𓏲ּ𝄢 welcome to my corner of delusion
𓏲ּ𝄢 bang chan biased
𓏲ּ𝄢 all works contain smut, unless noted
ᝰ.ᐟ = based off a prompt from an ask.
𖹭 = no smut
The SKZ House (chan x hyunjin x reader | complete)
AU. Senior Year. Living with the SKZ Fraternity. Your duties include cooking, cleaning, and pleasing your assigned members.
Act Like You Love Me ᝰ.ᐟ
(hyunjin x reader | complete)
AU. You're cast as Hyunjin's love interest in a TV series. Enemies to Lovers.
Summer In Seoul
(chan x reader | complete)
In Korea for work, you have a summer fling with what you assume to be an average guy. But then, you find out what he really does for a living.
Forever x Fendi
(chan x reader | in progress)
When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.
Crossfire(minho x reader x chan | paused)
Minho is dangerous, untouchable and yours. You've been with him since the rise of SKZ. But when Chan comes back into your life, now a cop, you're forced to face the question: who are you willing to sacrifice everything for?
BANG CHAN
Did I Do Good?
I Told You Not To Wear This
LEE KNOW
Bratty Little Pussy
CHANGBIN
Nonsense
Peacemaker (ft. Seungmin)
HYUNJIN
coming soon
HAN
A Little Help From My Friend
FELIX
Get Off the Game
Obsessed
SEUNGMIN
My Best Friend's Brother ᝰ.ᐟ
Peacemaker (ft. Changbin)
JEONGIN
coming soon
FAKE TEXTS (OT8)
after an argument you wake up to texts from your bf 𖹭
✦ AU: Chan x y/n
✦ Summary: When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.
✦ Genre: Romance, contract marriage, slow burn, smut, brat taming
✦ Warnings: Choosing not to disclose to maintain the element of surprise but this chapter kicks off the smut! 😉
✦ a/n: whaaaat a new chapter in a week!? ok so maybe i had this one written before chapter 4 and really struggled connecting the dots so that one took forever lol but so glad to finally publish this part. HAPPY READING <3
[ fic master list ]
Chapter Five: Use Me x Fendi
“Just the one date or . . . ?”
Chan shakes his head, smiling softly. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”
An astute observation, sir.
You sigh with a little more sass than necessary and take a step back, causing his hands to fall from your hips.
“Roommates it is, then.” You extend your hand.
“Roommates.” He echoes, shaking your hand.
You go your separate ways amicably—you to finish unpacking and shower, Chan probably to alphabetize the spice cabinet or something.
The next time you see him, it’s approaching midnight. He’s seated on the couch, phone in hand. You walk around the kitchen, opening various cabinets in search of a snack.
“You’re still up?” you ask.
“Yeah. I’m creating a list of content we can make. I’ll share it with—” he stops when he finally looks up.
Your pajama set consists of a grey cropped tank and matching ribbed shorts with slits at either thigh.
It was a deliberate choice. Chan admitting he’s not immune to you means he’s susceptible to temptation. And that made this predicament exciting for you.
But in your defense this set is really comfortable. You have six other pairs because you like them so much. And you had a feeling Chan might, too.
His gaze lingers for another moment before snapping to your face, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips.
“You picked an interesting outfit to wear immediately after asking me if we’re going to be celibate throughout this.”
“Should I sleep in a straightjacket instead, roomie?”
“Do whatever makes you comfortable, y/n,” he smiles a little too sweetly.
“I will.” You grab a bag of veggie chips and take a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “No junk food made it on your grocery list?”
He looks pointedly at the bag in your hand.
“Veggie chips don’t really count as junk.”
He lifts his phone, waving it in his hand, “I’ll make a shared list for that too, then.”
“You’re too organized for your own good.” You roll your eyes, turning on the TV to set up your various streaming services.
The next few days are a learning curve as you navigate living together and acclimate to each other’s routines. It takes Chan exactly four days to realize you’re impossible to talk to before coffee. You quickly pick up on his neurotic neatness—like the mug handles all pointing in the exact same direction. One afternoon, out of pure curiosity, you turn a single mug backward before leaving. By the time you come home, it has mysteriously found its way back. Chan never mentions it. Neither do you.
He doesn’t comment on your pajamas again, either. But when the shared grocery list updates a few days later, one new item has been added: straightjacket.
London Fashion Week is the last big public appearance you and Chan have before the industry quiets down for a few months. The thought provided you with a glimmer of relief, but it didn’t last long. Preparing for your wedding is the next area of focus Lucia has been texting about.
It still feels far enough away that you don’t need to start hyperventilating about it just yet, but the more you stood and posed for pictures with Chan, the harder it was to shake.
“Engaged, huh?” Seungmin asks, the moment he is within earshot—not letting a second go by before bringing it up.
Your eyes flick toward Chan, currently doing a round of solo interviews with Korean based magazines. You’d much rather be off to the side instead of standing there nodding as if you have a clue what’s being said.
“Yep,” you say, showing the ring on your finger.
Seungmin studies you, not the ring.
“And you two have been seeing each other behind everyone’s back for a year?”
You knew the boys would have more questions. Seungmin in particular since you’re closest with him. He’s heard the way you talk about men and dating enough to know the math isn’t mathing.
“Have you seen Felix or Hyunjin?” you ask.
His eyes narrow.
“Felix is somewhere around here with Zendaya, probably,” he replies. “Hyunjin is in tomorrow. When’s the wedding?”
You don’t attempt to deflect again.
“In three months.”
“You pregnant or something?”
Your eyes fly around the room, making sure no one is close enough to hear.
His jaw goes slack, eyes widening.
“No—no!” You whisper harshly, bringing him back from that thought. “I’m not—” your eyes dart around again, “that. Look, it’s been a lot since the announcement. I could just use a normal night with my best friend right now.”
He studies you a moment longer before relenting.
“Okay. You hungry?”
“Starving, actually,” you say.
“Yeah, eating for two I bet.”
You slap his arm, mad that you walked right into that one. But it truly is the most normal, Seungmin-like thing he could have done in the moment, and you find yourself grinning.
He laughs. “Okay, okay. I’m done. We’ll grab dinner after.”
The remainder of the evening passes without a hitch. You slip back beside Chan, your hand naturally finding his whenever another photographer calls your names. By the time the last show wraps, your cheeks ache from smiling.
You exit the venue with Chan, Seungmin and Felix. The latter of which is trying to convince everyone to go to a Mediterranean restaurant.
“We’re in London, Felix.” You scrunch up your face. “That calls for a pub with fish and chips and draft beers.”
“There’s a pub near my hotel,” Seungmin suggests.
“I’d prefer something light tonight,” Chan adds his two cents.
Had this conversation been happening a month ago, there wouldn’t be a second thought to splitting up for the night with the possibility of meeting up later.
But now you’re engaged.
You had yet to discuss this aspect of the agreement. Surely you’re still permitted to hang out with your friends, whether they’re male or female, right?
“We can just go with them,” Seungmin says. “If you two are inseparable now.”
“No,” you say too quickly, glaring at him. “Seungmin and I will go to the pub. You guys go enjoy your Caprese salads or whatever.”
“Okay,” Chan responds easily. “I’ll see you back at the room, yeah?”
You nod.
Chan hesitates for a second before adding. “Don’t stay out too late.”
His tone leaves you unsure if that was meant to be a cute comment for the sake of being in public and needing to keep up pretenses or if he’s insinuating you have a curfew.
You plaster on a smile, “Don’t wait up.”
You take Seungmin by the arm and steer him toward the waiting taxis before anyone can change their minds.
You have your first round of drinks with dinner. That eventually turns into a second round while you insist you can beat Seungmin at darts (you don’t). By closing time, continuing the conversation at Seungmin’s suite with more beer is more enticing than saying goodnight.
You kick your shoes off the moment you step inside and immediately make yourself comfortable on the couch.
For the first time in a week your phone stays forgotten on the table. You’re not thinking about engagement notifications and you’re not pretending.
It’s just you and Seungmin.
“So . . . ” he says eventually.
You groan.
“No.”
“You knew I wasn’t going to let this go.”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
You stare into your drink. “I can’t tell you.”
His expression softens.
“Can’t?”
You nod.
“Not won’t?”
You shake your head.
He leans back in his seat, letting the silence sit.
The swig of beer takes the uncomfortable moment away with it and you know Seungmin won’t ask about it again. And you love him for that.
You glance at your phone for the first time—it’s 2:17am.
“Shit,” you mutter.
He checks his too, yawning. “Want me to call you a cab?”
You consider the offer, looking toward the window.
You still aren’t ready to go back. This is the first night you’ve felt like yourself in two weeks.
“Or you can stay here,” he suggests as he stands.
“You sure?”
He’s already walking into the bedroom.
“Yeah. Besides,” he speaks loudly so you can still hear him, “I don’t trust you to not get lost.”
“You have so little faith in me.”
“I have exactly the right amount, y/n.”
You laugh.
He returns and tosses you a blanket.
“You get the couch. Goodnight.”
“The couch? You’re the reason they say chivalry is dead, Kim Seungmin,” you call to his retreating back.
He laughs heartily. You can still hear it even after he’s closed the door to his room.
You pull the blanket over yourself, sinking farther into the couch. After setting an alarm for the morning, you toss your phone onto the coffee table.
Sleep comes almost immediately.
Your alarm wakes you at 9:00am.
You sit up on the couch and take a moment to orient yourself. You need to make it back to your hotel, shower and get ready in two hours and right now you feel like doing zero of those things.
You stand with a sigh and hurry to gather your belongings. Halfway to the door, you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror, and your PR training kicks in.
You’re still wearing last night’s outfit.
You can’t leave a hotel where you aren’t staying with your fiancé looking exactly as you did the night before. Add messy hair to the mix and it’s the kind of photo that weird guy from TMZ gets off to. You can imagine the headline now—UNFAITHFUL FENDI: Y/N’S CHEATING WALK OF SHAME.
Couldn’t be further from the truth, but they’d have a field day with it.
You turn around and knock on Seungmin’s door.
“I hope you have clothes on,” you say, turning the handle. “I’m coming in.”
He lifts his head slightly, body covered with the comforter, one eye cracked open.
“I need to borrow some of your clothes.”
He lazily waves you on.
You rummage through his suitcase and change in the bathroom. When you reemerge he lifts his head from the pillow again.
He huffs a laugh at your appearance.
“Where you off to already, Adam Sandler?”
You glance down at the outfit you pulled together. Baggy sweats, a zip-up hoodie that’s two sizes too large, combined with a hat and sunglasses.
Fuck.
This is Adam Sandler chic.
And you need to borrow a pair of his slides, too.
“We’re attending two of the shows today, so we have to get there early,” you tell him. “I’ll return it all before I leave. Go back to sleep.”
You walk with your head down and don’t risk lifting it until the taxi takes off.
It’s 10:00am when you make it back to the room. Knowing your routine, that’s ample time to be 80% ready, you’ll just have to do your makeup in the car. You’ve become shockingly good at applying it in a moving vehicle since entering this industry.
You don’t see Chan as you pass the living room and enter your private room. You take a shower, allowing yourself a few more minutes than you really have. After, with your robe on, you dart back out to the living room to make a cup of coffee.
You nearly stumble, seeing Chan on the couch.
He’s already primed for the red carpet. You can’t see much of his outfit, but it’s all black. It’s not much of a surprise that yours is, too, since they love having you match.
“I need coffee and twenty minutes.”
You grab a mug, ruffling the towel beneath it in a rush, and place it under the spout. You rifle through the bowl of flavors, knocking some over the edge before settling on caramel. At the last second, you swap out the mug for a to-go cup then finally start the machine.
You head back towards your room, but Chan stops you just as you reach your door.
“Why didn’t you come back last night?” he asks.
You glance over your shoulder, “I was tired.”
A beat passes.
“You could have text.”
The suggestion doesn’t land well.
It sounds so simple. So reasonable.
Yet somehow it feels much bigger than that.
“I didn’t know I was required to check in with you.”
You enter your room and close the door behind you.
You make quick work of your hair with dry shampoo and change into your outfit for the day. You grab your large black Fendi bag and toss your smaller makeup bag inside of it before exiting the room.
Chan is standing in front of the counter, pouring your preferred creamer flavor into the to-go cup. He’s also put everything back in its place. He pops a lid on it before turning around and offering it to you.
You get to fully appreciate his outfit for the first time—a long, knee-length overcoat paired with wide-legged black slacks. The icing on the cake is the sheer, black, floral button-up shirt, providing yet another teasing glimpse at his torso.
Perhaps he should be wearing straightjackets to these events. That’d make it easier to keep your thoughts in check.
You take the cup and mumble a thanks.
You’d been ready to tell him that cleaning up after you all the time isn’t necessary, but him prepping your coffee with his pecs on display has momentarily thrown you off.
Once in the car, you take a long sip of coffee before setting it down and pulling out your makeup bag. You pass the mirror to Chan.
“Can you hold this?”
He takes it without question and holds it in front of you.
You apply a light layer of foundation, then concealer before blending blush across your cheeks, grateful to have something else to focus on besides the silence hanging between you.
Next is eyeshadow, eyeliner, then mascara.
Still, neither of you say anything.
Only when you’re nearly done with your other eye does he finally speak.
“Did anyone see you going into his hotel or coming out of it?”
“I don’t think so,” you answer.
He lowers the mirror. Your gaze lifts to his face.
“y/n, we have to be mindful of how things like this look.”
“I know that, Chan. That’s why I changed before leaving.”
You grab his hand with the mirror and raise it again.
“Leaving in his clothes isn’t really a good look either.”
“It seemed the lesser of two evils at the time,” you retort. “What else could I have done?”
“Came back at a decent hour.”
You freeze, mascara brush hovering in front of your lashes.
“Nights staying out late or crashing with a friend after drinking aren’t unusual for me,” you tell him. “I don’t think that has to change because of this. I’d like to still have some autonomy.”
“I’m not trying to set a curfew for you. I’m just asking for you to consider how all of your actions impact us now.”
You don’t particularly like his emphasis on the word us.
You finish applying the mascara before taking the mirror from him and toss it in your bag.
“You could have both come back to our hotel and drank until you passed out and this wouldn’t have been an issue,” he continues.
“Wouldn’t it?”
He shakes his head.
“You would’ve been fine with me bringing Seungmin back to our suite?”
“Yes.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
“And if we stayed up talking until sunrise?”
“Yes. The only problem is that you were nowhere to be found and we have somewhere to be for our jobs.”
Us. We. Our.
You sigh.
“So what’s the rule then?”
“Rule?”
“Do I have to clear my plans with you? Share my location?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It sure sounded like it,” you snip as the car rolls to a stop. “Look—you don’t need to keep tabs on me. I had an alarm set so that I could make it back in time. I’m an adult.”
The car door opens and Chan steps out first. He holds his hand out for you and gently guides you from the vehicle.
“We’re not just responsible for ourselves anymore, though,” he says quietly, holding your gaze. “That’s all I’m asking you to remember.”
You press your lips together and say nothing in response.
The conversation has to end there—cameras are already on you.
By the time you’re standing shoulder to shoulder on the red carpet, neither of you has said another word. It isn’t until you join Felix and Hyunjin that you both speak. It’s another rinse and repeat conversation about how well you two hid your relationship. You let Chan take the lead and answer Hyunjin’s questions, though. He seems to accept it as truth almost as easily as Felix did.
The four of you sit together, watching as Seungmin walks the runway in a tailored, charcoal look, giving away nothing of the late night and drinks you shared.
After the show ends, the topic shifts as usual to plans for the evening.
“We’re thinking drinks later,” Felix says.
“You two coming?” Hyunjin asks.
“We’ll head back to the hotel first,” Chan answers before you can. “We might meet up with you later.
You glance at him.
He doesn’t look your way.
It takes nearly everything in you not to retract his statement. But how would it look if you seemed to be fleeing your fiancés company two days in a row?
Back at the hotel, you enter the room first and take your shoes off. Chan closes the door behind you and quietly lines both of your shoes neatly beside his own.
You clench your jaw.
He’s always anticipating your needs. Always taking care of things before you can.
Including this.
“I can be responsible for my own shoes, Chan,” you huff. “Or do you think I’m incapable of that too?”
He furrows his brow, taking off his overcoat and hanging it in the hall closet before entering the living room.
“I don’t think you’re incapable of anything, y/n,” he says, taking a seat on the couch. There’s an earnestness to his tone that implores you to let your guard down, but you ignore it. “Except, maybe, communication.”
Your eyes narrow.
“If we have a work engagement, would a text kill you?” he asks.
“It might,” you mumble. “If I leave a coffee mug on the counter for five minutes, is it going to kill you?”
“No. But it bothers me. I don’t see it as cleaning up after you. I’m just doing it, and I don’t mind.”
You purse your lips, eyes locked on his.
“So no matter what I do, you’ll clean it up?”
You take off your jacket and toss it on the couch next to him.
His eyes flick to it, but he doesn’t answer.
“And why did we tell them we had to come back to the hotel first?”
You take off your bracelets and leave them on the coffee table.
“Really?” he asks, brow quirked.
You remove your earrings and place them next to the coffee maker before walking back to stand in front of him.
“You want to hear me say I’ll text you before I’m allowed out again? Is that it?”
You bring your hands together behind your neck, feeling for the clasp of your necklace.
He suddenly reaches out for your waist and pulls you closer.
You gasp at the unexpected movement, heart beating rapidly as you look down at him.
“Either you enjoy testing my patience,” he muses, “or you genuinely take everything I say as an attack.”
While both of those things may be true, you don’t enjoy him reading you so accurately.
You slide one knee up onto the couch, then the other so you’re straddling him, causing your dress to ride up your thighs.
“Which would you prefer?” you ask softly.
He takes a moment too long to answer.
You remove your hands from your neck and let the necklace fall into his lap with a soft thud. His eyes drop to it. You hook a finger under his chin and lift his head back up.
A flicker of irritation flashes across his eyes. But instead of answering, he cups the back of your neck and pulls your mouth to his.
A sigh escapes you as your lips meet. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your body against him. His hand snakes into your hair as your hips begin to rock against his.
You want to stay in this moment, but even as a relief to the tension spreads through you, you can’t help but wonder how long it will last this time before he pulls away. Because, unfortunately for you, he’d probably be content to just kiss you to death if you don’t push further.
You slip a hand between you, cupping his cock as you gently tug his bottom lip with your teeth. You squeeze his, feeling him harden in your palm.
He groans, pressing his lips back to yours and claiming your tongue.
You keep your hand between you, rubbing him through his slacks. It’s also serving as a solid surface to press your clit against.
You moan, reaching for his other hand to bring it to your chest, wanting him to touch you, to feel you. You place his hand over your tit, guiding him to knead it.
And you immediately regret it.
He pulls away, leaning his head against the couch, but he doesn’t remove his hand.
“Tell me it would be deeper than just casual sex, y/n.”
You smack your lips before you can stop yourself.
“Why does it need to be?” you murmur, undoing the first button of his shirt as you continue rocking your hips against him.
“Casual sex is literally just using someone for their body,” he says. “To satisfy yourself.”
“Mutual satisfaction is often the goal, actually . . . ” you undo the next button.
“So you just wanna use me?”
“Respectfully.”
He grabs your hands and removes them from his shirt.
“Use me, then.”
He lifts you at your hips, adjusting you so you’re straddling his right thigh.
“What?”
He uses his hands on your hips to move them forward and backwards, getting the message across quite clearly.
“Use me.”
You bite your lower lip as his hands fall from your waist, stopping the movement.
This is not how you thought you’d reach a compromise on this.
But a sudden numbness spreads across your body at the loss of stimulation against your clit. You rock your hips tentatively to bring it back.
It feels good. And the way he’s looking at you—as if imagining what more he could be doing to you . . . if only you’d concede to a stupid fucking date—takes you to another level.
His hand moves toward your thighs, and your heart nearly skips a beat, getting your hopes up. Instead of touching you, he pushes your dress up higher.
“Move your underwear,” he says.
You lift up slightly and pull them aside before sitting back down on his thigh. You grind against him again. The direct friction of his slacks against your clit sends a jolt through your body, making your breath hitch.
You grind harder, your fingers digging into the thin lace of his shirt as you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut. His hands remain rooted on the couch and you want to plead for him to touch you, but you don’t want to make him come to his senses again. You moan, moving your hips faster, emboldened by this act that somehow feels filthy and liberating simultaneously.
Chan’s voice cuts through the haze of pleasure, rough and restrained.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re soaking wet, y/n.”
You can’t deny it. The sound of your arousal is obscene, a wet slicking noise every time you rock against him. His thigh is solid beneath you, the muscles flexing as you ride him, and you can feel the heat of him even through the fabric.
“Chan,” you whimper, lifting your head to look at him.
“You like that?” he asks, voice low.
You nod, eyes locked on his for a moment before he cups the back of your neck and brings your mouth to his again.
You all but melt into him. Your hands caress him frantically, wanting to touch any and every part of him while he lets you do this.
You hadn’t realized how bad you needed this until now.
How will he expect you to contain yourself after this sample?
A sharp gasp tears from your throat at the thought of actually fucking him, while you grind your pussy on his leg. You can see it so clearly. You can almost feel it. His cock sinking into you, his hands and mouth on every inch of your body.
“Yes,” he hisses against your lips. “Fuck my leg until you cum.”
You reach down to pull your underwear even more out of the way, grinding your clit against him with reckless abandon as your orgasm reaches its tipping point.
“Unggh, Chan,” you pant, breaking the kiss. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna—oh fuck.”
You arch your back, expletives flying from your mouth, hips circling with fervor as you cum on his Fendi slacks.
It’s a good thing they give you these outfits to keep.
Even as your body shakes, he still doesn’t touch you. You latch your lips back onto his as your orgasm subsides, moaning softly into his mouth with each jerk of your hips.
When they finally stop moving on their own, he gently tangles his hand in your hair and lifts your head, forcing you to look at him.
“Feel better?” he tilts his head.
You nod sheepishly.
“Good,” he kisses you once, twice, three times. “Now you won’t get mad at me if I pick up all the shit you dropped?”
You snort, trying to hold in your laugh as you look down at the necklace that’s fallen to his side.
“I can pick it up myself,” you mumble.
“I don’t mind.” He says softly.
He kisses you once more, deeper this time, and once again you can’t stop the sigh that passes through your lips.
You have no way of knowing it yet, but this is the man that’s going to teach you that you can unapologetically be yourself—emotional wounds, brattiness and all—and he’s not going to run from it.
The biggest obstacle will be allowing yourself to accept it . . . and opening up to him.
a/n: phew. took a minute to get here, thank you for sticking with me! i hope their dynamics (y/n not wanting to lose herself in a relationship, and chan wanting very much to be everything his partner needs) are clearer now and this first smut scene feels earned. i've not written brat taming extensively but am excited to dive deeper into it.
✦ Summary: When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.
✦ Genres: Romance, Contract Marriage, Slow-Burn, Smut
✦ Word Count: ~ 10,160 thus far
✦ Warnings: I will not share an exhaustive list to avoid spoilers, but the smut picks up in chapter 5.
✦ AU - Chan x y/n
✦ Summary: When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.
✦ Genres: Romance, contract marriage, slow burn, smut, brat taming
✦ Warnings: I will not share an exhaustive list to avoid spoilers, but the smut picks up in chapter 5.
[ fic masterlist ]
Chapter Four: Compromise x Fendi
It felt like Lucia was never going to stop parading you around for pictures and interviews. Typically, these events are a breeze—just socializing and chatting about your favorite pieces from the show. You’re accustomed to being stared at, but tonight everyone is literally gawking at you and Chan with your hands intertwined.
You anticipated feeling unusually nervous and perhaps even a bit uncomfortable. But what you hadn’t expected was having Chan at your side cancel those feelings out.
Correct.
His final word echoes in your head all night. You don’t know how or why he’s so sure of himself, but his confidence calms you. You figure the least you can do is try to match the effort he’s putting into this and that helps you get through the night.
A whopping three hours of lies and fake smiles later, you’re both finally ushered outside the venue and into an awaiting car. Lucia stands next to the open door and hands your phones back. They’re both lighting up and vibrating like crazy.
“Trending already,” she beams.
You grab both phones since you’re closer and pass Chan his.
“Have you decided on Los Angeles or New York for your residence?” she asks, as if you’ve had ample time to consider your impending shared living arrangement and not just twenty-four hours.
“We haven’t talked about it yet,” you say, glancing at Chan.
“L.A. would make it easier to see my family.”
A pang of something you aren’t ready to deal with stabs at your chest.
His decision is based on family.
You were prepared to base your decision solely on weather.
“I’m good with that.”
“Perfect.” Lucia says. “We’ll send over a few options and schedule the engagement shoot there, too. Keep your phones close.”
She starts to close the door, then stops to add:
“And don’t forget to interact with some of the posts. Likes, comments—you know the drill.”
It isn’t until you and Chan verbally confirm you will that she closes the door.
You exhale heavily as the car takes off to the hotel, feeling absolutely drained from the evening. If it weren’t for this, you would have been on your way to the after-after party. But you can no longer attend such events on a whim by yourself without it being seen as trouble in paradise.
The shackles are already firmly in place.
And as your phone continues to ping with notification after notification, that fact really starts to sink in.
You’d much rather not acknowledge any of this right now, but you don’t have a choice. Maintaining this façade is now part of your job. So, you open Instagram and a video of you and Chan on Elle Magazine’s account is the first thing that greets you. The caption overhead reads: LOVE & FASHION IN THE AIR.
“You two left quite an impression on the runway. What was that moment?” the interviewer asks.
“I’d like to see anyone do better after turning around and seeing Chan in that outfit,” you answer with a small chuckle. “I was a little caught off guard, in the best way, and it doesn’t help that I had a lot on my mind . . . ”
You watch yourself step into Chan, pressing your side against him, and place your left-hand square on his chest.
You can still remember the rapid beating of his heart beneath your touch. How heat radiated from the spot on your waist where his hand rested.
She audibly gasps. “When did that happen? Unless I missed something, I didn’t even know you two were dating.”
“We worked hard to keep it between us until we were sure,” Chan answers. “The engagement was recent . . . I’m very lucky she said yes.”
You glance up at him.
He looks down at you and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.
It baffles you how natural it all comes off.
“When is the wedding?”
“All will be announced soon,” you smile coyly.
“Well, we look forward to hearing it. Congratulations,” the interviewer says. “Mind if we get another look at the ring?”
You pause the video there—you don’t need to see that part.
The damned thing is still on your finger.
You open the comments, wondering if the good or bad ones are having their turn at the top of the algorithm.
It turns out to be a mixture of everything.
OMG I'M SCREAMING 😭😭😭
Congratulations to her but I am currently in mourning
That forehead kiss was everything. Chan is so sweet. y/n is so lucky
THE RING?? HELLO??
Need somebody to explain this timeline to me
Their babies will be perfection
The way she smiles when he talks about her 🥰
Chan I'm free tomorrow if this doesn't work out
Y/N. GIRL. YOU WON.
If only they knew.
You double tap on the video out of pure obligation.
“It looks like you’ve got some backup options if this doesn’t work out,” you muse, setting your phone down, already over it.
Chan snorts, putting his phone down too.
You turn slightly to face him. This is the first time you’ve been alone since leaving the storage closet. The first time either of you have had a moment to think about all that’s coming next.
“Are we—”
“I know we—”
You both begin at the same time before pausing.
“You first,” you tell him.
“I know we have different reasons for not wanting this, but I think we should look at it as a business deal . . . a partnership with each other, if you will.”
Oh.
That’s not what you expected.
You wanted to ask how many rooms the apartment should have and call dibs on the master bedroom.
“There’s a lot of very real legal shit hanging over our heads and if we focus on that, we’ll be miserable,” he continues. “I don’t want that. We were friends before this and I’d like to say the same when this is over, yeah?”
You nod slowly, letting that sink in for a moment. The sentiment is certainly nice to hear after all that was said in his hotel room yesterday.
You probably wouldn’t have addressed it at all.
Chan clearly doesn’t have a problem expressing himself, though. And you can tell by the way he’s looking at you, he expects you to do the same.
“What are we telling our friends?” you ask instead.
He takes a beat before responding. “They get the same story as everyone else.”
“They wouldn’t tell anyone . . . ”
“I know, but we can’t risk them talking about it and someone overhearing. It’s easier to keep the narrative intact with fewer people knowing the truth.”
You can get away with lying to Seungmin via text, but you aren’t sure it will hold up in person.
“Okay,” you agree. “If they have follow up questions, I’m telling them to call you.”
Your phone vibrates again. Then again. And again.
Another article and a new round of commentary.
“It’s a good thing, y/n,” Chan reminds you. “We keep them talking, we keep Fendi happy, and Lucia stays off our back.”
Thousands of strangers discussing your personal life, even if contrived, doesn’t feel like a good thing. In terms of your current predicament, though, he’s right.
Keeping Lucia at bay is probably the only thing you have any control over right now. You can at least use that as some sort of motivation.
Between traveling, packing, choosing a new apartment, and fielding texts about the engagement, you’ve hardly had a moment to just breathe in days. Everything feels like it’s moving at warp speed and you’re just being pulled along on the ride.
Seungmin already called bullshit on the whole ordeal. You promised you’d explain more in person to buy yourself some time, but you have no idea what you can tell your best friend to make him believe this.
Your mother, on the other hand, is just dying to know when she’ll meet her future son-in-law. It doesn’t shock you that she asks nothing at all about him. Her main concern is how this will elevate your platform and, in turn, her social status amongst the other moms in the neighborhood.
That’s all any of your accomplishments have ever meant to her.
By the time you arrive at the high-rise residential building in Los Angeles that will be your home for the duration of the contract, you’re running on fumes.
You head to the 25th floor and stop at the front door, hands poised in front of the keypad as dread fills the pit of your stomach.
When Lucia sent a list of fully furnished rental options, you didn’t think you and Chan would ever come to an agreement on one. He wanted a place with ample kitchen space—you’re a DoorDash kind of girl and didn’t care too much about it. You wanted something in the city, he was okay living on the outskirts of town.
It was your first test of compromise as a fake couple.
Picking the place was easy. Actually being here? Not so much.
This is where you will live with Chan.
You’ve lived with roommates before.
Never a fiancé.
This is a new kind of domestic cohabitation.
“You just gonna stand there or you comin’ in?”
You jump at the sound of Chan’s disembodied voice disrupting your thoughts. Your eyes dart to the Ring camera on the side of the door.
He’s already connected to it?
You squint at the camera.
He laughs. “Shoes off, yeah?”
“Acting like you own the place already?”
You unlock the door and step inside, taking your shoes off as requested, before walking through the short hall and into the open living space. The afternoon light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. To your right is a couch, coffee table, and TV. And to your left, the kitchen.
Which is where Chan is.
“What are you doing?” you ask, bewildered.
He has all the cabinets open and every plate, cup, pot, pan on the island.
He glances over his shoulder. “Putting away the dishes.”
“Weren’t they already in the cabinet?”
“Yeah . . . but not the right ones,” he explains, resuming his task.
You inwardly flinch. Your mother is the only other person you’ve known to believe that some cabinets might be more correct than others. Everything has a place, she had always said. She ran a strict program, and you do not want the next few years to feel like you’re living with her.
You walk to the refrigerator. “I can order some food—"
You open it to find it fully stocked.
“You bought groceries already?” you close it and lean against the island.
“My bad. I knew your flight was coming in later than mine,” he says, putting a stack of plates in a cabinet near the stove. “Your boxes came. I put them in your room.”
“You didn’t unpack them for me?” you tease, brow quirked.
“Nah, that’s all you. But I will make dinner.”
You know it’s not his intention, but within the first few minutes of being here, it feels like you’re moving into his home.
You leave him to his organizing and walk back down the hall, entering the master bedroom on the right. All of your boxes are lined along the wall—a box cutter resting atop one of the stacks.
Of course he'd left one for you.
You slice through the tape on the nearest box and begin unpacking. Every so often you hear movement from the kitchen—cabinets closing, running water, the beeping of appliances.
By the time you’re halfway through the stacks, the smell of garlic and butter wafts into your room. Your stomach immediately growls.
To hell with unpacking. The boxes aren’t going anywhere.
You return to the kitchen. The island is now free of clutter and Chan is pan searing two steaks.
“Almost done,” he says. “Have a seat and I’ll bring it over.”
You opt for the seat facing the window and a few minutes later Chan is setting a plate down in front of you. The steak has already been sliced, with asparagus laid beside it.
The setting sun spilling through the windows is the kind of thing that would be romantic for a couple sharing their first night in their new apartment.
But the conversation over dinner is the opposite of that. It’s mundane and mechanical. You talk about household chores, preferred thermostat temperatures, your schedules, upcoming public appearances, and the type of content you can create for engagement.
On that note, he pushes his empty plate away and asks, “Where’s your ring?”
“In my room,” you answer. “We aren’t in public . . . ”
“Can you go grab it for a sec? We should probably take a picture.”
Your notifications had just started to quiet down.
You push away from the table reluctantly and go to your room. You find your purse and fish it out from the side pocket amidst bobby pins and gum wrappers. You slip the ring on as you return to the living room—stopping in the kitchen when you see Chan at the sink already rinsing your plates and putting them into the dishwasher.
He turns off the water and dries his hands before taking out his phone and walking to the window, motioning for you to join him. He takes your left hand in his, bringing you to his side. The gesture is smooth and feels natural, but that doesn’t stop a wave of heat from rolling through you at the contact.
He raises your hand, pointing the camera at it with the L.A. night sky as a backdrop. He then brings you to stand in front of him, hand still outstretched with the ring on your finger angled at the camera.
“Is my face in this?”
“Yeah, it’ll be out of focus, though.”
You both slip with ease into your professional personas. He snaps away, moving the camera around for higher and lower angles as you pose.
He airdrops you the photos when your mini photoshoot is over.
“We should probably talk about expectations and boundaries too,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like how to make sure we’re both comfortable in public. Some level of PDA will be required.”
“You say that like you haven’t already shoved your tongue down my throat, Chan.”
“That was one time,” he flushes. “In private.”
You’ve been so caught up in packing for the move and lying to anyone who asked you about the engagement that you hadn’t thought about that aspect of shared living.
Okay, that’s not true.
You definitely thought about it a few times.
But what’s tripping you up is the way he said one time.
As if it won’t happen again.
“Will there be more of that in private?” you ask.
The question throws him. His flush deepens.
You weren’t sure if Bashful Bang had disappeared forever, but there he is.
You take a step closer as your preferred kind of tension fills the space between you.
“You do know what husbands and wives do, don’t you?” You take another step, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders before pushing up onto your tiptoes. “Or are you expecting us to remain celibate this entire time?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“You.”
You lay your feet flat on the ground.
“If we have sex, it can’t just be casual for me.”
Well fuck.
Casual is exactly what you were hoping for. It has rules and doesn’t require anything more of you.
“Isn’t that smarter since we know it won’t last?” you ask, stroking the nape of his neck.
He places his hands on your hips, holding you firmly.
“Wouldn’t it be better if it meant something either way?”
You shrug.
He pulls you to him, pressing your body flush against him. Your breath catches in your throat.
“Believe me, I know it would feel good, too,” he begins softly. “And I’m not immune to you, y/n. But if we start adding sex to this, it could get messy without some level of mutual respect and trust holding it together.”
“Is this a hard line for you?”
He doesn’t answer.
His hands remain on your hips, thumbs absentmindedly brushing against the fabric of your shirt.
You’re not sure if he’s thinking or reconsidering.
Either way, he’s taking too long.
You rise up onto your tiptoes again, letting your lips brush against the corner of his jaw.
“You said kissing was okay before, right?” you murmur against his skin.
A quiet laugh escapes him.
“I did.”
Emboldened, you trail another kiss just below his ear.
His grip tightens ever so slightly.
“Let me take you on a date," he whispers.
You pull away from him, eyes locking with his.
For you, if you start adding that to the mix is when it would get messy.
It appears you’ve reached your second test of compromise.
And this one won’t be as easy to get through.
[ forever x fendi photobook ]
[ read chapter five here ]
a/n: he wants it, she wants it, WE want it...ugh. sorry this is so short! we're going to push chans buttons and see seungmin in london for their fashion week next chapter. more coming soon :)
how are ya'll feeling with the world tour announcement? i'm so excited. i saved money this time around 😂
Summary: After a bad breakup with your ex, you need a place to live for the remainder of the school year. You see the Sigma Kappa Zeta (SKZ) fraternity ad for an "In-House Stay"; you decide to you apply and are accepted. Your duties? Cooking...cleaning...oh, and pleasing your assigned members: Hwang Hyunjin and Bang Chan.
Word Count: 153,021
Warnings: Oral (both m and f receiving), spanking, solo play with an onlooker, threesome, handcuffs, light dom/sub undertones, public sex, choking, orgasm denial, and angst...lots of angst.
Chapter One: Of Breakups & New Housing
Chapter Two: Of Ex's & Tesla's
Chapter Three: Of Blowjobs & Birthdays
Chapter Four: Of Pineapples & Punishment
Chapter Five: Of Mirrors & Lessons
Chapter Six: Of Joy Rides & Hot Tubs
Chapter Seven: Of Watching & Submitting
Chapter Eight: Of Drive-Ins & Wishes
Chapter Nine: Of Halloween & Hallways
Chapter Ten: Of Yin & Yang
Chapter Eleven: Of Triple N's & Multiple O's
Chapter Twelve: Of Delays & Professor Bang
Chapter Thirteen: Of Girl Talk & Berry
Chapter Fourteen: Of Surprises & Closets
Chapter Fifteen: Of Showers & Cabins
Chapter Sixteen: Of Chan & Cuffs
Chapter Seventeen: Of Futures & Flights
Chapter Eighteen: Of Beaches & Balconies
Chapter Nineteen: Of Chokers & Christmas
Chapter Twenty: Of Father's & Basements
Chapter Twenty-One: Of Rotations & Doors
Chapter Twenty-Two: Of Seungmin & Karaoke
Chapter Twenty-Three: Of You (Chan POV)
Chapter Twenty-Four: Of Changbin & Roses
Chapter Twenty-Five: Of Popcorn & Reuniting
Chapter Twenty-Six: Of Talks & Relapsing
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Of Insomnia & Revelations
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Of Notices & Benches
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Of Storms (Chan POV)
Chapter Thirty: Of Rainy Days & Goodbyes
Chapter Thirty-One: Of Vets & Contracts
Chapter Thirty-Two: Of Epilogues
FOR REFERENCE:
SKZ House Photo Book
Peacemaker - The SKZ House Bonus One-Shot
Summary: For the life of you, you can't get Changbin and Seungmin to stop arguing for long...unless they're fucking you at the same time.
Word Count: 3020
Warnings: Threesome, squirting, double penetration, anal sex, deep throating, tit fucking.
𑣲⋆ a/n: one can't help but start thinking of these things after watching the boys with babies
𑣲⋆ pairing: reader x hyung line
𑣲⋆ genre: dad!skz, fluff
𑣲⋆ word count: ~500
𑣲⋆ Chan would be a bit of a helicopter dad and husband. He’d have read all the baby books he could find to prepare himself. And it would help because the first night home with baby girl you’d be ready to call an ambulance during a midnight diaper change. “Why is it black!?” you’d ask, wild-eyed and horrified. He’d assure you she was fine and it was normal. He’d tell you he read a baby stool chart that explained the color variations. He’d brush off the face you make because your daughter is perfect and nothing she does could ever gross him out.
He’d make sure you pumped on time and manage the inventory like he’s running a breastmilk warehouse. He'd take care of all household chores, giving you ample time to rest and recuperate even if it means carrying the baby around with him. Which causes her to quickly become spoiled and not fall asleep unless she's in his arms.
𑣲⋆ Lee Know would have one specific goal in mind when you bring your baby boy home: getting him approved by Soonie, Doongie and Dori. He’d joke that the baby absolutely could not be allergic to cats because he’d choose his feline family over the human one. Dori and Doongie would adjust quickly but Soonie would require some convincing.
He’d purchase a knitted cat costume for your son, lay him next to Soonie and sit beside them (to supervise and redirect Soonie as needed, because safety first—then teamwork). And it would work. Soonie would finally curl up beside your son with his head resting on the tiny stomach. Lee Know would take pictures through water eyes and mumble to you, “Don’t look at me right now” in the way he does when he’s caught being emotional.
𑣲⋆ Changbin would be all out of sorts from lack of sleep and his gym schedule being thrown off. He’d try to multitask by putting your crying son into his car seat and doing lateral raises with it, and somehow it soothes him. Changbin would feel like he now has a built in workout buddy for life. He’d put the baby into his carrier sling and knock out some squats or chin-ups and your precious baby boy would be content or sleeping the whole time.
But you would have to put a stop to it when you catch him curling a 40lb weight with your sons head too close for comfort. And he’d be lowkey offended you thought he’d risk injuring your baby like that if he didn’t have exceptional muscle control.
𑣲⋆ Hyunjin would be super in tune with your needs. You’d never have to ask for anything. He’d know when you need a relaxing bath or a quick shower because you’re running on fumes and are liable to fall asleep in the tub. On the first night home while you and your daughter slept, he’d stay awake sketching page after page of her sleeping face and her little hands and feet because he doesn't ever want to forget how she looked.
She’d quickly become his muse and canvas when he discovers baby safe nail polish. He’d become obsessed with painting all of your nails matching colors and with his steady hand, he’d be unnecessarily good at it.
ꨄ︎ a/n: i don't know where this depravity came from but i hope you like it all the same! forgive any typos especially with past/present tense as i usually write in present
ꨄ︎ paring: felix x reader
ꨄ︎ warnings: felix is a stalker. voyeurism. masturbation (m & f).
ꨄ︎ word count: 1,561
It started your first day in the office. Your computer wasn’t working, so IT sent Felix upstairs to fix it. And the moment he looked up and saw your smile, he was done for.
Obsessions weren’t new to him. Usually, it was a new hobby, certainly never a person.
Until you, kitten.
What began as harmless curiosity quickly spun into something else entirely. His access to the security cameras told him when you arrived each morning. Your employee records gave him access to your phone number and address. Soon he was remotely checking your work computer throughout the day. Eventually, one of the three monitors on his desk was dedicated entirely to observing you.
It helped that you were terrible with electronics, always needing him to come fix something. Always giving him an excuse to be near you.
But work only gave him eight hours with you and he wanted the other sixteen too.
At first he slipped a tracking device on your car.
It’s just to make sure you get home safely, kitten.
Then he started driving past your apartment occasionally, then weekly, then daily. He learned which lights belonged to your unit and which windows you liked to leave open. His favorite days were the ones where you exercised in the living room, dressed in biker shorts and a sports bra, completely unaware of your audience.
It felt wrong—the first time his cock twitched while watching you. Invasive. But the guilt faded quickly. He convinced himself anyone with eyes would react that way to you and he has to be the one to keep an eye on you.
To protect you from them, kitten.
One evening after confirming you were gone, Felix let himself into your apartment. The electronic lock took less than a minute to hack.
The first camera went into the living room. The second overlooked the kitchen and dining area. The third was on a bookshelf across from your bed.
Obviously.
He meant to leave immediately after placing them, but curiosity pulled him toward your dresser. The top right drawer was the first he opened and held exactly what he was looking for. He ran his fingers along the lace panties, smiling softly at the various shades and imagining how they’d look against your skin.
He took a red pair for himself.
Back at home, he was alerted to your arrival by the tracker and promptly darted to his computer to view the cameras.
It was surreal enough being there himself. But seeing you in your home now, hearing the sound of you moving throughout was entirely new, and fresh. And fuck, he wished he was there with you. Wished he could just tell you how much he wanted to be with you. Every waking moment.
His eyes followed you through the apartment on the cameras, but lost you when you entered your bathroom.
That felt like too private a place to watch you, kitten.
He had to have some standards.
He maximized the camera feed, letting the image of your room fill up the entire 45-inch monitor.
You returned a while later with a towel wrapped around your body and a bottle of lotion in your hand. His eyes darted to the windows in your room, making sure they were closed.
Can’t have you exposed and vulnerable, kitten.
You sat at the edge of your bed and dried off, giving him glimpses of parts of you he’d never seen before. Thighs. Stomach. Tits.
His cock stirred beneath his sweats.
When you finally let the towel fall completely, he leaned back in his chair, pulse racing as he watched you moisturize.
He would have given anything to be the one doing that.
You stood and turned around, showing your ass to the camera. His hand flew to his cock, gripping it through his sweats as if that would stop it’s longing to be inside of you. He kneaded the length of it with his thumb as you returned the towel and bottle of lotion to the bathroom.
He used the time while you were off screen to pull down his sweats and boxers. He didn’t care what you were about to do. If you sat there and scrolled on your phone or went to sleep, he wouldn’t stop stroking his cock until he came with his eyes locked on you.
He spat into his hand then grabbed his hardened cock, slowly stroking it as you came back into frame. His brow furrowed when you climbed straight into bed without putting on any underwear or pajamas.
Is that how you always slept?
He could only hope.
You pulled out a Kindle from your nightstand and leaned back against the pillows. You bent your knees and his heart stopped at the sight of your cunt, peeking out from between your thighs. He gripped his cock tighter.
You propped up the device and after a few swipes, became impossibly still as you read.
What are you reading, kitten?
He wished he knew.
But he got a good idea fairly quickly when you started to rub your thighs together. And when you pinched your nipple between your fingers, he was certain it was of the smut variety.
The thought of you reading sexually explicit content and touching yourself (while he watched you with his cock in his hand) sent even more blood rushing to his already painfully erect appendage.
He rubbed his thumb across the tip of his cock, smearing the precum as you continued your own movements. When you released a soft moan, the sound came straight for his soul.
But hearing it through the speakers wasn’t enough. He needed the sound closer. He grabbed his headphones and put them on before maxing out the volume.
He needed to clearly hear every sound that fell from your lips, every rustle of your sheets.
Felix squeezed his cock harder as he stroked it, watching closely as your hand snaked between your thighs, fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He was suspended in disbelief at what he was seeing. At how gracious you were to bless him with this presentation on his first night with you.
It was almost like you were touching yourselves together.
He could so easily picture himself on the bed with you, face between your thighs, nuzzling his nose against your cunt, inhaling your scent.
Bet you smell good, kitten.
You spread your legs further apart, plunged your fingers into your cunt then brought the back out to spread your juices around your clit. Your hips started to move as your breathing grew shallow.
He stroked his cock faster.
You moved your hand back up to your tits, cupping one and pinching the nipple, then moved it back to your clit. A soft whimper of frustration fell from your lips.
I could do both for you, kitten.
You worked yourselves up together, moaning and groaning as you both pleased yourselves. You returned your fingers into your cunt, slowly fucking yourself, then picking up speed, smacking your palm against your clit.
He gripped his cock harder, stroking from tip to hilt furiously. He wanted to know how his cock would feel inside you. Your cunt gripping him. Your juices coating his thighs.
He grunted at the thought.
He leaned back in the chair, teeth gritted as you rolled over. You placed the Kindle on your pillow and kept your right hand between your legs, fingers still driving into your wet cunt.
And the sounds it made, kitten.
Your hips bounced against your hand as you let loose on the bed, eyes still on the words giving you so much pleasure.
Was it possible to be jealous of an electronic device? Because he sure fucking was. Fuck that Kindle. Fuck whoever wrote that story. He was desperate to be the one making you feel like that.
Felix couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. And as far as he was concerned, even blinking was a waste of time with you in front of him like that.
He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting off his release.
“Oh fuck,” you moaned. “Fuck me, please.”
Was that dialogue from the story?
Dare he believe it was meant for him?
Because he did.
He imagined mounting you from behind, plunging his cock into you, pounding your cunt until he filled you with his cum.
He couldn’t hold back anymore and neither could you.
Come with me, kitten.
He groaned as you cried out. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, carrying him through his orgasm as cum spurt out the tip of his cock. It went everywhere—the floor, his desk, the keyboard. He didn’t fucking care.
When your hips stopped writhing against the bed, you flipped over onto your back and slipped your fingers into your mouth, moaning at the taste of yourself.
His cock twitched.
He looked down at it with furrowed brows as if it had a mind of it’s own.
Not yet.
He would wait for you to fall asleep. He wanted to cum while imagining himself standing over you, waking you up with his warm cum drenching your angelic face.
You made your way to the bathroom again and he finally stood to clean himself up, too.
Felix was happier than he’d been in a while.
No longer did he ever have to spend his time without you.
how was that? 🫣 i could see a part two eventually but that's it for now.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Since a lot of the outfits I'm pulling directly from the Fendi site, pics of Chan, and fashion shows, I'll post them here to help with the visuals. And whatever else I take inspiration from :)
CH 1 - Fashion Week Day 1 Outfit
(Let's let go of reality a bit and pretend it wouldn't have been cold that night, and that the zipper was in the back 😉)
✦ AU - Chan x y/n
✦ Summary: When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.
✦ Genres: Romance, contract marriage, slow burn, smut, brat taming
✦ Warnings: I will not share an exhaustive list to avoid spoilers, but the smut picks up in chapter 5.
[ read chapter two here ]
Chapter Three: Runway x Fendi
You haven’t stopped pacing since entering Chan’s room. He initially offered you a seat on the couch, but you declined. Sitting still feels impossible right now.
Meanwhile, he’s been sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, eyes tracking you back and forth.
“Are you going to sign?” he calmly asks.
You stop pacing.
“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“What is there to talk about?”
You lift the contract in your hand.
“Fendi blackmailing us would be a decent starting point.”
“It’s not blackmail.” His tone stays maddeningly even. “It’s a business decision. Protecting the brand’s reputation is their priority.”
“I understand that part. I just think there has to be another option besides marriage.”
You finally sit, perching on the edge of the coffee table across from him.
“This would be three years of our lives, Chan. Three years trapped in a lie.” You tighten your grip on the contract. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
His expression doesn’t shift.
“I don’t want to marry you,” you continue quickly. “I don’t want to marry anyone. You know that.”
“I do know that.”
“Then why would you sign this?”
“I didn’t exactly have two-million-dollars lying around to break my individual contract,” he says. “Unless you came here to lend it to me?”
You press your lips together.
The five hundred thousand in your own contract suddenly feels insignificant in comparison. Still impossible. Just . . . less impossible.
“We agreed to uphold a certain image as ambassadors and we failed to do that,” he continues. “We should be grateful they’re giving us an opportunity to make amends.”
And therein lies the difference between the two of you.
Chan upholds the title of ambassador like it means something sacred.
When Fendi extended an offer to you, you saw it as a means of escape. A way to get out of your parents’ house. A way out from beneath your mother’s control. A way to build a life that actually belonged to you.
Now the contract in your hand feels like a new leash.
“Already with the ‘we’ stuff?” you huff. “It was a dumb night in Vegas. People do worse every weekend.”
His jaw tightens.
“I feel like a public apology would’ve sufficed,” you continue before that moment can linger. “Of all the things one could get caught doing, this doesn’t feel that bad.”
“And what would qualify as ‘that’ bad to you?”
“If I photographed bent over the car while you fucked me from behind.”
“Can you stop turning this into a joke for one second?” he snaps.
The sharpness of it cuts clean through you.
“Just think about it,” he says, quieter now. “The PR team would’ve gone through every possible outcome before landing on this. They picked the option that benefits the company most.”
“Which brings us back to the blackmail.”
He exhales through his nose, frustration brimming.
“I already signed it, y/n. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to give me a good reason why you signed so quickly, without even talking to me.”
The pleading in your own tone is foreign to your ears.
“A sham marriage is the exact opposite of what you want,” you press on. “You want love. Marriage. Kids. All that domestic shit. So how are you okay playing house for three years?”
His eyes snap to yours. “I never said I was okay with it.”
The room goes still.
In front if you is not the Bashful Bang you get a kick out of teasing.
This is no nonsense Chan.
“I just don’t see another option,” he says quietly.
You swallow hard.
You’d been counting on his practicality to uncover some alternative. But if he can’t find a way around this, neither can you.
Chan stands first, and the movement seems to end the conversation before you were ready for it. He walks toward the door, and after a second, you follow.
“Read the contract,” he says. “Then make whatever decision you can live with.”
He opens the door for you.
“I’ve made mine.”
You rub at your temples as the endless legal jargon starts to blur together. The only enticing part thus far was the generous monthly compensation package.
While in the comfort of the hotel supplied bathrobe, you read through the shared residence section next. It requires you and Chan to choose between New York City or Los Angeles as your primary home base. And there’s a clause requiring both of you to reside there whenever work doesn’t pull you elsewhere.
Your stomach tightens—you were holding onto hope that your private life could still remain yours.
The wedding section is worse.
A chateau in Rome for the venue. A week-long stay leading up to the ceremony. Accommodations and flights for both of your immediate family members included.
You aren’t ready to even think about sending an invitation home.
Or telling Seungmin and the others about this.
Finally, you get to the bold heading of the last page: EARLY TERMINATION / EXIT PROVISION.
Your pulse quickens. Maybe this is your way out.
1.1 Mutual Termination
In the event both Parties jointly elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date, each Party shall remit a termination fee to the Brand in the following amounts:
Female Ambassador: $3,000,000 USD
Male Ambassador: $5,000,000 USD
Your face twists.
Five hundred thousand dollars already felt impossible. Two million feels suffocating. Even with the compensation package, it would take you the duration of the contract to save up that amount.
You keep reading.
1.2 Termination Initiated by Female Ambassador
Should the Female Ambassador independently elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date:
The Female Ambassador shall remit a reduced termination fee of $500,000 USD.
The Male Ambassador shall assume all remaining financial liability, totaling $7,500,000 USD.
You blink at the page.
That can’t be right.
You read it again.
Slower this time, like the numbers might change.
They don’t.
1.3 Termination Initiated by Male Ambassador.
Should the Male Ambassador independently elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date:
The Male Ambassador shall remain solely responsible for all financial penalties otherwise due under Clause 1.1.
Your chest tightens around the math of it.
If you both walk away, you both drown in debt.
If you walk away, Chan takes most of the hit.
And if Chan walks away—you lose nothing.
You stare at the page, trying to make sense of it.
Then your eyes land on the initials beside sections 1.2 and 1.3.
C.B.
Below them, in neat handwriting: NON-NEGOTIABLE.
Your breath catches.
These are Chan’s addendums.
Backstage at the Fendi fashion show is hectic.
You’re seated in front of a vanity with your eyes closed while a team works around you—hands in your hair, makeup brushes sweeping across your skin.
You try to let the noise drown everything else out. You focus on the chatter. The heels clacking against the floor. The slam of makeup cases.
Anything but the nervous storm churning in your stomach.
Try as you might, nothing can make you forget that it’s official now. You signed the contract last night and Lucia’s intern came to collect it personally.
Tonight, the world finds out you’re engaged to Chan.
And you haven’t spoken to him since leaving his room yesterday.
You don’t even know what you’d say if you did.
Your phone buzzes on the vanity. You blindly reach for it and peek an eye open to see who it is.
Mommy Dearest.
You nearly decline the call out of instinct.
It’s been close to a month since you last spoke to your mother—not for lack of effort on her part, and entirely because of the faithful ignore button on yours.
But with tonight’s announcement looming over your head, blindsiding her feels significantly more dangerous.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Sweetie!” she immediately gushes with far too much energy for it to be 9am back home. “I’ve just uploaded the pictures from yesterday and the fan account is going ballistic.”
You inwardly groan.
She runs an unofficial page dedicated to you despite repeated hints that maybe she shouldn’t.
“Especially the pictures with Felix,” she continues. “And—what’s the Versace boy’s name again?”
“Hyunjin.”
“Yes. Hunjin,” she mispronounces it anyway. “He is gorgeous. If I were in your shoes, I’d—”
“Mom,” you cut her off quickly. “Listen, there’s some news coming out tonight.”
“Oh?”
Your throat tightens.
Even without the glam team around you, you wouldn’t know how to get out the words engaged and fiancé without dying.
“I can’t really explain right now,” you say carefully, “but just . . . prepare yourself, okay?”
Your phone buzzes with another incoming call.
Lucia.
“I gotta go. Work is calling.”
You switch calls before she can protest.
“Hello?”
“I just ran an idea by the executives and they loved it,” Lucia says, rather than a proper greeting. “We’re implementing it for the show.”
You close your eyes again, bracing yourself.
“You’ll be the last woman to walk out,” she continues, “and Chan will be the first man.”
She pauses dramatically, but you’re already sitting on pins and needles without the theatrics.
“You’ll pose at the end of the runway, then the two of you will cross paths on your return. As you pass him, you’ll brush hands. The touch should linger as you both continue in opposite directions.”
Another pause.
“The longing it will imply. Ugh! The press will eat it up. It’s perfect.”
You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror.
Makeup aside, you hardly recognize yourself. Not that you ever really could. Growing up, there was never space to figure out who you were beneath everyone else’s expectations..
You don’t see an engaged woman staring back at you.
You don’t really see anyone at all.
“What do you think?” she asks.
As if your opinion factors into any of this.
“I’ll do it,” you answer flatly.
“Buono. And remember—a lingering brush of hands, okay? Down to the fingertips—think The Creation of Adam.”
The line clicks dead.
You lower the phone slowly.
The Creation of Adam?
You’re already under enough pressure walking the runway. Now you’re expected to recreate Michaelangelo’s art in under five seconds.
The team finishes moments later while you quietly update Lucia’s contact name to Lucifer.
You slip into your look for the show.
The top is a dark, collared short-sleeved button-up shirt, oversized enough to look stolen from a boyfriend’s closet. On your lower half is a pair of black high-waisted boy shorts beneath a sheer skirt. The skirt is embellished with delicate floral embroidery. Nude heels and a blush-toned handbag complete the look.
You move into position with the rest of the lineup as the music begins thundering through backstage.
One minute.
That’s all this is.
One minute of pretending you’re perfectly composed and in love.
Surely you can handle that.
But it won’t end there.
You press the heel of your hand to your sternum. Your heartbeat feels uneven.
Publicly alluding to a relationship like this isn’t your style at all.
Then again, you’re not entirely sure you even have a style when it comes to relationships.
You’ve never kept anyone long enough to figure it out.
“y/n,” a production assistant calls. “You’re next. In three . . . two . . . one . . . go!”
You straighten instinctively. Shoulders back. Chin up. Expression blank.
The moment you step onto the runway, everything else disappears beneath the adrenaline.
Camera flashes burst across the crowd.
You keep your gaze forward as you reach the end of the runway, strike your pose, then pivot smoothly.
And immediately forget how to breathe.
Chan is walking toward you.
A long leopard-print coat is draped over his broad shoulders with no shirt underneath. He is fucking shredded.
If you’d seen that in Vegas, he would have had to forcefully throw you off him.
The black slacks hang dangerously low on his hips don’t help right now either. The sharp v-cut of his abdomen is exposed and putting way too many despicable thoughts in your head of what lies beneath.
The stylist deserves prison time.
Then another horrible realization hits: your outfit looks halfway stolen from a man’s closet . . . his is missing the shirt entirely.
The looks were coordinated.
Lucifer.
You continue walking. Left foot. Right foot.
Wait, what were you supposed to do again?
Right. Just touch his hand. Innocent. Longing. Fingertips.
Easy enough in theory.
But the abs are approaching and holy fuck do they make you wanna drop to your knees on this runway.
You force your gaze back up to his face to find his eyes already on you.
Your pulse stumbles.
This man is your fiancé as of today.
He will soon be your lawfully wedded husband.
You falter, tripping over your own feet in the tight, sheer skirt.
You feel it before it happens—the horrifying split second where your body knows you’re about to fall and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
The audience collective gasps as gravity takes you.
But the impact never comes.
Chan catches you.
A wave of camera flashes erupt across the runway as heat floods your face.
This is going to be everywhere.
Chan steadies you against him. You slowly lift your eyes to his, searching for reassurance and finding it far too easily.
His hand rises to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His brow raises slightly—a silent question: You okay?
You give the smallest nod.
His hand lingers against your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin before he jerks his head toward the end of the runway behind him.
Keep going.
You somehow manage to continue walking without combusting on the spot.
Only once you disappear behind the backstage barrier do you let out a huge sigh, shoulders dropping.
That was definitely not what Lucia told you to do.
“We need you out in five minutes,” Lucia’s intern says, guiding you down a hall backstage.
He came to grab you almost immediately after you changed into a long sleeved, camel toned dress and matching heels.
A knot has formed in your stomach within the past half hour. The thought of walking the red carpet as a couple has now consumed your thoughts.
But before you do, you have to meet with Chan.
But you still aren’t sure what to say to him.
The assistant opens a door and steps aside.
It’s storage room with empty clothing racks, chairs, and vanity desks cluttering most of the space.
Chan stands at the center of the chaos, clad in a black suit and tie. The white button up shirt beneath it has the Fendi motif emblazoned along the collar.
Despite both of you being fully covered now, your pulse still quickens.
And it's another well-paired outfit for tonight's announcement.
Damn it. Lucia's good.
The door closes behind you.
“You signed.” Chan says, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I did.”
You come to a stop in front of him as he pulls out a small square box.
You don’t have to guess what is.
Your new leash.
“You’re meant to wear it any time you’re in public.” He opens the box, presenting you with the ring inside. “Starting tonight.”
You don’t budge.
After a beat, Chan takes matters into his own hands. He plucks the ring out and snaps the box shut before slipping it back into his pocket. He then holds his hand out for yours.
You lift your left hand and start to place it in his.
This moment feels like a scene you’re not meant to be in. But here you are, playing a lead role. Getting engaged.
You don’t mean to, but you recoil, pulling your hand back to your chest.
He tilts his head and speaks softly, “We signed already, y/n.”
You take a deep breath.
There really is no turning back.
You place your left hand in his.
He gently slips the gold band onto your ring finger. Right at the center is the Fendi logo, each F filled in with several small diamonds.
“I’m surprised Lucia didn’t make you give this to me in front of the press,” you muse, moving your fingers to see it sparkle in the light.
It really is a beautiful ring. It’s a shame it feels unnaturally heavy on your hand.
“She tried.”
You meet his gaze.
He refused.
You don’t know why, but somehow you doubt it was pride. Maybe even Chan has lines he doesn’t want this contract crossing.
“Chan,” you murmur. “The contract terms you negotiated . . . I don’t understand.”
He shrugs. “If you decide this isn’t something you can do, I don’t want money being the reason you stay.”
“You’re willing to be indebted for millions if I get cold feet?”
“I’d rather lose money than have someone feel like they’re trapped.”
He’s giving you a way out, owing nothing more than you do now.
But that’s a lot of fucking money.
You quirk a brow. “And you don’t think you’ll be the one to walk?”
Chan doesn’t answer immediately.
When he finally does, there isn’t a trace of uncertainty in his voice.
“Correct.”
The knock comes before you can process that.
“Lucia’s waiting.”
Neither of you move.
Then you look away first, muttering, “We should go.”
[ read chapter four here ]
a/n: really enjoying building the tension between these two right now but even i can't wait until they rip each others clothes off 😫
✦ AU - Chan x y/n
✦ Summary: When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.
✦ Genres: Romance, contract marriage, slow burn, smut, brat taming
✦ Warnings: I will not share an exhaustive list to avoid spoilers, but the smut picks up in chapter 5.
✦ a/n: taking us back to where it all began before we move forward 😉 happy reading!
[ read chapter one here ]
Chapter Two: Vegas x Fendi
The marriage contract is exhaustingly thorough.
You read through the first few sections on the drive back to the hotel. Obligations. Timelines. Public appearances—starting tomorrow night, when the relationship goes public, should you agree to this farce.
But you can’t sign this. For a multitude of reasons.
You assumed Chan would have the same reservations.
ONE MONTH AGO
It’s only three days into the New Year and you’re already back to work. No complaints on your end, though. Work means money. Money equals freedom.
And the job is in Las Vegas.
Accepting the invitation was a no-brainer.
The new Fendi storefront, located in the Fontainebleau Hotel and Casino, is impossible to miss.
Pale travertine marble wraps the exterior, gold trim framing the entrance. Massive glass windows reveal carefully curated displays where every bag and mannequin are staged with intention.
The grand opening isn’t until tomorrow, but you are allowed inside for a sneak peek and to pick out a few complimentary items.
Aside from employees, the store is empty. You half expect to see Chan somewhere among the displays but he’s nowhere in sight. You make quick work of getting content. When you’re done, you drift between racks and settle on your items. The employee bags it up for you and then you’re free for the rest of the day.
On the elevator ride to your room, you send Chan a text. Fendi assignments featuring just the two of you are surprisingly rare and you were banking on spending time with him instead of being alone in your hotel room.
YOU
When does your flight get in?
The elevator stops on the 8th floor and the doors open, revealing Chan clad in black shorts, a damp black tank top clinging to his torso, and a white towel slung over his shoulder. You can only assume he’s just left the hotel gym. And the veins protruding from his biceps suggest it was an arm day.
He glances up from his phone to you, then back to the phone as if trying to piece together the coincidence as well.
“Gym?” you smirk. “Should I expect more thirst traps on my feed?”
The flush that spreads across his cheeks is dangerously cute as he steps into the elevator.
Chan is objectively attractive. Unfortunately, so are all of your friends, and sleeping with people in the group sounds like an excellent way to make everything weird. But a little harmless flirtation never hurt anyone.
“You’ve seen those?” He moves to press his floor but stops when he realizes you’ve already selected it.
“Me and a million other people, babe,” you reply. “Good stuff.”
The blush deepens.
“Did you already check out the store?” you ask.
He clears his throat.
“Yeah, my flight got in this morning, so I went earlier.” He glances down at the Fendi bag in your hand. “What’d you get?”
“One of those colorful matching sets, they’re so cute,” you gush. “And a coat for Milan. You?”
“Some sunglasses and a beanie.”
“That’s it? You know it’s free, right?”
“I’m a simple man, y/n,” he replies. “And I paid for mine.”
For someone who embodies temptation in his photoshoots, Chan is absurdly down to earth. You could stand to learn a lot from him, if you were open to being taught.
“Okay, big spender,” you tease.
He chuckles as the elevator door opens again.
“Whatcha got planned for tonight?” you ask as you start down the hall.
“Just ordering room service.”
“But we’re in Vegas,” you state, matter-of-factly.
“I’ve been here before,” he shrugs.
He stops at his door—yours is three down.
“Me too,” you say, donning your most charming smile. “But there’s something I didn’t do last time. You can come with me.”
His lips quirk. “Is that what I can do?”
“I mean, unless you want me to tell Hyunjin and Felix you’re lame and left me to fend for myself.”
“That’s not a great reason. They already think I’m lame.”
“Well then we’ll prove them wrong tonight,” you counter.
He pretends to consider it.
“Okay but nothing too crazy. We have to work tomorrow.”
“We’ll keep it tame.” You place a hand over your heart. “I’ll leave the drugs in my room.”
His expression shifts to one of genuine concern.
“I’m joking,” you laugh. “You’re so easy to mess with.”
“Maybe I’ll just order room service after all . . . ”
You open your mouth to object, then stop when you see the smug look on his face.
“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be back out,” he says.
You smile, nodding as you press the keycard to the lock. Your smile lingers another second after the door shuts behind you. Then the room goes still, and the feeling fades with it.
Fremont Street hits as soon as you step out of the Uber—dense crowds, street performers, music spilling at you from every direction.
You’re wearing jeans, a dark hoodie and denim jacket layered over top. Chan is dressed similarly for warmth with his new Fendi beanie pulled over his head.
You walk to the first bar you see and order four shots.
“Four?” Chan repeats as the bartender places them in front of you. “What happened to keeping it tame?”
You slide two toward Chan and keep the others for yourself.
“The first is to curb the cold,” you say, tapping your glass to his before knocking it back. “The second is to loosen you up a little.”
He grimaces after taking it. “We have work.”
“You are never beating the lame allegations,” you stare pointedly. “Look, for every shot, we’ll have a glass of water. It’ll even out.”
“I don’t think that’s scientifically accurate.”
“Damn . . . that worked on Felix.”
You take the second shot before heading back into the crowd. You pass a man playing the steel drums, showgirls, and nuns in full habit strategically altered to flash their tits.
“This place is insane,” Chan mutters.
“City of Sin for a reason,” you laugh, sneaking a photo as you pass them. “I hear you’re working on a new project?”
“Yeah,” he grins, proud. “In talks to launch a collab next summer.”
“So you’re in this for the long haul with Fendi?”
He nods. “You’re not?”
“I just renewed for a third year with them, but I don’t know, honestly,” you murmur. “In terms of jobs, it’s consistent work. Way better than scrambling for modeling gigs.”
“Then why wouldn’t you stay on as an ambassador?”
Chan pries. A lot.
But he does it with good intentions.
The others open up to him freely, knowing he’ll listen and provide sound suggestions. You, on the other hand, always have that seed of doubt that people won’t stick around if they get to know the real you.
So, you refrain from revealing too much and convince yourself it’s the polite thing to do.
Thankfully, this topic isn’t too personal.
“Age and gravity are bound to start affecting our bodies at some point, right? I’m twenty-five. I don’t know what comes after this.”
“Whatever you want,” he says, as if it’s common sense. “Just make a plan.”
“Of course you’d say that. What’s your plan?”
Before he can answer, a set of screaming voices sound off from overhead. You glance up, watching as they whizz by on a zipline.
“We’re here!” you grin, already taking him by the wrist.
“Hard pass,” he shakes his head, planting his feet and making it nearly impossible to pull him. “No heights.”
“Come on,” you tug. “Don’t be lame.”
“You can’t keep using that word against me all night.”
“Can and will,” you retort.
He relents, letting you drag him to the ticket booth. From there, you’re led toward a set of stairs and start climbing your way to the top, where a small group waits ahead of you.
Chan glances over the railing, then quickly turns back around.
“Keep talking,” he says. “Distract me.”
“Hmm . . . what’s your big life plan?”
He exhales a breath. “It’s really just goals I want to accomplish by certain ages.”
“Pushing thirty has you spinning already?”
“Maybe a bit,” he chuckles. “I’d like to start my own jewelry line in the next five years. Then get married and start having kids.”
The admission catches you off guard. Most men want to delay those milestones as long as possible. Yet Chan seems to be counting down the days until it happens.
“You wanna be held hostage?”
His brow furrows. “You hear marriage and your first thought is lifelong imprisonment?”
“I enjoy my freedom,” you defend yourself. “I don’t see marriage in the cards for me.”
He frowns.
“Alright, you two step onto the platform,” the attendant instructs.
You both walk to the awaiting harnesses and get strapped in. You’re adjusted until you’re suspended horizontally, arms free, body angled toward the open air.
“Ready?”
You nod.
“In 3 . . . 2 . . .”
You glance over at Chan, he’s holding onto the straps for dear life, eyes squeezed shut.
The mechanism releases and you’re launched forward into the night.
A startled sound tears from your throat—half scream, half laugh—as cold wind rushes across your face and steals the breath from your lungs. Tears spring to your eyes as you stretch your arms wide, surrendering to the sensation of flying.
Nothing else exists for a moment.
There is only speed, air, and freedom.
You don’t expect anyone to understand why you crave it so much.
Somewhere behind you, Chan is stretched into a Superman pose, screaming into the night.
It takes less than two minutes to make it to the other side. You start to slow down, and a pair of hands catch the harness. Once free, you approach Chan—his cheeks flushed pink from the wind and adrenaline.
“Round two?”
He glares.
“Okay, okay. I won’t push my luck.”
Back on the ground level, you purchase the video of Chan, as proof to send the others.
“Thanks for coming out tonight.”
“Of course,” he shrugs it off. “Where to next?”
You smile, happy he’s not ready to turn in just yet.
“Hmm,” you hum, glancing around.
There’s an endless supply of things to do. You settle on the first thing that grabs your attention—a giant, mechanical grasshopper with flames shooting out of its antennae.
“That thing.”
You gently grab his arm and turn him in the appropriate direction to start walking. You nestle your hand in the crook of his arm, not wanting to get separated in the crowd.
He doesn’t seem to notice at first. Or maybe he does, because after a while his arm shifts subtly against yours, bringing you closer instead of away.
“Container Park?” he reads the sign behind the grasshopper.
“A fitting name,” you muse, looking at the various shipping containers that make up the enclosure, stacked three levels high.
Inside is an open courtyard with a playground for kids, tables and a performance stage at the back. You grab food and drinks before finding a table near a patio heater. As you eat, Chan fills you in on the collab he’s working on—the opportunity that will hopefully help him with his own line in the future.
You’re almost envious of his business savvy. He can claim to not have a thorough plan, but hearing him speak, you know every decision he makes is well thought out. You’ve kind of just been going with the flow, riding this wave of success without knowing where it’s going to drop you off.
After your meal, Chan’s eyes settle on you in a way that you know he wants to ask something.
“What is it?”
He hesitates a moment longer before finally asking, “You really wanna spend the rest of your life alone?”
“What is your obsession with marriage?” you ask, rather than answer the question.
“I’m not obsessed. I just think about it a lot. I’ve always wanted to be a husband and dad.”
There’s no hesitation in his voice when he says it.
He gestures to the kids running around the playground behind you. “That doesn’t look like fun to you?”
You turn around, watching as a pregnant mother struggles to get her wailing toddler off the slide.
You shake your head. “That looks exhausting.”
“Wait—look again,” he urges.
You turn around once more, watching as a man you presume is the father enters the area. He squats down, speaks to the child, and picks him up out of the slide, placing him on his hip. He then leans over and kisses the top of his wife’s head before taking her hand and guiding them away from the playground.
You turn back to Chan before the scene can settle too deeply under your skin.
“Nothing?”
“Plenty of people don’t want kids or to get married these days,” you shrug.
“I’d be married with kids by now, if I could.”
“What’s holding you back?” you ask, happy to shift the conversation back to him.
“The industry we’re in. I don’t want that part of my life to revolve around clicks and engagement numbers,” he explains. “I’d want to keep it private. Plus, with all the traveling we do. . . I can’t really have the family life I want if I’m not around.”
“Well I hope you meet the perfect woman for you someday.”
“Thank you.” He pauses for a beat before adding, “And I hope you like cats.”
“Good one.” You nod, biting your lip to hide your laugh. “Lucky for me, I love them.”
“Alright, future spinster,” he says, standing. “It’s about to get colder once the sun sets. I’ll call another Uber.”
“It’s not that bad. Let’s walk.”
Together, you leave Container Park and start heading back towards the hotel. The farther you get from Fremont Street, the thinner the crowds become. The music fades into the distance until the two of you can finally talk without half-shouting over it.
As the temperature continues to drop, you keep one hand tucked into the crook of Chan’s arm for warmth, the other buried deep in the sleeve of your hoodie. By the fourth time you blow warm air into your sleeve, he abruptly steers you into a souvenir shop.
“Wait here,” he says, nodding toward the industrial heater near the entrance.
You linger there while he disappears between racks of magnets, sweatshirts and novelty sunglasses.
When he returns, he hands you a matching white scarf and glove set.
You blink at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You were freezing.”
The simple certainty in his voice catches you off guard more than the gesture itself.
“Thank you,” you say more quietly this time.
You wrap the scarf around your neck and pull on the gloves while he holds his arm out for you again automatically, like he already expects you there.
Your gloved hand slips back into the crook of his elbow with embarrassing ease.
And maybe that’s the part throwing you off the most.
Just how natural this feels.
The two of you keep walking, shoulders brushing every now and then beneath the glow of neon signs and flickering streetlights.
Then your eyes catch on a sign ahead.
A Little White Chapel.
You point toward it. “Here we have our struggles with marriage, and some people come here just to elope with an Elvis impersonator.”
Chan snorts, then reads the text below the sign. “Michael Jordan was married there? I don’t know if that’s exactly a glowing endorsement.”
“Oh my god,” you gasp. “It has a drive thru option.”
Before he can respond, you’re already pulling him toward the driveway.
A pink Cadillac convertible sits beneath the tunnel, a nearby sign proudly informing you it once belonged to Elvis himself.
“You can get inside if you like.”
You both turn to find the owner of the voice. An employee, just finishing his smoke break, approaches you with a smile. He’s not being nice for the sake of it, no. He’s under the impression that you two are the couple who just paid for their ceremony.
He opens the car and you and Chan climb inside. You snap a couple of selfies and a few pictures together, too.
“Your names again?” the employee asks.
Neither of you take note of the ‘again’ part.
“Chan and y/n,” you tell him.
He straightens and clears his throat. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the love and commitment of Chan and y/n.”
You and Chan turn to each other.
“Is this a bit?” you whisper.
He shrugs. “We haven’t paid for anything . . . ”
“Maybe he’s rehearsing.”
You share a look, unsure whether to stop him.
“Chan, do you take y/n, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and cherish, through joy and sorrow, and whatever life may bring?”
Chan quirks a brow. You cover your laugh with your hand.
He turns back to the officiant. “You know what . . . I do.”
The officiant then asks you the same question.
“He seems pretty swell. Why not? I do!” you exclaim, giddy at the absurdity of it all.
“You may exchange your rings, now.”
“We don’t have any,” you say, feeding more into whatever this is. “We’re nontraditional.”
“I dig it,” the officiant says with a wink. “Chan and y/n, you have declared your love and intent. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss.”
Chan turns to you once again, his expression absolutely befuddled.
“Do we have to?” He whispers so only you can hear.
“For the bit.” You giggle and lean across the seat to place a quick kiss to his lips.
It’s meant to be nothing more than a peck.
It isn’t.
The kiss lingers a second too long—long enough to stop feeling like part of the joke.
Chan is the first to pull away.
“Congratulations, newlyweds. You have another ten minutes with your package for pictures with the car,” he says before leaving towards the entrance.
You hardly register any of his words.
You can’t think of anything other than the way Chan’s lips felt against yours—so soft and plump and warm.
For a second, neither of you moves.
His eyes flick downward briefly before he rubs at his bottom lip, oddly thoughtful.
The gesture sends heat creeping up your neck.
“That was—”
“Did he—”
You both stop at the same time, then laugh.
“Did he say with our package?” you ask.
“He did. We didn’t sign anything, right?”
You shake your head, and promptly exit the car. “Let’s get out of here before something else goes wrong.”
The walk back to the hotel takes another thirty minutes, but neither of you seem to notice.
The insanity of what happened keeps sending you both into another round of laughter every few minutes.
Husband. Wife.
The words should feel ridiculous.
But the careful distance that normally exists between you feels far too thin. As if some invisible barrier quietly dissolved somewhere between Fremont Street and a fake wedding ceremony.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline from the zipline.
Maybe it’s the way he keeps reaching for you without thinking now—like his hand at your back each time you cross the street.
Whatever it is, you aren’t ready to start questioning it yet.
When you make it back to your floor of the hotel, Chan walks you to your door.
“Traditionally,” he says, reaching to open the door after you tap your card, “I think I’m supposed to carry you over the threshold.”
You blink.
“Purely ceremonial,” he adds quickly. “It’s my first time and I wanna do this right . . . for the bit.”
“For the bit,” you repeat, amused.
His arm slips behind your knees, the other around your back, and suddenly you’re airborne. You squeal, grabbing instinctively at his hoodie.
Both of you misjudge the doorway entirely and there’s a dull thunk as your head meets the doorframe.
“Ouch.”
Chan freezes. “Oh shit—are you okay?”
“I think so,” you groan.
He steps into the room and lowers you immediately before guiding you onto the bed. The humor has vanished from his face.
“Stay right here,” he says. “Don’t move, I’ll get ice.”
“Chan, I’m fine, really—”
But he’s already gone.
He dashes to the minibar to grab the ice bucket, comes back for your keycard, then exits the room.
You sit there, kicking your shoes off and laughing to yourself because of course this is how your wedding night would go.
He’s back in under two minutes. He removes the plastic bag full of ice from the bucket and sits at your side, careful hands pressing the cold gently against your head.
“Tell me if it hurts too much,” he says.
“It’s fine,” you reply.
He doesn’t look convinced.
He watches your face closely.
There’s nothing careful or composed about him right now.
Just genuine concern.
“I’m so sorry, y/n, really,” he says softly.
“I’m fine,” you insist. “Do you want me to do a backflip on the bed to prove it or something?”
He perks up at that. “Can you? That would be quite impressive, actually.”
“Not without further injuries.” You lean away from the bag. “It’s too cold.”
He puts it back into the ice bucket before returning to inspect your face.
“Maybe a small bruise, but it shouldn’t swell.”
There are no injuries on his face for you to fuss over in return, but you study him just as closely. The curve of his mouth, the slope of his nose, his slightly tired eyes.
And then his eyes lock on yours, too.
You’ve never been close enough to notice their particular shade—a warm, espresso brown.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have Americano eyes?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that,” he chuckles.
The sound is so soft, so intimate, that you find yourself leaning forward to capture it for yourself. What little space remains between you slowly disappears.
He doesn’t retreat. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes.
You don’t know what this is, but the air between you feels different now.
And you want to change it even more.
You wrap your arms around his neck, slowly pulling him closer.
He lets you.
He cradles your jaw, stroking your chin with the pad of his thumb.
And you let him, too.
“Kiss me.” You whisper.
That seems to be all he needs to hear. He closes the distance between you, planting his lips on yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you melt into him with a soft sigh.
Your tongue snakes out first, gliding across his lips, seeking entrance. He obliges, and in the next instant he’s kicking his shoes off before joining you on the bed. You both lay on your sides, facing one another, lips still locked.
He’s a good kisser.
Of course he is.
Damn it.
You alternate between soft kisses and deeper ones, hand wandering freely—mostly above the waist until you hike a leg up and he starts caressing your thigh.
You try not to think how dangerous this feels.
Not the kissing, but the tenderness.
You know there’s no version of this that survives beyond tonight.
But knowing that doesn’t change how good it feels to have him pressed against you.
You rearrange yourself, shifting so that you’re on top of him, straddling his waist. You slowly roll your hips against his, feeling his cock twitch beneath his jeans.
“Fuck,” you moan before leaning down to capture his lips again.
You continue rocking your hips against his, growing bolder with each movement.
“y/n,” he groans, breaking the kiss. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” you murmur, brushing your lips against his.
“I’m not—I don’t . . . I don’t do hookups or one-night stands,” he sighs.
You place your hands on either side of his head, propping yourself up. “Of course I accidentally marry the one man with morals in this industry.”
He thrusts his hips up, pressing his hard cock between your legs. “I want to, believe me. But I can’t.”
You know this is the right choice.
You’re not what he wants long term.
And he’s not someone you could stomach hurting when you’d inevitably cast him aside.
You lean forward for a quick kiss, then rest your forehead against his.
“But kissing is okay?”
“If we keep our hips still.”
You pepper his cheek and neck with kisses and when you pull away, he’s smiling up at you.
“You’re actually kind of sweet.” He says, though it sounds more like a question.
“Don’t tell anyone.” You playfully threaten.
He stays for a while longer.
The two of you talk quietly in between kissing, conversation drifting from teasing remarks, stories from past campaigns, and pinky promises to never talk about this night again.
At some point, the adrenaline from the night finally starts to wear off and he leaves sometime around midnight, insisting you sleep off your “near-fatal head injury.”
After he’s gone, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.
Being with Chan feels safe.
You wish you found comfort in that.
Instead, it unsettles you more than if he’d simply ripped your clothes off, fucked you senseless, and left without saying goodbye.
Because sex is easy.
Relationships, commitment and feelings are not.
So much was said that night about marriage, freedom, the kind of futures you each wanted.
If anything, Vegas should have made this contract an obvious no.
Agreeing to spend the next three years trapped inside a manufactured relationship is the exact opposite of what either of you claimed to want.
Yet Chan signed anyway.
You stand outside his hotel room in Milan, contract clutched tightly in hand, heart pounding harder with every passing second.
You only need one question answered.
Why the fuck would he agree to this?
[ read chapter three here ]
a/n: match made in heaven, wouldn't ya say!? i was perusing downtown las vegas, saw the wedding chapels and this idea was born 😂 figuring out how to get these two there was the challenge. more coming soon. thank you for reading!
✦ Summary: When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real.
✦ Genres: Romance, Contract Marriage, Slow-Burn, Smut
✦ Word Count: ~ 10,160 thus far
✦ Warnings: I will not share an exhaustive list to avoid spoilers, but the smut picks up in chapter 5.
