𝙎𝙄𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙀::After years of love, Bang Chan’s obsession awakens — he needs to breed you. Tonight, he worships, claims, and begs to fill you with his child.
𖦹𝗔/𝗻::Why do I keep changing my blog every five minutes? Someone stop me 😭
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The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the tall windows.
You and Chan had been together for four years—four years of shared laughter, late-night studio sessions, and a love that only seemed to grow deeper with time. But lately, something had shifted in him.
You’d caught the way his eyes lingered on your body longer than usual, especially on your stomach, your hips, and your breasts. His touches had become more possessive, more intentional. And tonight, that obsession finally spilled over.
Chan had you pinned gently against the bedroom door the moment you both stepped inside after dinner. His broad chest pressed into your back as his lips found the sensitive spot on your neck, kissing, sucking, tasting.
“Baby…” he murmured, voice already husky with need. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About you. About us.”
His hands slid under your shirt, cupping your breasts immediately. He groaned at the soft weight of them in his palms, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened. Chan had always been obsessed with your chest, but tonight his touch was almost reverent.
“Fuck, these are perfect,” he whispered, squeezing them gently. “So full… so soft.”
You gasped as he turned you around and pulled your shirt over your head in one smooth motion. His dark eyes dropped to your breasts, pupils blown wide with lust. Without another word, he leaned down and captured one nipple in his mouth, sucking slowly while his hand kneaded the other. The wet heat of his tongue made your knees weak.
“Chan…” you moaned, fingers threading through his curly hair.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes intense. “I want you tonight. All of you. No protection. Nothing between us.”
Your breath hitched. You’d talked about kids before—someday—but the way he said it now carried a raw hunger that made heat pool between your thighs.
He walked you backwards until your legs hit the bed, then laid you down carefully. Chan stripped his own shirt off, revealing the hard planes of muscle he’d built over years of dancing and training. He was big—broad shoulders, thick arms, and the kind of solid body that always made you feel small beneath him. Size kink had always been a quiet thrill between you, and he knew it.
He crawled over you, kissing you deeply. His tongue slid against yours, slow and filthy, while his hand pushed your skirt up your thighs. He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down your body, stopping to worship your breasts again—licking, sucking, gently biting until you were squirming and panting.
When he reached your hips, he dragged your panties down your legs and spread your thighs wide. The sight of you bare and glistening made him growl.
“Look at you… already so wet for me.”
Chan settled between your legs and kissed your inner thigh before his mouth found your pussy. He ate you out like a man starved—long, slow licks from your entrance to your clit, then sucking the swollen bundle of nerves into his mouth
His strong hands held your hips down as you tried to buck against his face. The wet sounds of his tongue filled the room, mixed with your broken moans.
“Chan—oh god—” you cried, fingers tightening in his hair.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right while his mouth focused on your clit. He worked you relentlessly, bringing you right to the edge before slowing down again, teasing.
When he finally let you cum, it crashed over you hard. Your thighs shook around his head as you moaned his name. He didn’t stop, licking you through every wave until you were trembling and oversensitive.
Only then did he climb back up your body, kissing you again so you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock—thick, heavy, and leaking—rested against your thigh.
“I need to be inside you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough. “I want to fill you up tonight, baby. Want to breed this pretty pussy until it takes.”
His words sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the fat head of his cock through your slick folds.
“Gonna put a baby in you,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours with dark intensity. “Gonna keep filling you until you’re carrying my child. You’ll look so fucking beautiful all round and full with my baby…”
He pushed in slowly, stretching you open. The size difference always made you feel it—every thick inch pressing against your walls until he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. Chan groaned deeply, forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck… so tight. So perfect for me.”
He stayed still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried inside you raw. Then he kissed you again—slow, deep, loving—and started to move.
Chan kissed you again, deep and consuming, as he began to thrust. At first his movements were slow and measured, savoring the tight heat of your pussy wrapped around his thick cock. But the hunger inside him was already spiraling out of control. The thought of filling you, of claiming you completely, of watching your belly swell with his child, had been driving him insane for weeks. Tonight that obsession took over.
His hips snapped forward harder, burying himself to the hilt with every stroke. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder as he fucked you deeper, faster, his heavy balls pressing against you each time he bottomed out. You gasped sharply, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as the intense stretch and relentless pace made your head spin.
“Shh, my love,” Chan whispered sweetly against your lips, voice soft and tender even as he pounded into you like a man possessed. “You’re doing so well… taking me so deep. Such a good girl for me.”
He grabbed one of your breasts, kneading the soft flesh while his mouth latched onto the other, sucking hard on your nipple. His tongue swirled around the sensitive peak as he thrust harder, the bed creaking under the force. Every powerful snap of his hips made your body jolt, pleasure bordering on overwhelming.
“Chan—ahh—slow down…” you moaned, but your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, betraying how much you needed it.
He lifted his head, eyes dark with raw need, yet his voice remained gentle, almost loving. “I can’t, baby. I need this. Need to breed you tonight.” He kissed you again, slow and sweet, contrasting the brutal way his cock drove into your soaked pussy. “You’re going to be such a perfect mommy… carrying our baby right here.” His hand slid down to press firmly against your lower stomach, feeling the bulge of his thick cock moving inside you.
The pressure of his palm combined with his relentless thrusts made you dizzy, your vision blurring with every deep stroke. He was so big, stretching you wide open, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your moans turned into broken cries.
Chan groaned softly, sweat dripping down his temples as he fucked you harder. “Fuck, you feel so good… so warm and tight. This pretty little pussy was made for me to fill.” His voice dropped to that sweet, soothing tone again. “Imagine how beautiful you’ll look all round and full with my baby. Your breasts will get even bigger… heavier… I’ll worship them every day.”
He switched positions suddenly, rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him without pulling out. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you. Chan’s hands gripped your waist, eyes locked on your breasts as they swayed with the movement.
“Ride me, baby. Let me see you,” he murmured lovingly, thumbs stroking your skin. “Wanna watch you take every inch while I breed you.”
You braced your hands on his chest and started moving, sliding up and down his thick length. Chan’s size made every descent feel overwhelming, stretching you deliciously. He thrust up to meet you, driving himself even deeper, his pace frantic and desperate beneath you. The wet sounds of your pussy taking him were obscene, your juices coating his cock and dripping down his balls.
“Yes… just like that,” he praised softly, voice gentle even as his hips snapped up wildly, nearly knocking the breath out of you. “You’re going to be the best mommy in the world. So pretty, so full of me.” One hand left your waist to cup your breast again, squeezing and pinching your nipple while the other pressed against your stomach. “Right here, baby. I’m going to cum so deep inside you. Keep it all in for me.”
You rode him harder, thighs burning, head spinning from the intensity. Chan’s eyes were glued to where your bodies connected, watching his cock disappear inside you again and again. His breathing grew ragged, but his words stayed sweet and coaxing.
“Look at you… my beautiful girl. You’ll glow when you’re pregnant. I’ll take care of you every single day. Kiss this belly… suck on these pretty tits while they’re full…” He pulled you down into a messy kiss, tongues sliding together as he continued thrusting up into you like he was trying to implant his seed as deep as possible.
His hand moved between your legs, thumb circling your clit in tight, fast strokes. The combined sensation — his thick cock stretching you, his desperate pace, and his sweet filthy promises — pushed you right to the edge.
“Cum for me, mommy,” he whispered tenderly against your mouth, eyes full of dark obsession and pure love at the same time. “Cum on my cock so I can fill you up. I’m not stopping until you’re dripping with me.”
Your thighs trembled as you rode him harder, taking every thick inch of Chan’s cock deep inside your soaked pussy. The stretch was overwhelming, his size splitting you open with every bounce, the wet, filthy sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the room. Chan’s hands gripped your hips tightly at first, guiding you, but his control was fraying fast. His breathing grew ragged, chest heaving as he stared up at you with desperate, glassy eyes.
You leaned forward, your breasts swaying heavily above his face. He immediately captured one nipple in his mouth, sucking greedily while his hips bucked up wildly to meet your movements. The dual sensation of his cock pounding into you and his hot tongue lavishing your breasts pushed you closer to the edge.
“Fuck, baby… you feel so good,” he groaned around your nipple, voice breaking. His thumb kept rubbing tight circles on your swollen clit, never slowing down. Your pussy clenched hard around his thick length, drawing a broken whimper from his throat.
Suddenly his hands slid up to cup both of your breasts, squeezing them together as he thrust up into you with frantic need. The sweet, loving tone was still there, but now it was laced with raw desperation.
“Please…” he whispered, eyes pleading as he looked up at you. “I’m so close. I need to cum inside you. Let me fill this pretty pussy, love. Please let me breed you.”
You rode him faster, grinding down on his cock, feeling him throb and twitch deep inside your walls. Chan’s face flushed, his usual dominance melting into something needier, more submissive. His hips stuttered, trying to push even deeper as he begged.
“ Please, love… let me cum inside you. I need it so bad. I’ve been thinking about this for so long—filling you up until it takes. Please let me put a baby in you. I’ll be so good for you, I swear. Just let me cum deep inside this tight little pussy.”
His voice was soft and shaky, almost whimpering as he continued thrusting up into you with desperate, powerful strokes. Sweat glistened on his skin, his curly hair sticking to his forehead. He kept one hand on your breast, kneading it gently while the other pressed against your lower belly again, feeling the way his cock bulged inside you.
“I’ll make you such a perfect mommy,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours with pure obsession and love. “You’ll look so beautiful carrying my child. Please… please let me cum in you. I’m begging you, baby. I can’t hold it anymore. Your pussy is too good—too warm. I need to fill you up right now.”
The raw desperation in his voice, mixed with the relentless way he was fucking up into you, finally sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you hard, pussy spasming and clenching around his thick cock as waves of pleasure tore through your body. You cried out, thighs shaking violently as you kept riding him through it.
Chan’s eyes rolled back slightly, his breath catching in his throat at the feeling of your walls milking him.
“Yes—fuck—thank you,” he moaned sweetly, voice trembling. “Please, love… let me cum inside. Please let me breed you. I’m so close. I need to pump you full. Please… please say yes.”
You leaned down and kissed him messily, moaning against his lips. “Cum inside me, Chan.”
The moment the words left your mouth, Chan broke. With a deep, guttural groan he thrust up one final time, burying himself as deep as possible.
His cock pulsed hard inside you, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your pussy in heavy spurts. He kept whimpering softly as he came, hips jerking with every wave, making sure every drop stayed deep inside you.
“Oh god… thank you, baby,” he whispered breathlessly against your mouth, still cumming. “I’m filling you up so much… gonna make you a mommy. You’re going to look so perfect with my baby inside you.”
He held you tightly against his chest as the last spurts emptied into you, his cock still twitching deep in your cum-filled pussy.
His hands gently stroked your back and breasts, voice soft and full of adoration even as his body trembled from the intensity of his release.
“I love you… and I’m never pulling out again tonight.”
who knew that watching your best friend get this much bigger would make the "just friends" lie feel so dangerously thin ?
pairing: bang chan x reader, friends to lovers
genre: smut; fluff
warnings: explicit sexual content (minors do not interact), fingering, unprotected sex (please use contraceptives !), praise kink, size kink
word count: 3.55k
kysa's note: had this freaky title in my wips and it's finally here, drowning in praise (#lovepraisekink) hopefully it's as good as i had hoped to make it :) leave your thoughts in the comments, hope you enjoy ! xoxo.
you loved hanging out with your boys, you seriously did. you had met chan and jeongin in university three years ago — a tiny, tight-knit circle whose lives had become tangled in a way that could only be fated. out of everyone you’d met during those years, they were the ones who stuck. you loved them.
okay maybe someone a tad bit more.
bang christopher chan.
you had met him through shared music production classes back when you were all just trying to survive your first year. the first proper meeting between you all had happened while you and jeongin were drowning in a final project; chan had simply dropped by with coffee and some words of encouragement. you learned quickly that that was just how chan was — kind, caring and the literal definition of a gentleman.
he had kept that reputation up for years, whether he was picking you up from the library when you were too tired to walk or showing up at your door with food when you were drowning in assignments, detached from the world. before you knew it, he had nestled into a permanent, sweet corner of your heart. your crush on him kept growing but you reminded yourself that it's just chan — being kind and caring and him.
you controlled yourself, or rather, you feigned whatever remnants of control were left in your body. you feigned it so well that apparently jeongin knew, but the man in question remained oblivious. it was easy to hide because you believed that was just chan — the hardworking soul who cared for his two best friends with the same steady, protective warmth.
so all was good. you continued with the act.
because that’s what it was — an act. for years, you had lied, playing the part of the perfect friend, pretending his presence didn't make your pulse skip.
and that lie was currently biting you in the ass.
you were calm.
obviously.
most definitely.
it wasn't like the visuals were currently playing tug-of-war with your heartbeat.
it was your typical movie night, hosted at chan and jeongin’s place. jeongin had asked you to come early to help with snacks since chan was out at the gym. you had arrived with bags of groceries, helping him prep while he chattered away about the horror movie he had picked. while he handled the popcorn, you filled the bowls with crisps. while he stepped away for a call, you placed the bowls on the table and settled on the sofa, mindlessly scrolling through your phone.
then, the door swung open.
chan entered, his body covered in a slight sheen of sweat, gym bag slung over his shoulder. clad in a black chrome hearts hoodie, he looked so devastatingly hot it had your mouth drying, your eyes straying to the sliver of skin visible at his chest and neck.
"hey, sorry i'm late to my own hosting duties," chan spoke, locking the door behind him. his voice was a bit deeper than usual, roughened by his workout, and it sent a localized shiver straight down your spine. "missed my session this morning so i had to squeeze it in now. you been waiting long ?"
"ah, don't worry about it — besides, innie is way more fun to be around anyways." you managed to joke, your voice only slightly higher than usual as you tried to hide your flustered state behind a playful jab.
chan just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that felt far too intimate for the living room. "is that so ? i'll remember that next time you need a coffee run."
just then, jeongin appeared from the kitchen and plopped down on the floor right in front of you, leaning his back against the sofa near your knees. he was already rambling about the jump-scares in the movie. you reached out instinctively, ruffling his hair as he talked; he was essentially the younger brother you had never had. there was a comfortable, protective warmth between you two — a bond so effortless that he felt like home. he was the only one who could get away with forcing you to watch a horror movie you were terrified of just by giving you those puppy eyes.
"don't listen to him," jeongin chirped, looking up at you with a grin. "i'll protect you from the ghosts. chan hyung is the one who's going to be screaming."
"in your dreams, kid," chan muttered, heading toward the bathroom.
a few minutes later, you caught a waft of fresh, musk-scented shampoo. before the scent could even reach your lungs, a freshly showered chan sat on the couch right beside you. his fingers carded through his wet ash-blonde hair, the hue shining as if it existed only to be his hair colour. once you moved past that, you froze.
you sat there, way too still for a living, breathing human body.
chan was sitting beside you, clad in a black tank top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
the fabric barely contained the gym results he had been hiding under heavy hoodies for months. his arms were thick, the skin pulled tight over hard muscle, and every time he moved, his pecs flexed against the thin material of the tank. when he leaned forward to grab his drink, the sight of his back muscles shifting and roping beneath the black fabric was enough to make your brain short-circuit. even his thighs, thick and straining against the hem of his shorts as he settled into the cushions, seemed to take up more space than they used to.
the couch felt smaller. the air felt thinner.
when did he get so big ? his arms, his shoulders, his back — the thought looped in your head, a frantic, rhythmic mantra while you stared at the tv without seeing a single thing.
you could feel the heat radiating off him, a steady pulse of warmth that made your own skin feel too tight. every time he shifted, the scent of his soap mixed with the lingering warmth of his skin hit you, sending your internal monologue spiraling into territory that definitely wasn't 'just friends'. you were so focused on the sheer physical gravity of him that you missed the way his eyes lingered on the side of your face — his expression unreadable, heavy, and far too focused.
"you okay ?" he murmured, the low vibration of his voice closer to your ear than you were prepared for. "you're awfully quiet tonight."
"oh y-yea, it's n-nothing," you mumbled, mentally screaming at yourself for tripping over such simple words. you forced your eyes back to the screen, staring at the flickering shadows with a focus that was borderline painful.
but just as your heartbeat started to settle into a manageable rhythm, the movie decided it was finished being subtle. a sudden, bone-chilling screech echoed through the speakers, paired with a visual so jarring that your body reacted before your brain could catch up.
you flinched violently, your entire frame jolting sideways as you sought out the nearest solid thing to anchor you. your hands scrambled, fingers digging instinctively into the nearest source of heat — chan’s bicep.
you didn't just touch him — you clung to him, your face pressing into the crook of his shoulder as you tried to hide from the screen. his arm was hot beneath your touch, so much wider and stronger than you had imagined when you were just looking at it. the sheer density of his muscle under the thin cotton of the tank top made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason than the ghost on screen.
"shit," you breathed out against his skin, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "i hate this. i seriously hate you both for making me do this."
jeongin let out a delighted cackle from his spot on the floor, not even looking back as he reached for a handful of popcorn. "don't pass out before the second act !"
chan didn't laugh. if anything, he seemed to go incredibly still. for a second, you worried you had overstepped, that the 'act' was finally broken. you started to pull back, your fingers beginning to loosen their desperate grip on his arm, but before you could retreat, his hand came up.
his large palm covered your own, his fingers curling over yours to lock your hand firmly against his bicep. he didn't let you pull away. instead, he shifted his weight, leaning into you until you were tucked securely against his side, practically swallowed by his bulk. the movement caused his tank top to strain even further, the fabric groaning against the width of his chest.
"it's okay," chan murmured, his voice dropping into a register so low it felt like a physical vibration against your temple. "i've got you. you don't have to let go."
i don't have to let go — the thought was a dizzying loop in your mind. you could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the scent of his shampoo and warm skin wrapping around you like a cocoon. you felt so small next to him, so fragile, and the way he was looking down at you — gaze heavy and dark — made a tiny, involuntary whimper climb up your throat.
it was a pathetic, needy little sound, and you tried really hard to swallow it, but it was too late.
chan heard it.
he leaned in just an inch closer, his lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear as the movie’s soundtrack swelled to a roar, masking his words from jeongin.
"that's it, such a good girl, staying so still for me," he whispered, the praise hitting you like a physical weight. "just keep holding on, sweetheart. you're doing so well."
oh. fuck.
did he just — ? did he just call you, a good girl ?
your grip tightened on his arm, your knuckles turning white as you felt your act crumbling. the horror movie was still playing, but the only thing you could actually feel was the heat of chan’s body and the way his voice was slowly, deliberately dismantling every bit of control you had left.
the air in the room shifted, turning thick and heavy as the movie’s score reached a frantic, screeching crescendo. jeongin was still glued to the screen, completely oblivious to the silent collapse of your composure just inches away.
every time your heart tried to find its rhythm, chan’s thumb would brush slowly, deliberately, over the back of your hand — a rhythmic, possessive movement that kept you pinned to his side. you were leaning into him so heavily now that you could feel the individual ribs of his tank top pressing against your cheek, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric like a fever.
suddenly, he dropped his hand from your shoulder to your waist, fingers grazing the skin where your shirt had lifted. despite much controlling, another whimper escaped you, a tiny, broken sound that was lost to everyone but him.
"you’re so sensitive, aren't you?" chan’s voice vibrated against the shell of your ear. "making those needy little noises just because i'm holding you."
jesus fucking christ —
"stop — please stop" your mind pleaded, but your body was betraying you, arching almost imperceptibly toward the source of the praise. your internal monologue was a chaotic mess of two years of pining finally crashing into the reality of his massive, solid frame.
you felt small. you felt seen. and for the first time, you felt like he was done pretending.
he leaned in, his nose brushing against your temple as he inhaled the scent of your hair.
"i think the movie is getting to be too much for you," he murmured, though his eyes weren't on the screen. "how about we go to my room ? i'll help you calm down."
the promise — the promise of help was what finally made you stop pretending. you couldn't even find your voice to answer. you just nodded — a jerky, frantic movement that had his lips curling into a shadow of a smirk.
chan stood up, his massive frame towering over you for a second before he reached down, his hand wrapping around yours and pulling you upward. the sheer strength in his grip was effortless, reminding you of his strength that had been distracting you all night.
"innie, we're gonna head in. she's a bit too spooked," chan called out, his voice perfectly casual, slipping back into that normal tone so easily it made your head spin.
jeongin didn't even look up from the screen, waving a dismissive hand. "yeah, yeah. go protect your person, hyung. don't let the ghosts get 'em."
the moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you. the silence of the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of your own jagged breathing. chan didn't move toward the bed. instead, he turned, his bulk immediately crowding you back against the solid wood of the door.
he didn't touch you yet, but he didn't have to. he just stood there, his shoulders blocking out the light, the black tank top clinging to his chest as it rose and fell with a sudden, heavy intensity.
"now," he whispered, his voice dropping into that commanding register that made your knees go weak. "tell me why you were making those sounds on the couch ? why did those pretty whimpers escape your throat, baby ?
your mouth went dry, mind reeling as the words fell into your ears — he found your whimper pretty ? and the nickname — good god.
you looked up at him, the height difference feeling more pronounced than ever in the quiet of his room.
"i... i don't know," you breathed, another sound escaping as he stepped even closer, his thick thighs brushing against yours.
"liar," he coaxed, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your lower lip. "you were being such a good girl out there, acting so sweet for me. do you want to keep being good ?"
your soul agreed before you could.
"b-big — y-you're so b-big, channie" you whispered, throat bobbing as you waited for his reaction with bated breath.
chan chuckled as his fingers slid back to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to take all of him in.
"is that what's distracting you, sweetheart ?" he murmured, stepping even deeper into your space until you were pinned flat against the door.
up close, the sheer scale of him was terrifying in the best way possible. his chest was a broad wall of solid muscle, the thin fabric of his tank top damp and clinging to every ridge of his torso.
"i've been working so hard for you," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that chesty, gravelly tone that made your knees buckle. "waiting for the day you’d finally stop pretending and just tell me how much you liked it."
he worked out for you ?
the realisation hit you with a force, making your knees buckle.
his free hand came down, his large palm splaying over your stomach, his fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your waist. he pressed in just enough to make you gasp, his thumb grazing the bottom of your ribs.
"made my shoulders broad for you to lay on, made my biceps bigger for you to hold, made myself stronger so i can — " he continued, his voice trailing off into a low, dark growl as he pressed his hips firmly into yours.
the sentence didn't need to be finished. you could feel exactly what he meant as his eyes darkened, tracking the way your breath hitched the moment you felt the hard length of him through his shorts, pressing firmly against your thighs.
you could only let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, your hands coming up to rest uselessly against his massive biceps. they felt like iron beneath your palms, so thick that your fingers couldn't even dream of meeting on the other side. the realization of just how much bigger he was than you sent a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.
"channie, p-please — " you whispered, arching into him as you moved your hands to his chest, slightly digging in order to ground yourself.
the friction of your palms against his chest only made him growl, a low sound that vibrated through your own ribcage. he couldn't wait for you to finish your plea. with a single, effortless motion, he hooked his hands under your thighs and hiked you up, your back hitting the door with a soft thud as you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.
the sheer bulk of him was even more overwhelming now that you were flush against him. just then he pressed his lips against yours, groaning as you moaned into the kiss. a shiver ran down your spine as chan sucked on your lower lip, swallowing your tiny gasps. a slight nip on your lips had you moaning his name and all his restraints snapped.
chan laid you on the bed, the mattress divotting deeply under his weight as he crawled over you, caging you in with those massive shoulders. as the last of your clothes were discarded, the reality of him hit you like a physical blow.
god, he was big everywhere. your eyes blown wide, you tracked the lines of his body — the roped muscle of his thighs, the sheer width of his chest, and then, the sight of him fully hardened and twitching against his stomach. he was thick, heavy, and looked utterly impossible.
chan didn't give you time to overthink it. he was over you in a second, his large hand sliding down to find you already sopping wet, your body betraying how long you had craved this. he pushed two thick fingers inside you, stretching you open as he watched your face go slack, eyes rolling back.
"fuck, you’re so wet for me, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice a gravelly vibration. "did you get like this just thinking about me ? thinking about how much of me you could take ? fuck, you're so ready."
you arched off the bed, your fingers digging into the iron-hard muscle of his biceps. "please, c-chan — put it in. oh fuck — please, i need it so bad."
"you want it?" he growled, "show me how much you want it. tell me, princess."
"want you so fucking bad, i'm aching — please, channie — " you whimpered, spreading your legs wider giving him a perfect view of your sopping cunt stuffed full of his fingers. that was all the invitation he needed.
he repositioned himself, the broad head of his length probing at your entrance. he moved slowly, testing the tension, but as your own juices acted as a slick invitation, he could'nt help but slide in one heavy thrust.
the friction was staggering. you felt your breath leave your body in a silent scream as he slid in all at once, his sheer girth stretching you to the absolute limit. he didn't stop until his pelvis crashed against yours, buried to the hilt.
"oh god — fuuuuuuuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping against yours as he took a ragged breath. "you're so tight — nghhhh, you're wrapping around me like you were fucking made for me. such a good girl, taking all of me so perfectly. fuck — you feel heavenly, baby."
it felt like he was everywhere. the sensation was so deep it was visceral — you could swear you felt him pressing against your very ribs, filling the entirety of your core until there was no room left for air — breathing nothing but him. as you looked down, a visible, terrifyingly hot bulge appeared in the soft skin of your lower stomach, marking exactly where he was stretched inside you.
"look at that," he whispered, his eyes following yours to where his size was distorting your form, his thumb stroking your hip. "look at what you're holding for me. it's right in your tummy, isn't it ?
he didn't wait for a response before he started snapping his hips, his pace sudden and much fucking needed. every thrust was a heavy, wet thud, his balls slapping against you as he drove himself into you with the strength he’d spent years building.
"fuck — yea yea yea — just like that," you sobbed out, your head tossing back as he hit your sweet spot. "nghhhh, channie, right there — oh god, fuck !"
"yeah ? you like that ?" he growled, his hands sliding under your hips to tilt you up, making the penetration even deeper, even more ruinous. "fuck, you're taking every inch beautifully. you were always mine, hm ? you just had to be brave enough to let me in. so brave for me, sweetheart. good fucking girl — fuck, you're so tight."
you were a mess of whimpers and shattered breaths, your body shaking under the weight of his broad shoulders and the relentless stretch of him. the sound of wet friction and his heavy grunts filled the room, a filthy symphony of the three years of pining finally exploding.
"that’s it, give it all to me," he choked out, his voice breaking as he felt you begin to climax. "fuckfuckfuck — stay right there. let me fill you up until you can't feel anything but me. you did so well for me, sweetheart. oh god, fuck —"
he delivered one final, soul-crushing thrust, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled into you as you both unravelled simultaneously. wrapped in his arms, swallowed by his bulk, you finally understood. the gentleman was gone, but the man who remained was exactly what you had always needed to be whole.
⍣ ೋ cw: soft pregnancy mention, implied smut, post-sex intimacy, emotional vulnerability, chris being extremely down bad, light humor, and overwhelming tenderness.
notes: in which you finally tell chan about your unexpected pregnancy.
The nausea comes in waves. Not sudden, but rising — quiet and cruel.
You slip out of bed on instinct, careful not to stir him. The room is dim, still painted in that pre-dawn blue where shadows blur soft against the walls. The floor’s cold under your feet, the silence heavier than usual.
You close the bathroom door behind you, but not fast enough to hide the sound.
You barely make it to the toilet.
Your body folds in on itself as you retch, one hand clutching the edge of the counter, the other pressed to your mouth. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting. You’re trembling again, just like yesterday. Just like every morning this week.
And you know exactly why.
But you haven’t told him.
Not yet.
The door clicks gently, and before you can even call out, he's there.
“Baby?” Chris’s voice is thick with sleep, curls still mussed, but his worry is immediate.
He steps into the bathroom, barefoot and blinking against the light. You don’t turn around, can’t—your cheek is pressed to the cool porcelain, eyes shut tight, trying to keep the tears at bay.
You hear him crouch beside you. Feel the warmth of his palm, tentative but steady, on your back.
“Hey, hey…” he whispers, thumb rubbing soft, slow circles between your shoulder blades. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
You hate how kind he is. How easily he forgives the way you’ve been pulling away lately—your silence, the distance you keep curling between your bodies each night. You hate it because he still looks at you like you haven’t broken his heart in quiet, accidental pieces.
Like you haven’t been lying by omission.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, already standing. But you reach back blindly, fingers clutching at his wrist.
His movement stills the second you touch him.
Your fingers curl weakly around his wrist, barely more than a brush, but he stays rooted like you’ve anchored him. He sinks back down beside you without hesitation, knees to the cold tile, one hand steadying you while the other moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I won’t go.”
Your fingers slip from his wrist to his forearm, anchoring there. Not tight, not pleading. Just... needing something solid. He shifts closer, gently tucking you against him, and you let him—half-curled over the toilet, cheek pressed now to the curve of his shoulder instead of cold porcelain.
It’s shameful how good it feels.
How much you missed him.
How much he still makes space for you, without question.
You breathe him in. Warm skin, sleep-soft cotton, the scent of dreams not yet dissolved. His hand returns to your back, tracing the same slow circles, patient and gentle. He doesn't rush you. Doesn’t push. Just stays.
A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it back down.
“You’ve been sick a lot lately,” he says quietly. “And I—I didn’t want to push, but… I was starting to worry.”
You close your eyes.
Tighter.
Like you can hold the truth inside your chest if you just try hard enough.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” you manage, voice paper-thin.
Chris lets out a small, broken exhale—half a laugh, half a sigh. His thumb is still tracing that same small circle on your back, over and over like a ritual.
“Too late, baby,” he says. “You know me. I worry when you don’t text back for ten minutes.”
You breathe out a tremble of a laugh. It barely escapes you.
He pulls you in a little more, his shoulder now against your cheek, his arm curling around your waist, like he could take this ache from you if you just let him.
“Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get off this floor, yeah?”
You don’t protest. You let him help you up, let him walk you slowly back to bed. He moves around you like instinct — pulling the blankets over your legs, smoothing your hair back, propping a pillow behind your back like he knows how this all goes. Like you’ve always been this breakable.
He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the kettle click on. The cupboard door. The soft clink of ceramic. It’s the kind of intimacy you never thought would undo you.
When he returns, he’s carrying a steaming mug. He sets the tea down, crawls in beside you, and tugs you gently against his chest. You go without hesitation this time. Your cheek finds his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady.
“Try to sip,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers to the mug. “Ginger and honey. Helps settle the stomach.”
You take a shaky breath. Sip once. Then again.
He strokes your arm, still not asking what’s wrong. Still just being.
“I don’t deserve you,” you whisper, the words too fragile to carry.
Chris doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just presses his lips to your forehead, eyes closed.
“You’ve got me anyway.”
You hold the tea with both hands, and before you can stop yourself, before you can weigh the moment, it falls out—
“I’m pregnant.”
A beat.
Then two.
His breath catches just slightly. You feel it in the way his chest stills beneath your cheek.
“Yeah?” he says, quiet.
He doesn’t sound shocked.
Not really.
You feel his hand pause where it rests on your arm. Not jerked away, not pulled back—just still. Still like he’s been waiting for this. Still like he already knew.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
His face is soft in the low light. No widening of the eyes, no sharp intake of breath, no panic. Just a quiet kind of calm. Like he’s been holding this truth behind his teeth for days.
You blink. “You’re… not surprised.”
Chris gives you a small, lopsided smile, and there’s something tired in it. Something knowing.
“I kind of figured.”
You freeze.
Chris shifts slightly, just enough to press his lips to your temple.
Your fingers tighten around the mug. “You… what?”
“I’ve known for a little while,” he says, and there’s no accusation in it. Just fact. “Not for sure, but… yeah. I knew.”
You pull back slowly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes meet yours, gentle and tired and a little sad around the edges.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
Chris exhales through his nose, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready. And if you never were—” he swallows, voice thickening, “—I figured I’d wait anyway.”
You stare at him. Your chest aches. He’s holding you like you haven’t broken his heart a hundred times over by keeping this to yourself.
“You should’ve been mad,” you whisper. “I pulled away. I lied. I let you think something was wrong with us.”
He shakes his head, thumb still moving, like he’s trying to wipe the guilt from your skin. “You didn’t lie,” he says softly. “You were scared. That’s not the same thing.”
“But—”
“Baby.”
The word silences you.
He shifts closer, rests his forehead to yours. The kind of closeness that feels like home, like breath shared between ribs.
“You’re pregnant,” he says quietly, like he’s still wrapping his heart around the truth. “That’s huge. That’s life-changing. You didn’t owe me a perfect response to that.”
Your eyes fill again. The tears this time are different—no longer the kind that come from fear, but from the ache of being known, and loved anyway.
“I didn’t want you to be disappointed,” you breathe.
Chris huffs a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh. “Disappointed?” He leans back, just enough to look at you fully. “Sweetheart, I’ve been walking around for the last two weeks trying not to hope too hard. Every time you flinched at the smell of eggs, I thought I was going to lose it.”
You blink.
He smiles, slow and tender. “I started carrying extra granola bars in my bag like some kind of dad training simulation.”
A laugh breaks from you, wet and surprised and a little wild. He kisses the sound off your cheek.
You want to believe him. God, you do.
But it still claws at you — the weight of it. The impossibility. The quiet voice that’s been whispering the same thing over and over since the first test turned positive.
Your laughter fades as quickly as it came, and you drop your gaze, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.
“But your career…”
The words are quiet. Almost too quiet. Like you’re afraid of waking something up by saying them aloud.
Chris stills.
You press on, slowly. “You have enough on your plate already. The tours. The schedules. The pressure. I didn’t want to be the reason everything got harder. I didn’t want you to feel… trapped.”
His face folds in on itself, soft and stunned, like your words physically knock the wind from him.
“Trapped?” he echoes. “Is that what you thought I’d feel?”
You swallow hard, shrugging helplessly. “You’ve worked your whole life for this. And I know what it looks like from the outside — you, me, suddenly pregnant in the middle of everything. Headlines. Rumors. People blaming me for pulling focus. I just… I didn’t want to be a detour.”
Chris is quiet for a moment. Not the kind of silence that stretches with tension, but the kind that holds something. Thoughtfulness. Heartbreak. The ache of someone hearing what wasn’t said aloud.
Then, softly:
“You think I care about headlines?”
You open your mouth, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“You think I’d let any of that matter more than you?” His voice breaks—just enough to make your eyes sting again. “I don’t care what the outside looks like. I care about you. About the way you’ve been hurting and hiding it. About how you’ve been carrying all of this alone.”
He sits up a little straighter beside you, pulling your hands into his lap, like he needs to anchor both of you to the moment. His thumbs rub over your knuckles, steady and warm.
“I didn’t spend all this time building something just to let it become a cage,” he says. “I built it so I could choose what matters.”
Your lip trembles. You want to crawl into his words and never leave.
“I want this baby,” he says simply. “And I want you. And if that makes everything harder, then so be it. I’ve never been afraid of hard things. Just losing you.”
You press a shaky hand to your mouth, trying to bite back the sob threatening to rise.
Chris leans in, gently tugging your hands away to cup your cheeks.
“I love what I do,” he whispers. “But I love you more.”
And then, softer still—
“Let them talk. Let the whole world think what they want. I’ll hold your hand through every bit of it. I’ll shout it from the rooftops if that’s what you need.”
You break.
You fall forward into him and he catches you instantly, wrapping you up in the kind of hold that feels less like comfort and more like coming home. He rocks you slowly, like you’re something precious, and murmurs nothing but love into your hair until the shaking stops.
Neither of you speak for a while. Not in words. Just the rhythm of breath shared, the way his thumb never stops moving across your spine, the quiet tremble of your body as it starts to finally release the weight it's been holding for too long.
Eventually, you shift just enough to look up at him, eyes red and swollen.
“You’re really not scared?” you whisper.
Chris smiles. It’s tired, but steady. Steady in the way he’s always been.
“Oh, I’m terrified,” he says with a soft laugh. “But I’m not scared of us.”
His words settle into the quiet like a promise, like a hand pressed to a wound. Not to hide it—but to hold it. To keep it warm. To let it heal.
“I’m scared of screwing it up,” he admits. “Of not knowing what I’m doing. Of forgetting diapers at three in the morning and dropping the car seat manual in a puddle.”
You huff out a shaky laugh.
“But I’m not scared of loving you through this. Of being here. I want to mess it up with you. I want the sleepless nights and the ugly furniture and the weird little onesies your mom’s definitely going to send.”
You let your eyes close for a moment, breathing in the space between you. The safety of it. The calm after the unraveling.
Chris shifts behind you, easing both of you down beneath the covers again. His arms wrap around your waist from behind, palm splaying gently over your stomach—hesitant at first, then firmer, like he’s grounding himself to what’s real.
To what’s already begun.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you murmur, voice muffled against the pillow.
“Neither do I,” he says. “But I think we’ll figure it out. Together.”
His thumb draws soft, mindless circles against your skin. You can feel his breath on your shoulder, warm and even.
“We’re gonna be so bad at swaddling,” you whisper after a moment.
Chris snorts into your hair. “Horrible. Absolute disaster.”
“They’ll probably pee on us within the first ten minutes.”
He laughs again, and it rumbles through you like something holy.
“You mean they won’t wait twenty?” he teases. “Already disappointed in our future child’s manners.”
You smile. Not because the fear is gone. Not because it’s easy now. But because he’s still here. Still him. And somehow, even in the dark—especially in the dark—he’s made space for all of it.
You roll slightly, enough to face him, and he meets your gaze instantly. His eyes are red at the corners too, but soft. So soft.
They’re tangled around your legs, half-forgotten, pulled low from where Chris tugged them back earlier in careful haste—like he couldn’t wait another second to feel you again. To love you the way he’d been aching to for weeks.
But it had been gentle. So slow. So careful it almost hurt.
He’d kissed you like he was scared you’d break beneath him. Like every part of you needed to be cherished differently now—worshipped not just because he loved you, but because you were carrying something he already did.
Now, the room is quiet again.
Not the sharp quiet from earlier—the kind lined with secrets and held breath. This silence is sweeter. Fuller. The kind that lingers in the air after closeness, after truth, after love has been made and remade and made again.
You lie curled in the sheets, his hoodie pooled beneath your head like a pillow, your body still humming from the weight of him—on you, in you, with you.
Chris is beside you. Propped on one elbow, hair a mess, eyes soft in the gold light pouring through the window.
He hasn’t stopped touching you.
His fingertips skim the slope of your stomach—slow, aimless strokes over skin still too tender. He traces the curve like it’s already changed. Like he can already see the future stretching beneath your navel.
“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, for the third—maybe fourth—time.
You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m okay.”
“Did I hurt you at all?”
You open your eyes again, shifting to face him more. He looks almost pained asking it—like he’s still afraid he was too much, even though every touch had been measured, every motion guided by whispered I love yous and soft gasps.
You reach up, fingers brushing through his hair—so soft, still sleep-mussed, still clinging to last night’s weight. His eyes flutter at the contact.
“You didn’t hurt me, Chris,” you say gently, your thumb sweeping across his temple. “You couldn’t have. You were…” You pause, cheeks warming. “You were so good to me.”
He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, nose nudging your palm, lips brushing the edge of your wrist. “I just didn’t want to rush anything,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to take from you.”
“You gave to me,” you correct quietly. “More than you know.”
His gaze finds yours again. And it’s so open—so filled with something fragile and gleaming that it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be careful with someone the way I want to be with you,” he murmurs, hand still slow on your stomach. “Like every piece of you deserves a softer kind of love.”
Your throat tightens, eyes stinging with the tears you thought you’d already run out of. You don’t speak. You just lean forward and kiss him—soft and close and wordless. A promise.
When you pull back, Chris smiles, all crooked and boyish, like it still surprises him he gets to kiss you whenever he wants.
“Do you think…” he starts, then hesitates, biting down on his lower lip in that familiar way he does when he’s about to say something that scares him. “Do you think they can hear me yet?”
You blink. “Hear you?”
He shrugs, flushing a little. “I don’t know. Maybe not hear, but like—feel me.”
You smile, hand still resting over his where it sprawls protectively across your belly.
“I think,” you say, voice soft with wonder, “if they feel anything at all, it’s love.”
Chris lets out a slow breath, almost like a laugh, almost like a prayer. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s all I want them to feel.”
And then he lowers himself again—carefully, reverently—so his face is level with your stomach, his curls brushing your skin. You feel his breath before his lips, warm and tender, and then—
“Hi,” he whispers. “It’s me again.”
You bite back a watery smile, brushing his hair back from his face. He doesn't look up. He’s focused, eyes closed, words blooming straight from his heart.
“You’re still tiny,” he says. “Probably the size of… I don’t know. A peanut? A lentil?”
You laugh softly. “A blueberry, I think.”
Chris grins against your skin. “Okay. Hi, blueberry.”
The tears return, but this time they don’t sting. They soothe. You let them fall.
Chris presses another kiss, slower this time. “Your mom is amazing. She’s strong, and patient, and really stubborn when she wants to be—don’t get any ideas—but she’s also the kindest person I’ve ever met. And she loves you already. So much.”
You can’t breathe. Or maybe you just don’t want to—don’t want to disturb the moment, the hush in the room, the way it feels like the world has paused just to let him say this.
“And I love you, too,” he adds, softer now. “Even if you’re already making her throw up every morning.”
You snort.
Chris finally looks up at you, face glowing with something boyish and stunned. Like he’s still adjusting to the weight of the word dad and how it might belong to him now.
“Do you think it’s okay to be happy yet?” he whispers. “Or is it too early?”
You blink, startled by the softness of the question. It’s not a doubt in you. It’s a doubt in himself—the way he was used to waiting for the world to collapse anytime something good entered the picture.
You tilt his face fully toward you, one hand on his cheek, the other still resting over his on your belly.
“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “We’re allowed to be happy.”
Chris leans into your palm, lashes kissing your skin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Even if it’s early. Even if it’s messy. We’re allowed.”
A long breath leaves his chest. When he exhales, it sounds like something unknots inside him.
“Okay,” he says. And then again, firmer: “Okay.”
He kisses your belly once more—then your ribs, then your shoulder, and finally your lips, slow and sure and lingering like he’s learning the shape of this new beginning through you.
Your breath catches.
Because there’s something different in this kiss—less cautious than before, less tentative. Still tender, still full of awe, but threaded now with a kind of ache. A hunger not for your body, but for closeness. For reassurance. For the promise of you and him and this tiny, impossible future you’re building together.
You kiss him back. Let your hands curl into the soft cotton at his shoulders, let your mouth part beneath his. He deepens it without a word, like your response is all the permission he’s ever needed.
Chris exhales against your lips, the sound low, almost relieved. His hand slides from your belly to your waist, guiding you gently onto your back, careful not to press too hard, like he’s still remembering how much softer the world has become.
You pull him with you, fingers in his hair now, breath mingling as he settles between your legs, his weight familiar, comforting. Not heavy—never heavy. He’s holding himself up even now, even in this, like you’re precious. Like he can’t risk the smallest part of you going untouched, unnoticed, unloved.
His kiss grows slower. Deeper. Tongue brushing yours, mouth warm and open and wanting, but not hurried. Nothing about him is hurried. He maps you like he’s memorizing—not rediscovering your body, but learning what it means now, with the quiet miracle curled inside you.
His palm returns to your belly halfway through the kiss.
It lingers there.
Anchoring.
You feel his hips roll, subtle and restrained, like he can’t help it—but even that is tempered by reverence. He groans softly against your lips and pulls back just enough to rest his forehead to yours.
“I want you again,” he murmurs, breath catching. “So bad.”
You smile, brushing your nose against his. “We just had sex, Chris.”
“I know,” he groans, dragging his lips down to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—soft little kisses like he’s trying to keep himself distracted. “It’s not my fault. You’re literally glowing. Like… it’s actually not fair.”
You laugh, tilting your head to give him more space. “I think that’s just the sweat from me throwing up three times this morning.”
“Nope,” he says, grinning against your collarbone. “Sorry. Pregnancy glow. Hormones. Boobs. All of it. My brain’s broken. I’m ruined.”
You snort. “Are you seriously saying I got hotter now that I’m pregnant?”
Chris lifts his head to look at you, eyebrows raised, completely unapologetic. “Yes. Have you seen yourself? You’re radiant. Divine. A walking goddess with a baby growing inside her—my baby, by the way. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
You blink at him, stunned and absolutely flustered. “Chris—”
He groans dramatically and drops his head to your chest. “You don’t get it. I’m suffering.”
You wheeze a laugh, your fingers threading through his hair again.
He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely serious now. “Every time you move I want to pounce. But I can’t. Because I am a gentleman. A respectful, self-restrained—” he kisses the top of your belly, “—incredibly patient father-to-be.”
You grin. “Uh-huh.”
His hand slides up your thigh, just high enough to make your breath hitch. “But if you even so much as breathe wrong, I’m folding.”
“Chris—”
“I mean it. One little sound. A sigh. A whimper. I’m gone.”
Your laughter breaks loose then, full and warm and aching at the edges. He kisses you hard, almost like he’s trying to prove his point—like he's sealing the moment in his mouth before it gets the better of him.
His hands are definitely not innocent anymore.
“Okay—okay,” he says, breathless, forehead against yours again. “I have to get up. I have to. You need food. I need distance.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, not letting him go. “You sure?”
He groans into your shoulder. “I’m going. I'm going. But I’m leaving in emotional pain.”
You release him with a teasing little kiss. “Breakfast, dad.”
Chris smirks as he finally sits up, eyes sweeping over you one last time before he swings his legs off the bed. “Fine. But you better be decent when I come back or I’m canceling breakfast and blaming the baby.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
And with that, he trudges toward the kitchen in his boxers, muttering something about toast and torture under his breath.
You melt back into the sheets, laughing, heart pounding, belly warm—and for once, everything feels exactly, impossibly, beautifully right.
the room is dim, lit only by the soft amber of the desk lamp and the dull blue glow from two computer screens, their pixels dancing in sound waves. the speakers hum low, a heartbeat of synths and snare, looping a melody that hasn’t been named yet. it’s slow. dreamy. a little unfinished, just like the two of you.
the air smells faintly like fabric softener and coffee from hours ago, now cold in the cup beside his keyboard. you’re curled up on the studio couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of chan’s crewnecks that swallows your hands. the cotton is worn soft from too many washes, oversized and comforting, and it still holds the ghost of his cologne; cedar, musk, the kind of scent that lingers long after he leaves a room.
he’s quiet.
not in the brooding way, not in the overthinking every damn note kind of way either. just.. quiet. his fingers tap lightly against the desk as he listens to the loop again and again. his chair is tilted back just enough to see you in his periphery, and you know, because he’s been stealing glances between each pass.
you pretend not to notice.
instead, you let your fingers trace invisible patterns into your thigh, resting your cheek on your hand as you watch him from under your lashes. the way his black hoodie bunches at the elbows. the curve of his jaw when he’s focused. his mouth, slightly parted. the tip of his tongue resting in the corner, a habit. the faintest scruff on his chin from a day he forgot to shave. or didn’t care to.
you sigh, almost smiling. “you’re squinting again.”
chan’s head tilts. “huh?”
you point lazily at him. “your eyes. when you concentrate. you look like a suspicious grandpa decoding secret messages in morse code.”
a laugh bubbles out of him, short, breathy, surprised. “wow. thanks.”
“you’re welcome,” you say, smug, leaning into the armrest. “you should really consider reading glasses.”
he narrows his eyes at you on purpose now, making a dramatic point. “i will literally end this song right now.”
“you won’t.”
“no, but i’ll pretend i did and pout about it for forty-five minutes.”
“pouting’s a great look on you,” you hum.
you expect him to roll his eyes. maybe throw a crumpled napkin at you. but instead, he just leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest, and looks at you.
fully.
the studio is quiet except for the looped track. and chan’s gaze? it softens. like the way light filters through curtains. gentle, warm, and far too much.
“what?” you whisper, feeling your face heat.
he shrugs, lips twitching into a small, sleepy smile. “nothing. you’re just really pretty when you’re bullying me.”
you squint back at him. “you’re not even trying to win this argument.”
“that’s ‘cause i like losing to you.”
your heart stumbles. you mask it by pretending to cough into your sleeve. he sees right through it. smirks wider. turns back to the screen like he didn’t just ruin your entire nervous system.
“asshole,” you mumble.
“mmhm.”
he slides his headphones on again, adjusts a few sliders, then clicks the spacebar. the track starts over. he listens. edits. rewinds. rests his chin on his palm.
you let yourself stare a little longer this time.
there’s something about watching chan work that feels like worship. he’s quiet with it, not boastful, not performative. just intensely focused, endlessly curious. you can see him thinking; layers of intention behind every adjustment, like he’s shaping sound into something that can hold meaning.
you never feel more drawn to him than in moments like this.
“c’mere,” he says suddenly, pulling one side of his headphones off.
you blink. “why?”
“just for a second.”
you raise an eyebrow. “this is how you trap me.”
“yup.” he doesn’t even deny it.
still, you rise, stretching your arms over your head with a small yawn, then pad over to his chair. he grabs your wrist lightly and tugs you down, guiding you gently into his lap like he’s done this a hundred times before. like your body fits there. like it’s second nature.
his arms wrap around your waist automatically.
you settle back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, your legs slotted between his. the sound from the speakers is low now; background music to the quiet closeness you’ve both fallen into.
“this part’s new,” he murmurs near your ear, hitting play again. “i wrote it thinking of you.”
you freeze just a little. then slowly glance up at him.
he’s looking at the screen like he didn’t just casually say that.
“…chan.”
“mhm?”
“you wrote the chorus with me in mind?”
“pre-chorus, actually,” he says, lips twitching. “the chorus is about ramen. but the pre-chorus? that one’s you.”
you lightly smack his chest, laughing. “you suck.”
“do not.”
“you literally labeled the file ‘yn_ver2_emotionsfix.wav,’” you accuse, voice barely hiding your grin.
chan gives a dramatic sigh. “it was either that or track_56_final_final_real_final_edit.wav. i went with art.”
you shake your head, settling into him again. he smells like warmth, like cotton, and hours of focus, and something softer beneath it all. his hands splay against your hips. secure. careful.
you close your eyes.
“you tired?” he asks quietly.
you nod against him. “but i don’t want to sleep yet.”
“why?”
“‘cause you’re not done loving me tonight.”
that catches him off guard. you feel it in the pause of his breath.
then, arms tighter around you. his chin tucks into your shoulder, and his voice is low. honest.
“i don’t think i’ll ever be done, y/n.”
the song loops again. a soft echo in the dark.
and neither of you move.
“something like home.”
(12:59 am. still just the two of you.)
your feet are bare.
there’s a stray thread at the hem of your sleeve, and chan’s fingers have been absentmindedly twirling it between his thumb and forefinger for minutes now. the song plays in soft loops, fading into the walls like wallpaper music. you’ve stopped noticing it. or maybe it’s become a part of this moment.
you’re still in his lap, curled into his chest like the world forgot to pull you apart. he doesn’t seem to mind. his chin rests on your shoulder, and his hands are warm on your sides. his thumb strokes lazy, back-and-forth shapes over the fabric, like a lullaby with no melody.
you yawn. then mumble something.
“what?” he whispers.
“i said, i think i’m starting to melt.”
he chuckles, the sound low against your back. “melt?”
“mhm.” you nudge your nose into his hoodie. “i’m too comfortable. i might dissolve. evaporate. just, become one with the hoodie.”
chan hums, tilting his head to press a small kiss into your hair. “then i’ll carry you in my pocket.”
you pause, smiling into his chest. “you’re such a sap.”
“you love it.”
you twist just enough to look at him. “you say that like you’re not the clingy one.”
“i’m not clingy,” he says, indignant. “i just like you close.”
you raise an eyebrow.
he holds up a finger, serious. “okay, hear me out. i didn’t ask you to stay over because i’m clingy. i asked because—”
“you missed me,” you cut in, sing-song.
he scoffs. “no—well, yes—but—listen. i knew you’d be annoying about it. that’s the real reason.”
“wow. you invited me over just to be bullied?”
“you’re better than caffeine.”
you blink.
he grins, smug. “and cuter.”
your chest does that thing again, that quiet, involuntary ache. like your ribs are expanding too fast for your heart to keep up.
you try to hide your face in his hoodie. “stop it.”
“no,” he says softly. “not when you look at me like that.”
you glance up. “like what?”
“like i’m the whole night sky.”
there’s a beat. long enough for your throat to close around it.
you laugh, a soft, shaky breath. “that was corny.”
he kisses your temple. “did it work?”
you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the way your fingers curl into his sleeve is loud enough.
you eventually slip off his lap, legs stiff, your body slow with sleepiness. but you don’t go far. just settle beside him again, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.
chan shifts, pulls the blanket from the couch, and drapes it over your legs without a word. then he leans forward and clicks a few keys. the track pauses.
“what happened?” you ask, voice small.
he shrugs, adjusting the volume. “nothing. just wanted to sit here.”
you smile. “is the genius producer taking a break?”
“genius producer,” he echoes, a grin playing at his lips. “i like how that sounds.”
“it’s true,” you say, poking his cheek. “you’re brilliant. even when you forget to eat dinner.”
“someone’s trying to soften me up,” he teases.
you lean closer, your voice a playful whisper. “is it working?”
he turns his face toward you, slow, like the moment stretches around the movement. his eyes flicker between yours, soft and unreadable.
“yeah,” he says quietly. “too well.”
you don’t kiss him yet.
but the space between your faces is small enough to feel the promise of it.
“can i tell you something weird?” he asks a little while later.
you nod, half-drowsy, eyes fluttering shut.
“i think,” he hesitates, then laughs under his breath. “god, this sounds stupid.”
you look up at him. “nothing you say to me is stupid.”
he’s quiet for a beat. then-
“i think my heart memorized you before my brain did.”
it’s barely a whisper.
but it slices through the quiet, delicate and sure. your breath catches.
“i don’t even mean that in a romantic movie kind of way,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “just, every time i see you, even if i’m tired, even if the day sucked, something in me just—relaxes. like it knows. like you’re what it was waiting for.”
you don’t respond with words.
you just reach out, touch his face gently, like he’s something precious. your thumb runs along his cheekbone. then down to his lips.
chan closes his eyes under the touch.
“you always say these things like you don’t realize what they do to me,” you murmur.
he opens them again. they’re deeper now. fuller with something unspoken. “what do they do?”
“you make it really hard to breathe.”
“then hold on to me,” he whispers.
so you do.
“in the quiet, i love you”
(1:17 am. again, just the two of you.)
it’s late. but that kind of late where the world feels paused.
no ringing phones. no outside noise. just the low hum of equipment, a single dim lamp in the corner, and chan’s hand resting over yours like he’s scared the moment will slip away if he lets go.
your head is against his shoulder again. his hoodie sleeve is bunched between your fingers, and you’ve long since stopped trying to pretend you’re not holding on like he’s your anchor.
“wanna know something?” you say softly, tracing small shapes into his palm.
“always.”
“i used to think love would feel loud.”
he doesn’t speak. just waits.
you smile at the ceiling. “like fireworks. or movie kisses in the rain. or fighting, dramatic, over-the-top things. but this—”
your hand squeezes his.
“this feels like.. the space between notes in a song. quiet. but there. and if it were gone, you’d hear the difference.”
chan swallows, his voice a hush. “you’re gonna make me cry in my own studio.”
you giggle, turning toward him, noses almost brushing. “no tears allowed. you’re the genius producer.”
he fake sobs dramatically. “the genius producer is in shambles.”
you cover his mouth with your hand, laughing now. “stop. you’re gonna ruin the mood.”
he grins under your palm. then kisses it. soft. warm. so soft it makes your throat catch.
“wanna hear a line i wrote today?” he asks, voice lower now, fingers lacing between yours.
you nod.
he glances at the monitor like he’s nervous, then looks back at you. “it’s not for the track, just a thing i wrote.”
he clears his throat.
“if i could fold myself into your pockets
i’d live there quietly, beside your pulse
where your heartbeat becomes my soundtrack
and time forgets how to hurt.”
your eyes sting.
“chris.”
“it’s dumb,” he says quickly, eyes darting away. “just a line. you don’t have to—”
you cut him off with a kiss.
it’s soft.
barely there.
just the press of lips against lips, the kind of kiss that says, i understand you even when you think you don’t make sense.
when you pull back, you’re both blinking too much.
“was that okay?” you whisper.
his voice cracks when he speaks. “i don’t think i’ll ever forget it.”
the next hour passes in fragments.
you try on his headphones and gasp when you hear how clear the track sounds.
he records you saying random phrases to sample your voice, half of them silly, the other half secretly tender.
“say something sexy,” he grins, mic already on.
you squint at him. “like what?”
“i don’t know. just say whatever comes to your mind.”
you lean in close to the mic, lips parted. “christopher, i swear to god, if you don’t drink water within the next ten minutes i’m turning off your computer.”
he throws his head back, laughing so hard it shakes his shoulders.
“you menace,” he wheezes.
“you asked for it.”
“not the hydration threats—oh my god.”
you’re both giggling too much to care what time it is. he turns the mic off, pulls you back to him, and presses his forehead to yours like it’s instinct.
“hey,” he whispers.
“yeah?”
“i don’t think i’ve ever felt like this before.”
you meet his eyes.
“i think…” he pauses. “i think i trust you with parts of me i didn’t even know i had.”
you nod, tears threatening again.
“you can keep them,” you whisper back.
later, he reaches over and grabs his phone, unlocking it with one hand, still holding you with the other.
“what are you doing?” you murmur, sleepy now, blinking slowly.
“i want a picture.”
“no,” you groan. “my face is puffy. i’m tired.”
“you’re beautiful,” he says immediately, no hesitation.
you glare. “you can’t say things like that so easily.”
“but they’re true.”
“still.”
he snaps one anyway. your face buried in his hoodie, his hand covering half your cheek, both of you in soft shadows. when he looks at it, he smiles like he’s looking at the beginning of something.
“can i post it someday?” he asks gently. “not now. but when it’s not just ours anymore.”
you nod.
but neither of you say when that might be.
because for now, the secrecy is sacred. the studio is a sanctuary. and this; this hush, this touch, this late night wonder, belongs to you both.
right?
“we talk about everything, and nothing, and it all matters.”
(01:58 am. the world is asleep, but you’re still here.)
you’re half on the couch, half on chris. the blanket has migrated around both your shoulders now, pooled at your waists like it’s tucking you in on behalf of the moon.
the studio lights are dim. the glow from the monitors is faint and flickering. the music is paused.
you aren’t.
chan’s fingers are threaded through yours again, resting on your stomach, your hands fitting like they’ve known each other longer than you’ve been alive. his head is tilted back. yours is on his chest, listening.
every so often, his heartbeat skips.
you never point it out.
“do you think,” he says suddenly, voice hushed like he’s afraid to wake the air, “that people always end up where they’re meant to be?”
you pause. “you mean, like fate?”
he nods, slowly. “yeah. or something like it.”
you think for a second.
“i don’t know. i think maybe we end up in the neighborhood of where we’re meant to be,” you say softly. “but the exact house? the one with the red door, or the one with the leaky ceiling? i think we choose those.”
he hums. “i like that.”
“why’d you ask?”
he’s quiet for a moment. “i just keep thinking.. if i hadn’t chosen this path; music, the hours, the pressure, i don’t know if we’d be here. but sometimes i wonder, if it’s too much. if i’ll burn out.”
you lift your head slightly to look at him.
his gaze is on the ceiling. like he’s asking the stars above the insulation to answer for him.
“i think about it too,” you admit.
his eyes flick down to you. “you do?”
you nod. “not just about you. about me. about everything. what i want. what i’m allowed to want.”
the way you say allowed makes him tense just slightly, but you don’t dwell.
you rest your cheek back on his chest.
his hand finds your shoulder, slow and soothing.
“tell me,” he says gently.
you take a breath.
“i used to think i had to be perfect,” you say, voice low. “or at least harmless. make everything easy for everyone. be sweet. be smart. never ask for too much. never make things complicated.”
chan’s hold on you tightens almost imperceptibly.
you keep going.
“but i’m learning that love, real love, lets you take up space. even the messy parts. even the loud parts. i’m still trying to believe i’m allowed to ask for things. to say ‘i want this.’ even when it’s scary.”
he’s silent, but you can feel the emotion rising in him. his fingers brush your hair back from your temple with a kind of reverence.
“i’m glad you said that,” he whispers. “because i want you to ask. always. for anything.”
you nod, eyes stinging again.
after a pause, you murmur, “what about you?”
he exhales. “i think.. i used to believe i had to earn love. like, i had to constantly do something to deserve it. be productive. be valuable. make music. fix things. be strong.”
you shift slightly to see his face. his eyes are unfocused, turned somewhere inward.
“but lately..” he goes on, “with you, i’m starting to believe that maybe i don’t have to prove anything. that maybe i can just be. and that’s enough.”
you press your lips to his jaw, a soft silent thank you for letting you see that part of him.
you stay like that for a while.
just breathing.
just existing.
“i want to grow old with you,” he says suddenly.
you blink.
“like, not in a cliché way. not just the cute stuff. i mean i want to still know you when we’re tired and wrinkly and grumpy and our backs hurt when we laugh too hard.”
you smile against his hoodie.
“i want that too.”
he looks down at you. “you do?”
you lift your chin just enough to meet his gaze. “i want to see what kind of old man you become. i bet you’ll still wear these black hoodies and cry when the guys bully you for actually being old.”
he groans. “don’t expose me.”
you giggle, tucking back into his chest. “you’re adorable.”
you both fall into a comfortable silence again. the kind where the silence isn’t empty, it’s full. of safety. of things you don’t have to say.
and then…
“hey,” you whisper.
“yeah?”
“if we ever get a dog, can we name it something stupid like toast?”
he snorts, nearly choking. “why toast?”
“i don’t know, it’s cute. imagine yelling ‘toast! come back here!’ in the park. it even matches with berry. like.. berry toast.”
he’s laughing now, full and quiet and real. “okay. so berry can bond with a new sibling then. over names. well.. toast it is. but only if i get to name the next one pancake.”
“deal.”
eventually, you both go quiet again.
there’s a weight to the room now, but not heavy. just full. like the whole place is holding its breath around you, content to let you exist in each other.
you listen to his breathing. he listens to yours.
you both listen to the invisible thing being written between your hearts, soft and slow and definitely.. real.
“the song you weren’t supposed to hear.”
(it’s still the middle of the night. and his heart is ready.)
the night has settled into the kind of stillness that only exists between 2 and 3 am, where the world outside is paused, like it’s holding its breath just for you.
you’re both now completely on the studio couch, your legs lazily tangled over his, the blanket from earlier now messily draped across your laps. the air smells faintly like jasmine from his candle stash and whatever conditioner he uses that clings to the collar of his hoodie. you’ve been tracing little nothing shapes on his arm, neither of you talking for a while, not because there’s nothing to say, but because being this close is already saying enough.
chan’s fingers have been fidgeting. not nervously, just… thinking. tapping little beats into the fabric of the couch like he’s composing something in his head he doesn’t want to forget.
you’re the first to break the silence.
“your brain’s loud again,” you murmur, smiling without opening your eyes.
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “always is, when you’re around.”
you lift your head, eyebrow raised. “is that a compliment or are you blaming me for your overworked neurons?”
chan grins. “little bit of both.”
you roll your eyes affectionately and nudge his shoulder. he watches you for a moment; eyes soft, dimple barely showing, and then he shifts. gently untangles himself from you and gets up, barefoot steps soundless on the floor.
you sit up slowly, watching as he walks over to the computer, clicking something open with a hesitance that’s uncharacteristic of him.
he hesitates a second longer, one hand on the mouse, the other in his curly hair.
“can i show you something?” he asks, voice low, unusually careful.
you straighten. “of course.”
he doesn’t look at you when he speaks next. “i wasn’t gonna. i wasn’t ever going to, honestly. but i feel like.. if i don’t now, i’ll never get the courage again.”
your heart stirs, soft, curious.
he opens a folder.
one you’ve never seen.
the name of it is just a single word: “maybe”
he clicks on a file. the project loads slowly. your eyes flick over the screen. it’s dated from almost two years ago.
the first out of a gazillion track’s name?
“she’ll never know (demo)”
he doesn’t look at you. just presses play.
the room fills with the sound of chan’s voice. not the polished, practiced version. not the stage ready delivery.
this is raw.
the acoustic guitar is gentle, almost sleepy. like the song was written late one night, maybe one just like this, with him hunched over his desk and the words falling out of him before he could stop them.
and then, the first line.
“she walks in like the sky turned soft just for her,”
“doesn’t notice the way she makes silence feel warm.”
your breath catches.
your boyfriend doesn’t turn around. he’s sitting at his chair now, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it held answers to his shower thoughts.
the song continues, delicate, bare boned. there’s a melody that rises like a question and falls like an answer. his voice cracks a little in the second verse. not from poor singing. from too much truth.
“she calls my name like it was made for her mouth—and i swear, i’d give her every version of me she asks for.”
you bring your hand to your chest without realizing it.
your throat is dry. your eyes aren’t.
and then, the bridge.
it’s not perfect. the production cuts slightly. but the lyrics?
“if she knew i wrote her into every song i couldn’t finish,would she stay long enough to hear the chorus?”
you don’t breathe.
he lets the track end without speaking. the silence that follows is thick and tender.
and finally, finally, he turns to look at you.
you’re still holding your hand to your chest. you can’t find words.
“i wrote that before,” he says, quietly, “before i knew if you’d ever look at me like that. before i thought i’d get to call you mine. i wasn’t gonna play it. felt like, it was too much.”
you shake your head, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “no, chris. it’s not too much. it’s, god. it’s beautiful, channie.”
you cross the room slowly and kneel beside his chair, hands reaching for his. “you loved me then, didn’t you?”
he nods. “i think i always did.”
the air feels like it might break from the softness.
you press your forehead to his. close your eyes. he does the same. his hands slide around your back, pulling you into him like he needs to feel you breathing.
“can i ask you something?” you whisper.
“anything.”
“when you wrote it.. did you ever think i’d hear it?”
his voice is almost inaudible. “no. but i wanted you to feel it. even if you never knew.”
you kiss him. not rushed. not fiery. just full. full of every quiet word you’ve ever shared, every moment your bodies spoke before your mouths did. full of everything that’s always been there.
when you pull back, you whispered.
“thank you for writing me into your world.”
he smiles, presses his lips to your hair.
“you are my world.”
“you and me, in a song.”
(almost 3am. but none of you seem to care.. because it’s just you two.)
your knees are folded up on the studio couch now, hoodie sleeves past your hands, hair a little messy from where he’d had his fingers in it. chan’s laptop is dimming from inactivity. that song, the one he never meant to play for anyone, is still echoing in your chest.
there’s something quiet between you two now, but it’s not tension. it’s the kind of silence that follows honesty. like the air has finally settled after a truth landed and made its home here.
he’s lying on the floor now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other outstretched, hand palm up like he’s waiting for you to hold it. you do. of course you do.
“you’re still thinking too much,” you say, squeezing his fingers gently.
he gives a tired smile, turning his head toward you. “i know, baby. i can’t help it. my brain doesn’t have an off switch, y'know.”
you glance down at him, at the boy you love who writes heartbreak into bridges and hides confessions in chord progressions.
“wanna distract it?” you ask softly.
he raises an eyebrow. “you got something in mind?”
“let’s write something,” you say, voice picking up in excitement. “together. something stupid and sweet. corny. cheesy. but something that sounds like us.”
he sits up, instantly intrigued. his eyes are sleepy but alive now, warm like melted chocolate in low light. “you sure you’re not tired?”
“i’m very tired,” you say, already reaching for a notebook, “but i’m also in love, and this feels like something we’ll remember.”
he exhales a quiet laugh. “okay,” he murmurs. “let’s make it ours.”
the guitar is perched on his knee now, and you’re tucked beside him, the notebook resting across both your legs. you can barely see the lines under the yellowish desk lamp glow, but that somehow makes it feel even more intimate.
“okay,” he says, strumming a slow, dreamy chord. “tone check. what are we going for?”
“something soft,” you say. “not too polished. something that sounds like, like a sleepy love letter or something?”
he nods, repeating the chord progression, slower this time. “mmm.. like this?”
you hum in approval. “wait, yeah. genius! that feels like us. okay, first line.”
he laughs at the page. “you go.”
you pause, chewing your lip. then, with a grin..
“you looked like a dream at 3 am,
with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”
your boyfriend’s pen freezes.
he blinks.
then he gives you the kind of look that belongs in poems, stunned, a little helpless, a lot in love.
“that’s not fair,” he mutters, writing it down. “you’re gonna make me fall harder than i already have.”
you smirk. “your turn, loverboy.”
he strums a chord and speaks more than sings.
“you whispered forever in the way you laughed,
and i started believing it might be real.”
your heart flutters.
you grab the pen and underline that line twice. “you’re disgusting,” you whisper with a grin.
“i learned from the best,” he grins back.
you spend the next hour like that, passing the pen, trading verses, scribbling out and rewriting lines until your fingers are smudged with graphite and the paper is creased from how many times you’ve folded it to your chest in giddy disbelief.
at some point, chan turns the mic on. just to catch what you’re doing. just in case.
he doesn’t warn you when he starts singing.
you’re halfway through doodling stars and hearts in the corner of the page when his voice fills the air again, soft and sleepy and devastatingly sweet.
he sings the first verse.
your verse.
you look up at him, startled.
his eyes are on you, and he doesn’t look away when he reaches your line:
“…with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”
you smile, caught.
when he finishes the chorus, messy and still incomplete, you exhale slowly. “you made it sound beautiful.”
chan shrugs, pretending to be casual. “t'was already beautiful. i just put a melody on it.”
you reach for his hand again. he lets you take it, always lets you take it.
“is this the first song you’ve written with someone you’re in love with?” you ask quietly.
he pauses.
then smiles, shy and soft. “yeah. and i hope it’s the only one.”
you press your forehead to his shoulder.
“i think we just made a cheesy memory,” you whisper.
he turns slightly to kiss the top of your head. “then let’s keep making them. cheesy and all.”
the clock reads 4:12 am now.
the first version of the song is saved in a folder called “us.”
it’s not finished. it might never be. but it doesn’t need to be perfect. it just needs to be yours.
you curl into the corner of the couch again, eyes fluttering shut- not to sleep, but maybe to rest them. chan hums the chorus under his breath beside you, fingers mindlessly playing the chords like he’s serenading the night itself.
before you drift off, you mumble one last thing:
“you’re my favorite song, chris.”
and he whispers back. he always does.
“you’re my reason for every one of them.”
“the part i never said out loud.”
(a still hour. 4:41 am. the quiet isn’t peaceful anymore, it’s holding its breath.)
he doesn’t notice it at first. the way you’ve gone quiet. maybe you were asleep.
but it was not like before. not sleepily. not wrapped in awe from a new lyric or his voice in your ear. this silence is different. it’s sitting heavy on your chest. and he only realizes when he reaches out to run his thumb gently over your knuckles and you flinch, barely, but enough for him to notice.
he turns to you slowly.
“hey,” he says softly. “hun, you okay?”
you blink at him. you were looking at the studio wall, at the sound panels, the gold record in the frame, the corner where your folded lyric sheet sits untouched. you weren’t really seeing any of it.
“yeah,” you say. but your voice betrays you. too thin. too quiet.
he sets down the guitar and shifts closer. his brows furrow, but not in frustration. it’s concern. that same warm, earnest gaze he’s always given you.
“you can tell me anything,” he says. “you know that, right?”
you nod. and then you nod again. because it’s true. you know it’s true. you believe him with your whole heart.
that’s exactly why it’s so hard.
“i didn’t want to ruin tonight,” you whisper, “but i.. i think i’ve been avoiding saying something.”
he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t press. just waits. lets the silence expand around you until you’re ready.
you take a breath. and then another.
“it’s my family,” you say finally. “they don’t.. they don’t like that i’m with you.”
chan’s head tips slightly, like he didn’t hear right. “what?”
you wince.
“they think it’s unstable. unrealistic. that.. that i shouldn’t be dating someone in the industry. that i’m just a phase to you. or that it’ll always be longdistance and lonely and that i’ll be the one waiting while you live a life i can’t be part of.”
you can’t look at him.
“they think loving you is.. irresponsible,” you say, voice cracking.
for a moment, there’s nothing but the soft buzz of equipment around you. the hum of the silent studio. the absence of sound.
and then his voice. low. steady.
“do you think that?” he asks, gentle but serious.
your eyes snap to him.
“no,” you say immediately, like it physically hurts to even have him wonder that. “no, god, never. i love you. i love you more than i even know how to explain. i just—”
you break off, pressing your palm to your forehead.
“i hate that i feel like i’m betraying them just by choosing my own heart.”
he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t get defensive. he doesn’t ask for promises or ask you to pick sides. he just reaches out and cups your face in his hand, thumb resting softly against your cheekbone.
“you’re not betraying anyone by being honest about what you want,” he says. “and if that’s not me, i’ll understand.”
you finally cry.
not hard. not dramatic. but silent tears spill, and you don’t even try to stop them.
“but it is you,” you whisper. “it’s always been you. that’s the whole problem.”
chan pulls you into him then, holds you so close it feels like maybe you can hide there for a while. maybe forever.
his chin rests on top of your head as your hands grip the fabric of his hoodie. you can feel his heart against your cheek.
“then we’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “whatever it takes. i don’t care what the world says. you’re my home.”
your breath stutters.
“i don’t want to lose you,” you say.
“you won’t,” he replies, like it’s fact. “even if the world ends. even if i’m across the globe and you’re under a hundred rules, i will still be yours.”
you don’t realize how hard you’re clinging until his arms tighten in response.
“i’m so scared, channie,” you whisper.
“i know, baby. i know.”
and then, quieter.
“but i’m not scared. not if i’ve got you.”
somewhere between the crying and the quiet, you fall asleep against him.
your dreams are a blur of chords and warmth, of light through a studio window that doesn’t exist. you dream of melodies that sound like safety.
and even though the world outside might never fully understand it; might never fully approve, you wake up knowing.. this.
your heart knows where it belongs.
and it’s right here, in the quiet thrum of a boy who wrote your name into every note before he ever said it out loud.
“no matter the ending, it’s you.”
(the sky is beginning to lighten, barely. that liminal hour between night and morning. somewhere between dream and day, where truth feels soft enough to hold.)
you wake up first.
chan’s head is tilted toward you on the couch, cheek pillowed in the mess of your hair. he’s asleep, properly this time, breath slow, mouth just barely parted, hoodie slightly askew around his collarbone where you clung to him in your sleep.
the studio is still quiet. the monitors are off now, the soft blue light from the mixing board the only thing illuminating the room. your bodies are half covered by the denim blanket he keeps for emergencies, the air conditioner humming gently in the background.
and your heart, somehow, is steady.
not because the fear is gone. not because the world has changed overnight. but because you’re still here.
and so is he.
you lift your hand and gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. his lashes flutter. then, without opening his eyes, he whispers, still half-asleep:
“are you leaving me?”
you smile, sad and sweet, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear.
“never,” you say softly. “even if i have to pretend in front of everyone else. even if i have to keep you a secret just a little longer. i’m not leaving you.”
his brows twitch, a quiet expression of protest even in sleep.
“you shouldn’t have to pretend,” he murmurs. “you deserve to be loved out loud.”
you press your forehead against his.
“i am loved out loud,” you reply. “by you.”
that makes him stir. he opens his eyes now, sleepy and glassy and gold in the low light.
“you’re sure?” he says.
you nod, then softly: “i’ve never been more sure of anything.”
he sits up slightly, blinking, hair a ruffled halo.
“you don’t have to protect me from your world, y/n,” he says, voice gravelly. “i’m strong. i’ll stand there with you. whatever people say. whatever your family thinks. i’ll wait however long you need. i’ll earn every inch of your life.”
your throat tightens.
“i don’t want you to wait,” you say. “i want you in it. not waiting at the edges. just… just give me time to show them. that it’s you. that it was always you.”
he leans forward and presses the softest kiss to your temple.
then, he says the same thing he whispered into your hair the first night you ever stayed this long in the studio, months ago, when he was shy to admit how badly he wanted you to stay:
“i’ve got all the time in the world.”
you let out a breath. a small one. a real one. and for the first time in days, the ache in your chest eases.
you end up sitting side by side on the studio floor with mugs of tea he brewed on the tiny electric kettle under his desk. you drink in silence for a few moments, legs pressed together, heads leaning against the wall.
then you speak, softly, barely louder than the hum of the outside wind through the sealed windows.
“do you think this lasts?”
he doesn’t ask what “this” means.
he just looks at you. and smiles.
“i don’t think love ends,” he says. “not the real kind.”
you swallow, slow.
“even if it changes?”
“it might change,” he nods. “it might grow, or shrink, or stretch itself around the seasons of our lives. but it doesn’t disappear. and mine for you, isn’t going anywhere.”
you close your eyes.
“i want forever,” you say, and you mean it. not in the dramatic, fairy tale way. not as a fantasy. but as a promise. as something simple and raw and real.
and he reaches out and takes your hand like it’s instinct. like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“you have it,” he says.
outside, the world begins to stir. trains groan in the distance. the city starts to wake.
but in here, in the little universe you’ve made with him under dim lights and scattered lyrics and the leftover scent of jasmine tea, everything is still. everything is soft.
and maybe the world still won’t understand.
maybe your family will take time.
maybe you’ll both carry the weight of being two people in love who don’t fit the boxes you were given.
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CONTENT: Established and secret relationship, idol!AU, heavy angst but happy ending, disappearance, burnout and mental health themes, fame pressure and sasaeng harassment, intense hurt/comfort, storm and reunion in the rain, vulnerability (crying, guilt, breakdown)..
SUMMARY: Bang Chan stops replying to your messages. Then he stops picking up the phone. After that, he disappears from the stage, from the group chat… and from your life — the one you both always kept secret. Between sasaengs, hate comments and empty company statements, the silence becomes unbearable. Until you decide to use the “emergency contact” Chan left you: Felix.
NOTE: I've written a fic based on @karmaghostjess93's idea. Thank you so much for trusting me to write it! I hope you like it.🌼 🌈 💗
If the world knew the truth, it would probably go crazy.
The leader of Stray Kids, the guy everyone sees as unattainable, the one who smiles for the cameras, the one who always has a word of encouragement for others… That same guy is right now sprawled face-down on your couch, his T-shirt wrinkled, his hair plastered to his forehead, and a pair of mismatched socks you lent him.
“I’m dying,” he mutters into the cushion, in slurred English.
“You’ve been lying there for ten minutes, drama queen,” you reply, without looking up from your laptop.
He grunts, rolls over, and stares at you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you. His eyes linger on the way you frown at the screen, on how you bite the corner of your lip as you type.
“Stop staring,” you protest, feeling his gaze fixed on you.
“I can’t,” he replies, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re pretty.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the smile that escapes you too. He sits up, literally crawls to the other end of the couch, and rests his head on your lap, turning his body so he can keep watching you.
“Don’t you have more important things to do than bother me?” you stroke his hair without thinking.
“Nothing is more important than bothering you,” he says, very serious, though his eyes sparkle with amusement.
That’s how it’s been almost all the time lately. Chan arrives late, exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders tense from so many hours in the studio… but as soon as he walks through your door and takes off his mask, he lets himself be a different version of himself. Softer, clumsier, sillier. More like you.
It’s a relationship no one knows about.
Not his family, not the company, not your friends back home. He jokes that it’s like a TV drama, but you know the secret carries a weight—a weight you both agreed to bear from the start.
You remember the first time he told you, on a night much like this one, with the two of you sitting on the living room rug, eating cheap ramen.
“I don’t want to hide you,” he had confessed, stirring his noodles without looking at you. “But… for now, I think it’s safest. For you, for us, for the kids…”
“I know,” you had replied then, with a lump in your throat. “I don’t need the world to know, Chan. As long as you and I know, that’s enough for me.”
He had looked up then, and gazed at you with those eyes that seemed to ask for forgiveness and express gratitude at the same time.
“Just… if things ever get ugly,” he added, as if it were a random thought, “and you can’t reach me, or something happens…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m going to leave you an emergency contact.”
He had written a number on a piece of paper and handed it to you.
“Felix,” he said. “If anything happens, if I’m not around, if you need help… send him a message, okay? He’s… he’s my safe person too.”
At the time, you didn’t think too much of it. It seemed sweet, responsible. Very “BangChan.”
Now, that little folded piece of paper in your nightstand drawer would become your only lifeline.
But you don’t know that yet.
For now, it’s just you, the laptop, and Chan’s head on your lap, while he looks at you as if you were the only corner of peace in a city that’s way too noisy.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks after a while, breaking the silence.
“How strange it is that no one suspects a thing,” you reply, finally closing the laptop. “You spend way too much time here.”
He laughs.
“I keep my secrets well.”
“Oh, really?” You poke his cheek. “Your members say otherwise during the live streams.” They always ask why you’re smiling while looking at your phone.
Chan blushes visibly and covers his face with his hands.
“They said that?”
“Hyunjin said you looked like a teenager in love,” you tease.
“Traitor…” he mutters, but he’s smiling.
You lean in a little and pull his hands away from his face.
“Well, they’d better get used to it,” you whisper, and kiss him briefly on the lips. “Because I plan to keep giving you reasons to smile at your phone.”
You don’t know it yet, but those little moments of light will be the only spark keeping him going when everything else starts to fall apart.
At first, they’re just isolated comments.
An old tweet taken out of context. A video edited with malicious intent. Rumors you’ve seen before, ones you thought were long buried.
Stuff about Hyunjin is popping up again. Old screenshots, lies that had already been cleared up, evidence that the company and the guys presented back in the day.
But the internet has a selective memory. It forgets the clarifications and clings to the controversy.
“They’re at it again…” Chan says one afternoon, flinging his phone onto the table as if it were burning him.
You’re in your kitchen. He tried to cook something more elaborate than ramen and ended up focusing on chopping vegetables as if they were the enemy.
You approach from behind and wrap your arms around his waist.
“Too much noise?” you ask against his back.
He sighs.
“Too much.” He falls silent for a moment. “It’s not just Hyunjin this time. They’re attacking Lix again. Because of his accent, because of his appearance. Everyone, really.”
You feel him tense beneath your arms. It’s a tension you recognize: that of the leader who feels like everything is his fault even when it isn’t.
“It’s not your responsibility for everything some stranger with too much free time says,” you murmur.
“But I’m the leader,” he replies automatically, as if by reflex. “I’m supposed to keep us all safe.”
He puts down the knife, leans against the counter, head bowed.
“What kind of leader am I if I can’t even protect them from people’s comments and lies?”
You stand beside him and gently turn his face toward you.
“You’re a human leader,” you reply. “They don’t need a superhero; they need Chan. And you’re already doing more than anyone could.”
He laughs without humor.
“Try telling that to the comments.”
When he leaves that night, he does so with a hug a little tighter than usual. When he calls you from the studio later, his voice sounds tired, but he still tries to joke.
“I promise I’m fine,” he repeats. “Just… tired.”
You don’t quite believe him, but you decide not to press him. You trust him. You trust that he’ll tell you if he breaks down.
The days go by and the noise grows louder. The sasaengs start crossing more dangerous lines: showing up at the building, calling the guys’ cell phones, leaking their schedules.
And you, who aren’t publicly part of that world, start to notice how the shadows are creeping toward you too.
One afternoon, while you’re grocery shopping, you could swear someone is following you down a couple of aisles. You turn around, don’t see anyone suspicious, but your heart races anyway.
Later, you text Chan about it.
“I think I’m being paranoid. I felt like someone was following me today.”
It takes a while to respond, but when it does:
“Send me your location when you leave the house, okay? Just… just in case. I want to be sure. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
His apologies are becoming more and more frequent. As if every outburst, every comment, every strange look in your direction were an added burden on his shoulders.
The first cracks aren’t visible from the outside.
Fans still see the same smiling Bang Chan on live streams, with his playlists, his jokes, his hands fidgeting nervously in front of the camera.
But you see what happens afterward.
One night he shows up at your apartment unannounced. As soon as you open the door, you notice something different.
He’s paler, his dark circles more pronounced, his jaw clenched. He doesn’t even try to smile.
“Hi,” he says quietly, in a whisper.
You step aside to let him in. He takes off his shoes almost automatically and drops his backpack on the floor by the door.
Instead of heading to the couch like usual, he slumps down on the rug in front of the TV, which is turned off. He rests his elbows on his knees and covers his face with his hands.
You close the door slowly. You walk over and sit down next to him, without touching him yet.
“Chan…” you murmur.
He doesn’t answer. He takes a deep breath, and you can feel his whole back heave. There’s a barely perceptible tremor in his fingers.
You hear it before you see it: a ragged intake of breath, a sound that seems to carry the weight of years of holding back.
He’s breaking. And this time, he can’t hold it in.
“Sometimes I feel like, no matter what I do, there’s always going to be someone waiting for me to make a mistake so they can tear us apart…” his voice comes out choked behind his hands. “And I’m the leader. I’m supposed to keep all of us safe. What kind of leader am I if I can’t even protect you from comments on the internet?”
You kneel in front of him, gently take his wrists, and force his hands down so he’ll look at you.
His eyes are moist, but no tears have fallen yet. He’s at that exact point between breaking down and holding on.
“You’re not a shield,” you say firmly. “You can’t stop every bullet with your chest, Chan. It’s not fair.”
He laughs bitterly.
“But I try anyway.”
“And you’re killing yourself inside,” you reply.
You hug him then, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him. At first he stiffens, as if he doesn’t know what to do with so much honesty. Then, slowly, he lets himself go.
His hands move up your back, clutching your T-shirt, and you feel him trembling against your shoulder.
He isn’t crying out loud. There’s no noisy drama. There is a heavy silence and a breath that breaks at times, as his weight sinks against you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over, against your neck. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“You have nothing to feel,” you reply, but you keep stroking his back anyway. Even though you know that, for him, guilt is a native language.
That night he stays over. He lies in your bed, facing away, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
You think he’s asleep when you’re about to drift off yourself, but then you hear him whisper:
“Sometimes I think that if I disappeared… everything would be better.”
You open your eyes suddenly and turn toward him.
“Don’t ever say that again,” you reply, your voice harsher than you expected.
He turns his head and looks at you. His pupils seem to glow in the dim light.
“It’s just… a stupid thought,” he says quickly. “I’m not going to do anything, I swear.”
But those words linger there, floating between the two of them, like a crack that refuses to close.
Time passes. The days blur together, and the noise on social media ebbs and flows like a tide that never quite recedes.
You cling to the small signs of normalcy: a message from him in the morning, a voice note laughing at something Felix said, a photo from the studio with a cup of coffee and a “wish you were here.”
Until one day, the messages simply stop coming.
There’s no fight beforehand. No strange argument. The last conversation was normal:
“I’m finishing up late today, but I’ll call you before I go to sleep, okay? 💛”
“Don’t worry if you’re tired—please get some rest. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
And that's it.
That promised call never comes.
At first, you think he fell asleep. It wouldn't be the first time; his schedule is inhuman.
The next day, you send him another message:
“Is everything alright? 🥺”
No answer. A small clock icon next to the text. You try calling him.
It goes straight to voicemail.
You try again several times throughout the day. Nothing.
You wonder if he’s changed his number, or if the company has taken measures against the sasaengs. You try not to panic.
But then, the news breaks.
A statement from the company: Bang Chan will be taking some time off for personal/health reasons.
The internet is flooded with theories. Some talk about burnout, others about scandals, others about pure malice. Meanwhile, you’re sitting on your couch, phone in hand, reading the statement over and over again.
There isn’t a single mention of where he is. Not a single private word for you.
The Stray Kids chat you can’t see is just as silent. The members, with no real information, keep working under the constant shadow of his absence.
Two days pass. Three. Four.
Your messages still haven’t been delivered.
“Chan, please, tell me something.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m here.”
“I’m starting to get scared.”
The nights turn into an endless cycle of refreshing timelines, reading articles, and scrolling too far down into comments you know you shouldn’t be reading.
There are supportive tweets, fans saying “take the break you need,” “we’re waiting for you.” But there are also nasty comments, people celebrating that you’ve “gone,” people pointing out mistakes, taking phrases out of context.
A thread on a forum sticks with you: someone vaguely mentions your building. Not your name, not your face, but enough to send a chill down your spine.
You take a deep breath, close the page.
On the fifth day, you don’t sleep. On the sixth, you don’t even realize if it’s day or night.
You start to think that maybe he regretted it all. That maybe cutting you off was part of that “disappearing.”
You hate yourself for thinking it. You know it doesn’t fit with him, with the Chan you know. But the silence hurts, and when it hurts, the mind invents monsters.
On the seventh night, with your heart in a knot in your chest, you open the drawer of your nightstand. There, folded in four, is the piece of paper with the number he left you.
Felix. Emergency contact.
It’s taking you longer than it should to write that message.
You write it, delete it, and write it again. You try to make it sound sincere without sounding desperate, but every time you reread it, your eyes well up.
In the end, you give in to the harsh truth:
“Hi, Felix. I don’t know if you’ll read this or if you’ll believe me. I’m… Chan’s girlfriend.”
You stare at those words, feeling your heart race. It almost feels like sacrilege to type them in a chat with someone who doesn't know you.
But you keep going.
“He gave me your number as an emergency contact. We haven’t been able to talk in weeks—his phone isn’t working—and I’m really worried. I understand if you’re skeptical, but I need to talk to someone who knows him.”
You add details—things that only someone close to you would know:
“I know his favorite coffee has changed three times this month. That when he’s really tired, he mixes English, Korean, and sometimes even makes up nonsense words. That he’s always looking out for everyone but himself. That he keeps messages from fans in folders. And that two weeks ago, he cried on my couch because he felt like he wasn’t being a good leader.”
You bite your lip. You think about the photos.
You never wanted anyone to see them. They’re just for the two of you: Chan wearing an old cap in your kitchen, pulling a face at you. You and him on your couch, both wearing masks, but with smiling eyes. His hands intertwined with yours, no faces, just fingers.
You pick three. You attach them.
“Here’s my address: [X]. You can bring your manager, bodyguard, or whoever you want. I don’t expect you to trust me just because of a text message. But I’m on my own here, and I need to know if he’s okay or alive.”
You take a deep breath. And you hit send.
The message stays on the screen for a moment with the clock icon. And then: “Delivered.”
You stare at the screen as if you could force it to flash a reply.
Five minutes pass. Ten. Twenty.
Nothing.
You get up from the couch and start pacing back and forth across your apartment, still holding your phone.
What if that’s not his current number? What if his company changed it? What if Felix thinks you’re just another crazy person and decides to ignore you?
The throbbing in your temples starts to hurt.
Then, it vibrates.
An incoming message from that same number.
“How did you two meet?”
You freeze. You read and reread the sentence.
You reply with trembling fingers:
“We met at a café a while back. He was writing lyrics in a notebook. I spilled coffee on his table. He laughed and said he’d been looking for an excuse to get up.”
The conversation continues, and it almost turns into a gentle interrogation:
“What name does he use with you when he’s feeling insecure?” “When was the last time you saw him in person?”
“What did he tell you about me when he gave you my number?”
You answer everything. You tell him that he calls you “baby” when he’s the one who’s more vulnerable. That the last time you hugged him was a little over a week ago. That when he gave you Felix’s number, he said:
“He’s my safe person too.”
A few seconds pass. Then another message arrives:
“I’m on my way. It’ll take 30 to 40 minutes. I’ll be coming with bodyguards. Don’t let anyone else in until then.”
You feel dizzy.
You realize you’re still in your pajamas, your hair pulled back into a messy bun. You look at yourself in the hallway mirror and barely recognize yourself: red eyes, dark circles, dull skin.
You think about getting changed. Then you think… what’s the point? Felix isn’t coming to judge your appearance.
He’s coming because Chan isn’t here.
You sit on the edge of the sofa, your heart pounding against your ribs, and wait.
The doorbell rings before you feel like half an hour has passed.
You get up, adjust the mask on your face—more out of habit than necessity—and walk to the door.
You look through the peephole: A blond guy, cap, mask, accompanied by two burly men in dark suits. Even without seeing his whole face, you know it’s him.
You open the door.
Felix enters first, giving a slight bow. His eyes scan your face, your body, your apartment—all in a matter of seconds.
The bodyguards stay in the hallway, serious, giving you space.
You bow slightly in response, trying to show respect despite the trembling of your hands.
He speaks first, in soft English, with a recognizable accent:
“You’re…?”
“Of all the ways Chan and I imagined I’d meet you someday… this wasn’t one of them,” you say in a whisper, trying to smile.
Felix stands still for a moment. Then, the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly.
That small, weary but genuine smile makes something in your chest ease.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Yes, of course,” you step back, letting him in completely. “I’m sorry, everything’s a little…” you look around. “Chaotic.”
“Don’t worry,” he replies. “I’ve seen worse bedrooms.”
The lighthearted joke breaks the tension a little. You close the door; the bodyguards stay outside.
You guide him toward the sofa. You offer him something to drink, more to keep your hands busy than because you think he’ll actually want it.
“Water is fine,” he says, sitting down with his hands clasped, his back straight, as if he doesn’t know how much he can let his guard down here.
You bring him the glass and sit down across from him.
There’s a brief silence as you both size each other up.
You see the exhaustion reflected in Felix’s eyes, the constant worry etched on his face. He sees the dark circles under your eyes, the tremor, the contained desperation.
“So…” he begins, setting his glass down on the table. “You’re really…”
“Chan’s girlfriend,” you finish for him.
He nods once.
“Tell me everything,” he says.
And you do.
You don’t know how much time passes while you’re talking.
At first, only jumbled facts come out of your mouth: how you met Chan, how long you’ve been together, small details that, taken together, paint a picture that’s hard to fake.
Felix listens in silence. He doesn’t interrupt you, doesn’t pull out his phone, doesn’t look away. Every so often he nods, as if he’s putting the pieces together in his head.
“Did he tell you about me?” he asks, during a pause.
You nod.
“He said you were his ‘safe person,’” you reply. “That if one day he couldn’t be there… he should trust you.”
Felix looks down for a second and smiles faintly, sadly.
“That sounds like him.”
You tell him about the last time you saw Chan, the night he stayed in your bed, staring at the ceiling, and said that sometimes he thought that if he disappeared, everything would be better.
Felix clenches his jaw when he hears that.
“He never put it that way to us,” he murmurs. “He always… always tried to put on a brave face. For us, for the fans.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing up his blond locks even more. “We knew he was tired, but not… not to that extent.”
“Didn’t the company tell you anything?” you ask, with a mix of hope and fear.
He shakes his head.
“Just that he ‘needs time.’” He swallows. “He’s not in the dorm. He’s not with his parents. He’s… he’s not in any of the places we’d recognize.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “Hyung decided on his own that he didn’t want anyone to find him, apparently.”
You feel a twinge in your chest. The thought of Chan wandering alone, with no one, carrying all that guilt, makes the air feel thicker.
“He thinks that… if he disappears off the map, he’ll protect you,” you say, piecing together what you’ve seen and heard.
Felix looks up, staring at you intently.
“Did he tell you that?”
“Not in those words.” But… he blames himself for everything. For the attacks, for the rumors, for how the kids feel. For me. You swallow, feeling your throat burn. “And if those sasaeng are starting to hang around… my building, or my neighborhood…” You don’t finish the sentence, but you let it hang in the air. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought leaving was the only way to protect me.”
Felix falls silent for a few seconds, taking it all in. Then he takes a deep breath, as if making a decision within himself.
“We’re going to do this together,” he says. “You and me.” He leans forward slightly. “I can’t promise you we’ll find him tomorrow. Or the day after.” His eyes soften. “But I can promise you that you won’t have to go through this alone anymore.”
That sentence breaks something inside you.
You don’t cry out loud; you simply feel the tears start to roll down, silently, without you being able to stop them. You cover your face with your hands instinctively.
Felix moves, awkward at first, unsure whether to approach you or not. Finally, he leans in slightly and places a hand, lightly, on your forearm.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.” His voice sounds sincere, heavy with the same weariness and fear as yours, but also with something warm. “Chan hyung… if he knew how much you’re hurting, he’d hate himself even more.”
“He already does,” you reply through clenched teeth. “And that’s what scares me the most.”
You talk for hours.
About Chan. About the group. About the strange atmosphere in the dorm since he left.
Felix tells you things you’d only ever seen from the outside, translated through fancams and variety show clips, but which now have a different texture:
“Seungmin spends more time with his headphones on,” he says. “As if he doesn’t want to hear the silence… Han spends more time in the studio than before, but he’s making less music, Hyunjin…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “He’s… as if he’s waiting for Chan to walk through the door at any moment and say it was all a joke.”
He also talks to you about himself:
“I’ve had panic attacks before,” he admits, quietly. “And without Chan… it’s harder.” He looks at his own fingers, fiddling with the rim of his glass.
“I’ve been thinking that, if this happened to him… it could happen to me, too, or to any of us. And the idea scares me more than I want to admit.”
You realize something then: You’re not the only one losing it.
He’s hanging by a thread too, holding everyone else up while no one is holding him up.
You reach out, without thinking too much about it, and squeeze his fingers.
“You’re not just the ‘happy sunshine’ of the group,” you say. “You have a right to be scared too.”
He looks up, surprised for a second, and then nods.
Before he leaves, you exchange numbers right away.
“I’m going to add you to a group chat with the guys, but…” He grimaces. “I’m not going to tell them who you are just yet. Just that… you were important to Chan.” He looks at you, gauging your reaction. “When he’s ready, let him decide how to introduce you.”
It seems fair to you. You nod.
“If any of us find out anything, we’ll call each other,” you say.
“We’ll call each other,” he repeats.
At the door, before leaving, he pauses.
“He’s going to come back,” he says, as if speaking as much to himself as to you. “He has too many reasons to do so.” He looks you in the eyes. “And you’re one of the biggest ones.”
When the door closes behind him, the apartment feels just as empty as before, but no longer completely silent.
Now there’s an invisible line between you and a group of kids who are also waiting for the same person.
And that, even if it doesn’t fix everything, gives you something to hold on to.
The days that follow blend into a strange routine.
On the one hand, your normal life: work, chores, shopping. On the other, the constant ache in your chest, the lack of messages, the absence of his name on your screen.
Felix texts you every now and then.
At first, the messages are practical:
“The company keeps saying the same thing. ‘Take a break. Don’t go into details.’”
“No one came today to tell us anything else.”
Then they start to get more personal:
“Did you eat today?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night—I was thinking too much. How about you?”
You respond with the same mix of facts and confessions.
“I’ve eaten something. Not much, but it counts.”
“I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking the doorbell had gone off.”
He also shares the occasional anecdote:
“Hyunjin asked who the mysterious person in our new chat group was. I told her it was someone important to Chan. She smiled a little. I think it gave her hope.”
Sometimes he calls you. The first time, you’re surprised by the tone of his voice: lower, softer than you imagined. You cry a little, now and then, but you also laugh at trivial things, because pain needs an outlet.
He’s the only one you can talk openly to about Chan without having to explain anything.
And yet, no matter how much you talk, no matter how much you support each other, there’s one thing that doesn’t change:
Chan still hasn’t shown up.
Days go by. Then weeks.
You start to notice its absence not just on your phone, but within yourself.
You have trouble concentrating. You find yourself glancing at the door every now and then, waiting to hear the code beep. You check two, three, four times to make sure your notification sound isn’t turned off, just in case.
The world outside keeps turning: there are new comebacks, new trends, new scandals involving other people. Your reality, however, seems to have gotten stuck on pause.
It’s been raining since this morning.
At first, a light, steady rain gently tapping against your windowpanes. Then, as the afternoon wears on, the raindrops grow heavier, more forceful. The wind swirls against the buildings, and the trees bend.
The news reports a severe storm and advises people not to leave their homes.
You, in any case, weren’t planning on going out.
You’re on the couch, a blanket over your legs, your phone in your hand. The TV is on with the volume low, a news anchor talking about power outages, flooded neighborhoods.
Your thumb scrolls almost automatically through your social media feed. Every mention of “BangChan” tightens the knot in your stomach a little more.
There are fans asking for respect, asking that he be left alone. There are others starting threads about his mental health, talking about how dangerous it is to put so much pressure on someone. And, as always, there are voices that laugh, that downplay it, that attack.
The thunderclap that follows makes the window rattle.
You shudder. The storm is so intense that for a moment you literally feel like the sky is going to split in two.
You glance at the clock. It’s late. Felix texted you a while ago:
“We’re all in the bedroom today. It’s really quiet without him. Are you okay with the storm?”
You answered him:
“I’m scared, but I’m on the couch with a blanket. Don’t worry, I’m not going out.”
He hadn't answered yet.
You sigh, tuck your feet further under the blanket, and try to focus on something else.
And then, you hear it.
The electronic beep from your door's keypad.
It's a short, familiar, unmistakable sound: the code being entered.
You freeze completely.
Your first thought is ridiculously logical: “No one else has the code.”
Your second thought: “I must have imagined it.”
But then, the lock clicks, followed by the faint creak of the door opening.
Your heart skips a beat so violently it almost hurts physically.
You sit up slowly on the couch, quietly pulling the blanket off yourself. Your whole body is on high alert.
You don’t move right away. There’s something in the air—the way it feels colder—that makes you move forward cautiously.
From where you’re sitting, you see the silhouette.
Someone enters, closing the door behind them.
A black hood covers their head. A mask covers the lower half of their face. Their clothes are soaked; water drips onto the floor, immediately forming a small puddle in the entryway.
They stand there, still, not moving forward. As if they don’t know if they have the right to do so.
It takes your mind an eternal second to accept what your eyes already know.
(Warnings: SMUT MDNI 18+, p in v sex, bro is bricked like… the whole time. Backstage sex. NDA shit. No use of y/n.)
(A/N: for my bangchan biased friend teehee @lyntix0 )
•••
* Horny!Bangchan who spends an hour before the show stress pacing around the green room. Periodically doing vocal warm ups with each step. But he can’t focus on them even if he tried. There was an ache between his legs taking over every thought in his brain. He tries taking deep breaths, just praying it will go away in time to go on stage.
* Horny!Bangchan who can’t help but feel a slight twitch in his pants as hundreds of people scream for him when he introduces himself. And as the next song starts, he begins to scan the crowd.
* Horny!Bangchan who wishes he could say he noticed your cute sign, which you probably spent hours on, first. Or even how nice you looked with his skzoo clipped on the waistband of your outfit. But it is one of his photocards placed snugly in your bra up against your plush chest that caught his attention first. The strategic low cut of your top bringing his eyes right where you want them. You can’t help but smile slightly as you notice his eyes drift down.
* Horny!Bangchan who palms the growing hardness in his pants down as he heads to the back for an outfit change. He pulls a staff member aside just casually mentioning the section and color of outfit you were in. The staff just nods and pulls his headset closer to his mouth, talking a quiet command into it.
* Horny!Bangchan who is vibrating with anticipation as the show ends. He’s visibly bricked at this point and the other members just roll their eyes as he heads to the room in the back.
* Horny!Bangchan, whose eyes immediately find yours as the door opens. The stack of nda papers, signed, sitting on the table by the soft couch. He almost felt a little bad. You looked so pretty, seated with wide eyes and a nervous smile. He could tell you probably put a lot of effort in your look. Perfectly put together. And he was about to ruin it.
* Horny!Bangchan whose hand is holding your neck up as he plows into you from the back. Each one of your small whines making him want to go faster. He knows the guys are waiting in the green room to leave. But he doesn’t care. The lewd sounds coming from the wet warmth between your legs is addicting. And he doesn’t plan on stoping anytime soon.
* Horny!Bangchan who can’t help but grip at your tits as you straddle his hips. Ridding up and down on his length with a smooth rythm. The urge to push his face into your chest is consuming. And he relinquishes restraint much to easily.
* Horny!Bangchan who makes sure you cum first. It’s the least he can do for having you sign those god damn papers. His hips rut into you as you lay out for him on the couch. The feeling of your walls squeezing tighter around him letting him know he’s on the right track. A loud groan escapes your lips as you fall apart.
* Horny!Bangchan who helps you get dressed and gives you a gentle thank you kiss on the lips before he leaves you. Your heart flutters with adrenaline and confusion as you wonder how the hell that just happened.
been thinking of chan's girlfriend!reader and the boys calling her "mom" kind of as a joke but also not really 😅
bangchan’s girlfriend as the mom friend
a/n: a bit different than what the req asked but this is the direction i decided to go with, hope you enjoy <3
genre: fluff
pairing: idol bf! bangchan x f!reader, ot8 skz x f!reader (platonic)
You deny you’re the mom friend of the group at first, considering you’re around the same age as the maknae’s but ultimately… you’re dubbed Mother™️
It’s subtle at first, you’re always carrying snacks in your back, offering hand sanitizer after grocery shopping, and even texting the group chat to make sure everyone has ate
Chris thinks it’s cute, the way his members flock to you whenever they’re feeling ill or hungry or just truly in the mood to be coddled— he’s all too familiar to the feeling as well
You don’t realize you’re caring for the members at first, it’s just in your nature to nurture those around you. Making sure to cook enough to feed everyone rather than just two mouths, stopping by their dirty laundry hampers to collect enough clothes to complete your own loads
It doesn’t truly dawn on you until Jisung is feeling a little under the weather and since you coincidentally had the day off from work, you offered to stop by and drop off a nice warm, meal and some words of comfort
He’s grateful for the soup you made him your mother’s old recipe, that much is obvious by the way he devoured it as if he hadn’t ate all day. Though he confesses later on that he didn’t have the energy to make any meals prior to you showing up so consider it a very late breakfast
He receives a call from Christopher in the midst of you helping tidy up his room just the slightest, truly the main telling sign of him feeling under the weather, you recognize your boyfriend’s voice immediately and perk up by Jisung’s side with a smile
“Is my girl treating you okay, Hannie?” Chan teases, adjusting his beanie down from the other side of the video call.
Jisung nods sleepily, shuffling under the blankets you recently tucked him into with a content sigh, “Omma has been keeping me company all day, I almost don’t want to give her back.”
He’s soon fast asleep before you can register what he said, eventually you decide to hang up after a few more minutes of giving your boyfriend an update of his member’s progress given that he’s finishing up at the studio at the moment and therefore can’t come over
You’re soon back on your way home, unaware that the group chat is bombarding you with messages gushing over how they’re jealous of Jisung for experiencing such gentle care from their beloved Omma
It’s then that you realize that you’ve most definitely fallen into the Mother™️ role but you wouldn’t have it any other way
bonus scene!
The stomping of footsteps sound down the stairs before running into the kitchen where you’re finishing up the dishes from the brownies that are plated on the kitchen island
Jeongin takes a seat at the breakfast table with an all too innocent smile, resting his chin in his palm as he watches you clean up
“Y/nnieeee, those brownies smell so good, are those for me?”
You hum as you dry off your hands, turning around and lean against the sink. “They’re for everyone, Innie.”
Hyunjin and Felix cross the distance from the living room to the delectable mountain of chocolatey goodness sitting on the breakfast table before taking some for themselves
You chuckle, “God, you’re all so fast, I swear I just sent the message that they were done.”
Soon enough the rest of the group has huddled around the rapidly diminishing pile of brownies with content hums and sticky fingers, moaning about how delicious they are
Seungmin washes down his bite with a gulp of milk, “Omma, these taste so much better when you make them.” He side eyes Felix who wears an offended expression
Christopher joins you from the sidelines as he watches them eagerly enjoy their hard earned dessert after a busy day practicing, nudging you with his elbow lovingly, “You know, this is almost like practice for when we have the real thing.”
Your heart flutters at his insinuation of starting a family with you in the future, “It already feels like I’ve got seven of my own.” You smile and rest your head on his shoulder
╱|、 Pairing : Wolf Hybrid!Bangchan x Fem!Reader
(˚ˎ 。7 Warnings : Aggressive Chan, Sexual Content (MDNI), biting, knotting,
|、˜〵 choking/pinning, spit/drool, growling/snapping, borderline BDSM
じしˍ,)ノ Notes : Day 3 of 4 from the BbokiDwae Collab with @dwaekkicidal!
ㅤ-`♡´- Hybrid!Chan likes to have his way - all of the time. But that's because he views himself as the Alpha in your household, so if you comply with him, it just makes everything easier. And of course, that slips over into the bedroom as well.
-`♡´- Which means that he wants you to just sit still, look pretty, and let him abuse your holes until you're reduced to tears that stain the soft white sheets under your head.
-`♡´- Constant, hard, rough, bed-rocking, headboard-slamming-on-the-wall fucking ; whether that means he's got you bent over the side of the bed or he's mounting you from behind - maybe even letting you sit atop his hips while he pushes his cock up into you from below.
-`♡´- He cannot do soft sex unless he absolutely has to. And there is a reason for that.
-`♡´- Primal urges are constant when it's mating season for him. He's growling under his breath at people who get too close to you, he always has to have his hands on your waist or in your back pocket, and if you're at home then he's stuck to your side like glue.
-`♡´- And those primal urges also transfer into the bedroom as well. He'll snarl at you from behind when you squirm as your orgasm approaches, whispering out that you should stay still if you want it to take and that he's going to keep going until he knows you're full of his pups.
-`♡´- If you're not listening and keep moving underneath him, he'll scruff you by biting at the side of your neck and sinking his teeth in just enough to hold you tight. It hurts, he knows it hurts, and he'll apologize for it later with a soft whimper in his voice - but for now he just needs your pretty body to lay still for him.
-`♡´- Speaking of urges - during mating season all they're telling him to do is breed.
-`♡´- He's constantly in you - pinning you down with a hand on your neck on the sofa, bending you over in the bed, filling you to the brim against the kitchen counter; He's fucking up into you with heavy balls and a ruddy tip that is always, always leaking in desperation to be rubbing up on your gummy pink walls.
-`♡´- And he's got so much cum to give. During mating season his body is constantly vibrating, jittery and aching for release. And one knot is never enough.
-`♡´- He's flooding you with cum so much so that even his knot can't contain it. He'll fuck into you, growl out as soon as his knot inflates and huff as it locks him into you - and even then he won't stop, rutting his hips desperately for more friction until he's grinding his cock deeper against your walls, kissing your cervix with a tip that spurts thick ropes of white to fill you up.
-`♡´- And as soon as his knot deflates, it comes leaking out the moment he moves away. So he plugs you up again, cock still hard and eyes rolling back at the way you're so slick now. And how is he supposed to stop then, hm?
-`♡´- There is a lot of biting involved. You're constantly covered in marks of his dominance and adoration by being littered with imprints of his canines - though he knows better and will leave them in less obvious places - both from holding you down/frustration and pent up feelings and from needing to mark you up so others know that his territory includes you.
-`♡´- And the man is feral. He's absolutely going to be drooling when he fucks you, tongue sliding over his lips over and over at the sight of how delicious your body looks rocking underneath his as he fucks into you for the fourth time that evening - if you ask nicely, and if you're into it, he may just spit on your pussy too. (He probably will anyway.)
-`♡´- He is determined to breed you. Even if you're on birth control or simply don't want kids (and he knows it), he'll still attempt to fill you up as much as he possibly can. Even though there's just so much cum that it all ends up leaking out in the end.
-`♡´-
"Gonna fill you up. You want that, yeah? You want me to fill you up?" He'll whine to mock your moans, brows crinkling when you choke on your sounds. "Say it." He'll growl, "Say you want it."
"Sit still. Sit still," He huffs, hand landing a harsh slap to your ass before squeezing the tender flesh in an attempt to keep you from moving. "Don't you want my pups, baby? Then quit moving."
"Oh my God, you're so fucking tight. So warm. God, don't ever wanna pull outta this pretty pussy."
"Where are you going?" He'll chuckle, grabbing onto your hips to drag you back to him when you try to crawl away for a small break between fuckings. "I'm not done with you yet."
"Fuck, might break you open. Split your pussy apart with my knot. Think you can take it? Yeah? Well you're gonna."
