’s too much.
hyunjin finds himself outside in a shirt that is too thin and dread coiled at the pit of his stomach. he wishes to run away from this feverish skin that has entrapped him, from this heart that has turned you into a home and refuses to vacate.
“hyunjin!” you shout, and he freezes in place, unaware of what to do, what to say, how to act. he doesn’t dare turn back to face you, nor does he wish to speak to you. because to speak would mean to pretend that he wasn’t hurt, and he was far too exhausted for that charade to keep up.
“hyunjin, what’s wrong?”
your voice speaking his name acts like a spell, forcing his body to tilt towards you, like a flower searching for the sun. even in the blaze of his sadness, he still closes his eyes for a second, savors the way his name drips from your tongue. it always feels different when you speak of it, sweeter, sacred even, as if you’re infusing a piece of your soul into the syllables.
“i…” he trails off, eyes darting everywhere but at you. how can one confess a year-long secret? how can he speak of a love that has taken root within his soul, entwined so deeply with his being? where flowers bloom at the mention of your name, wilt at your absence, follow the seasons of you.
“hyunjin, i’m worried about you,” you speak softly, searching his eyes. “you’ve been acting distant all night, did you... did you have too much to drink?”
“no, I…” his voice chokes up, and his hands dart to his face, shielding himself away from you, and your kind gaze that will never turn into a loving one. he feels so pathetic, tearing up in front of you and not being able to speak of it. he wants to blame it on the alcohol, he wants the earth to split in half and swallow him whole. he thinks it’s cruel– that he loves you so much, and yet you do not know of it. he’ll give you some of his love if that’s what it takes. he’ll survive off of scraps of your adoration.
“hyune… come on,” you smile sweetly, your hands softly sliding against his. “you know you can tell me anything.”
“can you really be this blind?” he chuckles dryly, his eyes watering as he gazes at you. he sees you through a blurry haze, your eyes widening, your cheeks blushing like a blossoming rose.
“can i really tell you everything? would you really stomach it if i told you how much i think about you? how much i long for you? that all my waking thoughts are about you? would you look at me then? would you still say my name? would you?” he’s growing frantic, searching your eyes, perched at the precipice of your soul, waiting for something, anything.
“because i love you. i love you. god, i love you so much and it’s killing me and breathing life into me at once.” he takes your hand and places it atop his wildly beating heart. “here. i feel it all here. do you understand? do you feel it? my heart beating, it’s doing it all for you.”
he waits for the earth to fold on itself, for lightning to strike, for you to leave, and for his world to end with your retreating steps.
but you stay. and his hand is suddenly on top of your heart. and it is beating just as wildly as his.
“hyunjin, you idiot,” you grin like the sun through your tears, “i know, of course i know, because that is what i feel too.”
“what… what are you saying?”
“i love you. god, of course i love you. but i never-” your voice breaks, “i never dared to imagine you’d feel the same about me.”
“you love me?” he asks incredulously. he couldn’t believe it. did the universe wake up and decide that it would hand him his salvation on a golden platter?
“yes.”
“say it again.”
“i love you.”
he’s smiling like a fool, the ache in his heart fades away like darkness before morning’s light.
“again.”
“i love you hyunjin. it’s you, i’ve always loved you.”
“god,” he suddenly grabs you, twirling you around as his giggles scatter everywhere like the stars twinkling above him. his wounds are carried away by the wind, stitched by the sound of your laughter. his soul is but a supernova— reborn again at your hands.
“why.. why wouldn’t you tell me before?” he breathes out, forehead softly pressed against yours.
“because you are… you. this unattainable galaxy that a little star cannot possibly impress.”
“me? who am i but someone who loves you?” he asks so earnestly, so truthfully, his entire heart brought bare to you, that your feet can only waver, knees buckling down at the weight of what was in front of you all along. your only anchor is found in his hands cupping your cheeks, in his eyes that seem to only have space for your reflection.
“oh, what about.. what about jeongin?” he suddenly asks, voice soft, almost guilty for still daring to think of the flicker of a candlelight before the sun.
“jeongin likes seungmin.” you giggle sheepishly, “we just did it because none of us got the kiss we wanted tonight.”
“oh?” he grows cheeky, his hand sliding down your jaw, thumb caressing the corner of your lips with a tenderness that makes you dizzy. “whose kiss did you want?”
“yours.”
he’s a breath away from you. his nose nearly brushing yours. you speak of your love so softly, so assuredly, that every word melts away all of his doubts, like seafoam surrendering to rocky shore. “can i give you what you wanted, then?”
“please,” you exhale and he brushes his lips against yours. tentatively, as if testing the waters knowing that the current would pull him underneath anyway. his patience burns thin then. he imagines that this is what Icarus felt before the sun— the aching, unbearable urge to surrender himself to the warmth, even if it scathes his skin and bones in the end. but you don’t. your lips only grow sweeter beneath his, a constellation of everything he has ever loved, your hands on the nape of his neck driving him to the edge of derilium. he grows urgent and pressing, not with hunger, but a desire to be as close to you as physically possible. to be sucked into your orbit with no way out.
but you are mere mortals, a truth that hyunjin resents in the moment as he is forced to part from you. yet you are still there, cheeks ablaze and eyes glossed over. “i’ve never felt this alive before,” you confess with a light giggle.
his smile grows shier. “me too.”
“you are freezing,” you grin, rubbing your nose against his. “let’s go inside.”
“can we stay here for a minute more? please. i just need a moment more with you.”
you nod, and his lips find your forehead, pressing a lingering kiss there, his lips still tingling from when he last kissed you. his hands slide around your back, drawing you in for a hug, shielding you from the cold. thought he doesn't need to. you are warmth incarnate, a small sun cupped in human form, light glowing from your soul, bathing everything around you.
it is thanks to you that the night is no longer dim.
tagged by @byeolyoong (｡・//ε//・｡) (i hate how scarily accurate this is)
no pressure tags; @oshimee @umbreonwolfy @rachalixie @amyyscorner + whoever else wants to do this (◍•ᴗ•◍)✧* (im so exhausted today n have very little to no energy so im not in the best of moods rn ;c)
୨୧ summary: you hate chan because your boyfriend hates chan, and you’re pretty sure he hates you too. so when he proposes a fake dating arrangement after you get cheated on, you accept only for the revenge plot. but that doesn’t exactly go as planned, because maybe you two never really hated each other after all.
୨୧ pairing: student!bang chan x fem!student!reader
୨୧ genre: college!au, enemies to lovers / fake dating, a lil fluff, a lil angst, smut MINORS DNI
୨୧ word count: 20.6k
୨୧ featuring: jaehyun of nct and mina & jihyo of twice
୨୧ warnings: 18+, cheating (not between reader and chan), mentions of alcohol, explicit language, poor communication, some arguing, overuse of italics (sorry!), oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (pls dont do it), breast play (+ one slap !), creampie, multiple orgasms, spitting, dirty talk, teasing, pet names (baby, princess), afab reader
୨୧ author's note: let's play a game of how many tropes can i fit into one fic! i did all of my college courses online so not too much on me and my unrealistic depictions pls… also obviously this is not an accurate portrayal of jaehyun, i love that man down okay!! and i got a lil lazy midway through this and rushed it to get to the smut lmao sorry!
You hated parties. You hated parties because they were loud, because spaces with that many bodies on top of each other were too suffocating, because men always tried to hit on you with boozy breath and wandering eyes.
Now you hated parties because they made your boyfriend want to stick his tongue down other girls’ throats.
Jaehyun had managed to destroy nine months within three minutes – that’s the length of time you’d convinced yourself you’d spent standing there, unable to avert your gaze from the horror unfolding in front of you. Three whole minutes that he hadn’t even noticed your presence, too preoccupied. Too focused on kissing this random girl like he had something to claim, as if you weren’t enough. And worst of all, he hadn’t even cared enough to bring it somewhere private. They were in a corner of the living room, tucked away but not hidden. It had only taken a little bit of squeezing between partygoers and quick apologies to make your way to them.
They had gathered a crowd, too. A few spectators, voices meant to be whispers – drunk people can’t seem to mind their own volume.
“Yo, is that Y/N?”
“Nah, I just saw her getting a drink.”
“Shit…she’s gonna be so pissed.”
At least the alcohol hadn’t made them completely brainless. You were, in fact, pissed. There was the unmistakable heartbreak too, but you weren’t going to let anyone see that. Instead, you blinked back your tears and cleared your throat to make sure the words didn’t get stuck. Each step you took towards him made it more real, until you were close enough that you knew he could hear you over the raging music.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, far from an actual question. Your voice still broke on the last word, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed. As soon as he registers that it’s your voice, his girlfriend, Jaehyun tries to push the girl away, feigning disgust. It’s almost pathetic in a way, his little act.
“Shit, Y/N,” he curses. “I didn’t mean to – fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just – ”
He stumbles on his words as if his mouth wasn’t working perfectly fine just seconds before. When he tries to inch towards you, you step back, refusing to allow him the comfort.
“You’re fucked, Jaehyun,” you say flatly. That’s as much of your energy as you would give him, at least for now. He’d embarrassed you enough by kissing another woman in the middle of a party; you decided against escalating your humiliation by shouting at him and causing a scene. You turn on your heels and begin pushing through bodies again, away from him, and you can tell he’s following. You can hear your name, barely reaching your ears but definitely there.
Once you make it out of the most concentrated pool of people, he staggers soon after and latches onto your wrist. The same fingertips that used to run across your skin so gently now felt like betrayal and poison.
“Let me go,” you snap. His grip loosens slightly, but he still holds you there, determined to defend himself.
“I fucked up, I know, but please just hear me out,” he begs, as if he has the right to. His excuses are the last thing you want to hear right now, and you know that’s all they would be. Stupid excuses for a stupid “mistake,” and it makes you sick to even think about listening to him explain why and how he ended up making out with another woman in the corner of a party he asked you to go with him to.
“No! Fuck you, seriously,” you spit, words laced with venom you prayed would hurt him even a fraction of the way he hurt you.
And perhaps they did, or at the very least stunned him, because he drops your arm entirely. Now, you take the final steps towards the door, reaching for the handle. He tries to follow you again, unsatisfied, unrelenting. “And if you follow me out this door, I promise you I’ll never speak to you again.”
That stops him in his tracks. Maybe gives him some hope that if he just lets you cool off for the night, you’ll let him explain in the morning. Regardless of how he perceives it, you lunge at the opportunity to escape, finally making it out the door and into the crisp night air. It hits your skin viciously, your skirt and halter top offering little protection from its bite. You’re cold, heartbroken, and, worst of all, not even nearly drunk enough to mask it.
Without the vivaciousness of the party, you can only see Jaehyun kissing her in your mind, can only hear the hushed whispers of the onlookers, replaying on a torturous loop. You’d only made it down the steps of the house before the tears began to fall. Now you let them, assuming you were away from prying eyes.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed someone standing right next to the door while you and Jaehyun had your little spat. A certain someone who would get far too much enjoyment out of such a scene. You had been followed once more, but this time not by your stupid cheating ex boyfriend, but by his equally as stupid “rival.” It was still a mystery to you why they hated each other, and at this point, you didn’t care at all to find out.
“Those were some harsh words,” he chuckles, and you don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice. The same way you don’t need to turn around to know he’s smirking. You hurriedly wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup; the last thing you need is him to see you crying, another thing for him to derive sick pleasure in. You wouldn’t dare grant him that.
Because it was an unspoken relationship rule that an enemy of your partner is an enemy of your own. So, for no real reason other than the fact that Jaehyun hated him, you hated Bang Chan.
“Fuck off, Chan,” you snarl, quickening your pace. It doesn’t matter, since he catches up to you in a few short strides. “Why the hell did you even follow me out here?”
He steps in rhythm with you, making it clear he had no intentions of leaving. Not until he got what he wanted, whatever that may be. The satisfaction of seeing you broken? The chance to remind you how shitty Jaehyun is and how great he is? You aren’t sure, but you keep walking anyway.
“I just didn’t expect to hear you say such things to your boyfriend,” he answers. His emphasis of “boyfriend” makes you both angry and repulsed, then bitter and devastated. Nine months of your life gone in minutes, and now you had the displeasure of dealing with Chan on top of it.
You scoff and finally stop, turning to face him for the first time. His eyes twinkle with something devious, and it infuriates you. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”
“Oh?” he draws his head back in shock. He’s silent for a moment, and you fold your arms across your chest, glaring at him in a way he finds cute more than intimidating. “I’m surprised you two lasted this long, actually. Figured it was about time for Jaehyun to do what he does best.”
You blink at him incredulously, his careless words cutting deep. There’s no reason anything he says should bother you, but there’s something about it that stings. And Chan notices, too, watching your entire face shift from rage to sorrow. Your features soften in a way he’d never seen before – you’d only ever looked at him with hatred and annoyance – and it deflates him.
“I don’t know why you two don’t get along. Seems like you should be best friends – you’re both fucked up,” you retort quickly, though it comes out as a strained whisper.
Chan hates being grouped with him, especially in your mind where Jaehyun now seems to be synonymous with evil. He never expected to be giving you of all people an apology, but he figures he needs to. For his own consciousness, of course. Definitely not because he felt an odd pang in his chest when you looked at him with something other than disdain for once.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. Are you alright?” he asks cautiously. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see someone roll their eyes, but when you do, he swears he feels ten times lighter. Your hostility he could navigate, but your sadness was uncharted territory; he was glad to be back to familiarity. And since you hadn’t walked away from him yet, he takes the chance to dig deeper. “What did he do?”
“Like I’d want to talk to you about it. Just give it a few hours, you’ll hear about it from someone, I’m sure,” you shrug, trying to pretend that you’re unbothered. That you don’t care that you’ll likely be the talk of campus, the woeful ex-girlfriend people will look at in that pitiful way they look at small, broken things.
As much as you hate Chan, you’re grateful he isn’t looking at you like you’re small or broken. He’s looking at you the same as always, like you’re a challenge, a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. Maybe that’s why you decided to keep standing there, holding more of a conversation with him than you’d likely ever had before.
“Probably. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me, what happened?” he asks again.
He doesn’t say it with demand or snark. It sounds almost unsettlingly genuine. It sounds like someone that isn’t Chan, or at least the Chan you’re familiar with. You hesitate, conjuring up another smart remark, but you let it die in your throat.
“He fucking cheated on me. He was making out with some girl in front of everyone. Can you believe that?” you chuckle sarcastically, forgetting who exactly is standing before you. “Nevermind…I’m sure you can believe it. God, I’m so stupid.”
“No, you’re not stupid,” he says adamantly. “He’s stupid. An even bigger idiot than I thought, actually.”
It angers him more than it should that you’re degrading yourself over Jaehyun’s horrible decisions, and he has a fleeting thought of going back and telling him off for it. And as the thought passes, he can’t understand why. He knows you hate him. He knows you have likely been fed lies and half-truths by Jaehyun for months. He knows he shouldn’t care about any of this. He can’t seem to figure out why he does.
“I just can’t get that image out of my head. It’s making me sick,” you mumble, and it replays all over again. The ear-splitting music, the crowd, his lips on hers, that look on his face when he saw you. All your emotions bubble back up to the surface and come out as a loud groan, though internally you just want to scream until your throat is raw. “I wish I could make him feel even half of what I feel right now.”
The idea that pops up sounds ridiculous in his head and likely even more so said aloud, but his mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Well, maybe you could,” he trails.
“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m actually a good person,” you sneer. “I would never cheat.”
He laughs dryly and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, awaiting an explanation. “Believe me, I know you’re just a perfect princess,” he mocks, and you’re certain if you roll your eyes any harder they’ll get stuck like that. “But who said anything about cheating? Besides, you’re not together anymore,” he reminds. “And there’s only one thing I can think of that would drive him just as mad.”
You’re intrigued now, though doubtful there’s anything that could reflect the same level of hurt you currently felt. Anything rational, at least. Still, you wanted to hear whatever silly idea Chan had, if not for your own amusement.
“Which is what?” you question.
“Being with me,” he answers, too quickly, too plainly, as if it was something entirely normal and not an absolutely insane statement. When your eyes widen, he continues, waving his hands urgently to indicate you had gotten the wrong impression. “Okay, not for real, Jesus. Like faking it, you know? Just for him to see and lose his mind.”
That was quite possibly the last thing you expected, and you’re forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. You wait for him to join in, to tell you he was joking just to fuck with you. That would have been the Chan thing to do. Instead, he stares at you, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah, okay, you’re insane,” you scoff.
“Is it that insane?” he says smugly, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Think about it, imagine how pissed he’d be seeing us together.”
For a moment, you can’t help but realize how attractive he actually is. It’s not that you hadn’t noticed before – you had perfectly functional eyes – but now being single and also inches away from him, it was an unavoidable fact. It made you almost begin to consider his idea. Almost.
“Yes, it’s insane! Just because I gave you five minutes of my time on a shitty night doesn’t mean I want to talk to you ever again, let alone pretend to date you.”
“Oh, Princess Y/N gave me five minutes of her precious time, thank you so much,” he quips, and this time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Whatever, I gave you a guy’s perspective on how to get back at him. You’re not gonna get any better revenge than that.”
“And what do you get from it?” you ask, certain there must be some mutually beneficial aspect beneath it. There’s no way he would suggest something so outlandish without thinking of his own gain, and you know that’s true when he grins wickedly.
“Just the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realizes he lost his girl to the one person he hates more than anything.”
You aren’t sure why you hadn’t grasped that from the beginning. All Chan wanted, as always, was to get under Jaehyun’s skin, to take something of his, to win. The idea is still crazy, and far more theatrical than you’d usually approve of, but you’re a lover scorned.
Then, you think back to the unspoken rule, the sole reason and origin of your hatred for Chan. Jaehyun hadn’t even followed relationship rule number fucking one: don’t cheat on your girlfriend. So, you figured you could break some rules and allow some theatrics.
“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll fake date you or whatever,” you huff, trying to ignore his triumphant smirk. “But nothing weird, alright? And once it’s all over, we go back to hating each other.”
He throws his hands up like it’s offensive you’d even insinuated it. “Believe me, that’ll be no problem,” he agrees.
“Good,” you say simply, a forced tight-lipped smile on your face.
“Good,” he repeats.
The silence that falls over you two is uncomfortable, only disrupted by the sound of the wind lifting leaves along the sidewalk and the faint thumping of music. You can still see the house down the road, and it makes you wonder if Jaehyun is still inside and if he went right back to her. Suddenly, you feel the need to get home and cry in the shower with your carefully-curated sad music playlist.
“Well…I’m gonna go back to my dorm now,” you finally speak, shifting on your feet awkwardly.
“I’ll walk you,” he offers without a second thought.
You can’t help the way you exhale a little too harshly. Truthfully, you just wanted a short walk on your own to process all of the nights’ events, including the proposal you’d just accepted. And you had already spent more time than you’d like with Chan for one night (although you know you’ll have to spend much more now).
“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think we need to start the whole fake dating thing right now,” you reject bluntly.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, trying to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s just trying to do a nice thing, the right thing, but you have a way of getting under his skin. The next few weeks are surely going to be a challenge. “It’s not for that, Y/N,” he sighs. “It’s late and dark out. Just let me make sure you get home safe, please?”
The roads are lit only by streetlights and the moon shining above, and you shiver from both the chilly air and the thought of making the walk to your dorm alone. You’d expected to be going home with Jaehyun, definitely not on your own in the middle of the night.
“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. “But can we just walk in silence? Not really in the mood to talk anymore.”
You deliberately exclude that you feel like if you keep talking, you’re going to break. You’d kept a relatively strong front – far stronger than you thought you’d be after being cheated on – but it was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was all the adrenaline that kept your emotions contained, because now everything was slowing down and soaking in.
“Sure,” he nods, following closely behind when you turn and begin taking steps forward. Your dorm is ten minutes away, and you walk side by side, arms occasionally brushing against each others. You only make it about two minutes in before he stops, shrugging off his jacket. Then, he holds his hand out, gesturing to it when you stare dumbly.
“Here,” he offers. “You’re freezing.”
There’s no denying that he’s right, but that didn’t mean you were going to wear his jacket. You could survive a few more minutes of the cold, even though your skin was covered with goosebumps that hadn’t gone away since you’d first left Jaehyun at the door. “I’m not wearing your jacket, Chan,” you shove his hand back.
Before you can start walking again, he drapes it around your shoulders, ignoring the glares you send his way.
“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” he groans. “You’re literally shaking, but God forbid you wear my jacket.”
You click your tongue and pull your arms through the sleeves anyway, mumbling a grudging “thank you.” The newfound warmth was a great comfort, and you’re so wrapped up in it you don’t notice the way he steals short glances over at you. His eyes drag down your body, drinking in how his jacket sits on your shoulders like it belongs there. How the sleeves fall past your wrists and the hem lines your thighs, still mostly exposed from your skirt length of choice. How you look good wearing something of his.
And then he curses himself for even thinking it, tearing his eyes away even though he really doesn’t want to. He clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, trying to ground himself, and you look over wordlessly. Any words you were going to say get caught in your throat when you notice how muscular his arms are now that they’re no longer covered.
Still, neither of you speak again, both thinking silent thoughts that you’d never let the other know. Once you arrive at your dorm building, he walks you all the way to your door despite your protests, muttering something about you being stubborn yet again.
“Thank you for walking me home,” you force out, gratitude sounding like exasperation. Your back is pressed against the door, hand wrapped around the handle. All you want is to throw yourself in bed and sob and sleep at this point, but Chan’s presence keeps you in the hallway.
He nods, combing a hand through his hair, wondering when it became so difficult to think of the right words to say to you. “Try not to think about him too much tonight, alright?” he sighs. “I know that’s hard, but just try to get some sleep or something.”
Such gentle advice sounds odd coming from his mouth, and he waits for your sarcastic reply. Counts on it, actually.
It doesn’t come. Instead, you smile at him weakly, telling yourself you simply don’t have the mental capacity to go back and forth with him anymore. Not that you were actually hating him a little less.
“I’ll try,” you assure. “Oh, yeah. Here.”
You pull off his jacket, the one that had begun to feel a little too comfortable, and fold it over your arms towards him.
“Keep it. You can wear it around or whatever,” he suggests indifferently. It would make your fake relationship more believable, but beyond that, it would appeal to that small part of him that enjoyed seeing you in it.
Fuck, what had gotten into him?
“I won’t,” you sass, bringing the jacket back to your chest anyways.
He runs his tongue along his teeth, chuckling. “Of course you won’t. So stubborn.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop being that,” he shoots back.
Seemingly, you’d met your match. Someone who could keep up with your quick retorts, your mouthiness. And it came in the form of a man your ex boyfriend hated, a man you hated. You weren’t sure why that made it all the more exciting for you.
His gaze lingered, a curious glint in his eyes. He was trying to piece you together bit by bit, but you were a more difficult puzzle than most.
“Have a good night, Chan,” you say, finally turning the handle. When the door swings open, he finds himself looking around unintentionally, another opportunity to figure you out. He can see a few plushies on your bed, posters lined on the walls, and framed photos he can’t quite make out. There’s probably some of you and Jaehyun, and he hopes those are long gone by the next time he ends up at your dorm.
You slip inside hastily, and he realizes he’d been too engrossed in examining your room to respond. The door comes to a close in front of him.
“Yeah, you too,” he breathes out when you can’t hear, standing there just a few moments longer.
Once inside, you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps padding away, and when you do, you crack. The pictures of you and Jaehyun sit on your bedside dresser, mocking you, and you slam them down against the wood. You’re partially inclined to throw them against the wall and hope they shatter, but you don’t particularly feel like cleaning up glass shards through tears.
At least you let the teddy bear he gifted you stay on your bed, unharmed. An innocent soul caught in the crossfire, a child of divorce even.
“Fuck Jaehyun, fuck parties, and fuck this whole night,” you curse, though it comes out in choked sobs. And fuck Chan, your brain wants to say, but you bite it back. He had walked you home, given you his jacket…and become your fake boyfriend (soon to be, anyways) within the span of thirty minutes. Still, he was annoying, arrogant, impossible-to-deal-with Chan.
As much as every fiber of your being yearned for the soft comfort of your bed, you trudge to your bathroom and start the shower, making sure to put on your playlist while the water warms. Because if you were going to be heartbroken, you were at least going to be heartbroken while listening to Cigarettes After Sex.
After thirty minutes of crying and scrubbing your body of any traces of Jaehyun, you finally step out and decide to check your phone for the first time since everything had completely unraveled. Apparently getting cheated on was all you needed to reduce your screen time, so maybe that was a positive?
Naturally, there’s a few texts from people you could hardly consider friends but would now act like you were with feigned sympathy, full nosiness. Among them, however, is a text from a number you hadn’t saved.
y/n?
who’s this?
I’d say the guy you hate the most but i think someone else might’ve taken that spot
Chan. It was almost impressive that he managed to sound annoying even through texts.
ha. and how’d you get my number…?
I asked someone for it. you think they’ll take the bait?
they’ll probably just think you’re a freak who goes for recently heartbroken girls.
Nah. that’s not really my type.
oh yeah? what’s your type then?
You watch as the typing bubble pops up and disappears a few moments later, and then nothing. Minutes pass and you assume he’s leaving you on read, and that’s fine. It’s late, anyway, and after such a thorough cleansing and crying session, you’re exhausted.
So it’s no surprise when your phone buzzes again just as you manage to get comfortable in bed.
Just because that’s not my type doesn’t mean i have a type
“Liar,” you mumble to yourself. Whatever, it’s not like you care who or what he’s into. In fact, you’re glad he didn’t answer. Who knows what kind of weird things he’d come up with, if not just to irritate you.
okay, boring
What about you then? what’s your type?
You’re torn between giving him a genuine answer or something along the lines of “basically the antithesis of you.” Then, you realize you can probably do both at once, since you don’t consider Chan to align with any of your dating criteria.
i like someone who’s warm, attentive, and can make me laugh. someone who notices the little things, too
Yeah, definitely not Chan. But then again….
That can’t be right. i mean, you ended up with jaehyun
Also not Jaehyun. That was something you could admit now, but it was different coming from someone else. Like you were the only one who couldn’t see the flaws, the incompatibility. You feel stupid all over again, trying to ignore the way your throat began to tighten once more.
i’m going to sleep.
HahahaAw man. i was having fun.
goodnight, chan.
Goodnight princess
The nickname might’ve been a term of endearment from anyone else, but from Chan, it was a thinly veiled taunt. You save his contact with a very fitting eyeroll emoji just to spite him, finally drifting off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep soon after.
“What an asshole,” Jihyo hisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you know I would have ripped into him.”
With all the craziness of the night, you hadn’t even thought to text any of your friends. It was one of the rare times none of them could make it out with you, and now you were being inundated with questions over lunch.
You wave her off, poking at your plate idly. “It’s fine, I promise,” you sigh.
“Has he texted you today?” Mina asks, glancing down at your phone on the table. You look down too, half-expecting to see another flurry of messages from Jaehyun – he’d already sent about twenty since the morning, all going unanswered.
“Yes,” you groan, unlocking your phone and passing it to the two girls for them to read the same desperate pleas you’d been spammed with. They scroll through, mouths slightly agape. “Should I answer? I’m worried he’s gonna end up showing up at my dorm if I don’t.”
“Here, let me answer,” Jihyo says, and you reach over and snatch the phone out of her hands before she can type. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve whatever insults she’d send his way, but that you worried any response would entice him at this point.
To satisfy her, you finally text him back, telling him to leave you alone and that you would let him know when you were ready to talk. You truly had no idea when that would be, but any more silence from your end would inevitably have him tracking you down on campus.
Then, you remembered the other half of the night, the part where you agreed to fake date the same man your friends had heard you complain about more than once. There was no way you were going to keep that from them, nor would you be able to, but you weren’t even sure how to approach the subject.
Hey, by the way, I’m pretending to date that guy I hate. For the revenge plot of course.
“There’s actually something else that happened last night,” you begin, studying their reactions. They wait expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity. “Chan heard us arguing and we…talked a little.”
“Yeah, well, that sounds like Chan. He basically feeds off of Jaehyun’s misery,” Jihyo chuckles.
Mina catches onto the end of your sentence, the words you had said just a little too quickly and quietly. Intentionally so. “What do you mean you talked? You can’t stand him.”
Now, both girls are staring at you, disbelief etched on their faces. You and Chan had never talked. You insulted, glared, and mocked. Talking? They weren’t even sure you two were capable of holding a conversation without spitting names at each other.
“It’s stupid…” you trail. “He had this idea, and…I don’t know, I guess I just agreed to it because I was so angry and emotional.”
You’re stalling, obviously, and they’re growing more impatient with each delayed sentence.
“He suggested we pretend to be together to get back at Jaehyun.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Jihyo laughs, a full-body laugh that has tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Mina just blinks at you, unamused. “Y/N! You can’t make me laugh like that while I’m eating, you know,” Jihyo scolds, still releasing occasional giggles.
“You’re not joking,” Mina says flatly. “Are you?”
Realization strikes both their faces when you don’t answer, swirling your straw around absentmindedly. Next comes their looks of disapproval.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan. But what did you expect? You had just thrown into question a fact they knew more concretely than grass being green or the sky being blue: you hate Chan. So did your need for revenge trump your hatred, or was your hatred truly never that deep after all? They suspected the latter – they always did, especially when you would go on about how insufferable he was while eyeing him from across a room.
“Like what? Like you’re crazy? Because clearly, you’re crazy,” Jihyo whisper-shouts.
“And with Chan of all people, seriously?” Mina adds.
Okay, neither of them were wrong, but they’d also never been cheated on to understand all the complex thoughts and feelings you’re experiencing right now. And yes, with Chan, because the plan simply wouldn’t work with anyone else (nor would anyone else be stupid enough to go along with it). It just had to be your ex boyfriend’s worst enemy.
“I know it’s crazy and you know I’d never agree to something like this, but – ”
“ – but she just couldn’t resist me,” someone interjects from behind you. Then, he throws himself next to you, leaning back against the table on his elbows.
You aren’t sure how long he’s been there or how much he heard, though you guess not much since one of them definitely would have warned you. Either way, add his stupidly good timing to the list of things that piss you off about him.
He hadn’t texted you in the morning – not that he was supposed to, or that you expected him to – and it almost made you wonder if the whole night was a fever dream. Evidently not, seeing as he was sitting a few inches away with a wide grin plastered on his dumb face.
“Are you stalking me across campus?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He huffs out a hollow laugh. “You wish. You guys sit in the same spot almost every day.”
Is he right? Yes. Does it make sense for him to know that? Not really. Unless he’d been paying more attention to you than you thought, which also didn’t make sense.
“Okay, so you’re not stalking me,” you conclude. “Just watching me.”
“Why does it have to be you? There’s two other lovely ladies here.”
“Ew,” Mina says.
“Don’t be gross,” Jihyo adds.
Now it’s your turn to laugh, though Chan is unamused. You want to poke him further, to find out why he knows the specific time and place your friends typically eat lunch, but you decide to save it for another time. Especially since those two are sitting right across from you and would hang onto every stupid thing he says, pestering you about it later.
Chan spins forward, now facing Jihyo and Mina. “Do you girls mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?”
“I mind,” you scoff, but he ignores you entirely.
The two girls look at each other suspiciously, knowingly. Then, Mina shakes her head, basically sending you off to your demise (another uncomfortable walk with Chan – two in less than twenty-four hours has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment). “Sure,” she shrugs. “We were just finishing up, anyways.”
Were you, though? The conversation hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down until he arrived.
With the approval of your friends, not yours, he clasps his hand around yours and stands up, trying to bring you with him. You can’t move, you can’t function at all with his hand holding your own, and once it hits you, you yank it away from him.
And then you stand anyway, as if your body was betraying you and doing everything your brain said not to.
“I hope you don’t plan on hurting her, too,” Jihyo cautions, an unspoken threat behind her words.
Her intentions are sweet, but you can’t help but feel the need to chide her for making it seem like you two are actually together.
“I’m not going to cheat on her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he jeers, picking up your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, you’re the only fake girlfriend in my life.”
He must think he’s so funny, putting on a show in front of your friends, but you’re not laughing. However, Mina and Jihyo are. Snickering under their breath, actually, and probably going to gush all about this odd interaction after you leave.
The three of you exchange goodbyes, Chan already walking away from the table. You have to take larger strides to catch up to him, and when you do, you reach for your bag, trying to pry it from his arm.
“Is it going to kill you if you let me be nice and carry your stuff?” he huffs, readjusting the strap.
“It might,” you glare, but you can tell he’s not budging, so you resign. You wait for him to speak, to offer an explanation. Instead, he scans your face like he’s looking for something beneath the surface. “Is there a reason you took me from my friends just now?”
“Are you okay?” he asks, answering your question with…a question? So. Annoying.
But it sounds sincere coming from him, unlike how everyone else had asked you since last night. You can tell the difference now between girls who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with Jaehyun, guys who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with you, the complete randoms who asked just to be in the know, and now…this. Someone who genuinely wanted to know if you were okay, nothing more, nothing less, no underlying motives.
“I’m alright,” you shrug, “just numb, I think.”
He swallows hard, then nods. And suddenly the Chan you recognize is back. “Well, you look good for someone who just got cheated on.”
Maybe the compliment would have felt good if he hadn’t tacked on the last part. You had enough reminders throughout the day, so much so that your phone had been on DND for hours. And the reminders came in other forms, too, like your lonely walk to your first class in the morning, the one Jaehyun would always accompany you on. Or the song that came on shuffle that you two had once added to a shared playlist (which you now had sole custody of).
“Do you know how to give an actual compliment?” you snap, already knowing the answer. Chan would probably drop dead before he complimented you.
“So you’d rather I just say you look good?” he questions.
Yes, yes you most certainly would. But there was no way in hell you would tell him that and make him think his words actually mean something to you. You can just picture his smug look of satisfaction already.
So you lie through your teeth.
“No.”
He chews the inside of his cheek, carefully mulling over what he says next. “You do though. Look good, I mean,” he states matter-of-factly. And to your surprise, he doesn’t drop dead afterwards.
What should you say in return? Thank you? No, that implies you’re appreciative, grateful he complimented you, which you aren’t. You look good too? Absolutely not, unless you want to have him use that against you for the foreseeable future. Ew, don’t say those things? You’re not even sure you can feign disgust like that.
You end up not saying anything at all, but your face says a lot. Too much. It heats up and your cheeks dust with red, a far worse response than any of the others you’d contemplated.
“Aw, you’re blushing,” Chan teases, bumping against your shoulder lightly. “Getting all shy on me, where’s that smart mouth?”
“Shut up,” you grumble, and then you realize you’ve been following him blindly for the past minutes. You see that he’s led you to the heart of campus, the vast field of green where couples, friends, and classmates alike all congregate. He heads straight for a bench, pulling you down next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“When’s your next class?”
You don’t answer.
“You took me away from my friends to bring me here?” And then you look around, convincing yourself everyone’s eyes are on you. “People are staring.”
He looks over at you, your bag now acting as a barrier between your bodies, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”
“Yeah, well, newsflash, princess. We’re doing this so they do get the wrong idea,” he reminds, tucking your bag by his side. With the new space, he hooks his arms around your thighs and shifts you towards him, pulling your legs onto the bench and draping them over his lap.
“Chan!” you hiss, trying to move, but he holds you there.
If you thought people were staring before, they must be drilling holes through you now. Realistically, you’re just being dramatic – everyone is too entrenched in their own problems, their own conversations, their own world to really notice you. But you know people will talk, because that’s what people do, especially when it involves two individuals who are quite well-known on campus.
“Relax. The more obvious we make this, the quicker people will see, the quicker Jaehyun will see. And then it can all be over, right?” he explains, and you huff in response. You sit there like that long enough that it becomes comfortable, his fingers tapping idly on your leg while he scrolls on his phone. At the same time, you trace mindless shapes onto the bench, pretending you weren’t melting into him slowly.
No.
Being like this with Chan shouldn’t feel this normal, and you refuse to accept that it does. So, naturally, you have to say something to ruin it. Almost like an innate reflex.
“I should’ve just stepped out in a revenge dress, but nooo, I had to agree to your stupidity,” you mumble. He laughs, and then his face contorts to something more serious.
“You have a revenge dress?”
He says it hopefully, a glimmer of interest in his eyes.
“If I do,” you begin, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “you’ll never get to see it.”
His entire body deflates, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself off of him. You had a class across campus to get to and also needed a serious mental debrief to process the last twenty minutes. He hands over your bag, lifting off the bench as well. “Do you want me to like, walk you to your classes and stuff?”
“Nope,” you decline easily. “Unless you’re willing to walk me to my 8:30 on Tuesdays.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, and he must know it because he scoffs, shaking his head like you’d just said the most egregious thing ever. You laugh and start in the direction of your class, the feeling of his body so close to yours still lingering.
The weekend comes and goes quickly, with you swearing off any more parties for the time being despite Mina and Jihyo’s pleas. They both mention something about alcohol and loud music being the perfect remedy for a break up. But you already only really went to parties to appease your friends (and Jaehyun, previously), who dubbed them an “essential part of the college experience.” Now, you had the perfect excuse not to. Even Chan texts you to ask if you’ll be going out, though he doesn’t have nearly the same level of disappointment as your friends when you say no.
Instead, you spend your days clearing your camera roll of pictures of your cheating ex boyfriend and boxing up all the things of his you no longer wanted to have in your possession. Maybe you could get Chan to burn it all for you (except for the teddy bear, of course).
And then Tuesday morning rolls around and there’s an incessant knocking on your door, which is not only irritating but unusual, given the time. You’re in the middle of getting dressed when you answer, top half still in a tank top, bottom half in jeans.
This person is about to feel all your morning wrath, until you blink a few times and register that it’s Chan of all people.
“What the hell?”
“8:30, right?” he confirms, leaning against the doorframe.
You fold your arms across your chest, resisting his charm as best as you can. “That was a joke,” you groan, opening the door wider. “I’m not done getting ready and it’s gonna look weird if you’re waiting outside.”
He steps inside happily, immediately noticing the now barren space on your dresser. You had gotten rid of the pictures, good. He also recognizes his jacket draped along the back of your chair in a way he knows you’ve worn it, or at least moved it recently. It hangs off a little unevenly, one of the sleeves wrinkled in on itself.
“Yeah, because it’ll look so much better if we come out of your dorm together at eight in the morning,” he chuckles while you walk into the bathroom to change shirts in peace.
“Don’t even think like that,” you shout. Then, you walk out, throwing the tank top at him (which he catches, unfortunately), feeling emboldened. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you.”
The smirk on your face is wiped away immediately when he grabs your wrist as you bend down to reach your bag. “Yeah? Do you know that?” he whispers. His whole demeanor shifts, gaze intense, grip strong but not painful. You attempt to force out a stammered reply, but admittedly, you’re flustered. Your own body is a traitor, clearly.
Thankfully, he releases your wrist and breaks the tension with a devilish laugh. “You’re so easy to fuck with,” he says, sounding completely like his usual irksome self.
Now that you had a glimpse of a different, enticing side of Chan, you craved more and hated yourself for it. After all, you had just said you would never fuck him. And you wouldn’t.
But can’t a girl just think about it?
You grabbed your bag successfully this time and slipped on a pair of shoes, heading out the door with him right behind.
“So why did you do this, exactly?” you question, still fighting off sleep yourself.
“When I commit to something, I go hard,” he explains, though it sounds like a double entendre. “So if we’re going to fake date, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had.”
How wonderful. You thought you were agreeing to get revenge against Jaehyun, not to fuel Chan’s ego. Maybe you’d need another fake boyfriend down the line just to knock him from the top spot.
“Well, good thing we probably won’t need to keep this up for very long. I’ve already had people text me asking what’s going on between us,” you click your tongue. “No Jaehyun though.”
“Poor guy’s probably losing his mind thinking his fuck-up made you realize you had repressed feelings for me all along.”
“Oh, I had feelings for you?”
“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That’s how my story goes, anyways.”
When you make it outside, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you just a little bit closer. And now that you understand there’s no reasoning with him, you let him. It’s too early to argue, anyways, but you still roll your eyes where he can’t see.
“God, you’re insufferable. Can’t even give me some dignity in our fake love story,” you sneer.
“Okay, fine, I had feelings for you,” he relents, and for a second, it sounds like a fact, not a fabrication. “That sound better?”
You hum in approval, satisfied with the change. Whether he would actually follow through with it, you weren’t sure.
“So, are you gonna stay cooped up in your dorm this weekend, or are you going out?” Chan wonders, seemingly forgetting why you didn’t want to go to another party in the first place. They were kind of ruined for you at the moment, especially when you never really enjoyed them to begin with.
“I’m put off of parties for a while,” you wave your hands. “And I need to study, anyway.”
He squeezes your shoulder, displeased with your answer. “C’mon, Y/N, don’t let him ruin your fun,” he urges.
It was too late for that, though; all “fun” had been sucked out the moment you caught your boyfriend sucking face, and you knew he would probably be there, too. Just because he was playing the regretful, devastated ex in your texts didn’t mean he was depriving himself of his favorite pastime. You wouldn’t even be surprised if one of his “please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I miss you so much” texts had come while he was balls-deep in another woman.
“I’ll have plenty of fun in the library, thank you,” you shoot back.
“Oh? In public? Wow, princess, I didn’t know you were into stuff like that,” he grins, and you shove his arm off of you, staring at him in disgust.
“Oh my god, you’re a fucking freak!”
“I’m the freak? You’re the one that’s going to – ”
“Chan. Stop talking.”
“Okay, okay,” he throws his hands up defensively. “But just so you know, I don’t judge, and if you want some company…”
Fuck this smug bastard, and more importantly, fuck the way he was starting to get into your head.
The rest of the walk is relatively normal, at least in the sense there’s no more talk about public sex, and you reach your class promptly at 8:28.
“Well, have a good day,” he says a little awkwardly. “Let me know when you’re planning on grabbing lunch?”
“Unlikely,” you scoff, leaving him open-mouthed as you head inside.
So how you end up with Mina, Jihyo, and Chan at your usual lunch spot, you’re not sure.
“You guys missed it. Then she goes ‘fuck you, Jaehyun!’ and he looked terrified,” Chan laughs, and your friends join in, loving the cheater lashings.
“He did not look terrified,” you correct.
“She’s being modest. Even I felt a little intimidated,” he draws in a sharp breath, “but it was kinda hot, too.”
You’re not sure where that came from, and you kick his foot under the table where Mina and Jihyo can’t see. In return, he places his hand on your thigh, squeezing.
“You guys sure you’re faking this?” Jihyo questions, her chin resting on her hand while her eyes flicker between the two of you. Like she would be able to figure you out if she just looked hard enough. Impossible, considering you couldn’t even figure out what was going on at this point. He was still annoying, painfully so, but he was also alluring, and the heat between your legs was starting to do most of the thinking.
“Yes,” you and Chan say simultaneously, almost rehearsed.
“Right,” Mina nods, drawing out the word. “As long as you believe that.”
His hand moves now, rubbing along your thigh softly, and you have to grit your teeth to not snap at him. “I do believe it, because it’s true,” you say harshly (but not convincingly). “I’d rather drink a jean jacket through a fucking straw than actually date him.”
Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his wandering hand; in fact, it only pushes him further, now sliding lower until his fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh. You shift awkwardly, keeping your eyes locked on your friends. You wouldn’t let him see that he was undoing you.
“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but a jean jacket through a straw is insane,” he smirks, finding enjoyment in your fidgeting.
“Then I guess it does a good job of conveying how much I can’t stand you.”
This time, you do snap your head towards him, eyes shooting daggers into him. They gave a silent warning, a threat he didn’t quite think you truly meant. After all, your body had a different message with the way your thighs clenched and shoulders stiffened.
“So sweet, isn’t she?” Chan smiles sarcastically, drawing his hand back. And you’re grateful – at least, that’s what you tell yourself, ignoring the small voice that said you wanted more. He reads something on his phone before typing quickly and rising from his seat.
“Anyway, thanks for the invite Y/N, but Minho’s locked himself out of the apartment, so I’ve gotta swing by before class,” he sighs dramatically.
“I absolutely didn’t invite you.”
“Sure you didn’t,” he winks, already gone before you can argue.
Once he’s out of earshot, Jihyo groans, covering her face with her hands. “God, I think if I’m subjected to that level of sexual tension again, I’ll actually pass away,” she huffs, muffled.
Bad time to take a sip of your drink.
“Sexual tension?!” you repeat, nearly choking, completely stunned by her words.
“We weren’t sure of it when you were with Jaehyun, but now it practically radiates through the air whenever you’re around each other. It’s suffocating,” Mina agrees, only adding to your embarrassment. Your face is heating up quickly, and it makes it hard to deny their accusations.
“Can you just hate-fuck and get it over with? Maybe you’ll find out you actually do get along in some ways,” Jihyo adds, exasperated.
You laugh dryly. “Oh my god, do you guys hear yourselves? I’m not having sex with Chan, that’s disgusting.”
“Well then can you two at least not make lunch feel like the build-up of a porno?”
Needless to say you would be informing him he could not join you and your friends for lunch anymore, lest you get lectured again on your “radiating” sexual tension.
By the time Friday comes, things have quieted. Chan listens when you tell him Mina and Jihyo requested your lunches stay reserved for the three of you (it’s not quite true, but the best excuse you could come up with without mentioning that your friends think you two want to fuck each other). So, you don’t see him much, aside from the couple of times he shows up outside your classes.
His texts, however, are frequent. They’ve developed into something expected, a normal part of your days. You talk about mundane things like grades and annoying lab partners. You talk about personal things like favorite songs and future goals. Each conversation is still filled with sarcastic quips and quick insults, but they don’t hold the same edge they once did. It felt more like comfort – like if you kept up the hatred act, you could protect yourself from what it was becoming.
And at the same time, the texts from Jaehyun had resumed because, although he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he had heard that you and Chan were seen together. On multiple occasions. He had even shown up at your dorm finally (the week of freedom you’d had was far longer than you’d expected), and you had slammed the door in his face, telling him it wasn’t any of his business who you hung out with anymore.
After that encounter, you were grateful for some peace – which was becoming rare in your life – throwing yourself nose-deep in your notebook. With your headphones on and such intense focus, you don’t notice anyone else’s presence.
Until someone makes their presence impossible to ignore.
“Hey, princess,” Chan greets, a cup of coffee in hand. He slips into the seat in front of you, placing the cup down and sliding it over. You have to pull your headphones back to hear him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
He shrugs. “You said you were studying, I thought I would bring you some coffee to help your brain.”
He says it so calmly, and you have to fight against the way your heart swells at the simple act of service. Though really, it wasn’t so simple, because this was Chan showing up to the library unannounced on a Friday night, when he would usually be far away from anything academic. For you.
“Well, thanks, because I feel like my brain has basically disintegrated,” you complain, taking a sip. It was your favorite, too – he must’ve asked Mina or Jihyo for your order. “Did you skip out on the party?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. Kinda just wanted to chill tonight. I thought a library date might be fun,” he muses.
You scoff, watching his lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Date?”
Chan blinks at you like you’ve wounded him, although you know it’s all part of his (perfected) act to get into your head.
“You wouldn’t call it that?” he says, disappointedly, leaning his head against the palm of his hand.
“No, I’d call it me studying for hours and losing my mind and you showing up uninvited.”
He points behind him with his thumb, turning halfway in his seat, an empty threat. “So, should I leave then?” he challenges.
This is probably the part where you should say yes. You should demand it, actually. But he had brought you coffee, liquid gold for your overloaded brain, and the chances of him listening to your request were slim to none regardless.
“It’s fine,” you concede, hoping it sounded indifferent. You even shift your focus back to your laptop to play up the act, writing down “notes” that don’t quite make sense. Chan accepts this, tapping his fingers on the table obnoxiously, purposely so. After a few minutes, he straightens in his chair, leaning forward against the table.
“I must say,” he whispers, “I’m a little disappointed to find you actually studying. You had my hopes up the other day.”
It takes you a moment to recall that conversation, and once you do, the realization spreads across your face in red hues. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” you frown.
And there may have been something seriously wrong with you for enjoying it.
“Maybe. But I think you like it. You were basically writhing when I touched you at lunch.”
Now you know you definitely should have told him to leave. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, in that way that could drive you crazy if you let it (which you weren’t).
“No, I wasn’t,” you argue weakly.
He finds your denial cute, truly, since he remembers your body’s responsiveness so vividly. It was essentially engrained in his mind, spinning it in circles. He could elicit that reaction from just touching your clothed thigh, and it made him feel powerful. And curious.
“Oh, you weren’t?” he chuckles. “So if I come sit next to you now, that’d be fine? And if I touch you like that again, you wouldn’t start to melt under my fingers?”
“I did not melt under your fingers.”
“But you would have,” he says confidently. He drops his voice to a whisper again. “If your friends weren’t there, and I kept going, you would have.”
You’re staring at each other now, wondering who will break first, though his eyes shine with excitement and yours narrow with annoyance. Or rather, desire that you try to disguise as annoyance.
“You think too highly of yourself,” you snort, scribbling gibberish into the margin of your notebook.
He releases a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to think it,” he corrects. “You’ve shown me.”
You snap now, slamming your laptop shut a little too aggressively. Because you refused to allow him to continue talking with so much confidence, like he knew what you were thinking better than you did.
“I’m sorry, did you forget the part where none of this is real? All of your little touches and stupid remarks have nothing to do with what we agreed on.”
But your boldness only encourages him, biting his lip subconsciously. “No, they don’t. That’s just for my enjoyment. Like I said, you’re easy to fuck with.”
“That's why you decided to come see me in the library on a Friday night instead of going out? To ‘fuck with me?’” you say pointedly, to emphasize how unreasonable it sounded.
“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave.”
“I asked a question.”
Chan drags his hand along his face, suddenly far less arrogant. For once, he looked like he was struggling to conjure up a smart response. And he was. But you were refusing to back down, finally having a sense of control.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you glare at him. “Really, I don’t. I just wanted to see you.”
You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t be dumb.”
Because there was no way he meant it. Or maybe you had misheard him entirely. But his whole demeanor had changed, and you no longer recognized the Chan that sat before you without his smugness.
“Right. If I tease you, I’m ‘insufferable,’” he recites, “if I’m honest with you, I’m dumb. Tell me, princess, what can I do then?”
You swallow harshly, trying to ignore what his words entailed. Honest. He said that he wanted to see you and he meant it. The air around you had shifted now, thicker, heavier, falling on your chest in a way that almost made your voice get caught in your throat.
“Are you fucking with me again?” you grimace, waiting for him to laugh in your face. To snap back into the version of him you’re familiar with.
But he doesn’t laugh. “You tell me. Am I?”
“You can’t do that!” you groan, exasperated. “You can’t say these things and then act all cryptic after.”
You cross your arms across your chest, and he relents. “Okay. Yes, I wanted to see you. Is that bad?”
“Yes.”
Yes, it was bad. Very bad, actually. Because you were supposed to hate him, and you thought he hated you. Because none of this was supposed to be real, and once you’d gotten vengeance against your shitty ex boyfriend (however dramatic it may be), things would go on like nothing had ever happened.
But is that what you wanted? It should be. It had to be.
“Huh. I guess I don’t care,” he breathes. “Do you?”
He awaits your answer, though he already knows what it will be. You had become easy for him to read now; he had studied you like you were his favorite subject. The unsolved puzzle he had finally pieced together.
And though you try to force yourself to lie and say yes, you simply cannot. All your resolve has vanished since he made such an unexpected confession, leaving you dazed.
“No,” you mumble, and your breath hitches.
His smirk returns, though it’s different now. Less of an attempt to get under your skin, more of an acknowledgement that one day he’ll get to touch every inch of it.
“Didn’t think so,” he reaches across the table, trailing his fingers along your hand. You snatch it back, ignoring his snickers.
He would be the death of you, you were certain. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking that it may not be such a terrible way to go out.
Neither of you are sure how to proceed after that night in the library, an obvious tension lingering between the two of you. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to address it, but you were growing exhausted with pretending that it had never happened.
It seemed like Chan was perfectly content with that, however. He hadn’t even mentioned it once, continuing to text you and show up outside your dorm and classes like it was all still part of a plan. And maybe it was. Maybe he was a great liar, but that didn’t explain the rift that had settled between you two. If he had lied that night, why could he hardly meet your eyes now?
You didn’t ask, because you feared the answer – both possibilities. Though when you turned to Mina and Jihyo for advice, they were adamant. They were convinced they were right all along, that there was a budding romance beneath the hatred. So, it was quite hard to get any sort of unbiased guidance from them. This was something you’d have to navigate on your own.
And by navigate, you meant continuing to avoid it. Hopefully Chan would crack before you did.
After almost two weeks of letting the unspoken words nearly suffocate you, you had begun to believe you really would have to forget it had ever happened. If he wanted to speak on it, he would. Nevermind that he could say the same thing about you; it was him that had started it, so he had to be the one to acknowledge it. It was only fair.
Your phone rings in the middle of the afternoon, during your thirty minute interval between classes. It’s Chan, which isn’t the surprising part (he had learned your entire schedule by now).
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he says only a few seconds after you pick up.
You roll your eyes, hardly registering his proposal. “A ‘hello’ might be nice.”
“Hi,” he utters. “Let me take you to dinner.”
If you agree too easily, he’ll know you had been waiting for him to say something like this. And with how straightforwardly he had asked (or stated, rather), he clearly expected your agreement. You could make him grovel just a little bit.
“You wanna see me again?” you quip, the most you’d allude to the library incident.
But Chan could match your attitude ten times over, so he has a quick retort. “I just figured if we go to dinner you could post a picture on your story, really commit to the bit,” he explains flatly, and then laughs when you’re silent. “What? You wanted me to say I want to see you?”
“Fuck you.”
“You said you wouldn’t,” he reminds. “Remember?”
If he could see you, he would undoubtedly point out how flustered you were, then follow it up with a dumb joke about how the offer was always open. And you would have to hold back from taking him up on it.
“Really doing a good job of making me want to say yes,” you chide.
“Please let me take you to dinner. I’ve been thinking about our library date, and I wanna take you on a real one.”
You huff loud enough for him to hear over the phone. “That wasn’t a date,” you correct. “And I’m busy tonight.”
A lie, but he didn’t need to know that yet. There’s shuffling on his end, and then his voice comes out sharply.
“Busy with what?”
“That’s really none of your concern,” you can’t help but grin at your own mischief. “But if you must know, I’m seeing someone tonight.”
“Y/N,” he growls, and it’s hot. You try to imagine the look on his face (why couldn’t he have FaceTimed you?), and it makes you weak.
“So, what time are you picking me up?” you ask, voice syrupy sweet despite your antics. Like honey masking poison.
He exhales loudly, and you can hear all the unease release from his body. If he was going to be so wound up about you even potentially seeing someone else, why had he taken so long to address your ever-present tension?
Maybe he was just as confused as you.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “I’ll be there at seven.”
He hangs up before you can hound him about the first half, not even sparing a second to confirm the time. No, you don’t know what you do to him, but it was inevitable that you would find out. And he would make sure that you understood to the fullest extent.
It’s difficult for you to decide on an outfit for dinner with Chan, one, because you’re still tossing with the idea internally and two, because you aren’t sure what’s an “appropriate” amount of dressed-up. If you look too good, he’ll think you’re trying too hard to impress him, and you’ll never hear the end of that.
Though, you had already agreed to going to dinner with him, so you probably wouldn’t hear the end of that, either.
Mina and Jihyo choose an outfit over FaceTime (and so kindly remind you to “at least make him wear a condom”), one that teeters right in the middle of simple and dressy, and you’ve fixed your hair at least a dozen times by the time he’s knocking on your door.
When you open it, he stares at you, and then tears his eyes away to roam all over your body. He draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Wow,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful.”
The compliment comes with no snarky follow-up, and he doesn’t even tease you when you feel your face heating up. He takes your hand and holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you; you would have never taken him for such a gentleman.
He doesn’t tell you which restaurant he’s picked, but the drive isn’t long before you arrive and are seated, his hand finding its way back to yours while you walk through the aisles.
As you sit there scanning the menu, you can’t help but realize you’re at fucking dinner with Bang Christopher Chan. And he’s staring at you like you wouldn’t notice.
“What?” you question, and he drops his head, chuckling.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just can’t believe how much things have changed.”
“You’re still annoying, don’t get it twisted.”
“Yeah, well, you still agreed to get dinner with me,” he shrugs.
He thinks he’s won with that, turning his attention to the menu. But even if he’s right, you aren’t letting him shame you so easily. “You would’ve begged me if I didn’t,” you smirk.
His eyes snap back to yours, the mischievous glint forcing him to fight back the more impure thoughts. “You know, that mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”
“Yeah? By who?”
“Careful, Y/N,” he warns, words coming out through clenched teeth.
You flash him an exaggerated smile, thanking the waitress when she returns with your drinks, and Chan curses himself for being turned on by how quickly you switch from a temptress to the sweetest angel. He stumbles over his words while giving his order, and you giggle softly without even knowing you’re the cause of it.
Considering Chan had brought you to dinner, you felt confident enough to bring up the subject of what the hell was going on between you two. Specifically the Friday night you’d left unaddressed. “So, is it finally time we talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“This,” you motion between the two of you.
He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “We’re having dinner,” he replies coyly.
You figure admonishing him for his feigned ignorance won’t bring you closer to an answer, so instead you push further.
“But why?”
“I told you, you can post it on your story or whatever. I’m sure Jaehyun still stalks your socials.”
You’d seen quite a few random spam names in your story viewers, so you knew it to be true, but you also knew that couldn’t be his reasoning.
“You also told me you wanted to take me on a ‘real date,’” you mention, and he throws his head back against the booth.
“Jesus, Y/N,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just have a nice dinner and worry about the semantics later?”
Obviously, the answer was a resounding no, which he should have expected since he understood your stubbornness better than anyone. “Oh, for you to pretend it never happened and leave me wondering for weeks? Sure thing, Chan,” you sneer.
You probably should have excluded the part where you admitted you’d still been thinking about that night, because he latches onto it and uses it to evade answering any more questions.
“I really get in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he grins.
“Or maybe I get in yours,” you shoot back. “What did you say? Something about ‘I don’t know what I do to you’?”
He rubs his jaw, exhaling through his nose loudly. Because you really didn’t know what you do to him.
“Princess, you don’t get into my head. You’ve never fucking left it.”
Your food is brought over moments later, right on cue, leaving you sitting idly, stunned. Chan pretends not to notice, already moving past his previous admission.
“God, I am starving,” he groans. He takes a bite of his meal, and then blinks at you when you haven’t even slightly shifted. “What’s wrong? You wanna take that picture for your story now?”
If you heard the word “story” one more time, you were convinced you’d actually implode. And you’d take him with you, just to annoy him in the afterlife.
“Don’t do that,” you hiss. “Don’t act clueless.”
“Well sorry for trying to be a believable fake boyfriend.”
Nothing about this felt fake anymore, and when he says it, it feels like a harsh reminder. That vicious awakening from the middle of a good dream, pulled to the surface of reality when you’re in such a deep slumber.
“That’s all you are, right? My fake boyfriend? So why do you say and do all these things that make it feel so real?” you demand.
Your meals are all but forgotten now, and the booths around you are probably getting more of your argument than any of you would like. You swear you can see the lady in the booth to your right staring at you and then leaning over to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Hopefully she’d give her some advice to never get involved with idiotic men like Chan.
He rubs his temples, growing more exhausted by the minute. “I’m trying to figure that out. I came up with a stupid plan, and somewhere along the way the lines got blurred.”
“You blurred them!” you whisper-shout, eyes widening in disbelief.
“You let me,” he says simply, and you can’t deny it. Though he’s still far more culpable for your current situation. “Listen, we can talk about it more on the way home, yeah?”
It’s his cop-out, and you should know this, yet you relent anyway. You aren’t surprised when he refuses to discuss it further in the car, either, and when he tries to put his hand on your thigh, you push it away.
He deserves that, but it still makes him sulk internally. If he couldn’t offer you answers, you wouldn’t offer him any more of yourself. At least, you’d try your best not to (easy to say, harder to do).
When he drops you off, you hardly give him a goodbye, so he knows he’s fucked up. His chest tightens at the thought of not being able to make it right. Of letting you go without telling you everything he’s been thinking for the last month.
He isn’t even sure you’ll give him another chance, but he figures he needs to sort his mind out before he faces you again, for both of your sakes.
The texts slow and then stop altogether, and you don’t see him at all for another week. Maybe you had pushed him enough that he had been scared off (still, he could at least fake break up with you). Though you had never taken Chan for someone who could be scared of anything, especially with his constant arrogance.
“That’s just how men are. They run when shit gets too real,” Jihyo says, fixing her top.
The three of you were currently getting ready in your dorm, because the minute you had texted the groupchat stating that you were desperate for a night out, they were basically busting your door down. And you couldn’t blame them, because you were never the one to initiate, but right now, it seems like the only distraction you have left.
“I think he’s just a little confused,” Mina adds with more eloquence. “I mean, do you even know what you want?”
“Yes,” you grin. “I want to go out, have a good time, and forget about all of this.”
Mina rolls her eyes at your avoidance, and Jihyo clutches her heart dramatically. “My Y/N is so back, I could cry right now.”
You know very well that a party is not the magical cure for all your problems – in fact, it’s the indirect cause of nearly all of them – but your other option was to spend another weekend in your dorm preparing an internal monologue about Chan’s cowardice. So, yes, you were going to a party.
“You know they’re both probably going to be there, right?” Mina advises. Both of the banes of your existence, though for drastically different reasons.
“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I won’t even notice that they’re there”
Between the three of you, there’s not a soul that believes your lie, but nobody questions it.
Though perhaps they should have, because maybe it would have made you reconsider before you ended up in your current situation. Which was searching through a sea of bodies for one particular person, even if you weren’t sure what you would do if you found him.
Mina notices, too, watching as your eyes sweep all along the room while nodding every once in a while, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. You really hadn’t caught a single word she’d said for the past three minutes.
And although there were plenty of people there, you were confident you’d be able to spot Chan out of a crowd. But so far, there was no sign of him, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed.
Unfortunately, however, you had spotted Jaehyun. In the back of the room, looking completely untouched, sipping on a drink with his friends on one side and a girl on the other. But he looked disinterested, not paying her any mind, nodding along indifferently. He looked like you, searching for someone amidst the chaos.
“Y/N!” Mina barks, and you turn to her immediately. “Are you even listening at all?”
“Uh, yeah,” you lie.
She throws her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Really? So what do you think, should I go over there and talk to him?”
She points to the left of you, but there’s at least five guys in the general vicinity she could be referring to. Of course, you’d know who she meant if you hadn’t been so checked out while looking for Chan.
“Um, who?” you ask carefully, and she groans, frustrated. “I’m sorry! I think I need another drink. To clear my head.”
You take off for the kitchen before she can argue, the counters covered in discarded solo cups and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Tempting. Instead, you open the fridge, pulling out one of the remaining unopened cans.
When you turn around, you’re stuck in place, a firm chest blocking you from walking away. You’re about to complain, to remind whoever it is that there’s a thing called personal space, but one look up has the words refusing to come out. It’s Jaehyun, of course.
“Y/N,” he falters, studying your face as if he’d forgotten your features.
Your heart races, not from anything other than the discomfort of confronting someone who you once thought the world of.
“Leave me alone, Jaehyun,” you spit, and he steps back, granting you some space and the freedom to walk away if you so choose. But you don’t, not yet.
He takes note of your stillness, encouraging him to speak again. “I will,” he nods. “But you haven’t given me a chance to explain, and I need you to know how much I regret what I did.”
“Yeah, well, good for you.”
He sighs, and a quiet moment passes between you, one that makes you picture him kissing that girl all over again.
“Are you with him?” he asks, under his breath. You stare at him with feigned confusion, lips pressed in a taut line. This time, he speaks louder, intentionally. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N, please. Are you with Chan?”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t. But I owe you an explanation, and if you’re with Chan…” he trails, and it sends you over the edge. You tell yourself your anger rises up solely because of Jaehyun, but it’s undeniable that half of it comes from all you’d bottled up during the days without Chan around.
“Then what? Then it doesn’t matter? You cheating on me just gets justified because I’m with Chan?” you snap, voice increasing in volume with each word. “Guess what, Jaehyun, your fuck-up is to blame for all of it.”
Even with the thumping music, your voice carries throughout the room, and a few people glance over, intrigued. Someone pushes through the crowd, entering the kitchen right as Jaehyun opens his mouth to argue back.
“Is everything okay over here?”
Both of you look over, though you don’t need to to recognize the voice. It had become your favorite, even when it was teasing you or whispering innuendos just to unnerve you.
“Chan,” you whisper, and he heads straight for you, ignoring Jaehyun’s unwavering glare.
In a few quick steps, he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him like he hadn’t ignored you for a week. “Hey, baby. Are you alright?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Baby. That was a new one. He had called you princess more times than you could count, but it had started as a taunt and never really felt like anything more than that. Baby, however, had your heart pounding and mind racing.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you swallow, finding more interest in the ground now. For a second, you forget all about Jaehyun in front of you, and it reminds you that Chan’s actions are probably directly correlated. After all, the original plan was to get back at Jaehyun, and what better moment than right now? The final act to your months-long play.
“So you two are together,” Jaehyun concludes, frowning.
“Don’t look so upset,” Chan grins wickedly. “I’ll treat her better than you ever could.”
Try not to take his words seriously, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. This is all for show. But as always, he makes them sound real, adding a layer of intensity you can’t ignore.
“You’re not good enough for her.”
You’re about to chime in, to remind him he has no say in what or who is good enough for you, and that it was rich hearing that from him of all people.
“And you were?” Chan laughs humorlessly. “C’mon, baby, let’s get out of here, yeah?”
He squeezes your shoulder, looking down at you, waiting for your agreement. And as you glance between him and Jaehyun, something takes over you entirely. You pull his face towards yours, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. When he closes the final inches, your eyes flutter closed, his lips crashing onto yours.
It’s quick, soft, restrained, and not at all like what you expected (or wanted) kissing Chan to be, but it serves its purpose.
Jaehyun stands there, wordlessly, the most satisfying look of outrage plastered on his face. Chan sees it, too, a small chuckle leaving his parted lips. He’ll probably burn the image in his mind to remember it whenever he needs a pick-me-up.
And while you’re a blend of emotions between the kiss, facing Jaehyun, and Chan’s declaration, you keep yourself together for now, yanking Chan’s hand to lead him away. “Yeah, let’s go.”
You maneuver through bodies, making it to a noticeably more empty section of the house before you finally release his hand. If you’re lucky, he’ll go back to ignoring you, and you won’t have to discuss whatever just unfolded.
Unfortunately, you haven’t had much luck recently.
“Bold move there, baby,” he quips.
There it was again. Only this time, Jaehyun’s not around, so there’s no explaining away the pet name. Does that make it better or worse? You aren’t sure.
“Shut up,” you mumble, “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”
Your night out had been ruined, and you swore you’d be done with parties for good. At least in your dorm you could save yourself from running face to face with anyone who either cheated on you or refused to share their feelings.
“I’ll take you home,” Chan states, not offers.
“I’m not getting in a car with you. You’ve been drinking.”
It was an assumption, but a reasonable one. Though clearly incorrect, because he quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head immediately. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, actually,” he refutes, now pulling his keys out of his pocket and swinging them around his finger.
So much for that excuse.
“Whatever.”
He takes this as your reluctant surrender, now grabbing your hand and leading you to his car which was only a little ways down the street. And despite the kiss, you still had nothing to say to him – or rather, way too much to say to him, and no desire to say it if he wouldn’t talk first. So a thick silence falls between you, leaving you with just the lingering feeling of his lips on yours.
“Quiet today,” he comments, stealing a glance you don’t return. You keep your head pressed against the window, a dull headache already forming from the night’s events and the alcohol.
“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble.
His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I know,” he mutters.
“And I think I hate you again.”
“Well, the ‘again’ gives me some hope,” the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Means I had you on my side for a little, at least.”
“You did. Until you wouldn’t talk to me and ran like a coward,” you insult, watching his shoulders drop and smile fade as fast as it had come. You almost regret saying it. Because all your insults before had been quick, meaningless jabs that he could brush off. This one came with intent, a bitterness that wouldn’t be forgotten seconds later.
“Yeah, I deserve that,” he sighs. “We’ll talk soon, okay? When you’re not tipsy and overwhelmed.”
“I don’t believe you,” you say flatly, still not lifting your head from the glass.
He reaches across the console for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I mean it this time. Because I’ve been going crazy without you. And that kiss just sealed the deal.”
“Please,” you scoff, forced. “It was hardly a kiss.” Hardly. Your minimization of it wasn’t wrong in a literal sense; it was short-lived, lacking the passion you knew you both had within. But regardless, it had completely hijacked your brain, so clearly it wasn’t hardly anything.
“I know. That’s the problem. I need more.”
Now, you turn towards him, trying to decipher his expression. It’s unreadable for once, devoid of that familiar smirk. You want to tell him if he needs more to take it, that he can have everything he wants if he just says the words. But those words don’t come, not tonight, and you close your eyes against the window once more.
Before you leave for your dorm, he reaches for your hand again, pulling it to his lips.
“Soon, I promise.”
You nod, trying to believe him, though you wonder if it would hurt less if you don’t.
You didn’t particularly like loose ends.
That’s why after weeks of dangling a fake relationship in Jaehyun’s face and the culmination of it all at the party the night prior, you decided to confront him fully and at least hear what he had to say before you closed the chapter for good. You didn’t owe that to him, certainly not, but you felt like you owed it to yourself. An explanation for why he did it to quell the thoughts that had never completely gone away. Which he also said he owed you, anyways.
And perhaps this was all amplified by the fact that most of the day had passed and there was no text, no call, no anything from Chan. He had only said “soon,” not “tomorrow,” but still. Some form of acknowledgement would be enough to placate you, but he hadn’t even spared you that.
So, with a final layer of lipgloss, you considered your makeup complete and mentally prepared yourself for the impending doom. You looked irresistible at least, everything Jaehyun could never have again.
But nothing could ever go to plan (once again, luck hadn’t exactly been on your side), so you aren’t shocked when a knock on your door disrupts your evening.
“Hi, princess,” Chan grins when you swing it open. Then, his eyes trail down your body, tugging his lip between his teeth subconsciously. “You look good.”
Well fuck. Why did he have to show up now? A text in advance might have saved you from unintentionally double-booking yourself, or maybe you’re at fault for assuming Chan was ghosting you again today.
“Thanks,” you smile half-heartedly, heading back to your mirror to look yourself over once more. It’s far too awkward to face Chan knowing you’re about to go see your ex, especially when you and Chan had almost established…something. Something real, beyond the pseudo-relationship.
He senses that you’re withholding something, watching you suspiciously. “Going out?” he questions, and you curse under your breath. Bracing for the storm.
“Something like that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His tone is already accusatory and you hadn’t even dropped the bomb yet, so you really had to prepare yourself for his reaction. At best, he would storm out and you could deal with it later, after you had dealt with Jaehyun. At worst, you’d have a full-blown argument in your dorm right before the other inevitable argument you’d have with Jaehyun.
“I’m going over to Jaehyun’s,” you say softly, guilt washing over you when his face drops instantly. But you didn’t need to feel guilty – you were allowed to seek closure, especially when Chan hadn’t yet granted you transparency. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you were making the right choice.
Chan’s blood runs cold, and he waits for you to laugh in his face, to tell him how dumb he looks when he’s angry. Something snarky, something annoying. Something. Anything. He doesn’t care, as long as it means you aren’t currently getting dolled up to go see your cheating fuck of an ex boyfriend.
Instead, you say nothing, shifting on your feet uncomfortably.
“Y/N, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m just hearing him out,” you say flatly. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“No, it’s not a crime, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re looking like that to go ‘hear him out?’”
You look down at yourself, a lacy bodysuit and skirt adorning your body – not to appeal to him, not at all, but to remind him what he had lost. Was it a little melodramatic? Maybe. Were you allowed to be melodramatic when confronting someone who had made you question if you weren’t enough? Definitely.
“Yes! What’s wrong with that?!”
“Everything is wrong with that!”
“Oh my god, Chan, you got what you wanted,” you throw your hands up in frustration, “I’m sure you’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw us kiss last night.”
“You think his face is what I was thinking about after we kissed, Y/N?” he asks incredulously. “I was thinking about you, only you, and how right it felt.”
Was this his confession? It was beginning to feel like it. If only it hadn’t come at such a horrible time and in such a horrible way, maybe you would be happier. Now, the words sucked the air out of your lungs, leaving you speechless and uncertain.
“So fuck what I wanted back then. What I want right now is for you to realize you deserve better than someone who broke your heart and your trust in the worst way possible,” he finishes, holding himself back from pulling you into his arms and screaming that it’s him. He’s the one who will give you everything you deserve; he’ll make it his life’s purpose to do so.
“I’m just hearing him out,” you repeat again, emphatically, though no matter how true it was or how believable you made it sound, Chan refuses to accept it.
“Right,” he scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you two all over each other in the corner of every party again.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already heading for the door, unable to take another second of seeing your face and knowing you won’t be his.
“Hope it works out, Y/N.”
The door rattles as he slams it shut, and the room feels colder, emptier. And not just because of Chan’s physical absence, but because of what it entails. The same man who you hated - and who you swore hated you - had made you feel more seen and valued in not even two months than Jaehyun had in nine. He had put more effort into a fake relationship than Jaehyun had put in a real one. You were letting that go for some semblance of closure from someone who broke you.
Previously, you had tried to convince yourself your feelings had never become real. That of course your heart would beat a little faster when Chan would remember things about you, that of course you would like the way pet names fell from his lips, that of course you couldn’t stop thinking about him in every single way possible, from pure to downright filthy. This all made sense, of course, because he was the hot guy you were faking a relationship with. It had nothing to do with Chan, and everything to do with your body and mind being too receptive of what you’d been deprived of before.
But you simply couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. And that’s why, for once, you knew what you needed to do. You type out another message to Jaehyun, deliberating each word carefully. It would be the last you’d ever give him, at least in this capacity, where he still felt like he had a small chance at getting you back.
actually, i’m not coming over. i thought about it, and nothing you say can make me forget what you did…i didn’t deserve that, jaehyun.
i know what i deserve now.
i hope you learn from this and treat the next girl better.
His texts come in quick succession, frantic pleas and apologies and then the angry ones regarding Chan. You don’t answer him or even give him the solace of knowing you’d read them. Instead, you turn your phone on DND and throw it behind you, hoping it’ll get lost in your bed sheets.
And though you’ve done the right thing, there’s still the unavoidable grief over something that once was. The only person you want comfort from right now is Chan, but you know you should give yourself the space to reflect and process properly. He probably wants some time away from you, anyways.
So you don’t call or text him. You avoid all the spots you know he frequents. You make yourself as nonexistent to him as possible. And worst of all, he doesn’t even come searching.
There’s no way for you to know how badly he wants to see your name pop up at the top of his screen, or how he waits for you outside the library on days he knows you usually study. You don’t know that he stayed up late that first night, hoping you’d call him. Each notification made his heart jump, and after the eighth one that wasn’t from you, he finally turned his phone off completely.
He didn’t want space, nor time. He wanted you. And beyond that, he wanted you to know you deserved more - that he would give you more. But he can’t fault you for any of this; he can only blame himself for not telling you sooner.
When a week goes by and it’s still silence on your end, he figures you’d forgiven Jaehyun and taken him back. And that’s just something he’d have to live with.
The days pass by slowly, monotonously, and though you argue with Mina and Jihyo that it’s healing, they complain that you’re just wallowing in needless despair (“Girl, get your man,” had been the phrase of the week).
And you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to face him after the way you’d left things. There was a gnawing worry that he wouldn’t answer your calls or texts, so you don’t even try. No, you decide you’ll just have to show up at his apartment, and yes at nine o’clock at night, because you couldn’t put it off any longer. The yearning was almost consuming you.
Though Chan had been to your dorm multiple times, you had never been to his apartment; it was way less convenient to go off-campus where he lived. You had to get Chan’s address from his roommate, Minho, who you had already known from a shared class last semester. And he had also texted you a few times begging you to do something about Chan’s moping, because it was “making his life miserable.”
While it was off-campus, it wasn’t far, and your determination was enough to ward off the apprehension of walking alone at night (though Chan would definitely not be pleased). Still, you kept Jihyo on the phone for the whole fifteen minutes, slight reassurance for both of you.
You can barely bring yourself to knock when you arrive, feeling much less composed now that you were actually there, separated from Chan by only a door and thin walls. Your fist meets the wood without you fully realizing it, and it swings open with ferocity moments later.
“Hi,” you choke out, all of your composure gone when he’s standing before you.
“Y/N?” he asks, blinking in awe to confirm that you’re real. He’d started to accept that your presence in his life was a thing of the past, a treasured memory he’d hold onto. “What are you – Jesus, it’s so dark out. Come on, get inside.”
He reaches for your arm and drags you inside, leading you all the way to his room; Minho’s home, and Chan doesn’t quite want him to hear the moment the girl he’s been losing his mind over ends things for good. Is “end things” even the right term, since there had never been a defined “thing” in the first place?
His room is not much different from any other college student’s room, with books and papers sprawled on the desk and empty energy drink cans filling the trashcan. But it’s his, and that makes your heart swell a little.
“I can’t believe you walked all the way here this late,” he scolds. He gestures for you to take a seat on his bed, and when he sits in his chair across from you, you deflate a little at the distance.
“I had to see you,” you whisper.
He clicks his tongue, trying not to melt at your words. Because to him, you’re with Jaehyun, and there’s probably some other rational explanation for why you’d shown up at his apartment at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what it could be, but it exists, surely. “You know if you had texted me I would’ve been there in minutes,” he asserts.
“Actually, I didn’t know that,” you correct, folding your arms over your chest, “considering the way you stormed out last time we saw each other.” Which may have been justified, but still.
“Can you blame me? You told me you were going to see your ex boyfriend who cheated on you, by the way. And then you didn’t even bother to call or text, so what was I supposed to think?”
“You could’ve called or texted me!”
“I thought you went back to him!”
He stands, chest rising and falling heavily, and he looks so distraught your anger fades. “I didn’t,” you say, softer now. “I didn’t even see him that night. We haven’t even spoken since. Or I guess that’s not totally true, he’s spammed me and I’ve ignored him.”
His eyes soften, and he crosses those few feet to sit beside you, mattress dipping under the added weight. “Why?”
There’s a million ways to answer that question, and you aren’t sure which is the right one. So you go with what flows naturally, not giving it a second thought.
“Because I realized I need more too,” you confess. “No more pretending, no more lies.”
Though your chest feels lighter with the confession, the room feels smaller and your throat tighter because Chan doesn’t speak, or move, you don’t even think he blinks. He doesn’t mean to stare at you like this, but you’ve left him stunned with words he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and he worries if he speaks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.
You start to rise from the bed, fighting back tears of rejection and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come – ”
His hand latches around your wrist, gently yet firmly, and you fall back to the bed with a quiet gasp.
“I haven’t been pretending. Not for a while now,” he breathes, and now you’re the silent one. “You’re right, I was a coward. I’ve wanted you so badly and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along the skin faintly, confirmation that you and this moment are very real. “I should’ve told you everything. How much I think about you, how much I hate it when you’re not here.”
There’s hardly any space between you now, foreheads nearly touching, breaths intertwining.
“How I can’t get that kiss out of my head,” he exhales. “How selfish I feel for wanting more.”
You shake your head. “You’re not selfish,” you whisper, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile.
“I am, because I want you all to myself.”
“Then you have me,” you say simply, as though such a claim wouldn’t change everything. You’ve had me without even knowing.
He can’t hold back anymore – he’s done enough of that over the past month – because those words are his absolute undoing.
“Can I kiss you right this time?” His eyes drop to your lips, awaiting, begging for your permission.
You nod eagerly, and that’s all it takes for him to place his hand along your jaw and draw your face towards his. His lips melt into your own, this time with all the passion you’d both held back before.
And while the kiss starts soft, tender, moving against each other with the carefulness of a blooming love, it quickly plunges into desperate desire. Your fingers thread through his hair, delicately at first, until you tug at the roots and he groans into your mouth.
That sound. That devilish, sinful sound. It causes the heat within your core to grow tenfold, and you kiss him more fervently now, tongues swirling together. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, then drops his head to your neck.
And when your head tilts instinctively, offering him more skin to mark as his, he can’t help but smirk because he loves having this effect on you. He’d realized it that day at lunch, when he couldn’t do anything but skim your thigh under the table. But you were offering, so who was he not to take? He nips at the skin and runs his tongue along each spot afterwards, soothing, claiming.
“Mine,” he mumbles against your neck, and then he kisses his way back up to your lips, mouth hovering over your own.
“Chan,” you rasp, “I want you.”
His lips crash against yours once more, because he can’t help himself when you’ve just said you want him so desperately. “Yeah? You want me, baby?” he asks, breathless.
You shiver when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles along your waist. “Yes,” you sigh, and then louder, “yes, God, I want you.”
He grips your waist, only sheer will keeping him from ripping off your clothes and fucking you right then and there. Because he wants to savor every last moment of this, but some small part of him is going feral – not a devil on his shoulder, but his throbbing cock trying to push through the seams of his boxers. So actually not a small part, because he’s big, you can see the imprint in his sweatpants.
“Are you sure?” he questions. “Because if you want me, that’s it. There’s no more Jaehyun, no more anyone else.”
Was he genuinely asking, or just trying to make you fall apart? You can’t tell, but you’re so needy, you answer regardless.
“I don’t want anyone else.”
His hands hook under your shirt while he guides you onto his lap, and you raise your arms for him to pull it off while you settle against him. He pauses, drinking in the sight – you haven’t even taken your bra off yet – and then his palms find your breasts, massaging through the fabric.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, thumbs flicking over your covered nipples. The moan it elicits is so delicious that he does it again, and then again, cock twitching in his sweatpants.
“You only think that ‘cause I’m shirtless,” you quip, toying with the hem of his like you needed to make things even.
“No,” he says firmly. “Always thought you were the prettiest fucking girl ever.” He reaches behind his neck, yanking his tank top up and over his head, and you swear your breathing stops momentarily. This is what he’d hidden behind t-shirts and hoodies (and that jacket you still hadn’t given back to him), and honestly, how dare he?
But you can’t focus on that a moment longer, because he dips his head down to press his lips against the tops of your breasts hungrily, dragging wet kisses all the way to your sternum. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats, fingers unclasping your bra and tugging the straps down.
His mouth is on you again before it even hits the ground, like he’ll keel over and die if he isn’t tasting you, and right now, he really thinks he might. So, for survival, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, tongue swirling around it, then flicking.
Each careful movement of his tongue causes your breath to hitch, hips rutting against him for any sort of friction, and he moans against you. His hands grip your waist, stilling your movements, and as a punishment – if you could call it that – he bites gently and tugs the sensitive bud between his teeth.
“Chan,” you moan, and when you feel the curl of that signature smirk, you become emboldened. “Who knew your mouth could actually be useful?”
Because although you definitely didn’t hate him now, you could at least reflect on that history, if not just to drive him a little wild. And hopefully he’d fuck you just a little bit harder.
He growls then, his hand sweeping along your side to squeeze your other breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm. And when you least expect it, his hand comes down, slapping your breast with enough force to make you gasp.
“Fuck, I’m gonna miss that smart mouth of yours. Always thought it was so hot the way you’d act like you actually hated me,” he chuckles, now massaging the skin.
“I did hate you,” you rasp. You aren’t even sure if that’s true anymore, because you can’t think. His cock pressing into you has your mind in a frenzy. One where your only thoughts are of having him inside you, stretching you open, filling you up.
When he lifts his head from your breasts, his eyes are dark, lidded, and boring right through you. Daring you to say it again. To lie and see where it gets you.
“You sure?” he whispers, tauntingly. “Because I always saw that look in your eyes.” His fingers dip lower, slipping into your panties, and he laughs when you shudder. “Deep down, you wanted to know all the filthy things I could do to this gorgeous body.”
Maybe you did. It matters little what you wanted back then, because you could only think of what you wanted right now, and his fingers were drifting dangerously close to it. But he was playing with you, not bringing them any further, waiting for your admission.
“You flatter yourself,” you whisper. The wrong answer, clearly, because he pulls his fingers away, gripping your chin now. Forcing you to look at him, because he knows you won’t be able to keep up the act if he’s staring at you so intensely.
“Say it’s not true then,” he orders.
You should be able to say it. You should be able to look him in the eyes and tell him he was once everything you wanted no part of. But he starts peppering open-mouthed kisses along your neck again, unfairly, and your voice betrays you. “It’s not true,” you mumble weakly.
Your fingers fly to his hair and tangle at the strands, but he won’t let you off that easily. Of course not. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers.
“No,” he growls. “Say it like you mean it.”
His commands only add to the ache between your legs, and you accept that you can’t win. Your silence tells him everything, and he releases, hand patting your cheek like he pitied you. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, satisfied.
Your breathing becomes ragged when his hand trails down again, and this time you’re sure that he’ll relent and give you what your body was craving. Or maybe that was just you trying to convince yourself.
“You never hated me. You hated that you knew I was better than your boyfriend,” he smirks, slipping his fingers into your jeans. They drag down, slowly, finally stopping right at your core. “You hated that you wanted to know what it would feel like if I touched you here,” he taunts, rubbing your pussy through the soaked fabric of your panties.
“Shit, you’re this wet for me?” he groans, fingers gliding up and down, pressing harder when they pause at your clit. “I guess I was right, then.”
Any other time you would have been able to throw something sarcastic right back at him, but not now, not when he was teasing you like this. It was the closest he’d gotten to touching you where you so desperately needed him, and your hips buck unwittingly again. “Please, Chan. Need you,” you moan.
“Yeah, I know baby,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you everything I’ve been dreaming about doing to you.”
And then you’re pushed off of him and onto the bed, hitting the sheets with a quiet squeal. The same fingers that had been rubbing your clothed pussy now hurriedly unbutton your jeans, and you lift off the bed slightly to help him drag them down along with your panties.
Once you’re completely naked before him, his movements lull, now taking in every inch of exposed skin.
You feel like you’re drowning under his eyes, because the last person to see you like this had betrayed you, had touched someone that wasn’t you. This was the reality of infidelity – the insecurity, the nagging, cruel insecurity that seeped into places it shouldn’t. Because Chan would never.
And he sees it, too. The way you begin to falter and drift elsewhere. Your head turning against the pillow, refusing to face him.
“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your jaw, pulling your face back towards him. “Where’d you go, baby? Don’t hide from me, please.”
You swallow harshly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not hiding. Just…worried I’m not enough,” you mumble, and the words break him. He hated Jaehyun before, but he despises him now, because he made you – who he considered the most beautiful girl to ever grace the earth, even when you were calling him an idiot – feel less than. And that’s something Chan would spend the rest of his life undoing if he had to.
His thumb strokes your skin now, trying to wipe away the remnants of anyone’s touch that wasn’t his. “No, stop that. You’re more than enough. You’re perfect,” he says.
Your cheeks heat up from the affirmations, and he kisses you to cement them. But it's short, subdued, as he moves further down, lips grazing your neck, your chest, then your navel. He sinks lower, hovering right above your cunt, spreading your legs apart.
“So perfect for me,” he breathes, and you can feel the air hitting against you. “You’re mine now. You won’t have to worry about anyone else ever again.”
The words can barely sink in before his tongue is on you, licking a slow, tantalizing stripe between your folds. It’s so sudden that your hips lift off the bed, and his hands come quick, wrapping around your thigh and pinning you down. He swipes his tongue again, and then he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, devouring what had been kept from him for too long.
“Fuck, Chan, please,” you moan, grabbing at his hair for something to ground you. He groans into you, both from your fingers tugging and the sound of you moaning his name like that.
“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard, tugging, releasing. Then, he swirls his tongue, creating a pattern that has your back arching, threatening to come undone.
You’d thought about this. Lonely nights in your dorm, touching yourself at the thought of how he would look between your legs, about how his tongue would feel against you. But there was no way to anticipate this. He lapped at your pussy like he was starved and you were the only meal he’d get again. He’d like that, truthfully.
Your body is trembling by the time he draws his head back, and the lack of his warm tongue causes you to whine. “Patience, princess,” he coos.
Before you can beg him to touch you again, he spits directly onto your cunt, letting his fingers spread it as if your slick wasn’t enough. And the action is so erotic, so filthy that your thighs clench involuntarily and he has to hold them open.
Two fingers push inside you, and his tongue is back, flicking your clit with urgency. He pumps them languidly, curling them against your g-spot and then pulling back until you’re almost empty. His name leaves your mouth through choked cries and it only drives him further, because he needs you to unravel just like this. His tongue circles your clit in rhythm with his fingers, hitting your sweet spot with each pump, and his pace quickens when he can tell you’re close.
“Chan, please don’t stop!” you pant. “Fuck, I’m so close.”
It’s all too much - his fingers, his tongue, the lewd noises of them bringing you to the edge. “Go on, baby, give it to me,” he coaxes. “Come on my tongue for me, just like that.”
With his permission (which was much more of a plea), you let go, throwing your head back against the pillow. Your whole body comes alive with the intensity of your orgasm, ripping through you in currents while he continues lapping at your pussy lazily. It’s only when he pulls his fingers out for the final time and sucks them clean that you come down, chest heaving.
“My mouth sure is useful, huh?” he teases, laughing when you roll your eyes.
His laughter is cut short when you sit up on your knees and tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, head lowering. Your intentions are clear, but he grips your shoulder, halting your movements.
“No, no, princess, it’s okay,” he huffs, using his last bit of self-restraint. He can’t believe he’s turning down head from you, but right now, being buried inside you is his priority.
You can’t believe it either, blinking up at him sweetly, eyes wide with confusion. “But I wanna return the favor,” you pout.
Jesus, were you an angel from above or a succubus from the depths of hell, he wonders?
“Fuck, I know, baby,” he groans. “But I need to be inside you, right now.”
He sounds so desperate that you feel like you’re in control now, and you reach for his cock through his sweatpants. Wrapping your fingers around it, stroking softly. “You wanna fuck me, Channie?” you purr.
“Yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist – all your control, gone. “You want it too, don’t you baby?” He stands, ridding himself of his sweats and boxers at once. His cock springs free, precum beading on the tip, and he cages you against the bed. “Or can you not take it? Hm? Is one all this pretty pussy can give me?”
The flip switches in you instantly, arms slithering around his neck, yanking him to you. His lips crash onto yours, all teeth and tongue, both of you at your neediest. When your hand slips down to stroke him, thumb spreading precum along his length, he lets out a low guttural sound into your mouth.
“Baby, shit, you’re killing me,” he rasps.
“Can you die inside me, at least?”
That he could do. Happily. Willingly. He reaches over you, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside. And though you shouldn’t, you bring your hand to his wrist, stopping him.
“I’m on the pill, if that helps,” you whisper. “I need to feel you, nothing else.” Your words are sinful but your eyes are so sweet, looking up at him like you’d break if he denied you.
“Fuck, princess, you’re trouble,” he groans, shoving the drawer closed and bringing his hand to your cheek instead. He swipes away a few strands of hair that had fallen, trying to soak in every inch of your perfect face.
“You love it,” you giggle.
“God, yes I do.”
He grasps his cock and fists it a few short times, then guides it along your pussy. Your slick coats his shaft immediately, slow drags making your head spin. And when he slaps the tip against your clit, you know he’s doing it just for that. To drive you crazy, to hear your whines, to see you writhing for it. For him. Would it be appropriate to call him a smug bastard again?
“Stop teasing,” you beg, your voice a strained whisper.
“But you’re so cute like this,” he says. “What’d you say again? ‘Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you?’”
You buck your hips against him, a poor retaliation, and he laughs, positioning himself at your entrance. “Well look at you now, princess.”
He presses into you just the smallest bit, enough for the tip to slip inside, still teasing when all you wanted was for him to plunge inside you and fuck you senseless. That small amount of pressure is gone in an instant, leaving you empty once more.
“Chan,” you whimper. “Please just fuck me, I can’t take it.”
You might cry if he keeps this up, still sensitive from your last orgasm but so desperate for another. And while he wouldn’t mind driving you to that point, his cock is painfully hard. Even he’s at his limit.
“Oh, baby, you’re gonna take it,” he taunts, thrusting forward in one swift motion. He bottoms out and stays there, immobile, reveling in your cunt stretching around him. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”
“Would feel more amazing if you would move,” you hiss, and he actually listens. His hips snap against you with a purpose, slow and deep, watching every inch sink further.
Each thrust reaches that sweet spot that has your back arching and nails digging into him. You can already feel the fire building inside you again, clenching around him in a way that has him wondering if you’re a dream. “Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, hips bucking faster now. Less restraining and savoring, more adhering to his primal urge to fill you up entirely.
“Funny. Jaehyun said the same thing,” you pant. You aren’t sure where the confidence comes from, especially when he’s the one pounding into you; maybe he’s fucking the attitude back into you. But you know it’ll get you into trouble, the good kind of trouble, the kind where Chan wrecks you mercilessly.
And oh, he does. He thrusts wilder, rougher, almost carelessly, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room.
“Yeah? Well he fucking lied, baby,” he growls. “Because you feel that?” His hand presses down on your stomach. “That’s all me. My cock you’re squeezing like a fucking vice.”
His hand slides down, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit. The added sensation brings you closer to the edge, and he’s nearly there as well. “Chan, oh my god,” you moan, nails dragging along his bicep.
“You’re so tight,” he grunts. “Did he ever fuck you right?” He won’t even say the name, because it holds no meaning now. You’re his, and he’ll fuck you enough times that you won’t remember anyone else.
Your walls clench harder around him, his thumb circling relentlessly. “No,” you cry. “Not like you. Not like this.” That answer satisfies him, and he pulls back all the way just to slam into you harder.
“I didn’t think so,” he muses. He leans down, nipping at your neck. “Forget about him. All you need to remember is me and my cock ruining you like this.”
You’d already forgotten, only able to think about how Chan was the one currently fucking into you like he had something to prove. You’re so close to release, strangled cries of his name escaping your lips while your thighs clench around him. “Ah, Chan, I’m gonna come!” you whimper.
“Fuck, me too, baby,” he grunts. “You want me to fill you up? Leave your pussy leaking with my cum?”
His words are your final propulsion, and he emphasizes them with each rut of his hips. Your back arches off the bed, face contorting in pure euphoria, and Chan commits the image to memory. It matters little that he knows he’ll see it many, many more times; he wants to watch you ride every single high until the end of time.
Your orgasm washes over you, setting every inch of your body aflame, and you want more. More of him. All of him. “Yes! Please fill me up, please,” you beg, voice breaking from the overstimulation.
He can’t deny you, doesn’t want to deny you, and he couldn’t anyways. You’ve basically sucked him in, legs keeping him held in place. He thrusts into you one final time, a low groan emitting from someplace deep within, hips jerking erratically as thick, white strings of cum spurt inside of you.
When you’ve milked every last drop from him, he pulls out from your spent heat and falls to the bed dramatically, limbs flopping as if he’s dead. And maybe he is, because that was definitely heaven.
You lay there side by side, chests rising and falling in sync, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation for what just happened. How you ended up like this, his cum dripping from you, your scratches welting along his back, when just months ago you couldn’t stand each other. Supposedly.
Then comes a knock on the door, and you both are struck with the realization that you’d forgotten Minho was home, in another room, hearing everything. Or rather, Chan had forgotten, and you’d never known. Never even considered it.
“Are you two done in there?” he calls from outside. You lift your head and look at Chan with wide eyes, and he shrugs like he’s just as clueless.
“Uh, yeah,” Chan shouts back. You bury yourself under the sheets, expecting the door to swing open. Thankfully, it doesn’t. But the alternative might be worse.
“Y/N, when I asked you for help, I didn’t mean by moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors in my apartment.”
Minho’s footsteps pad away from the door, and you pull back the sheets, horrified. “Was I really that loud?!” you exclaim. He hadn’t said anything about your volume or even tried to quiet you, and you were far too consumed to notice.
“A little…” Chan rubs his neck sheepishly.
You wish you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, because how would you ever face Minho again? And their poor neighbors, no less. The walk of shame was going to be unbearable. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing!” you groan.
He shakes his head vehemently and kisses your forehead, a small reassurance. “No! No, baby, it was so hot,” he coos. And then it hits him. “Wait. Minho asked you for help?”
“I guess you were going crazy without me,” you smirk. This time he groans, and you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me now.”
“Like I’d ever want to,” he whispers.
His lips press into your hair, and you can’t help but sigh against him. Because any remnants of hatred, if they even truly existed, are gone, and you’re left only with the peaceful acceptance that this was a glimpse of countless days to come.
how about fingering styles? not most to least, but how they do it, how they like to touch you in bed, maybe, who prefers groping, and who prefers caressintlg, stroking, etc?
(went through too many pretty pictures of their hands on pinterest, and my overall kink love for hands resurfaced)
MDNI.
chan: big & warm hands that love to grip your waist, squeeze your thighs, and hold you still when you're squirming too much. he curls his fingers with purpose, hitting that sweet spot in a rhythm that gets tighter the closer you are. his thumb never leaves your clit. he watches your face, tracks your body’s responses. he won’t stop until you beg or break.
minho: loves grabbing the underside of your thighs, kneading your chest with intention, pinning your wrists down with one hand. one finger, then two but doesn’t give you everything right away. he holds you in place, murmuring filth calmly while curling his fingers just to the edge of release, then pulling back. if your eyes roll back, he smirks. he wants to see you lose composure and he works hard for it.
changbin: heloves feeling every inch of you & he’s not subtle about it. uses strength to his advantage, holding your legs open with one hand while working you open with the other. kisses your neck and shoulder while fingering you. loves when you grip his forearm or whimper his name.
hyunjin: fingertips light at first then when you’re soft and open, he slides in one finger slow, watching your eyes and whispering affirmations. he works in circles with slow thrusts, he never rushes. would focus entirely on your reaction. he murmurs how beautiful you are while kissing your chest, watching every microexpression.
jisung: touches, grabs, strokes, cups everywhere!! whatever gets the best reaction. he’s shameless w his hands, moving from your throat to your hips without hesitation. he might start soft, then suddenly plunge deep, curling up hard until you’re gasping. loves doing it while you're in his lap. he talks nonstop through it, but when you cum, he quiets down just watching you with blown pupils.
felix: runs his hands along your thighs, your stomach, your breasts slow, like you're breakable but underneath, there’s hunger. one hand teases your clit with slow circles while the other strokes deep and steady. soft spoken praise. constant checking in. but if you whimper his name? that’s when the deep, dark growl escapes and his pace doubles.
seungmin: his hands are calm but possessive. one resting on your lower belly while the other plays between your legs like it’s second nature. he keeps a steady rhythm and knows exactly how to angle his fingers to hit where it counts. he’s not loud, but his intensity speaks volumes. switches between pressure & pace. might hold you in place while his fingers work mercilessly, watching you unravel without giving in too fast.
jeongin: he’s gentle at first then faster once he hears how you react. he adjusts based on your breathing, trying different angles until he finds exactly what makes you cry out. by your second orgasm, he’s gripping your thighs and telling you not to stop shaking.
i think that chan & jeongin have the prettiest hands 🤤
“Here’s your next client, Y/n. Make sure to do a job well done.”
Noel, your micromanager boss, hands a slip of paper to you, a few sentences written in a neat script stating who you were to assist next. Your eyes roam the sheet for the name as you’re curious who’s left after the long day you’ve had. A stray piece of hair falls in your face, tickling the bare skin. With a huff, you’re able to blow the hair away just in time to read the name on the page.
Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin.
Shit.
Is today your lucky day? Hyunjin was the CEO of Lovette Fashion and he was here to promote his next line. You love his style and aesthetic as he keeps it clean and simple with a pop of color which aligns with your personality so well. You’d love to own a few outfits of his, but alas the price of the garments is an obstacle, your meager salary not even close to being enough to eye a shirt.
Taking a deep breath, you Steele yourself for the task ahead. Hyunjin’s dressing room is a few doors down and so you walk the short distance just to stop in front of his door. Raising your hand, you pause for a moment, contemplating if you’re really going to go through with this.
Will you be able to be in close proximity with this man? After all, he has the looks of a god that makes you swoon. Your heart is pounding forcibly in your chest already and you haven’t even entered the room. Dammit, you’re screwed.
You can do this, you can do this, you think before knocking on the door, your knuckles giving the wood a few soft taps. A muffled ‘come in’ is heard and you make your entrance prepared to excel at your task.
Hyunjin is perched in the vanity chair, his right leg crossed over the left. His slender hand holds his phone daintily but the item is quickly locked and discarded at your entrance. He looks at you expectedly, his gaze piercing through your soul or so it would seem.
“Hi Mr. Hwang, I’m Y/n and I’ll be preparing your look for the shoot this afternoon.”
“No need for formalities, you can call me Hyunjin.”
“Hyunjin?” His name slips off your tongue beautifully. You begin to feel faint and you’re not sure if it’s because of the man in front of you or the fact that you’ve barely eaten today.
“Yes?” Hyunjin cocks his head, curious as to what you have to say.
Shaking your head, you scamper over to him and sit your bag down. Quickly you unload the products you’ll need to complete his look. Your hands are sweaty and you notice a slight tremor. God, you hope he doesn’t notice, the embarrassment you’d feel almost too much for you to handle.
Finally set, you turn to face Hyunjin to take in his look. “Since you’re going with neutral colors, I figured we’d enhance the look with golds and soft browns.”
“Sounds perfect. I’m in good hands,” Hyunjin replies with a smile. He scoots back in his chair and gets comfortable, waiting for you to start.
You pick up a brush and begin your work, making sure to be quick but thorough, mindful that the finished product will need to look flawless. Time passes and somehow you are able to eventually finish. Setting your tools down, you let out a sigh of relief as you take Hyunjin’s face, in awe of how the neutral look appeals to his charm.
“Well? How do I look?”
Crossing your arms, you smile softly and say, “Beautiful.”
“Beautiful eh?” Don’t fall for me now, you might not be able to handle the consequences.”
Hyunjin smirks and shifts closer to you, his breath fanning across your face with the last few words. Your cheeks flush and you giggle nervously, unsure of what to say to his flirty banter. Instead you watch as he stands up and stretches briefly before turning to walk towards the door.
Finished, you deem it okay to start tidying up. Your brushes and palettes are scattered across the vanity and gathering them is slightly a pain, since you have a specific order you like to keep them in. You’re grumbling to yourself about the fact when you hear a click followed by another.
“What the fuck?”
You swivel around to find Hyunjin still at the door, his hand wrapped around the doorknob and twisting it desperately.
“The damn door won’t budge.”
“What? What do you mean the door won’t budge?”
Hyunjin turns to stare at you incredulously. “Exactly what I said, the door won’t open. We’re stuck in here.”
At his words, your mouth drops open in shock. No, you can’t be locked in, you have so many more clients to get to this afternoon. You definitely do not have time to be locked in a dressing room.
“What are we going to do?” You whisper, not sure you’re going to like any response from the man.
“Well, let me see if I can call Malcolm. He can get us out of here.”
Hyunjin takes out his phone to locate the manager before pressing the phone to his ear. He stares straight ahead, a look of annoyance on his face while he waits for an answer. A second passes and then two and then three before he scoffs under his breath and shoves his phone back in his pocket.
“No answer, the bastard,” he says with a scowl. Hyunjin begins pacing, unsure of what to do next. He was needed in, thirty minutes and if he’s not out there by then, everything will be wrong and that is something he doesn’t want to consider.
Your eyes follow Hyunjin, twenty steps to the left followed by twenty steps to the right. Over and over until you start to feel dizzy.
“So um,” you fiddle with your hands as you consider what to say next. After a few minutes and a glare from Hyunjin, you swallow thickly before asking, “How are we going to pass the time? You know, until Malcolm calls back?”
Hyunjin pauses halfway in the middle of the room and slowly turns towards you. You’re sure terror is plastered on your face as he smirks at you, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.
“Oh there are ways we can pass the time cupcake.” Hyunjin takes a step towards you, his gaze locked on yours. “Wanna know how?”
“H..how?” You mumble, your voice barely above a whisper. Hyunjin easily closed the gap between the two of you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell the perfume that graces his skin.
“Lemme show you,” he purrs before leaning down and locking his lips with yours.
You gasp against him before succumbing to his actions, your body relaxing slightly as he works his lips with yours. His hands find your hips and slowly, he backs you up until you feel the edge of the counter pressing sharply into your legs. Hyunjin pulls back slightly, just to graze his lips against yours as he presses himself further against you.
Your heart pounds and you feel as if you’re losing yourself, savoring how his hardened dick feels against you, hot and heavy and waiting just for you. You’re still caught up in the kiss that you’re taken unawares as he spins you around, bending up over the vanity counters.
His eyes finds yours in the mirror and you watch as he unbuckles his pants, discarding them quickly. You glance behind you just to gasp as you take Hyunjin in, his hands wrapped around his thick length. He smirks as he takes you in, his dick twitching in his palm.
There’s no way that’s going to fit, you just know it, but the prospect of being full of him fills you with warmth, with need that you find yourself bending over even more, presenting yourself obediently to his wandering eyes.
Hyunjin growls and grasps the waistband of your pants, shoving them down forcefully. Gazing into the mirror, you watch as he steps closer to you, pressing the head of his dick against your folds. He ruts against you, sliding his member through your warmth, coating it with your juices until you’re whimpering in need.
Hyunjin chuckles at your greed and then taps your shoulder, wordlessly commanding you to look at him in the mirror. You comply, wanting to be full of his dick, panting his name like it’s a prayer. However, you’re in for a surprise when a tentacle sprouts from his pelvis, followed by another.
You don’t get the chance to voice your shock at the additional appendages and instead you let out a moan as he slides his dick within you and thrusts into you with a steady pace. Hyunjin is intentional with his movements but forceful and you find yourself being thrust forward against the counter, each movement rubbing softly against your covered breasts.
“Fuck,” Hyunjin grunts as he thrusts deeply within you, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the otherwise quiet room. “Let’s see if you can take a little more.”
Your eyes wander to the mirror and you watch as a tentacle winds its way toward your ass and slides into your tight hole, causing you to let out a mewl at the new sensation. He matches his thrusts with that of his dick and your mouth falls open, overwhelmed with the pleasurable sensations spreading throughout your body.
You feel yourself completely succumb to the mercy of the man behind you, your body chasing after your high. You can’t think, can’t see, only feel as he fucks both of your holes. Your moans fills the room and you can feel drool drop from your lips and puddle on the counter.
“You’re almost there cupcake, I can feel you slip away. Let’s get you there hm?” You weren’t able to focus but felt something slither around your body before wiggling rhythmically against your clit causing you to squirm in Hyunjin’s hold. It became too much and you tried to move away but instead was pushed down with his hands pressed against your head.
“Ah! Hyun…fuck!” You whined, closing your eyes and succumbing to the tingling that was building within your belly and spreading rapidly to your pelvis.
You could hear Hyunjin moan and whisper obscenities as he brought you to orgasm, your body spasming in his hold. He didn’t slow his movements but instead kept the steady pace, abusing your holes and clit until he let go with a growl. You vaguely could feel his cum fill your holes, as your vision went black before slowly coming back to normal.
Once Hyunjin was done, he stepped back, allowing his dick to slip from your entrance, his cum spilling out and down your thighs. His tentacles slid back into place before he grabbed a towel to gently clean you up.
Your heart was pounding and your breathing unsteady but with each passing moment and gentle touch from Hyunjin, you felt more calm. He helped you up and dressed you before giving you a smile.
“I’m only kidding, we were never locked in cupcake. Just provided the moment for me to make you mine.”
With that, Hyunjin turned on his feet and strode out the door, the object previously in question opening easily without a fight. With a soft click, the door closed and you stared incredulously after Hyunjin. You could still feel his cum leak from your hole and the thought of him breeding you just now made your heart skip a beat.
Hwang Hyunjin was yours. He definitely made sure of that.
⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Bro is spectacularly whipped, heavy infatuation and sexual tension, emotional turmoil, prison violence, manipulation, strong language, explicit sexual content (see masterlist for more)
Silver. Silver rings on long, dexterous fingers, silver necklace around the neck that held his head way too high, and silver tongue in his mouth home to all kinds of sins…
Ask anyone who that guy was, and they would grunt his name due to their raging urge to either kill him or fuck him.
It wasn’t the sheer thrill of breaking the rules that drove Chris to the convoluted world of crime. He let himself ride the waves of his bad decisions to see where it would eventually take him. He ended up crashing his surfboard into the shores of opioids, and he liked it there. Simple as that. No tragic backstory or anything.
Not only was he great at what he did, but he also possessed exquisite mastery over the arts of the tongue. He could walk right off anything just by talking his way out of it, which made him the singular common denominator unifying their rival clans. He had haters just because he existed, and rightfully so, to be frank.
“They got Jake.”
Now imagine the absolute field day the aforementioned bitter foes had when they heard the shit hit the fan for Crown Street.
Jake. The resident troublemaker aggressively looking up to his mentor and way too impatient for his own good. His sworn protégé. This was the umpteenth time an emergency meeting was taking place to come up with a strategy dedicated to saving his ass.
“What are our options? Give it to us straight,” boss man Oliver demanded from their lawyer.
“Jake has priors. This doesn’t look good,” Johnnie stated bluntly. “If he talks, this time around he’s getting locked up for at least ten years with no chance of parole, if not a life sentence.”
Chris held his head between his hands, utterly frustrated and internally cursing Jake’s ass off for not being more careful. For not being more patient. For having this stupid compulsion to prove himself.
To whom, bro, we all fucking know what you’re capable of!
“Is there nothing we can do?” Chris appealed emphatically. “I’m not gonna let the kid rot in that hellhole.”
Johnnie leaned back in his chair and looked him dead in his eyes, albeit with a defeated expression.
“Hypothetically speaking, if someone else with no priors on paper owns up to it, I can negotiate a deal for as little as five years.”
“How the fuck is five years little?!” Oliver yelled while slamming his fist on the circular ebony table.
“Under these circumstances, it actually is. You’re lucky we’re not trying to dodge a death penalty here,” Johnnie declared. “All you gotta do is find someone to take the rep. Play nice, and they can get out on parole in a year or so.”
Fascinating thing, loyalty. Things that would never even pop up in your wildest dreams, it would make you do without blinking an eye. What was there to even think about when you knew someone’s fate was lying in your hands?
Especially if that someone meant the world to you.
“I’ll confess to it.”
“Chris. No.”
“What’s the alternative, huh? He’ll get jumped before 3 p.m. on his first day,” Chris countered immediately. “Johnnie’s always had our back. If this is the lesser of the two evils, I’ll do it. He says I can be out in a year.”
“But what if you can’t?” Oliver implored him to see reason. “This is jail time we’re talking about, mate, not fucking community service.”
He didn’t even have to say anything. One look into his eyes, and Oliver knew what that meant. Once he set his mind to something, it was impossible to talk Chris out of it no matter how obvious the end result was. He was one of those people who had to experience things firsthand, either to brag an ‘I told you so’ or to finally acknowledge what a horrendous mistake he had made.
“You already know I’m well-versed in the arts of surviving, brother.”
That very sentence he formed ended up being the one he had to serve. Luckily for him, it at least had a full stop at the end although it ran on for several pages. He didn’t care. Anything to protect one of his own.
Stay strong.
Kia Kaha.
I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.
That was the oath you had taken. Well, you had to because apparently some guy named Hippocrates was extremely triggered by the concept of perjury some centuries ago. So either swear to it and make the unbreakable vow, or rip your fucking diploma in half. That piece of paper had cost you a whole lot of money with a good deal of your sanity in the process, so no, thank you very much.
It wasn’t the sheer nobility of the profession that drove you to become a doctor. If the design of the human body and mind had fascinated you this much, why not make a career out of getting super intrigued by the total length of an average adult human’s blood vessels? Out of all the places you could have picked, you took a job at a maximum security prison as the chief attending physician because, hey, multiple birds with one stone.
I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.
Nobody told you to take on the challenge of serving the most ‘infirm’ crowd available, but you did it anyway. What better setting to practice your craft than a correctional facility after all?
“I’m leaving. Will you be home by dinner?”
“We’ll see.”
Not even a ‘Have a good first day, sweetheart’. Fuck that, not even a curt ‘Good luck’.
The awkward tension between you and your husband wasn’t always palpable enough to cut with a knife. Not that anything specific happened to cause that, but somewhere along the way, something indeed snapped, and you started growing apart day by day. Maybe it was the unbearable heaviness of the mundane, coloring your entire marriage in the bleakest shade of gray. The affection? Gone. The desire? Gone. You were nothing more than two roommates at this point because you didn’t feel like doing anything for him anymore. Why bother when it was one-sided? Why bother getting a gift for someone, imagining how happy it was going to make them when they couldn’t even care less? Why get upset when they didn’t react exactly in the way you pictured they would? No one put a gun to your head to get the said gift in the first place, which meant they didn’t owe you shit, did they?
When it was your spouse in question, it felt like he did. For wasting years of your life, trapping you in a loveless birdcage if not for anything else. Cue the unsolicited commentary and advice from the spectators of your life.
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”
“Get a divorce.”
“You can’t fix him. Just walk away.”
How fucking easy it was to tell someone to make a drastic change in their life in a split second… Would you stop drinking coffee just because someone told you to? Fuck no. You had to believe it wasn’t doing you any good anymore. Everyone’s tolerance to change was different, after all; some welcomed it with open arms, and some avoided it like the plague. In any case, only when you felt confident about your eventual decision, only when you felt ready, then and only then would you make the change.
Because nobody was going to go through the consequences on your behalf if shit went south, nor were they going to take the blame for your prospective unhappiness with the outcome.
I will not be ashamed to say “I know not”...
It was fine. Your marital bed, which was empty most nights, was not your place of work. Breaking an oath within the confines of your suffocation was not going to harm anyone.
Other than yourself.
Inmate 8MS3HF92.
That was Chris’ name for the past ten months. Nothing that could humanize him, merely letters and numbers. Another statistic to quote in recidivism reports maybe.
The only time he would be reminded of his identity was when his prison family addressed him—they were the circle of people showing him the ins and outs of navigating the hell simulator with as little damage and as much profit as possible. To all the guards, to the warden, to everybody else, he was just ‘inmate’.
Not for long, though.
He had only one instruction. Do not beef no matter what and survive, and that was exactly what he had been doing. His itinerary was quite straightforward—he was going to endure this for two more months, go up against the parole committee, be super charming, then get the hell out. He was probably going to return here within his first hour as a free man for beating the shit out of Jake, though.
If he had the balls to press charges against his Yoda, that is.
Chris took particular, not to mention excessive pride in the way he operated. Getting your own hands dirty was for amateurs. If he wanted something, he would talk his way into it. If he detected a threat, he would orchestrate the subtlest of feuds to have someone else get rid of it on his behalf. Obviously, ‘on his behalf’ did not mean that you would do it in full awareness that this was in his best interests. He would pitch it to you in such a manner that you’d have no choice but to believe the threat was actually posed to you.
Prison was like a gangster’s LinkedIn. The most lucrative connections they could possibly have were right under his nose—of course he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to bring in more business to Crown Street. After several rounds of meet and greets within his first month, he had successfully outlined the entire food chain and finally located where the drug ops ran from. Getting himself assigned to any other place was unequivocally out of the question.
“Work detail assignments. Fang, you’re working in the kitchen.”
What a pleasant surprise! Everybody, act shocked.
Smooth talking gets you only so far, of course. Put this man in a room full of his hardcore fans, and he would still manage to make a few enemies. That was both the curse and the blessing of being a charmer. If you didn’t annoy the fuck out of somebody for no reason, then you were doing it wrong.
…which was exactly why the closer his freedom date approached, the more intolerant his fatemates became. That was the tradition of this place. You’d go through the hazing when you were about to graduate, not during the first week of school.
“Fang. A word,” Andrei beckoned him towards the storage shelves right before lunch service.
It was of utmost importance for Chris to stay in the head honcho’s good graces until his hearing. The past ten months had been a very trying test of willpower for having to constantly repress the urge to jump this motherfucker, and patience was not exactly his strong suit. He wiped his hands on his apron and followed suit behind him.
“What’s up, boss?”
“We were expecting a little delivery from the commissary two days ago,” he snarled at him, piercing holes into his forehead with his ice-blue eyes. “What the fuck is up with that, pretty boy?”
“Yeah, about that,” Chris scratched his nape with a look feigning an apology like he was oh so sorry. “We’re experiencing a little hiccup. Should come in no later than Friday, though.”
“That’s not what we agreed upon.”
“I know, but I’m also leaning on other people here. I can’t exactly go out to personally bring in your heroin now, can I?”
Andrei cornered him against a wall and slammed both his hands on either side of him. As if Chris was some white-collar criminal only in here because his lawyer dropped the ball on his tax evasion case. Everybody with common sense would know it took a bit more than that to intimidate Fang.
“Your whore ass gets on my last fucking nerve, you know,” he flashed his half-rotten teeth. “Maybe your goddamn smug face needs some work done, huh?”
“If you think I need work done, you clearly haven’t looked in a mirror recently.”
So much for holding it together…
It was like a blackout that lasted for only two seconds. The words just jumped out of his lips before he could catch them in the air. The loud sound of glass crashing alerted the two guards on the floor, prompting them to dash towards the kitchen.
“Break it off! Break it off now!!!”
Chris might have managed to dodge getting his throat ripped, but a large piece of glass still made its way to his chest area, cutting a wound open below his left collarbone. A couple of centimeters more to the south, and he would have secured an early parole in a goddamn pine box. He was immediately escorted to the infirmary to get patched up, which he found fucking hysterical. There couldn’t be anything more ironic than nursing someone back to health just so they could rot some more. He was anxiously shaking his legs while sitting on that gurney for someone to appear, washcloth still pressed on the bleeding wound and annoyed out of his mind.
“Yo doc, can we get this shit over with already?” he yelled towards the back of the room. “I kinda need to be somewhere right now.”
“Please excuse the tardiness to your schedule, Your Majesty. We’re a little shorthanded around here.”
Whoa…
Chris briefly wondered whether he actually died of blood loss on the kitchen floor because why the fuck else was he seeing an angel clad in white, not to mention in this soul-sucker den?
“Who the fuc—? I–I mean…”
“It’s fine, I’ve been called worse,” you responded without looking away from the incident report in your hands, then met his eyes at long last. “I’m the new chief attending physician. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Inmate 8MS3HF92 that got jumped in the kitchen.”
“Pretty name, huh? It’s French,” he quickly gathered his wits and grinned in response, “but they call me Fang for short.”
“Fang,” you snorted at the juvenile-sounding moniker. “Because you didn’t get your wisdom teeth out, or…?”
“It’s because you should let the sleeping wolves lie, beautiful.”
You knew what you were getting yourself into when you started working here, and your contract with Hippocrates included one thing in its essence: Help the sick and do no harm. In that particular moment, however, you crassly fistbumped him for blessing you with this Olympian eye candy shamelessly flirting with you for a change. Yes, this was an inmate in front of you, but all your suppressed urges could register was a pair of thick forearms adorned with bulging veins, long fingers pressing on his wound, and thighs spread wide almost invitingly. Telling you… To come closer… Then get on your knees… And then…
Well, if you were anywhere else but a prison, that is.
“Take it off, please.”
Chris felt a hard kick in his chest when you uttered those words, unable to register your request and just looking at you blankly with lips parted in surprise.
“Your top,” you pointed your pen at his wound, “so that I can examine the injury.”
“RIGHT! Of course.”
He removed the clothing as told, but never in your entire professional life did you have to contain something so primitive threatening to rear its head inside you. You bitchslapped your lizard brain pretty hard to remind yourself once again that this was a goddamn patient you had to attend to, not some man you were trying to pick up at a bar.
If only you knew that you weren’t actually alone in this struggle.
Your perfume… It was November, but you smelled like summer. Chris didn’t have much to hold onto, but you smelled like hope. Your latex-clad hands were running all over his chest, and he didn’t give a fuck that it was on his wound. His touch starvation was at such dangerous levels that trying to control the erection growing between his legs was harder than refraining from murdering motherfuckers in this place. To top it all off, the angel before him looking like that?
It was an enigma how he managed not to cum in his pants right then and there.
You finished stitching his wound in complete silence as he watched you with his lips slightly parted, and only when you informed him you were done was he able to come back to reality.
“Come back next week, okay?”
And once he managed to snap out of it, Chris instantly wore his other personality on his sleeve as a knee-jerk reaction.
“Say you’re gonna miss me, and I can come back tomorrow,” he smugly grinned. You eyed him from head to toe with brows furrowed in confusion.
“To get your stitches removed, Fang,” you scoffed. “You can go back to your easy bake oven now.”
So you weren’t easily charmed. No matter. He happened to fucking love the chase.
Chris left the infirmary that day with a stupid smile glued to his lips, full-on launching the crescent craters adorning his cheeks and secretly hoping you found dimples attractive in a man.
One borrowed touch was all it took. He found himself counting down the days to get his stitches removed instead of his parole hearing. All of a sudden, the walls weren’t closing in on him as much anymore. His breathing was still a little irregular, but seemingly for different reasons rather than the humidity crawling in the stone walls.
He was having trouble sleeping no matter how much he forced himself to because his mind just wouldn’t shut up about you. If only… If only he could fall asleep, maybe he could see you one more time.
One day. Three days. Five days. And finally back to the infirmary again.
God, if that didn’t feel longer than the time he had served thus far…
“Hey, doc!”
You looked up at the unusually chirpy voice that most certainly did not belong to the dismal backdrop of this place. It was the stitches man that looked more like a sculpture with a little chip on it.
“Feeling good today, are we?” you brightly smiled at him at the expense of giving him a mild heart attack while wearing your gloves to check the healing of his scar. “Did you get some good news?”
Chris actually had a snarky comment ready to go, but as soon as your hand brushed against his, he felt a sudden jolt and completely forgot what he was going to say.
“Fish tacos… for lunch.”
You couldn’t help but heartily laugh at the unexpected answer, effectively stopping his heart for about three seconds.
“I take it you’re very easy to please, Fang.”
Yes. Fucking yes. Just let me borrow your lips once, and I’ll die the happiest man.
As you got to work with a pair of tweezers to remove his stitches, Chris watched you completely awestruck as if he was appreciating a piece of fine art, right-click-saving everything he could observe about you into his mind. Your brows that creased whenever you were focused on something, your beautiful lips you licked every now and then, your hair that looked like it was made of pure silk, your skin that most certainly felt like velvet to the touch…
God, you’re like a queen.
“All done,” you smiled again, apparently adamant to kill him before he could even walk out of that door, and got up from the stool in front of him. “Don’t run around with scissors, okay?”
“Thank you.”
The gratitude was pretty much redundant since this was your job. You were literally on payroll to take care of people, but it still made your heart swell because the stitches man was the first person ever to thank you for your services.
“I uh… I’ll see you around. I guess…” he stared at his feet by the door somewhat abashed.
“I hope not. That would mean you injured yourself again,” you giggled and gently squeezed his shoulder. “Stay out of trouble.”
Oh, I don’t think so, my queen.
That night, Chris tossed and turned in his bed for what felt like hours to him. The first unprotected touch you shared without a layer of latex between his skin and yours burned like hell on his shoulder. If only… If only he could fall asleep, maybe he could see you one more time.
But he didn’t actually have to wait for that when you were all that he could see whenever he closed his eyes. So he did. He manifested you right next to him on his bed, and his hand moved inside his pants as if it had a mind of its own.
There you were. Your attention completely on him, your tongue glazing your lips every now and then. Why were you licking them, though? Was it because you also felt your throat getting dry? Was it because you also wanted to press them against his?
Fuck, I’d kill to feel those lips on me.
Your face. The way the corners of your mouth curled when you smiled at him. The way you slightly squinted your eyes when you were focused. Was that what you looked like when you were turned on, too?
I want you. God, I want you bad.
Your poise. The way you carried yourself. Firm steps, determined voice, quite obviously not taking shit from anyone. Grace materialized. A literal queen. His queen that he wanted to dedicate his entire life to.
I wanna be the floor you walk on. Fucking step on me, christ!
Just your sheer beauty. The way you oozed sexiness without revealing any piece of skin. The way you moved. The way you knew exactly what you were doing. Did you also know what exactly pleased you? Did you know all the things he was willing to do just to please you?
“FUCK!”
Chris didn’t even care about the hefty mess he made on himself as he arched on that god-awful mattress. The convulsions rippling throughout his body as he came were a different kind of intense. Up until that moment in his life, he had climaxed infinity times either with the assistance of third parties or all by himself, sometimes manifesting as an unimpressive shiver and some other times mind-numbingly hard.
But not once, never once, did it feel like surrendering his soul to someone.
If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty.
Above all, I must not play at God.
Chris wasn’t aware of what the Hippocratic oath entailed, nor did he have to take it. Ergo, he was free to ‘play at god’ all he wanted whenever the fuck he saw fit. Like when he overheard the Irish circle indulging in a little locker room talk as he was watching TV with his own entourage.
“Have you seen the doctor chick yet?”
“Complete cumdump material. You just know she likes it dirty, sassy-ass bitch.”
Every time Chris felt the onset of a rampage coming on, his mind would switch to autopilot and give him a singular command—fucking remove yourself from the environment if you want to see that parole committee. Yet the loud, sleazy waves of laughter blasting right behind him triggered him so hard that it took the willpower of a temple full of monks not to scatter this O’Connell lowlife’s brains out. God knows he came this fucking close to doing it, and he actually would if he wasn’t repeating the same thing to himself over and over again like a lunatic’s mantra.
Hold it. For her.
For her.
For her.
For her.
For her.
For her.
He could live with burning his parole chances, but not with not seeing you for an entire month if he went to the hole. He clenched his teeth to the brink of cracking them to put a leash around his urges and jumped to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Noah asked him.
“To hit the weights, mate. I’ll catch you later.”
Technically, he didn’t lie. He was indeed going to the gym, but not necessarily because his body craved that post-workout dopamine release. It was two in the afternoon, which meant someone was in the middle of some deadlifting.
“Paco!” he opened his arms like he was greeting a friend coming back from active duty. “There’s my main man.”
“What’s good, Fang?”
“Can’t complain. Can’t complain,” he walked behind the bench. “Here, let me spot you.”
Chris lent a hand with the presses as if that was the sole purpose of his visit all along and put the weights back in their place once Paco’s loud grunt punctuated the set. He offered a towel to the man sweating like he had been doing soilwork under the scorching sun, then kneeled beside him, speaking in a hushed tone like he was about to reveal top-secret information.
“Listen, you know you’re my brother, right?”
“Damn straight, man. Ride or die.”
“Something came to my attention, so I thought I’d let you know,” Chris glanced over the gym door and turned his attention back to Paco again. “You and I both know the guards didn’t just have an epiphany one day with all that sawdust they have for a brain. Someone ratted you out about the phone thing.”
“And if I find out which son of a bitch…” Paco almost ripped the towel to shreds, but when he saw the knowing grin on Chris’ face, his fury suddenly vanished. “No shit, you know.”
Chris slowly nodded.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but a little bird told me O’Connell cut a deal with the guards,” he tsked in disapproval. “Shit, we all believed it, but turns out he let them beat the shit out of him in exchange for keeping the phone for himself.”
“That MOTHERFUCKER…”
…and score. Now all he needed to do was pour some gas on the fire and start roasting his marshmallows over the magnificent arson he had just committed.
“Everyone is talking on the DL that he is out to colonize your outside resources, mate. I’d put a burner on his ass before he could even plan to do something if I were you,” Chris placed his hand on Paco’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “You know where to go to take back what’s yours. Find me if you need anything, yeah?”
“I owe you one, bro. I won’t forget this.”
Poof! That easy. It was astounding how none of these dumbasses knew how to burn sugar as brain fuel, so nobody ever questioned anything. In Chris’ defense, it took a lot of actual snitching for the ploys to work. Trust needed to be earned first; respect naturally followed. Now he could just sit back, relax, and watch the altercations unfold as the tension between the parties escalated through the roof.
Because he never got his own hands dirty. And now that this little wrinkle was ironed out, he could channel all his attention to the only thing that mattered.
You.
Chris’ only chance of catching a glimpse of you was to come to you in the infirmary. It wasn’t the fucking yard—of course the guards would never let him leave the wing unless he absolutely needed medical attention, so he needed to get a little creative to put on successful performances. If that meant cutting open some wounds to get some stitches, so be it. If it took standing in front of the ventilation grates right after a freezing-ass shower, so be it. You were worth risking pneumonia, infections, even fucking death. If you’d smile at him just once, he was going to be cured and reach immortality anyway.
“Does it hurt when I press here?” you gently sank your fingertips into his chest after listening to his breathing.
“I can’t tell. Do it again.”
“You realize this is a medical examination, Fang, not foreplay.”
“Says you,” Chris mischievously smiled. “You’re very much getting to second base with me right now.”
You applied pressure to the area right under his jawline sharper than your scalpels to check for swelling, then grabbed a throat swab for a strep test.
“Open wide.”
“Shouldn’t I be telling you that?”
“Bang…”
“Yeesh! Pulling out the government name and everything,” he raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t be mad, I’ll behave.”
You got your sample for a throat culture and went back to the back of the room to properly label it. Chris sat there in silence for some time and spoke with a soft voice that almost didn’t belong to him.
“I don’t know why the fuck you care this much, but I’m grateful that you do, you know?”
“It’s my job to care,” you responded without looking at him.
“I know, but…” he trailed off and took a moment to find the proper words. “Nobody else ever cared about me unless I was useful to them. You’re the first.”
Unless your eyes were deceiving you, when you looked up at him, you saw something glinting in his gaze in a faint shade of pink, terribly reminiscent of yearning. It was just a glance. It was nothing. It didn’t mean anything.
But it still made something thump really hard in your chest.
He slowly got up to his feet, approached you with careful steps, and placed a chaste kiss on your cheek, releasing one butterfly after another in the pit of your stomach with each second he lingered there.
“I owe you my life,” he gently brushed his fingers on your skin before heading back to his wing again. “Thought you should know.”
This was Chris’ third time in the infirmary within a span of two weeks. How the heck this man even functioned in a cartel while hurting himself this much was appalling, really.
Maybe he didn’t, and that was what landed his ass in prison in the first place.
“What is it this time, Fang? Tripped on a flat surface?”
“I figured you’d like to see your favorite inmate,” his face lit up like a Christmas tree at your sight. “Is that so bad?”
“Yeah, that’s not a thing, and don’t say that ever again,” you furrowed your brows, mildly nauseated. “What do you have for me today?”
Chris spread his legs wide to show you the cut on his inner thigh, blood oozing from it now dried.
“I wasn’t being careful with the knives during kitchen duty. Gotta be fast to feed so many people on time and whatnot.”
You put on your latex gloves, the supply of which was frequently used for Chris nowadays, and examined the wound closely.
“Looks like a clean cut, but you’ll need stitches again,” you observed, then retorted while preparing the suture. “Just bring a pattern or something next time so I can tattoo it on you. At least it’ll look pretty. Drop your pants.”
Chris was tremendously lucky you were facing away from him as he gulped that thickly, experiencing a sudden case of cottonmouth. He knew the remedy to that was hidden between your lips, of course, but that was neither here nor there, and certainly not to be brought up right that second. On any other Tuesday, he was the most shameless motherfucker that ever walked this earth, but at that moment, he was somehow feeling extremely self-conscious about putting himself on display for you.
His rabid heartbeat was about to choke him to death.
You pulled a stool right in front of him to get to work, your instruments neatly placed on the surface right next to you. When you locked your eyes on your target, you got momentarily furious at yourself for wondering whether his thighs were always this sculpted or if he shaped them out during his time here. Heaving a deep sigh, you penetrated his skin with a needle to proceed with stitching his wound, but that wasn’t when he hissed.
That sharp inhale manifested itself when you placed your hand on his inner thigh.
“Am I hurting you?” you looked up at him questioningly.
“Nothing I can’t endure.”
Fucking RICH!
Of course he was going to lie his ass off. He wasn’t about to confess to your fucking beautiful face how he was barely enduring the lack of your lips on his on a daily basis. How it made him go so crazy that he was constantly on the brink of killing someone. How that contact just now went straight to the synapse connected to his X-rated inner mind theater and prompted a chain reaction reaching all the way down to his cock. One slip, and you were going to notice it. You were not supposed to notice it. Not yet. Not yet. NOT before he laid the groundwork first!
“A little pussy of you to gasp at a little needle when you’re in a fucking prison, don’t you think?” you broke into a taunting smirk.
“You usually swear this much?” he chortled in slight surprise at your commentary.
“Helps you gangstas check yourselves around me,” you replied with a firm voice, your eyes still glued to his thigh. “Doesn’t seem to work on you that much, though. You keep showing up here like this is a restaurant.”
“So what? Is it a crime to want to be tended to?” he responded with a knowing grin. “I like it when you take care of me. I don’t think that’s grounds for violating my parole chances.”
Like you were the one to talk. You wished you could help the smile he elicited out of you as if you were two people flirting over drinks at the aforementioned restaurant.
Fucking charmer.
“Don’t you think we got a little more than a Hippocratic relationship going on here, doc?”
His words landed like a nuclear bomb in your office, and Chris noticed that pause in your movements even though it didn’t take any longer than two nanoseconds. A sign. The sign he had been looking for all this time. To prove to himself he wasn’t delusional. It was true, wasn’t it? It was true, and this was the indisputable evidence.
“You shudder when you touch me,” he turned it up a notch.
“Bang, stop.”
“Exactly. I make your heart stop, don’t I?” he scooted just the tiniest bit closer. “You know it’s true.”
His voice turned deeper all of a sudden like he was trying to get a message across. It didn’t matter whether that message was in a glass bottle floating its way into obscurity without a proper address attached to it. Extremely lucky for him and to your endless misfortune, however, it indeed made its way to the intended addressee.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m married,” you looked away in panic.
His face dropped ever so slightly, barely noticeable to the naked eye.
You were…
Married?
But… But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Otherwise, why would you spend all this time with him, alone for that matter, running your hands all over him and getting fucking goosebumps because of it? Your playing house thing was just a formality, wasn’t it? You had only stated an unprompted fact. Like how it was Tuesday and the weather was bleak and there was tapioca pudding for lunch. That wasn’t an invitation for him to make himself scarce. Otherwise you would tell him to. Otherwise you would yell at him. Otherwise you would strike him in the face instead of getting heart palpitations like what the FUCK?!
“Doesn’t take a genius to conclude it’s not a disgustingly happy one,” he commented in a stoic voice, completely contrary to the violently raging storm inside him turning everything to dust. “Is it because he works so late? Doesn’t cherish you like you should be?”
“It’s none of your business.”
He continued examining your face while you kept stitching him up as if the answer was written there somewhere. Because it was. It always was.
Nothing told the truth like someone’s averted eyes.
“Or is it because he’s out a little too much? He doesn’t come home for dinner anymore?”
Fuck.
You involuntarily flinched. Of course you did—everyone would when you pressed salt on the wound.
“So that’s why,” he tilted his head and continued, more pleased than he should have been. “Why do you even put up with that when he’s out fucking someone, calling her all sorts of vile things? Do you still let him go down on you with that mouth when he comes home?”
“Maybe it worked out for the best that I don’t need to worry about anyone going down on me with that mouth,” you hysterically laughed in response and handed him the antiseptic, trying to brush away the interrogation over your failing marriage. “Hold this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It fucking means you need to know the taste of something to crave it. Christ,” you mumbled through your clenched teeth, then heaved a deep sigh to calm yourself. “This should heal nicely.”
His eyes widened upon your words as if you had just told him he was getting out the next day.
“Wait, so you… Like, you’ve never…”
As you were putting your instruments away, you put on an applause-worthy performance, acting like you weren’t even slightly aware of your face burning up to the tip of your ears. Chris, on the other hand, was trapped between feeling somewhat endeared versus some type of weird relief.
And extremely turned on thinking about the noises he would have you make if he dropped to his knees for you right about now.
“Fuck me, you really don’t know what it’s like to get your pussy licked, do you?” he started laughing in earnest.
As much as you were annoyed out of your mind, you didn’t answer and returned to the stool to clean around the wound in silence since nothing intelligible was going to come out of your mouth anyway. So what if no one ever went down on you? What was so funny about it? It most certainly didn’t warrant mocking to the extent of bullying. Would you throw a maniacal laughing fit right at his stupidly gorgeous face if he told you he never got his dick sucked? Where the fuck were his manners? What were you even doing looking for manners from an inmate?
Yet even though his question was rhetorical, he kept pressing for a reaction out of you.
“It’s fucking phenomenal. Nothing quite like it,” he continued his verbal torture. “Especially when you have someone eating your pussy like they’re gonna fucking die if you don’t cum in their mouth. It takes a woman like you to induce that kind of appetite.”
“How would you know how it feels?” you loudly scoffed to ignore the buzzing sensation below your waist. “Do you have a secret clit I don’t know about?”
“I fucking wish, but I have references instead,” he discreetly licked his lips. “They would tell you all about the first-degree murders I committed with my tongue. I can give you their numbers if you wanna confirm.”
He was adamantly painting you this tantalizing picture and forcing you to look at it, infesting your mind with the image of himself between your legs. Slowly killing you with curiosity so that you would snap and find out for yourself if it was really the kind of infernal experience he was making it out to be.
And unfortunately for you, it was fucking working.
“But you’re not terribly upset with me, are you?” he faked a pout which quickly turned into a smirk again. “Because this doesn’t bother you as much as you believe it should.”
You were wondering whether Chris had somehow managed to install wires in your mind, shamelessly narrating your own thoughts back at you. Your heart almost stopped when he touched the stray strands of hair right in the intersection of your nape and your ear.
“See? Why else would you close your eyes when I touch you?”
He placed his hand on your cheek, concerningly warm to the touch courtesy of his relentless flustering attempts. You knew what your rational reaction was supposed to be, and you were desperately looking for the whereabouts of your sanity to fucking act on it, but…
But…
You found yourself leaning into his touch instead, not a shred of courage present in your soul to open your eyes and look at him. You heard a soft rustling sound, then a source of heat approaching your way, and then…
A kiss.
So soft but unbearably intense. So warm but sending jolts down your spine. So tender but lethally passionate. Asking for permission to stay a while longer, begging you to please please not send him away, and it was gaining speed like a plane was about to take off with his fingers getting tangled in your hair. His tongue clashing with yours, your lips consuming his, pairs of hands trying to find their way to the other’s face.
If you didn’t take the last exit right about now, you were fucking doomed.
“No!” you pulled away from him hurriedly as if someone had electrocuted you, panting hard to catch your breath. “Go. We’re done here.”
“Are we?” he flashed an unconvinced smile.
“You don’t have to come in every time you sneeze. Just… Grow a pair and learn to be fucking careful,” you quickly made your way to your desk to occupy yourself with filling out patient forms.
“I would hold that thought if I were you,” he got up to his feet to make his way back. “This is a prison after all. The only place worse than here would be the third circle of hell.”
Right before he left, he stopped right behind your chair, leaned in, and breathily whispered.
“When I come in to get my stitches removed,” he placed the softest of kisses on your ear, “we’ll pick this up where we left off.”
Chris was perfectly aware playing doctor with you was not a sustainable plan at all. He had to find a way to position himself around you strategically so he wouldn’t have to remind you of his existence every five minutes.
And he had to do it fast before he inflicted fucking permanent damage on himself.
“An idea, boss,” he nonchalantly uttered one night, bouncing a ball against the cell wall. “Don’t you think it would be more lucrative if I was in the infirmary instead? It’s literally the stash of this entire fucking prison. Kitchen just ain’t it anymore.”
“That’s out of the blue,” Noah creased his brows. “Where did that come from?”
“Out of the blue? Have you missed the memo on our feud with the Vices? They want my ass on sight,” he turned serious all of a sudden. “If I’m out of the wing, at least I won’t have to constantly look over my shoulder. It’s either this or I’ll have to hide in the hole, and I’d like to avoid solitary if I can, thank you very much.”
Chris liked to think that he was smarter than most, if not all people, but there was something he wasn’t quite able to conceal from Noah, a family man to two beautiful girls. He could read anyone like the damn book in his hands, and Chris should have known those hawk-like observational skills were a byproduct of being a father, not a veteran gangbanger.
“And you swear this has nothing to do with the doctor lady?”
He continued with his reading as if he hadn’t said what he just said, stunning Chris hard enough to lose the ability to form coherent sentences.
“It’s… I’m… N–Not rea—”
“Fang,” he immediately stopped Chris before he could even attempt what was sure to be a convincing argument. “Fake it to whoever the fuck else you want. Not to one of your own.”
Chris briefly contemplated whether there was any chance at all that he didn’t have to confess to it. He was either going to get ruthlessly mocked for being so stupidly vulnerable, or get a good beating for having too much time on his hands to waste on teenage crushes. What was even the point of denial anyway? Noah had already caught on to his less-than-pure motives.
His fingers inadvertently touched the wolf tattoo on his inner left arm, and he heaved a sigh so filled with yearning that it colored the stone walls into an even bleaker shade of gray.
“She seeped through me, mate,” he sighed with a broken smile. “She lives under my skin like a fucking tattoo.”
But that night, Chris learned that when you shared a moment of honesty with decent men, sometimes all you got in return was a comforting pat on the shoulder.
“Looks like you grabbed the tiger by the tail this time, brother,” Noah solemnly spoke while pointing at his ink. “Or in your case, a goddamn wolf.”
The guards’ voices echoed in the narrow hallways to announce lights out. As Chris clasped his hands under his nape to spend yet another night staring at the ceiling, Noah put his book under the tremendously uncomfortable pillow and got under the sheets.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he whispered to his right once the guards passed by, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fucking seriously?!”
“I said don’t get your hopes up,” a loud hiss bounced off the walls. “Try to get some sleep.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Insomnia going strong?”
“When did it ever not?”
“You never know,” Noah turned to his side and pulled his blanket up. “Maybe you should try counting doctors so she’ll come visit you in your dreams.”
Chris wished it worked that way, but even the slightest possibility of seeing you was enough to curl his lips into a smile.
“Fang? What are you doing here?”
It had been a while since you last saw Chris, which meant some banter exchange over whatever klutzery he dabbled in this time was long overdue. Much to your surprise, however, he not only looked very much in one piece for once but also responded with an uncharacteristically straight face.
“Shift in work detail. I’ll be working here from now on.”
No dimple charms cranked up to the maximum. No attempt to aggressively hit on you. A paranoid thought crept up in your head, debating whether someone saw you during… that, and he got reprimanded for it. Otherwise, why would he abruptly distance himself from you?
Why did the stench of disappointment raid the room all of a sudden?
“Doing what?” you kept an equally ‘professional’ composure.
“Helping you?” he shrugged. “Did you forget the day we first met?”
He was referring to your annoyed greeting when he visited your royal chambers for the first time, and his heart melted a little when you averted your eyes from him. Maybe you’d never stopped thinking about it either. You called him Your Majesty that day, and Chris kept replaying those words in his mind all day, every day ever since then. It wasn’t… It wasn’t what you said but how you said it. Just the thought of being your king, living his life to serve his queen, loving her, cherishing her, pleasing her, and protecting her from all harm in the world…
If only you knew how much he was willing to give up just for a shred of that…
“How you snapped at me because you were shorthanded around here?” he jogged your memory. “Just dump whatever menial labor and paperwork you have on me. I know how to read.”
His originally planned maneuver was to be less aggressive in his advances towards you. He’d figured just being close to you would be enough to keep him pacified for the time being, and he could work his way up from there. Find that rift in your defenses to slowly pour himself into you. Sure, it could take some time, but he was willing to wait it out so that he cou—
Day 3 of breathing the same air as you, and he was on the brink of having to check into a fucking psych ward already.
It was as if you owned the leash to his rotten soul, and he was getting antsier by the minute that someone was going to notice his biggest weakness was carelessly walking around out in the open like that. He had never felt like this before about anything or anyone, having trouble breathing because of some invisible weight constantly pressing on his chest. He didn’t doubt his affection for you for one second, but the more he saw you, the more he heard your voice, the more he was exposed to you in some way, the more the one emotion he didn’t know he could feel started flowing through the cracks of that stone he had for a heart.
The unmitigated shame of how ferociously he was lusting after you.
One look at you, and he was about to faint. One whiff of your scent, and he was pushed to the limits of his self-restraint. He was thoroughly consumed with the urge to kiss you, to touch you, to hold you in his arms, to taste the salt on your skin… God, he would fucking die if you moaned his name. He would lose whatever remained of his sanity if you said you wanted him back. He knew you deserved pure-white love, and he could never give you that with all the stains he bore, but he could rewrite everything you thought you knew about euphoria. He could make you soar to the heights you never thought were possible. He could love you so hard that you would hear his devotion to you coursing through your veins. He could if you let him.
And he could swear he felt it the day he kissed you. He could feel in his heart of hearts that you wanted to.
If you weren’t the slightest bit interested in him, then you should have immediately pulled out the rejection card, but you didn’t. You didn’t. You kissed him back. For quite a bit. If that didn’t mean your marital status didn’t mean jack shit to you, then what did? Why would it even matter when you were so obviously unhappy anyway? He could make you happy.
He could make you so happy if you let him.
Five days. Seven days. Nine days. Veiled glances. Stolen touches. Your scent in passerby winds. Craving. Denying. Pretending. Yearning.
Yearning.
Yearning.
He forced it to the absolute limit of his patience. Honest.
But a man in love was just the politically correct way to say a deranged maniac.
“Need a hand with that?” he made his way to the desk you were standing in front of.
“Felt lonely by the file cabinet?” you quipped with a little smirk as you kept labeling documents.
“Yes.”
You just wanted to bounce snark off of each other to end the tiring day on a somewhat lighthearted note, however lighthearted it could be in a place like this, but the unexpected solemnity in his voice caught you off guard. You stopped trying to cram a piece of paper in a sheet protector and looked at him.
Chris had been too quiet lately. His eyes were clouded with something akin to sorrow, and it didn’t suit him at all. The only thing fit for that face was crescent moons and the dimples that chipped away at his dangerousness.
Your chest was about to collapse for how hard invisible hands were wringing your heart.
“Did… something happen?” you quietly asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a bit aloof,” you channeled your attention to the papers again. “Like… there’s something wrong.”
“No, everything’s fine.”
You knew he was lying, but you weren’t sure why. Was it just because he didn’t feel like talking to you, or was he…?
He wasn’t trying to shelter you from worrying or anything, was he?
“Are you expecting any visitors?” you attempted to change the topic. “It’s visiting day tomorrow.”
“Not really.”
“Not even your colleagues are coming to see you?”
“I think you’d also agree that would be playing tic-tac-toe with landmines,” he spoke with an utterly straight face, heaving a longing sigh right after. “It’s not like I can ask for a conjugal visit with my standing, so…”
It felt like you shoved a finger in a socket when he suddenly brought it up. Did that…? Did that mean…?
“You… have a girlfriend outside?” your lips rendered the question before you could press ‘abort’.
“Would you be jealous if I did?” he responded with another question mark, eyes glued to the papers in his hand, but he was so damn amused that he couldn’t help his devilish smile.
“Tsch, why would I be?” you sneered, horribly failing to veil your interest in that minuscule piece of information. “You said you can’t ask for it with your standing, so I assumed there is someone you could ask for if your standing was good.”
When he finally looked up, Chris saw just how deep the creases were between your brows, shoving paper after paper into sheet protectors. Your jaw was slightly clenched, your nostrils were flared, and you were exhaling a bit too loudly from your nose.
Oh, god, you were jealous.
You were jealous.
Of him!
He was so happy that he thought he was going to die from heart failure right then and there.
“Or I’m just saying shit to test your reaction,” he uttered in a voice filled with the mirth you were used to.
Only when you saw how smugly he was grinning to himself did you realize how busted you were. You suddenly felt the need to drink a gallon of water all by yourself to put out the fire your embarrassment set on your cheeks.
Why were you this disturbed by the mental image of him with another woman anyway?
“Would you come to the visiting days if we were married?” he nonchalantly asked.
“Who wouldn’t visit their loved ones?” you put on a fantastically convincing performance through your small panic fit.
“Would you ask for a conjugal visit with me?” he continued his questioning, hands still busy with sorting out documents like this was some regular conversation topic over tea, but his smile was slowly fading.
Even a man of his composure had his limits because he was a goddamn human being. A human being with needs taking over his sanity. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be kissed. He wanted to hear sweet nothings in his ear from the woman who committed arson on his soul.
He wanted to be the first to know her taste and keep going until he passed out from fatigue.
“Well, uh… Er erhm, it’s–it’s important for the family ties to—”
“Fuck the family ties,” he interrupted, visibly annoyed. “I’m asking if you would want to be with me.”
You finally locked eyes. That gaze held so much meaning that you were concerned he was going to hear how you were whimpering inside.
“Yes, I would,” you answered with calm resolve.
“Would you…?”
He took a moment to look for the right words, staring at the papers again. He was turning into this gigantic puppy right before you with how nervous he was, and it was tightening your chest even more.
“Would you miss me enough to…” he acted like how thickly he swallowed was no big deal at all, “...want to touch me?”
Your blood pressure hit berserk levels, but at the same time just why the fuck was he this endearing?
“It’s… only n–natural that… I would miss my husband,” you shrugged it off. “I mean, wouldn’t you want to sleep with me?”
Chris stole a glance from the clock on the wall to call his time of death.
Were you even aware what kind of a fucked up sentence you had just formed?! Him. Sleeping with you. Wouldn’t he want to sleep with… with you? You needed to stop. You needed to fucking cut it out before he dropped to his knees and beg you to crawl into his ribcage.
“You can earn up to forty hours here on good behavior,” he spoke with odd tranquility as if your sheer beauty alone wasn’t burying him alive. “But if we’re alone in the same room for that long, I assure you we’re not sleeping.”
We’re not. Not “we wouldn’t”, he said we’re not. Like you weren’t even talking hypothetically anymore. Like you were actually in that private room with him.
Even a gallon of water couldn’t save you now because the fire had jumped to the highway of your body, and your embarrassment was rapidly morphing into shame. Even shame wasn’t enough to contain this insanity possessing you, mind and heart alike, because something always always burned much more brightly and fiercely than that.
Lust.
“It may not be forty hours, but we’re still alone in the same room for that long, don’t you think?” you carefully stacked the sheet protectors into the red folder in front of you and loudly locked the clip. “Every day, for that matter.”
The chill that licked his spine when he held your gaze made him shudder. Your eyes had fully darkened, and you were looking at him almost daringly. You weren’t smiling, but the way your tongue discreetly swiped across your lips was simply diabolical. You weren’t touching him, but you were choking him to death. You weren’t kissing him, but you were taking his breath away.
He was about to go clinically insane if he hadn’t already.
“Are you…” he narrowed his eyes, fully aware he might be taking his last breath any minute now, “trying to tell me something?”
“No, nothing,” you shrugged, feigning ignorance.
Oh, please. He knew you meant something. He knew you meant exactly that, but it was driving him up a wall that you just wouldn’t confirm it.
“If we’re not sleeping, then what?” you asked as casually as you could manage, pulling up a new sheet protector. “Do you wanna play checkers or something instead?”
You sly little minx…
He knew full well that you were trying to get him to say things to you. You weren’t looking at him, just filing away with your attention fully on the documents in your hands, and this was the first time Chris felt jealous of goddamn paper. You were still faintly smiling, though. Why were you smiling? Why were you smiling if your intention was not to drive him crazy, huh?
God, he was trying. He was really trying to control his urges, but you…
You were fucking enabling him.
“Oh, I want to play alright.”
He put down the papers in his hands and slowly walked behind you. Your eyes followed him as he moved, your breath hitching in your throat. You really should have been sitting down instead of standing because your knees were about to give way any second now.
“But being away from you that long, locked up in here… I’m a literal caged animal, you know,” he stood right behind you and put his hands on the desk, trapping your body under him. “I’m so touch-starved, it’s killing me.”
He gently touched the strands of stray hairs on your nape again, knowing damn well what it did to you. Your eyes fluttered close feeling his body that close to you. Close enough to forfeit all control over your reins.
You would kill to feel him closer than your veins.
“Touch me once, and you’ll be lucky if I don’t rip your clothes off,” he whispered into your ear, his voice slowly changing colors as he kept talking. “I’m that feral over you.”
You were getting so wet that the weak ass support your morals were standing on was about to collapse. One move, and you would be resting your head on his shoulder, perfectly putting your neck on display for him to kiss.
“It’s cute that you think I won’t rip your clothes off first,” you reciprocated his serve.
He let out a heavy exhale, growing a lot more excited than he’d be able to control. He had no idea where that courage came from, but… No, actually he did. It came from you flirting back. It came from how you couldn’t keep your eyes open when he was close to you.
It came from the fact that he knew you belonged with him, and you fucking knew it, too.
He put his hands on your waist, subtly pressing himself against you. You almost let out a moan when you felt how huge he was on your ass. Maybe you didn’t need to be locked up within stone walls to feel how touch-starved you also were. You were touch-starved every minute of every day, wishing the man you were developing dangerous cravings for would just jump the gun, when even the one you were legally bound to wouldn’t. You tried talking yourself out of it. You tried so hard, but him…
Him…
“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he placed a chaste kiss on your neck, “but what kind of a man am I if I don’t take care of my girl first?”
My girl. Take care of. Words you had never heard before. Words you had never heard even in hypothetical contexts, and he was declaring them into your ear like they were martial law.
“She spends all those nights alone in our bed. Touching herself, thinking of the nights I devoured her. Maybe more than once on the nights she misses me a little too much,” he ran his hands up your sides, dangerous enough to make your heart stop. “Which is why, when I finally get in bed with her again, she orders, and I do. That’s why I exist. Anything she wants.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
You imagined it. You imagined missing Chris in your bed. You imagined curling up in his remaining clothes to still feel his scent on the tip of your nose. You imagined cumming to that scent. You imagined sending your cum-soaked panties to him as a souvenir. Maybe he could cum on it and send it back to you, and that would be how you wrote love letters to each other.
You imagined a man crazy enough to go to prison for you and asked you to wait for him, but you didn’t have to imagine being in love with him.
“What if all I want is just to tease you?” you leaned into him a measure so you could properly feel his hardness. “Can you handle not getting your release in your caged animal state?”
“If it pleases you,” he reached for your chest and cupped your breasts, “who the fuck am I to say no?”
The breath you let out was so sharp, there was no way you could plead ignorance anymore. He knew you wanted him. You knew you wanted him. And you wanted him to hold you tighter. Harder.
In a chokehold.
“But aren’t you frustrated?” you asked him in a whisper.
Still heavily breathing down your neck, his hands slid down again, this time all the way under the skirt of your dress. Fuck, your thighs were so soft. It was fine if you didn’t let him do anything else; he could make do with just kissing them for hours.
“Frustrate me more if you like it,” he spoke in whispers, but each word came out like a threatening hiss, each one written with kisses on your neck. “I have a thing for that.”
You couldn’t help how hard you swallowed.
His hands were sliding up your thighs now, exploring the neighborhood of the castle he actually wanted to reside in. Every time he got a bit too close to your pussy, you were clenching so hard that he could feel it right on his tip as if you were both naked.
You wanted him, too, he knew. You wanted him, too, and he was forcing himself to remember how to be a gentleman about it because all he could think of was how he wanted you in the worst ways.
“You’re… okay with only taking care of me?” you slightly turned your head to your left.
“Okay with it?” he chuckled, melting you with the caramel notes of his subdued laughter. “You’re my fucking everything. That’s the sole purpose of my entire life.”
You were in complete disbelief over what his mere words were inducing in you, appalled that you would even consider something like this. This beautiful demon with that silver tongue of his… You were trying. You were trying to remind yourself that there were obligations that you needed to fulfill. Professional ones. Marital ones. Both of which were draining the fucking life out of you.
Both of which were making it next to impossible to resist him.
“Then what if…?” you gulped, breathing unstable. “What if all I want you to do is…?”
He knew exactly what you meant just from the way you couldn’t verbalize it. You were giving him a terrible case of cuteness aggression, making him want to drown you in kisses.
“Then that’s all I’ll do for those forty hours,” he promised, tone nonchalant but intent heavier than your own wedding vows. “I’ll spend it all eating your pussy.”
“Chris…”
Chris. You called him Chris. Not Fang. Not inmate. The one thing, the only thing that he was being deprived of just so he would forget he was a human.
“This is all your fault,” he finally dared to cross the line, very very gently caressing your pussy no matter how hidden it was from him under layers of fabric. “You have this… grip on me.”
And he had this grip on you.
The softest kisses on your neck. Kisses on your cheek. You were ending his life even though all you did was just exist, and he was afraid to open his eyes and look at you.
“I told you to let the sleeping wolves lie, but what do you do instead?” he pressed his head on your shoulder. “You walk into the den barefoot. You lie down right next to the wolf itself.”
“Then why doesn’t it kill me?”
He smiled to himself, placing a very soft kiss on your temple as if his intentions were as pure as they could ever be.
“Loyalty,” he sighed in defeat. “To its master.”
His whispers in your ear felt like they were blasting from loudspeakers, sending an immediate shockwave to your core. Even a woman of your poise had her limits because you were a human being after all. A human being with needs that weren’t catered to for what seemed like forever taking over her sanity, and if you didn’t take the last exit right about now, you were fucking doomed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he reached for the waistband of your underwear, “but you need to say it first.”
The exit was collapsing along with all your defenses against him. You were just headed towards the cliff you were going to drive off of. You knew you were.
But you stopped caring.
“Chris…”
Chris. You called him Chris. Not Fang. Not inmate. The only thing reminding him that he was a man, but if he couldn’t breathe the same air as the woman he would burn this world down for, he was nothing.
“Say it,” he caressed the soft flesh of your mound, unable to move an inch more. “Say it, and I’m yours.”
Fuck the exit.
You slammed on the gas pedal with all your might and drove past it, leaving a trail of dust clouds behind you.
You turned around and dove right into his lips headfirst. He immediately grabbed your waist and sat you down on the desk, kissing every piece of bare skin within his line of sight. You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto him tight. He was burning up under your touch. He dragged the bust of your dress down and kissed all over your chest, filling his lungs with as much of your sweet scent as he could. God, how much he had longed for this. This. This. This was the very thing, the only thing that kept him alive.
“Touch me, Chris.”
JUST WHAT THE HELL WAS YOUR PROBLEM, HUH?!
You grabbed his hand and placed it on your thighs again, asking him to make a move. His eyes widened in disbelief, still unsure if he was allowed to do what he was losing his damn mind over, but when you made him grope you hard, he finally took the fucking hint. He spread your legs as wide as he could and dropped to his knees, groaning like he was in pain just because he was this close to the meaning of his life.
Everything had boiled down to this moment.
He hooked his fingers behind your underwear and slid it to the side, repeating to himself over and over again that he was not a goddamn animal as he stared at your mouthwatering wetness. But maybe he was a little. Weren’t all human beings animals after all? Animals ruled by their instincts. And his instincts were goading him into claiming you for himself for the longest damn time. No, not to own you. Just to mark you. So that he’d know who to eviscerate if they dared to breathe the same fucking air as you.
He buried his head between your legs, and your entire life flashed before your eyes.
A ball of pure fire had formed in your loins, and with each lick on your soaked folds, a chunk of it was being cannonballed into your veins. You were spiking a lethal fever with acute onset lust, delirious with the intensity of the pleasure this man was inducing in your body. Those full, gorgeous lips wrapped around your clit, lazily sucking on you, obscene sounds bouncing off the stone walls every time he slurped on your cunt… It was impossible to stay sane. It was impossible to go on with your life as the woman you were five minutes ago. You put one hand on his head, caressing his hair as he worked his magic, and with each loving stroke, Chris was falling irretrievably in love with you.
You wanted to wreck this prison to the ground when the siren went off in the distance signaling headcount.
He immediately jumped to his feet, as frustrated as you were for not being able to give you your happy ending, and helped you fix yourself in case a guard would drop by your office.
“Looks like you got your wish, but I dare you to frustrate me more next time,” he stole a kiss from your lips and made his way back extremely reluctantly. “You owe me forty hours, and I’m gonna collect every… single… one.”
He might not have seen the ending of the movie, but Chris was still on cloud nine that he was there to catch the trailers. He skipped dinner that evening so that your taste on his tongue wouldn’t be laced with anything else, but with every passing hour, his euphoric high was receding, leaving that void to be filled with something else. Something ugly.
Something urgent.
“Hey, I gotta ask you something,” Chris approached Jack after dinner, “but Noah cannot know about it, deal?”
“Is everything okay, mate?” Jack looked at his former bunkmate with concern.
“Does Liv still do custom work?”
Jack’s face changed all of a sudden, half-surprised, half-entertained.
“Bullet or blade?” he grinned.
“Yes,” Chris replied curtly, compulsively checking the gate for Noah. “I have a job for her, but it’s not a message. She has to make it look like an accident.”
This story has a part 2, and I'm about 60% done with it. You can vote for which installment you'd like to read next here.
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18+ sharing your warmth with rafayel.
bath time. wet & messy.
It’s hot. Hot and sticky. By the time you slam your front door behind you, you’re desperate to tear your clothes from your skin. You leave a trail of fabric behind you as you stumble towards your bathroom, hopping on one leg as you tug at your pants stuck at your ankle.
You would clean up the mess later, when your hair isn’t sticking to your neck; when you’ve cooled down, you can think of things other than sinking into an ice-cold bath.
The porcelain of the tub is cool against your bare stomach as you lean over to turn the tap. You play with the flow of water as it pours from the faucet, splitting it with your fingers. You consider adding a hint of warm water before deciding against it. The heat leaking from your skin would turn the water lukewarm all on its own. You’d rather suffer the initial sting of the cold than prematurely find yourself in an unpleasant, tepid bath. That sticky, stuffy feeling sneaks up just at the thought of it.
God, you hated summer. Heat and sun and sticky skin and no escape from it.
Colder weather was where you thrived. You could escape from the cold.
You could layer your clothes and drink warm things and bundle under soft blankets with Rafayel beside you.
Heat, on the other hand, was inescapable and claustrophobic and—
Your phone buzzes from your pants as they lay heaped on the tile floor.
Rafayel.
You’d been mid-text as you’d stepped up to your front door. Distracted by the lure of a cold bath, you’d forgotten to hit send.
You lift your head from its perch on your arm, looking across the small bathroom floor. Crawling across the tiles felt like an insurmountable task. You were practically melted over the edge of the tub, a puddle of sticky skin and flushed cheeks.
The phone buzzes again.
Then twice more.
You take in the distance between you and the buzzing bundle of fabric as your fingers glide through the cold water slowly creeping up the sides of the bath. Only because it’s him do you manage to convince yourself to leave the edge of your porcelain oasis and crawl across the tiles towards it – towards him.
His messages come one after the other.
hello???
where did you go
did you get home all right?
if you dont answer in 23 seconds ill consider it an open investigation
hm?? no???? okay then
see you soon
You toss the phone aside and crawl back to your oasis. Full enough, you decide. If Rafayel was joining you, it might just be enough water to lap at your nipples once he’s settled beneath you.
Tugging your underwear down your legs almost leads to disaster. You stumble in your rush, tangled at your ankles. When you finally sink into the cold water, it’s with a sigh — hardly flinching as the biting cold hits each new inch of heated skin.
Cupping up little handfuls of water and wetting your neck helps more than anything. The tension melts out of you with each handful.
It helps so much, you soon find your eyes drifting closed. Finally, some reprieve from the sticky heat.
The slight creak of the bathroom door is the first sound announcing your boyfriend’s arrival. Either he arrived uncharacteristically quietly, or you were more relaxed than you’d realised — oblivious to his sounds of entry.
You offer him a tired smile as he approaches, eyelids heavy.
He smiles back, soft, and accompanied by a barely there sigh of relief. Kneeling down beside the tub and reaching over to cup your cheek, he speaks, “You made it, after all. Mystery solved.”
“Sorry,” you answer quietly. “I got distracted.”
His eyes drop to where the water laps at your nipples, “I can see that.”
Then his hand drops from your cheek and his fingers dance at the water’s surface. When his eyes meet yours again, it’s with a small frown, “It’s ice-cold. You were that hot?”
His hand finds your cheek again, and before you can answer, he continues, “Are you sick? You promised to tell me when you’re sick.”
You cover his hand with your own, sighing a little and leaning into his cool palm, “Not sick. Just hot.” Your eyes close again. “Your skin feels cool,” you add with a small sigh.
His hand pulls away.
You miss it immediately, ready to protest.
But then he’s unbuttoning his shirt.
He was joining you.
He’s barely seated in the water at the end opposing yours before you’re crawling over to him.
Limbs clash and the water splashes a little over the edge, but he offers what you seek.
His arms wrap around you as you settle yourself against his chest.
He doesn’t take away from the soothing coolness of your oasis. Not at all. He’s just as soothing, and far more comfortable than the hard porcelain ever could be.
“Mm,” he hums. “You are very warm. More than usual.”
“Told you,” you mumble against his skin.
Even his breath is cool against your wet forehead.
You’re both quiet for a little while then. You cup some water in your palm and let it fall over any of his skin that isn’t quite submerged. His clavicle first, then his shoulders, then his neck.
His breath hitches a little each time.
“Why were you so hot?” he asks finally. “You didn’t walk home, did you?”
You trace an abstract pattern across his collar bone, “My aircon doesn’t work,” you confess. “Even with the windows down, my car feels like an oven on days like today.”
He lifts his knee a little, and when you attempt to shift the way you’re draped over him to compensate, he stops you — lifting your chin so you're forced to meet his eyes. “Since when?” he asks.
You hesitate, “A while.”
He lets out a little noise of displeasure, brows furrowed. “Silly girl,” he grumbles.
Grumpy boyfriend was not what you wanted right this second. Not when you were so extremely comfortable.
You lift an arm from the water and drag your wet finger down over his pouty lips. “Shhh. You can grump at me later, okay?” You nuzzle against him. “Later,” you add, just to make sure.
Finding you can’t see his face from your position, you readjust, squirming up his body a little and resettling against him.
His lips are wet from your finger, you note, quickly fixated.
They part, then close.
Then he’s holding you tight and shifting you where he likes. He tugs you up into a seated position in his lap, forcing you to bend your knees on either side of his body.
“But I’m mad at you now,” he says, holding you against his chest tightly.
You squirm a little again, until you find a comfortable position in his lap. Every single day, you find yourself grateful for the size of your bathtub. Rafayel bathtime was an essential enrichment activity as far as you were concerned, summer or not.
He grabs one of your wrists from beneath the water when you use his stomach as leverage in your attempt to find the perfect place in his lap.
His cheeks are dusted a pretty pink when you look up at him — his ears matching, of course.
He keeps his grip on your wrist, holding it up like a hostage.
You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips at the sight of him. “Are you really, really mad?” you ask, teasing. “Please don’t be mad.”
He blinks.
“Please,” you add, leaning forward a little more. “I’ll be good.”
Your free hand lifts from the water, slowly, so he doesn’t spook, then you press a finger to his lips again. You tug a little when you drag your finger down to his chin, letting his plush lower lip fall back into place with a little bounce.
You’re hyperaware of his breathing; you’re a captive audience to his little stuttering intakes of air.
Then you drag the same finger down to his adam's apple—a slow glide that leaves only a hint of wetness in its wake.
Not wet enough, you decide.
With one wrist still trapped in his grip, you drop your head to his neck. One breath against his skin, two, then you lick. It’s only a kitten lick at first—a quick flick of your tongue between lips resting on his skin. He’s a little sticky in this spot, a little reminder that he struggles with the heat too.
You go in for another taste as your wrist is freed. His hand is quickly reoccupied at the back of your neck, where he works at moving your hair aside, gently and gracefully—with precision—like he does most things.
You suck at his neck as he works, making marks that only you’re allowed to make. Only you’re allowed to use his body as a canvas. Only you.
Staying focused on his breathing is difficult now. You’re distracted by your task—by the sounds your mouth makes as you lick and suck at him.
He makes gentle strokes at the back of your neck with his fingers, patterns that you can’t decipher, but which seem far less abstract than yours had been earlier. A little sliver of your mind contemplates his mysterious symbols for a short moment before it’s distracted again by one his stuttering breaths.
His breathing is your favourite sound. You come to this conclusion at regular intervals. It feels like a revelation each time—one you want to shout out to the world. But you don’t. You’ll never share. Because this was yours. This type of breathing specifically. The type of breathing that comes heavy and interrupted and intermixed with little sounds of pleasure—of restraint.
You know he’s holding back.
He lets you do this.
He lets you work him up and play with him.
He knows you like the sounds.
And most of all, he likes the way you want him.
He wants you to mark him, and suck at him like you want to consume him.
But then, eventually, like always, he would falter in his restraint, and then he’d take control.
You savour this little period beforehand as much as possible. Savour it, and savour him.
“You’re still warm,” he says, a little raspy. “Still so warm.”
You lick a little at your latest mark, tasting the salt on his skin. “You were sweaty today,” you mumble, lips preoccupied. “Sweaty, but still cool to the touch.”
“I’m warm by my standards, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re just far, far too hot.”
You lift yourself up a little so you can look at him, hyperaware of the hardness between you. “It’s not uncomfortable?” you ask. “I mean, I’m not… too warm for you?”
His pulls you forward a little, his cock pressing into your stomach—trapped between you. “It’s perfect,” he whispers, breath ghosting over your lips. They brush yours for a moment, a moment so brief you’re hardly sure if the tickle was imagined. “Your warmest place,” he breathes, eyes fixed on yours, “It burns. It’s so hot it rips through me, until my fire feels tepid in comparison.”
His lips brush yours again, this time you're sure of it.
You don’t let him escape, falling into him and wrapping your arms around his neck so you can consume him.
He lets you, moaning into your mouth as you take what you need.
He’s warm here.
He’s heat when you kiss him.
You taste his fire.
He lets you lazily lap at his mouth, wet and messy and languid.
For 10 seconds.
You get 10 seconds before he takes his turn.
His hand moves to the back of your head in a heartbeat. He’s pressing his body against yours so tightly it might be suffocating if you were breathing. Breathing is secondary right now, though. It’s just quick lungfuls when given the chance.
He’s having his turn.
Wet sounds fill the bathroom as he takes and takes and takes.
You never imagined him to be a messy kisser.
Not in the beginning.
He’s far too graceful and purposeful for that, you thought.
But you hadn’t known him then.
He’s messy when he’s absorbed in what he loves. He’s messy when he’s making art, and he’s messy when he’s making love. He whimpers a little, tugging you back into focus with a gasping breath.
Okay. Note to self: breathe more.
His thumb plays with your lip as you catch your breath.
And then his hips jump beneath you.
His lids are heavy. His cheeks are flushed. “Need your heat,” he says, a little slurred. “Please.”
You kiss him lazily in response, basking in the way he lets you have him. He hasn’t flipped you over and fully given in. Instead, he’s begging .
Your hips roll into him, an almost involuntary response. You can’t help it, you could swear. You need it like breathing. Grinding into him, again and again, with your arms around him and his cock hard between you.
He makes those sounds for you.
He whimpers as he grasps your hips and helps you roll against him.
Before long, ‘helps’ is an inaccurate term to describe what he’s doing. By the time you’re pulling away and gasping for breath again, he’s pulling you against him entirely on his own—tugging you. You’re out of the driver’s seat, officially.
He latches onto your neck, dragging your hips back and forth over and over.
The waterline is far lower than it was when you’d started, a consequence of your shared writhing. Your bathroom floor was a problem for later though. A mess for later. You were preoccupied right now with a mess far, far more important.
More water over the edge, and a little more…. and again.
Then, with no warning at all he lifts you, and when he pulls you back down again… you’re being filled.
Your head falls back, eyes closed, lips parted. He’s making a sound. A low sound. You attempt to focus on it as he drags you down.
He’s filling you, consuming that space that desperately needs him. Empty, empty, empty, and now… so, so full.
A broken plea leaves his lips as you’re lowered further.
You fall forward onto him.
His head cradles in your shoulder.
He’s still.
The water still holds its chill enough that you’re aware of the contrast between the heat inside of you and the water lapping at your skin.
You count to five and then roll, grinding into him.
He bites into your neck without warning—a groan vibrating against your skin.
When his head tips back, he’s a pretty pink, and his hair is beginning to stick to his temples. You can’t resist reaching for him, tucking a little of his hair behind his ear.
He tugs you into him, muttering something indiscernible between messy kisses.
Messy and slow is how it starts. You grind into him, and he makes noises against your lips.
That’s how it starts.
It isn’t long before he’s lifting you and dropping you onto him with a sort of desperation that has you almost limp in his arms. No restraint. This is what he always became: messy and uncontrolled and imprecise.
The water splashes around you as you slap down against him over and over and over again.
His eyes are fixed where you meet.
You can’t bear to look where he does, overwhelmed just by the sounds you’re making together.
If you weren’t so entirely consumed by the feeling of being dragged down onto him over and over and over, you might even be embarrassed by all those sounds.
Instead, you watch his face as he stays fixated on where he disappears inside you. You watch his brows furrow, and his jaw clench, and you watch his dark lashes flutter as he closes his eyes before dragging them open again, desperate to see—like he can’t bear to miss a second.
No one has ever looked as pretty.
“Warm?” you gasp as he holds you down a second longer on one stroke—his rhythm increasingly chaotic.
He blinks and lifts his eyes to yours, taking a moment to centre himself.
Then he drags you forward into a sloppy kiss.
His tongue invades your mouth, warm and wet, like everything else.
Then, just for a moment, his head falls back, exposing his neck. You only have the chance to appreciate your the marks you’d left on him for a second or two before he’s back, breathing heavy. He brushes his lips across yours, over and over, feather-light. “I want to stay here,” he says, “Just like this. Keep me.”
You nod slightly. “Mm. Keeping you forever.”
One kiss.
Two.
Gentle this time. Soft.
Then he’s lifting you again.
Slowly.
But only for a little while.
Eventually, he’s giving in again. Like always.
He speeds up, dropping you up and down like he might be able to bury himself deeper if only he dragged you back down a little harder.
Those sounds, the water, the way his fingers dig into your skin.
When he slows again, you’re limp. He’s trying to make it last, you realise. But you’re tired. Spent and ready to collapse.
He must notice, because soon he’s twisting you around, hovering over you, cradling your head with his hand, and driving into you in a way that has the remaining water washing over your body in waves.
He bites into your neck when he fills you, consumed.
➥ Fighter Pilot/Childhood BFF!Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 4.8k (~20 min. read)
➥ First love, Mutual pining, Smut with feelings
➥ The author chooses not to issue tags for everything that takes place in this work to preserve tension and some element of surprise where applicable. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk. Read full disclaimer here.
⚠ — Explicit sexual content
➥ You used to fly paper planes together; now he's commanding real ones in the sky. You spend every minute of every day missing him, having no idea you're all he thinks about night after night as he watches the ceiling of his empty room.
One chilly duskfall brings him back to you again along with little confessions a lifetime in the making.
The setting sun had painted the sky with the most beautiful gradient of cotton candy pinks, warm oranges, and pastel purples, flooding the kitchen with the golden glow of a summer day even though it was freezing outside. You spent the entire Sunday with Chris’ great-aunt making citrus jam. She had this habit of making her nephew’s favorites whenever she missed him too much, even when he wasn’t around to taste them. You knew how much solace she found in your presence when Chris wasn’t around, but it wasn’t just to make an old lady happy that you readily accompanied her every time she invited you.
It was your silent attempt to appease the excruciating longing you had for the curly-haired rascal you used to ride seesaws with.
“How’s this?” you held your hand under the tasting spoon carrying hot drops of jam and offered it to Helen.
“It’s perfect!” she loudly clapped, “We’ll label your batch with a gold star. I’ll go bring more jars from the cellar.”
You brightly smiled at her as she disappeared into the hallway, but the curls of your lips flattened in an instant. It just wasn’t working this time around. Every contrail in the orange sky outside was making your heart sizzle. The sweet and zesty scent permeating the kitchen was making you miss him even more terribly, reminding you of the eighth-grade summer you and Chris had to help Aunt Helen make fifty jars of citrus jam as punishment for not doing your summer homework.
“Wish you were here, Falcon,” you mumbled to yourself, heaving a deep sigh as you slowly stirred the pot, “It’s just not the same without you.”
“And what are your other two wishes, Chickadee?”
The extremely specific nickname rendered in that familiar voice gave you such a start that you thought you went certifiably insane for a second. When you swiftly turned towards the entrance, the jar you were holding said goodbye to this cruel world and loudly crashed into dust. Your heart was singing horribly out of tune while doing somersaults, and you were rapidly going back and forth between the urge to break down crying and die laughing for being able to manifest him out of sheer willpower.
“I know I was away for too long but you do remember who I am, right?” he dropped his large duffel bag on the floor, smiling at you with mischievous lights flickering in his eyes, “Where’s my hug, you klutz?”
You choked back a sob of relief and bolted into his embrace. You threw your arms around his waist, clawing at the fabric wrapping his body like he was going to evanesce otherwise.
“You’re back,” you whispered into the crook of his neck, breathing all erratically and trembling like a leaf, “You’re really back.”
He held you as tightly as he could to bask in your warmth, hoping you would forgive him for slightly hurting you. If it meant you were going to welcome him like this, he would gladly go to the bottom circle of hell any freaking day.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?! I heard the jar—”
Helen’s eyes widened in shock looking at the handsome young man clad in his civilian uniform made up of a plain white t-shirt, jeans, and combat boots, her blood pressure promptly climbing at the unexpected sight.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!” she shrieked as she hasitly made her way towards the door, “Showing up out of thin air. You said you wouldn’t be back until March!”
“Mission ended much earlier than expected. I thought I could spend my time off with my favorite girls,” Chris reluctantly let you go for another big hug in the making, “but I can go if you’d rather—”
“Shush, you! Come here.”
Oh, the sight of a mother reuniting with her son… This. If there was a singular silver lining to the torture that was Chris being gone, it was this right there. Even though Helen was quietly sobbing in his chest, your heart was so full it was about to burst.
“Come, now, milady,” he gently wiped her tears with a comforting smile, “No tears allowed when I’m here, yeah?”
“Don’t tell me what to do, brat! God, I’m so glad you’re safe and sound,” she pulled him close again, then nailed her boy to the chair in the kitchen as you two started preparing a lightning-fast dinner accompanied by his stories.
Chris’ job description came with a bunch of potentially fatal risks, but it didn’t stop you from being worried sick as if every damn day was the worst-case scenario. His eyes were still as sleep-deprived as ever, but they were at least smiling, and as long as he was healthy, maybe you could consider overlooking his bedtime problem. He was back now. He was with you. And that was all that mattered at the end of the day.
There was so much catching up to do that nobody realized how fast time flew by. Only when Helen rose to her feet to call it a night did you realize the clock was showing midnight hours.
“Alright, I’m off to bed now. Don’t stay up too late,” she toggled to mom mode again, then turned to you, “I’ll make your bed in the guest room today, okay sweetheart?”
“Oh, no need! I’ll go home after ca—”
“Nonsense!” she immediately protested, “You are staying, and we are having a feast tomorrow morning together as a family again.”
“But I shouldn—”
“I’ll put a deadbolt on the door so she can’t leave,” Chris reassured his aunt with the firmness of a drill sergeant, albeit smugly smirking at you, “She owes me a year’s worth of pancakes anyway.”
“Attaboy,” she ruffled his hair lovingly and bade you two goodnight.
Chris was finally home. Of course it was going to be a good night even if the world was ending the morning after.
“I’ll go take a shower,” he stood up as well, “Meet you upstairs in a bit?”
You retreated to his room to change into your nightwear from the day before. This particular corner of the house always took you back to when you were a bunch of kids running around the neighborhood looking for birds, but it was fascinating how much of a difference Chris’ physical presence made. When he was away, the room felt gigantic but tighter than a coffin at the same time. You would start having trouble breathing just being in it for three seconds, drowning yourself in the sweet pain of nostalgia and getting crushed under the weight of love you had for him. You didn’t know why you were willingly hurting yourself to this extent; maybe it was the only way for you to feel alive in his absence, but when he was home…
Oh, when he was home…
There was no place on earth that was cozier. It was an everlasting carnival where cotton candies made of happiness were sold. The thrill of the roller coasters constantly rushed through your veins.
It was pure heaven.
“Have you been sleeping in my room?”
Chris’ voice echoed like a record scratch, immediately stopping you from internally kicking your feet. You flinched in your place, feeling guilty for some reason like you got caught red-handed doing something utterly shameful.
“W–What?”
“It smells like you in here,” he sniffed the air as he was drying his hair with a towel, “Also you’re using my favorite shirt as a nightgown.”
“Shut up, I spilled tomato sauce on mine!”
He burst into toned-down laughter, tousling your hair to annoy you further. The chain of his necklace peeked through the collar of his t-shirt, and it took everything in your willpower to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot. You had the pendant of two little chickadees custom-made and gave it to him before his very first deployment. All these years later he was still wearing it.
So many butterflies were holding hands and doing a line dance in your stomach that you were about to combust.
“Okay, Falcon, you’re gonna tell me everything now.”
“Sure, would you like me to share classified tactical plans, too?” he sat cross-legged on the bed across from you, leaning against the headboard.
“You know what I mean! There has to be some stuff you couldn’t say in front of Aunt Helen,” you slapped his bare arm, “How are you? How is your insomnia? Are you eating all your meals? Did you g—?”
“Breathe, Chickadee,” he held your hands and gave them a firm squeeze, “One at a time.”
Your heart beat so hard in your chest that you were pretty sure it looked like a hiccup.
He started answering your questions, but you couldn’t pay attention to what he was saying at all courtesy of your limbic system abruptly taking over the microphone. The orange glow emitting from the nightstand lamp was casting a somewhat sultry spotlight on him, unnecessarily pointing out some changes in his physique. His sunkissed skin was stretched tight over his now bulkier body, and unless your eyes were deceiving you, his shoulders had somehow gotten broader and his thighs looked a lot thicker. One look at the bulging veins on his arms, and your mind rendered an unsolicited mental picture for you in 4K, depicting him doing bench presses half-naked.
Oh, he looked gooood.
“Are you listening?” he lowered his head to hold your gaze.
“HUH? Y–Yeah,” you shook your head to snap out of it.
“What were you thinking about that intensely?”
You in your uniform but topless, would be the correct answer, but you hadn’t lost your mind that bad to give him the uncensored version.
“I was just thinking you must be a hit with the officers in your fleet,” you told him instead.
“How do you figure?”
“I mean…” you gestured in his general direction, “You got quite the eye candy situation going on. I’d look forward to going to work if it were me.”
He narrowed his eyes and slightly tilted his head with a barely there smile. By your usually levelheaded standards, this would be considered straight up bold, and Chris was clearly loving the change in demeanor.
“Yeah?” he clasped his hands under his nape, posture way too cocky for no reason, “Would you fall for me if you saw me in the locker room?”
“Oh, christ, I totally forgot you can’t take compliments like a normal human being,” you slapped your forehead.
“Would you gossip about me with other officers?”
“Chris…”
“Would you tell them I’m very bangable?”
“Cut it out!”
You lunged at him as a knee-jerk response to put a stopper to his giggle fit. You didn’t have any intention to legitimately hurt him, so it naturally scared you when he suddenly hissed in pain.
“I’m sorry! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” he pulled on the collar of his top as if to hide something, but it was very much in vain.
You had already caught a sliver of what you prayed to be an optical illusion.
“What is this?” you tried to remove his fingers, “Did you… Did you get hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t the question,” you grabbed the hem of his shirt.
“Let it go, it’s noth—”
“Stop squirming!”
In one swift move, you took his shirt off. There were remains of a stitched wound there, and it looked like it had been healing for a while now.
“W–What happened to you?”
“It’s just a scratch,” he shrugged it off and tried to put his shirt back on clearly as an attempt to avoid confrontation, but you immediately stopped him because…
One of the chickadees on the pendant seemed slightly disfigured and discolored.
The one on the left…
“Is this… a gun wound?” deep creases formed between your brows upon the unpleasant realization.
“Shh, keep your voice down,” he abruptly sat up and covered your mouth.
“Were you in combat? DID YOU GET IN—?”
“Look at me. Look at me. I’m fine,” he held your face to force you to look at him before you started spiraling, pacifying you with a warm smile, “It was just an accident during training, so don’t worry about it, okay?”
Your quickening breathing took a U-turn, and you chose to believe him because the alternative was simply too unbearable to even think about. You hesitantly touched around the still somewhat raw skin.
“Does it… hurt too much?”
“Nothing I can’t manage,” he held your hand over his wound.
You didn’t know what came over you. As you were staring at the scar, you instinctively leaned forward and gently kissed it, and your lips lingered there for quite a bit. Chris had heard of the term kissing it better before, but he had never believed it would actually work.
Until now.
“I will worry,” you retreated, averting your eyes away from him, “I already worry all the time wondering if you’re safe. I worry if you—”
You stopped. Otherwise you were going to cry.
“Didn’t know you liked me that much, Chickadee,” he teased like he always did to disperse the dark clouds whenever you were sad.
“Well, you’d better, stupid!”
His smile shapeshifted then. This time he leaned forward and held your face, looking at you with so much adoration in his eyes.
“Haven’t you ever wondered why I wanted to become a pilot?” he asked as his thumb caressed your cheek.
“Because you thought you’d be Ironman.”
“Well, that, too,” he quietly chuckled, “When we were kids, you would drag me around the neighborhood every time you spotted a chickadee. I’ve never seen someone this enamored by those fluffballs.”
“Because they’re so cute!”
“They are,” he quickly agreed, but his voice carried the fragrance of defeat for some reason, “But you seemed to like them more than me.”
This time for sure it looked like you had a hiccup. You didn’t know what to do with yourself at all.
“I worry, too, you know,” he pulled his hand back and started playing with his fingers, “I worry you will forget about me one of these days. I worry you will give your heart to someone, and—”
He stopped. Otherwise he was going to cry.
“I wanted to learn how to fly for you,” his smile was broken enough to shatter your heart, “Maybe you would like me just as much then.”
You were stunned.
What was he even saying? What kind of nonsense was maybe you would like him? Maybe. Had his prolonged lack of oxygen somehow managed to blind him, or were your performances for him to take the hint much more applauseworthy than you intended?
All the words that insisted on eluding you finally decided to come back home, and you started speaking before you could form coherent sentences in your brain.
“They say people are immune to their own scents but not to others’,” you reflected his broken smile back at him, hoping yours would be able to complete his, “I do sleep here a lot. It’s crazy how it still hasn’t vanished by now, but every time I walk in, it still smells like you. It feels like we’re still hiding under the blankets together when I close my eyes.”
Your words helped him find a bit of courage to look up at you. His gaze was filled with pleasant surprise. He prayed to everything he could think of that you weren’t just saying these things because he was feeling something very dangerously close to hope again. He tried. God knows he tried so hard not to hold onto even a shred of it, but every time he resolved to give up, you would do something, say something, or just breathe the same air as him, exist under the same sky, and everything would come rushing back to him.
Everything.
“It feels like you’re hugging me when I wear your t-shirts,” a single tear let itself fall free down your cheek as you assumed your best impression of a smile, “I can’t bring myself to wear them often. I’m scared your scent will fade away.”
His brows were furrowed as if he was mad, but his eyes were welled up with tears. Oh, you were cruel. You were so cruel for not telling him any of this sooner. And he was a coward for telling you how much he loved you only when you were sleeping. He was unbelievably selfish for hating the idea of you moving on with your life, but he couldn’t help it. The only way he knew how to love you was with destructive greed.
Would you have said yes to him if he asked for ownership of your heart? Would you despise him if he begged you to have eyes for him only?
Would you slam the door to his face or take a step back to invite him in if he asked to hold your hand for an eternity?
“I have no heart left to give. Someone already stole it,” you reached for his hands and squeezed them way too hard than you should have, “How can I ever forget you when you’re the only thing on my mind?”
Chris didn’t know why he was getting hiccups all of a sudden.
Did you know how many mountains he had to carry on his back since he was fifteen? Did you know they only multiplied when he turned twenty three? Did you know it didn’t lessen the burden one bit when he soared as high as he could, even to the point of defying gravity?
One hesitant kiss loaded with a crippling fear of loss, and everything he had kept locked away for so long ripped their chains apart.
His soul was being tortured every time he was away from you, loudly withering, yearning for its missing piece, calling out to it in heart-wrenching pleas to have mercy and come make him whole again. He was living half a life without you. He was only half a man.
He heard something click when he held the first girl he ever loved in his arms. It fit. It fit better than a puzzle piece.
He finally felt complete.
“I miss you. I miss you every minute of every day,” he breathily whispered into your lips, “I’m dying when you are far away.”
He would be lying if he never once imagined you naked, but his imagination just did not compare to what he witnessed when he stripped you bare. Your skin. The curves on your body. He wanted to set up camp in each of them and dedicate weeks to fully exploring you. He pulled you under him, still completely incredulous you were actually in his bed like he always pictured you to be, and took in the sight for a while.
You were beautiful under that soft orange light.
You reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, and he let you drag it down, watching you tease yourself with how slow you were taking it. The silent groan you let out at the sight was complete music to his ears. How could you not? His gorgeous figure hovering over you, his girth threateningly swollen, his mouth watering staring at your nakedness as bad as you were salivating over his.
Trying to decide whether you wanted him to pass through you right fucking now or worship you all night was the worst dilemma you had ever faced in your life.
He lowered himself on your lips first, picking up where he left off as his hands sketched an outline of your body, committing every single nook and cranny to memory. It was a slow descent down to your jawline, then to your breasts, then all the way into insanity. Each kiss he left behind as he made his way between your legs felt like a brand was scorching your skin. Your breathing was fully irregular when he made it to his destination and wrapped his arms around your thighs.
“Do I ever pop into your mind?” you ran your fingers through his hair, “When you’re… by yourself.”
“Are you asking me if I’m jerking off to you?”
You nodded fervently while biting into your lips. He placed three kisses on your pussy, one before, one during, and one after his answer.
“Every… day.”
“How do you imagine me?” you pressed further.
“In my bed. In the shower with me. Even in the jet sometimes.”
“How’s that gonna work?” you let out a soft chuckle.
“It’s called a cockpit for a reason,” he spoke matter-of-factly, “I’ve always wanted to fuck you in there.”
“While flying at an insane speed?”
“On the ground, know-it-all,” he grazed his teeth on your thighs as a warning, “I’m the one who’s allowed to make you fly, not the plane.”
He wrapped his lips around your clit, and you almost let out a suspiciously loud sound when he started sucking on it. You sank deeper into the pillow in rapture when he got messy, slurping all over your pussy like he wanted to see for himself how much more you could ooze.
“Do you think about me at all?” he asked in between his sloppy kisses.
“Are you asking me if I fuck myself to you?”
He slowly nodded, swirling his tongue around your clit as he stared right into your soul, and while his tongue worked absolute wonders on your flesh, that intense gaze was what was about to make you cum. His eyes were screaming his lust for you, ablaze with an insatiable appetite.
“Every… night,” you dragged on each syllable.
“How do I fuck you in your fantasies?”
“God, you fucking ruin me,” you threw your head back and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pressing his face closer into your cunt.
You started riding his face when he started licking you deeper, but you were aching to feel something inside you. Maybe it was because of how hard you were throbbing, or maybe you somehow managed to form telepathy through gustatory sense, but mere moments later Chris was shoving his middle and ring fingers into his mouth, getting them properly wet and slippery, then gently prodding your entrance like a warning shot.
“Like this?”
“FU—!”
You had to press a pillow on your face to stop yourself from screaming at the last second. His tongue was still hard at work, licking illegible words all over your pussy while his fingers were beckoning for your doom, pushing you dangerously close to the ledge. A line. A line. A line. A circle. A curve. Wet.
Wet.
Wet.
An unfamiliar and muffled noise escaped your lips as you arched into his mouth, tasting sweeter than citrus jam on his tongue, and if Chris was touching himself, he would legitimately cum when those sounds of pleasure hit his ears. He was having the hardest time deciding whether he found it cute or extremely erotic. He obscenely licked his fingers clean, then climbed back up to kiss you.
“Is it… Is it true?” you flashed him a fucked out smile.
“What is?”
“Do I really save a plane if I ride a pilot?”
“Let’s just say that you do,” he joined the curls of your lips with an amused chortle.
“Then the Air Force is about to be very grateful for me,” you mustered all your strength to straddle him.
You had always imagined what it would feel like when you finally had him disappear into you, but none of those daydreams could have prepared you for the stars you saw when he hit that dead end inside you. He put his hands on your hips and started rolling them, letting you have your way with him to your heart’s content. It was as lazy as a Sunday morning, allowing you to feel every inch of him fully. You felt his palm pressing on the small of your back, lowering you to kiss him again. You couldn’t tell how and when he hijacked control, but he was holding you in place to fuck into you. A little faster. A little harder. Soaking him as much as he soaked you.
“Fuck… Under me.”
You found yourself on your back, your legs on his shoulders as he paved such a deep path into you that he was quite literally marking his territory. Trapping himself in your leg lock, he leaned a bit more forward, then held both your hands while kissing your life out of you.
“I’ll cum if you say you love me,” he panted hard, eyes barely open as he chased his high at full speed.
If you said you loved him… A simple I love you could not do justice to the mythological extent of your feelings for him. You held his face in your hands and crowned your best kept secret with a kiss.
“I’ve been ridiculously in love with you for fifteen fucking years.”
Chris didn’t cum; he was reborn deep inside you. Each drop that mixed with your essence, each tremor that passed through his body glued the pieces of his shattered soul back together. Each kiss you placed on his face soothed a part of his charred heart that he used to believe was beyond saving.
He fell deeper in love with you, never ever to resurface again.
As his feet were about to touch the ground, he pulled you close and started counting the circles you were drawing on his chest. You reached for his necklace and started playing with it.
“Do you always wear this?” you asked him, gently rubbing your thumb on the pendant.
“I even kiss it goodnight hoping you will feel it someday,” he responded while caressing your hair.
“So that was you tickling me in my sleep.”
Your tired chuckles melted into each other, but it didn’t take long for yours to take an unexpected leave of absence. Your mood turned somber all of a sudden when you remembered the inevitable.
“When are you…? When are you leaving again?”
Your anticipated answer was somewhere around March, but certainly not…
“I won’t go if you ask me to stay.”
Even if it was only for less than a second, the sparks that flew from those words were dangerous enough to set you on fire. You knew it didn’t work that way. Of course he was going to leave. He had to. No one threw a lifetime’s worth of hard work into the trash for any reason.
But it didn’t stop you from pleading your deepest desire to him anyway.
“Don’t go, Falcon,” you hugged him tighter and buried your face in the crook of his neck.
“Fine, I won’t.”
“Don’t joke about it,” you responded from your hideout, “It’s painful enough as it is.”
“I’m not joking.”
You suddenly lifted your head and stared at his face. It had better not be a fucking joke because there was nothing funny about a looming heart attack.
“Wh–What do you mean?”
“The girl of my dreams is asking me to sta—”
“Be serious!” you snapped at him with a very loud whisper, “You didn’t… resign or anything, right?”
“Nope.”
“Then?”
You knew this play. He always grinned like that when he was sitting on some juicy news. You raised your brows, expecting him to give an answer before you became the first person to assault a military officer for dragging on suspense.
“I got stationed here,” he finally satisfied your curiosity, ending your life just a little bit in the process.
You stared at him blankly for some time, utterly unable to process the piece of information he just dropped on you. So this entire time… when you thought you were holding on to him for dear life…
Just how hard were you holding on that you managed to nail him in his goddamn place?
“Couldn’t you have told me that when you first walked through the door?!”
“I was going to!” he immediately raised his hands to surrender, “I just got… distracted a little bit.”
You couldn’t help it. The feeling of relief was so overwhelming that you lost complete control of your tear glands, but not because of your longing for the days that were never going to come back. Not because of the pity you had for yourself, relentlessly chasing something that could never be yours.
It was out of unmitigated happiness for once.
“You’re my home, Chickadee,” he pressed his forehead against yours, “I’m home now.”
He kissed your tears away and pulled you into a tight embrace, brushing your hair with one hand as his idle one locked his fingers within yours. You lent your ear to his chest and listened to his heart, calm and steady like a homebound contrail drawn in the sky by a jet plane somewhere.
“Welcome home, Falcon,” you mumbled with a smile, drifting to sleep in your home for the first time.
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
thank you for tagging me soph i haven't done one of these in so long hehe :DD (not that anything changed from the last time i did this tag game... also removed rbs cause it was so so long)
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face /i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face /i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
tagging moots (no pressure) @swhore @bang-chan-my-man @nicholasluvbot @qwoolz @levantur @seoyangi @hourlyhoon @dollstrands @seorain @peterm4rker @tako-takiiii + anyone who wants to join
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.
Having downturned lips gives you automatic RBF 😅
Non obligatory tags: @beomcoups @chans-room @minisugakoobies @amethystwrytes @hobivore @kittycat1dsn
@kiestrokes what instrument(s) do you play? I didn’t know this about you. Also thanks for the tag 🥹❤️ (I still never watched that show 😩😂)
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.
If I had a $ for every time someone told me to smile🙄 I promise I’m happy okay? Now fk off lol
Tagging: @katieraven @lovemepie67 @linocz if you guys want to!!
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.
i couldnt decide for the clothing question ... highly depends. also, have found out in recent years that i suck at multitasking if its not the same overall thing. cooking and doing several things at once? sure. listening to music with lyrics and writing? nope. listening to someone talk and reading?? absolutely not.
no press tags for my babes: @rachalixie @chvnnie @leedunno @xhari-kkles
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two thirteen piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.
skz when your shirt rides up and your belly shows - hyung line
-> skz x chubby fem!reader
warnings"+: a bit suggestive in hyunjins but not really, lots of talk about bellies and the occasional love handle so if you are uncomfortable or not in a good mental state don't feel bad about not reading I completely understand. please be gentle to yourself and know that you are loved<3
wordcount: 715
a.n// had this idea last night and thought why not. especially with what's going on in America rn I needed to comfort myself so here you go! pls let me know when you think reblog/comment!!! I'll post a maknae version within the next few days<3 please check in on your friend and family and be kind to yourselves. stay safe and be careful everyone.
// maknae v. //
chan~ the two of you are making breakfast and as you wait for the water to boil, you decide to get a mug and make some hot chocolate. when you reach up to the top shelf, your sleep shirt rides up a little. chan turned to ask you something but stopped short at the sight of your exposed skin. he didn't even hesitate putting his hands on your bare hips, kneading gently. he then snakes his hands around to grab at your belly. you turn your head to look back at him with furrowed brows. chan doesn’t let you get a word out before kissing you, grabbing and squeezing at every inch of you he could. the blush on your face doesn't go unnoticed by him. he continues until you are fully relaxed against his back, letting him dominate you in the intense kisses he was still planting on you.
minho~ his head turns to the door, a smile graces his face when he sees you walking through it. immeadietly minho notices the prominent frown on your face and waits for you to talk to him first before asking about it. he hears you mumbling sarcastic comments to yourself, probably finally letting them out after not being able to talk back to annoying coworkers. he figures his assumption correct when you walk back into the room, newly changed into your inside clothes and plopped yourself onto his lap, complaining about how your coworkers were making you all the work. minho notices your shirt has ridden up a little as you rant with your hands, and carefully pulls it down for you. it happens again but you were too worked up to notice so instead of pulling it down again, minho traces his knuckles up and down the soft skin of your belly. he tilts his head to the side, intently listening to your rant. a tickle to your side makes you cut it short and you swat minho's hand away. this time both of his hands come to graze under your belly button and you jump off of him with a yelp. the two of you laugh as minho tries to tickle you again.
changbin~ he hasn’t been able to pay attention to the movie playing on the screen for over twenty minutes now. as you were readjusting your position in his arms, the hem over your shirt hiked up, showing off your belly. you paid no mind to it so changbin took this time to openly admire your body that he couldn’t get enough of. you flinch at the feeling of his cold hand resting right below your ribs. he apologizes then trails his lips from your side all the way down just below your navel. your breath hitches causing your stomach to move up and down. changbin doesn’t stop though. he spends the rest of the movie kissing and leaving multiple love bites onto the soft skin of your belly. your hand threading through his hair and lightly scratching his scalp.
hyunjin~ light filters through the curtains causing hyunjins eyes to flutter open. the clock on his phone tells him it’s barely past 8 am so he flips his body back around to cuddle into you again. you were lying on your back wide awake now, due to hyunjins big movements. he sits up on his elbow, his other hand coming up to play with your hair. he leans down to kiss your cheek then nuzzles his face into your neck. the blanket had been kicked to the bottom of the bed, so hyunjin reached to get it but stopped. your (his) shirt had ridden up so high that your belly was on full display. you notice his heated stare and start to pull the shirt down but his hands wrap around your wrists to stop you. he smirks up at you then pulls the duvet all the way over his head. hyunjin’s lips travel all across your stomach and teased the line of your underwear with his fingers. you push the blanket down reeling at the sight of hyunjin going to town on the parts of your that you didn’t feel the best about. he takes his sweet time, making sure that you knew he loved and cherished every inch of you.
jacobvanloon
pixelskylines
ellievsbear
stormborns
dededos
origamiaround
kianamaiart
discoholicmusic
