Sunny⛅️

INTJ I’m only slightly ashamed of myself…

[cb97percent]

「𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝」

❝𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚝.❞

➥ Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 3k

➥ Idiots in Love, Secret (Mutual) Crush, Fluffy Sexy

➥ Contains: Just down bad Bartender!Chris railing you flat on a pool table after hours because my brain is R O T T I N G, a somewhat cute twist on the overused porn trope "I don't have money, how about I suck your dick?"

➥ You challenge the stupid hot bartender to a game of pool to get out of paying the gigantic bill your entourage racked up.

*a/n: Just one of the 971003 fics you will surely see about these pictures. And y'all are bad frens for not telling me about them as soon as they were out.

“Come ON, man! It’s Chae’s birthday, and we’ve been your regulars since THE DAY you opened this place!” you protest vehemently, pointing at your very inebriated group of friends waiting for their Ubers out front.

“And thank you for your continued patronage,” Chris responds flatly. “Was there a point?”

“I may or may not have said I’d pick up the tab as a birthday gift,” you grimace, then bat your eyelashes at him like a cartoon bunny. “Can’t tonight be on you just this once?” 

“You want me to gift you a night for thirty people?” he snorts. “You guys dried out my entire inventory!”

“It’s good manners, and you haven’t even wished her a happy birthday,” you fake a pout.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHAEEE~!” Chris yells towards the entrance with a big smile, and she waves back at him with childlike joy, making hearts with her hands. He then looks back at you with murderous intent, sliding the bill across the counter like he wants gambling debts to be paid off. “Manners went out the window when you decided to trash my bar. In addition to your friends’ sailor drinking, you’ll be paying for the damages.”

“IT SAYS I OWE YOU LIKE TWO GRAND HERE, WHAT THE FUCK?!” you scream when you see the grand total of four digits.

“The pinball machine is broken, the toilet is overflowing, the wall needs to be plastered and repainted because your frat-ass himbos poked holes all over it with the missed darts, the darts weren’t the only things they couldn’t aim, AND they emptied the entire condom machine in the restroom,” he cites all the charges against you. “You’re lucky I’m not getting your house foreclosed.”

“Ugh, FINE, can I at least split it into four cards?”

“Can’t. The POS terminal doesn’t work.”

“I’ll pay you tomorrow then.”

“Oh, you’re not fucking going anywhere without paying me,” he sternly denies your motion.

“Where am I gonna find this much cash at this hour?!”

You look outside and watch your dear, dear friends wave you goodbye with dumb smiles as they get into their Ubers. As Chris wholesomely smiles at them all, the pool table at the back of the now-empty bar steals your attention. 

“I’ll play you for it,” you propose.

“‘Scuse me?”

“I’ll play you for the damages,” you lean into the counter. “One hand. If I win, you clear the tab.”

“And when I win, you’ll still owe me money,” he scoffs. “What do I get out of this?”

“I don’t know, figure something out!” you raise your voice. “Just make it doable.”

You make it too easy for him sometimes. Chris bites his smile to keep the mask intact and declares his bet.

“Fine,” he crosses his arms against his chest. “You lose, you flash me.”

“Flash y— What?”

“You flash me,” he repeats. “Doable enough, yeah?” 

“You can’t be serious,” you look at him blankly.

“I didn’t ask to fondle your tits. I just wanna look,” he says seriously, but is clearly trying to suppress a smirk. “All your friends saw it when you were playing truth or dare. Why shouldn’t the guy who served you the entire night?”

“Fine,” you grit your teeth as you extend your hand, shaking his like you want to break it rather than make an agreement.

Ultra content with your end of the bargain, Chris locks the front door and turns the sign on it to ‘Closed’ while you rack up the table. Ever the gentleman, he lets you go first and only lasts two turns before he starts dissing your skills.

“There is no way you’re gonna win like this, just saying,” he reaches for the chalk. “You’re making a few crucial mistakes.”

“Yeah, Cue-ristopher? ENLIGHTEN me, please,” you deride.

Chris takes that to mean ‘Legit give me a tutorial on how to properly play pool’. He gets behind you and practically hugs you, moving your arms like a puppeteer.

Meanwhile, you’re trying to think of ways to not die. 

Not only is this the first time you’re alone together with the unofficial Chrome Hearts ambassador, but you have never stood in a proximity from each other that’s not at least a bar counter’s length apart. Now add the fact that you would suck this man’s soul out of him if you ever got him alone. Which is… right now… kinda sorta…

Fucking crazy he still hasn’t figured out why you’re forcing your entourage to hang out at that bar every goddamn night. 

“See how the ball is too close to the pocket?” he points at your target. “If your bridge is this short, you’ll hit with too much force and send the cue ball right into the pocket. Longer bridge, slower speed, more control, yeah?” He then checks your grip and adjusts your posture. “Relax your wrist. Arm 90 degrees to the table. Don’t hold the very end of the cue.”

He holds your hand and slowly slides it a few inches up. You know you’re reading too much into this, but the way he moves is too reminiscent of… something else.

“Move up…” he softly instructs into your ear, “right here.”

HOW ABOUT HE MOVES UP RIGHT INSIDE YOUR PUSSY, THOUGH?!

“Now your front hand,” he leans forward and places his hand on yours. “Hook your index finger over the shaft.”

Is he picking these words on purpose, like…?! Since when is pool filled with innuendo for terminology? And more importantly, why is his body a million degrees behind you? Why is he taking deep breaths?

Is this a preview of what it would feel like to feel his body weight on you?

“That’s right,” he approves and gives you your final order. “Now hit that.”

You hit with remarkable accuracy, sending the cue ball to the very edge of the pocket, but it doesn’t fall into it. You can’t care less. You’re trying to brainstorm more ways to feel Chris closer. It’s going to look super tacky if you just said, “Fine, I quit,” right now and flash him, especially right after he’s shown you how to hit like a sniper. Will he think you’re just trying to get out of paying if you made a move on him right now? Will it make you look easy? Does he even find you attractive, or is the “Try this cocktail I’m experimenting with” thing something he does for a lot of people?

In the middle of your spiral, you feel a whisper in your ear, and it’s so soft that it makes you shudder. Nevertheless, you can swear you felt a little throb on your hips just now as he quietly speaks the words with a huge grin. 

“Good girl.”

AAAND you snap.

You slowly turn around, resting the butt of the cue on the floor, and lean against the table. Your eyes narrow as if to scan him because something doesn’t make sense here.

“All the things you could ask from me, yet you asked me to flash you,” you recount the terms of your bet. “Why?”

“Can’t a man just want to enjoy a good view?” he retorts.

“He can,” you acknowledge, “but you’re an ass man.”

“How would you know?” 

“When I’m by the bar, you never slip no matter how much of a low cut I wear, but you always check me out when I leave the stool,” you touché the crap out of him. “So spill.”

He feels so busted, breaking into a big smile as he averts his eyes from you. Now that it’s out in the open, he sees no harm in being more direct. He rests his hands on the table on either side of you and cages you under him. 

“Maybe I was building up to something else,” he responds.

“Why not just go ahead and ask to fuck me then?”

“And you would agree?”

“If you can persuade me.”

He looks down at your chest and lightly brushes the back of his fingers from your exposed collarbone down to your cleavage. You gasp when you suddenly find yourself in the air in his arms, and he makes you sit on the table. He hooks his fingers into the belt hoops of your jeans and pulls you a bit closer, slowly undoing the button. 

“So if I just… got on my knees for you right now,” he drags the zipper down, “gave you a nice, sloppy head…”

He slips a hand inside, gently caressing your soaked folds with two fingers. Then he removes them and spreads his fingers apart, licking his lips at the sight of the slick between them. You can’t help how thickly you gulp when he looks right into your soul as he licks them clean.

“...would that be persuasive enough to let me fuck you on this table?”

“What a freak,” you chuckle. “First time getting physical, and you want a threesome with the table?” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he tsks. “It’ll be awkward between me and the table tomorrow since we work together.” 

You burst into laughter, and he joins you. You feel like you can breathe again, but it’s short-lived. When the laughter dies down, the air immediately starts thickening again. 

“You know,” you pull him closer from his collar, “your experimental cocktails have too much pineapple juice in them.”

“If you don’t like it, then stop drinking them,” he counters.

“Then stop feeding them to me.”

“Then stop accepting it.”

“Then stop acting like you’re not trying to get me to taste better,” you hold up his damp fingers. “Did it work, at least?”

“That’s a myth. I figured if you bought into it, you would start associating me with cum,” he replies with a smirk. “You taste so fucking delicious as it is, I should make a cocktail out of you.”

Yeah, you throb between your legs a little bit, and what about it?

“So if I just… paid a one-off service fee instead,” you slide your hands down his chest, “can we just call it even?”

“Just so you know, gratuity is not included,” he informs you before he leans in for a kiss.

His lips are impossibly soft, moving within yours with such a memorized rhythm as if you’ve already been kissing each other for years. His hands move to peel your pants off of you, and he drags them down to your ankles, spreading your legs while kneeling before you. You don’t get a heads-up before he dives right in, hands wrapped around your thighs as he drags his tongue all over your slick folds. 

You can’t believe you have actually manifested your most frequented wank session material into existence.

“There is no way you’re gonna make me cum like this, just saying,” you lie your ass off for the sake of snark. “You’re making a few crucial mistakes.”

“Enlighten me, please,” he slurps into your entrance.

“Get your fingers wet,” you instruct him as you spread your lips. “Then wrap your lips around my clit.”

He follows your orders to perfection, and you move his hand towards your entrance.

“Now hit that,” you urge him.

And man, does he hit.

It has nothing to do with pace. Chris doesn’t rush. He sticks his tongue out, relaxes it, and presses it against your clit, moving his head in a circular motion and occasionally closing his mouth on your pussy. His middle and ring fingers keep working you as he eats, stimulating a delicious spot inside you in an almost languid rhythm. Yet it works so well that the slick you’re oozing is dripping down his wrist. 

“Don’t–Don’t stop…” you moan, your eyes rolling back. You need something to grab onto and squeeze, but there’s nothing around you other than him. “So wet, god, Chris, you’re fucking killing me…”

He chuckles into your pussy so softly that something shoots up from your crotch and hits the ceiling of your head. When he notices how your legs shake, he starts moaning into you more, quiet but deep, and it sounds so lewd as if you’re the one satisfying him. You hold his head in place and ride his tongue, trying your hardest not to go insane while listening to his sounds of pleasure, and when he starts slurping on your clit, you snap.

Chris doesn’t remember ever witnessing something so obscene and so beautiful in the same breath.

He gets back up on his feet, and you almost lose your mind seeing half his face covered with you. He seems proud of it. He seems like he wants a reward for it. A kiss, a compliment, a flash of your tits…

He unbuckles his belt and takes his cock out, his tip flushed dark pink with how hard he is. It’s so mouthwatering that your hands move on instinct to feel him, tracing the bulging veins with your thumb. 

“Any mistakes here I need to be aware of?” he asks, aligning himself with your entrance.

“Just hit that,” you hold onto his shoulders with a fucked out smile. 

A deep groan rips from his throat as he disappears into you. You lick your palm, reaching under to cup his balls, and he starts smiling to himself with his eyes closed like he’s getting high. His girth makes you feel so full, and your mind goes more blank with every thrust, unable to form a single thought. Before it becomes a full white space inside your head, your end of the bargain knocks on the door of your consciousness, and you peel your top off, pressing your breasts together while pinching your nipples a little bit. His face contorts at the sight, and he leans in to suck on them, his pace suddenly turning erratic.

“Lie down for me, beautiful, I’m gonna cum on them,” he requests. “Play with those for me, yeah?” 

You lie on your back and get your fingers wet, looking right into his eyes as you rub your nipples. He feels incredible being buried deep inside you, all swollen and wet for him, but the way he makes your tits bounce just makes him wanna hit that harder.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. Yeah, like that. Like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. I’m gonna cum so hard for you, baby, clench. Clench harder. Harder, yes. Yes. FUCK!”

The warm, thick strings of his seed land on your breasts, and it feels so strangely satisfying. You smear it all over your skin like your bespoke moisturizer, and even though he’s just cum, Chris loses it a little bit. You hold onto his hands and pull yourself up, kissing him through his faded euphoria.

“For your information, I was just trying to be a gentleman,” he holds your face, “I’m also a tits man.”

“You don’t say,” you narrow your eyes, joining his silly giggles, and as you put your clothes back on, your phone goes off with a notification.

Chaerry Blossom say thank you to chris again for the gift <3 he’s the best also hit that already before someone else does smh

“Um… Efren Reyes, yes, hello,” you snap your fingers in front of Chris’ face. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

“About what?”

“What does Chae mean with ‘gift’?” you show him the screen. 

Chris reads the text, then fashions a response template for you. “Tell her I said, ‘Anytime, and happy birthday’.” He buttons his pants back on and fixes your hair. “The mention of hitting that is up to you, but if you do, a five-star review of my performance would be appreciated.” 

“What are you saying?” you furrow your brows.

“Oh, come on, it was her birthday today. Wouldn’t be good manners to take money,” he explains with the most vexing smile. “Consider it a gift from me.”

“So… we didn’t have to do this shit at all,” you purse your lips, brows knit so tightly with the realization of being hustled that a valley forms between them. “In very camp porn fashion, you were already planning to fuck me for the tab.”

“I never opened a tab for you guys tonight.” 

Your mouth parts open, and all that comes out for a while is ceaseless stammering. What does he mean he didn’t open a tab? What does he mean consider it a gift from him? 

“What the heck was that whole production then?!” you eventually yell at his face.

“Wanted to shoot my shot. I was prepared for you to cuss me out, and if that happened, I was just gonna say I was messing with you,” Chris shrugs. “Which, I technically was.”

“You freaked me out just for the LOLs?”

“I freaked you out for a chance to finally get you alone so I can ask you out,” he confesses. 

Your flabbers are gasted, your dumbs are founded, and your thunders are struck. You don’t know what to say to him for a while, much less when you realize some things you’ve been carrying around for the longest time might not have been one-sided at all.

“We’re… literally here every night,” you state the obvious.

“Yet every night you come in together with your friends, too busy chatting it up at your booth, then leave together,” he gives an executive summary of your nightly routine. “Even when you guys go to the restroom, you move in flocks, like what’s up with that?”

“We’re not rampant alcoholics, dumbo. Why would we hang out here every night?” you emphasize once again.

Chris takes a moment to process your words, then his dimples start to deepen. It’s like a yawn effect—every time you see him smile, you inadvertently smile, too. 

“Well, at least we were able to test how sturdy the pool table is,” you caress the green surface, then look at him with a smirk that’s up to no good. “Wanna go test how sturdy my bed is?”

“I can tell you the results up front; it’s so failing the test,” he melts into your lips again.

❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to make Chris hit that.

「© 2026, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

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[sunnyhonie]

New fantasy unlocked…

[sunnyhonie]

Motivation…

[sunnyhonie]

FMR

[sunnyhonie]

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part vi

part one| part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair. this is the second to last chapter.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics continue in this chapter. this chapter has a very explicit sex scene with reader/jisung. desperation, vow-breaking, grinding, making out, cunnilingus, piv, secret forbidden love affair, having to be quiet to not get caught, covering each other's mouths, generally lots of description of worship in a sexual context.

chapter word count: 14000 words.

enjoy <3

-

You dream about Han Jisung.  As if he has not entirely consumed your waking thoughts, he has even stolen into your dreams.  He is there with a smile, a song, and so much tenderness that you are aching from the moment you open your eyes.

“Oh,” is all you say, a whisper in your empty bed.

You rise and dress yourself, already mentally bracing for the long day ahead. Though you are determined to navigate yourself through the viper’s nest that is the king’s court, you must be very cautious while doing so.  There are real, deadly ramifications for what you did – for what you want to do again.  Though you will strive to maintain whatever possible liberties, you must not become complacent in the meanwhile. 

You do not want this to end before it can truly begin. 

You fear the light of day will reveal everything that transpired.  You feel a revolution in yourself, not just in the literal aches and tingles, but something in the very core of your being.  You feel like someone will see it a glance, in the way you move or carry yourself.  How could they not?  It changed everything. 

Your first encounter is Changbin.  There was another guard switch in the early hours of morning, sparing Minho some rest before due departure.   You are glad.   Minho heard everything last night and you were not keen on starting the day with that confrontation.   He has proven himself to be reliable, having returned the sleeping draft with little reservation, and he is clearly an intimate companion that Jisung trusts wholeheartedly so it is not doubt for his stalwart dependability that makes you hesitate – just pure embarrassment. 

Changbin does not seem to notice anything untoward.  He does not make a single remark against your disposition, so you safely exhale as he escorts you through the camp. 

The king is still sleeping and no one is brave enough to prod him awake.  He will probably be angry in either scenario, so it has been decided to let him lay until he stirs on his own. 

It feels as though the entire contingency has released a long-held breath.  There is chatter and some games, people wandering about, eating and ambling without the stress of a holy gaze and its accompanying vocal thunder. 

Foot soldiers mill about the camp.  Chan guards the king.  Seungmin and Jeongin scout the perimeter for dangerous activity, on greater alert because of the assassination attempt. 

That leaves the remaining few kingsguards nearby.   Minho is slouched against a tree, peeling an orange and laughing at Hyunjin and Jisung who are locked in a very theatrical swordfight.  Changbin is clearly eager to join so you get some food then happily head in that direction. 

“Yah, you call that fighting?” Changbin teases.

Jisung turns, just a brief glance of acknowledgement until he sees you and stumbles.  His sword is loose in his grip, like he has forgotten all his training, like he doesn’t even remember being a kingsguard. 

You forget yourself too.  Your mouth is open with some pleasant greeting utterly obliterated in the face of his longing gaze.  Last night should have tempered all this quiet yearning but it seems to have exacerbated it. 

This exchange is only seconds, though it feels like hours.  Jisung might have forgotten himself but Hyunjin has not.  He knocks Jisung on the back and Jisung falls over, sword flying and palms skidding across the forest floor.  He coughs through the little puff of dirt that bursts under impact. 

“Tsk, task,” Changbin continues to tease.  “You make it too easy.” 

“Ah-ha-ha,” Jisung says, clapping his hands to clean them.  He stands then bends at the waist, bowing to you.  “My queen.  Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” you reply, dipping your head respectfully in turn.  You greet Hyunjin as he bows too. 

You look at Minho long enough for him to bow his head then smile.  It is not taunting, at least not with any true malice.  An amused dimple indents his cheek and there is a sparkle in his eye.

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “I hope you slept well.” 

“Quite fine,” you say, feeling very hot in the face. 

“Ah.”  Minho wiggles an orange slice.  “Just fine, hm?”  He looks at Jisung and cackles maniacally at his exasperated expression.   He pops the orange slice into his mouth and smiles while chewing. 

Hyunjin looks at him funny but Changbin is non-plussed, unintentionally diverting the conversation when he says, “The king is sleeping more than fine, hey.” 

This distracts Hyunjin who immediately scoffs. He tosses his sword, spinning it with a flick of his wrist, and catches it just as smoothly.  He opens his mouth to speak. 

Changbin interjects, “Ah, ah, ah, you watch your pretty mouth.  You’ve blasphemed enough, kingsguard.” 

“Kingsguard.”  Hyunjin looks at his sword, runs his finger up the shiny reflection with a contemplative regard.  “There’s no king here right now,” he says.  “That makes me a queensguard, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s the same thing,” Changbin says, diplomatic. 

Hyunjin smiles, though it lacks amusement, just a dry upturn of his lips. 

“If you insist,” he says. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jisung sings, wiggling into the middle of their rapport.  “King, queen, god, man – a vow is a vow.  We all know why we’re here, right? Right. Right. Awesome.” 

“I know why you’re here,” Hyunjin says, tapping Jisung with the blunt flat of his sword.  “It was to lose against me, as usual, wasn’t it?” 

“Ohhhh-ha-ha!” Jisung slashes his sword through the air with an ostentatious flourish.   “The pretty boy has jokes now.” 

“Bard boy,” Hyunjin retorts, teasing.  He curls his fingers, gesticulating for an approach.  “If you dare.” 

The boys return to their fighting, as playful as it is impressive.  You seat yourself beside Minho, though the sight of the queen on the forest ground does make Changbin squeak.  Regardless, he does not protest and Minho seems to understand your character well enough that it does not surprise him at all.  He simply hands you an orange slice. 

You watch Hyunjin and Jisung, smiling as they parry.  Minho and Changbin explain some of the manoeuvres, bringing an understanding to the harmony of their frantic steps and slashes. 

It is not surprising there is so much detail in even the simplest action.  The kingsguards do not fight with half-hearted swings, nor do they stumble with overemotional, retaliatory strikes.  Every step, every parry, every breath, is so carefully planned, so meticulously practiced, so utterly engrained in their every movement. 

In truth, you see it even when they are at rest.  Chan is the most natural with his authoritative air and quick reactions, having trained for so much of his youth.  Hyunjin moves with a dance-like fluidity even when he is not fighting, as if his long limbs are cutting through water.  Minho has a limber quick-footedness, sometimes disguised in an insouciant slouch, but quick to action when the inclination so strikes.  Every action that Changbin makes is a powerful one, as precise as it is strong.  Jeongin and Seungmin both have keen eyes and quick reflexes, their training and perseverance plain in every dedicated movement. 

Han Jisung is good at everything.  He can play at unassuming, so much so even the king does not see his utmost capabilities, but it is obvious that he has a vast repertoire of skill to call upon at any given moment.

Watching him and Hyunjin fight is exhilarating.  As you begin to understand their footwork and motions, it becomes even more impressive. 

“Show her the double knot,” Minho says, calling out like a spectator at a show.

He clearly delights in pestering his friends but Jisung and Hyunjin are having fun.  They both relish the opportunity to flaunt their skills so they happily indulge his request. 

With wide eyes, you watch their swords clash.  Sparks burst where the metal scrapes at the angle of collision.  The men whirl around each other and bring their swords together again.  They continue to weave and parry, every step lightning quick.  It appears to be a defensive manoeuvre rather than an assault, but it is an extraordinary feat of speed and fortitude regardless. 

“Well done,” you say, applauding. 

Jisung sweeps into an exaggerated bow only for Hyunjin to kick him over.  You laugh as he chases after Hyunjin as if he intends to clobber him with his sword.  It makes Hyunjin laugh too, his face so bright when overcome with delight.  He clearly feels all his emotions very strongly.  You believe all these brave young men fight with as much as emotion as skill.  The kingsguard service is not just about soldiership, but faith and all that which is contained in the heart. 

They deserve a far better companion than the tyrant king.  That is what their monarch should be, a companion, a friend, a being more heart than ego. 

“I am duly impressed,” you say when the boys finish another bout. 

By now, their breathing is a little heavier. The morning is creeping toward noon, the heat intensifying with each passing moment.  You are tucked in the shade but the kingsguards move in and out of sunlight, no doubt warm in their black robes.  Still, they do not remove it. 

Not right now at least, you think, looking at the swish of Jisung’s cloak, remembering as it fell from his shoulders and he fell into your arms.  You feel flustered, letting the memory of each touch wash over you.  When Jisung finds your gaze, you swear you can see his own recollections teeming. 

“Show her the Levanter,” Minho calls, interrupting your shared daydreaming. 

Jisung snaps out of it.  He looks at Minho with a sardonic quirk of his brow. 

“Oh, now he’s got jokes too,” Jisung says, pointing to Minho while Hyunjin laughs. 

“The Levanter,” you repeat the word slowly, letting the weight of it linger.  “Levanter – like the god?” 

“The god of guardians,” Hyunjin says with a blazing look in his eye.  He tips his head back, gazing heavenward as he points with his sword to the skies.  “Levanter stands guard at the gates of the heavens.  The eternal vow-keeper.  He has never surrendered his post.” 

“Yes,” you say, nodding respectfully.  “I imagine the kingsguard revere him most of all.” 

“All the scripture is important,” Changbin adds, nodding too.  “But yes, the kingsguard order prays to Levanter for guidance before the rest.” 

“You do him a service,” you say.  “I suppose the Levanter manoeuvre must be particularly noteworthy to be named after him.” 

“You can say that,” Jisung says with a little laugh.  He runs his fingers through his hair. 

You feel like a prepubescent girl again, warm and flushed just watching his dark hair feather through his fingers, watching those fingers come down to his sword hilt, watching the movement of his hand as he grasps and twists. 

Truthfully, you forget your question – or was it a statement? – and it takes Minho gently nudging you to remember. 

“Levanter,” you say, shaking your head.  You smile politely.  “What is the manoeuvre then?”

Minho cackles.  Changbin reaches down to cuff him across the back of his head.  Minho snaps his jaws in return, like he intends to gnaw on Changbin like a disgruntled kitten. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Changbin says.  To you, he speaks more politely, “The Levanter is not a manoeuvre that can actually be performed.” 

“Well, it can be,” Jisung corrects, slashing his sword through the air.  He grins, a big, theatrical smile, wiggling his eyebrows.  “But it can only be performed once.” 

“Only once,” you say.  “What do you mean?” 

“All kingsguards are trained to master all manoeuvres and operations,” Hyunjin says, speaking a little more seriously than the others, still with that reverent look in his eye.  “But the Levanter has only been used a few times over the centuries.  It’s an… honourable death and killing.”

“Death and killing,” you repeat.  Your stomach twists with a little bit of anxiety, the weight this implication landing.  Though you know there is no real danger right at this precise moment, considering such dramatic circumstances makes you uneasy.  “You mean…” 

“It kills your opponent,” Jisung says, voice a little softer, perhaps seeing the unease on your face.  “It just… also kills…”

“Yourself,” you say, to which they both nod.  “Surely, there would never be a reason for such a manoeuvre?”

“Not necessarily,” Hyunjin says, a little less attuned to your discomfort, more excited to explain himself.  He sheathes his sword while speaking.  “It’s the last and final option for a kingsguard, when he has no other choice in front of him.  If death is inevitable, there is no dishonour in ending your own life if it means fulfilling your service to defend the crown.  So… in example… if a kingsguard was taken by an enemy who meant to torture or use them against heaven’s earthly sovereign, then it would be appropriate for the kingsguard to take action, to kill his opponent and himself so he could not be used.”

“My goodness,” you say.  “That – that’s very – ”

“It looks like this,” Hyunjin says. 

He draws a dagger from the folds of his robes, a weapon you did not even realize was concealed in the swathes of dark fabric.  In a blink, he draws back his arm and hurls the dagger.  It whizzes past Jisung and thuds into a tree.  You do not even have the chance to gasp before Hyunjin has drawn his sword and turned it towards himself.  He slams onto his knees, sliding the sword safely along his side and tucking it under his arm. 

You understand.  The kingsguard would throw a dagger at his opponent, killing them with a fatal injury, and he would just as swiftly fall on his own sword.  It would not slide past his side, but through his ribs and into his own heart.  He would kill both of them in one stroke.  It would take a lot of precision, but that would be easy for a soldier like Hyunjin, who is primarily a bowman.  Aim and precision is his specialty. 

You don’t want to imagine it, though. Jisung is right; this manoeuvre can only be performed once.  Hyunjin’s demonstration is harmless but you understand the visual. 

“My goodness,” you say again.  “I knew the kingsguard was devout, but that… that…” 

“Like we said before,” Jisung says gently.  “It’s easy to be devout when the queen is true.  Your Majesty, you are worth that.”

You are worth dying for, he means, gazing at you with those shiny dark eyes.  It is an extraordinary proclamation.  It makes your breath catch. 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” you say.  You manage to speak softly though your heart thumps heavily.  “But I would prefer my queensguards live for me instead.”

“Your Majesty,” Hyunjin says, bowing.

The conversation is swiftly halted by a familiar raging voice.  The king has risen and he is not happy. 

What a surprise, you think.  Though no one vocalizes the sentiment, the frowns and sighs reveal a similar thought in your guards.  Despite the obvious reluctance, the king must be greeted, so the guards sheath their weapons and compose themselves. 

Changbin offers his hands and pulls you to your feet.  You accept his arm as he escorts you towards the centre of the camp.  Servants are bustling about, frantically tearing down what remains of the encampment.  They were taking their time as the king slept, but now it is well past departure time and he has no patience for dithering. 

Chan is beside the king, looking gloomy and austere.  His hand flexes on the hilt of his sword.  He stares at the king and only moves when he sees you.

Flanked by guards, your approach is difficult to ignore.  The king stutters in his speechifying.

“You.”  He hurls the word. 

You do not match his conduct.  You remain stoic and graceful, simply dipping into a respectful bow of greeting.  You say nothing and hope nothing is all he sees.  His glare is so fiery that you believe he might suspect you are responsible for his impromptu slumber.  However, he clearly cannot comprehend how that would be.

You are not forthcoming.  You simply stand before him, eyes downturned, with no answers to be given. 

He takes a breath.  It sounds like preparation to bellow. 

Before he can shout or accuse or even blink, there is a mad disruption in the camp.  The kingsguards grab their sword hilts, forming a protective circle around just you.  Chan grips his own sword hilt, striding forward to see what is causing the commotion. 

It is Seungmin and Jeongin, riding into the camp like there are devils on their tails. 

“Assassins,” Seungmin says, stopping just in front of Chan.  It takes him a second to calm his excited horse, trotting back and forth as he looks down at the kingsguard captain.  “We were scouting the perimeter, behind and ahead,” Seungmin continues.  “Some of the bandits from the unit the other day – they were camped not far from the main road.  They know we’re travelling that way.  They know—”  He looks at you, solemn.  “They know we have something they want.” 

“The queen is in danger!”  Jeongin blurts.  He looks a little more frantic than Seungmin, his horse equally agitated.  His expression is screwed up tight with lines of anxiety.  “Chan – Captain – We have to do something.” 

“Ridiculous,” the king says.  “There’s no more bandits on these roads.  The queen is not in any danger.  We cannot waste more time with delays.  I want to be back in the capital by—”

“Your Majesty,” Chan says, facing him squarely.  “Can you confirm unequivocally there are no more bandits waiting in those trees?”  His expression perceptibly darkens, downright menacing with the intensity of his stare.  “And if so, would you mind explaining where and how you acquired that knowledge?” 

The camp feels very silent.  Only the horses dare to make noise, plodding back and forth.  Seungmin soothes his animal, brushing his hand along the mane.   He, like everyone else, is looking at the king. 

Chan’s accusation is plain.  He looks at the king and challenges him.  He outright dares him to admit that the previous attack was targeted against you and that he arranged it.   Of course, the king does not admit this, but he has no other answer prepared either.  He stumbles over an aggrieved retort.  In the time it takes him to think, Chan shakes his head. 

“There is only one road between here and the capital big enough for a caravan to pass,” Chan says.  “It doesn’t surprise me enemies would wait on it.” 

He approaches you.  You hands began trembling from the first mention of the assassins, but your fear is somewhat assuaged by the protective circle of your guards.  Chan looks at them, then bows his head to you. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “It’s obvious these roads are not safe at this time.  If I may, I would like to separate you from the rest of the royal train.” 

The king scoffs indignantly but you feel relief regardless.  Chan is separating you from the royal retinue.  More importantly, he is separating you from the king.  It feels like a weight slides right off your shoulders.   You have won some more time and distance. 

“There are faster paths to the capital,” he says.  “But they won’t fit the wagons. Changbin, I’ll leave you in charge of leading the train back to the city without me, and I’ll personally take the queen ahead.  You continue as planned and be mindful of any attacks.  We’ll be long gone before anyone realizes we’re not with the caravan.” 

“You will do such thing!” the king snaps.  “Am I to be used as bait to lure these assassins while you protect that disobedient creature?  Remember your vows, captain!” 

Chan is facing you, his back to the king.  You watch his expression contort with frustration, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he holds that anger within.  You do not remotely blame him.  It is preposterously insulting for the king to accuse him of disrespecting his vows after everything the king has done.

Despite his aggravation, Chan maintains composure, turning to face the king. 

Chan is not especially giant, not in physicality.  The king is technically taller than him.  However, the kingsguard captain has such a domineering and confident air that it somehow dwarfs other men in relation.  The king has to make a point of holding his head up, but Chan overwhelms him with his sheer presence. 

“You’re right, Your Majesty,” Chan says, an edge to his voice despite the respectful address.  “I’ve sworn a vow as kingsguard leader to always stay at your side.”

“Precisely,” the king says.  He looks at you with a smug little smirk, clearly feeling that he has wrestled back his control. 

It takes a great deal of effort not to return a glare.  You let a breath shudder past your lips.  Hopefully it is mistaken for nerves and not irritation.   

“Yes,” Chan continues.  “That’s why I and the lower soldiers will stay behind to take you back to the capital.”  He looks at the guards gathered around you.  “And the rest of the kingsguards will escort the queen.” 

“What!”  The king reacts like he was slapped. 

You try not to laugh, swallowing the sound.  Hyunjin barely restrains it as his shoulders jump.  Jisung bites his bottom lip and looks at you sidelong.  You look back, smiling the subtlest smile you dare. 

“It’s the only choice of action, Your Majesty,” Chan says to the king, speaking with saccharine sweetness, as if explaining a complicated concept to a child.  “The gods-chosen queen has to be protected.  And because I have to stay with you, it goes without saying that the remaining guards have to stay with her.  We can’t allow any harm to come to her, can we?  Because that would be a violation of your vows.”  With that, Chan’s expression turns menacing again, brows slanting into an angry furrow.  “And you don’t want to be the first king in centuries to stand in violation of his vows.  Do you?”

The king has no reply.  The blatant threat stuns him into uncharacteristic silence. 

“Good,” Chan says, smiling.  “I’m glad we agree.  It’s the will of the gods, after all.  Seungmin, Jeongin.”  He turns to the guards.  “Pack the horses accordingly.  Bring a tent and bedroll for the queen.  Pack lightly, though.  Speed is imperative. Changbin, Minho, come with me and we’ll map your route to the capital.  If something happens, you’ll send a rider out to me.  You should arrive at least a week ahead of us if you maintain pace.” 

The king flounders, his mouth open with an interjection, but he is not afforded a moment to speak.  Chan is moving from person to person, issuing orders. 

“Hyunjin, Han,” Chan says.  “Ensure the queen has everything she needs.  My Queen, I apologize, but for the sake of your safety you may not be able to travel in the most comfort, and I would recommend you bring only the necessities.  We will safely deliver the rest of your trunks and belongings within the week.”

“Captain.”  You lay a hand over your heart, full of gratitude.  “I understand completely.  I commend your quick thinking.  You are an exemplary credit to your gods and the crown.”

“I’m glad you think so, Your Majesty,” Chan says, bowing.  “Safe travels.”  He turns to the king and gestures ahead, lifting a pointed brow.  “Well, we better hurry, Your Majesty.  As you were saying before, we don’t want to waste more time, do we?  It’s you and me now.  Without all these distractions, we’ll have opportunities in the nights ahead to pray to the gods for their revelation, provided you don’t fall asleep before we can.” 

Remarkably, you keep a straight face as Chan and the king retreat.  You, Hyunjin, and Jisung quietly make your way to the wagon with your trunks.  When safely out of sight of the sovereign and his clever captain, the three of you exchange a glance and promptly dissolve into laughter.  You try to contain it, desperately shaking your head, but it’s no use.  Hyunjin leans against the wagon, eyes closed while a laughing tear slides down his cheek.  Jisung doubles over, hands on his knees and shoulders shaking. 

“Did you see his face?”  Jisung wheezes.  He stands up, holding his middle like the laughter caused a strain.  “Ohhhh, sweet gods.  Forgive me.”  He makes the gesture of a blessing, crossing the symbol over his body and gazing heavenward.  It doesn’t stop his incessant giggling. 

“Shhh,” you say because it is appropriate, though your own laughter is still flowing.

Hyunjin covers his mouth and releases the rest of his laughter in the cup of his hand.  When you are all settled, you finish your task, only the occasional giggle as interruption.  You pack a small bag of necessities then meet the other kingsguards where they are arranging the horses.  The rest of the camp continues to prepare its own journey, though a few people watch as the kingsguards gather.  They make quite a sight, forming arrangement on horseback, their black robes flowing around them. 

Of course, the king does not see the value of their presence.  He focusses on a ridiculous detail, pointing to Hyunjin as the kingsguard mounts his horse.      

“She is not to ride with that one!” the king says. 

Hyunjin lays a hand over his heart, closing his eyes and looking dramatically sorrowful. 

“Han,” Chan says.  He sighs and gestures to Jisung.  “If you don’t mind taking the queen again.” 

Minho laughs.  He is perched on his own horse, reigns in one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the other. 

“Of course,” Jisung says.  He bows quickly to Chan then spins towards you.  His hand emerges from the dark layers of his robes, held out to you in offering.  

He is wearing riding gloves, leather covering each finger to the knuckle.  You gaze at that hand and remember every tender touch. 

You lay your hand in his.  Even with the leather barrier, sparks ignite where your palms touch.  A frisson ripples all through your body, a still pond brought to life by a dropped pebble.   

He smiles at you.  The tips of his ears are more than a little red but no one else looks for that detail.  The king is glaring at Hyunjin who is simply staring at his own nails.  Chan is speaking with Minho who has assumed position at the front of the little contingency. 

Jisung holds your hand and takes the reigns of his horse with the other.  He guides you to the middle of the protective circle of guards.  Minho takes the lead, Seungmin and Jeongin flanking either side of you, with Hyunjin and Changbin defending the rear. 

You nod at them, smiling.  Jisung squeezes your hand as he turns you around to face him.  Your breath catches yet again when your eyes meet.  You fall into those dark eyes so easily, deep brown and fathomless.  You like his face so much, the softness of his features, the openness of his expression. 

He takes your waist in his hands.  There is a swooping rush in your belly as he lifts you.  So distracted with his eyes and face, you almost forgot what strength is hidden in the layers of holy black cloth.  He helps you onto the horse then smoothly swings up behind you. 

He lands with a soft little bounce, comfortably settling himself.  He flicks his robes with an unnecessary flourish and you bite your bottom lip to keep from giggling. He puts a finger to his lips, playfully scolding you. 

“You are incorrigible,” you murmur. 

His arms move around you as he picks up the reigns. His hips come forward, his chest against your back.  A flush of warmth moves through you.   It starts somewhere intimate, lower than that swooping rush, your body remembering all the ways he touched you and aching for it again.  It startles you, how easily that feeling comes when you never felt it before.  Now it is all you can think about, his body against yours, his breath on the nape of your neck. 

“Am I?” he asks in a soft, light voice. 

“Oh yes,” you answer quickly.  It makes him laugh. 

The king is not pleased with laughter but the king does not have a chance to say anything.  Chan steps back and waves his men forward.  Minho whistles and the kingsguards rear into action.  The guards answer with a shout here and there, the horses kick with adrenaline, then the whole party bursts like lightning, fast as they fire across the earth and away from camp. 

You look over your shoulder, watching as the waiting figures shrink in size.  The king disappears and you smile, safe with Jisung’s arms around you.

-

You ride fast, careening down forest trails and cresting small hills far faster than the royal retinue would lumber along.   

Rest comes sooner too.  The kingsguards dismount to water their horses and themselves. 

Jisung leaps off his horse and holds out his arms to you.  You thank him, sliding into his waiting embrace where you linger just a moment too long. 

His eyes stray to a frizzy curl on your head.  Instinctively, he smooths it out.  You feel it all the way down your body, right to your toes.  You are a little sore from such hard riding and it does not help your shaking, knees knocking as his fingertips sweep down the side of your face. 

“There,” he says, meeting your gaze with a smile. 

“Quite,” you reply. 

It is not what you want to say.  You want to ask when you can touch each other again and if he even wants to, though you suspect he does.  It’s in his eyes, the way he looks at every part of you.  It’s all-encompassing, fond and wanting, lingering too long in the places he dares to look.  He stares into your eyes, studies your expressions, gazes at your mouth. 

Your lips part as if in natural obedience.  His tongue touches his bottom lip and you feel tingles.  You know what that mouth feels like on your skin.  Just the recollection makes your insides melt.  How did you even survive that?  You want to try again and find out.   

Now is not the time.  The king might be far away but the kingsguards surround you.  You trust Minho but it is hard to say how the others might react.  Hyunjin clearly does not respect the king, having decided he is not the true representation of the gods, but it is obvious this feeling derives from a steadfast devotion.  Just because he does not like the king, it does not mean he will be okay with Jisung breaking his vows.  The same goes for the others.  They are your allies for now and you need to keep them on your side before pushing further. 

This attraction is difficult to navigate.  You are not experienced with desire, having avoided it thus far in life.  It suited you then but things are different with Jisung.  You find yourself reaching for him without thinking, brushing some hair across his forehead, then letting the back of your knuckles skim his cheek.  When he makes a light sound, an airy whine just from that simple touch, your poor trembling legs nearly give up altogether. 

Fortunately, you maintain your faculties.  You manage to separate when Jeongin approaches.  He does not appear to notice the intimacy of that fleeting exchange.  His eyes are locked on some distant point, brow furrowed with deeply set anxiety.   His hand is on the hilt of his sword, gripping it so tightly it shakes a little.  His hair is dishevelled and not just from the exertion of riding, but like he has been frantically jamming his fingers in it, tugging at the scalp with fright. 

“Kingsguard Jeongin,” you say with a nod of acknowledgement.  “Is there something you need?”

He shakes his head.  He nods.  He shakes his head again.  

“Uh, you all right, man?” Jisung asks. 

Jeongin abruptly drops to his knees and throws his hands together in supplication.  He closes his eyes but it does not stop the few tears that fall.

“Oh!” you yelp, startled. 

“Whoa, hey!” Jisung says.  “Kid, what’s wrong?”

“Your Majesty, please forgive me,” Jeongin begs.  “And please ask the gods to forgive me too.”

“Jeongin,” you say, touching the top of his head.  It makes him shiver.  “Jeongin, what is it?”

“I lied to His Holiness,” Jeongin whispers.  He opens his watery dark eyes and looks up at you, brows knitting with his sorrow.  “I lied to Kingsguard Seungmin too.  And Captain Chan.  And to you.”  This final syllable is punched out with a sob.  He wipes his eyes.  “I know I shouldn’t have.  I’m a kingsguard.  I always have to make an honest report.  But I – I couldn’t – I didn’t want to watch—”

“Jeongin.”    You sink into a crouch so you can meet his gaze properly.  It makes his eyes widen and you think he might leap away, but your hand on his shoulder seems to steady him again.  “What did you lie about?”

“There were no assassins on the road,” he says.  “I told Seungmin there was.  I lied and I said it was too many for us to fight alone.  I said we had to tell Chan first.  I hoped if Chan thought there was a threat, he would send you down a different path, and I was right.” 

“Jeongin,” you say, rubbing his tense shoulder.  “Jeongin, it’s all right.  If I may, I just don’t understand why you did it?”

He obviously did not lie for the sake of itself, given he is so distraught.  It must have been a drastic decision for it to weigh so heavily now. 

He sniffles. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “It wasn’t my place.  The king has – the king has rights.  He’s the king.  I know.  I know.  But—”  He wipes his face and looks at you, imploring with his eyes.  “But he was going to hurt you the first chance he had,” Jeongin says.  “But you’re so – you’re so kind.  Your Majesty, it’s not right.  I didn’t want to watch him hurt you.  I couldn’t watch him hurt you.” 

“Oh, Jeongin,” you say.  You are so moved by his emotion that you throw your arms around him.  Though it startles him at first, he slowly returns the embrace.  “You’re a very thoughtful man,” you say, your chin on his trembling shoulder.  “I could never hold any grudge against such a heartfelt action.”

“So I’m forgiven?” he asks. 

“You were never blamed, Jeongin,” you say, leaning back to look at him.  You cup his face and smile, your own eyes watery.   “Thank you,” you whisper. 

He nods and accepts your hands when you offer them.  You stand first and he bows his head to you, forehead pressed to your knuckles, then he rises as well. He bows one more time before he looks at the other kingsguards.  They went silent at his confession, all standing near their horses, contemplative looks on their faces. 

“Do we… go back?” Seungmin asks. 

They look at Minho.  Minho looks at you.  His face is pensive, not at all like that laughing jokester from this morning.  When he wants to be, his face is the most stoic, not revealing a single thought despite the scrutiny of his gaze. 

Finally, he shakes his head.  He looks at his horse, rubbing its nose. 

“There’s no harm in continuing our course,” he says.  “The king would just be agitated, hm?  We’ll spare him the trouble.” 

“Agreed,” Changbin says, though he cuffs Jeongin on the arm.  “You will pray for revelation tonight.  And you’ll take care of the horses.” 

“I will too,” Seungmin says, stepping forward and bowing his head.  “Honestly, I thought something was suspicious with his report.  I should have investigated myself and I didn’t, because I wanted the same thing as him.”

“Fine,” Changbin says.  “Both of you then.”

It is menial as far as punishments go, though you wish there was no repercussions at all.  They both acted on your behalf, but a kingsguard is not supposed to have such an emotional response and certainly never to the end of betraying his vows for even a moment.  Lying is a sin.  Lying to holy king, more so. 

You look at Jisung.  Perhaps surprisingly, he does not look especially shaken.  He exhales heavily, noisily fluttering his lips as if to make a point of his resignation.  When he looks at you, he winks.  It makes your voice catch, mouth open but words caught. 

He smiles and puts his hand on your lower back, guiding you forward. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “Come on.  Let me get you some water.”    

If Jisung is not afraid right now, then you will not be either.  Still, you look at Jeongin over your shoulder.  The guards all return to chatting while you let your mind wander. 

You are determined that no one will ever again be punished on your behalf.  You do not know how you will handle the king and the days to come, but you will think of something.  You must think of something.  Things cannot continue the way they have been.  Jisung’s affection has caused a revolution inside of you.  You will use those feelings for good.  Through his bravery and kindness, you will similarly impact your world.

You have spent your life passively receiving your fate.  You were never motivated to seek more.  That has changed.  You have feelings now. 

Things will change.  You will change them.

-

You stop in a riverside clearing just before nightfall.  Though your journey cuts through the forest, you weave back towards the water to make camp.  

Changbin and Minho take some time to peruse their maps and confirm their bearings, meanwhile Seungmin and Jeongin build and organize your little tent.  The boys will sleep on their bedrolls under the stars, the clear summer night permitting it, but it would not be appropriate for the queen to lay on the ground all night. 

You refuse to be totally useless so you go with Hyunjin and Jisung to collect some firewood.  They cut some larger pieces of wood and collect rocks while you gather sticks for kindling.  They show you how to arrange everything, then how to ignite a flame using a couple of twigs. 

The sun teeters on the horizon, a slash of orange darting through the lavender light of evening.  The faintest breath of wind stirs through dark locks of hair.  The boys decide they want to wash themselves while it is still relatively warm enough.  They go in groups of three so you are never left alone. 

The kingsguards may be tasked with watching the royal personage at all times in all circumstances, but that does not run the opposite direction.  It would be rather inappropriate for the queen to sit shoreside and ogle her naked guards as they splash around in the river. 

The nudity of bathing does not carry any shame, but these are kingsguards.  Their black robes feel like a part of them.  Even Jisung has not fully stripped in front of you.  The most skin you have seen came from Hyunjin when he was forced to disrobe for a whipping and that was not consensually granted.    

You are content to sit by the fire and listen to them on the other side of the treeline.  Jisung, Seungmin, and Jeongin bathe first, a rowdy little trio by the sounds of it.  Changbin and Hyunjin chuckle at their theatrics while Minho smiles.  They share some food and conversation with you.  

It is very calm and pleasant.  You feel like you can truly relax for the first time in days.  Even when the king was unconscious, the camp itself was always bustling with so many bodies and animals.  The encampment felt like a small city unto itself.  This is very different, slower and quieter but still very safe.  Yes, despite the darkening woods and the eerie quiet of its shadows, you are not afraid.  Changbin is at your side, Jisung is laughing somewhere, and Minho’s keen eyes are darting to and fro.  You have never felt more secure.

Of course, this arrangement is so intimate that you suspect it will be harder to be truly alone with Jisung.  It was easier to slip away in the busy crowd, but there is no where to hide in this clearing. 

You can wait.  Patience, temperance, and self-denial are well-practiced traits of yours.

So you think until Han Jisung jumps some shrubbery and skips towards the fire.  He is wearing his shirt and pants again, though his outer robes are draped over his arm.  He is still damp, droplets of water slipping down the subtle but firm curve of his biceps.  He runs his fingers through his wet black hair, pushing it out of his eyes.  When he smiles at you, it makes you understand how poets like him can write endless songs about a single muse.  You wish you could better articulate just how deeply that smile touches you. 

Certain you will give yourself away otherwise, you do not smile back, dipping your gaze back to the fire and cramming some food in your mouth.  Minho gives you an amused look from the other side of the fire and it makes your face feel even hotter. 

Jisung takes a seat beside you.  A bedroll has been unfurled for your comfort and he sits just beside it, laying his robes on his other side.  He groans with satisfaction as he stretches his arms towards the fire. 

You chew your food with more concentration than it warrants, trying to ignore the flush caused by his unthinking moan.  It might be part of his silly theatrics but you will never hear that sound without thinking of the noises he made when inside you: his heavy breathing and the low pleasured moans exhaled softly into the tender skin of your throat as your bodies came together again and again. 

Jisung glances at you but you avoid his gaze, still too flustered to look at him.  Fortunately, Seungmin and Jeongin arrive seconds later.  They are also in their shirts and pants. While it is undoubtedly strange to see the kingsguards in that state, it does not affect you the same way.  It really is just Han Jisung, with his laughter and poetry, his silliness and seriousness alike.

Changbin, Minho, and Hyunjin leave to bathe.  Seungmin, Jeongin, and Jisung eat their share, continuing some silly jesting they started at the river.  They tease each other and make you laugh. 

Jeongin is the first to stand, sighing to himself.

“I’m going to say my prayers now,” he says.  “Like I was told, until I feel the gods’ revelation.” 

“I’ll go too,” Seungmin says, standing as well.  “Like I promised.”

You and Jisung nod.  You spare the boys a final glance that you hope conveys your gratitude.  You think it does because they both smile back.  They take their robes and venture further into the woods, presumably to be alone with the gods. 

Hyunjin, Changbin, and Minho are noisy but it is in the distance.  In the little space between you and Jisung, there is silence, only the fire crackling. 

You finally dare to meet his eye, each of you shyly glancing at the other.  He seems to have a slight blush but maybe that is the flames. 

“So,” you say.   

Changbin shouts something silly at Hyunjin.  Jisung looks in that direction before smiling an awkward sort of smile.  He rubs the back of his neck as he gazes at you.

You both understand that you are not truly alone.  He knows how precarious the situation is.  He clearly trusts Minho but is not sure how the others will react.  It is safer to keep your distance for now. 

“Are you excited to be back in the capital?” you ask.   

This causes his eyes to light up, bright as the flames.  His smile similarly jumps.

“Yeah, actually!” he says.  “You know, there’s some places I think you would like.  I wish I could take you there.”

You do not want to feel sad tonight, do not want to lament a life you do not have.  You want to imagine a reality where everything is possible.  Although poignancy tugs at your heartstrings, you rise above it, smiling at him.

“Talk to me as if we will go,” you say.

Some of the sadness seeps from his gaze.  The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, a true smile. 

“There are some amazing gardens, you know,” he says.  “Acres of tulips in more colours than you can imagine.  And an orchard of cherry blossom trees.  It’s – it’s very beautiful in the springtime.”

“Oh,” you say, swallowing.  “I think I will love it.”

“You will,” he says.  “You definitely will.  I can’t wait for you to see it.  There’s a tea house on the property.  They make a cherry tisane.  It sounds like something you’d enjoy.  I’ve noticed you have taste for sweet things.  You were—”  He giggles now, miming licking his fingertips.  “You were licking some sugar off your fingers in the first village when you thought no one was looking.”

“I should have known I would be caught,” you say, laughing. 

“Yes,” he says, still grinning.  “I couldn’t take my eyes off you if I tried.” 

“I know what you mean,” you reply softly.  “There was a bard at the banquet who caught my attention.  He sang so beautifully that it pulled me out of a lethargy I did not even realize I had slumped into.” 

“Oh wow,” Jisung says, his eyes comically wide.  “He sounds amazing.  Was he that good of a singer?” 

“The best I’ve ever heard,” you say, giggling helplessly. 

“Oh wow.”  He shakes his head.  “Was he handsome too?” 

“Mhm…”  Your face feels hot and you fidget with a loose thread on your gown.  “Very handsome, if I say so.”

“You are the gods-chosen queen,” he says solemnly.  “Your opinion is a sanctified one.  He must have been really good looking then, like, stunning, like probably the best looking bard who ever lived.  Fuck!  I can’t compete with that guy!” 

You laugh again, playfully shoving his shoulder while he giggles at his own silly joke. 

“This is probably a foolish confession,” you say, a little shy.  You think the growing darkness and loud flames might encourage your bravery.  “But when you stood in as proxy at the wedding… for a moment… I imagined what it would be like to marry you instead.”

His eyes widen but not overdramatically, his surprise pure and honest. 

“I didn’t know you yet, of course,” you say.  “I couldn’t truly imagine what that would look like.  It was a momentary fantasy.  I just – I imagined a life with music and a smiling face.” 

You stare back at him, your gazes locked.  The boys are still making noise by the water and the other two are off in prayer.  Darkness falls around you and the fire keeps you safe.  All this makes you bold, so you reach across the small space between your bodies and you touch his face.  When your palm cups his cheek, he takes in a breath and holds it. 

“I thought I would stop thinking about it as the days went on,” you whisper.  “Instead, now I see it better.  I think I would like to explore cities with you, and try sweet things.  And I think I would like even more to sit somewhere quiet at the end of the day, and do my needlework while you write songs.  And I think I should stop thinking about it…”  You drop your hand from his face, curl your fingers into your palm, and tuck your hand against your heart.  “Because I’m making myself sad again.  And I told myself I would not be sad tonight.” 

“I wish I could take it away from you,” he says earnestly.  “I like making you smile.  I could write a song about the way you laugh but the sound wouldn’t be half as beautiful.” 

You laugh at that, bashful as you shake your head.  He wags a scolding finger in your face.

“Hey!” he says.  “Don’t laugh at that.  I was completely serious.”

“I know you were,” you say.  “Trust me.” 

“I do,” he says, smiling.  His eyes roam your face, seeming to make a study of you.  He sighs, a sweet sound.  “I wish I could say I imagined marrying you,” he says.  “But honestly, never in my life would I have ever dreamed such a thing would be possible.  That you – that you – would ever look at me like—”  He is trying to be jovial but his tone drops, finishing in utter seriousness, “Like this.” 

“You speak so ill of yourself sometimes,” you say.  “I know you come from a small background, Han Jisung, but that is a testament to your character, not a fault of it.  I feel like I am the clumsy, foolish one, that I will forever be trying to reach the places you go.” 

You lift your hand above your head.  He takes it in his own, lowering it so your clasped hands are between your hearts. 

“I think we’re somewhere here now,” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, swallowing again.  “I believe we are, against all odds.” 

“Against all odds,” he says and smiles.  It is that true smile again, the corner of his eyes so crinkled with joy.  It fills you with a similar happiness. 

The warmth of that delight simmers hotly when he brings your hand to his lips.  Surely, a kiss on the back of the hand is the most chaste kiss imaginable.  It should not summon a torrent of butterflies in your belly, yet you swear they burst so quickly that you could similarly take flight. 

He kisses that soft skin.  Your hand is so unblemished next to his.  You feel a sword callous where his thumb strokes you, a rough touch, though his lips are soft and warm. 

When you are not interrupted, he gets bolder, turning your hand over and kissing your palm.  He looks at you when he does.  His gaze is so penetrating that you feel it thunder through you, right down to your core.  This is not a chaste kiss despite its softness, his eyes and mouth irrevocably claiming you. 

The voices get louder as the three guards approach.   He releases your hand and you take it back, cradling it like something delicate.  You can still feel the place his mouth touched, radiating heat more thoroughly than the campfire. 

He is quicker at feigning indifference, immediately joking with his fellow guards as they approach the fire to dry off.  You smile politely but remain quiet, still so flustered inside. 

You spend the evening by the fire with the guards, talking about the days ahead.  The other guards also speak fondly of the capital and some residents.  You talk about your home too and they listen attentively. 

The day eventually catches up to you.  You yawn and apologize for the impolite action, covering your mouth.  It just makes the guards laugh fondly. 

“I suppose I best excuse myself for the night,” you say. 

You begin to stand and they all move, prepared to rise and help you.  Jisung beats them to it, on his feet in a matter of seconds. 

“Here,” Jisung says, holding out his hand.  “Let me, my queen.” 

You take his hand.  Sparks ignite all over again, tingling all the way up your arm as he helps you to your feet.  Your tent is not far but Jisung walks you to it anyway, holding open the canvas as you step inside.  It is certainly not as big as the one in the encampment, the narrow space just big enough for a bedroll.   It is tall enough you can stand, but only barely. 

“Thank you,” you say, turning to face him.  You smile.  “Good night, Jisung.” 

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he says.  He is still holding your hand. 

A heartbeat passes.  He glances over his shoulder.  The other kingsguards must be occupied because he steps into the tent.  He is fast, taking the scarce second afforded to him. 

He does not waste it. 

He pulls you towards him.  His hand darts past your waist and circles your body so he can haul you up against him.  His other hand touches your face, his thumb on your chin to tilt your head. 

He kisses you.  Deeply, desperately. 

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he breathes, stealing one more kiss before he withdraws. 

It happens so fast but the effect lingers long after he is gone, your heart still racing and body still humming with desire. 

Your dreams the previous night do not begin to compare to the thoroughly involved and deeply sinful dreaming that comes to you tonight. 

-

You wake in a state, still flushed from a stimulating dream.  Your hands fumble on the ties of your dress as you prepare for the day.  You shake out your limbs before you open the tent canvas and step into the early morning light.

The kingsguards took shifts in guarding your tent.  Last night, you woke to some noisy nightingales and recognized Changbin’s silhouette outside your tent.  Content you were safe, you went back to sleep. 

The morning is crisp and cool, the air a balm on your warm skin.  That heat has no time to lessen, however, because the kingsguard standing post right now is Jisung. 

You look at each other.  It is very safe to say this regard is blatantly provocative.  He does not touch you but it feels as though he is undressing you with his eyes, the dark depths skimming the loose ties of your bodice like he is calculating how quickly he can unravel it.  It would probably be fast.  He could crook his finger inside the knot and everything would come undone, yourself included. 

He is wearing his robes again.  It should make him little more than a shadow, but your body is imprinted with the feeling of his arms around you, his hands deft and firm where they touch and press.  

He looks over his shoulder.  You follow his gaze.  Hyunjin and Jeongin are still sleeping, dozing atop their bedrolls.  The others are nowhere to be seen but you can hear them in the distance, down by the river.

Jisung looks at you.  You do not doubt your hearts jump in unison with the same thought.

Seconds later, you are back inside the tent, his mouth on yours and his hands frantically squeezing your sides. 

“Jisung,” you whisper, throwing your arms around his neck.  You bury your fingers in his hair, thoughtlessly tugging at it and pushing your body right against his. 

He makes a low sound, passed between your lips.  He pulls you into his arms so your bodies are flush against each other.  Even with the layers between, you feel him as he feels you, the plush curve of your breasts pressed against his flat chest, your fuller thighs against his, the softness of your middle against the unmistakably stiff interest of his. 

“Gods help me,” he curses.

You think he tries to be graceful but you are both intoxicated with the kiss and it makes you clumsy.  You thump down to earth, sprawling across on the bedroll.  It deters you for mere seconds then he is back on you. 

You don’t have time to think, your body commandeering full control of your senses.  You lean back on your elbows, your legs falling open so he can fit his hips between them.  His hands come down on either side of you, leaning you back as he kisses you until you are dizzy. 

“I thought about you all night,” he whispers.

He kisses you again, his mouth open, his tongue on your lips.  You open your mouth for him.  The place between your thighs seem to follow the same command, heat flooding so fast and intensely when he licks into your mouth.  You suddenly feel so empty down there in comparison, your body begging for more.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said,” he continues, then kisses you again, then moans.  “About us,” he says.  “If you were my wife – oh – gods be good—“

You mewl.  It is the only word to describe your whimpering when he lays you out and presses against you intimately, his hips rocking so you can feel exactly what he means. 

“I would have taken you right there,” he whispers, staring down in your eyes as he rolls his body against yours.  “I would have had you under those stars.  I’d have you again right now.  You’d never know anything but happiness and pleasure.  I’d make you feel so good.  So, so good. Always.  If you were mine.” 

“I am yours,” you whisper back, at least halfway delirious but nonetheless passionate.  It is your only coherent sentence before your head tips back and your eyes close, your hips raising to meet his with a frenetic desperation. 

He whimpers too.  His expression is almost pained, his shoulders shaking. 

“It takes me apart when you say things like that,” he says.  “Do you understand?  How you change everything?  My whole world?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding quickly.  You are certain your own expression borders pain and pleasure.  “Yes, I understand.  Jisung.  Jisung.” 

“Jisung?”  That voice is Changbin from outside the tent. 

It is effective as a bucket of cold water.  You and Jisung look at each other, wide-eyed and panting, then mutely rip apart.  He is the first out of the tent, practically bursting into the morning light.  It startles Changbin who nearly topples over.  He has barely righted himself when you emerge too. 

“Is everything all right?” Changbin asks, looking quickly between you.

“I fell,” you blurt.

“She fell,” Jisung repeats. 

“You fell?” Changbin asks, lifting his eyebrow.  He steps back to look at the tent, then he looks at you.  “Are you all right?”

“No,” you say, then shake your head.  “I mean, yes.  My apologies, kingsguard.  It just really startled me.  I hit my head.”

“She hit her head,” Jisung repeats.

“Jisung tried to help me but then he fell too.”

“I tried to help her but then I – wait—”

“That does sound like you,” Changbin says, frowning.  “Tsk, shame.”  He swats at Jisung before bowing appropriately to you.  “Your Majesty, are you all right?  Do you need anything?”

“Umm, some water if you don’t mind?” you say. 

“Of course,” Changbin says.  He puts a scolding finger in Jisung’s face.  “Try not to fall on her when I’m gone.” 

“I’ll certainly try,” Jisung says.  “No promises.”

When Changbin is out of sight, you playfully kick Jisung.  He feigns immense pain but then he winks at you. 

Your heart skips a beat. 

This might be a long journey after all.

-

Hyunjin and Jeongin wake not long after.  You depart earlier than scheduled. 

Jisung never gets a moment to calm down, still half-aroused when he sits behind you in the saddle.  It provokes your own arousal, impossible to shake the all too clear fantasy of him pressed against your backside, his body moving against yours, not entirely unlike the up-and-down sway in the quick canter of the horse ride. 

“Are you all right?” you ask after some time.

“Ha-ha,” he says.  “Fuck no.” 

It makes you laugh, though it also leaves you feeling very warm. 

Jisung sprinkles himself with water at the next rest stop, dabbing his neck and face while you pet his horse.  Minho and Changbin are conversing over a map, gesticulating and debating something.  Minho nods definitively and rolls up the paper. 

“We’re making better time than anticipated,” he says.  “If we don’t delay at our rests, we may be able to reach one of the outermost villages before nightfall.” 

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Seungmin says, to which everyone concurs.  Finding an inn would be preferable to another night on the forest floor. 

You reach the first town just after nightfall.  The capital, itself, is at least another day’s ride, but towns and villages dot the landscape leading up to it. 

It does not take long to find an inn.  The kingsguards are an unmistakeable order, especially a pack of them, walking into a room with their black robes and shining swords.  The innkeepers fall over themselves, rushing up to greet the holy soldiers as they let themselves into the downstairs tavern. 

The kingsguards do not need to introduce you.  Though you must look a little wild with some undone curls and a well-worn dress, there is only one female figure the kingsguards – queensguards – would be escorting. 

At first, the guards are better received than you.  It is obvious these men have earned a good reputation with the people, regarded as a separate entity from the king.  If the king was unpopular with the common people in the country provinces, it becomes abundantly clear he is even less popular here.  You suppose that makes sense as he is much more likely to visit one of these provinces. 

You let your decency and good nature speak for itself.  The innkeepers warm up to you in no time, happily holding conversation while a couple of the kingsguards give the building a walkthrough.

You are all given some food and board.  The upper level has been cleared for privacy, which somewhat embarrasses you, but the kingsguards claim it is a worthwhile safety measure given the events of the last few days. 

Changbin takes the first shift, guarding you.  It is early and you are very awake from so much socializing, so you invite him inside to sit with you.   The room is not overly ostentatious but it is more than suitable, a decent size with a wide bed and a seating area. 

You and Changbin sit across from each other at the table.  You brought a small embroidery hoop and some thread so you work on that while chatting with Changbin.  He expresses some interest in what you are doing so you show him.  He takes to it as naturally as last time, giggling gleefully at his handiwork.   

The hours tick past.  There is a knock at the door, one of the kingsguards to relieve Changbin from his post.  They will continue to take turns through the night.

Though you mask your thoughts, you are disappointed when the door opens and it is Minho standing there.  Maybe it is for the best.  It would have been hard to explain why Jisung felt the need to guard you from inside your room all night – to say nothing of guarding you under the covers. 

Changbin bids you a good night.  Minho nods to him as he departs, then he looks at you with a rather drole quirk of his eyebrow.

“Try and get some sleep, Your Majesty,” he says, then he bows his head respectfully and closes the door. 

His tone was a little odd but you suppose Lee Minho is a rather quirky character at times. 

Shaking your head, you bolt and lock the door as you were advised.  You hum to yourself as you move around the room, supposing it is an appropriate hour to prepare for bed, though you are still quite awake.

You take your hair down and remove your shoes and stockings.  You have only just grasped the front ties of your dress when there is a knock.  You step towards the door when the knock comes again.  This time, it makes you pause, because the sound does not seem to resonate from the door.  You linger in the middle of the room, waiting and listening.

The knock comes again.  You turn around.  It is coming from the other side of the room.  Is someone knocking at the window?  That can’t be possible; you are on the third and uppermost floor of a building.  

You are about to turn and alert Minho when someone says your name without any title or honorific.  You recognize the voice immediately. 

You hurry over to the window to unlatch the casement and throw it open.  Sure enough, Han Jisung is dangling from the ledge, grinning but sweating and looking rather strained. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper frantically. 

“I’m climbing,” Jisung whispers back.  “It’s romantic – whoa!” 

He nearly slips in an attempt to get his bearing, making you squeak with alarm.  He laughs nervously when he strengthens his grip. 

“Just give me a second,” he says.  “I promise, this is gonna be super romantic as soon as I get up there.  Oh.  Ouch.  Oof.  I really should have taken the robe off first.  Ouch.  Hold on.  Okay.  All right.  Here we go.”

He manages to lift himself onto the window ledge.  It is a rather narrow window so it is something of a comical sight, watching him try to find a way inside.  When he realizes he can’t turn enough to swing a leg in, he opts to tip into the room backwards, landing on his back with a thud. 

“Shhh,” you say, trying not to laugh, putting a finger over your lips.

He puts a finger over his lips too, eyes darting back and forth with joking panic.

“You are ridiculous,” you say, helping him to his feet.

“I thought I was incorrigible,” he replies.  He shakes out his robes, flapping them like wings.

“You’re that too.”  You close and lock the casement, firmly bolting the latch. 

The amusement and giddiness fades, though the adrenaline remains.  You and Jisung look at each other, completely alone in a locked room for the first time in a couple days.  It seems impossible that you were similarly alone in a room at a different inn, just a handful of days past.  So much has transpired in so little time.  You can only imagine what else could happen.  You think the possibilities are limitless, so long as he keeps looking at you like that. 

Even if his gaze does make you feel flushed.  You have already been very intimate and it is obvious you both want to continue that, but it does not get easier to proposition it.  The more you want him, the more tension you feel. 

“Right,” you say with a weak little laugh as you march past. 

His eyes follow you.  You hear him cross the room, the slow thud of booted steps as he moves.  He takes off his outer robe, the swishing slither unmistakable as the fabric sweeps the floor.  

You approach the table with your embroidery, keeping your back to him as you organize your tools. 

“Um, so I suppose, um,” you start and stumble.  You do not know what to say.  There is so much and yet there are no words. 

You struggle another moment, mouth open around empty, airy syllables.

He touches your arm, just the gentlest sweep of his knuckles from your shoulder to your elbow.  You did not even hear him step behind you but now he conquers all your senses.  You feel him even where he is not touching you.  You close your eyes and his face is there, those familiar eyes and that devastating smile. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, his voice light, undemanding yet so seductive.  It makes your core tighten.  “If I only keep one vow my whole life – I want it to be this.”  His hand sweeps back up your arm, across your shoulder, brushing some hair off your neck.  “The gods brought me to you to keep you safe and to serve you.  You have let me keep the first vow.  Please.”  His tone is truly pleading.  “Please let me keep the second vow.”    

It is not a surprise you cannot formulate a reply.  Your voice and breath are caught, no doubt trapped by your pounding heart.  You are captivated and glad to be. 

You turn around.  Your eyes meet.  The eye contact alone stirs your arousal.  You remember him looking at you through the mirror, the most he dared, at least until he snuck into your tent and made love like he was writing songs of worship. 

Your eyes remain locked as you gather the front ties of your dress and begin to unravel the knot.  Without looking down, he takes them from you.  He tugs the ends, drawing you closer to him.  Closer and closer until you are pressed between him and the table edge.  You lean against it and surrender, sliding your hands up his bare arms until they are resting on his clothed shoulders. 

He kisses you.  It is different than earlier, not so frantic but just as searching.  He makes a sound like pain, his brow knitting together, mouth opening against yours.

Your dress comes apart in his hands.  You murmur his name as he pulls the material down, leaving you clad in your shift.  You expect him to let the dress fall and lift your shift over your head, but he follows the fabric of the dress down, carefully guiding it over your hips.  He sinks lower, lower, and lower still, until he is down on one knee, still guiding the dress.  It falls past your knees and puddles on the floor, leaving you in your shift. 

“Jisung,” you say, touching the side of his face. 

His eyes are closed.  He shudders when you touch his face.  It makes his eyes fly open, flickering with something like fear until he looks into your eyes and it all goes away. 

“I want…” he says.

Suddenly his other knee drops.  He sits back on his heels, tilting his head so far back to gaze up at you imploringly. 

“I don’t know,” he says, laughing at himself.  His eyes wander down your body, the plain shift that he has seen in so many revealing stages, down the curve of your breasts and their excited peaks, down over your hips, down between your legs. 

Yes, he focusses there, taking a deep breath.  He kneels upright, taking the hem of your shift in hand. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, gathering the material, guiding it up.  “I mean, I do.  I know but I – I don’t.”  He glances up at your face then he looks down again, eyes once more between your thighs as he reveals more and more skin.  His fingers are trembling where they clutch the material.   “I want to, though,” he says.  “Please. Please. Your Majesty.” 

“Jisung,” you say softly.

You run your fingers through his hair.  He positively melts under the gentle ministration, pressing his face over the material between your legs.  His nose swipes somewhere sensitive and it makes you jump, tugging on his hair. 

“Jisung, you can do what you want with me,” you say.  “You know that.  You know—”

“I do,” he says, kissing you through the material, making your thighs twitch.  “I do.  I want.  I want.” 

He lifts the hem up past your belly.  You take the material, holding it as you hold your breath.  His hands skim your sides and the curve of your hips, his eyes nearly crossing each other with his hypnotized concentration. 

You are not sure what he is doing, not when he kisses your thighs, not when he touches you behind the knee and guides it over his shoulder.  You just know the sight of him on his knees makes your whole body weak.  You are glad the table is behind you, offering support, or you would already be a useless puddle on the floor, much like your discarded dress. 

You think he is just kissing you, just teasing you, moving further along your inner thigh.  Then he kisses the place between your legs, no barrier between his mouth and the soft, wet place that is begging for him. 

“Oh,” you say. 

It is the only thing you can say for a while, mouth frozen in a round O of surprise when he continues to kiss there.  Chaste – if they can be called that – kisses until his tongue pokes through.  His fingers press into your thigh as he moans and buries his face between your legs, his open mouth ravishing you. 

Your head falls back, chest rising and falling rapidly, not a coherent sound crossing your lips as he puts his tongue inside you and coaxes all those half-mad noises from within you.  It goes on until you are so hot and dizzy that, when he takes your leg off his shoulder, you must fully slouch against the table to stay standing. 

You look down at him, so desperate for more that you must look feral with want.   He wipes his face, glancing down at the wetness that has touched his black shirt.

You realize now why he stopped.  He reaches back over his head, taking the fabric in his fists and pulling.  He tugs the shirt off and throws it to the side, exposing all that honey-smooth skin to your hungry, roving eyes. 

Then he dives back in, putting your leg on his bare shoulder and his tongue inside you.  You cry out, gripping his hair, your hips bucking of their own volition as he runs his tongue back and forth, back and forth, tormenting that bead of pleasure until little waves of anticipation start to build inside you. 

“Jisung, Jisung,” you whisper, the roughness of your own voice unrecognizable to you.  He is the one on his knees but you sound like the one in prayer, uttering his name with so much reverence as he takes you over an impossible crest of pleasure.  One hand is buried in his hair but the other you use to cover your mouth, eyes closing as you ride the height of your pleasure on his eager face. 

You both take a gasping breath when it is over.  You look at each other the way romantics gaze at the heavens, full of wonder and awe. 

“How—” he begins then clears his throat.  He wipes his face as he stands, yearning eyes rivetted to yours.  “How do you feel?”

“I feel – I feel—”  You really think about it, following each tingle as it bolts, lightning quick, back to its source.  Your thighs twitch and your body clenches, tightening around nothing, and you know the answer.  “Empty,” you say.  “I feel – I need—”

“Oh,” he says, nudging your legs apart and standing between them.  “Oh, my darling.” 

You grab his face with both hands and pull it to yours, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue.  He kisses your mouth as eagerly as he kissed down there, his hands on your waist, moving up under the shift.  You quickly lift it off, tossing it blindly behind you.  You lean back and he follows you, his mouth in a quick but hot chase, moving down your throat to your breasts. 

You plant your hands behind you, sitting fully on the table now.  You let your head fall back as he stands between your open legs and kisses so many sensitive places. 

“The king won’t see you for at least a week,” he murmurs, leaving little kisses around the stiff bud.  It makes your back arch, offering yourself up to him.  

You lift your head to look at him.  He meets your gaze, his dark eyes turned up as his open mouth descends. 

“Jiii—” is the only syllable you manage, biting your lip to stop because it was too loud. 

It is hardly fair, though, when he bites the tender skin only to love at it with his tongue. 

“Oh, sweet gods,” you say, watching, hips bucking, as he does it again.  “I thought you were a chaste virgin.” 

“I am,” he says, then smiles.  “Was.  But—”  He leaves another love bite, then kisses his way back up to your face.  He smiles at you.  “I’m good at everything.”

“Oh, I see,” you say, laughing at his playfulness.  “Vanity is a sin, you know.”

A laugh bursts out of him, louder than all your previous moans.  You both slap a hand over his mouth, barely stifling the giggles that follow. 

Smiling at each other, you take your hand off his mouth.  You tuck some of his hair behind his ear.  His neck is already a little sweaty and there is a line of sweat in the middle of his bare chest.  You trace it, your finger circling his pectoral, almost as sensitive as your peaks given how his eyelids flutter and get heavy with want. 

“Jisung,” you whisper.  “I want you.”

“You want me,” he says, all at once intoxicated with desire.  “I want you.” 

“Have me,” you say, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him to you.  “Jisung, I’m yours.  Please.  Please.”

“Oh gods.” Despite his playful cockiness, his hands are shaking when they go to the ties of his trousers.  He fumbles with them like last time, needing your help to undo the knot.  Your fingers weave through the string, loosening it, and he releases a breath when he can pull the front material apart. 

You wrap your legs around him, guiding him towards your centre.  He nearly topples you and the table, practically falling into your arms.  He laughs nervously, then closes his eyes as you put your arms around him.  He groans with deep-set pleasure when you drag your fingernails from his shoulders all the way down his back. 

He has himself in hand and he is shivering as you scrape your nails down his back.  It makes him as wet as he is hard, the tip of him gliding along your wetness in a way that leaves you shaking. 

“You’re torturing me,” you whisper, grinding against his tip, shuddering when he rubs up and down over that still-sensitive bead of pleasure.   “What are you – what are you—”     

“I’m not torturing you, ‘m not,” he says, slurring just a little, kissing your cheeks and your jaw and your neck.  “Majesty.  Queen.  You.  My – Oh.  I’m just – I want to see you – I want to feel you—”

He wants to make you reach that climax again, which he does, just by grinding against you.  It washes over you with so much intensity that you rear up then fall back.  It causes a table leg to crack.

You look at each other with wide eyes, glancing beneath you to see the damage.  You both fail to stifle another giggle, exchanging a shocked expression, then mutely changing location. 

Your feet touch the ground for mere seconds before he picks you up, hands on your waist, the same gentlemanly touch when he helps you onto his horse.   This time he puts you on the bed, crawling up after you as you scoot to lay in the centre of it. 

His pants are still on but low slung.  He pushes them further until they are around his thighs, nothing more than a useless hindrance as your legs open for him.  He hooks his arms under your knees and pulls you to him.  You are so wet and so open and ready. 

It is easier than the first time, but still a momentary sting as he enters you, one that disappears as he sinks in deeper until you are as intimate as two humans can be. 

“Yes,” you say.  It feels so good that you release a tear.

“Oh, my – my darling, my queen, I—”  He kisses that tear track, then moves his arms so he can plant his hands on either side of your head.  He moans at the depth afforded to him in that angle, rocking against you with an energy more needy than calculated. 

“Be – be careful—” you say with a little laugh, because he is thrusting so haphazardly that it is making the bed squeak.  “Unless you want everyone to know what you’re doing to me.”

“Well,” he says with a laughing exhale.  “Maybe I do.  I mean, I don’t, that would be very bad.  But also—” 

He moves slower, mindfully, counting each stroke and measuring its impact by the look on your face.  He is slow, then a little faster, but not enough to squeak the bed again – just enough that you forget how to speak, staring at him through dizzy eyes as he takes you so deeply and so precisely. 

“No one else has you like this,” he whispers.  “You are – so beautiful – and composed – and gr-graceful – but for me—”

He covers your mouth when you moan too loud, but it just makes you whimper pathetically into his hand.  Your eyes close as he rolls his hips into yours, relentlessly riding you to an entirely different precipice of pleasure. 

“For me,” he says.  “You’re like this.  I know you.  I know you.”  He emphasizes this with a hand between your bodies, stroking that place again as he takes you. 

It’s no wonder the kingsguards are considered deadly; his coordination is truly fatal, never faltering for a second.  He is even quick enough to cover your mouth when you reach that crest, sobbing into his palm with nothing but sheer pleasure. 

“Yes,” he says and kisses your wet face, down your throat.  He puts his face against your neck and rocks his hips a little more frantically.  “You feel – you are – I never want to stop – I want – oh gods – it’s you.  It’s you.  You’re everything.  You’re my – you’re mine, you’re all of it.  Fuck.”

He pulls out before reaching his climax.  This time you finish him, taking him in hand.  It takes only one stroke for him to come to you, his face twisted up with his pleasure and a whine in his throat as he releases himself all over your thighs. 

He falls on top of you after, his head on your chest and his eyes closed.  You run your fingers through his messy hair, then down his spine and back up again.  He trembles a little but every exhale sounds like relief. 

Eventually, he lifts his head.  You are not sure who initiates the kiss, only that you fall into it with the same all-encompassing desire as all the others. 

“Will you stay a while?” you ask. 

He nods.  His dark eyes are a little shiny and his laugh is a little watery when he says, “I’d stay forever if I could.”

“I know,” you say, swallowing down the same emotion as you take him back into your arms.  “I know, Jisung.” 

You really do.

It is for that reason, you will make it happen.   

[leriexoxo]

Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension

Word count : 9.6k

Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

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There was no knock. There never was.

Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness

[sunnyhonie]

Prepare to lose your whole ass mind…

[leriexoxo]

Wrong Movie Ticket

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: smut, bestfriends to lovers, cinema porn, fingering, semi public inappropriate acts, oral (m,f receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, riding, choking, confessions.

Word count: 6.5k

Summary: It was supposed to be a harmless retro movie night with your best friend Chan. Then the film started… and it was porn. Now you’re stuck in a dark adult cinema, horny, flustered, and sitting way too close to the man you’ve never seen that way—until now. What follows? Stolen touches, filthy tension, crossed lines, and the slowest and fastest descent into “we probably shouldn’t be doing this.” Too bad neither of you wants to stop.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn’t think twice about asking Chan.

It was a throwaway message — a random, impulsive moment while scrolling your phone. The kind of thing only your best friend would say yes to without making it weird.

Got two free tickets to a retro film screening lol. Come with me?? Apparently it’s a surprise title.

You didn’t expect him to reply three seconds later with,

Say less. I’m already choosing snacks in my head.

And now here you were.

Shoulder to shoulder in a darkened theater that smelled like old velvet and warm popcorn, curled up in plush, oversized recliners that felt suspiciously luxurious for an indie cinema. You’d joked about it when you walked in — called it “bougie-arthouse-meets-grandma’s-living-room.”

Chan had laughed, soft and bright, and dropped his head to your shoulder for a second.

“You and your weird luck,” he’d said. “Only you would win tickets to a mystery movie night in a place that looks like it doubles as a jazz bar for ghosts.”

And you’d smiled. You always smiled when he touched you.

Now, the lights dimmed fully, and the film began with a crackle of film grain and a vintage soundtrack humming over the speakers.

At first, everything felt normal.

Old cars. Sepia tones. Awkward, exaggerated acting from a woman in a silk slip and a man with a mustache too big for his face. You sipped your drink. Chan occasionally leaned in to whisper dumb commentary in your ear, and you had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Then the silk slip hit the floor.

You blinked.

Onscreen, the woman dropped to her knees.

“…Wait,” you said under your breath.

Chan leaned forward slightly. “Is she…?”

She was. Very much.

The theater stayed silent, but you could feel it now — the strange atmosphere. The intentionality of the recliners. The lack of teenagers. The fact that everyone was sitting in pairs. Close. Intimate.

You glanced at Chan.

He was frowning a little, eyes still fixed forward.

And then she moaned.

Loudly. Lewdly. Wet and raw.

Chan inhaled sharply, then turned to you — eyes wide with disbelief.

“Is this—?”

“Porn,” you whispered. “I think it’s porn.”

You both stared forward again.

The camera cut to the man’s face — all clenched jaw and labored breathing as she took him deeper into her throat.

You sat frozen, drink in your hand, heart suddenly thudding like you were caught watching something you shouldn’t.

Chan cleared his throat. Shifted in his seat.

“We should… we could leave,” he said, but his voice was strained.

You couldn’t look at him. “Mhm. Could.”

But you didn’t move. Neither did he and the screen only got filthier.

There was something hypnotic about it — not the porn itself, but the setting. The heavy quiet of the room. The creak of recliners. The small, breathy gasps from one or two corners of the theater where other pairs sat just a little too close.

Chan shifted again beside you, and this time you felt it — his thigh brushing yours.

He wasn’t pulling away. Neither were you. And your chest was rising faster now. You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not with the screen soaked in moans and movement and sweat, and the awareness of him sitting right there, warm and silent and way too close.

You didn’t look at him.

But you wondered If he was feeling it too. You didn’t dare move.

Not because you were afraid — but because you weren’t sure what might happen if you did.

The screen lit up with flesh. Grainy but real. A woman on her back now, legs spread wide, breathless under a man twice her size. He fucked her slow and deep, long strokes that made her back arch off the mattress.

The audio was soft but obscene.

You swallowed hard.

You hadn’t meant to watch porn with your best friend. Hadn’t meant to sit this close, thighs touching, breaths syncing like your bodies had somehow started responding to the same rhythm pulsing through the room.

The theater was still mostly quiet, but… not entirely.

There were sounds. Small, barely-there ones. A stifled moan from the far right corner. A squeak of leather from behind you. Someone shifting in a way that didn’t sound like they were just trying to get comfortable.

Your skin prickled.

And beside you, Chan exhaled. A little shaky.

You finally turned your head toward him. He looked… tense. Eyes fixed on the screen, jaw tight, one hand braced on his thigh like he was deliberately keeping it there.

You whispered, “Chan…”

He blinked, tore his gaze from the screen, and looked at you.

His eyes were darker now.

His lips parted, breath shallow.

“I didn’t…” he said softly. “I didn’t think it would actually be—”

“I know,” you breathed. “Me neither.”

A beat passed. Neither of you looked away.

The sounds from the movie grew louder — wet, rhythmic, raw. Her moans echoing, punctuated by filthy dialogue that made your stomach flip.

Chan’s eyes dropped to your lips for just a second.

Just long enough to make your breath catch.

And when they lifted again — slowly — his tongue darted across his bottom lip.

“You okay?” he asked. Quiet. Gentle.

You nodded before you even thought about it.

But he didn’t look convinced.

Your knees were still touching. Bare skin brushing denim. The air between you was thick enough to chew.

You tried to shift your attention back to the screen — to pretend none of this was happening.

But all you could think about was the way Chan was not moving away.

The way your skin still tingled from that single look.

The way your body had started to thrum in time with the soundtrack.

You heard her moan again — a long, high cry that made your thighs clench instinctively.

Chan noticed. You knew he noticed.

His fingers twitched against his own leg. And then he let out a quiet, almost silent laugh — like he couldn’t believe what was happening either.

“This is insane,” he muttered.

You bit your lip. “Mhm.”

And then — softer — he added, “You’re warm.”

You turned to look at him fully now. “What?”

His eyes were on your bare thigh, where it pressed against his. His hand hovered just above it.

“You’re warm,” he said again, like it meant something else. Like he wasn’t just talking about skin temperature.

You held his gaze. And for the first time all night, something shifted. Your pulse spiked but he didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But his hand stayed there. Hovering. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his palm. Like he was waiting for permission he didn’t know he needed.

Your breath hitched.

And Chan’s jaw clenched again — like holding back was costing him something.

“I should…” he started.

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because neither of you really knew how this was supposed to go anymore.

You tried to shake it off.

The porn, the glances, the way Chan looked at your thighs like they were saying something. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That best friends had weird moments sometimes — and maybe you’d laugh about it tomorrow over coffee.

But then you went to dinner.

Just a casual spot near the theater. Dimly lit bar-slash-restaurant, exposed brick, candlelight on the tables. The kind of place where your friend group could cram into a long booth and pass menus around like nothing was vibrating under the surface.

Chan slid in next to you without a word.

You were hyper-aware of it. Of his shoulder against yours, the brush of his denim jacket sleeve. His thigh pressing against yours again like he needed it. Like he hadn’t gotten it out of his system earlier.

Your friend across the table said something — you didn’t catch it.

You laughed anyway. Too loud. Too bright.

Chan didn’t say much at first. He drank his beer, leaned in for the occasional snarky comment in your ear, but you could feel it — the way his hand stayed in his lap, twitching sometimes like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

And then.

You reached for a napkin. Your legs shifted. And his hand landed on your knee.

Accidentally — at first.

At least, you thought it was accidental. But he didn’t move it.

You froze.

Looked down.

He was staring straight ahead, nodding at something one of your friends was saying — like nothing was happening.

Like his fingers weren’t slowly brushing the bare skin just above your knee, under the hem of your denim skirt.

You inhaled sharply.

He heard it. You knew he did, because his fingers paused, then curled just a little.

Your stomach dropped.

You flicked your eyes sideways at him.

Chan was still looking at the others. Still pretending. But his hand was now fully on your thigh — warm, heavy, steady — and slowly sliding higher.

Your breath caught.

He was doing it on purpose. And you… You weren’t stopping him.

He leaned in then, head tilted toward yours like he was about to whisper another joke — but his voice was low this time. Quiet enough that only you could hear it over the ambient music and clinking glasses.

“You’re not moving,” he murmured. “You’re letting me do this.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“You’re the one touching me,” you shot back, voice tight.

His thumb brushed higher.

Your skin tingled.

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible now. “And you’re letting me.”

Your legs shifted under the table, parting just a little — not on purpose, not really — but it didn’t matter. Because his fingers slipped right into that space. Hot and deliberate.

You felt the pad of his middle finger slide up the inside of your thigh.

Slow and Dangerous.

And you snapped your knees together instinctively — not in rejection, but because it was too much.

He stopped. Froze.

You looked at him but he was already looking at you. Eyes blown wide, jaw tight. Like he wasn’t sure who he was right now. Neither were you.

Your voice came out a whisper. “Chan…”

“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he said.

Silence stretched between you.

The others were still talking. Laughing. Existing in some parallel universe where you weren’t seconds from being fingered under a dinner table.

But you weren’t in that universe.

You were here. You were wet.

And Chan’s fingers were moving again.

You should have told him to stop.

There were too many people. Too many eyes. Your friends were right there — sharing food, sipping drinks, cracking jokes across the table like this was just another Thursday night.

And under the table? Chan’s hand was under your skirt.

Fully.

You didn’t know how it had happened so quickly — or maybe you did. Maybe it was always going to happen, after what the movie did to the both of you. After the way your thighs touched and neither of you pulled back.

But this? This was insane.

His fingertips brushed the edge of your underwear, and you inhaled sharply — too sharply — so you faked a cough and reached for your water.

Chan’s body shifted subtly beside you. You felt his breath near your ear as he leaned in to pretend he was saying something casual.

“Still not stopping me,” he murmured.

You clenched your thighs again, but this time it was too late. His fingers had already slipped past the edge of your panties.

Your hips twitched. And his knuckles pressed against your core.

You were soaked.

Like your body had been waiting for this since the cinema. Like it had been aching for him in the most humiliating, undeniable way.

Chan froze.

And then — low enough that no one else could possibly hear — he let out the smallest, most desperate sound.

“Fuck…”

You looked at him, panicked — your voice a whisper. “Chan, we’re in public.”

“I know,” he breathed, barely glancing at you. His hand didn’t move. “Tell me to stop and i will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

And that was all he needed. His middle finger slipped inside you in one slow, hot push.

Your thighs tensed. Your mouth fell open.

You grabbed your drink like it was the only thing tethering you to reality — fingers white-knuckling the glass as you tried to keep your face normal, blank, anything but wrecked.

Above the table, someone asked you a question. Something about dessert. A menu. It didn’t matter. You didn’t hear it.

Because Chan curled his finger inside you.

Your hand shot to your lap, gripping your thigh to keep yourself from squirming. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anyone. You just nodded blindly and mumbled something noncommittal, hoping it passed.

Chan didn’t let up.

His finger moved in and out slowly, and your entire body flushed with heat. He had the audacity to smirk — just the tiniest bit — eyes still fixed on his drink like he wasn’t currently fingering his best friend under the table while people laughed and talked around them.

“This is so fucking wrong,” you hissed under your breath.

“I know,” he said. Another finger joined the first. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

You tried to breathe through your nose. Stay quiet. Act normal. But every subtle movement of his hand made your legs twitch, your core clench, your heartbeat crash against your ribs.

You glanced at him again.

He looked flushed now too. Like he was seconds from losing his mind, but still holding it together because it was you. Because this wasn’t just lust, it was something older, deeper — something that had been crawling under both your skins for months.

“Chan,” you whispered, like a warning.

“Say the word,” he said, voice tight. “Say stop. I will. But you don’t want me to.”

And you hated how right he was. Because instead of pulling away, you shifted forward an inch — just enough that his fingers sank deeper inside you.

Chan sucked in a breath. And you both went still.

A sharp laugh cracked from across the table, drawing attention — and you had to force a smile, nod along, pretend you weren’t sitting there with your best friend’s fingers knuckle-deep inside your body, massaging a spot that made your eyes blur.

Your thighs trembled and Chan leaned in, lips brushing your ear like a secret.

“You’re gonna cum,” he whispered. “Right here, aren’t you?”

You shuddered. Your breath hitched.

And he smiled — not cocky, not cruel. Just in awe. Like he couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked with your cheeks flushed and your teeth digging into your lip to keep a moan from slipping out.

You felt your orgasm build — fast, frantic, terrifying.

You grabbed his wrist under the table.

He stilled instantly. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “Not enough.”

And that was it.

His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm nudging your clit just enough to send you over the edge in a quiet, trembling crash of heat and pleasure. You came with your teeth pressed into your fist, staring hard at a candle on the table like it could anchor you, keep you grounded while your body shattered in silence.

And when it was over, you sat back—Breathless. Shaking.

His fingers slipped out of you slowly, carefully — like he respected what he’d just done to you, even if it made no sense at all.

Your eyes met his and the panic set in.

What the fuck are we doing?

But you were still wet. Still aching.

And you knew — without a doubt — you weren’t done.

You bolted from the table the second your legs worked again.

Something about needing the bathroom. A brush of your hand on your friend’s shoulder as you excused yourself, voice a little too high-pitched, smile a little too tight.

You didn’t look at Chan.

Couldn’t.

Your body was still pulsing from what he’d just done to you — in public, surrounded by friends, like it was the most natural thing in the world to slide his fingers into his best friend and make her come in silence while everyone else debated dessert.

Your heart thundered.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

The bathroom door swung open and you staggered inside, gripping the sink, trying to catch your breath. Your panties were still wet, your thighs sticky, your reflection in the mirror pink-cheeked and glassy-eyed and wrecked.

“What the fuck,” you whispered to yourself.

And then the door opened behind you. Your stomach dropped.

“Chan, don’t—”

But it was too late.

He stepped in, locked the door behind him, and turned to face you — eyes dark, breathing shallow, like he’d sprinted the whole way.

“I had to,” he said. “I couldn’t just let you leave like that.”

You backed up a step. “We’re in the bathroom.”

“No one saw me come in.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” His voice cracked on the edge of something— desperation, maybe. “Because I just made you cum under the fucking table and you didn’t even look at me.”

“I couldn’t!” you hissed, voice sharp and low.

He flinched. Just slightly.

You swallowed, heart pounding.

“It was too much,” you added. “You— that— fuck, Chan.”

He moved toward you. Slow. Careful. But you didn’t step back.

“You liked it,” he said softly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You liked it,” he repeated. “Your body loved it. You soaked through my fingers.”

Your lips parted.

He stopped right in front of you now, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up.

“You didn’t even know you were grinding against my hand until I curled my fingers and you almost choked on your drink.”

“Chan—”

“You’re still wet, aren’t you?” he asked, voice wrecked. “Still aching.”

You stared at him. And you didn’t deny it. A beat of silence passed.

Then: “I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening to us.”

His hand rose — not to touch you, but to rest against the wall behind your head. Caging you in. Close enough that his breath hit your lips.

“I do,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

He leaned in just a little more. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked in that theater. The way you breathed. The way your thighs trembled.”

You swallowed hard.

“I shouldn’t want you,” he said, forehead nearly touching yours now. “You’re my best friend.”

“Then stop,” you said. It sounded like a challenge.

He looked at you.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

Your silence was answer enough.

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Hungry. Like every second you’d known each other had been leading here, and he was done pretending. His hands gripped your waist, and before you could catch your breath, he had you backed against the stall door, mouth trailing fire down your neck.

“I need to taste you properly,” he whispered against your throat. “But I can’t wait.”

You whimpered as his hands slid under your skirt again, rougher this time — no hesitation. He shoved your panties down with practiced fingers, lifted your leg over his waist and slide two fingers back inside you like they belonged there.

You moaned — couldn’t help it.

His free hand clamped over your mouth immediately.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll get us caught.”

His eyes burned into yours — wild, wrecked, possessive.

And he fucked you with his fingers like he meant it. Like he needed to make you feel it. Wrist twisting just right, fingers rubbing the spot that made your eyes roll back, and all you could do was cling to his shoulders and take it.

You came harder this time.

Biting into his palm. Hips jerking against his hand.

And even after your legs gave out and your body sagged against the door, he didn’t pull away. He held you there. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing you in.

“I’m not sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head, eyes still glazed. “Me neither.”

—

Neither of you said anything on the way back.

You walked side by side, hands in your pockets, your face still flushed from the bathroom, heart still pounding in your throat.

The streets were quieter now, warm with the scent of summer and distant traffic, and the occasional brush of Chan’s arm sent shivers crawling down your spine.

You couldn’t look at him.

Because if you did…

You might ask for something neither of you could ever come back from.

Your thighs still ached. Your underwear still clung damp to your skin. And between your legs — Jesus. It was like your body had been switched on and couldn’t shut off.

You were still feeling his fingers inside you.

And he kept glancing sideways. Like he wanted to say something. But didn’t know how.

You finally reached his building. The stoop was dim and familiar — how many nights had you sat there together, late-night snacks and dumb conversations and sleepy yawns on each other’s shoulders? You could still see the ghost of those moments hovering in the air, but they were dissolving fast.

Chan turned to you at the door.

Hands in his pockets.

Voice rough.

“Do you wanna—” He swallowed. “Come in?”

Your heart stuttered.

You should’ve said no.

But instead you nodded.

His apartment smelled like his cologne and roses.

You stood in the middle of his living room, heart hammering. Your skin felt too tight, your legs still shaky. And Chan — god, Chan — locked the door behind you, then leaned back against it like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

Until he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And you felt your breath catch.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. Your thighs, your mouth, the way you looked at me when I touched you. I’ve never seen anything that turned me on more in my life.”

Your throat went dry.

He pushed off the door and stepped closer.

“I want to fuck you so bad I’m shaking.”

Your lips parted.

“Chan—”

“I want to pin you down,” he continued, voice wrecked. “I want to have your wrists in one hand, your neck in the other, and just ruin you.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

He reached for you then — slow, giving you time to pull away — but you didn’t.

He brushed your hair back. Tilted your chin up.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he said. “How many nights I’ve had to jerk off in silence after hugging you goodbye.”

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I think about you when I fuck my fist. I imagine you beneath me, half-undressed, legs open, begging.”

You gasped — one hand flying to cover your mouth.

But he wasn’t done.

“I want to pin you to the bed,” he whispered. “Hold you down while you squirm. Make you cry my name while I fuck you like you owe me something.”

Your legs buckled.

He caught you instantly.

“You like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, stunned.

“Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not done.”

He backed you toward the bedroom, eyes locked to yours.

“And after that?” he said. “I’m gonna cum all over you. Your stomach. Your face. Wherever I want.”

You whimpered.

“I’m gonna fuck you in your clothes, with your skirt bunched around your waist and your panties pushed aside, because I can’t wait to take them off.”

He licked his lips.

“And you’re gonna take it, baby girl.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Breathless. Speechless.

So fucking turned on.

And then, softly you said:

“Show me.”

—

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

And it was like your body knew.

Your heart was a live wire. Your breath shallow. You took two slow steps into Chan’s room — familiar walls, familiar scent — but it didn’t feel like home tonight.

It felt like danger. It felt like him.

Chan followed behind, slow and steady, letting the silence stretch until you couldn’t take it anymore.

You turned around to face him.

He looked wrecked already — hair tousled, chest heaving, hands flexing open and shut at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab you and ruin you.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and reached for the hem of your skirt.

He caught your wrists before you could tug it up.

“Let me,” he said.

And that voice — god, that voice — low and dark and possessive, made your knees tremble.

He walked toward you, slow like a wolf circling prey. You expected him to strip you, to yank your clothes off with that filthy desperation he’d whispered about.

But he didn’t.

He kissed you.

Soft, at first and then not.

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping the backs with practiced heat. And when he pulled your skirt up — when he saw your ruined panties again — he let out a sound so deep it rattled in your chest.

“Still wet for me,” he said.

You couldn’t speak.

“You came twice and you’re still soaked.”

He dipped his head — not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to your throat. You tilted your head back with a gasp as he sucked at your pulse, teeth grazing, mouth open and hot.

“I’m gonna fuck you just like this,” he growled. “Skirt up. Panties in the way. Legs spread for me.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Chan—”

“Shh.”

He kissed your inner thigh, lips dragging dangerously close to your center, but not touching. Not yet.

“You have no idea how many times I thought about this,” he said against your skin. “How many nights I imagined tasting you.”

And then his fingers hooked your underwear and tore them down.

You gasped.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and blown.

And then — finally — his mouth closed over your core.

Your knees buckled.

You moaned his name, loud and desperate, and he growled into you, arms locking around your thighs as he dragged you closer. His tongue was everywhere — licking, curling, sucking your clit in a rhythm that was absolutely obscene.

You lost time.

Lost sense.

You gripped his hair and ground against his face, your body taking what it needed because he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t let you breathe, and when his fingers slipped inside you, you came so hard your vision blacked out for a second.

“Fuck— fuck—” you sobbed, hips jerking.

He rode it out. Held you through it. Slowed down only when you begged him to.

And then he stood.

Still fully clothed.

Hard as a rock behind his jeans.

You couldn’t think. Could barely stand.

“Take it off,” you breathed, grabbing the hem of his shirt.

But he was already on it — pulling it over his head, tossing it aside, eyes locked to yours.

And fuck.

He was beautiful. He had always been.

His body was all sharp muscle and light skin and hunger, abs flexing as he worked his jeans open, breath stuttering like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when he stepped out of them — hard, flushed, huge — you choked on your own gasp.

He grinned.

“Scared?”

You shook your head.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You moaned.

He pushed you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

Then shoved you onto it.

Climbed on top of you, hands bracketing your head, knees parting your thighs.

“Hands up,” he said.

You obeyed instantly, arms stretched above you on the pillow.

He leaned down, kissed your lips like they were sacred.

“Keep them there.”

You nodded.

He lined himself up — and hovered for just a second.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispered. “If I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

And he thrust in.

Hard.

You arched up with a cry, nails digging into the sheets as he filled you to the hilt. He groaned above you, head falling to your shoulder, arms shaking with restraint.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he breathed.

He gave you a moment.

And then he started to move.

Fast. Deep. Merciless.

The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room, and your gasps turned to cries, your hands fisting the sheets as he pounded into you like a mad man. Like he needed it. His fingers tangled with yours above your head, pinning you in place as his hips slammed into you again and again and again—

“Fuck—! Chan—”

“You’re mine,” he growled. “You’re so fucking mine.”

Your fourth orgasm tore through you like fire, and Chan groaned when he felt you clench around him, hips stuttering as he chased his own end.

And when he pulled out last-second and came all over your stomach, hot and messy and shaking, you felt like your soul had left your body.

You both collapsed.

Silence.

Only breath and heat and the soft whisper of, “Holy shit.”

You turned your head to look at him.

He looked at you. And he smiled.

—

It was the sun that woke you.

Bright and slow, bleeding through the gap in the curtains and painting gold across the bed. You stirred, eyes still closed, your body humming with a dull ache — sore thighs, tender hips, a deep throb between your legs that made your breath catch.

And then you felt it.

Warm skin at your back.

A chest rising and falling slowly behind you.

An arm, heavy and wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed possessively just under your ribs. His scent still clung to your skin — sweat and something darker, heady, him.

And that’s when the memories crashed in.

The bathroom.

The restaurant.

The bed.

The way he’d pinned your hands above your head and fucked you like he meant to wreck you.

Your cheeks burned instantly, eyes flying open.

Holy shit.

You slept with your best friend.

You slept with Chan.

And not just slept. You let him possess you— He had you on his face. His fingers, his mouth, his everything, and then he’d whispered things that should’ve made you run for the door but instead made you soaked.

You swallowed thickly.

And then the arm around your waist pulled you closer.

You yelped.

Chan groaned softly behind you, voice gravelled from sleep.

“Mm… what time is it?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know what to say.

He blinked his eyes open, peeking over your shoulder. “You okay?”

You turned to face him — slowly, hesitantly.

He looked wrecked. Hair a mess, voice hoarse, lips kiss-bruised and sleep-swollen.

Your stomach flipped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Then added, “Sore.”

He grinned — and you hated that your thighs clenched at the sight of it.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

“Chan—”

He slid his hand down to your hip, voice low.

“Because I can fix it.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

He quirked a brow. “Like what?”

“Like I’m still the same girl you— you—”

“Fucked six ways from Sunday?” he offered, smug.

Your face burned.

But then he leaned in, nuzzled his nose against yours.

And whispered: “You’re not.”

You blinked. “I’m not?”

He shook his head.

“You’re completely mine now remember?”

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain melted.

“Chan…”

“I’m serious,” he said. “Last night… that wasn’t just sex. That wasn’t just me losing my mind. That was me finally doing what I’ve wanted for months.”

You stared at him. He was serious.

“I thought this would ruin everything,” you whispered.

He tilted his head.

“And now?”

You took a breath.

And admitted it: “I don’t want to stop.”

He grinned. “I never was gonna let you.”

He pulled you into him, kissed you — slow, lazy, warm — and you melted right into his arms.

The morning didn’t feel awkward.

It didn’t feel scary.

It felt like the beginning of something new.

And then—

“I meant what I said last night, by the way,” Chan murmured against your mouth.

You blinked. “What part?”

“The part where I pin you down and fuck you like you stole from me.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You already did—”

“And the part where I cum all over your face.”

“CHRISTOPHER—”

“Just letting you know what’s on the schedule.”

You slapped his chest, flustered beyond belief.

He just laughed.

And kissed you again.

“Cum on my face, huh?”

Your voice came out soft. Dangerous.

Chan blinked. His grin froze on his lips. “…Uh-oh.”

You rolled onto him. Just like that. Bare skin on bare skin, straddling his hips while he stared up at you with those huge, still-sleepy eyes.

But sleep was over.

You rutted your hips once, slowly, deliberately—feeling the way his cock stirred between your thighs—and he made a sound.

“Y’know,” you said, sweet and sharp, “you’re not the only one with fantasies.”

His hands gripped your hips instantly. “Oh?”

“Mmhmm.” You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You’re not the only one who thinks about pinning someone down.”

He hissed.

“And I know you like control, but imagine this—” you rolled your hips again, voice turning breathy, “—imagine me riding you so hard you beg me to let you cum.”

He groaned.

“Imagine I keep going… and don’t let you. Just to see how long you last.”

“Fuck—”

“And I’ve thought about your mouth too. Not just eating me out—though, Christ—” you shuddered, “—I still don’t think i can walk right, thanks for that—”

He smirked proudly.

“But I’ve thought about your whimpers too. What you sound like when I suck you so slow you start losing your mind.”

You kissed down his chest, dragging your nails across his abs, feeling him tense and twitch beneath you.

“I wanna leave marks,” you whispered. “Wanna make you look wrecked for me.”

Chan was flushed now. Practically trembling under you.

“Baby girl,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled.

And slid down between his legs.

“I haven’t even started.”

He wasn’t ready, but you took your time.

You teased him with your mouth first — slow licks up his shaft, tongue circling the tip, only enough suction to drive him insane. You had your hands braced on his thighs, nails biting into skin just enough to own him.

“Jesus—” he gasped, head thrown back. “You’re—fuck, that’s good—”

You moaned around him and watched his hips twitch up, his hand flying to your hair like instinct, fingers tightening in warning.

“Babe— I swear—if you keep going like this, I’m gonna—”

You pulled off right before he came.

And smirked.

“Oh, we’re doing this now?” he asked, breathless.

“Damn right we are,” you said, climbing back on top of him. “I’m getting mine now.”

You lined him up, braced yourself—

And sank down in one slow, maddening slide.

Chan’s eyes rolled back.

You didn’t even move for a full ten seconds. Just sat there, gripping his chest, clenching around him until he was panting.

And then you rode him. Like a woman possessed.

You weren’t slow. You were relentless. Skin slapping, sweat slicking your bodies together, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips as you bounced with wild, desperate rhythm.

“Fuck—fuck— you’re insane,” he groaned.

“Say you love it,” you panted.

“I fucking love it—!”

You leaned down and bit his shoulder.

And that was it.

He flipped you over without warning, slammed back into you hard enough to rattle the headboard, and locked your wrists above your head like he had something to prove.

You moaned his name so loud it echoed.

He looked down at you — hair in his eyes, lips parted, body dripping sweat — and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t talk.”

“Try me.”

So he did.

You lost count of how many times you came. How many times he made you scream. The sun climbed higher outside and you never even noticed.

He had you on your back.

Then on your stomach.

Then on your side with one leg thrown over his hips while he pounded into you, growling your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to say.

And when you came again — thighs shaking, back arched, eyes fluttering — he pulled out and came all over your chest, jaw tight and groaning like it destroyed him.

You lay there for a second.

“Holy… fuck,” you breathed.

Chan flopped beside you.

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Then:

“…I want pancakes,” you whispered.

Chan turned his head, eyes still blown wide. “How the fuck are you thinking about pancakes right now?”

You smiled lazily.

“I burn calories fast.”

He groaned into the pillow.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled onto your side and kissed his cheek.

“But what a way to go.”

—

You were wearing nothing but Chan’s shirt and a pair of socks.

And it was doing things to him.

He stood at the stove, shirtless, trying to focus on flipping pancakes while you leaned over the counter, hair messy, skin glowing, humming some made-up song about how much you deserved “carbs and cuddles after all that cardio.”

“You’re just using me for my protein,” he muttered, hiding a grin.

You stretched dramatically, popping a strawberry into your mouth. “Technically, you used me for your protein.”

Chan nearly burned the pancake.

You laughed when he choked on air, stepping over to whack his back. “Careful, old man. I still need you alive for round– wait, how many rounds now?”

He turned his head, gave you a look that could scorch.

“Keep talking like that and we’re not making it to breakfast.”

You kissed his shoulder. “Then hurry up. I’m starving.”

He flipped the last pancake with a little more urgency.

A few minutes later, the two of you were at his mini kitchen table, knees brushing under the surface, your plate stacked high like a kid at a sleepover.

“You know,” you said through a mouthful of syrupy goodness, “this is dangerously close to looking like a real relationship.”

Chan froze.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You paused.

Fork halfway to your mouth.

“…No.”

He watched you carefully. “Because I was kinda hoping it was.”

You squinted. “Hoping it was bad?”

“No—” he laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “No, I mean—I was hoping it was a relationship. Or that it could be.”

Your heart thudded.

Hard.

“Chan…”

He looked nervous for the first time since he’d had you straddling him in bed the night before.

“I don’t wanna go back,” he said. “Not to pretending. Not to brushing this off. That’s not what last night was for me.”

You set your fork down gently.

“It wasn’t for me either.”

The tension cracked open—just a little—and he reached across the table, linking your fingers together.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I think I have too.”

“And I know we were reckless and a little feral and probably woke my neighbors up—”

“They applauded, Chan.”

He laughed.

You smiled.

But then—his eyes softened.

And his voice turned sincere. “Can I take you out?”

Your brows lifted. “You always do”

He smirked. “Like, properly. Date you. Buy you dinner. Try to behave myself.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, pretending to think. “And if you fail miserably?”

“Then I’ll behave badly… respectfully.”

You grinned.

“Okay,” you said. “I’m in.”

He looked so genuinely happy you felt it in your bones.

You finished breakfast in a daze of syrup and laughter, tangled limbs and coffee stolen from each other’s mugs. And when he pulled you back onto the couch, wrapped around you like he couldn’t get close enough, you let him.

Because somehow, this—this—felt more dangerous than anything that happened last night.

Not because it was wild. But because it was real.

And you both knew? You were in trouble.

The best kind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: GUYS!!! WE HIT 1K FOLLOWERS!!!! 🤩 wowwwww, thank you so much for always reading and indulging my delulu 😭❤️ i love you guyssssss! I think i will be doing a new series since Angry Boys did well, but ill make a poll to know what direction to go next and until then, please leave nice comments, likes and a reblog if you enjoyed this!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000

[leriexoxo]

Just Another Work Trip

Coworker! Changbin x Fem Reader

Tags: work husband, hotel room, honeymoon suite, alcohol, teasing, size kink, oral (m,f receiving), unprotected sex, cum swallowing, fingering, smut, squirting.

Word Count: 7k

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple work trip—until a hotel mishap landed them in the honeymoon suite with complimentary wine and only one bed. Now she’s in a robe, asking him questions no sober co-worker should, and he’s showing her exactly what those hands can do. “Strictly professional” goes out the window the moment he pulls her onto his lap.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started like every other work trip: you and Changbin sitting side by side at the airport gate, bleary-eyed, under-caffeinated, and already bickering over the window seat.

“You sat by the window last time,” you’d argued, cradling the sad excuse for coffee from the airport kiosk in your hands.

He’d scoffed. “That was a thirty-minute flight. This one’s four hours.”

“Exactly. And I want to sleep.”

“So do I.”

You’d stared each other down for a full five seconds before he let out the most dramatic sigh imaginable and said, “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”

You’d won.

He’d sulked for most of the flight, arms crossed, hoodie up, headphones in. Every time you so much as adjusted your blanket, he’d shot you a theatrical side-eye, like you’d stolen his birthright instead of just the window seat.

Typical. Completely and utterly typical.

You and Changbin had somehow morphed from casual coworkers into a chaotic work-marriage no one at the office dared question. You got placed on all the same projects, shared the same relentless travel schedule, and had grown unreasonably good at finishing each other’s sentences and snacks. And yeah, maybe there was a little too much banter, a little too much comfort—but it was harmless. Easy. Familiar.

This trip was supposed to be just another notch on your shared itinerary—three days in a new city, back-to-back meetings, and one brutally long conference presentation. The company had handled the booking: flights, hotel, transportation. All you had to do was show up and try not to strangle each other before day three.

But the universe had other plans.

“There must be a mistake,” you’d said when the front desk clerk handed you one key card instead of two.

The clerk had looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry. There was an overbooking with our standard rooms. The only available one is a double occupancy—two beds, same room.”

You’d glanced at Changbin.

He’d just shrugged. “Not a big deal. We’ve shared worse.”

He wasn’t wrong. That time you both passed out in the same hotel armchair after a midnight movie marathon haunted your spine for days. So you’d agreed. Took the key. Went up. Unpacked. Brushed it off.

Until it started raining.

Not just a drizzle—a storm. Angry, dramatic, cinematic. Lightning cracked across the sky, thunder rolling in deep waves. And then, of course, came the leak.

Right above Changbin’s bed.

“Is that…?” he’d asked, frowning up at the slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip landing dead center on his pillow.

You’d just groaned. “Oh, come on.”

Ten minutes later, you were both back at the front desk, windblown and damp, with matching scowls. The clerk, to their credit, looked genuinely mortified and offered you an upgrade on the spot.

“The honeymoon suite,” they’d said. “It’s the only available room we have tonight. At no extra charge.”

You hadn’t even hesitated. Just nodded, grabbed the new key, and marched back to the elevator, two complimentary glasses of wine clinking in your hand while Changbin dragged your bags behind you.

“You think they’ll have better pillows?” he’d muttered, side-eyeing the golden panel on the elevator wall as you ascended.

“If there’s a leak in this one,” you’d deadpanned, “we’re getting on the next flight home.”

The elevator dinged.

The hallway was soft-lit and velvet-carpeted. Somewhere, from speakers you couldn’t see, romantic piano music drifted through the air.

“This feels fancy,” you’d muttered.

“This feels suspicious,” Changbin had countered, holding up the room key like it might bite him.

You slid the card into the lock. You barely registered the soft click of the key card before Changbin pushed open the hotel room door, dragging both your suitcases behind him like the absolute mule he always insisted on being.

“Okay, new room, no leak, no mildew, no funky smells—” he started, glancing back at you with a grin, until his voice cut off.

You walked in behind him.

And froze.

There was a towel swan on the bed.

Two towel swans, actually. Nuzzling. Beaks forming a heart.

Rose petals were scattered across the king-sized mattress like a florist had a breakdown. The lights were dimmed. There was a chilled bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket on the side table. A card in gold script read “Congratulations on your forever!”

You and Changbin looked at each other.

Silence.

Then he blinked. “Did we… just get married?”

You snorted. “I feel like I should at least get a kiss first.”

He stared at you for a beat. “I’d settle for a thank-you. I did carry your bag.”

“Oh my God.” You threw your purse on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed and collapsed onto the edge dramatically. “They really gave us the honeymoon suite.”

Changbin was still standing there, staring at the bed like it might explode.

“You think it’s too late to ask for separate rooms?”

You glanced at the wall where a MASSIVE hot tub sat right in the open, complete with rose petals floating in the water.

“…Yes.”

Another beat. Then he exhaled hard through his nose and set the luggage down.

“Well. At least there’s wine.”

You eyed the champagne. “And bubbles.”

He raised a brow. “If you think I’m sharing a bathtub with you—”

“Relax, Binnie. I wouldn’t subject you to that much of my bare skin.”

He snorted. “Please. I’ve seen worse.”

You froze. “You have?”

He smirked. “Yeah. The time you accidentally FaceTimed me while shaving your legs with your camera flipped.”

You gasped. “You SWORE you didn’t look!”

He just laughed and flopped onto the bed next to you.

You threw a pillow at him. It missed. He was still laughing.

And god—despite the heart-shaped pillows and mildly alarming amount of romance, it still felt easy. It was still you and Changbin.

Just you two.

Like always.

But… maybe not for much longer.

—

The room was ridiculous.

That was your first thought as you wandered in fully, suitcase forgotten just inside the doorway. Golden light poured from hidden fixtures, casting a warm glow over the white marble floors and the enormous bed—plush, pristine, and obnoxiously heart-shaped. Seriously. A heart-shaped bed.

Changbin wheeled the bags in behind you and stopped dead. “They weren’t kidding.”

“Nope.” You turned in a slow circle, eyes skating over every absurd romantic detail—rose petals on the bed, champagne on ice, a bathroom the size of your apartment with a jacuzzi tub that looked like it came from a music video. “We’re living someone else’s honeymoon.”

“Do you think we’re allowed to eat the chocolate swans?” he asked, already making a beeline for the tray beside the champagne.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever not lead with food?”

He popped one into his mouth before answering. “You’re welcome to be mad about it, but it’s the only way I know how to cope with emotional distress.”

You snorted and dropped onto the velvet loveseat by the window, kicking off your shoes. “Is that what this is? Emotional distress?”

“Uh, yeah?” He gestured to the bed with dramatic flair. “I’m sharing a honeymoon suite with my work wife. You think that’s not psychologically damaging?”

“I’m your work wife now?” You looked over at him, biting back a smile.

“Don’t act surprised. Everyone knows it. I’ve seen the way people look at us when we bicker on Zoom.”

“They look at you with pity.”

He threw a pillow at you. It missed and thudded softly onto the floor.

You didn’t pick it up.

Instead, you reached for the envelope on the nightstand—handwritten, sealed in gold. You cracked it open and read aloud, doing your best overly breathy romantic voice: “Welcome, lovers. May your stay be filled with intimacy and bliss.”

You and Changbin locked eyes for a beat.

Then burst out laughing.

“Should we write them a thank you card?” you managed between wheezes. “Tell them you snore like a chainsaw and I steal all the blankets?”

“You’re not stealing my blankets,” he said, already tugging one corner of the duvet onto his side like he was marking territory.

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at him in return.

He caught it with one hand.

“Truce?” he asked.

You held out a pinky.

He linked his with yours.

And just like that, it was easy again.

⸻

Later, after you’d both settled in—bags unpacked, room-service menu discarded, and the novelty of the ridiculousness dulled to a low, comfortable hum—you found yourself standing in front of the mirrored bathroom, wrapped in the hotel’s soft white robe, hair still damp from your shower.

When you walked out, he was already lounging on the bed, robe on, one arm thrown behind his head like this was a normal Tuesday night and not a total departure from reality.

He looked at you and grinned. “You clean up alright.”

You rolled your eyes. “You look like a skincare commercial.”

“I am the skincare commercial.”

You padded barefoot across the plush rug and slid onto the other side of the bed, careful not to touch but not exactly far either.

Between you sat the half-empty bottle of the complimentary wine and two crystal glasses, condensation beading down the sides.

Changbin handed you yours without looking. His thumb brushed your fingers as you took it.

You didn’t mention it.

“Cheers,” he said softly, lifting his glass.

“To what?”

He shrugged. “Surviving the leak. The free chocolate. Not murdering each other. Take your pick.”

You clinked your glass to his. “To the best fake honeymoon ever.”

The wine was sweeter than you expected. Rich and smooth, settling warm in your chest. Silence stretched between you, not awkward, not tense—just full.

You turned your head, finding him watching you in that lazy, amused way he always did when he wasn’t thinking too hard about it. Except… maybe he was thinking. You couldn’t tell.

“So,” he said eventually, voice low and thoughtful. “If this were a real honeymoon, what do you think we’d be doing right now?”

You raised a brow. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Is it?”

You took a slow sip, giving yourself a moment. “Well. Statistically? Probably fighting about what side of the bed we want. Or deciding which spa package to book. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or…” You glanced down at your glass, swirling the wine gently. “Or doing exactly this, I guess. Drinking wine in robes. Pretending we’re not thinking weird thoughts.”

The words had slipped out before you’d really processed them. You half expected him to laugh it off or make a joke.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you for a moment longer, head tilted, like you were suddenly a question he hadn’t realized he wanted to answer.

You cleared your throat, suddenly too warm. “I mean. Not weird weird. Just—like—hypothetical weird. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” he asked, voice dipping into something softer, something unreadable.

You dared a glance his way. He was still leaning back, still relaxed—but his eyes had changed. Darker. Curious.

The robe slipped slightly off one of his shoulders. Not on purpose. Not seductive. Just real.

And that was somehow worse.

Your voice felt quieter now when you spoke. “How much wine have you had?”

He looked at his glass. “Not enough.”

The wine had mellowed into a comforting buzz in your veins. You’d stretched your legs across the bed somewhere between the second glass and your last laugh, robe slipping just enough to bare your calf. Changbin was still beside you, close but not too close—legs crossed, head tilted lazily against the headboard, the neck of his robe loosened in a casual, effortless way that made it hard not to glance twice.

He looked… peaceful.

And a little too good.

You weren’t used to that. Not this version of him. This wasn’t at work Changbin, cracking jokes to ease the pressure. This wasn’t on a panel Changbin, charming and sharp and annoyingly put together.

This was something softer.

Something real.

“So,” he said, voice smooth and unhurried. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced at him over your glass. “Is this the part where you confess a deep, dark secret and ruin the friendship forever?”

“Not yet,” he teased, then shifted a little to face you better. “What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

You blinked. “Wow, we’re just going there, huh?”

“It’s a honeymoon suite,” he said with a shrug. “Feels wrong to talk about quarterly projections.”

You huffed a laugh and tilted your head, thinking. “Okay. There was this one guy who took me to a jazz bar and then spent the entire night telling me how women don’t really like jazz.”

Changbin winced. “Oof.”

“And then he made me split the bill because, and I quote, ‘chivalry is dead, but feminism isn’t.’”

“Double oof.”

You laughed, swirling your wine. “Your turn.”

“Worst date?”

“Mmhmm.”

He took a slow sip. “There was a girl who brought her ex-boyfriend to our first date.”

You stared. “Like… in spirit?”

“No. Physically. In the flesh. Said she needed me to see why I should be better than him.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

Your wine almost came out your nose.

He looked smug.

“You ask one now,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Make it good.”

You turned toward him, mirroring his posture without realizing. “Okay. Be honest—how many people have you actually been in love with?”

That stopped him.

His mouth tugged into a thoughtful little line as he leaned his head back against the wall. “One. Maybe. I think.”

“You think?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I loved the idea more than the person. But at the time… it felt real.”

You nodded, gaze dropping to your glass. “I know what you mean.”

He looked at you again, carefully. “How about you?”

You bit your lip. “One. Definitely. And it wrecked me.”

Silence hummed for a moment. Not heavy. Just present.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling, “we’re getting too real. I need something spicy.”

You laughed. “Oh, now you want spicy?”

He grinned. “What’s the most inappropriate thought you’ve ever had in a professional setting?”

You nearly choked. “You can’t ask me that!”

“I just did.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. There was one time—don’t judge me—I zoned out in a meeting and started imagining what our boss would look like tied up in duct tape.”

Changbin lost it. “WHAT?!”

“It wasn’t sexual!” you said, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. “I was bored and I had intrusive thoughts!”

He was wheezing beside you, his whole body shaking with it. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

You bumped your foot against his leg. “Okay, your turn. Juicy. No backing out.”

He gave you a slow, deliberate look. “Alright. Be honest. Have you ever thought about hooking up with a coworker?”

The room suddenly felt warmer.

You blinked once. Twice. “Define thought about.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You took a sip of your wine to dodge the question, but your smile gave you away.

He laughed again, soft and low. Then leaned in just a little, not enough to be invasive—just enough to feel it. “Want to tell me who?”

You raised a brow. “That’s not how this game works.”

“Then ask me something equally dangerous.”

You thought for a second, your voice dropping a note. “Have you ever fantasized about someone you shouldn’t?”

His answer didn’t come immediately.

His gaze flicked to yours. And held.

“Yes,” he said. Quiet. Honest. No smile.

Your heart skipped, just once.

You were both still smiling—but it wasn’t the same smile as before. There was something else beneath it now. Something new.

And neither of you had touched yet.

You swirled what was left in your glass, eyes drifting to the long fingers wrapped around his. You’d seen those hands type like a madman during crunch time, juggle a phone and a coffee and still manage to open doors for you without missing a beat. Efficient. Reliable. Strong.

But tonight—bare, relaxed, just resting on his thigh—they looked different.

They looked like trouble.

“You keep staring,” he murmured, breaking the silence. There was no tease in his voice this time. Just quiet observation.

You blinked, caught. “Sorry,” you said, though you didn’t look away.

He didn’t move either. Didn’t hide them. Just let you look.

Blame it on the wine. Blame it on the robe. Blame it on the goddamn honeymoon suite and the way his thigh flexed every time he shifted.

You tipped your head slightly, swirling your wine again. “Can I ask you something I wouldn’t normally ask?”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “That’s what we’ve been doing, isn’t it?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, then let the words slip, soft but deliberate.

“What else do you use your hands for, Changbin?”

The room went still.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. He didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t brush it aside. Just let the question hang in the charged air between you.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, not smug—curious.

“Is that a real question?” he asked, voice just a little deeper now. “Or are you fishing?”

You shrugged, playing coy. “Maybe I’m just trying to see if you’ll answer.”

He looked down at his hand, then flexed his fingers like he was considering their résumé. “I guess it depends,” he said, tone still light but eyes heavy. “Do you want the PG version or the one that might ruin our work relationship forever?”

You felt your breath catch. Just for a second.

Then you smiled—something slow and unhurried. “I think you already know which one I want.”

He studied you like you’d just shifted into someone he hadn’t met before. Not in a bad way. In a what else have I been missing? way.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t close the space. His voice stayed calm, cool.

“You sure you’re ready for that answer?”

“Are you?” you asked back, matching his energy perfectly.

Another beat of silence stretched—this one taut.

And then, finally, he leaned back against the headboard again, robe falling open just a little more at the chest. “Maybe you’ll have to ask again when the bottle’s empty.”

A challenge.

A dare.

And it tasted better than the wine.

It was him who poured the next glass. He didn’t ask. Just reached over and filled yours before topping off his own, eyes flicking up to meet yours while he did it. You watched the dark red swirl in his glass as he leaned back again, lips already parted like he was waiting for your next move.

“Your turn,” he said, voice like warm velvet. “You asked about my hands. I get to ask about your mouth.”

You raised an eyebrow, smile tugging at your lips. “That wasn’t the rule.”

“It is now.”

You let your teeth graze your bottom lip, then sat up straighter, tugging your robe just a little tighter—like it could hold in all the heat threatening to spill over.

“Well,” you started slowly, tipping your glass toward your lips, “My mouth… talks too much.”

He nodded, playing along. “I’ve noticed.”

“It gets me into trouble.”

“I believe that.”

You paused, gaze sliding down his chest and back up again. “And sometimes, when the moment’s right, it makes very bad decisions.”

There it was again—that flicker of something dark in his eyes. His knuckles brushed his jaw as he stared at you, thumb dragging lightly across his bottom lip.

“Define ‘bad,’” he said.

You pretended to think. “Kissing someone I’m not supposed to.”

“Who says you’re not supposed to?”

You cocked your head. “I don’t kiss my coworkers.”

“Not even your work husband?”

You laughed—light and quick, like the sound could make the tension less thick. It didn’t.

“I especially don’t kiss my work husband.”

He let the silence settle again. Let it stretch, let it breathe.

“Shame,” he finally murmured, so quiet you barely heard it over your own pulse. “I’ve always wondered.”

Your throat went dry. The wine wasn’t helping anymore. You set your glass down, fingers lingering on the stem.

“My turn,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What else do you think my mouth could do?”

You asked it sweetly. Too sweetly.

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, it came in a slow exhale. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might tell you.”

And you knew—you knew—if you asked again, this night wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to.

But wasn’t that the point?

⸻

The bottle was nearly empty now—just enough for one more glass, but neither of you reached for it. It wasn’t the wine anymore. It was him. The way he leaned, one elbow hooked over the back of the couch, robe falling open just enough to tease the curve of his chest, the ripple of muscle along his arm. You kept pretending you weren’t looking. He wasn’t pretending anymore.

“I’ve got another one,” he said, voice lower now, like he was scared the walls might hear. “You ever think about someone at work when you’re… alone?”

You blinked slowly, a breath catching in your throat.

He gave you that smile—that one. Lazy and slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You don’t have to answer. But I think I already know.”

You stared at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. The robe was sliding from your shoulder and you let it, warmth blooming beneath his gaze when his eyes dropped—slow, like he was memorizing the skin there.

“What gave me away?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he wasn’t supposed to ask.

“You talk about me like I’m a safe space,” he said. “But you look at me like you’re dying to be unsafe.”

Oh.

You didn’t have a comeback for that.

Instead, you let the silence hold, the tension hum and twist and pull tighter between you, wrapping around your neck like silk.

“Your turn,” he added, voice now a rasp.

You wet your lips, eyes locked to the soft plush of his mouth, your thoughts nowhere innocent.

“Do you ever…” You hesitated. “Touch yourself to the thought of someone you shouldn’t?”

His jaw flexed. His hand shifted on his thigh—big hand, strong, veins trailing up thick forearms like a map of your current obsession.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Once or twice.”

“Just once or twice?”

He grinned. “More if I’m being honest.”

You swallowed hard. “Someone from work?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Your thighs clenched under your robe. You shifted just slightly, trying to ignore the ache building there. You shouldn’t be asking this. Shouldn’t be feeling this. But God, you were. Every look, every word, every pause between them—it was dragging you deeper.

“I like your hands,” you said softly. “They’re big.”

His eyebrow ticked up. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Bet they’re good at a lot of things.”

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, the space between you closing like a whisper. The scent of wine and hotel soap and something him filled your head.

“You have no idea.”

Your breath hitched. “Then tell me.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached out—slow, deliberate—and tucked your robe back over your shoulder, fingertips grazing your collarbone like he was giving you a warning.

Or a promise.

The touch barely lasted a second. But your skin burned for minutes after.

He didn’t answer you with words.

Just leaned back on the couch, his eyes locked to yours, like he was reading your pulse through your throat. You were holding your breath, thighs clenching beneath the soft fabric of your robe, fingers twitching where they rested on the cushion between you.

“I can show you,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate.

Then he reached out—big, sure hands gripping just under your knees—and pulled.

You gasped as your body slid toward him, robe parting with the motion, baring the soft skin of your thighs, your breath catching as you ended up half in his lap, one leg thrown over his. His hand settled there, fingers splayed wide against your thigh. The heat of his touch seared into your skin, slow and possessive, like he was claiming the right to touch you just because you let him.

You were still holding your robe closed at your chest, but the loose tie was slipping, barely hanging on.

“Changbin…”

His hand moved higher, fingers gliding up your thigh beneath the robe, until he was brushing where your inner thighs met, close enough to feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of your panties. Your hips bucked, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

“I knew you were soft,” he whispered, mouth close enough to your ear to make your skin shiver. “But I didn’t think you’d let me feel you like this.”

You tilted your head, lips parting. “Would you stop if I said no?”

His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and fuck, he was hard. So hard it almost scared you.

Almost.

“No,” he said, rough and honest.

And then his fingers slid further, pushing past the edge of your panties, slow, slow, until they dipped between your folds. You were wet—ridiculously so—and the groan that ripped from his throat made your whole body tremble.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re soaked.”

You clutched at his shoulder, nails digging into thick muscle. “You did that.”

“I know.” He looked smug. Devastating.

Then his fingers moved—two of them rubbing slow circles right over your clit, while his other hand kept you anchored in his lap like he was never letting you go. Your robe fell further open, your chest heaving, your mind slipping.

It should’ve been impossible to feel so exposed and so safe at the same time.

But that was the problem with Changbin—he was always your soft place to land.

Until now.

Now he was the one making you fall.

—

You should have stopped him.

You should have at least said something—drawn a line, made a joke, laughed off the tension and blamed the wine. But his fingers were already moving between your legs like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting for this longer than he was willing to admit.

And maybe… so had you.

You opened your eyes—when did they even close?—and found him already watching you, gaze pinned to your face like he was memorizing every twitch, every gasp, every shiver.

“Keep looking at me,” he murmured, voice thick and dark, like it curled out from the pit of his chest. “I wanna see what it does to you.”

You did.

You couldn’t look away, not with the way his fingers slipped down—deeper—before pressing up inside you with careful, measured pressure. You clenched around them immediately, a choked sound escaping your lips as your hips rolled down into his palm.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hands gripping the robe at your chest, holding it closed like that could protect you from the way he was pulling you apart.

“You’re not hiding anything from me,” he said, dragging his thumb right across your clit as he pumped his fingers inside you. “Not anymore.”

Your mouth dropped open, a moan barely catching in your throat. He didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Every movement was precise, deliberate, deep—like he was learning you, claiming you, devouring you with nothing but his hand and that look in his eyes.

The robe slipped from one shoulder, the tie loosening completely. You felt it fall open, heat licking up your chest as your breasts bared to the warm air between you.

Changbin looked down.

Then back up at your face.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

The softness in his voice broke you. The wave of pleasure hit harder, thighs trembling as you ground helplessly against his palm. You gasped, full-body shuddering, your legs twitching as you came undone under his hands—his perfect, thick, merciless hands.

He didn’t stop right away. He let you ride it out, watched every second of it like it was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

And then, finally, when you collapsed forward against his chest, panting, dizzy, heart racing—he held you there. One big hand resting on your back, the other sliding out from between your legs, slow and slick with you.

You lifted your head.

He brought his fingers to his mouth.

And sucked them clean.

You moaned, helplessly, mouth falling open as your entire body lit up again.

“I think you were about to tell me what else that mouth can do,” he said, lips wet, voice low and dangerous.

You bit your lip, dizzy and brave and aching for more. “If I show you, you better not hold back.”

His eyes flared.

“Then get on your knees.”

You didn’t move right away.

You stayed right there in his lap, your bare chest brushing his robe, your breath mingling with his—cheeks flushed, lips parted, his fingers still glistening where he’d tasted you. His command hung in the air like thick smoke. Get on your knees.

But you weren’t done taking control.

So instead, you cupped his jaw with both hands and pulled him into you.

The first kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy or slow or hesitant. It was hungry—all tongue and teeth and gasping mouths, the kind of kiss that knocked the breath from both of you. His hands gripped your waist hard, pulling you down tighter against the bulge pressing thick and hot beneath his loosened robe.

He groaned into your mouth.

“You’ve been holding that in, huh?” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, lips swollen from the heat.

“So have you,” he growled, and kissed you again—slower this time, like he was savoring it, like he never wanted to stop.

But you did.

Because now it was your turn.

You pulled away with a smirk, slipping off his lap and lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs. The robe around his waist had already parted just enough to tempt you, revealing his thighs—thick and muscular, tanned and gorgeous—and the heavy shape of his cock beneath the last thin layer of fabric.

Your fingers traced along his legs first. Just to feel. Just to watch him twitch and tense as your nails dragged along muscle and skin.

Then your hands went to his robe.

You parted it slowly.

And there he was—thick, heavy, flushed, and fully hard, resting against his stomach like he was built to be worshipped.

Your mouth watered.

“Oh my God, Changbin…”

He smirked, cocky and breathless, one hand curled into the edge of the couch, the other sliding through your hair.

“You gonna keep staring?” he said, voice rough. “Or are you gonna show me what else your mouth can do?”

You looked up at him through your lashes.

And leaned in.

The first kiss was to the base—soft and slow. Then your tongue dragged up the side of him, long and wet and filthy, until your lips wrapped around the head and you gave him just a taste of what was to come.

He moaned—loud, guttural, wrecked—as his hips bucked up and his fingers tightened in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch like he was trying to stay tethered to this plane of reality. You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, your lips stretched wide around his cock, the wet sounds echoing obscenely off the marble and glass of the suite.

“Fuck,” he groaned, thighs trembling under your palms. “You’re gonna make me come—”

You looked up at him with a glint in your eye, slow and teasing as your tongue flicked over the swollen head.

He growled.

“Shit—shit, babe, stop—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But you didn’t stop.

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, until his voice cracked into a moan that was so wrecked, so desperate, it made your thighs clench in response.

And then he broke.

With a low, dangerous groan, he yanked you off of him—your lips wet and swollen, breath coming in short gasps—and pulled you up onto your feet.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered, voice rough, pupils blown.

You opened your mouth to tease him again, but he spun you around before you could speak.

His hands slid under your robe, parting the fabric, exposing the bare curve of your ass.

“Changbin—” you gasped, but your voice hitched when he bent you forward over the back of the couch, your cheek pressed to the soft fabric, your breath catching.

“Been dying to know what you feel like,” he muttered, his chest pressing to your back, cock hard against your thigh. “You want this?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, already aching for him.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m done playing nice.”

He dragged the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds—teasing, even now—but his hands gripped your hips like a man on the edge.

And then, in one deep, slow thrust—

He filled you.

You gasped—moaned—arching back into him as he bottomed out, thick and perfect and so deep it left you trembling.

“Oh my God, Changbin—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice low and primal. “Feel me, babe. Take every inch.”

And then he moved—slow at first, letting you adjust, dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, each thrust harder than the last. You clung to the couch, the sound of skin meeting skin, of your moans tangled with his, echoing loud in the suite.

“Could’ve fucked you in that damn robe,” he growled, his hand slipping around to toy with your clit, “but you wanted to get on your knees and ruin me first, huh?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a whimper—broken, breathless, begging for more.

And baby?

He gave it to you.

Your moans were unraveling now—high, helpless, and shameless—as Changbin’s thrusts rocked you forward, your robe long forgotten, his cock stretching you wide from behind. He was relentless, chest heaving, sweat beading at his temple, muscles flexing as he pistoned his hips into you.

But then he paused—deep inside you, breath ragged—and his hands slipped lower, gripping your thighs.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted you like you weighed nothing, muscles straining deliciously under your gaze as he carried you to the bed. You clutched at his shoulders, drunk on him, on the raw strength of him.

He laid you down gently—like you were precious—before dragging your legs apart, kneeling between them, cock glistening with your slick.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “So fucking pretty. Open. Dripping. All for me.”

He didn’t wait.

He plunged back in with a growl—slow, deep, delicious—his gaze locked to yours like he wanted to watch every flicker of pleasure cross your face.

You cried out, hands flying to his arms, nails digging into thick, corded muscle as he started to fuck you again, steady and purposeful, hips grinding into yours like he owned your body.

“Taking me so well,” he breathed, one hand trailing up your stomach to squeeze your tits, thumb rolling over your nipple as his other arm slipped under your waist to hold you steady. “You were made for this—for me.”

You whimpered, back arching, the coil in your belly tightening.

“Bet you’ve thought about this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “About what these hands could do to you. About how good I’d fuck you.”

You whimpered a “yes,” eyes glassy.

He smirked—dark, devastating—and slammed into you harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say what this cock does to you.”

“It—It ruins me,” you gasped. “Changbin, fuck—you’re ruining me.”

“That’s right,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “Look at you. Moaning under me, tits bouncing, eyes rolling back. Just a desperate little thing who loves getting split open by her fucking work husband.”

You cried out—louder now—hips lifting to meet every thrust, dizzy with the stretch, the heat, the filth in his voice.

He reached between you again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, dirty circles as he fucked you into the mattress.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped. “Wanna feel you come around my cock. Wanna watch you fall apart while I’m buried so fucking deep inside you.”

You were close—so close—knees trembling, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. And still, he didn’t let up.

“Please, Changbin—fuck—don’t stop—don’t ever stop,” you gasped, legs trembling around his hips, your voice cracked and soaked in desperation.

And god, the way he looked at you—like you were his favorite sin—his most addicting addiction. His fingers rubbed faster, his hips rolled deeper, until your entire body was locking up beneath him.

“Yeah?” he rasped, dark eyes drinking in every twitch and whimper. “You wanna come for me? Make a mess all over my cock, baby? Do it—come on. Be my filthy little girl.”

That was it.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave—sharp and consuming—ripping through your body in shuddering waves. You screamed his name as your body seized and your vision blurred, hips jerking up uncontrollably—

—and then it happened.

Your muscles clenched and released and the gush of liquid burst free, soaking his cock, his thighs, the sheets. You tried to stifle the cry of embarrassment, but Changbin froze, cock twitching inside you as his jaw dropped.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hissed, pulling out to watch your release drip down your thighs. “You just fucking squirted for me?”

You whimpered, face flushed, barely able to catch your breath.

“Holy shit,” he growled, eyes wild now. “You’re insane—you’re fucking perfect.”

And then he was on you again, kissing you hard, tasting your whimpers, before pulling back with a ragged breath and gripping your jaw.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, voice thick with lust. “Let me finish in that sweet fucking mouth of yours.”

You obeyed, lips parting, tongue out—and he groaned, cock twitching at the sight of you so willing, so ruined and ready to be filled.

He knelt over you, pumping his cock fast and desperate, eyes locked to your face.

“Look at you—fuck—mouth open, tits bouncing, all wrecked and dripping for me. Gonna shoot it all down your throat, baby. Gonna fill you up like you deserve—ah, fuck—”

And then he came.

Hard.

Thick, hot spurts painting your tongue, your lips, some hitting your cheek as he moaned your name like a prayer. You swallowed it down greedily, humming as his body shook from the force of it, hand still in your hair.

When he finally stopped, chest heaving, he looked down at you—licking his release off your lips—and let out a low, devastated sound.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, collapsing beside you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

⸻

You didn’t even realize how quiet the room had gotten until the only sound left was your heartbeat, still pounding in your ears. Your body felt like it was floating, boneless and warm, draped across tangled sheets and a man who had just made you forget your name.

Changbin.

His arms were already around you, strong and solid, like they’d always known how to hold you after wrecking you that good. His fingertips traced lazy shapes across your spine, dragging goosebumps over your skin with every stroke.

“You okay?” he murmured against your forehead, voice thick with exhaustion and a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Mmm,” you hummed, barely able to lift your head, “I think you broke me.”

He chuckled, deep and raspy, and kissed your temple. “Nah. You’re unbreakable, remember?”

You smiled softly, letting your fingers trail along his chest—slick with sweat, firm with muscle. The kind of body that should be framed in a museum. Or worshipped. Which, you did. Very well, if the dazed look in his eyes was anything to go by.

He shifted, pulling the covers over you both, then tucked you closer like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of you too far. His hand rubbed your hip, soothing and possessive.

Then came his voice—quiet, laced with affection and mischief.

“Normally…” he began, brushing a kiss to your hairline, “I’d take you out on a date first before fucking you into a mattress.”

You laughed softly, nuzzling into his chest.

“But,” he continued, smiling now, “I guess we can reverse the order… There’s that place you mentioned earlier—the popular restaurant with the fancy drinks and overpriced desserts?”

Your breath caught, warmth blooming in your chest. You lifted your head, eyes meeting his.

“Are you asking me out?”

He smirked, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “I’m saying tomorrow night, I’m gonna show up like a gentleman. Pull out your chair, get you dessert, and pretend I didn’t already have you on your knees in a hotel suite.”

You grinned, heart pounding for an entirely new reason now. “Smooth.”

“I try.” He kissed you again, slower this time. Softer. Sweeter. Like he was sealing a promise.

And in that moment, wrapped up in hotel sheets and each other, you both knew—this wasn’t just a work trip anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: so i watched the YouTube video with Changbin and the noona from 2nd gen and there was just something about the way changbin was laidback and holding a conversation that got me thinking ❤️

I hope you enjoyed this, many of you dont like to read Binnie but i promise his fics are hot! So dont forget to like, comment (love those) and reblog!!! I’ll drop the link to my masterlist below☀️🐷🐰

Masterlist

[sunnyhonie]

[sunnyhonie]

This mother fucker…

[boyfiechan-deactivated20250720]

[21 Questions]

...or the one where your hot one-night stand gets trapped inside with you during a storm.

Notes: Romantic comedy brainrot meets “what if your one-night stand accidentally had boyfriend energy” vibes but dirty, I guess? Pretty much porn that pretends to have a plot. Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, face riding, dry humping, dirty talk, question-based escalation, creampie. [8.1k words]

The rain is already loud when you wake up, but it’s the thunder that makes you sit up too fast—your body protesting with a dull ache and a rush of confusion and for a moment, you forget where you are, blinking against the soft light that filters through pale curtains stirred by wind. Then you remember the man lying next to you. The one with the tousled brown hair and the silver chain still clinging to his throat, half-buried beneath the white sheet he’d stolen most of in the night. Chris. His name floats up through the haze of sleep and lingering heat and half-faded memory, the syllables settling heavy in your chest and you’d meant for last night to be a clean break, something fleeting, something fun—but now it’s morning and the world outside is a mess of lightning and rising water and all exits, apparently, are blocked.

You shift carefully, pulling the sheet with you like it might shield you from the awkwardness of waking up next to someone you barely know, but Chris doesn’t look awkward at all. He looks like he belongs there, face still soft with sleep, lips parted just slightly like he’s caught in a dream he doesn’t want to leave, his hair is a disaster and his arm is slung over your pillow like he’d meant to hold you and missed. And maybe you’re still drunk on the way he’d touched you last night—like he already knew how you wanted to be handled, like he’d been reading your mind with every slow drag of his mouth over your skin, but now the tension is different, the air is heavy with the storm and something else you can’t quite name. Something not-so-temporary.

Chris groans softly when the thunder cracks again, brow creasing as he stretches, and you get a front row seat to the slow reveal of muscle and skin and that faint trail of ink on his ribs. He blinks up at you, eyes half-lidded and pretty brown in the gray light. What time is it? he asks, rough and warm and entirely too familiar for someone you just met. You shrug, reaching for your phone with fingers that are still trembling a little, not from fear, just the residual adrenaline of being alone in a house with a man who kissed you like he could rewrite your whole damn story if you let him. Does it matter? you murmur, holding up the screen. Storm’s not letting up. Roads are flooded. There’s a beat of silence, then Chris hums like it’s not the worst news he’s ever heard. Guess I’m staying for breakfast.

And it should be awkward, it should be that fumbling, clothes-on-backwards, this was fun kind of goodbye you’d practiced in your head but instead, Chris rolls out of bed like it’s his own room, scratching the back of his neck and scanning the floor for his shirt with a sleepy smirk. You got anything edible? Or are we on a strictly coffee-and-regret diet this morning? he asks, and you laugh, the sound surprising even you. There’s eggs. Maybe toast if the bread survived the humidity. You’re already pulling on one of your old t-shirts—something oversized and faded and absolutely not cute, but Chris gives you this once-over that makes you feel like you’re in silk as he follows you into the kitchen barefoot, steps quiet, and there’s still a weight to him that makes the room feel fuller somehow, like his presence bends the space around him just a little.

You move around each other clumsily at first, two strangers pretending you haven’t already seen each other naked, but it settles quickly into something easy, comfortable. You hand him a pan without thinking, and he flips it in one hand like he’s done this a hundred times. So what do you do, he asks, cracking eggs like a professional, when you’re not picking up mysterious men at bars and rescuing them from natural disasters? You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but your smile betrays you. I’m an illustrator, you admit. Freelance. Mostly book covers and concept stuff. He raises a brow, looking impressed. That explains the art on your walls. I thought you were just trying to seem deep. You bump your hip into his and he laughs—really laughs, head thrown back for a second, the sound warm enough to cut through the storm still howling outside.

Breakfast takes longer than it should, between the burnt toast and the failed attempt at pancakes and the way Chris keeps trying to juggle eggs when he thinks you’re not looking, the kitchen becomes a little world of its own—bright with laughter and low teasing and the kind of unspoken intimacy that feels like it’s been there longer than a single night. He sits at the table while you pour the coffee, fingers drumming on the wood like he can’t quite sit still. You know, he says, eyeing you over the rim of his mug, I was supposed to fly out today. Back to Seoul. Meetings, rehearsals. All that glamorous idol life crap. You glance out the window, as rain streaks down the glass in frantic patterns, wind battering the trees sideways. Storm says no, you offer, and he grins, like that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

You end up on the couch, legs tangled under a shared blanket, the empty plates abandoned somewhere behind you. The power flickers once, twice, and then holds and at some point, Chris had ducked into the other room to make a quiet call—checking on someone, just to make sure they were safe in the storm. It shouldn’t have surprised you, but it still made something in your chest ache a little and now, as he shifts beside you, arm grazing yours, it’s quieter—the kind of quiet that feels like waiting, like choosing. He doesn’t push, doesn’t lean in, but when he looks at you it’s soft and curious and a little cautious, like he’s wondering what this could be if it wasn’t just a one-night stand and a thunderstorm, and you don’t know either. But you like the way he watches the lightning like it’s a show, the way he turns toward you with that slow smile that’s more promise than performance. You don’t know if the roads will be clear tomorrow, yu don’t know if this will last past the rain but for now, there’s warmth, and coffee, and a very content Chris beside you like he’s meant to stay.

He eats like someone who hasn’t had a real meal in days, half-sleepy and quietly appreciative, the kind of silence that says more than any compliment could. Every so often he hums, low and pleased, like even the mediocre toast is some kind of hidden delicacy. I think... he mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, this might be the best breakfast I’ve had all year. You glance at him, one brow raised. That’s a low bar. He shrugs, grinning around his coffee mug. Yeah, well, my standards are shot. I live off protein bars and takeout most days. He says it casually, like it’s a joke, but something in his eyes dims around the edges and you file that away somewhere quiet in your chest.

Then he sniffs at the mug and makes a face, setting it down with a quiet sigh. Full disclosure? I don’t even like coffee. You blink at him, mid-bite. Then why drink it? He shrugs, sheepish and a little guilty, like a kid caught faking his homework. Felt like the kind of morning where I should be holding something warm. Thought maybe it’d make me look normal. He hesitates, then adds, Tea’s not any better, by the way. Tastes like regret. You laugh and offer, There’s juice in the fridge, but he just shoots you a slow smile and leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving yours. Think I’ve had enough sweet stuff for one morning, and the line hangs there between you, light but deliberate, and when you arch a brow, he doesn’t take it back, just lifts his mug again like he didn’t say anything at all, even though you’re both still smiling into the silence.

The wind picks up again, another sharp gust rattling the windows, and the lights flicker like they’re considering betraying you. You look over your shoulder, half-expecting a blackout, but they steady as Chris catches your gaze, leaning forward on his elbows, bare forearms braced against the table. Scared? he teases, but it’s soft, more curious than mocking. Of the storm? you ask, tipping your head. Not really. I like it. Makes everything feel... slower. Like the world’s taking a breath. Chris watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful in the way his eyes trace over your face like he’s committing it to memory. That’s a nice way to put it, he murmurs. I think I forget how to slow down.

You end up back on the couch with two mugs of reheated coffee and a blanket that still smells faintly like clean laundry and the detergent your mom insists on mailing you in bulk as he lets you pick the movie, something old and a little ridiculous, more comfort than content, and by the time the opening credits roll, he’s already slid a little closer, his thigh pressed lightly against yours beneath the blanket. I haven’t watched a movie on an actual home couch in months, he admits, almost sheepish. Hotel beds don’t count. Too sterile, always feels like I’m trespassing. You look at him, really look, and for all the easy smiles and casual confidence, there’s something in the way he curls slightly inward, like he’s still waiting to be asked to leave.

So… what’s it like? you ask, tilting your head against the back cushion. Being you. Idol life. Cameras. Fans. Endless protein bars. He laughs, but it’s quieter now. It’s loud, he says after a pause. Even when it’s quiet. There’s always something. A performance, a deadline, someone waiting for you to screw up so they can clip it and post it out of context. His voice is calm, but you feel the weight of it, heavy and real between you. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. Music saved me, still does. But sometimes it feels like I forget who I am when the lights go off.

You nudge his knee with yours. And who are you right now? He glances at you, then away, like he’s not used to being seen like this—barefoot on someone else’s couch, coffee he doesn't even pretent to drink anymore in hand, weathered by rain and time and the strange intimacy of survival. Right now? he echoes, a little surprised. I’m… just Chris. I think. His mouth twitches, like he’s almost amused by the sound of his own name out loud in that context. Not Bang Chan, not leader, not hyung. Just… a guy who ate eggs in someone’s kitchen. You nod like that’s enough. Like it means more than it should. Well, you say, lifting your mug in a mock toast, cheers to Just Chris.

He bumps his mug against yours, eyes warm with something that looks a lot like gratitude as the movie plays on in the background, half-forgotten, and you both settle into the kind of silence that isn’t awkward—it’s tentative, sure, but there’s an unspoken agreement not to break the spell just yet. His arm ends up behind you on the backrest, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the quiet hum of presence that anchors you in place and when your shoulders brush, neither of you pulls away.

You know, he says eventually, eyes still on the screen, I didn’t expect to like you this much. You blink, caught off guard by the blunt honesty. I mean, he adds quickly, the tips of his ears slighly pink, not that I thought I wouldn’t like you. But last night… it wasn’t supposed to turn into this. He gestures vaguely, encompassing the coffee, the couch, the storm still raging outside like a protective barrier between this moment and the rest of the world. It was just supposed to be one night. A good distraction. You swallow, unsure whether to laugh or let the weight of it settle. Yeah, you say. Me too.

But the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re not just a chapter break but maybe a plot twist—it makes something shift in your chest. Something dangerous and soft and utterly unplanned. So what happens, you ask quietly, if the storm doesn’t let up? He smirks, eyes flicking toward the window before turning back to you. Guess we'll keep distracting each other, he says, and his hand finally brushes yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling slightly like a question, and you don’t hesitate when you answer. You let him.

The movie drifts on in the background—some half-forgotten rom-com playing at half volume, all overly dramatic meet-cutes and orchestral swells that feel far too on-the-nose given the weight in the air, and the storm hasn’t eased. If anything, the wind howls louder now, rattling through the eaves of the house like it’s trying to crawl inside, but you’re warm, not just because of the blanket or the coffee or the body beside you—but because something is building. Slowly, unspoken, the kind of tension that hums under the skin like an electrical current, soft but insistent, curling into the spaces between breath and glance and word.

Chris shifts beside you, his arm still draped casually along the back of the couch, but you can feel the subtle change in his posture, how he’s turned slightly more toward you, how his knee now presses firmly into yours instead of just brushing. His fingers are close enough to yours that you can feel the heat from them, the faint tremble of restraint in the way he hasn’t closed that last inch of distance as you risk a glance, and he’s already watching you—not smiling, not teasing, just looking, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing again. Like he’s debating something he already knows the answer to.

You’re kind of hard to read, you know that? you murmur, letting your voice drop just a little, the edge of a smile curling at your lips. His brow lifts, intrigued. Yeah? Most people say I’m too easy to read. His voice is quieter now too, dipping into something husky, a little rough. Too open. You tilt your head, feigning thought. No… you give people just enough to make them think they’ve got you figured out. You feel bold now, watching his expression shift—curious, then interested, then something more primal flickering just under the surface. But there’s always something you’re holding back.

He leans in a fraction, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheek, and when he speaks again it’s low and deliberate. What do you think I’m holding back? And you want to be coy, want to toss back some flirty quip and pretend like your heart isn’t beating faster with every syllable that falls from his mouth—but the air between you is too heavy now, charged with something that feels inevitable as you shift to face him more fully, knees drawn up beneath the blanket, and he mirrors you, his hand finally brushing yours beneath the fabric—just a soft drag of knuckles, but it’s enough to send a little shock up your spine.

I think you want to touch me again, you whisper, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. But you’re trying to be good. Chris huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it—just tension, tightly wound and dangerously close to snapping. Yeah, he says, voice rougher now, throat working as he swallows. I’ve been trying real hard not to. And that admission, that little crack in his carefully controlled exterior, does something to you. You shift closer, just slightly, enough that your knees press between his, enough that the blanket slips a little off your shoulder and his eyes follow the movement like he’s been starving.

But you’re not that good, are you? you tease, soft and breathy, like you’re testing the line just to see if he’ll cross it. And then his hand is on your thigh beneath the blanket—slow and deliberate, fingers curling against bare skin where your oversized t-shirt rides up, he doesn’t rush, just drags his palm upward with agonizing patience, his eyes never leaving yours. Not even close, he says, and it’s more confession than warning. You shift into his touch, lips parting on a quiet breath, and the way he looks at you now it’s like the storm has moved inside the room, all pressure and heat and the dangerous thrill of surrender.

Still, he waits. That last sliver of distance remains, his lips close but not touching, his fingers warm but not daring yet, you can see it in his eyes—the way he’s giving you the choice, the way he’s already halfway gone if you want to meet him there and something about that restraint, that aching pause, makes your skin burn. Come here, you whisper, and that’s all it takes.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it back all morning, all night, maybe longer, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t do it now, he might never get to again, his hand slides up further, anchoring at your waist, pulling you into his lap with a fluid kind of urgency that still manages to feel careful. His lips are warm, a little chapped, but he moves like he knows exactly what you need, tongue teasing at the seam of your mouth until you let him in, until the taste of him floods your senses and you forget everything else. Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groans softly against your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your whole body.

The blanket falls away, and the storm outside rages louder but inside, the world narrows to the press of his body against yours, the slow grind of hips, the heat rising fast and thick between you like it’s trying to suffocate the space where words used to live. You don’t know where this is going, don’t know what happens after the rain. But you know how he kisses, you know the way his hand slides up the back of your shirt with reverence and hunger, how he breathes your name like a promise he hasn’t figured out how to keep yet. And right now, that’s enough.

His mouth breaks from yours with a reluctant drag, breath heavy against your cheek as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. The storm batters the world outside, wind clawing at the glass, but here, on this couch, wrapped in each other and the remnants of a morning that wasn't supposed to last, everything feels slow, thick with a new kind of tension. His hand has slipped beneath your shirt now, not urgent, but reverent, fingers tracing up your spine in slow, deliberate lines that make you shiver, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, but he stops there, teasing, waiting.

You know… he murmurs against your neck, punctuating the words with a lazy kiss just below your ear, ...we barely know anything about each other. You huff a breath that could almost be a laugh, tipping your head back to give him more access. Funny time to bring that up. His teeth graze your throat, the gentlest bite, and he smirks when you gasp. Just trying to be a gentleman, he says, all faux innocence while his other hand slides up the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles where your skin is most sensitive. Maybe we should get to know each other first. You know, before we really do this.

You glance down at him, raising a brow even as your hips shift against his lap, finding the heat of him through thin layers of cotton. What, you want to play 20 Questions while you’ve got your hand up my shirt? His eyes glitter with mischief. Twenty-one. Gotta keep it spicy. You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips as you settle more fully against him, legs straddling his hips now, thighs bracketing his as the blanket slips off entirely. Fine, you say, voice a little breathless as his hands find their way to your waist, thumbs dragging slow along your ribs. But I go first. He leans back slightly, arms resting along the couch, a picture of casual sin. Hit me.

What’s your biggest red flag? you ask, grinning as you slowly grind down just enough to watch his expression falter and Chris groans, head tipping back briefly before he looks at you from beneath heavy lashes. You’re evil. You just shrug, hips rocking against him, slow and tempting. Answer the question.

He exhales a laugh that curls low in his chest, fingers tightening at your waist. Okay… red flag? His tongue flicks across his bottom lip as he thinks, and your eyes follow the motion helplessly. I work too much. Like… too much. I disappear into it sometimes. Not great for relationships. There’s honesty in it, even as he slides one hand back under your shirt, thumb grazing the curve of your breast again, still not touching you fully, just circling around it like he’s trying to drive you crazy. Your turn. You shift, barely resisting the urge to lean into his hand. Hmm… what’s your question?

Chris hums, considering. Biggest turn-on.

You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him twitch before you answer, Confidence. Teasing. Someone who can make me laugh and lose my mind. You roll your hips again, slow and purposeful, and he curses under his breath. Your turn, he growls, hands sliding lower now, gripping your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. Better make it a good one.

What do you think I taste like? you whisper it near his ear, just to watch him shudder. His hands still on your body, eyes snapping to yours, suddenly darker as he swallows hard, fingers digging in just a bit. You want the honest answer? he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. Obviously.

Chris leans in, lips brushing yours without kissing, like he’s tasting the air between you. Like trouble. Like something I shouldn’t get addicted to but already am. His hand drags back up your thigh, higher now, brushing between your legs over your underwear, just enough pressure to make you gasp, but still maddeningly light. Like heaven with a little hell in it.

You clench your hands in the fabric of his shirt, breath catching as he rocks up against you, heat meeting heat through frustrating layers. Fuck, you whisper, hips stuttering. That’s not fair. He smirks again. I said I was bad at being good. You dip your head to his neck, biting lightly at the skin just below his jaw as you murmur, Then stop pretending and show me just how bad you can be. But Chris just chuckles, fingers hooking under the waistband of your underwear before he stops again, teasing, waiting, torturing. Only if you answer the next one.

You groan. You’re the worst. He grins. Next question. What are you most afraid of right now?

And it’s unfair, how he can drop that kind of weight right when his fingers are slipping beneath your panties, how he can make you feel completely exposed even before he touches you properly as you blink, breathless, caught in the twist of sensation and honesty. Getting too close, you admit quietly. Wanting more than I should. He stills, his hand resting gently between your thighs now, no pressure, just presence as his gaze softens, searching your face like he’s looking for something hidden beneath all your teasing. Me too, he says. And then—finally, finally—his fingers move with purpose, and you stop thinking altogether.

His fingers move with an ease that makes you curse your own memory, like your body already remembers him, already trusts the rhythm, the pressure, the subtle curl of his touch. He’s slow with it, maddeningly so, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slick just to feel how wet you are before he even really does anything. Jesus, he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes dropping to where you’re straddled in his lap, shirt rumpled, underwear pushed aside, heat pressed tight to the bulge in his sweatpants. And you’re telling me we’re just getting to know each other? You roll your hips down against his hand and smirk. Exactly. I’m an open book, remember? But your voice catches at the end when one of his fingers slides inside you, slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours as you clench around him with a broken little sound you wish you could play off as cooler than it is. Chris just grins, lazy and pleased, like he’s won something. Sure you are, sweetheart.

And then he fucking pauses again.

Just holds there, buried in you up to the knuckle like he’s content to keep you right on the edge of madness as you glare at him, lips parted, already shifting your hips for friction, but his free hand comes up to steady you at the waist. Nuh-uh, he warns, teasing. You’re the one who agreed to twenty-one questions. You’re not getting out of it just because your legs are shaking. You blink at him, somewhere between aroused and outraged. Are you seriously going to edge me over a quiz game?

Chris has the audacity to laugh, pressing another finger inside you with a slow, cruel twist that makes you forget what planet you’re on for a second. That’s question twenty-two, he says, voice all wicked sweetness. But I’ll allow it. You swear under your breath, grinding down again because two can play at this game. Fine, you bite out. Truth or dare. He raises a brow, interested. We’re switching formats?

Answer it. Chris smirks, lips dragging over your jaw as he pumps his fingers in a slow rhythm that’s almost enough, but not quite. Truth. You narrow your eyes at him. Who’s your embarrassing celebrity crush?

He laughs, really laughs, breathless and boyish and warm in a way that makes your chest ache through the haze of want. Jesus, okay, he says, eyes scrunched, still slowly fucking you with the kind of patience that feels like punishment. This is going to haunt me, but… it’s the girl from Scooby-Doo. The live-action one. Velma. You blink at him. You mean Linda Cardellini? He groans. Yes. The sweater, the glasses, the sass—don’t judge me. You’re laughing too hard to speak for a second, which becomes very inconvenient when his thumb brushes against your clit in a lazy circle that makes your laugh crack into a moan. Okay, you breathe. That’s fair. Honestly? Valid.

He leans in like he’s about to kiss you, but instead he whispers, Your turn, and curls his fingers just right, making your hips jolt forward against his palm. Would you rather, he says, clearly enjoying your ruined expression, have sex in a public place and get caught, or accidentally send your mom a sext? You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a wheeze. Oh my God, what kind of demon are you? He just grins, smug. Answer carefully. You’re half-laughing, half-dying as you try to think through the haze of building pressure between your legs, his thumb not letting up for a second. Okay, okay, public sex.

Getting caught. Bold, he says, watching your face tighten when his fingers thrust a little faster. That says something about you. You gasp, breath hitching hard in your throat as you press your hips forward again, unable to stop yourself. Shut up, you gasp, helpless. You knew I wouldn’t say mom sext. You set me up.

Guilty, he murmurs, kissing along your neck now, open-mouthed and warm. Next question. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever masturbated to? You freeze against him, eyes going wide. Oh my God.

C’mon, he coaxes, mouth curved into a devilish smile. I told you about Velma. Don’t leave me hanging. You hide your face in his shoulder, but he doesn’t let up with his fingers, still moving inside you, still making you gasp even through your mortification. Fine, you groan. There was this audio clip, some guy reading from a tax fraud legal deposition with a deep voice and—don’t look at me like that. It was weirdly hot, okay?

Chris actually chokes laughing, full-body shaking, but his hand never stops, and now it’s infuriatingly good, rhythmic and deep and filthy enough that you start to lose the ability to laugh along. Oh my God, he wheezes, still grinning. That’s incredible. That’s like, top-tier trivia material. He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours, watching you with heat and fondness in equal measure. You’re insane. I think I’m obsessed with you.

You open your mouth to answer, but your words melt into a strangled moan when he presses just right and your body clenches down around him, thighs trembling on either side of his hips as he watches you unravel with greedy eyes, his mouth hovering just over yours, breath mixing with yours as your orgasm shudders through you, sharp and wet and aching. Fuck, you whisper. You're the insane one.

You’re welcome, he whispers back, then kisses you like a man who plans on earning another twenty-one answers. Your breath is still shaky, ribs rising too fast under your shirt, your thighs quivering where they’re slung over his lap, and he hasn’t even pulled his hand away yet. His fingers are still inside you, slow and wet and fucking obscene, curling lazily like he’s not done teasing your body just yet, like he wants to feel every aftershock and memorize the way your walls flutter around him, greedy and overstimulated. And the worst part if you don’t want him to stop, not even a little.

Chris watches you with that smug curve to his mouth, but there’s something darker in his eyes now, hotter, hungrier, like the teasing has started to backfire on him too. You’re so easy to mess with, he murmurs, like it’s a compliment, like he’s impressed, his free hand comes up to brush the damp hair from your face, thumb stroking your cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match the filth of his other hand. And you still owe me another question.

You laugh, breathless, hoarse, but defiant. You’re still playing the game?

Chris grins, slow and wicked. Don’t act like you’re not into it. Come on, next one. Or I stop. His fingers shift inside you, one last teasing thrust before he slides out completely, leaving you empty and aching. You glare at him, hips twitching forward on instinct. Okay, okay. You pause, breath catching as you readjust your weight in his lap, only now realizing how hard he is beneath you, thick and straining against his sweats, twitching under the press of your soaked panties.

Your brain short-circuits a little, but you recover fast. If you could only use your mouth or your hands during sex, never both again, which would you pick? Chris whistles low, eyes flicking down to your lips like he’s imagining either option in vivid, detailed color. Cruel one, he mutters, shifting beneath you just to feel more of your heat. But I’m gonna say mouth. There’s something about making a mess of someone with just my tongue. Something about control, seems like. His hands tighten at your hips as he leans up, lips grazing yours without committing to the kiss. And I think you like being teased too much for me to give that up.

You open your mouth to argue, or moan, but he silences you with a single, filthy swipe of his thumb over your clit, barely there, just enough to remind you who’s in charge of your pulse. You grip his shoulders to steady yourself, blinking down at him like you hate how much he knows you already. My turn, he says, voice low, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your ruined underwear and he doesn’t touch, just hovers there. What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve ever had about me? You stare at him, startled. We’ve only known each other, like, twelve hours. Chris raises an eyebrow. You’ve definitely had thoughts.

You look away, cheeks flushed, your body still warm from the orgasm and the press of his cock trapped beneath you. Fine, you mutter. It’s from this morning. When you were standing in the kitchen, still sleepy, shirtless… stretching like that. He smirks, already smug. And I thought about getting on my knees, you continue, forcing the words past your throat, and just pulling your sweats down while you were mid-yawn. Making you lean back against the counter and letting me suck you off before you even woke up properly. His jaw flexes, hands gripping your hips so tight it makes you whimper. Fuck, he breathes, almost like a warning. You trying to kill me?

You smile, dragging your hips slowly against his, grinding the slick heat of your core over the length of his cock through the fabric. I dunno. You said we’re getting to know each other. He groans, deep and broken, eyes fluttering closed for a second. Okay, he says. New rule. Every time you don’t answer a question honestly, I get to put my mouth somewhere new. You blink. That’s the punishment?

Chris slides his hands up your shirt in one slow motion, finally lifting it over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze drops to your chest, hungry and reverent as he leans forward, brushing his mouth against the swell of one breast before licking a slow stripe over your nipple. It’ll feel like a punishment soon, he says, dragging his teeth gently across the skin until you arch into him. Now ask me something hard. Your voice is trembling now. What’s your biggest kink?

Chris looks up at you, mouth still warm and wet against your skin, his eyes dark with intent. Praise, he says. Control. Watching you fall apart because you want to, not because I’m forcing you. He licks again, sucks a little now, and your fingers sink into his hair like you need to anchor yourself. And right now? he murmurs, pulling back with a soft pop. Hearing you beg. That might top the list. You swallow, completely undone, grinding harder now just to feel more of him, leaking through your panties onto the front of his sweats. Next question, he says, voice wrecked now. How many orgasms do you think I could pull out of you if we stopped playing and really got started? And suddenly, you don’t feel like teasing anymore.

You can’t even remember what number you’re on, somewhere past twenty-one and deep into uncharted territory, half the questions aren’t even questions anymore, just confessions and dares passed between kisses and breathless moans, your body curled around his like you’ve forgotten it wasn’t always yours to hold. Chris still got that look in his eyes, wild and focused, like he’s reading every flicker of reaction off your face, adjusting his touch with surgical precision and the game—if it can even be called that anymore—is just another way to keep you strung out on tension, anticipation, the high of not knowing what he’ll ask or do next. Okay, he says, voice low and almost tender as he kisses your thigh, lips trailing dangerously close to where you’re soaked through and twitching. Would you rather have me use my mouth and take my time, or let you sit on my face and lose control? You laugh, wrecked, hoarse, practically vibrating with need. Is that even a real question?

Answer it, he says, lips brushing the edge of your underwear like a threat. Or I’ll pick for you. You glance down at him, his face between your thighs, his eyes bright and dark at once and something about the way he looks like he wants to be overwhelmed by you makes the answer easy. Your face, you whisper. I wanna ride your face.

He hums, low, approving, and pulls your underwear down so slowly it’s practically cruel, dragging them down your legs like he wants to savor every inch of bare skin. You’re lucky I like the sound of that, he murmurs, kissing up your inner thigh, hands gripping your hips as you shift to straddle his face, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the storm still raging outside. He settles back against the couch cushions, eyes fixed on you, and his voice is husky when he says, Don’t hold back.

And then his mouth is on you, devouring you with a hunger so intense it makes you cry out, your fingers flying to his hair for balance as your thighs tremble on either side of his head. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and circling your clit with a precision that has you shaking, gasping his name before the first full minute is up. He moans into you like he can’t get enough, like the taste of you is something he’s needed all fucking day, and when you grind down harder, chasing the heat, he just grips your hips tighter and lets you.

You lose yourself in it, completely. Your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as you rock against his mouth, every muscle in your body pulled tight with tension. Fuck, I—I can’t, you gasp, already close again, already ruined. You can, he growls against your cunt, the vibration of his voice shooting straight through your spine. You’re gonna come in my mouth, baby? I've got you. And when you do,it's shameless and desperate, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes over you, mouth open in a broken moan that echoes off the walls, raw and frantic as you ride it out against his tongue. He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until you’re whimpering, until your body slumps forward with every nerve alight and his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

When you finally slide off his face, your legs barely work, and he’s panting beneath you, flushed, hair messy, lips glistening with you. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he just won the fucking lottery. Still counting the questions? he teases, voice rough and hoarse and yu laugh weakly, collapsing into his lap with your chest still heaving. I think we passed twenty-one a long time ago. Chris leans in, kissing you deep, messy, filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before pulling back just enough to whisper, Then maybe it’s time we stop pretending it’s still a game.

It’s not a game anymore, but neither of you stops playing, even as he lifts you into his lap again, even as his hands drag across your waist and down your spine with a hunger that makes your skin burn, you’re still trading words, still throwing questions like gasoline on a fire that’s already too big to contain. What do you want me to do to you? he asks, voice low and rough as he kisses the edge of your jaw, lips dragging down your throat, chest, teeth grazing over the mark he left earlierl you breathe out something between a laugh and a whimper, fingers curling in the waistband of his sweatpants. Want you inside me. Deep. Slow. Until I can’t even remember what I was supposed to ask next.

Chris groans, like the words knock the wind out of him, and you barely get the chance to tug his pants down before he’s helping you, lifting his hips, cock springing free, thick and flushed and so hard it makes your breath catch in your throat. He wraps a hand around himself just to tease you, dragging his palm slowly along the length, the tip smearing precum across his skin, eyes locked on yours. You sure? he murmurs, voice tight with restraint. 'Cause I want you, but I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.

You nod, almost dizzy with need, sinking your hips until the head of his cock catches at your entrance, slick and warm and perfect as you lower yourself onto him in one slow, devastating slide that punches a moan from both of you. Fuck, he hisses, head dropping back against the couch. You feel—holy shit—so tight. You clench around him on purpose, just to hear him swear again, and he thrusts up into you shallowly, hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear. Next question, you breathe, rocking your hips gently, letting him get used to the rhythm of you. If I told you to come inside me, would you?

Chris blinks at you like he can’t believe you said that, like the words physically affect him as his jaw flexes hard, and he thrusts up deeper, rougher, like you just snapped the last thread of his restraint. Don’t say that unless you mean it, he growls, voice raw. Because if you tell me to, I will. I’ll fill you up so deep you feel it for days. Your next breath stutters as he hits that spot again, as your walls flutter around him, your body already trying to pull him deeper. You’re insane, you gasp. And I might be worse.

Another question, he says, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts again, slower now but harder, making your whole body jolt with every movement. If I told you I wanted to fuck you on every surface in this house before the storm ends, what would you say?

You laugh—moan, really—your fingers digging into his shoulders for balance. I’d say you’d better start with the kitchen counter and work your way through the rooms alphabetically. He groans, the sound almost broken, and his hands slide down to your ass, guiding your hips as you bounce on his cock with slow, grinding rolls, the kind that drag every inch of him through you with a rhythm that borders on cruel. Fuck, he mutters again, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, your mouth. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.

Maybe it’s the storm, maybe it’s the heat between your bodies or the way your souls feel too close already, but the words don’t scare you, they anchor you, drive you forward. Then show me, you whisper, lips brushing his. No more holding back.

And he doesn’t. He flips you onto your back on the couch with a roughness that makes you gasp, cock slipping free for only a second before he’s guiding himself back inside you in one hard, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back and he fucks you, slow, deep, rhythmic, his body pressed tight to yours as his hands roam everywhere at once. What’s the first thing you’re gonna do after this? he pants into your ear and you laugh, legs wrapped tight around his waist. Probably pass out.

Wrong answer. He pulls almost all the way out, waits for you to open your eyes again, then slams back in. Try again. Your head spins. Shower, you choke out. With you. Maybe round two against the wall if you're strong enough. Chris grins, breathless, sweat dripping from his brow as he picks up the pace. Better. He kisses you hard, messy, tongues tangling, and he swallows your next moan when he grinds in deeper, just to feel the way your body clenches around him. Your turn. Ask me something, he says. Hurry. Before I make you come so hard you forget how to speak. You’re already close again, body arching, nails dragging down his back, but you manage to gasp, What’s your favorite part of me?

He thrusts deep and stills, buried to the hilt, his cock twitching inside you, his voice shaking when he answers. Right now? This. His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing slow, tight circles. But if you mean really... he leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice going soft even as his thrusts turn sharp again. It’s the way you look at me, like I’m already yours.

And then he makes you come again, loud and trembling, your body clenching so hard around him that he groans and follows you seconds later, spilling into you with a long, broken sound that feels like surrender. You cling to each other through it, hips still twitching, mouths still searching, and somewhere between the kisses and the breathless laughter, you realize you stopped counting the questions a long time ago.

The world is soft when it settles, like the storm outside finally gave up, like the air around you folded into something warm and quiet and real. Your bodies are tangled on the couch, skin damp and flushed, still pressed together in the kind of closeness that feels more like a conversation than anything you’ve said out loud and he hasn’t moved much, still half on top of you, head buried in the crook of your neck, one arm slung heavy over your waist. His breathing is slow now, steady, like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your heart with his cheek against your chest as you trail your fingers lazily through his hair, feeling the way his curls cling to your skin with sweat and time, and somewhere in the mess of it, you smile.

Hey, you whisper, voice raw, your throat a little ruined from all the gasping and laughing and moaning. If you had to rank that on a scale from one to ten— Chris groans, shifting just enough to lift his head and glare at you, but the edge doesn’t stick, he’s too blissed-out for sarcasm. Don’t make me throw you over this couch and do it again just to prove a point.

You snort, brushing a kiss against his temple. So… eleven? He sighs dramatically, flopping back beside you, arm still wrapped tight around your middle as he turns his head to look at you. His eyes are soft now, still playful, still glowing with that dangerous charm, but slower, gentler. I stopped counting, he says. Somewhere around the time you said you wanted to ride my face. Everything after that was just… instinct.

You laugh, a real one, breathless and a little unhinged, your hand sliding across his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. So what happens now? you ask, and you don’t mean for it to sound so honest, but there it is, naked between you. Storm’s still going, you’re still technically trapped here. Chris glances toward the window as the rain still lashes against the glass, wind howling down the alley like it’s not done being dramatic. He hums softly. Guess we’re stuck with each other.

Tragic.

Devastating. He nudges your thigh with his knee, smirking. We could watch something. Recharge. Maybe eat something that doesn’t involve my head between your legs. You fake a groan, tossing an arm over your eyes. Boring.

Okay, fine. He laughs, twisting to kiss your bare shoulder. But only if you ask me another question. You peek at him from beneath your arm, grinning. Why are you still here? He goes still for a second, the quiet between you deepening, thick with something unspoken and his voice lowers, more serious than you expect. Because this didn’t feel like a one-night thing.

Your breath catches, soft and small but he hears it, because of course he does. You roll onto your side to face him, his arm adjusting to keep you close. Yeah, you say, quieter now, eyes searching his. It didn't. For a while, neither of you says anything as the storm rolls on outside, wind still battering the windows, but it feels far away now, like the noise can’t touch this, can’t reach whatever this bubble is you’ve both fallen into. Chris shifts, brushing hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek with the same tenderness he used hours ago, when everything was still new and charged and uncertain.

And then he smilesl soft, a little shy. New rule, he says. Every time we see each other… we have to play twenty-one questions.

You raise an eyebrow. We suck at keeping count.

Exactly, he murmurs, kissing your forehead like a promise. That’s how I’ll know it’s working.

[sunnyhonie]

To die for.

[linolinoing]

STRAY KIDS x BIORE UV

[sunnyhonie]

[sunshinesfreckless]

Technical Difficulties

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Summary: Breaking your laptop is annoying enough—but it gets a little more fun when the guy fixing it for free turns out to be ridiculously hot.

Warnings: Backshots by Felix, No panties for Felix, Orgasm with Felix

Pairing: NonIdol!Felix x Fem!Reader

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

“FUCK.” Y/N smacked the back of her laptop, her frustration echoing through the lecture hall. Every head in the room turned toward her. She shrank under the weight of their stares. “Sorry.”

Seungmin, her best friend since forever, sighed beside her. “Y/N, you need to get that thing fixed. Duct-taping your battery isn’t a long-term solution.”

She groaned, slumping against the desk. “Yeah? Well, I don’t exactly have the money to fix it.”

Seungmin rubbed his temples like he was debating whether to strangle her or help. “Okay, listen. I have a friend—same campus, studies choreography. He fixes laptops in his free time.”

Y/N perked up. “How much?”

“For me? Nothing. So if I go with you, he might make an exception.”

She exhaled in relief. “Seungmin, I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before that thing explodes in your hands.”

────୨ৎ────

With her tote bag slung over her shoulder, Y/N walked beside Seungmin across campus. The Australian sun was merciless today, heat clinging to her skin even though she was wearing a light summer dress. She could already feel sweat forming at the nape of her neck.

Seungmin cut through the park, heading straight for the big tree where a group of guys usually gathered. Y/N never paid them much attention—she didn’t care for most people on campus.

But then he spoke.

“Hey, guys.”

Y/N barely registered the greeting because—holy shit—she knew him. Well, not personally. But Hyunjin was practically a campus legend. Every girl she met wouldn’t shut up about him. So beautiful. So romantic. So sweet. So dreamy. She had rolled her eyes at it a million times.

And there he was, lowering his sketchbook, black curtain bangs shielding his eyes from the sun like he was straight out of a damn movie.

But next to him?

Yeah. That’s where things got interesting.

Y/N suddenly cared a whole lot more about Seungmin’s friends.

She had heard Felix’s name before, but good God, she had not been prepared for this. His blonde hair was tied back, a few strands falling artfully into his absurdly beautiful sculpted face. She could see the outline of his toned arms beneath his white tank top, the sun casting a golden glow on his tan skin.

He glanced up at Seungmin with a lazy smile.

“Seungmin, hey.”

And just like that, Y/N’s laptop was no longer her biggest problem.

Felix’ eyes landed on her. „And hey, you.“

Y/N felt heat rush to her face. “Hi.”

Felix’s smile widened instantly.

Seungmin got straight to the point. „She’s got a broken laptop for you to fix. Think you can do it?“

„Sure.“ Felix shot Y/N another reassuring smile. „What’s the problem?“

She hesitated, glancing at Seungmin, who gave her a look—a silent just answer him already. Scrambling, she reached into her tote bag and pulled out the laptop.

Hyunjin, who had been watching silently, blinked. „Jeez, just put it to rest, girl.“

Felix chuckled as he took the laptop from her hands. „Why did you duct tape the battery?“

Y/N shifted awkwardly. „No money for repairs,“ she mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.

Felix hummed, examining the damage. „Yeah… I get that. I’ll fix it this week. You can pick it up on Saturday from my place.“ He glanced up at her. „Not really a fan of making ladies come to me by themselves, but my schedule is packed this weekend.“

„Oh, no! Don’t worry, it’s totally fine! I’ll pick it up!“ she blurted out quickly.

Felix turned to Seungmin with an amused smirk. „Your girlfriend?“

Seungmin made a face. „Thank god, no. We just grew up together.“

Felix nodded, then looked at Y/N again, his voice softer this time. „Don’t worry about the money. I’ll do it for free.“

────୨ৎ────

Y/N took a deep breath as she stood in front of his House door, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. She wasn’t sure why she was nervous. It was just Felix. Just the hot guy she barely knew who had offered to fix her laptop for free. No big deal.

She knocked twice.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Felix in nothing but sweatpants, his toned upper body on full display. His damp blonde hair suggested he had just showered, and Y/N had to make a conscious effort to keep her eyes on his face.

“Hey,” he greeted with a lazy grin, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey,” she replied, clearing her throat. “I, uh… came to get my laptop.”

Felix smirked, tilting his head. “Yeah, I figured. Come in.”

She stepped inside, the scent of his cologne mixed with something warm and sweet—vanilla? Cookies? Her stomach growled in betrayal, and Felix chuckled.

“Did you eat today?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, watching as he walked over to his desk. Her eyes involuntarily traced the muscles in his back before she forced herself to look away.

Felix picked up her laptop, holding it out to her. “All fixed. Should last you a while now.”

She reached for it, but he didn’t let go immediately. Their fingers brushed, and Y/N felt a jolt of something—anticipation?

“Careful with it this time,” Felix murmured, his voice lower than before.

Y/N swallowed. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

────୨ৎ────

“YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BREAK IT AGAIN!” Seungmin practically shouted, his voice echoing through the hallway.

Y/N clutched her laptop to her chest, guilt flashing across her face for a split second before she stubbornly lifted her chin. “HOW ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO TALK TO HIM AGAIN?!”

Seungmin stared at her like she had just confessed to arson. “Are you serious? You’re seriously considering destroying your laptop just so you have an excuse to see Felix again?”

“Apparently!”

Seungmin dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “Y/N, I beg you—just go up to him. He’s literally the nicest guy on this entire campus.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, leaning against the wall like the weight of her feelings was physically crushing her. “Seungmin, I love you, but no. He might be nice and very kind and very friendly—”

“Yeah, it’s Sunshine Felix we’re talking about,” Seungmin deadpanned, folding his arms.

“BUT I CAN’T JUST DO THAT!” Y/N wailed. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I know you did me a huge favor for free, but I think I left my dignity at your house and was hoping I could come pick it up?’”

Seungmin rolled his eyes. “I dunno, maybe something normal like ‘Hey, Felix, how’s it going?’”

Y/N looked at him, completely unimpressed.

“You clearly don’t understand how unhinged my feelings are right now,” she said, voice completely serious. “I am literally one intrusive thought away from throwing my laptop off the balcony just to recreate our meet-cute.”

Seungmin groaned. “I hate you.”

“And yet,” Y/N smirked, “you’re still gonna help me.”

────୨ৎ────

The next day, Y/N found herself once again marching across campus with Seungmin, her laptop clutched in her arms like a newborn.

“You cannot be serious,” Seungmin muttered beside her.

Y/N lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do know what I mean.” He gestured at the laptop. “You just got that thing back. Yesterday. And now, what? It magically broke again?”

Y/N cleared her throat. “Technology is fragile.”

Seungmin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Y/N, I swear to God—”

Before he could finish, they arrived at the big tree where Hyunjin and Felix were lounging as usual. Hyunjin had his sketchbook open, absentmindedly twirling a pencil, while Felix leaned back against the trunk, scrolling on his phone.

Seungmin sighed like he was about to walk her down the aisle. “Here we go again.”

“Hey, guys,” he called.

Felix looked up, and the second his gaze landed on Y/N, his lips curled into an amused smile.

“No way,” he said, sitting up straighter. His eyes flickered to the laptop in her arms. “Already?”

Y/N’s breath hitched. Oh god, he was so hot. And now he was laughing at her.

She forced herself to act normal. “I—um—it’s not what it looks like.”

Felix raised an eyebrow. “It looks like you broke it again.”

Y/N huffed. “Well, I didn’t—it just… stopped working.”

Felix leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Mhm. And how exactly did it ‘just stop working’?”

Y/N avoided his eyes. “It just happened.”

Felix chuckled, clearly entertained. “Alright, let’s see it.”

She handed it over, and their fingers just barely brushed. Y/N tried not to react, but her entire body was hyper-aware of the fleeting touch. Felix smirked like he knew.

He turned the laptop over, inspecting it. “You sure you’re not doing this on purpose?”

“What?!” Y/N squeaked. “Of course not! That would be insane!”

Felix grinned. “Mhm. If you say so.”

Y/N felt like she was about to explode on the spot. Meanwhile, Seungmin looked like he wanted to fling himself into the nearest bush.

“Just tell me when it’s fixed,” she mumbled.

Felix tapped his fingers against the laptop. “Thursday?”

Y/N nodded quickly. “Thursday.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off, dragging Seungmin with her before she could embarrass herself any further.

Once they were out of earshot, she exhaled sharply. Then, with complete determination, she said, “I’m picking it up without underwear.”

Seungmin choked on his own breath, nearly tripping over his own feet. “WHAT?!”

Y/N didn’t waver. “You heard me.”

He stared at her, absolutely horrified. “You’re beyond saving.”

She just smiled.

────୨ৎ────

Y/N thought she had the guts. She really did.

But now, standing in front of Felix’s family home again—this expensive, ridiculously pretty house that somehow made her feel even smaller—she chickened out. Underwear very much on.

Felix leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking just as unfairly attractive as always. His eyes flickered down to the laptop in her hands before meeting hers again, amusement dancing in them.

“So,” he said, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips, “you planning on actually keeping it alive this time?”

Y/N felt her face heat up. “I—it wasn’t my fault.”

Felix chuckled. “Mhm. Sure.”

Y/N turned around and almost sprinted back home.

────୨ৎ────

Well… she couldn’t break it again, right? But she could pretend to struggle with a software issue… yes… that was perfect.

The next day, when she asked Seungmin to go with her to Felix again, he looked like he was about to commit a crime.

“Y/N,” he deadpanned. “I swear to God—”

“Please, Seungmin. Just one more time.”

“One more time? That’s what you said the two times before!”

But despite all his complaints, he still found himself walking the same damn path across campus for the third time. When they reached Felix and Hyunjin again, Seungmin muttered, “I can’t believe this.”

Felix looked up from his own laptop, instantly breaking into a smile. “Don’t tell me you broke it again.”

Y/N shook her head way too fast. “No! No, I just— I need your help with a program. I can’t figure it out, and since you’re good with tech—”

“Sure, pretty,” Felix interrupted smoothly.

Y/N went completely still. Her brain short-circuited. Did she hear that right? Pretty?

Hyunjin was already grinning like an idiot, exchanging a glance with Seungmin, who just rolled his eyes. “Oh, this is so painful to watch,” Hyunjin muttered under his breath.

Felix, completely oblivious to the way Y/N was struggling to breathe, checked the time on his phone. “I’m kinda busy today, but come over Friday evening. My family’s out, so it’ll be quieter.”

Y/N blinked at him. His house. Friday. Alone.

“Okay,” she breathed out before she could even think.

Felix grinned and handed her laptop back. “See you then, troublemaker.”

────୨ৎ────

She did it. She actually did it.

No panties.

Y/N took a slow breath as she stood in front of his house, smoothing down the ruffles of her white summer dress. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and the heat pooling in her stomach made it impossible to think straight.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Felix. His blonde hair slightly messy like he’d just run his hands through it. He wore a white tank top and denim jeans—dangerous on him. His toned arms were on full display, and the way the fabric clung to his torso had her pressing her thighs together instinctively.

She was so fucked.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice warm and effortless, like he hadn’t just sent her body into overdrive.

“Hi,” she answered, hoping he didn’t notice the slight shake in her voice.

“Come in.”

She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind her. His eyes flickered over her dress—the soft fabric, the delicate ruffles—before pointing toward his room.

“You know the way.”

She let out a nervous laugh and walked ahead, unaware of the way his eyes followed her every step.

Felix exhaled slowly, subtly adjusting the condom in his pocket so she wouldn’t see the outline through his jeans. Just in case. He had no idea if things would go that way tonight, but if she had any clue what she was doing to him right now…

He swallowed hard and followed her in.

She sat down in the chair he had placed next to his gaming setup, crossing her legs delicately. The movement made her dress shift slightly, revealing just a hint more of her thigh.

“You hungry? Want something to drink?” he asked, leaning against the desk.

“No, thank you,” she replied with a small smile.

He smiled back—slow, easy. And then he settled into his chair, pushing his setup aside to make space for her laptop.

“So,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “what’s the problem?”

“Well…” She leaned forward, typing in her password. “First, I don’t really understand how this software works…”

Felix nodded, but he wasn’t looking at the screen. His focus had caught on something else entirely—the soft swell of her cleavage as she leaned in. The absence of bra straps.

Fuck.

His jaw tightened slightly as he bit the inside of his cheek, dragging his gaze away before she could catch him staring. But his hands clenched over his thighs, the heat behind his navel spreading fast.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

He really tried—tried to focus, tried to explain. But her perfume was clouding his head, and the fact that she was so close wasn’t helping.

And then, just like that, he shut the laptop.

Y/N blinked at him. “Uh…?”

Felix exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the desk. His eyes dragged over her, slow, appreciative.

“You really think I can focus on explaining when all I can think about is what’s under that pretty dress?” His voice was low—dangerous. Her breath hitched, heat shooting straight between her legs.

“Excuse me?” she managed, her face burning.

But she knew what he said. And worse? He was right. The trap had worked.

Felix tilted his head slightly, running his tongue over his lower lip. “You heard me.”

She sat back in the chair, suddenly feeling much smaller under his gaze.

He turned his chair to face her fully, his legs spreading just enough to make her pulse race. His hands rested lazily on the armrests, but there was nothing casual about the way he was looking at her now.

“C’mere, gorgeous,” he murmured.

Her breath came short.

She hesitated—only for a second—before slowly lifting one leg over his, then the other. She settled into his lap, straddling him. And that’s when Felix knew.

Knew she wasn’t playing around. Knew she meant to do this.

Because the moment she settled onto him, he could feel everything.

No barriers. No fabric. Just the scorching heat of her dripping core pressing against the rough denim of his jeans.

His grip tightened instinctively on her hips. A slow smirk spread across his lips as he dragged his hands up her back, pulling her in closer.

“You little vixen,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

Y/N swallowed hard, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“Are you telling me you really needed help with that software,” he teased, voice dropping an octave, “when you showed up here without any underwear?”

She had to giggle.

Felix grinned at her, shaking his head, amused and wrecked by her at the same time. But then—before she could overthink, before the teasing could stretch any longer—he pulled her closer, his hands gripping her waist with purpose, and crushed his lips against hers.

It was deep. Intense. The kind of kiss that sent her mind spiraling and left her breathless within seconds.

Y/N melted into him, her fingers curling around the fabric of his tank top. He was solid under her hands, all heat and strength, his chest rising and falling against hers as their lips moved together, messy and desperate.

She could feel his heartbeat thundering through him, or maybe it was hers. It didn’t matter.

His hands tightened at her waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her dress like he was trying to memorize the feel of her. And then—fuck it—she went all in.

Her tongue met his, hot and hungry, sliding against his in a way that had him groaning low in his throat.

That sound. That deep, rumbling noise had something dark and needy twisting inside her.

Felix’s hands roamed up her back, his fingers running along the curve of her spine, then sliding down to cup her hips. He pulled her tighter against him, their bodies flush now, no space left between them.

His mouth moved against hers, lips parting, tongues meeting again, and it was sloppy—wet, reckless, desperate. She didn’t care. Neither did he.

His hands traced the hem of her dress, skimming along the bare skin of her thighs. She shivered, her body arching into him instinctively.

Y/N’s fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly, and Felix let out a sharp breath against her lips before tilting his head and deepening the kiss even further.

God, he tasted good. Like mint and something sweet, something entirely him. She was getting drunk on it, on him.

Felix pulled away for just a second—just long enough to catch his breath—and looked at her.

Her lips were swollen, slightly parted. Her chest rising and falling quickly. And her eyes—fuck, her eyes were hazy, full of something dark and wanting.

His hand came up, thumb running along her lower lip, smudging the wetness there.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, voice rough.

Y/N smiled, her breath still shaky. “You like trouble.”

Felix huffed a laugh, then tilted her chin up, his mouth capturing hers again, hungrier this time.

She could feel how much he wanted her. The way his fingers dug into her hips, the way his chest pressed against hers like he wanted to be impossibly closer.

She moved against him, just slightly, and that was it. That was all it took for him to snap.

Felix groaned against her lips and stood up with her in his arms, gripping her thighs as he lifted her effortlessly.

Y/N gasped, instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist.

His mouth found her neck, hot and open-mouthed, sucking lightly as he carried her across the room.

Then he sat down on the edge of his bed with her still in his lap, their bodies tangled together, their kisses turning even more feverish.

Y/N felt her head spin, her entire body buzzing. The heat, the tension—it was overwhelming, consuming, everything.

And as Felix’s hands started to roam again, his lips trailing down her jaw, she knew she was completely, utterly gone.

She looked out of his window, her breath still uneven. The view was breathtaking—golden sand stretching along the australian coast, the waves rolling gently under the soft evening light. The ocean breeze might have cooled her flushed skin if not for the real reason her body was burning.

Felix.

The boy with sun-kissed skin and a wicked smile, trailing kisses along her neck, hands gripping her waist like he never wanted to let go.

Life could be so unfairly beautiful.

She glanced down at him, and when he looked up at her, their eyes locked—electricity humming between them, He kissed her again, this time guiding her hips against him, making sure she felt everything.

A soft moan slipped past her lips.

The friction—the rough denim pressing right where she needed it—was almost too much. And him—hard and heavy against her—there was no mistaking how much he wanted this too.

Felix pulled back just enough to cup her chin, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to look at him. His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, his voice rough and unwavering.

“Take my jeans off,” he murmured. “They’re ruined anyway.”

She nodded, slipping off his lap, her fingers trembling as she worked open his belt.

“Good girl.”

Heat rushed to her face. If she wasn’t already DRENCHED with need, she definitely was now.

He lifted his hips to help her slide his jeans down, kicking them aside. And then—God. Even through his boxers, she could see everything.

Y/N swallowed, her breath hitching as she pressed a kiss to the sharp cut of his hip. Then another, lower this time.

Felix’s jaw clenched.

She bit down on the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down with just her teeth before helping with her hands.

His breath caught.

Her eyes widened.

Fuck.

Every thought in her head evaporated. How was he so perfect? She felt lightheaded, her body thrumming with an almost painful desperation. She wanted to taste him, wanted to feel every inch of him against her tongue, wanted to—

Before she could act on it, Felix caught her chin again, forcing her gaze back to him. His thumb brushed her lips, a smirk playing at his own.

“As much as I’d love to watch you do that,” he murmured, voice dripping with something dark and wrecked, “I need to be inside you more.”

Oh.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

She climbed back onto his lap in an instant, and Felix wasted no time, pulling her into a kiss so deep it stole whatever air she had left.

Then he lifted her, turning, laying her down on the bed with an effortless strength that made her shiver.

Her dress was the next thing to go—torn from her body in one swift motion, tossed somewhere behind him. It landed over his gaming setup, covering his screen completely, but neither of them cared.

Not when he was looking at her like that.

She tugged at his tank top, eager to feel more of him. Felix pulled it over his head and tossed it aside, baring golden skin, freckles and sculpted muscles that tensed under her touch.

God. He really was unreal.

She pressed her lips to his again, a slow, deep kiss that sent heat rolling through her body. His hands slid down her waist, over her hips, before gripping her thighs, massaging the soft flesh as he spread them wider.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he murmured against her lips.

She let out a breathy chuckle. “Says you, you literal greek god.” no way she just said that out loud.

Felix laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “What??”

“Nothing—just—” She bit her lip. “Kiss me again, please.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Their lips met again, hungrier this time, heat pressing in on all sides. But just as Felix deepened the kiss, she pulled back slightly, breathless. “Condom.”

Felix exhaled sharply, then pushed himself up. Y/N sat up on her elbows, watching as he reached for his jeans.

Her gaze flicked down, and then—

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” she teased, eyes narrowing playfully. “And I’M the vixen? You literally had the condom prepared!”

Felix pulled it from his back pocket with an unapologetic smirk. “Yeah…?”

Her breath caught as she looked at him in the dim moonlight filtering through his window. The soft glow traced over every inch of his body—his toned chest, his small waist, the sharp lines of his hips. He looked like something carved out of marble, like a god out of an ancient myth, too perfect to be real.

And then her gaze dropped lower.

Oh.

Heat pooled between her thighs at the sight of him—thick, hard, so perfectly proportioned that her legs instinctively pressed together.

Felix climbed back onto the bed, settling between her thighs, the condom placed beside her as he ran his fingers up her inner thigh, teasingly close to where she needed him most. His lips found hers again, slower this time, more teasing than urgent. His fingers barely brushed over her clit, and she gasped against his mouth.

“You’re not a virgin, right?” he murmured, his voice low.

She shook her head slightly, heart hammering in her chest. No, she wasn’t. But her first time had been forgettable at best, disappointing at worst. She had never even come with that guy.

Felix’s fingers pressed more firmly now, circling her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. A soft whimper escaped her lips as her hips instinctively tilted up, chasing his touch.

“God, you’re so wet already,” he murmured, dragging his lips down to her jaw. “Can’t wait to fuck you.”

A sharp inhale hitched in her throat as he slipped two fingers inside her, the stretch making her walls flutter. His pace was perfect—just slow enough to tease, just deep enough to make her legs tremble.

She moaned against his lips, gripping the back of his neck and pulling him into another desperate kiss.

Felix groaned into her mouth, fingers curling just right, sending a shiver through her whole body. And then—he pulled them out.

A needy sound of protest left her, but before she could complain, he brought his fingers to his lips and licked them clean, eyes locked on hers the entire time.

Y/N’s breath stuttered.

Holy. Fuck.

Felix smirked at her expression, reaching for the condom with one hand while the other wrapped around himself, stroking slowly. He ripped the wrapper open with his teeth, sliding the condom over his length with practiced ease.

She swallowed hard, pulse racing as she let her legs fall open for him.

Felix leaned down again, one hand bracing beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh.

“You ready, gorgeous?”

“I guess I’ll have to keep breaking laptops in the future,” she whispered, voice breathless.

Felix let out a low chuckle, but it was cut short as he lined himself up and pushed in.

Y/N’s breath hitched—her fingers clutching at the sheets, her head falling back against his pillows as the stretch sent a shiver up her spine.

“Fuck,” she whimpered.

Felix groaned at the feeling of her around him, tight and warm, squeezing him just right. He leaned over her, his hand wrapping loosely around her throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make her focus on him.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice deep and commanding.

She blinked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in a moan.

“There you are,” he smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before pulling out just enough—then thrusting back in, slow and deep.

Y/N let out a sharp gasp, her nails digging into his back.

Felix picked up his pace, each thrust hitting deep, his name spilling from her lips in broken syllables. His hands moved to her breasts, teasing her nipples with his fingers before lowering his mouth to flick his tongue over them, sucking just hard enough to make her back arch off the bed.

“Felix—”

“I got you, baby,” he whispered against her skin.

He sat back on his knees, gripping her thighs as he lifted them higher, pressing them flush against his chest. The new angle made her cry out—he reached even deeper now, his thrusts sharper, rougher.

She writhed under him, her nails leaving faint red trails on his arms as he drove her closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groaned, watching the way she trembled beneath him.

Y/N clenched around him at his words, and he cursed under his breath before gripping her hips and flipping her onto her stomach.

She barely had time to process the shift before he pulled her hips up, pressing a hand against her lower back to keep her in place as he slid back inside.

Her fingers curled into the sheets as he started moving again, this time slower, deeper, making sure she felt every inch of him.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, running his hands over her waist, down to her ass, before delivering a teasing slap that sent a jolt of pleasure through her.

Y/N moaned into the pillows, her body melting under his touch.

“You like that?” he smirked, giving her another slow, hard thrust with a slap.

“Yes—please don’t stop,” she gasped.

Felix leaned over her back, pressing a kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Oh, my gorgeous girl”

Y/N’s fingers curled around his sheets, her moans growing louder as he reached even deeper inside her, hitting spots that made her body shake. One of his hands moved to her front, fingers finding her clit and rubbing slow, teasing circles that made her nearly collapse against the bed.

Felix leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “I want you to come for me, baby,” he whispered, his voice sending a wave of heat straight to her core.

Her body tensed as pleasure built rapidly, her moans turning into desperate whimpers. Felix didn’t let up, his movements precise and relentless until she finally unraveled, a shuddering moan ripping from her throat.

Felix groaned at the feeling of her tightening around him, his thrusts growing sloppier as he chased his own release. With a few more deep strokes, he buried himself inside her, letting out a guttural moan as he reached his high.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their breaths mingling in the thick summer air. Y/N collapsed against the sheets, her body still trembling, while Felix pressed lazy kisses along her shoulder, his arm wrapping around her waist to keep her close.

“You,” he murmured against her skin, “are a fucking menace.”

She let out a breathless giggle, turning her head to look at him. “I did warn you I’d keep breaking laptops.”

Felix chuckled, pressing a final kiss to her cheek before pulling her snug against his chest. “Yeah, but now I think you’re just looking for excuses to come back.”

She smirked, biting her lip as she traced patterns on his arm. “Maybe.”

He grinned, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “No need for excuses, baby. You can come over anytime you want.”

And she definitely planned to.

────୨ৎ────

Y/N stirred as the morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. She felt something heavy draped over her waist and realized it was Felix’s arm, pulling her flush against his chest. His face was nestled against her neck, his breath slow and steady, tickling her skin.

A soft kiss pressed to her shoulder made her shiver. “Morning, gorgeous,” Felix murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

She turned in his embrace, meeting his sleepy gaze. His freckles stood out more in the morning light, and his messy hair only made him look even softer.

“Morning,” she whispered, smiling when he nuzzled into her neck again, pressing lazy kisses up to her jaw.

Felix sighed in pure contentment. “I don’t think I wanna let you leave.”

Y/N giggled, running her fingers through his hair. “You kinda have to at some point. I do have a life outside your bed, you know.”

He hummed against her skin before propping himself up on one elbow, his other hand trailing up and down her back. His touch was slow, almost reverent.

“I gotta take you out on a real date now,” he said suddenly, looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She raised an eyebrow. “Now you wanna take me on a date? After all that?”

Felix smirked, pressing another kiss to her lips, slow and deep. “I like to do things backwards, apparently. But yeah, I do.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “What do you say? Let me take you somewhere nice.”

Y/N pretended to think for a moment, though the giddy feeling in her chest betrayed her. “Hmm… only if there’s food involved.”

Felix laughed, giving her hip a playful squeeze. “Done deal, baby.”

They lay there a little longer, tangled in each other, trading kisses and whispers, until Y/N finally had to slip out of bed and gather her things. Felix watched her with a soft smile, only letting her go when she promised she’d see him again soon.

────୨ৎ────

By the time she stepped into her shared apartment with Seungmin, she was still floating on cloud nine. That was, until—

“YOU REALLY HAD SEX WITH HIM, YOU NAUGHTY GIRL!”

Y/N shrieked as Seungmin’s voice practically shattered the walls. He was standing in the hallway, mouth agape, pointing at her wrinkled dress and thoroughly ruined hair.

“Shut up!” she hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth, but he just muffled something against her palm before pulling away, eyes still wide in terror.

[sunnyhonie]

I can’t think of a single fkn thing to say RN. 🤦🏼‍♀️ Such a perfect little death.

[boyfiechan-deactivated20250720]

Act One: Feel Me Silent (BC)

Touch Me Quiet, the Masterlist

Content Warnings: This story contains explicit sexual content and language, including graphic sex scenes, masturbation, voyeurism, and risky encounters. The reader is described as AFAB. Themes of secrecy, guilt, emotional tension, and betrayal of trust are present throughout.

[7.2k words]

──────────────────────────────────────────── The hallway feels too narrow, too quiet, shadows stretch along the walls, broken only by the faint glow from under the bathroom door. It’s the kind of hour where the world still feels half-formed, caught between night and morning, where silence settles deep in the bones, heavy and unshaken. It feels untouched, private. Like something secret lingers between the walls, waiting to be disturbed as you step out of your room cautiously, the floor cold beneath your bare feet, sharp against your skin, anchoring you in the stillness. The apartment holds its breath, silent and tense, and so do you. Sleep had evaded you, slipping just out of reach like so many other things lately, leaving behind only the weight of restlessness. You don’t expect to see him.

The bathroom door swings open, and steam unfurls into the hallway, thick and curling, the heat clinging to the air, to the walls, to him. The scent of soap lingers, sharp and clean, threaded with something unmistakably his, something deeper, warmer, that sinks into your senses before you can stop it. The shift is immediate, a subtle tightening of space, a recalibration of the world around him as he steps forward, slow and unhurried, unwittingly commanding the quiet.

Water beads along his skin, catching the dim glow of the overhead light, sliding in unhurried rivulets from the dark curls flattened against his forehead, tracing down the sharp line of his jaw, lingering at the hollow of his throat before slipping lower—over the broad expanse of his chest, dipping between the carved ridges of his abdomen, vanishing beneath the towel slung dangerously low on his hips. His body, cut from shadow and definition, looks almost effortless in its precision—not sculpted for vanity but honed through instinct, through discipline, through something quieter than intention. Strength without spectacle, power without performance. Every inch of him exists in the space between tension and ease, coiled but controlled, shaped by something restrained, something tempered.

And then his gaze, dark, steady—like a weight pressing against the air between you, like something caught just beneath the surface, unspoken but undeniably present. He doesn’t startle, doesn’t shift, doesn’t react the way people do when they realize they’re being watched. He simply is—rooted, unmoving, existing in the space like it belongs to him, like he belongs to it. His presence is its own gravity, pulling everything into its orbit without effort, without awareness.

The towel on his hips clings precariously, damp fabric resting against the sharp cut of his hip bones, barely holding its place, exposing too much skin, too much of the deep grooves leading downward, disappearing into something that feels like a silent dare. His arms hang loose at his sides, but there’s something intentional in the way he holds himself—biceps flexing in the smallest way as he adjusts his grip on the towel, a flicker of movement that draws your attention without permission. His veins, stark beneath his forearms, map out a quiet story of tension, of restraint, of something simmering beneath the surface. He doesn’t need to speak, doesn’t need to announce himself—he simply takes up space, effortlessly, like the floor was made to hold him.

It lands too heavy, too solid, like a weight pressed firm against your chest, something invisible and unrelenting, wrapping around your ribs and tightening. It pins you there, holds you in place, thickening the air between you until it’s too dense to breathe, until the moment stretches out longer than it should, longer than it’s allowed to. There’s something about the way he looks at you—something unreadable, something quiet but undeniably there, hovering just beneath the surface. Not hesitant, not nervous, just intent, seady. Like he’s seeing something, noting it, letting it settle into him.

Your pulse stumbles, sharp and immediate, a sudden crash of movement against the inside of your ribs, and the worst part is that he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move, doesn’t shift uncomfortably or blink like he’s caught somewhere he shouldn’t be. He just watches, unbothered, unapologetic and d it’s too much, too sharp, too easy to feel it sinking into you, pressing down, spreading heat along the back of your neck, down your spine, curling in places it shouldn’t. Chan says nothing. He never says much, not with words, not when it’s easier to let a glance say everything. But this silence feels louder than it should. Heavier, sharper, like a breath caught too deep in your chest. Like something about to break.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, like your body is trying to act on instinct, like something in you is already halfway toward reaching for an escape. You look away too fast, head dipping, throat tight, but it does nothing to loosen the moment’s grip. It’s still there, pressed into your skin, latching onto something beneath the surface, something you don’t want to name. And you can still feel it, his stare, the weight of it. The way it moves over you like something tangible, something deliberate, slow and steady, as if it’s mapping out the shape of you, as if it’s taking its time, as if it knows. Knows how you feel it, knows how it lingers, knows how it’s still there, even after you turn, even after you move, even after you try—futilely, desperately—to pretend it doesn’t exist. But it clings, and it burns.

It follows you down the hall, pressing into the back of your neck, ghosting over your skin in a way that makes you too aware of yourself, of the heat prickling at your temples, of the restless, unsettled ache curling tight in the pit of your stomach as you shut the door. The click of it sounds final, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You press your back against it, eyes shut, breath held tight, but it’s still there. Still him, the memory of his gaze, the heat of it. The water sliding slow down his chest, the way his skin glowed, damp and flushed, light catching along the sharp edges of muscle. The way your stomach clenched, tight and aching, at the sight of it. At the thought of it. And the burn of it doesn’t fade.

Not when you press your palms flat against the wood, fingers splayed like you can steady yourself against the weight of it, like you can force the moment out of your skin, scrape it from the inside of your ribs. Not when you inhale slow, desperate for the air to feel normal again, for the thick, clinging heat of it to dissipate. Not when you tell yourself—again, again, like a mantra, like a plea—that it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a glance, that it’s fine, that you’re fine. But your body betrays you.

It hums, restless and overheated, nerves sparking beneath the surface, caught in something it doesn’t know how to shake off. Your chest is too tight, stomach drawn taut with something unspoken, something unacknowledged but undeniably there. The space he left behind still feels occupied, still feels thick with him, as if he’s seeped into the walls, into the air, into the space between your bones. And outside, in the narrow stretch of hallway, Chan doesn’t move.

Still, silent. Unshaken, watching the closed door like he can still see through it. Like he knows exactly what’s on the other side. Like maybe—just maybe—he feels it too.

You don’t sleep, not really, not after that. The sheets feel too warm, the room too small, your body thrumming with something restless, something unshakable. You toss, turn, try to bury it beneath the weight of routine. But it lingers—heavy in your chest, tight in your stomach and by the time the first traces of morning light seep through the blinds, you give up. You push yourself out of bed, feet meeting cold floors, and let the ritual of morning pull you forward.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something sweet, that warm, familiar scent that seeped into the bones, smoothing out the edges of the morning. It felt slower like this, softer, the kind of comfort that lingered, thick with memory, settling deep in a way that made you forget, just for a second, how much had shifted. It had been different before. Simpler, when it was just you and Felix, caught in the rhythm of easy mornings and late-night conversations, laughter slipping too easily between sips of coffee, between the hum of the city pressing against the windows. When home had felt like something light, something warm, something untouched by the slow erosion of time. But things had changed, work had become heavier, bills sharper, adulthood something to navigate rather than fall into. And somewhere in that space, Chan had moved in.

Felix had known him for years. His best friend, the one who had always been there, somewhere on the outskirts, a quiet presence that never intruded. A producer, buried in his work, as methodical as he was elusive. He wasn’t like Felix. Didn’t fill the room with noise or warmth. He didn’t have to, his presence was something else—something heavier, something that didn’t need volume to be felt. He wasn’t just another roommate, not really, not when he moved through the apartment like a shadow, quiet but steady, settling into the spaces you hadn’t realized were empty.

And maybe that’s what unsettled you the most. Not just the change, but the way it had happened so seamlessly. Like the edges of what was had blurred without you noticing, like something had shifted before you had the chance to name it. Because before, it had been you and Felix. Not just as roommates, as something more, something that had started in the ease of shared spaces and whispered familiarity, in the way he’d reached for your hand across the couch, in the way he’d known exactly how you took your coffee, exactly how to make you laugh when the days felt too heavy. And then, just as easily, it had unraveled, slipped into something looser, something less defined. The end hadn’t been sharp, hadn’t been cruel. Just quiet, worn down by time, by the weight of everything else.

And now, there was Chan, unassuming in the way he took up space. Steady in the way he watched, the way he moved through the apartment, always just at the edge of your vision. He had nothing to do with it—had never been part of what ended—but still, the shift felt sharper with him here. Like a contrast you weren’t ready to examine too closely, like a presence that made it harder to pretend nothing had changed.

Felix was already there, leaning against the counter, hair messy, eyes bright with leftover laughter from whatever game had kept him up half the night. His grin was easy, the kind that curled slow and made things feel simple, uncomplicated, like nothing could weigh too heavy when he was around. His words came light and fast, laughter bubbling through them as he recounted his latest win, hands moving lazily, coffee mug dangling from his fingers. It was easy to smile back, to let your laugh slip into his, light and effortless, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You reached for your mug, fingers brushing the ceramic, grounding yourself in the heat of it.

But Chan was there too, leaned against the opposite counter, a shadow against the morning light, arms crossed, a transparent cup held loose in one hand, like he wasn’t really drinking—just holding, keeping his hands busy. His hair was damp, curls flattened like he’d just rolled out of bed, and there was a cut to his posture, sharp and still. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes heavy, mouth unreadable, but his gaze wasn’t distant, wasn’t aimless. He wasn’t just watching the room, he was watching you.

Not obvious. Not the kind of stare that begged to be noticed, but the kind that stayed, that lingered, heavy in the air, heavy in the spaces between words. You felt it like a touch, light and grazing, soft but certain. It slid beneath the conversation, threading through it like something dangerous, something quiet and sharp. Felix didn’t notice, of course he didn’t. He was too caught up in his own rhythm, the easy comfort of the morning, the warmth that didn’t know how to look for something sharp beneath it. But you felt it, you felt marked by it as Felix bumped his shoulder against yours, laughter still bright. Didn’t think you’d be up this early, he teased, easy, unaware. You smiled, but it felt hollow, thin. Guess I couldn’t sleep.

The words slipped out too easy, too smooth, but your gaze didn’t hold. It flicked, fast and sharp, cutting toward Chan like a reflex, and found his already waiting, already there. His stare didn’t shift, didn’t drop. Just held, steady and slow, like he’d been waiting for you to look. Like he wanted you to. The air felt thick as heat curled low in your stomach, quiet and pressing, sharp as the edge of his mug against the counter. It was a glance, but it wasn’t, heavier than that. Thicker, as his eyes dragged across you like a hand, slow, pressing into places no one else could see, places no one else had ever dared to reach. You looked away first. You always did, you had to.

But it didn’t matter. Because the heat of it stayed. His gaze pressed into your skin, into the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, the slow ache that bloomed low and dangerous in your belly. And even though you didn’t look again, you felt it, felt him. Still watching, sill marking. Like a secret burned beneath your skin.

The walk to work is quiet, the city a steady pulse in the background—distant but constant, an unchanging rhythm beneath the shuffle of morning routines. People spill out of cafés, cross intersections in practiced haste, lost in their own motions. The air is crisp, laced with the faint bite of exhaust and brewing coffee, but it does little to ground you. There’s something unsettled in your chest, something leftover from the morning that hasn’t quite let go.

Beside you, Felix stretches his arms behind his head, voice easy, unaffected. I swear to God, this kid’s gonna drive me insane, he groans, dragging his feet along the pavement. It’s like they think dancing is just about precision. Every move is so stiff—like a damn robot. He gestures vaguely, exasperated. I keep telling them to let go, to feel it, but they just— He huffs, shaking his head. It’s like they’re scared to mess up.

You nod along, offering the occasional hum of acknowledgment, but your mind drifts, caught on something you can’t quite shake. The warmth of the apartment, the weight of it the lack of sleep—it lingers, threading through your thoughts like something unfinished.

Felix nudges your shoulder, pulling you back. You good? His eyes flick to yours, searching, curious. “You look spaced.”

You blink, force a small laugh. Just tired.

It’s not a lie, you barely slept, not really. The night had been restless, your body caught somewhere between exhaustion and something heavier. Something thick and warm, pressing, coiling low in your stomach, something that wouldn’t let go, even when you closed your eyes. You shift your bag on your shoulder, push the thought away as you step onto the crosswalk.

Felix doesn’t push, he never does. He just grins, bumping his shoulder into yours one last time before veering toward the train station. See you later. You watch him go, his silhouette swallowed by the crowd, and exhale. The relief of solitude settles in slow, curling around your ribs. Work will help. It always does.

The hours slip by in a blur—emails, meetings, the quiet drone of keyboards and muffled conversations. It’s mindless, routine, something you can disappear into if you let yourself. A necessary distraction, and for a while, it works. Until your phone buzzes.

Chan B.: Left your charger in the living room.

You stare at the message a second too long. It’s nothing, it should be nothing, just a practical text, the kind of thing any roommate might send without a second thought. But it doesn’t feel that way, never does. And that’s the problem. Because he didn’t have to tell you, he could’ve left it, let you figure it out on your own, let it be just another small, insignificant thing, but yet, once again, he didn’t. And that choice—the quiet, deliberate act of it—feels like something else entirely.

It’s not the first time. It’s been happening too often—these moments that shouldn’t mean anything, these glances, these pauses, this quiet pull that lingers long after you look away. It used to be easier to ignore, to pretend it wasn’t there, but lately, it’s been bleeding into everything, thickening the air, pressing into the space between you, warping it into something heavier. Something that can’t be written off as nothing anymore. Your fingers hover over the screen, typing, erasing, typing again, like you can undo the weight of it. Like you can silence the part of you that keeps leaning into it, keeps searching for it, keeps wanting it despite every reason not to.

The guilt sits sharp at the back of your throat, sour and insistent. Because you know where this leads, ou’ve been here before, standing at the edge of something dangerous, pretending you don’t already know how the fall feels.

And this time, you’re running out of excuses.

You: Okay.

It’s short, neutral. Safe, but even as you hit send, your chest tightens. Because you know he’ll read between the lines anyway. He always does.

The apartment greets you with the kind of quiet that isn’t really silent—more like a space that’s been lived in long enough to hold its own kind of hum. The soft drone of the TV flickers against the walls, casting a dim, shifting glow across the furniture. Something animated plays, but the volume is low, barely more than background noise. The air is warm, thick with the familiar scent of home—laundry detergent, the faint trace of Felix’s shampoo from where he probably dried his hair on the couch cushions, and something lingering from dinner, soy sauce and sesame oil hanging in the air like a memory.

Felix is exactly where you expect him to be, sprawled across the couch like he’s made a home of it, legs thrown over the armrest, his phone resting on his stomach as his fingers scroll lazily. His hair is damp, sticking up in places, and the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up, leaving creases in his skin where they’d been bunched for too long. He doesn’t bother sitting up when he hears the door click shut behind you, just tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking up for only a second before going back to his screen. Long day?

You exhale, stepping out of your shoes, feeling the way the apartment settles around you, wrapping around your edges, familiar but heavier than it used to be. Your bag slips from your shoulder, landing by the door with a muted thud. Something like that. Felix hums, stretching, the couch shifting beneath him as he finally pushes himself upright, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks comfortable, at ease, like nothing in the world has changed. Like everything is just the way it’s always been. We were thinking about ordering food. You in?

We. The word lingers—not heavy, not sharp, but present. It settles deep, pressing against something unnamed, something that’s been there too long to ignore. A slow, quiet pressure beneath your ribs. Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flick toward the kitchen.

And there he is.

Chan is leaned against the counter, his presence less of an intrusion and more of a shadow that’s simply existed here long enough to blend in. He’s half-lit by the kitchen light, casting soft shadows over his face, catching against the curve of his jaw, one hand wrapped around a glass of water, the other resting loosely at his side, phone held with the same kind of absentmindedness Felix carries in his movements. His hoodie is pushed up to his elbows, exposing the sharp edges of his wrists, the veins that press faintly against his skin. His curls are a little messier than usual, like he’s been running his fingers through them all evening, restless, or just thinking too much. He doesn’t speak when Felix does, doesn’t react at all but he’s listening. And then—just for a second—his gaze lifts, meets yours.

It’s fleeting. A flicker of something that might’ve been nothing, that might’ve been too much. Your breath catches, barely, the kind of pause that no one else would notice. But you do, and the air changes, tightens. Not enough for Felix to feel it, just enough for you to know it’s there. You force a nod, stepping further into the space, into the weight of it, into the knowledge that something in this apartment has shifted, even if no one is saying it out loud. Yeah. Sure.

Felix grins, already unlocking a food delivery app, eyes scanning the options like this is the hardest decision he’s made all day. He starts rambling, listing things off, asking what sounds good, and you answer without really thinking, letting the routine of it pull you back into something familiar, something easy, as Chan doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak, just watches, like he always does. A quiet, steady presence at the edge of the room, never fully in, never fully out, just there, a weight you can’t shake. A line you keep stepping too close to. It’s in the way he lingers, not quite part of the conversation, not quite separate from it, his silence pressing into the air like something tangible. It makes you hyper-aware of him, of the slow drag of his breath, the way his fingers flex slightly before settling, the way his presence feels heavier than it should.

Felix stretches, tipping his head back against the couch, squinting at his phone, voice light, effortless, filling the space the way he always does, like nothing is pressing at the edges of the room, tightening the air, making it feel thick, stretched too thin. Alright, so—Korean, Thai, or pizza?, he speaks like the answer matters, like it’s the only thing in the world right now, like the room isn’t filled with something else entirely. You sink onto the opposite end of the couch, tucking your legs beneath you, arms crossing loosely over your stomach, trying to get comfortable, trying to act like everything is normal. Didn’t you just eat? Felix grins, completely unbothered, like you knew he would be. That was a snack. He tilts his phone toward Chan, like he’s part of this, like he hasn’t been standing in the kitchen like a living exhale of tension this whole time. What about you?

He doesn’t answer right away, just shifts slightly, rolling his shoulders back, slow, setting his glass in the sink with careful precision. There’s something in the way he moves, in the deliberate nature of it, like he’s pushing something down, like there’s something settled deep in his bones that he doesn’t want there. Not hungry.

Felix barely reacts, already scrolling, already clicking through options, already moving past the moment that doesn’t feel like it should be moved past. Okay, you’re no help. He turns back to you, expectant, oblivious. So, what’s the verdict? I’m craving something greasy. Your gaze flicks toward Chan without thinking, without meaning to, and it’s a mistake, because he’s already turning away, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers raking through dark curls, his profile sharp in the dim light, the moment is gone before it even settles. A shift in the air, a flicker of something unreadable. You don’t know why you looked, don’t know what you were expecting. You don’t know why it feels like something just slipped through your fingers, like there was something there for half a second before it wasn’t, as you tear your gaze back to Felix. Thai sounds good.

Felix hums in approval, barely glancing up as he taps at his screen. Alright, cool. Ordering.

It’s easy, familiar, the rhythm of it, the way Felix talks, filling the room with sound, grounding it in something solid, the way he stretches out across the couch, legs sprawled over the coffee table, phone balanced in one hand, like this is any other night. And maybe it is, maybe you’re just imagining it, maybe there’s nothing there at all, no shift in the air, no weight in the silence, no reason your pulse feels a fraction too fast. Maybe it’s just a bad habit, a misplaced thought, a glance that lingers too long for no reason at all. Except—except it isn’t, mot really, because even as Felix rattles off menu choices, your focus keeps slipping, drawn back to the quiet movements in the kitchen, the low sound of water running, the way Chan moves like he’s half there and half somewhere else.

Eventually, the food is ordered. Felix tosses his phone onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms overhead, voice shifting into something looser, more absentminded. Thirty minutes. He tilts his head, considering. I need a shower before it gets here. You nod absently, barely registering the way he pushes off the couch, moving past you toward the bathroom without hesitation. The door clicks shut. And then—silence.

Not complete, not really. The muffled rush of water, the shift of weight, the scrape of glass against porcelain. Something subtle, just on the edge of your senses. You don’t look, you should, you shouldn’t. And then Chan moves.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t hesitate. Just walks past, quiet and deliberate, shoulders held tense, steps too measured, too careful, like he’s keeping himself in check. Like he doesn’t trust himself to stay in the same room as you right now, he disappears down the hall without a glance, without acknowledgment, without anything at all. And maybe that should be the end of it, maybe it is, but the absence he leaves behind feels heavier than his presence ever did.

The faintest thread of music winds through the stillness, barely there but impossible to ignore. It moves like something living, slipping beneath the low hum of the apartment, curling into the quiet, tugging at the edge of your awareness. You frown, drawn to it before you can think better of it, before logic has a chance to catch up with impulse. Your gaze flickers toward the hallway, to the half-open door at the end of it, where a dim glow spills against the wall, cool-toned and flickering, shifting with movement you can’t see.

It’s late. You should leave it alone, but you don’t.

Instead, your feet carry you forward, slow and soundless, drawn by something you can’t quite name. The music grows clearer as you approach, its pulse deep and unhurried, different from the sharp, driving rhythms Chan usually gravitates toward. This isn’t meant to hit hard—it lingers instead, settles into the air like a weight, heavy and consuming, something to be felt rather than heard, the kind of sound that gets under your skin without asking. You stop just outside, close enough to see the shift of light against the floorboards, to hear the depth of each layer folding into the next. You lean against the wall, listening, letting it pull you in. It’s mesmerizing in a way that feels personal, like a thought half-formed, like an emotion just out of reach. Like something you were never meant to hear, and yet— You just gonna stand there?

The words cut through the moment like a wire pulled too tight, snapping you back into your body. Your breath catches, pulse jumping in your throat as your head turns— He is already looking at you. He sits back in his chair, legs sprawled out slightly, one hand resting against the keyboard, the other propped against his jaw as the blue glow from the monitor traces along his skin, catching on the sharp lines of his face, pooling in the hollows beneath his eyes, making the exhaustion there seem deeper. He looks like he hasn’t slept, like he doesn’t plan to. You shift under the weight of his stare, arms crossing over your chest, grasping for something solid in the thick air between you. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

His gaze doesn’t waver. Sure you didn’t. The corners of your lips press together, but before you can think of a response, the music shifts—low and slow, something heavy weaving its way in beneath the melody, a thread of sound that feels almost mournful. It seeps into your chest, pulling something tight, something deep, something you don’t know how to name. Your head tilts slightly. This is different.

Chan’s fingers tap idly against his knee, a slow, rhythmic movement that doesn’t match the beat. He watches you for a moment, long enough for it to settle into something unreadable, long enough to make you feel like maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all. Yeah. That’s it, nothing else, no explanation, no clarification, just a single word, low and even, like it’s all he’s willing to offer. Like anything more would be giving something away. And somehow, that makes it feel more like a secret.

Your fingers tighten against your arms, a slow breath slipping through your lips. The air between you shifts, thickens. It’s nothing, it should be nothing, just a song, just a moment, just a glance held half a second too long. But it isn’t, because the line between you has already blurred, over and over again, worn thinner with each unspoken thing, each glance that lingers, each fleeting moment that neither of you ever fully acknowledges. It’s been there for too long, hovering, pressing, waiting. And lately—lately it’s felt like it’s going to snap, like it’s only a matter of time before everything held beneath the surface spills over.

You should go, turn around, walk back to the couch, pretend like none of this is happening, like you aren’t standing in the doorway of his room at nearly midnight, listening to something that feels like it was pulled from beneath his skin, but you don’t. Instead, you hold his stare for a breath too long. And then you move, not far—just enough to break whatever invisible thread had started to pull too tight. I’ll let you work.

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything else. But he doesn’t look away, either, as his gaze follows as you step back into the hallway, as you disappear around the corner.

The music plays long after you’ve gone.

The next morning, you wake to the smell of coffee, thick and bitter in the air, seeping into the quiet of the apartment like something woven into the walls. It’s the first thing you register, even before you’re fully awake, before your limbs catch up with your mind, before you even open your eyes—the scent curling in the stillness, grounding you in the slowness of morning. It drags you from the last dregs of sleep, from the lingering warmth of your blankets, pulling you forward before you’ve even made the choice to move. Your body acts before your mind does, muscles stretching, feet finding the cool floor, a slow shuffle into the hallway, your awareness only half-formed, like your thoughts are lagging behind you, still tangled in the drowsy fog of not-quite-consciousness.

The apartment is quiet. Early morning quiet, the kind of quiet that feels untouched, like the world outside hasn’t fully woken up yet, like time hasn’t quite resumed its usual pace. The hum of the fridge is the only sound, low and constant, a soft undercurrent to the stillness, almost rhythmic in the way it fills the space. There’s no movement from Felix’s room, no shuffling, no muffled voice complaining about alarms or schedules or the day ahead. Just this—the hush of an unbroken moment, the air still thick with the edges of sleep. And then—Chan.

He’s already there. Standing near the counter, half-leaned against it, a coffee mug cradled loosely between his fingers, steam rising in soft tendrils from its surface. His hair is still a little mussed, curls flattened on one side like he’d only recently pulled himself from sleep, the fabric of his shirt creased, shoulders sloped with the quiet weight of morning. He doesn’t startle when you step inside, doesn’t shift, doesn’t tense, just lifts his gaze, slow and measured, meeting yours in that steady, unreadable way of his. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.

The silence between you stretches, thick with something unspoken, something that lingers in the way he watches you, in the way your breath feels just a little too shallow, in the way the space between you feels like it holds more than just distance. It isn’t awkward—it never is with him, not exactly—but it isn’t light either, it’s a held breath, a moment suspended in its own weight, something neither of you name.

Your gaze flicks to the mug in his hands, to the way his fingers wrap around the ceramic, holding it with a kind of idle stillness, like an afterthought, like something he picked up out of habit rather than want. Your brow furrows slightly, a small frown tugs at the corner of your mouth, your voice still soft with sleep when you speak. You don’t drink coffee. Chan exhales, slow, measured, a barely-there shift of his shoulders as he tips his head, his grip on the mug not loosening. No. You blink, eyes narrowing just slightly, something about it not quite settling, a thread out of place. Then why—?

It’s Felix’s. His voice is quiet, rough around the edges from disuse, and he gestures vaguely toward the counter, where another mug sits, still full, steam curling into the air like a ghost of warmth. You nod slowly, but the answer doesn’t quite fit the question you were asking. Not really, because he isn’t holding that cup, he’s holding this one, the one he has no intention of drinking. And it should be nothing, should be insignificant, should be something so simple that it doesn’t even register—but it does. Because Chan doesn’t do things for no reason. Because he’s deliberate, methodical, careful in a way that never seems accidental and yet—here he is. Holding something useless in his hands, standing in the kitchen when he doesn’t have to be, quiet in a way that feels like it has weight, like there’s something just beneath the surface.

You step forward, moving toward the counter, toward the second mug. Your fingers reach for it, barely brushing the handle, and in the same breath—Chan moves.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, a shift, a small adjustment, the way his arm lowers, the way his fingers tighten for just a second around the ceramic before he sets it down with careful precision, but you feel it. Feel it like a tremor beneath your skin, like the slow unfurling of something you can’t quite name, like the ghost of a touch that never quite lands. And for a moment—a long, stretching moment—you think he’s going to say something. You think he’s going to fill the silence, to break whatever has been settling between you since—since when? Last night? Longer? You don’t know, but the silence doesn’t break; it holds, lingers, stays.

And then—Chan moves again. Steps past you, slow, unhurried, controlled in that way he always is, as if nothing is amiss, as if there is nothing to acknowledge at all. The air shifts with his movement, the faintest brush of warmth where he passes, the whisper of fabric, the scent of something clean, familiar, something that shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. You don’t turn, don’t look, just stand there, fingers curled around the handle of your mug, eyes fixed on the surface of the coffee, on the way the steam moves, restless, curling, dissipating into nothing.

By the time you hear his bedroom door click shut, the silence has already swallowed the moment whole. You don’t know how long you stand there, the coffee in your hands is warm but cooling, the surface still trembling faintly where your fingers brushed against the ceramic. You watch the steam rise—thin, curling ribbons dissipating into nothing, vanishing before they ever really exist. The scent is thick, bitter, grounding in a way that feels unsteady all the same. The weight of the mug is solid in your grip, but you feel strangely weightless, like you’re standing outside of yourself, watching a moment that shouldn’t mean anything stretch too thin between your ribs.

You should move, you should drink, you should do something other than stand here, stuck in the aftershock of something unspoken, something you won’t name, something that lingers in the empty space Chan left behind, but you don’t. Instead, you inhale, slow, pressing your lips together before finally bringing the rim of the mug to your mouth. The first sip is strong, untouched by cream or sugar, settling thick and dark on your tongue It burns, too hot, but you let it settle, let the taste sink in, let it root you in place—until a creak cuts through the silence, a shift, a presence.

Felix’s door swings open, breaking the stillness like a dropped coin clattering against the floor. The apartment is suddenly smaller, reality bleeding in at the edges as Felix steps out with a yawn, rubbing at his eyes, his hoodie hanging loose over his frame, the sleeves slipping past his fingers as he stretches. His hair is a mess—worse than usual—and when he blinks blearily in your direction, it’s clear he hasn’t fully surfaced from sleep yet. Mornin’, he mumbles, voice thick, scratchy. You swallow another sip before answering. Morning.

Felix shuffles forward, moving past you toward the counter, reaching blindly for the second mug sitting there. His fingers close around the handle, lifting it automatically, bringing it toward his mouth before he even looks down—then he stops, pauses mid-motion, brows pulling together as he lowers the cup, peering inside like something about it is wrong. This isn’t mine. Your fingers tighten just slightly around your own mug. Your stomach pulls taut, though you’re not sure why. It’s not? Felix frowns, lifting the cup a little, tilting it in the dim morning light like that will change the contents, make sense of something that doesn’t quite fit. No? I always put sugar in mine. This is just… He sniffs it, then wrinkles his nose. Black.

A pause, a fraction too long, the realization settles—quiet but sharp, pressing between your ribs. It was Chan’s. Chan doesn’t drink coffee, and Felix doesn’t drink black coffee, either. But Chan had been standing there, holding it. Something thickens in your throat, Felix squints at the cup again, then just shrugs, setting it back on the counter with an absent hum. He doesn’t think anything of it, doesn’t turn it over in his mind the way you do. To him, it’s a weird, sleepy mistake, something easily dismissed, something unimportant. You wish you could see it that way, but your mind loops back, unspooling the image of Chan standing there, quiet in the morning light, hands wrapped around something he wasn’t drinking, wasn’t planning to drink. Your coffee. The one thing in this apartment only you drink without sugar.

Your stomach twists. Maybe it was nothing, maybe he wasn’t thinking. Maybe he had just reached for something, needing to hold onto something, needing the shape of it in his hands the way some people reach for distraction, for anything that might tether them to the moment, maybe you’re reading into things. Or maybe you’re not. Felix exhales, rolling his shoulders back, then finally looks at you properly, gaze softening as he takes you in. He hesitates for half a second before tipping his head. You okay? The question catches you off guard as something tightens in your chest, instinct coiling quick and sharp, an immediate urge to smooth things over, to bury whatever just flickered across your face. You don’t even know what it was. I’m fine, you say, too quickly, too automatic. Felix doesn’t push, he never does. He just watches you for another beat, searching your face for something, then sighs lightly and leans against the counter beside you, solid and steady, his presence warm in a way that feels easy, uncomplicated. You should find comfort in that and you do, on some level, but the contrast makes something inside you twist even harder.

You take another sip of coffee, let it scald the inside of your mouth, let the bitterness drag you back into your body. It’s finel it’s nothing, it has to be. The apartment is quiet again, Felix had left a little while ago, dragging his bag over his shoulder with an easy grin, throwing a quick, absent see you later over his shoulder before the door clicked shut behind him. His presence had filled the space, warm and effortless, keeping the morning light from feeling too sharp, too revealing. But now—now it’s just you and Chan, and the quiet feels different.

Chan hasn’t left yet. He stands near the counter, fingertips resting against the edge, posture loose but not quite relaxed, like he’s caught between moving and staying. There’s an absence in his hands where your coffee had been, a small, unspoken thread of something left hanging between then and now, as his gaze flickers, dark and unreadable, before settling on you. You good?” The question is quiet, steady, but there’s something beneath it—something careful, like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap. An irony of sorts, being repeated once again and your stomach twists. You nod, automatic, a reflex, a muscle memory of avoidance. But the moment it’s done, you regret it, because Chan doesn’t move, doesn’t shift away, doesn’t let it slip past the way Felix would. He just watches you, something sharp in the set of his jaw, something pressing in his silence.

He doesn’t believe you, and you don’t believe youself, either. The air between you is thick, brittle, like a pane of glass already cracked beneath the surface, waiting for the weight of one wrong move to shatter it completely. You can feel it—that first fracture, thin and hairline, the kind that seems small but spreads the more you try to ignore it. Chan exhales, slow. You hear it more than you see it, the subtle shift of his shoulders, the slight parting of his lips before they press together again. His hands flex at his sides, like there’s something he wants to say, something he could reach for. But then, just as easily as the moment presents itself, it slips away and he pushes off the counter, his movements controlled, composed, giving nothing away. Alright. His voice is even, but you don’t miss the weight in it, the quiet restraint. Then he turns and just like that, the tension settles back into its usual place, unseen but suffocating, curling between the space he leaves behind. You don’t stop him, you don’t say anything. You just stand there, feeling the echo of something neither of you are willing to name.

[sunnyhonie]

The slowest burn of all slow burns ever…I love it. So intrigued. Def looking forward to upcoming chapters. 🔥

[sunnyhonie]

The way I just want to slowly unbuckle that belt…

[cb97percent]

「𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝙰𝚃𝙴」 · scent

➥ Established relationship — 1k (~4 min. read)

➥ Domestic sexy, Drabble

➥ The author chooses not to issue tags for everything that takes place in this work to preserve tension and some element of surprise where applicable. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk. Read full disclaimer here.

⚠ — Explicit sexual content

➥ His plan is to ruin you. One sense at a time. №. 1 of the five delicious snapshots from your Valentine's escapade with him.

The sea breeze sneaking into the bungalow makes the curtains dance and licks a pleasantly cold stripe up his spine. He wakes up for the second time that morning with a ticklish shiver. He listens to the waves quietly lapping at the shore below for a while, and when he finally opens his eyes, the sight of you peacefully sleeping next to him immediately puts a smile on his face.

He is the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

He’s a bit sore from the night before, but the sensation is satisfying. He is actually smugly proud of it. Your body looks like a list of damning evidence against him—cum stains, bite marks, faint bruises on your ass perfectly matching his handprint… The vivid memories of 2 a.m. suddenly flash behind his eyelids.

He throbs between his legs.

His fingers move from your chest down to your crotch, so slowly that it breaks goosebumps on your skin. His touch lingers on your pussy. His curiosity gets the best of him, and when he slides them further down, a surge of excitement gallops in his veins. You are wet.

He can feel his fangs coming out.

As he paves a path on your naked body with his kisses, something grabs his attention. He caught a whiff of this last night, but it wasn’t as strong. Now that his mind is clear and his senses are fully open, he can tell your scent is a bit sweeter than usual. He can’t fucking believe his luck. So if he wants to, he can actually…

He’s getting restless.

He dives under the comforter and takes cover between your legs like a predator patiently waiting to ambush its prey. It smells so much sweeter right at the spring itself. The headrush he gets makes his thoughts go fuzzy. He can’t act as fast as he thinks. He wants to lovingly kiss it. He wants to ferociously devour it. He wants to tease you with barely-there licks. He wants to suck you dry.

He closes his mouth on your pussy and lets his instincts take the wheel.

Your scent dissolves on his tastebuds, and you taste even sweeter on his tongue. The more he licks, the more impatient he grows. He has half a mind to climb up and fuck you awake, cumming to your half-asleep moans calling his name. His large hands squeeze your supple flesh when he excites himself, and he buries his tongue deeper into your oozing hole, the obscenely wet sounds so loud they finally awake you with the most pleasurable of sensations.

“Good morning to you, too, baby,” you uncover the sheets and sleepily smile, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“To getting me horny as fuck first thing in the morning,” he reaches for your hand and holds it in a tight grip.

“I thought you would be out of commission after last night,” you play with his curls, the rolls of your hips matching the languid rhythm of his tongue.

“Last night doesn’t count. Consider me blacked out,” he pulls the comforter over his head again, “Close the covers. You cum harder when it’s warm.”

The cruising speed suddenly peaks when his heavy breathing turns into tangible vibrations on your wet folds. Your content sighs become audible moans as he licks you with more pressure, quickly alternating between fast flicks and lazy swirls. He knows what it means when you squeeze his hand that hard. He latches his lips around your clit and starts sucking on it, the tip of his tongue relentlessly teasing it until you thrash with an orgasm so sharp no sound comes out of you. He decides not to be a menace this early in the morning and helps you land with a tolerable speed, reappearing through the sheets when you let out your last big exhale.

“I’ll honor your wishes to do sightseeing, but you only get today,” he gives you a messy kiss, “Then we’re locking ourselves in this room until the end of our stay. I got plans.”

The warm air he has trapped under the comforter resurfaces with him, and it carries the distinct notes of something he knows you love. You can’t help but start laughing, partially due to the high you were still under the influence of.

“Did you really leave this bed at the crack of dawn to wear perfume?” you narrow your eyes at him.

“Maybe,” he stares at your lips hungrily, “How bad do you wanna fuck me right now?”

“You just made me cum like five seconds ago.”

“You’re still not answering my question,” he drags his hands down the sides of your thighs, groping your flesh as he puts himself in your leglock, “Wanna go for a morning walk with me?”

“You’re playing dirty,” you attempt a half-hearted complaint.

“Not as dirty as you get for me when you get a whiff of this,” he offers his neck for you to kiss.

His temperature is already a million degrees, and with every wet kiss you place, his scent becomes more palpable on your nostrils, eventually invading your entire lizard brain to declare control. His low and raspy hums of contentment provoke you to hear them louder and you take a small bite from his sensitive skin.

“You and your fucking mist,” you squeeze his face between two fingers and wrap your legs around him tighter, “Screw walking. Let’s go for a run.”

「© 2025, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

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[sunnyhonie]

Always turning it out, @cb97percent !❤️‍🔥