Channie gets a lot of pent up frustration every time he has to be away from you. You know the first time you see him in a while he will want nothing more than to fuck you for hours. He’s ruthless and never tiring, putting you in every position you could think of to fuck you in. On your belly. Your back. Folded in half. You’re at his mercy and he’s showing you none as he makes you cum over and over again.
PAIRING: Chan x f. reader
SUMMARY: Instead of working at your father’s flashy law office, you pick up shifts at the local pizza parlor just to prove you can. And if you convince them your up-to-no-good coworker is your boyfriend to pour salt in the wound… even better.
AU: Coworkers to Lovers, Fake Dating
GENRE: Romance, Mild Angst, Smut
WC: 19,147
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Toxic and emotionally abusive parental dynamics (not like extreme though), heavy classism and socioeconomic themes, mild self-loathing/angst, intense pressure from family constantly on reader, sometimes reader is a bit woe is me, emotional confrontations with parents, her parents are just awful everyone anyway, explicit language, sexually explicit content including vaginal fingering, unprotected sex in a car, heaving making out, these two are totally idiots and reader is oblivious, one (1) smoking scene, some champagne sipping.... I think that's it.
A/N: This is for the Carat Ridge collab hosted by @100vern @imnotshua and @starlightkyeom. I am so so so eternally late please forgive me.
AN 2: This is not beta read so I’m sorry. This is also not my proudest work to be honest with you. I don't know how we got to almost 20k but I apologize for not putting my best foot forward with this, but I think at this point it's better to be done than not done at all. Literally this end result is not what I was going for but we ball lmfao I don't even know if they actually have chemistry but pls forgive me.
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | CARAT RIDGE COLLAB | NOW PLAYING: SWEETENER
when life deals us cards
make everything taste like it is salt
then you come through like the sweetner you are
to bring the bitter taste to halt
-
THE BRASS BELL ABOVE THE DOOR JINGLES, SLIGHTLY OFF KEY AND A LITTLE TOO SHRILL AS ANOTHER CUSTOMER PUSHES INSIDE. Warm air rushes in before the door can close, the smell of fresh cut grass and the sound of the mowers on Main Street humming cutting through the chatter of the diner and the current trending pop tunes on the radio playing throughout.
"Hi," you greet from the hostess stand, wiping sweaty palms on your pants, rings twisting on your fingers. "Welcome to Sweetner. Table for two?"
The couple nods and you grab two laminated menus that stick to your fingers no matter how many times to try to wash off the hot honey that the teenagers relentlessly spill on them every day. You lead the couple through the small diner, steps clicking against the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor that's scuffed and worn smooth from decades of families, kids and after-church crowds shuffling through.
After seating them, you head back to the hostess stand and lean against the stand. You're definitely not supposed to, but Mr. Hargrove isn't here right now and your feet hurt like hell even though you've only been on shift for an hour, and the baking heat from the ovens behind the counter makes everything too hot. You think about going and hiding in the ice cream freezer in the back, but you know if Mingyu finds you in there again he is going to lose his mind.
Outside, Main Street unfolds lie the little postcards that Mrs. Hong likes to keep in her bookstore. The sky stretches cloudless and impossibly blue over head, the kind of afternoon where everything is baked warm and sticky. You see the clocktower from the courthouse three blocks over, looming above the tiny strip mall that houses Kimi's Nail Salon, a FedEx, a Subway and a mom and pop decal shop.
It is exactly the part of town you like to hide in, a completely ordinary and predictable slice of the world that feels farther away from the manicured lawn of the estates and the sharp, perfumed offices of your father's sleek law offices just four blocks away. You can never get over how just four blocks makes all the difference in the world, but you're forever grateful for it, preferring the smell of baked pizza and the stickiness of the melted ice cream beneath your shoes.
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket and you take it out - another thing you're not supposed to do - and you wince when you see your dad's name flash across the screen.
Lunch tomorrow. Noon.
You stare at it, the knot in your stomach tighter than the garlic knots Mingyu makes in the back. Almost immediately, your father sends another sharp reminder because he knows if he doesn't, you'll use it as an excuse to dress how you want.
Wear something presentable.
You roll your eyes and shove your phone back into your pocket, the irritation simmering. Three weeks. It's only been three weeks since you'd escaped the law office for Sweetner. Three weeks of freedom without during strategy sessions or being introduced to your future clients, three weeks without being introduced as a future partner which was something you never agreed to. Three weeks of pure bliss, sore feet, being bitched at for breaking the rules by Mingyu and-
The front door opens again, letting in a fresh blast of heat as Lee Chan strides in like he owns the place, even though he's technically ten minutes late to his own shift. He's always late though, much to Mingyu's constant complaining, but for some reason Mr. Hargrove loves Chan anyways.
"Don't worry," he announces to the entire diner. "I am here and I was almost arrested, but I was not!"
His dark hair is messy today like it always is, slightly damp from the heat and whatever trouble he's just escaped. His t-shirt clings to him with a faded denim jacket slung over one shoulder, his apron crumbled under his arm. He smirks when he sees his favorite regulars who chuckle at his announcement, winking at a table of elderly women who preen under his attention.
You can't help the grin that tugs are your mouth. Chan has that effect on everyone, equal parts exasperating and magnetic, which is probably why he never gets in trouble.
"Chan," Mingyu booms from the kitchen. "I swear to God!"
Except with Mingyu, anyway.
"Relax!" Chan calls back, already weaving through tables while he ties his apron around his waist. “It was barely a misunderstanding. Some old lady thought I was stealing her cat when I was just trying to return it. Hero behavior, really.”
"Shut up and get back there," Joshua laughs, walking by while balancing a tray of drinks as he navigates the lunch rush entirely alone, the new server missing in action. "Mingyu's been cooking all this himself, he's going to lose his mind in a second."
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Perfect," Chan grumbles.
As Chan vanishes to the kitchen, the door opens again and a family of four walks in. You repeat the cycle, grabbing another set of menus and leading them to a table, settling back into the routine that you've come to grow fond of at Sweetner. Seat, smile, refill waters, wipe tables when Soonyoung inevitably falls behind because he's making out with his most recent girlfriend behind the diner. It's a nice pattern, wildly different from the stiff back-to-back meetings and fancy luncheon's your family was used to.
You like how ordinary it all is. How nobody cares what your last name is. How Mr. Hargrove hired you after one interview because you showed up on time and didn’t flinch when a toddler threw a fist full of greasy french fries at your shirt. Most of all, you like that your father hates it with a purity that is laughable.
This phase is beneath you, he'd told you when you'd quit your summer at the firm and gone to work at the pizza and ice cream parlor. Rebellion is petty.
That was fine. You enjoyed being petty, especially if it meant doing something that was yours for once. Even if you still technically lived under their roof. Good thing the house was big enough to hide from them, and you knew your parents schedules in your sleep after years of having it drilled into you.
As the lunch rush finally ebbs, Joshua swings by the host stand, a little sweaty and tired. "Go take your break," he grins. "That way I can take mind and get off my fucking feet."
"Say less."
Leaving the stand behind, you head to the back and through the kitchen where Mingyu is singing something off key, sliding a pizza into the oven while Soonyoung and Mari do dishes together, whispering conspiratorily. You belatedly wonder if anyone has warned the new server not to risk sleeping with him, but you blow it off as you head out the back.
The heat behind the restaurant is different, humidity trapped between brick walls where the scent of warm asphalt and baked bread linger. You lean against the shaded wall, tilting your head back and letting your eyes close for a moment. The low hum of the town feels distant, a nice break to the beat of your day.
You flinch when the door creaks, looking up to see Chan slide through. He grins when he sees you, waving as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. You watch as he fishes one out and wedges it between his bubblegum pink lips, flicking the lighter a few times before it catches and he inhales, the acrid scent of his cigarette drifting over.
"Thought I'd find you out here," he says, leaning against the wall a few fet away. "How's today?"
"Not bad." You settle your head against the wall again. "The usual. The Mathersons were a pain in the ass again, but that's about it."
Chan exhales smoke through a laugh. "Hard Ass Hargrove needs to ban them. Do you know how many fucking comped meals they have?"
"None with me."
"That's why Hargrove adores you." He looks you up and down, brown eyes searching. Like always, you feel yourself heat up under his gaze. As much as you know Chan is a flirt, you are not immune to the same charm he lures everyone in with. "You holding up okay? I saw your dad’s car cruise by again yesterday like he was checking for escape attempts.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile. “He’s convinced I’m going to come to my senses any day now. Thinks this is me slumming it for attention.”
And is it?”
“No,” you say, more firmly than you expected. “It’s the opposite. I like that nobody here is trying to impress me or use me to climb some ladder. I like sore feet and sticky menus and Mingyu threatening to fire you every other day.”
"I am actually a linch pin to this place, thank you."
You smile. "I also like that I can mess up and it only makes people mildly annoyed. It's never the end of the world."
He nods slowly, taking another drag. "Well, if you ever want to run away for real, I know a guy with a decent truck and no questions asked.”
You turn toward him, letting your gaze linger on the line of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkle when he smirks. “That your idea of a grand gesture, Lee Chan? Offering me a getaway car?”
"Maybe."
You feel the flush creep up your neck. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might take you up on it."
Chan’s grin flashes bright and quick as he blows out the last of his smoke before putting the cigarette out on the wall. He walks toward the door, leaning toward you close enough that you catch the faint mix of smoke, kitchen herbs, and whatever cologne he wears that always cuts through the fryer smell.
"I'll be here when you do," he teases, winking before he hauls the door open and heads back inside.
The door thuds shut behind Chan, leaving you alone in the narrow alley. You stay exactly where you are, back pressed to the sun-warmed brick, eyes half-closed against the glare bouncing off the opposite wall. The heat radiates up through the soles of your shoes, mixing with the faint, lingering trace of Chan's cigarette smoke.
You tilt your head back, letting the shaded overhang protect your face while the rest of you bakes. Just five more minutes, you tell yourself. Or ten. Time feels slippery out here, detached from the relentless rhythm of the dining room and Mingyu's booming voice calling out orders, the endless jingle of that off-key brass bell.
Your mind wanders. Three weeks somehow feels like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, your father's law office and rigid dress feeling more like a dream than anything. There, every gesture was calculated, every conversation layered with subtext and future implications. Here? You drop a tray, and Joshua just laughs while helping you clean it up. A toddler launches fries at you, and Mr. Hargrove shrugs and tells you its hazard pay. It's liberating in a way you hadn't anticipated, this ordinary grind. Sore arches, sticky fingers, the constant low-level annoyance of rules you're still learning to bend without breaking.
And then there's Chan.
The memory of his grin, the way he leaned in close enough for you to catch the smoke and cologne, sends a small, traitorous flutter through your stomach. Chan is trouble in the way that everyone tolerates - always late, always with a story, always making the elderly ladies blush while Mingyu threatens violence. You know better than to read too much into his teasing. He's like that with everyone, magnetic and entirely impossible to pin down.
And still. Still.
That casual wink and off to be a getaway car lingers, especially with the threat of lunch with your father tomorrow looming over you, surely another attempt to tug you back into the family mold.
You exhale slowly, pushing those thoughts aside as you push off the wall, brushing your apron down. The alley feels a touch cooler now, or maybe that's just the reset in your head. You roll your shoulders, paste on the practiced smile that somehow feels more genuine these days, and pull open the heavy back door, the wall of noise and heat hitting you immediately. For now, you're exactly where you want to be.
-
Afternoon sun filters through the manicured hedges of the family estate gardens, casting long shadows across the table set for two. Crystal glasses catch the light, refracting little rainbows onto to white tablecloth. A silver tray holds chilled cucumber water infused with mint from the estate’s own herb garden, and the first course of seared scallops with some delicate puree sits untouched in front of you. Everything is immaculate, as always.
You’d managed to avoid most of the day by staying holed up in your room on the third floor, earbuds in, pretending the rest of the house didn’t exist. The estate is large enough that it’s easy to disappear, but your father had eventually sent the staff to find you and remind you of your lunch plans today. So here you are wearing sundress he approves of with scuffed sneakers he does not.
He sits across from you, posture ramrod straight in his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled once with surgical precision. The lines around his eyes seem deeper lately, or maybe that’s just the weight of perpetual disapproval carving them in.
“You’ve had your fun,” he starts without preamble, cutting into his scallop with a sharp click of knife against porcelain. “Three weeks of this phase is enough. Do you have any idea what it looks like when people hear my daughter is waiting tables at a greasy diner?"
You grip your fork a little tighter, the metal cool against your palm. The gardens smell of blooming roses and freshly cut grass, but all you can focus on is the knot reforming in your stomach.
“It’s not greasy,” you say evenly. “And it’s not a phase. I like it there."
He sets his utensils down with deliberate care, leaning forward. The intensity in his gaze pins you in place. “Real? You’re slumming it for attention, and we both know it. You have a future at the firm, and it will be a good experience for you when you go to law school. Your mother and I have tolerated this long enough.”
You swear under your breath, dropping your head into your hand as your frustration mounts over. "I already told you, I'm not doing the law school thing."
"The law school thing? Young woman, this family has attended Yale-"
"I went to Yale."
"An undergraduate degree in marketing is hardly going to Yale. You're not even using that degree at the diner."
“So what?” You demand, lifting your head to meet his stare directly, heat rising in your cheeks. “If I use the degree, will you leave me alone? I’m sure Mr. Hargrove would love it if I did some marketing for him - redesigned the menus, ran social media for Sweetner, maybe even helped with local promotions. Would that make it respectable enough for you? Or is the real problem that I’m choosing something that isn’t under your direct control?”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh that carries no warmth. “Marketing for a pizza parlor? You’re throwing away a Yale education and a guaranteed path at one of the most respected firms in the region to play around with Instagram posts? This isn’t about respectability. This is about wasting your potential. I didn’t sacrifice years building this practice, cultivating these connections, so you could reject everything. Law school isn’t optional - it’s the foundation we’ve laid for you. The firm isn’t just a job, do you understand? It’s your legacy.”
You push your plate away, the delicate puree now congealing under the warm sun. “Legacy? That’s your word for control. I spent two years at the firm doing exactly what you wanted and I hated it."
The argument builds, his voice rising. You let him yell, staring at the beads of water as they race down the glass carafe, his voice not even making you flinch anymore. He lists the opportunities you’re discarding, the social calendar you’ve ignored, the disappointment it’s causing your mother. You absorb each one, all of them familiar.
"Not to mention how embarrassing it is to explain to the Yoon family that this is a phase," he scoffs. "Do you think someone the caliber of Yoon Jeonghan is going to wait around for you forever?"
The mention of Yoon Jeonghan ignites a new rage in you. Yoon Jeonghan, the perfect student and the perfect country club member your family is obsessed with. Yoon Jeonghan whose father owns half of the real estate in town. Yoon Jeonghan whose mother is some descendent from the Vanderbilt family, very involved in charity and politics and the Hamptons. Yoon Jeonghan that your mother has been trying to push on you since she forced you to prom with him.
"Sorry, but I'm not dating Jeonghan," you snort. And because you can't help yourself and because you're sweating and the fabric of your dress is itchy and because you're angry, you tack on, "I'm dating Lee Chan."
“Lee Chan?” His voice drops to a low, dangerous register. “That delinquent? The one who’s been causing trouble around town since high school?"
His fury is immediate and visceral. The muscle in his jaw ticks visibly, his face flushing with barely contained rage. This isn’t the calculated disapproval from earlier - this is rage at the idea that his daughter would choose someone like Chan, someone who represents everything chaotic, ordinary, and antithetical to the polished world he’s curated.
Your father stands abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the stone patio. "Nonsense," he scowls. "Utter nonsense. We'll finish this discussion with your mother when she returns from her trip."
He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns sharply and strides back toward the main house, leaving the garden oppressively quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves. You remain seated for a long moment, staring at the abandoned table as the sun dips lower, painting the hedges in warmer gold and orange tones. Your hands tremble slightly from the adrenaline, lingering anger, and the dawning realization that this impulsive lie is going to complicate everything.
But beneath it all, there’s a spark of victory. A little bit of sweetener to make the bitterness more tolerable.
-
The thing about your job at the diner is that most of the time, it's pretty easy. The bad thing about it, is sometimes it's so busy that you can barely think straight, and on a Friday night after all the local baseball games and families are out to kick off their weekend, it's so slammed that you can barely think straight as you duck under a tray Joshua swings over your head to rush back to the hostess stand where you have a line of people out the door and the phone ringing off the hook for take out orders.
Soonyoung answers the phone for you, "Sweetner, you beat it I eat it!"
"Soonyoung!" You snap, yanking the phone away from him as there is audible confusion on the other end of the phone line. You wedge the phone to your shoulder and shove menus in his hand before pointing to an empty booth in the far corner. "Hi, sorry about that. How can I help you?"
Thankfully the stressed mother trying to order three large pizzas and garlic knots doesn't seem to be offended. You scribble the order down on a sticky notepad while simultaneously waving over the next group of four waiting by the door. The air inside Sweets N Eat is thick with the scent of melting cheese, sizzling pepperoni, and sweet waffle cones from the ice cream counter. The checkered floor is already scattered with stray crumbs and the occasional rogue french fry, and the brass bell above the door hasn’t stopped jingling for the last forty-five minutes.
"Chan!" Mingyu's voice booms from the kitchen. “Where the hell is my extra pepperoni tray? I swear if you’re flirting instead of working-"
“I’m on it, I’m on it!” Chan’s laugh cuts through the noise as he darts past you, from running out an order, shooting you a quick wink as he goes.
You shake your head with a smile, hanging up the phone to seat the next family.
The flow of the evening doesn't stop. Joshua brushes by with another loaded tray, Soonyoung is somehow taking an order when he shouldn't be, and the takeout line is growing longer by the minute.
The bell jingles again and you glance up, automatically reaching for menus. "Hi, how-"
You freeze when you see your parents are standing just inside the door. Your father looks exactly as stiff and out of place as you’d expect in a tailored button-down and slacks that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, expression tight with clear disapproval as he surveys the crowded diner. Your mother is beside him in a tasteful silk blouse and pearls, her perfect hair somehow untouched by the humid evening air. She’s scanning the room with polite curiosity, as if she’s attending a garden party rather than a pizza parlor on a Friday night.
For a second, your brain short-circuits. They never come here. Never. Four blocks might as well be four hundred miles in their world. The knot that had loosened during the busy shift slams back into your stomach with brutal force.
“Hi, sweetheart,” your mother says brightly, stepping forward as if this is the most normal thing in the world. She leans in to air-kiss your cheek, careful not to touch anything sticky. “We thought it was time we saw this… establishment for ourselves. And of course, we’d love to meet your new boyfriend while we’re here.”
The words hit like a tray dropped on your foot.
Boyfriend. Lee Chan. The lie you’d hurled at your father in the garden a week ago comes rushing back with crystal clarity. You’d said it to piss him off, to watch his perfect control shatter. You hadn’t expected them to actually show up. You certainly hadn’t expected your mother to latch onto it like this.
Heat floods your face and your pulse thunders in your ears, louder than the chatter of the dining room. Your fingers tighten around the menu and the phone starts ringing again, but you risk Soonyoung answering it this time as you stare at your parents.
"Oh," you manage. "You didn't have to come all the way here. It's busy."
“Nonsense,” your mother says. Your father mentioned you were seeing someone special. Lee Chan, was it?"
Your father says nothing, but his silence is heavier than any words. His jaw is set in that familiar line that makes your heart skip. You swallow hard, mind racing for an escape route that doesn’t exist. Mingyu is yelling another order. Joshua nearly collides with Mari near the soda fountain. And somewhere in the kitchen, completely unaware that his fake-girlfriend status has just escalated into a full parental ambush, is Chan.
This is going to be a disaster.
“Um,” you say weakly, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Let me… find you a table.”
Your mind is spinning as you lead your parents to the only semi-quiet booth you can find near the back. It's close enough to the kitchen that you can hear Mingyu’s constant yelling, but far enough from the worst of the takeout line that if this is as awful as you think it'll be, there's less witnesses.
Your mother smiles serenely, already unfolding her napkin. Your father sits like he’s attending a deposition, eyes scanning every scuffed tile and sticky table surface with thinly veiled disgust. Neither of them says anything, but the weight of their silence presses down on you as you turn on your heel and practically sprint toward the kitchen.
The swinging door smacks against the wall as you burst through. The kitchen is a war zone of heat, noise, and motion, ovens roaring, pans clattering, steam rising from the dish sink. Chan is at the prep station, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour as he stretches another pizza dough with practiced efficiency.
You make a beeline straight for him, heart hammering louder than the radio playing upbeat pop over the kitchen speakers.
“Chan,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist and yanking him toward the narrow alcove by the walk-in freezer, away from Mingyu’s line of sight.
He stumbles after you, eyes wide with surprise. “Whoa! You look like you just saw a ghost. Or did the Mathersons come back for round two?”
“We’re dating now. Okay? Just go with it. My parents are here. They want to meet my boyfriend. That’s you. Right now.”
Chan blinks at you, floury hands frozen mid-air, his expression cycling rapidly through confusion, disbelief, and something that looks dangerously close to amusement.
"We're what?"
"Come on, getaway truck," you growl, yanking him. "Your time to shine."
You don’t wait for more questions. You seize his hand and drag him toward the swinging door before he can protest further. Chan follows, half-stumbling as Mingyu immediately starts asking where you're going. Both of you ignore him as you vanish through the swinging doors and outfront.
Your parents look up as you approach their booth, totally unaware that your heart is hammering as quick as this dinner rush is moving and that your hands are so sweaty that the only reason you don't lose your grip on Chan is because of the sticky residue on his wrists. Your mother’s face brightens when she sees you, but your father's is venomous
"Mother," you greet between clenched teeth. "Father. This is Chan. My boyfriend."
Chan recovers faster than you expect, straightening up as he flashes his trademark grin as he wipes his hand quickly on his apron before extending it toward your father.
"It's nice to meet you," he offers. "I've heard a lot about you. Sorry about the flour. Friday nights get pretty wild around here.”
Your mother extends her hand gracefully. "We’ve been so eager to meet the young man who’s been keeping our daughter so occupied lately.”
Your father does not shake Chan’s hand. He simply stares, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as he takes in every detail of Chan's messy hair, the faint smear of pizza sauce on his collar, and the easy confidence that doesn’t quite mask his confusion.
“So this is the boy,” your father says. “The one responsible for the detour.”
Chan, still visibly trying to piece together the context you denied him, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Detour, sir? I mean, I guess working here is pretty different from the law office stuff she’s told me about.” He shoots you another quick, questioning look, eyebrows raised in a silent help me out here, but he keeps playing along, bless him. “She’s been killing it on the floor though. Best hostess we’ve had in months.”
"Is that so?"
"For sure. I think Hard Ass Har- Mr. Hargrove is going to make her employee of the month."
"Employee of the month?" Your father's eyes cut to you. "How nice."
The diner noise swells around you, plates clattering, kids laughing too loudly at the ice cream counter, the constant ding of the service bell from the kitchen. You stand there trapped between your parents’ booth and Chan, still gripping his hand like it’s a lifeline while your face burns hotter than the pizza ovens.
Chan clears his throat, clearly deciding that since he’s been thrown into the deep end with zero context, he might as well start swimming. He flashes your mother his most charming, slightly crooked grin.
"I can see where your daughter gets her good looks," he says and your fingers dig into his. "She's told me lots about you. Like how you have that huge garden with fancy hedges. Sounds real peaceful. We’ve only got a dumpster, but the raccoons are kind of cute."
"Oh!" Your mother seems taken aback. "Charming. What do you do here?"
"Oh you know. Line cook, occasional delivery guy, professional cat rescuer on my days off. I make a mean garlic knot."
Your father’s expression could curdle milk. “Fascinating. And do you plan on doing this professionally long term?"
“Professionally?" Chan shrugs. "I mean, I’ve been thinking about it” No one laughs and Chan winces. “I’m kidding. I have a business degree I’m just not… using it right now.”
The silence that follows is excruciating. Your mother tilts her head, still smiling that careful, assessing smile, while your father looks two seconds away from standing up and dragging you out by the elbow. Chan’s thumb brushes nervously over your knuckles, and despite the situation, it soothes you. You’re about to jump in and try to salvage things when Joshua appears like a sweaty, tray-carrying angel of mercy.
“Hey, folks, sorry for the wait," he greets, glancing at your joined hands with Chan. His brain visibly blue-screens for half a second, eyebrows shooting up. "Hi Chan?"
"They're here to meet her boyfriend." Joshua doesn't seem to get it. Chan adds, "Which is me. The boyfriend."
He looks at you again, eyes wide with a thousand silent questions. For a beat, the easy-going server mask slips and he just stares, visibly trying to reconcile the information. Then, professional that he is, Joshua recovers with impressive speed.
"Right," he laughs. "The boyfriend. He's great, really. Can I get you started with some drinks? We’ve got fresh lemonade, Coke products, and the house special sweet tea."
Your mother orders an iced tea with lemon while your father orders water, no ice, in the tone of someone who thinks the ice is a contaminant. Joshua scribbles it down quickly, still shooting occasional bewildered glances between you and Chan.
“I’ll get those right out,” Joshua says, backing away. He casts you a single glance with wide eys and mouths what the fuck? before disappearing toward the drink station.
"Anyway," you announce. "He has to go back to the kitchen now. Thanks for stopping by."
You start to tug Chan away from the booth, desperate to get him out of the blast radius of your father’s death glare. Chan’s hand is still clasped in yours, sweaty and warm. He waves wildly over you at your parents as you shove him toward the door, ready to explain until you hear Mingyu's voice as soon as the door to the kitchen opens.
"LEE CHAN!" Mingyu’s roar explodes. Several heads in the dining room turn. “Where the hell did you disappear to? I’ve got three pizzas dying in the window and no one on pepperoni!"
Chan winces, shoulders hunching on instinct. He shoots you a look that’s equal parts panic and amusement. “Guess the boyfriend has to go earn his keep. You owe me ice cream after closing."
“I’ll tell you everything after work,” you promise in a rushed whisper, leaning close enough that only he can hear. “I swear."
Chan looks at you, his dark eyes unreadable. He nods as he walks toward the kitchen, mouth curving slightly. He shoulders his way through the door and you watch it swing shut behind him, heart thudding in time with the swing swing swing of the door until it comes to a stop. Your heart keeps pounding, and as you look over your shoulder to see Joshua delivering drinks to your parents' table, you're unsure it'll ever stop.
-
When Joshua finally turns the neon open sign off, you let out a relieved sigh. The diner finally dies down, the customers all gone and Mingyu's piano playlist in full swing as closing duties start in full. Soonyoung half-heartedly wipes down the tales that had been the last to go while Mari and Joshua murmur at the register, balancing the drawer and counting tips.
You're dragging a rag across the hostess stand for the third time, trying to scrub away the eternal stickiness, when Chan appears at your side. He bumps your shoulder lightly with yours, expression tired but eyebrows raised in interest. You've been dreading this all night, thinking about how to explain what you'd told your father for the last four hours of your shift.
"You owe me," he reminds you. "I like cookies and cream."
You sigh. "Yeah. Let's go."
The two of you migrate to the ice cream counter and Chan hops up, patting the cool metal surface beside him. You climb up next to him, legs dangling, the chill of the counter seeping through your pants, a relief from the diner's humidity. Chan grabs two small bowls and the scooper and leans around the glass case, plopping generous amounts of cookies and cream into a paper bowl before handing it to you.
You take it from him, muttering a thanks as you snatch plastic spoons and dig in. He hums contentedly, both of you sitting and eating in silence backtracked by the distant clatter of dishes and Soonyoung's occasional complaints about his back hurting.
Finally, you set your spoon down and turn toward him. Chan watches you already, brown eyes patient but curious, one leg swinging lazily.
"So," you start. "Last week I had lunch with my day that went totally sideways. He started pressuring me about my work here and about law school and about how I'm throwing my degree away - the usual, right?"
"Great dad."
You wince. "Yeah."
"Sorry, continue."
"During his spiel, he brought up Jeonghan like it was the magic word that would break me from my spell and was all you'll never appeal to him if you don't stop this."
Chan's spoon pauses halfway to his mouth. "As in like Yoon Jeonghan? His parents own like half the town."
"That's the one."
"Your family wants you to date him?"
You scoop up another bite of ice cream just to have something to do with your hands. "Since forever. If arranged marriage was an acceptable thing here, they would have done it. Both of our families have practically been trying to force us together my entire life."
"And you never dated?"
"No. Jeonghan likes to chase boys and girls and I have no interest in… that. He seems nice enough but I don't want to play housewife to someone who clearly doesn't want one."
"Fair. How do I factor in?"
You feel heat creep up the side of your neck as you glance at him. It feels so stupid now, especially under the weight of his gaze, but you press onward, determined to get it all out.
"I was so mad that I just… blurted out that I wasn't interested in Jeonghan because you and I were dating."
Chan slowly lowers his spoon, eyebrows climbing. “Me.”
“You,” you confirm, cheeks heating.
Chan stares at you for a long moment. A bit of his ice cream melts and drips onto the counter between you, spreading into a white and cookie puddle that neither of you moves to wipe away.
Somewhere in the background, you can hear Joshua running the industrial dishwater, the rhythmic clatter of the plates being sorted familiar. The smell of the bleach and fryer oil hangs in the air with the sweetness of the ice cream, a smell that used to revolt you but now you just find comforting because it means you're here and not at the firm.
"So," Chan says slowly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. "You told your father that you're dating me. The guy who works at the pizza parlor slash ice cream place he hates because you work at it."
Your stomach twists. When he says it out loud like that, it sounds even more insane than it felt in the moment. You dig your spoon into your ice cream, focusing on the simple motion because looking at him feels impossible right now.
"Yeah," you say. "That's pretty much the situation."
"Jesus Christ."
Despite the situation, you notice Chan is smiling a little, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. You take it as a good sign, watching as he sets his spoon down.
"I was desperate," you admit. "You don't understand what it's like."
Chan's expression shifts, the teasing edge softening into something more serious. He leans forward slightly, and you catch the scent of kitchen smoke and laundry detergent clinging to his t-shirt.
"Tell me, then."
You sigh. "Every phone call is about the firm. Every dinner is about my future - his version of my future. What I should be doing, who I should be seeing, how I'm wasting my degree and my potential." You gesture around the empty diner. "Wasting my life on this."
Your voice breaks on the last word. You hate how small you sound. You press your palms flat against the cold counter, needing something solid, something real. The chill seeps through your skin, grounding you. Your fingers are still sticky from wiping down tables, and you can feel the residue of someone's spilled Coke under your left hand.
"Deciding that dating Yoon Jeonghan would be the solution to the problem was the last straw," you murmur.
"The rich guy," Chan says quietly.
"The connected rich guy whose family has been trying to set us up since we were twelve."
Chan lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the counter. The motion makes his shoulder brush against yours just enough that you feel the warmth of him through your thin work shirt. You don't move away, fighting the urge to lean into it. This is Chan - flirty, charming Chan who is a friend and currently at the root of a mess you're responsible for - not someone who you are actually dating.
The dishwasher shuts off in the back. In the sudden silence, you can hear the ice machine cycling, the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock above the register. Outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping across the checkered floor and illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.
"Why me?" Chan asks suddenly, looking at you. "Out of everyone."
You stare at the floor. "You're the first person I thought of. And well. I trust you, I guess. You felt safe.”
He leans back, studying you with those dark eyes, something unreadable but intense on his face. "I'll be your fake boyfriend. That's what you need, right? Or are you going home and saying we broke up tonight."
The fluorescent lights catch the faint smear of pizza sauce on his collar and the flour still dusting his forearms. He looks tired from the rush, but there’s a spark of something flickering behind his eyes.
“I… yeah,” you say finally, voice quieter than you intend. “I need you to play along. At least for a little while. My mom’s already hooked on the idea, and my dad is probably plotting ways to ship me off to law school before I ‘ruin’ myself any further. If I tell them we broke up tonight, it’ll just give them more ammunition to drag me back into their world.”
The words taste bitter. Part of you feels like a coward for lying, like you should be able to stand up to them and tell them the truth, that you should draw another line in the sand and mean it. But the other part of you that's lived through years of their expectations and disappointments, knows that the truth won't set you free. It'll just give them leverage, and you're so tired of fucking leverage.
Chan nods slowly, his leg still swinging lazily off the edge of the counter. He scrapes the last of his ice cream from the bowl and sets it aside with a soft clack. “Alright. Fake boyfriend it is.”
Just like that. As if it's easy. As if you haven't just asked him to lie to your family, to pretend to be something he's not, to play a role in a drama he never auditioned for. The casual acceptance makes your throat tight, because you don't deserve it. You don't deserve him agreeing so easily when you've basically ambushed him with this insane request after a twelve-hour shift.
“That easy?”
He smirks. “For you? Yes.”
"Thank you, Chan." The words feel inadequate, too small for what you're asking. "Seriously. I owe you way more than ice cream for this."
You try to smile, but it feels shaky at the edges. Because this changes things between you, doesn't it? You can't just be coworkers who chat over the hostess stand anymore, can't just be two people who take breaks together in the alley. Now there's a performance to maintain, lines to blur, a fake relationship that's going to require real proximity, real touching, real moments that look convincing enough to fool your lawyer father.
And the terrifying part is that you're not sure how much of it will be fake. Not when it comes to Chan. Not when he's looking at you like this, tired and a little exasperated but still saying yes, still agreeing to be dragged into your chaos because you asked him to.
"Cookies and cream was a solid start," he teases, and the normalcy of it, the easy humor, makes something in your chest ache.
He hops down from the counter with a groan, and you watch the way he moves, loose-limbed and comfortable in his own skin in a way you've never quite managed. He offers you his hand, and you take it, letting him help you slide off beside him. Your fingers linger a second longer than necessary, sticky from melted ice cream and the long night. His palm is warm, calloused from kitchen work, and you're suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
The two of you move back into the rhythm of closing duties, wiping down the last tables, flipping chairs, and killing the remaining lights. As Chan disappears into the back to help Mingyu with the final prep list, you glance toward the darkened windows and the quiet Main Street beyond.
This lie started as a weapon against your father. Now, with Chan willingly stepping into it, it feels like something else entirely, something stupid. Risky, probably. You shake the thought away. For tonight, at least, the fake boyfriend arrangement is set. Tomorrow, and all the days after, will have to figure themselves out.
-
The next day, your shift is different the moment you clock in. The brass bell jingles behind you as usual, but there's something else in the air. Joshua glances up from the drink station a beat too long, Soonyoung stops when he sees you and grins, elbowing Mari who stares. Even Mingyu gives you a strange, cursory glance when you walk into the back to clock in.
You feel their eyes on you as you tie your apron and slip behind the hostess stand, and it isn't until halfway through the shift when you realize it's because they think you're dating Chan. You nearly groan, realizing you've given them a particularly juicy piece of gossip in a very small place of work.
By the time the early lunch crowd starts trickling in, you’re certain every single coworker knows some version of the story. News travels fast in a place like this, especially when it involves Lee Chan.
You try to ignore it, focusing on seating families and refilling waters, but the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade. This is what you get for dragging Chan into your mess without thinking it through.
Your break comes and goes in the narrow alley out back, where you lean against the warm brick and stare at the sky, trying to steady the nervous flutter in your chest. When you push back through the kitchen door fifteen minutes later, wiping your hands on your apron, the lunch rush has picked up again.
This time though, you barely make it three steps toward the hostess stand when Chan appears out of nowhere, weaving through the tables with that effortless swagger. His dark hair is messier than usual from the kitchen heat, and there’s a streak of flour across one cheek. Before you can even say hello, he slides right into your space like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey, babe,” he says loud enough for half the dining room to hear, flashing that trademark magnetic grin. One arm loops casually around your waist, pulling you close for a brief second. The contact sends an unexpected spark up your spine. Then he leans in and presses a quick, warm kiss to your cheek.
Your brain absolutely short-circuits, warmth flushing up your neck, lashes fluttering as you glance at him. His eyes widen a fraction and dart to the side as he gives you a look that says pay attention and when you glance over his shoulder, you spot your mother, her hawkish gaze fixated on you.
"Looks like she's on a mission," he murmurs, breath fanning against your ear. "Shua told me she was here and I personally came out to tell her you were on break."
"Fuck. Thanks."
"I'm a great boyfriend."
Chan winks and gives you a quick squeeze, vanishing back through the swinging doors before you can react. You stand there frozen for a beat, heart hammering, the ghost of his lips still tingling on your cheek.
You glance across the diner and spot your mother immediately. She's seated alone in the corner booth, posture perfect in a tasteful blouse, pearls gleaming under the diner lights. She’s watching you with that familiar assessing gaze, clearly here for something.
When she spots you, she smiles and lifts one elegant hand and crooks her finger to beckon you. Suddenly, you're a child again, being called away from the playground when you got a little too dirty and too sweaty. The lunch rush still hums around you, families laughing over pizza slices, the bell chiming, kids screaming, but everything arrows to that single corner booth where your mother's gaze cuts right through you.
"Hi," you say haltingly, stopping at the booth. "What are you doing here today?"
"Sit."
Before you can protest that you’re on shift, Soonyoung materializes at your elbow like the gremlin he is. He’s been hovering nearby ever since Chan’s very public cheek kiss, no doubt dying for more gossip.
“I got the stand,” he says, flashing your mother his best smile. "It's the least I can do!"
You shoot him a warning look, but he’s already sauntering toward the hostess stand, whistling off-key. Traitor. Your mother grins as you sigh and slide into the booth, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to the back of your thighs. The laminated menu on the table still has faint syrup rings from the previous occupants and feels entirely out of place next to your mother's perfectly pressed blouse.
Your mother folds her hands neatly on the table and offers a warm, practiced smile. Unlike your father’s cold fury, hers is softer, almost gentle. But you know better. Her criticism might have a different delivery, but they're criticisms nonetheless.
“So,” she begins casually, as if you’re simply catching up over afternoon tea instead of sitting in a noisy pizza parlor in your work apron. “Lee Chan. He seems lively. He certainly made quite the impression last night with all that flour and charm. How did that happen?”
You resist the urge to rub your temples. The ghost of Chan’s kiss still burns faintly on your cheek, and you’re hyper-aware of the eyes on you with Joshua pretending to refill salt shakers nearby and Mari glancing over from the ice cream counter.
“He works here,” you say, keeping your voice even. “In the kitchen. We became friends first. He’s funny. Reliable when it counts. Makes people laugh even on bad days.”
The words feel strangely true even though the relationship isn’t. Chan is those things. That’s what makes this lie so dangerously easy. You think of his offer of the getaway car, the easy way he'd asked if you were okay. How he had offered to do this fake dating thing without you ever having to ask.
Your mother nods thoughtfully, her eyes scanning your face. “He does have a certain energy. Very different from the boys you grew up around. Jeonghan, for instance - such a poised man."
And there it is. The criticism, given gently like a second thought but there nonetheless. She says it far more nicely than your father ever would, but the undercurrent is the same: this is beneath you.
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “Your father was quite upset after the garden. He worries, you know. We both do. This place is charming in its own way, but we want more for you. Stability. A future that matches your potential. Still… if this boy makes you happy, I’d like to understand him better.”
You almost laugh at how skillfully she layers the concern. Genuine interest on the surface, but every word reminds you of the gap between this world and the one she believes you belong in. You know she’s already forming opinions and trying to suss out if Chan is a phase or a problem. You wonder what she would say if she realized he was neither.
“He does make me happy,” you reply, committing to the lie. “He sees me as me, not as an extension of the firm or the family name. That’s rare.”
Your mother’s smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes sharpen just a fraction. “I’m glad to hear that. We’re having a small dinner party this weekend at the house. Saturday evening, seven o’clock. Nothing too formal, just a few close friends and family. You’ll bring Chan, of course.”
It’s not a question. Her tone makes that clear. You try not to wince. The idea of attending one of your family's dinner parties with Chan in your parents' pristine world makes your heart rate spike, the suddenness of it pinning you to the spot without the ability to come up with an excuse.
She wouldn't accept one anyway. Your mother isn't as loud as your father, but she's a lot harder to argue with. Where your father leads with emotion, your mother leads with careful logic, remembering every word you've ever said. It's what makes lying to her difficult, so instead of trying to come up with an excuse, you nod weakly.
Soonyoung waves at you from the hostess stand, signaling that a new group is waiting. Your mother notices and begins gathering her things with elegant efficiency.
"We'll see you on Sunday," she says, standing. "And make sure he wears something nice, please."
Another softly delivered barb. You don't stand, instead nodding your head. She leaves a generous tip on the table despite having ordered nothing and glides toward the door, the brass bell jingling brightly behind her. You remain seated for a moment longer, the weight of the invitation pressing down.
You finally stand, smoothing your apron, and head back to work, the checkered floor feeling a little less stable beneath your feet.
The rest of the lunch shift drags. The weight of the invitation makes you turn on autopilot, stepping around a little girl who drops a basket of fries to deliver menus to a table and taking over the blender station as Mari drowns under orders of milkshakes.
By the time the rush finally starts to thin around two-thirty, your nerves are frayed and your feet ache worse than usual. You catch Chan ducking out of the kitchen for a quick breather near the drink station, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his apron. His cheeks are still flushed from the ovens, and for a moment you're struck by how pretty he is that you just stare at him.
"What?" He asks, eyes rounding. "Don't tell me your dad is here now. Or siblings. Do you have siblings?"
"What? No."
Grabbing his wrist, you pull him toward the relative quiet of the back hallway near the walk-in freezer. He follows without resistance, and thankfully Mingyu is too distracted flirting with Mari for him to pay either of you any mind.
"So you don't have siblings," Chan clarifies, his grin teasing.
"I don't," you agree. "And you're going to need to remember that because my mom came to invite us to a dinner party this weekend, and before you try and protest, it wasn't optional. Trust me."
Chan’s easy grin falters for a second. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh. If I try to get out of it, they'll escalate. Trust me."
Chan studies you for a long moment, that familiar crinkle appearing at the corners of his eyes even as the situation clearly dawns on him. He shifts his weight, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside you. His cologne cuts through the scent of pizza dough, a familiar scent that calms you despite the topic at hand.
“Alright,” he repeats, shrugging like agreeing to walk into the lion’s den of your family’s estate is no bigger deal than taking out the trash at closing. “We’ll go. Sunday, right? Seven?”
You nod, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. “Yeah. It's not formal formal, but it still means suits and dresses."
Chan lets out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. "Got it. Do I need to Google which fork is the fork for salad?"
You laugh, despite not feeling in a very laughing mood. "I can teach you. Do you want to maybe meet up tomorrow night? We can grab coffee or something low-key. Go over the basics who my family is, what to expect, stuff about me so it doesn’t look like we just met last week. Same for you, I can learn more about you and… saving cats. Etiquette crash course included.”
“Tomorrow night works."
"Cafe on Maple at seven?"
“Seven it is.” He straightens. “I’ll bring my A-game."
You swallow, the knot in your chest tightening. The fluorescent light overhead flickers once, casting brief shadows across his face. “Chan, if this is too much, seriously. Tell me now. I dragged you into this mess without thinking, and I can face them alone. Make up some excuse about us fighting or whatever. I don’t want you feeling obligated just because I panicked.”
He steps closer then, close enough that you catch the familiar scent that is just quintessentially him. His hand lifts, hesitating before brushing a stray hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers a beat too long, sending warmth blooming under your skin.
“Nah,” he says, voice low and steady, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I offered you the getaway truck, remember? This is just me following through. Granted I thought we would be driving away and not pretending to be dating, but that's alright."
The air between you thickens, charged in a way it hadn’t been before. Not just friendly teasing or coworker banter, but something heavier. New. His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second, then back up, dark and searching. Your breath catches, the narrow hallway suddenly too warm, too small. You’re acutely aware of how near he is, the way his chest rises and falls, the freckles dotting across his nose.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Chan clears his throat, stepping back with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“See you tomorrow, baby,” he teases, slipping back into character for jest even though no one is around to hear him.
Chan winks once before heading back to the ovens, leaving you alone staring after him, and for the briefest second, you wonder what it would be like if your relationship weren't fake.
-
You arrive at the cafe on Maple exactly ten minutes before seven. It's tucked between the Xu family bookstore that specializes in used books and the Chwe family floral shop where Chan likes to hide from Mingyu on some of his breaks. Streaks of gold from the setting sun splash across the windows, reflected back brightly enough that you squint as you haul the door open, the bell above the door chiming.
It's warm inside, smelling permanently like toasted sugar and warm bread despite the fact that they've long since shifted to their limited dinner menu for the evening. Chan catches your attention as soon as you walk in, waving his hand from the table by the window that overlooks the street.
Despite knowing this is not a date, your heart flips anyway as you walk toward him. He looks like he's freshly showered, hair still a little damp and curling at the ends, and he's traded the messy work shirt for a soft grey hoodie and jeans that look cleaner than what you're used to on him. It's different in a good way, and you try not to stare too hard as you slide into the booth across from him.
"Thank god," he sighs. "I thought you were going to chicken out and run away from town."
"You're my getaway driver, remember?" You put your purse on the seat next to you. "Plus, my mom will find you. Trust me."
He laughs and the sound of it settles your nerves. Outside, a couple walks past with a small dog on a leash, the dog stopping every three steps to sniff the base of a streetlamp. You watch them for a moment longer than necessary, mostly so you don’t have to look at the way Chan’s eyes crinkle when he smiles because despite seeing him all day at work, this feels different, somehow.
A server you vaguely recognize from high school but can't place his name swings by and takes your orders, both of you just going for a burger and fries. When he's gone, Chan leans back in the booth, eyes falling on you.
"Alright," he grins. "Crash course time. Hit me with the important stuff like your favorite color, weird house rules, anything that won't get me kicked out."
You smirk a little, leaning forward to take small sips of your soda to soothe the way your stomach knots at the mention of the party. Suddenly this entire charade seems like the worst idea you've ever had.
Chan must sense your unease because he leans forward, his hand reaching halfway across the table like he's going to take your hand in his before he hesitates and places it palm down instead.
"It's going to be fine," he says more seriously. "It's an unconventional partnership we have here, but we're going to do fine."
Sighing, you node. "My favorite color is dark green like the trees at night."
"Nice. Mine is blue."
"A certain shade?"
He shrugs. "All kinds of blue." He picks at the table. "How did we start dating? Were you wooed by me saving cats from trees?"
"Yes. What's your favorite quality about me?"
"You frown when you're thinking extra hard and get this little crease right here-" he pauses and taps a finger between his brow, his lips curling upward a little. "It's very cute. You also scrunch your nose just so when you don't like something."
You blink in surprise at him and for a second, you forget how to respond. Heat climbs the back of your neck and you feel your own face do exactly what he just described, the tiny crease forming between your brows before you can stop it. You look down at the table, suddenly very interested in the condensation sliding down your soda glass, because if you meet his eyes right now you’re not sure what he’ll see.
Apparently Chan notices things. Your pulse kicks a little harder against your ribs. It shouldn’t mean anything because he's just playing the part and gathering information so the dinner party doesn't fall apart. That's all it is. But… the way he can name the exact way your nose scrunches makes something warm and unsteady settle in your chest and stomach.
You take another sip of soda just to give your hand something to do, hoping the cold will steady you a little. It doesn't, of course.
"That's observant," you manage eventually.
Chan’s grin softens at the edges, like he knows exactly what he just did and isn’t sorry about it. “I notice things.”
The server returns with two refills and a basket of chips at that exact moment, saving you from having to say anything. You both reach for them at the same time, fingers brushing, and you pull back a second too quickly. Chan doesn’t comment. He just slides the basket closer to the middle like it’s the most normal thing in the world and like the two of you aren't sitting here planning on how to execute fake dating for your parents.
“Okay, keep going,” he says, popping a chip into his mouth. “What do you hate? Food, sounds, people habits. Stuff I should already know if we’ve been together longer than a week.”
“I hate blue cheese. I can’t stand the sound of people chewing ice. And I get weirdly irritated when someone leaves cabinet doors half-open. Drives me crazy.”
“Cabinet doors. Got it. I hate olives. I fall asleep during movies if they’re longer than ninety minutes, and I will steal the last garlic knot every time if no one stops me.”
"Chan, you steal the first garlic knot."
"Well. I like garlic knots."
The burgers arrive a few minutes later, still hot, the cheese melted just enough to drip when you lift the top bun. You both dig in, the cafe quiet around you except for the low music and the occasional scrape of a chair. Outside the light keeps fading, the gold streaks turning softer. A moth bats against the window near Chan’s shoulder and he watches it for a second before looking back at you.
"Biggest fear?" he asks around a bite.
You hesitate. “I’m not saying it out loud in public.”
"What, why not?"
"It's stupid."
"Nah, I bet it's fine."
You swallow your burger, the heat returning to your neck as you mumble, "Lady bugs."
"Got it. I will protect you from the objectively terrifying and very dangerous lady bugs."
You laugh softly and something in your chest unwinds a little the same way it does at work with him. Chan just makes it easy, even during the worst shift of your life. The conversation keeps moving as you eat and you realize you already know plenty of things about him but now, you learn more. Favorite movies, favorite songs, the way he can't sleep without white noise or a little bit of light. You tell him you used to write terrible poetry and burned every notebook the week you left for college as a final act of teenage misery that you'd be forced into a career you never wanted.
Chan seems sad at that, but doesn't comment on it. He just nods along like he gets it, leaning his elbow onto the table, chin in his palm as he listens to you talk, basket empty and meal finished. His knee brushes yours under the table as you talk and you fumble. The contact is accidental at first, then less so as he urges you to keep going, his knee resting against yours as neither of you pull away.
"Well what about you?" You ask, eager to switch the attention from you and your pounding heart. "What about your family?"
That makes him smile as he switches to the topic of his mom and dad and siblings. You watch the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way he uses his hands, the small freckle just below his left eye you never noticed under the harsh kitchen lights at Sweetner. There’s a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food, and you swallow it down, trying not to focus on it.
Because this is supposed to be fake - it's a performance and a way to keep your parents at arm's length a little longer. You’re not supposed to notice how the sleeve of his hoodie has ridden up just enough to show the edge of a tattoo you didn’t know he had. You’re not supposed to wonder what it would feel like if the kiss on the cheek earlier had landed somewhere else. You’re not supposed to sit here sharing plates and childhood secrets in a quiet cafe on Maple Street and feel like the rest of the world has gone quiet.
You finish the last bite of your burger and set it down. Chan is mid-story about a disastrous delivery involving a flat tire and a box of melting ice cream when he catches the shift in your expression.
He stops, head tilting. “You good?”
"Yeah, of course. Just thinking."
"I hate thinking, honestly."
"Yeah," you snort. "We can tell."
He studies you a second longer, then reaches across the table and steals the last fry from your basket. "See? I always steal the last." You smile and he pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before his hands settle on the table again. “We’ll survive the dinner. Worst case I spill red wine on the left sofa and we make a dramatic exit. The truck's ready if we need it.”
You smile, small and real. “I’ll hold you to that.”
The server clears the empty plates and leaves the check without rushing you. Chan snatches it away before you can grab it, assuring you that he doesn't know what your paycheck at Sweetner is but he can certainly afford the bill tonight. It makes you smile and you let him have this small win, thankful that ht'es still sitting here and not running for the hills.
You both stand a few minutes later and head for the exit. Chan holds the door for you on the way out, the cool air rushing in as you step out onto a quiet sidewalk. You walk side by side toward the lot where you both parked, shoulders nearly touching, neither of you saying anything.
Chan bumps your shoulder with his as you both slow. "I feel extra prepared now. We'll be great, okay?"
You nod, swallowing thickly. "Yeah."
He grins again and takes a step toward his truck, jerking a thumb toward it. "Unless?"
"No," you laugh. "The only way out is through."
"True enough. Get home okay, yeah? Text me when you're there."
"Alright. Thanks again for this. I owe you."
He shrugs. "Saving cats, saving cute girls. All in a day's work for me."
Ignoring the tug to your heart, you wave, heading for your car. As you slide into the driver's seat and the headlights of Chan's truck flash by and he beeps, you can't help but wonder if the biggest threat isn't your parents, and perhaps it's the thing beating out of control in your chest.
-
The split lives of your closet stares out at you, the doors wide to reveal the two halves of you that are constantly at war. One one side of the closet are silk blouses in muted tones, tailored pants with perfect creases, and dresses that cost more than most people's mortgage. On the other side are your vintage band tees, denim jackets with frayed pockets, sundresses from thrift stores and your work uniforms.
You yearn for the soft cotton of flannel, but you reach for a cream-colored dress first, knowing it's the safe choice for tonight. You hold it up to your body, catching your reflection in the full-length mirror and that telltale scrunch in your nose appears. It looks fit for a deposition, not a party, but you're not willing to play anything less than safe tonight.
Before you turn, your eye catches a black slip dress hanging in the back, hidden behind a blazer you've never worn. You bought it months ago on a whim, in a small boutique. It's simple with thin straps and good silk, and though the hemline is a touch daring, it's the kind of dress your mother would claim she wished she could still wear, so you snatch it, tossing the cream dress onto the closet floor.
Exiting the closet, you look at the clock and your stomach flips. Late afternoon light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the back gardens, turning everything gold and hazy, but you can't enjoy it. Not when you feel like you're going to suffocate and your parents will do everything in their power to remove all the air tonight.
By the time you slip the dress on and try to clasp your grandmother's necklace around your neck, your hands are shaking. The necklace is the only thing in the house that feels like it actually belongs to you, a memory of the single woman in your life who liked that you butted heads with your father and loathed the family your mother married into.
With nothing left to distract you from going downstairs, you slip out of your bedroom, heart pounding. The hall is quiet, but you can hear the party outside, muffled but growing louder as you move toward the stairs. Voices layered over voices, the distant clink of glasses, someone laughing. The sound makes your stomach clench as you descend down the staircase.
The grand staircase is grand - made from marble and wrought iron, the bannister cool to the touch under your palm as you balance yourself walking down the steps, a little unpracticed in the heels you've slung on despite years of these stupid parties.
Afternoon light streams through the tall arched windows that line the stairwell, each one offering a view of the carefully manicured gardens outside. Your heels click against the marble, each step feeling like the death toll of a bell. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs and you keep your breathing shallow, afraid that if you breathe too deeply you might crack the very fragile shell of your exterior and let the real you spill out onto the foyer floor.
Halfway down, you pause and adjust the thin strip of your dress and press your sweating palms to the fabric of your dress. You grimace and rush the rest of the way down, needing a glass of wine or something to take the edge off, but the person standing at the bottom of the stairs makes you stop in your tracks.
Chan.
He turns toward you when he hears you, and the world narrows to just him for a moment. He's wearing a suit and you blink in surprise. It's the perfect suit for the event, charcoal grey and well-fitted, though it doesn't look custom. The jacket fits his shoulders perfectly, narrow at the waist in a way that makes you a little unsteady. Even the white shirt is crisp and pressed, open at the collar just enough to be edgy but still respectful, showing the line of his throat and collarbone.
His hair is different. Styled back, away from his face, with just enough product to look intentional without looking like he tried. It makes him look older and sharper in a good way, like someone who belongs here. It's a far cry from the kitchen staff at a pizza parlor with a beat up truck and who is late to most shifts and more like one of the luxury estate owners who buy and sell properties weekly.
"Hey," he says, smiling up at you. His eyes drag up and down your frame and you feel hot all over as he nods. "You look amazing."
"Hi." It comes out breathless, barely there. You clear your throat, descend the last few steps until you're standing right in front of him, close enough that you can smell his woody cologne without the usual hint of dough and pizza clinging to him. "You look… woah."
"I have my moments." He winks and offers his arm.
You take it, his arm solid under your hand, warm through the fabric of his jacket. You can feel the muscle there, the realness of him, and it grounds you and reminds you that underneath the suit and the hair gel, he's still Chan. Still the guy who showed up at the diner and played along with your desperate lie. Still the guy who noticed you scrunch your nose when you're thinking.
"Ready?" he murmurs, and you nod even though you're not.
Anxiety-ridden and nearly sick to your stomach, you lead him to the backyard, which has been transformed into a sea of white. White tents billow gently in the breeze, their fabric glowing in the golden light of the afternoon sun. Each tent is open-sided, revealing tables draped in linen the color of champagne, each one set with crystal glasses that catch the light and throw it back in small, prismatic bursts.
Your mother's landscaper has outdone himself, each bed of roses immaculately cut in shades of blush and cream and topiaries in perfect spirals spreading across the lawn. Flower arrangements explode from every surface, making the air sweet and thick, mixing in with the smell of fresh cut grass and the buttery smell of the catering tables.
People mill about in their summer best, and you can feel the wealth radiating off them as Chan helps you down the stairs. The women are in dresses in varying shades of cream and white for the summar, their pearls heavy around their throats and dangling in their ears. The men are in light suits and crisp shirts, pocket squares bright on their chest and glittering watches flashing in the sun on their wrists.
You recognize most of them as your parents’ friends, business associates, the families your mother plays tennis with on Thursdays and has lunch with on Fridays. The kind of people who know exactly how much to smile and when to laugh, who can make small talk about nothing for hours and make it look like a connection.
Chan's hand settles on the small of your back, warm through the silk, and you resist the urge to lean into it.
"Ready?" He murmurs.
"God no."
"Too bad. Let's go say hi to this nice lady who is staring at me."
Cursing under your breath, you guide Chan toward the woman in question, who happens to be the neighbor. She's dressed in a pale blue dress, her perfume too flowery and powdery for your nose. Her husband is in a cream linen suit that he looks to be sweating through but pretends not to be, and he grins as you lead Chan over.
"Chan, this is Mr. and Mrs. Jeon," you introduce, surprised at how steady your voice is. "They're our neighbors. Mrs. Jeon taught me to paint on Sundays growing up."
Mrs. Jeon grins. "Not well enough, I think!" She waves a hand and laughs before shaking Chan's hand. "I kid, I kid. Who is this spry thing?"
"This is Chan. My boyfriend."
"Boyfriend?" She gasps, looking at him with renewed interest. "I certainly thought you were dating the Yoon boy."
You cringe inside, but Chan takes it in stride, grin never falling. "You own the gallery on Birch, right? I attended the foundation event you put on last month downtown. My friend Minghao was a featured artist."
Mrs. Jeon actually pretends in front of you, looking just as shocked as you are. You can't help but stare at Chan as he dives in head first to the conversation, asking questions about the gallery, about the foundation's mission, nodding thoughtfully at her answers like she's the most fascinating person he's met all week. The husband jumps in with a comment about funding, and Chan pivots smoothly, asking something about grants that you barely register because you cannot stop staring at him.
Chan is good at this. You don't know why you doubted he would be. He's a people person and as charming as they come, which is why everyone at Sweetner complains that he is lost to the kitchen with Mingyu.
You hardly have to say anything at all, and when you finally extract yourselves, the neighbors are smiling at you like you've finally done something right, like all your bad art classes with Mrs. Jeon growing up are forgiven after a single interaction with Chan.
"I like him," she whispers to you as she waves goodbye. "Where'd you find him?"
"I got lucky," you say, and when you glance at Chan, he's already looking at you. "Very lucky."
Chan carries the two of you through the rest of the crowd in the same way. You watch him charm them, watch the way he makes them feel seen, and you realize that Chan isn't pretending. This isn't an act for him - he's just genuinely good with people and actually interested in them. He is unwaveringly kind, and though it's obvious that half these people should recognize him or know where he's from, they don't, because all they see is a well-mannered man on the arm of someone they're finally glad has figured it out.
Between conversations, you find yourself standing at the edge of the party with Chan, near the hedge maze where the noise is slightly muffled. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the lawn, turning everything amber and gold. You can see your parents across the garden, holding court near the main tent, and your mother's eyes find you across the distance.
"Fuck," you mutter.
"What?" Chan asks, alarmed.
"Sorry. Mom wants us over there. She's giving me the eyes."
Chan follows your gaze and straightens slightly, his hand finding the small of your back again. "Okay," he says quietly. "We've got this."
The walk across the lawn feels like miles. Your heels sink slightly into the grass with each step, making you feel unsteady and off balance. Chan keeps a hand on you the entire time, the only thing that is keeping you from turning tail and running.
Your parents are standing near one of the larger arrangements of peonies, drinks in hand, watching you with sharp eyes. Your mother gives you a genuine grin - not the tight-lipped one, which is a great start - and your father looks the same way he usually does.
"There you are," your mother says warmly, reaching out to touch your arm. "We were just saying how lovely everything looks. The weather couldn't be more perfect."
Your mother practically glows. "Oh, well, we can't take all the credit. The landscaper did most of the heavy lifting."
Your father extends his hand to Chan. "You clean up nice."
"I even showered," Chan jokes, though the sharpness in his tone for a moment makes you glance at him sidelong.
The conversation continues, and you stand there watching it unfold like you're outside your own body. Your mother asks about Chan's family and he answers with just enough detail to sound genuine without oversharing. Your father asks about his education, and Chan mentions college and the business degree he has, not hiding the student loan debts or the reason for working at Sweenter's. Your father nods approvingly as though it's somehow respectful for Chan to be up front about his debt and it makes you twitch.
Somehow, Chan fitting in doesn't make you feel better. You should be relieved. This is what you wanted - for them to like him, to approve, to stop looking at you like you're a problem that needs solving. But instead you feel like maybe you are the problem. Chan can seem to do this just fine and get along with these people just fine - so why can't you?
"Actually, Chan," your father says, his shifting tone making you glance at him in alarm. "If you're into business, there's someone here I can introduce you to. Might be a useful connection for you."
You go rigid but Chan gives you a squeeze and a wink. "That would be great."
"Excellent." Your father claps Chan on the shoulder like they're old friends. "Come on, I'll introduce you. Won't take long."
Chan leans briefly toward you, surprising you as he presses a kiss to your cheek before you realize it's an excuse to whisper, "I am fine. Please breathe. We're doing great."
You don't feel great, the fear of your father leading Chan away and the overwhelming warmth on your cheek where his lips had been a moment before leaving you standing next to your mother who immediately darts off to complain about a melting ice sculpture.
You watch them walk away together, your father's hand still on Chan's shoulder, steering him through the crowd. Chan looks back once, and you lift your hand in a small wave, making him grin. Your heart squeezes again before they disappear and you're standing alone.
Well, not alone for long.
"Well, look what we have here."
The voice makes you spin around to see Jeonghan as he leans against the tree behind you. Your heart plummets as he grins, sipping cool champagne from a glass as he drinks you in. He's wearing a cream linen suit that probably costs more than the entire diner, his dark hair styled back and permanent smirk twisting his mouth as he watches you.
"Jeonghan," you greet flatly.
He pushes off the tree and comes over, leaning in to air-kiss you briefly. He smells expensive, like something spicy and citrus and distinctly not Chan. He steps back from you and looks you up and down again, raising his brows.
"You look stressed," he notes.
"I'm fine."
"Mm." He takes a sip of his champagne, eyes glittering with amusement. "You know, I have to say, I'm impressed. When I heard you were bringing someone, I expected… not a cook from Sweetner, I guess."
You cross your arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, don't be defensive. I mean it as a compliment." He gestures vaguely toward where Chan disappeared. "He's charming."
"Was there something you wanted, Jeonghan?"
"Just making conversation." He tilts his head, studying you with that sharp, assessing gaze that's always made you feel like a specimen under glass. "You've been quite the topic of discussion lately, you know. The diner job. The whole rebellion thing. It's all so dramatic."
"It's not. I'm just trying to do what I want."
"Right. Doing what you want. And what is that, exactly?"
"To not perform all the time."
"Then what on earth are you doing here doing exactly that?"
The words hit harder than they should. You look away, toward the fountain, anywhere but at his knowing smirk.
I'm just saying," Jeonghan continues. "Everyone's performing. You're performing right now. The whole 'I'm too good for this world' thing? That's a performance, no? At least the rest of us are honest about it. If you want out, then get out. I'm not being mean, that is my honest advice."
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. He's not wrong, and you hate it. You are here performing and for what? A little more time earned from your parents off your back? A little more time in the sun before things get cloudy with them again? You've been doing this on-again-off-again dance with them for a while, and now, you've somehow convinced Chan to do it with you.
Jeonghan must see the look on your face because he sighs and finishes his champagne, putting the empty glass on the tray as a server passes by.
"Look," he says. "I'm just saying that if you want it, commit to it. I know it's scary, but if you're going to keep coming back here to this life, it's just as performative."
"I know."
"And for what it's worth, I do like Chan. He's funny."
"Thanks," you say, and it comes out bitter.
"Anytime." He straightens, smoothing down his jacket. "I should go mingle. Your mother will be devastated if I don't compliment her flower arrangements."
Jeonghan leaves you standing there and you watch him go, feeling oddly hollow as the party swirls around you. The sun is lower now, casting everything in late golden afternoon light. You scan the crowd for Chan but you can't see him, somewhere with your father still, probably being introduced to business associates and family friends, making impressions that will outlast this entire charade. The thought makes your chest tight.
"There you are."
Your father's voice comes from behind you, and you turn too quickly, nearly stumbling in your heels. He's without Chan and you start to panic.
"Where's-"
"I sent him to get us drinks," your father says. "I wanted to talk to you. Alone."
The way he says alone makes your skin prickle. You glance around, but no one is paying attention. Everyone is too busy enjoying themselves, too wrapped up in their own conversations and champagne bubbles and the perfect golden light.
"Oh."
He gestures toward the edge of the garden, away from the main cluster of guests, and you follow because what else can you do. Your heels sink slightly into the grass with each step, making you feel unsteady. He leads you past the fountain, past the rose trellises, to a spot near the hedge maze where the noise is muffled and the shadows are longer.
He stops and turns to face you, hands in his pockets. For a moment, he just looks at you, and the expression on his face is unreadable.
"He's nice," is all he says.
You swallow past a dry patch in your throat. "He is."
"Polite. Well-mannered. Clearly intelligent." Your father nods slowly, like he's ticking off boxes on a mental checklist. "I can see why you like him."
"I'm glad you approve."
"You mistake my praise of him for approval."
And there it is. You take a step back, ready to be done with the conversation but he holds up a hand. "Let me finish. "Chan seems like a genuinely good person. He's hardworking and respectful."
"He is. He came here tonight for me despite your obvious judgements of him. If you like him so much, then what's the problem?"
"The problem is you."
The word hangs in the air between you. You.
"You're throwing your life away," he continues, and his tone is so matter-of-fact it makes you stare at him dumbly. "The diner job. Refusing law school. This whole phase you're in - it is beneath you, and frankly, I don't understand what you're trying to prove."
"I'm not trying to prove anything," you say, but your voice sounds weak even to your own ears. "I'm just trying to figure out what I want."
"What you want? You're an adult, you don't have the luxury of figuring it out anymore. Life doesn't wait for you to decide you're ready."
"I know that-"
"Do you?" He steps closer, his tone tipping from firm to angry. "Because it doesn't look like it. It looks like you're playing at being independent while still living under our roof. Still taking our money when it suits you."
The accusation stings because it's partially true. You are still living at home, even if you spend most of your time avoiding them. You did come to this party because they told you to and you'd been too afraid to say no.
"I didn't want to come to this party," you say, and your voice cracks slightly. "Any time I try and tell you want I want, you decide for me-"
"Because I'm tired of making excuses for you." The words are quiet, but they cut deeper than anything he's said so far. "I'm tired of people asking me what you're doing with your life and having to pretend that working at a diner is some kind of noble pursuit. I'm tired of watching you waste everything we've given you and I'm not sure what we're supposed to do with you."
The words hit like a physical blow. I'm not sure what we're supposed to do with you. Like you're a problem. A puzzle with missing pieces. Something broken that needs fixing or discarding.
The problem is you. The fundamental, unfixable you.
The realization spreads through your body like ice water. It doesn't matter that Chan is perfect. It doesn't matter that he charmed your parents, that he said all the right things, that he looked the part and played the role flawlessly. Because the issue was never about who you brought home. It was never about what you were doing or where you were working or how you were spending your time. Bringing him here was never going to extend the inevitable because the inevitable problem is you.
It was always about who you are.
And you can't fix that. You can't charm your way out of being yourself, you can't dress it up or perform it away or make it palatable enough for your father to accept. Because the problem isn't what you're doing, it's that you fundamentally exist in a way that is an utter disappointment. That you're not ever going to be enough.
I'm not sure what we're supposed to do with you.
Like you're an object or a burden, just something they're stuck with and don't know how to handle. Not a daughter - not even a fucking person. Just a problem that won't go away no matter how hard they try.
Your throat is so tight you can barely breathe. Your eyes are burning, tears threatening to spill, and you dig your nails into your palms hard enough to hurt because you cannot cry here. Not in front of him when he's already made it clear that no choice you make, no path you walk - nothing you do will become tolerant to them because they are not tolerant of you.
"I need to use the restroom," you manage to say, and your voice sounds strangled, barely recognizable.
Your father nods, already turning away. "Don't be too long. People will notice."
Then he's gone, walking back toward the party. You stand frozen in the lengthening shadows of the hedge maze, the party’s laughter and clinking glasses muted as if underwater
You turn away from the tents and the roses and the perfectly dressed people who have never once wondered if they were enough, and you walk deeper into the maze. The path curves, the hedges rising higher, the noise of the gathering falling away until all you hear is the soft rustle of leaves and the distant thrum of your own pulse.
You find a low stone bench half-hidden by a spill of climbing roses. The air here is cooler, scented with earth and fading blooms. You sit. The black silk of your dress sticks to the backs of your thighs, and you press your shaking hands flat against the cool stone, trying to stop the trembling that started the second your father started speaking.
Without warning, the tears come. They spill hot and silent at first, then harder, your shoulder curling forward as if you can fold yourself small enough to disappear. You cry the way you never allow yourself to cry in front of anyone, ugly and open mouthed with the heels of your hands pressed to your eyes so that white flashes behind your eyelids.
Every accusation he has ever leveled at you stacks itself in front of you - the wasted degree, the greasy diner, the refusal of law school, the embarrassment of explaining you to people who matter. And beneath it all, the quiet, devastating truth he finally spoke aloud.
You are the problem.
Your grandmother’s necklace feels heavy against your collarbone. You clutch it, nails digging into your palms until the sting grounds you, but it's not enough. The sobs keep coming, quiet and broken, the kind that leave your face wet and your breath hitching in uneven gasps.
“Hey.”
You flinch and look up to see Chan. He's looking at you carefully. You scrub at your cheeks with the heels of your hands, but he stops you, crouching down in front of you and reaching for your hands to keep them away from your face. His fingers are warm and solid as his eyes search your face, dark and wide, the easy smirk nowhere to be found.
“What happened?” he asks.
You shake your head, too embarrassed to say anything.
He softens. "Please. Talk to me. This is a safe space, okay?"
For a moment, you hesitate. Then, you spill out in a rush - everything your father said, the way he listed Chan’s virtues only to turn them into further proof of your failure, the final verdict that the disease is you and there is no cure. You tell him about Jeonghan’s earlier words, about the years of performing, about how nothing you do will ever be enough because the problem was always the fact of your existence, the shape of your wanting, the stubborn refusal to become the daughter they designed.
“I’m so sorry,” you choke, voice cracking. “I never should have brought you here. I dragged you into this and made you smile at them and pretend and dress up like you had to be a doll for them and I'm so sorry. You’re too good and too kind and I used you like a shield and now you’re standing in their garden listening to me fall apart because I can’t even stand up to my own father without falling apart-"
“Stop.”
The delivery is soft, but you look up at him in surprise at his tone. Chan’s face has changed. The soft concern is gone, replaced by something sharp and burning. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking along the side, and his hands tighten where they hold yours. You've seen him annoyed with Mingyu, exasperated with late customers, teasing and restless and endlessly patient, but you have never seen him angry like this - quiet and controlled, thunder in his gaze.
“Get up,” he says.
You stare.
He stands and offers his hand. When you hesitate, he takes yours anyway, fingers firm around yours, and pulls you to your feet. The tears are still wet on your cheeks, and he simply turns and walks, towing you with him out of the maze and back into the open lawn.
"Chan-"
"It's going to be okay."
The party is still in full swing with your parents standing near the main tent, your mother gesturing elegantly with her champagne flute, your father listening politely. Chan makes a beeline for them and whatever protest you have dies on your lips as you look at the rage in his face.
People notice and conversations quiet as you pass. You see the heads turning but all you can see is Chan's determination as he storms toward your parents and stops three feet away from them, catching their attention.
"What-"
He cuts your mother off, growling, "I’ve spent the last hour letting you size me up like I’m a horse at auction. I have smile, I have answered your questions, and I have listen to all of you talk all fucking night, and now I want you to listen to me."
Your father opens his mouth but Chan bullies through whatever it is he's about to say. "Your daughter is the most stubborn, brilliant, exhausting person I’ve ever met. She shows up every day to a job that makes her feet bleed and still manages to make the whole place feel lighter just by being in it. She notices when people are struggling and she doesn’t look away - she helps them, even if it doesn't benefit her social standing or give her a fucking tax cut. She fights for the version of her life that actually feels like hers, even when it costs her everything. And you look at all of that and decide the problem is her?”
Your mother’s hand rises to her pearls. Your father’s face has gone rigid.
“You don’t deserve her,” Chan continues. “Not her kindness. Not her stubbornness. Not the way she still, somehow, keeps trying to make room for people who treat her like shit. If the best you can manage as parents is o stand in your perfect garden and tell her you’re not sure what to do with her, then you can go fuck yourselves."
Silence crashes over the nearby guests. Someone drops a glass, the sound sharp. Your father’s face has turned a dangerous shade of red and your mother’s mouth is open, but no sound comes out.
Chan doesn't wait for a response. He turns, still holding your hand, and walks. You follow because you don't know what else to do, your pulse hammering and wild in your throat. The party around you doesn't move, everyone watching you go without speaking and without moving to stop you.
He leads you down the long driveway, past the manicured hedges and the silent fountain, out through the wrought-iron gates. The evening air is cooler beyond the estate walls, cooling your heated skin and sticky, tear-stained face. When you see the old truck, you feel a sense of relief. He only lets go of your hand to open the passenger door for you and let you climb in.
Chan walks around, slides behind the wheel, and starts the engine. For a long moment he simply sits, hands tight on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. The anger is still there, banked but not gone.
Then he exhales, long and slow, and looks at you. “You okay?”
Your voice is raw. “I don’t know. I- you caught me off guard."
He winces. "Sorry."
“Did you really mean all of that? What you said back there. About me.”
Chan looks at you for a long second, the streetlight painting a pale stripe across the sharp line of his jaw. Then he shifts fully in the seat so he’s facing you, both hands now cradling yours between them. His palms are warm and rough, and you feel a spark through your fingertips at the contact, heart racing.
"Of course I did," he snorts. “You’re wonderful and you deserve more credit than they give you. I think you are kind and hard working, and it has to be really hard to be told that wanting something different than a life promised to you makes you built wrong.”
Your throat constricts painfully. The words land heavier than you expect, cracking something open that you’d kept carefully sealed. Heat floods your face and you nod, trying not to cry again. “Thank you. I needed to hear that, even if you’re pretending.”
He snorts. “I am not pretending. I’m not that great of an actor.”
“You’ve been pretending to be my boyfriend for weeks.”
He looks at you and frowns, his brows pinching sharply. “I haven’t been pretending.”
The world seems to tilt for a second when you look at him, your pulse jumping."What?"
"What what?"
"What do you mean you haven’t been pretending?" Your voice comes out thinner than you intend. You search his face for the usual teasing glint, the easy deflection, but there’s none. Just that steady, slightly exasperated stare.
He stares. "I'm sorry, has my flirting the past few months not been working? Is it not obvious that I like you?"
For a second everything inside you goes quiet and bright at once and your stomach drops so hard it almost makes you fizzy. Every half-remembered moment rearranges itself in rapid, dizzying succession - the talks in the alley while on break, the stolen moments at the hostess stand, the offer for the getaway car. You had filed all of it away under this is just how he is. Under he does this with everyone. Under don’t be stupid. Now those explanations feel thin and suddenly, terribly insufficient.
"I thought you did that with everyone!"
"What?" He screeches. "I don't flirt with everyone! I very specifically flirt with you! Are you crazy? You couldn't pay me to be Mari's fake boyfriend? And I definitely don’t flirt with Soonyong-"
You don't let him finish. You lean across the center console and kiss him softly, pulse thudding in your neck. The kiss is hesitant at first, but he melts into it immediately, his hand sliding up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw, tilting your head so he can taste you better.
The center console digs into your hip but you ignore it, one of your hands finding the lapel of his suit jacket to curl into the fabric and tug him closer. He makes a low noise in his throat that vibrates against your mouth, making you dizzy in the heat of the truck.
“You don’t have to shrink for them," he mumbles, teeth pulling at your bottom lip. “I hated seeing you look small in that garden.” Another kiss, slower this time, lingering. “You’re not small. You’re brilliant even though you're also an idiot, apparently - not sure you actually went to Yale if you can’t identify flirting - but you are perfect, and brave, despite what your parents would have you think."
Your fingers move from his jacket to the open collar of his shirt, tracing the warm skin at the base of his throat. He shudders, his tongue swiping into your mouth, brushing against yours. The heat in your skin is nearly unbearable, the smell and taste of him not enough, the feeling of his hands on your face, your throat, your hair - it's not enough.
Chan breaks away just long enough to mutter, “Come here."
He pulls you over the console, helping you as you scramble awkwardly, dress hiking up your thighs. You straddle his lip in the driver's seat, the steering wheel pressing against your lower back while his hands settle on your hips before sliding higher, thumbs stroking the thin silk at your waist.
You learn forward and kiss him, taking your time. His mouth moves against yours slowly, and you thread your fingers through the strands of his hair and tug. He answers with a low, approving sound that you feel more than hear, and one of his hands drifts up your spine, palm warm through the silk, until it rests between your shoulder blades and pulls you flush against his chest.
Chan’s hands slide from your waist to the backs of your thighs, slow and deliberate, gathering the silk of your dress higher, baring your thighs. His palms are warm, calloused from kitchen work, and every slow stroke sends a low, electric shiver up your spine.
One hand stays on your hip, steadying you, while the other drifts between your legs, tracing the soft skin of your inner thigh until his fingertips find the edge of your underwear. He pauses there, waiting, eyes dark and locked on yours. When you nod, he grins and cups you over the soaked fabric of your underwear. He presses the heel of his palm against you in a slow, firm grind, and you let out a breathy sound, your kiss turning messy as you lose focus.
The pressure is perfect, your thighs squeezing around him as your fingers dig into his neck enough to make him hiss. He does it again, watching your face the entire time, then hooks two fingers under the edge of the fabric and eases it aside.
The first touch of skin on skin makes your breath catch. His fingertips glide through your wet folds, circling your clit with the lightest pressure. You feel the rough pads of his fingertips, every careful pass making you lightheaded, the air in the truck turning humid. He keeps the strokes slow, almost lazy, letting you leak into his palm.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. “Already so messy for me."
He slides one finger inside you and your fingers tighten in the collar of his shirt as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. The stretch feels good, your breath coming out in punchy gasps as he works his finger in and out, slow and deep.
Your mouths tangle together, more teeth than tongue, and you suck in a sharp breath against his lips when he presses another finger in, stretching you further. He curls them just right, stroking that sensitive place that has you seeing stars while his thumb rubs your clit in small circles.
You rock against his hand without thinking, chasing the friction. Every stroke of his fingers pulls another soft, wet sound from between your legs and you hide your face in his neck, panting against him as you curse and chase the heat coiling low in your stomach.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “Ride my fingers. So pretty, baby."
Your thighs start to shake, and the coil in your stomach tightens as your cunt starts to clench down on him, your breath catching in small gasps as your orgasm starts to creep up on you. He kisses your ear, his breath hot against your skin, muttering how pretty you are until you're coming in his lap, shaking violently as he groans and works you through it.
Only when the last tremor fades does he ease his fingers free. He uses his free hand to pull you back by the neck so you can watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sticky with your release as he sucks them between his lips. His eyes never leave yours and you shiver, watching him hum around his fingers.
"The real sweetener is you," he mumbles after pulling his fingers free, pulling you in to crash your lips to his. You taste yourself on his lips, moaning as you rock your wet cunt against the zipper of his pants. "Come on, baby. Take my cock out and sit on it. Want it nice and slow."
With trembling hands, you reach between the two of you, pulling at his zipper. It takes you a few tries while he mouths at your neck, patient as ever. You reach into his pants and he groans as you stroke his cock, warm and firm, his hips twitching as his teeth scrape against your pulse point.
"Fuck, I didn't tease you," he moans. "Don't tease me."
"I like the sounds you make." He groans again and you grin. "Pretty."
"Baby, come on."
Biting your bottom lip, you sit up on your knee and he grips the base of his cock firmly so you can lower yourself over him. The blunt head presses against your entrance, hot and slick. You sink down carefully, feeling the stretch inch by inch, both of you groaning. Chan is thick, the breath catching in your chest as you lower down until you're fully seated on him, thighs pressed to him and so fucking full you can barely breathe.
“Jesus,” he groans, forehead against yours. “Look at how you take me. So tight. So fucking wet. Perfect.”
You stay still for a long moment, breathing through the fullness, feeling him throb inside you. Then you begin to move in slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. You lift until only the head remains inside, then sink back down in one long, controlled slide. The sensation is devastating, both of you moaning in tandem.
His hands settle on your waist, guiding without forcing, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above your hipbones. He meets each downward movement with a gentle upward roll of his hips, driving himself deeper at an unhurried pace.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, voice strained but still soft. “Fuck yourself on my cock just like that. Nice and deep."
His words make you shiver and you lean forward, chests pressed together, changing the angle so he grinds against that sensitive place inside you on every stroke. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing in slow, firm circles. The dual sensation of his thick cock filling you and his firm fingers circling your clit makes the pleasure thicken again, heavier this time, rooted deep in your stomach.
"I'm gonna come," you whine, mouths clashing together. "Fuck, Chan. It feels so good."
"Good," he gasps, thrusting up a little. "Want you to feel good. You deserve to feel so good, baby. Come for me."
You nod, clenching around him suddenly. You moan his name against his mouth, hips stuttering, the wet heat of your release coating his cock and dripping down onto his thighs. You pull him right over the edge with you and he comes with a low, broken groan, hips pressing up as he empties himself inside you. He keeps moving through it, slow and shallow, fucking his cum deeper while the aftershocks ripple through both of you.
You stay draped over him for a long while, bodies still joined, the mess between your legs sticky and warm. You ignore it in favor of the feeling of Chan's hands stroking slow patterns up and down your back, fingers tracing the line of your spine through the rumpled silk. The windows are completely fogged now, and outside, a streetlamp casts a soft orange glow that barely reaches the interior of the truck.
You shift slightly, feeling him slip free with a quiet, wet sound, and settle sideways across his lap instead, head resting against his shoulder. His arms stay around you. One hand finds the back of your neck and simply holds there, thumb brushing your hairline.
“You know,” you murmur, voice still rough, “I’ve watched you flirt with every single one of those old ladies at the diner for weeks. The ones who leave you twenties just for smiling at them. You wink and they practically melt. How was I supposed to know it was only for me?"
Chan makes a low, exasperated sound that vibrates through his chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You tip your head back just enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, the careful styling ruined by your fingers. There’s a faint smear of your lipstick near the corner of his mouth, and he looks thoroughly debauched. You like this version of him much more than the one who greeted you on the staircase and played nice with your parents.
“I’m serious,” you say, lips twitching. “Mrs. Callahan nearly climbed over the counter last Tuesday when you called her sweetheart."
He groans, tipping his head back against the headrest. “They tip me well, okay? Extremely well. Those twenties add up.” He glances at you sideways, a crooked, almost shy smile pulling at his mouth. “I’ve been saving them. Wanted enough to take you somewhere that isn’t the alley behind the diner or the ice cream counter after closing. Our cafe learning session doesn’t count."
You stare at him for a second, the residual heat of everything that just happened still humming under your skin, mixed now with something quieter and more dangerous.
“You’ve been saving for a date,” you repeat, quieter.
“Yeah.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Figured if I was going to keep pretending to be your boyfriend in front of half the town and your entire terrifying family, I might as well earn the right to do it for real. Properly. With, you know, flowers and stuff."
You laugh again, softer this time, and lean in to press a slow kiss to the underside of his jaw. He turns into it, catching your mouth for a brief, lingering moment before settling back.
"This isn't what I meant by a getaway truck by the way," he laughs, lacing his fingers with yours. "But god damn it felt good."
You smile. "Take me away then, I guess."
"You got it, baby."
-
Three weeks later the estate driveway is lined with cardboard boxes and half-empty laundry baskets. Chan’s truck sits with its tailgate down, the bed already half-full of the things that actually belong to you like all your favorite shirts and some of the nicer clothes you decided to keep.
Mingyu and Joshua work in easy tandem, hauling another load down the front steps. Mingyu has a lamp under one arm and a duffel bag over the opposite shoulder, muttering about how you somehow managed to accumulate more books than kitchenware while Joshua follows with two smaller boxes stacked in his arms, already complaining that his back will never forgive him.
Your father’s posture is rigid, arms crossed as he stands next to your mother in the doorway. You turn to face them with Chan a few steps behind you, close enough that you can feel the quiet solid presence of him without needing to look. He doesn’t interrupt. He simply waits.
"You were right about one thing," you tell them both. "Coming back here while trying to be me was never going to work. So I'm leaving - not because I’m throwing anything away, and not because I’m trying to prove a point. I’m leaving because I finally know what I want, and it isn’t here. I’ve spent years doing exactly what the two of you wanted, and I hated every minute of it. I told you that. You just never listened. I am not the problem - refusing to listen to what I wanted was the problem."
Silence stretches. Your mother’s gaze drops for a moment to the boxes already loaded in the truck and your father’s arms remain crossed, but something in his expression shifts from something angry to something maybe a little tired.
"Well," you say. "If you need me, you know where to find me, but unless it's with an apology, don't bother."
Chan steps up behind you, his hand on your waist. You give your parents a final once over, and for the first time in a long time, you're not afraid of them. You grin a little, letting Chan lead you down the stairs toward where Mingyu is sweating and leaning against the truck.
All of you climb into the car, and when Chan turns it on and drives away, you lean back into the seat, closing your eyes and breathing in deep.
"So, where is this getaway car going?" Chan jokes, turning off your street and heading into town.
You grin. "Sweetner. I hear they have a really cute new assistant manager starting today."
Chan grins. "I hear he likes to save cats. Also has a girlfriend who likes to make out in the walk-in freezer."
Mingyu and Joshua groan, but you grin, letting the afternoon sun warm you as Chan drives the getaway car just as promised.
Authorities raided the offices and production facilities of Velvet Desire Productions early Monday morning, arresting several executives and seizing computers, hard drives, phones, and financial records in a coordinated operation.
Investigators say the company, which marketed itself as a mainstream adult entertainment firm, is suspected of distributing pornography without the required licenses and operating a prostitution network under the guise of film shoots. Detectives allege that performers were sometimes coerced or paid extra to engage in sexual acts that went far beyond any scripted scenes, with those payments allegedly funneled through shell companies and cash transactions to hide the activity.
The raid, carried out by a joint task force of local police and federal agents, followed a months-long investigation. Officials said it was triggered by complaints from former employees, tips from online platforms, and undercover work that reportedly confirmed the dual nature of the business. At least eight people were taken into custody, including the company’s founder, two production managers, and several staff members. No injuries were reported during the operation, though officers described the scene as tense as boxes of material were carted away.
A spokesperson for the district attorney’s office said charges are expected to include promoting prostitution, illegal distribution of obscenity, and money laundering. “This was not just adult entertainment,” the spokesperson stated. “Evidence points to a systematic operation that crossed clear legal lines.” The company’s website and social media accounts have already been taken offline.
Velvet Desire Productions had released dozens of titles over the past three years and claimed a sizable international customer base. Its offices remain sealed pending further forensic examination of the seized materials, and investigators indicated more arrests or charges could follow as the case develops.
GUESS WHOS BACK??! (Same gworl that asked for the San & Seungcheol fic 😝)
I got another doozey for you hun, so just hear me out and lemme cook for a sec 🙂↕️
Cheol and Bang Chan are both your sugar daddies, but they're best friends. You didn't know they were besties and they didn't know they had the same sugar baby until they try to do a double-date 🫢
I already know you're gonna eat, so Imma leave the kitchen to you so you can cook this meal up 🙂↕️🤏
Double trouble
Pairing: Bangchan x reader x Scoups
Sugar daddy/baby relationship, smut
Wc:~5.2k
Warnings: cheating? (Kind of but not really), smut, MMF threesome, double penetration, oral m and f receiving, anal, sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics, secret dual relationships, jealousy
A/N: Hi girl! Welcome back! I'm so happy you made a new request ! Your requests are always incredible. Thank you for that delicious meal of an idea
You wake up to the soft chime of your phone on the nightstand, the silk sheets still warm from the body that left them only an hour ago. Chan’s side of the bed is empty, but the faint scent of his cologne lingers on the pillow. You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in your thighs and reach for the device.
A message from him sits at the top of the screen. Morning, baby. Last night was perfect. Don’t forget: dinner tonight. 8 pm. There’s someone I want you to meet. Double date kind of thing. Wear that black dress I bought you. The one that makes it hard for me to think straight.
You smile, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Chan has always been like this: generous, attentive, a little possessive in the sweetest way. Six months of being his sugar baby and you’ve never once felt like just a transaction. He pays for the apartment, the car, the endless shopping sprees, but he also texts good morning, asks about your day and holds you like he means it when he spends the night.
You type back. Looking forward to it. Should I be nervous about this friend?
His reply comes almost instantly. Not nervous. Just… curious. You’ll like him. Trust me.
You set the phone down and pad into the bathroom. The marble floors are cool under your feet. You catch your reflection in the mirror: soft hair, kissed lips, the faint mark on your collarbone that Chan left last night. You touch it lightly, then start the shower.
By the time you’re dressed in a soft cashmere sweater and jeans, your second phone (the one only Seungcheol texts) buzzes on the vanity.
You freeze for half a second, then pick it up. Good morning, pretty girl. Missed you last night. Free this evening? I want to take you somewhere nice. Double date with a friend of mine. He’s been asking to meet the woman who’s been making me smile like an idiot. 8:30. I’ll send a car.
Your stomach does a slow flip.
Seungcheol. Your other secret.
You’ve been his for almost five months. He found you the same way Chan did: through the quiet, exclusive network that connects men with money to women who know how to keep things discreet. Seungcheol is different from Chan in the best ways. Where Chan is playful and teasing, Seungcheol is steady, intense, the kind of man who looks at you like he’s already decided you’re his and the rest of the world just hasn’t caught up yet. He pays for the spa memberships, the designer handbags, the weekend trips out of the city. And when he’s with you, he doesn’t check his phone once.
You sit on the edge of the tub, staring at the message.
Two invitations. Same night. Chan asked first.
You open his chat again and type. I’ll be ready at 7:45. Don’t keep me waiting too long.
Then you switch phones and reply to Seungcheol. Tonight’s not good, unfortunately. Rain check? I want to meet this friend of yours properly.
His response is quick, a little disappointed but understanding. Of course. Tomorrow then. I’ll make it special. Miss you already.
You set both phones down and exhale.
The rest of the morning passes in a quiet blur. You make coffee in the kitchen Chan stocked for you, scroll through emails about the small design consultancy you keep running on the side (mostly for appearance’s sake) and try not to think too hard about the evening ahead. Double date. Chan’s friend. You wonder what kind of man he is. Probably another successful type, Chan doesn’t keep company with people who aren’t driven. You hope the friend’s date is pleasant enough that the night doesn’t feel awkward.
Around noon your personal phone rings. It’s Chan.
"Hey" his voice is warm, a little rough from whatever meeting he just left. "You free for lunch? I can swing by."
You smile even though he can’t see it. "I’m free. But only if you’re buying."
He laughs. "Always. Be there in twenty."
He arrives in the black sedan he prefers when he’s not driving himself, steps out looking unfairly good in a charcoal suit with the top button of his shirt undone. The moment he’s inside the apartment he pulls you in by the waist and kisses you like he hasn’t seen you in days instead of hours.
"Missed this" he murmurs against your mouth.
You let yourself melt into it for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at him. "You’re going to ruin my lipstick."
"Good." He steals another kiss, then glances at his watch. "Lunch. I have a reservation."
He takes you to a quiet place downtown with floor-to-ceiling windows and food that tastes like it costs more than most people’s monthly rent. Over plates of perfectly seared fish and wine that goes down too easily, he talks about work, some new project his company is launching and asks about yours. You give him the edited version, the one that doesn’t mention the other man who also pays for pieces of your life.
When the check comes he doesn’t even look at it, just slides his card across. The server returns with a small shopping bag from a jewelry store two blocks over.
Chan pushes it toward you. "Saw this and thought of you."
Inside is a delicate gold bracelet with a single diamond charm. Simple. Expensive. Exactly your taste.
You look up at him. "You didn’t have to."
"I wanted to." He reaches across the table and fastens it around your wrist himself, fingers brushing the inside of your pulse point. "Wear it tonight."
Something in his voice makes your stomach tighten. You nod.
After lunch he drops you back at the apartment with another lingering kiss and a quiet "See you at eight, baby."
The afternoon stretches. You try to work, fail, end up standing in front of the closet deciding what to wear even though Chan already told you. The black dress hangs waiting: strapless, fitted through the waist, the kind of fabric that moves when you walk. You shower again, take your time with lotion and perfume, style your hair the way he likes it, soft waves that fall over one shoulder. Makeup is careful: smoky eyes, lips just a shade deeper than natural.
At 7:40 the intercom buzzes. Chan’s driver is downstairs.
You grab the small clutch that matches the dress, check both phones one last time (Seungcheol has sent a soft goodnight message even though it’s early) and head down.
Chan is waiting by the open car door, dark suit, no tie, eyes dragging slowly over you as you approach.
"Fuc" he says quietly, almost to himself. "You’re going to kill me tonight."
You smile, letting him help you into the back seat. "That’s the plan."
The drive is short. The restaurant is one of those places with a name in French and a waiting list that most people never crack. Chan’s hand rests on your thigh the entire way, thumb stroking absently over the fabric of the dress.
Inside, the hostess leads you to a private table near the back. Soft lighting, white tablecloth, a bottle of champagne already chilling.
Chan pulls out your chair, then sits across from you instead of beside you. His knee brushes yours under the table.
"So" you say, accepting the glass he pours. "Tell me about this friend."
He leans back, studying you for a moment. "We’ve known each other a long time. Since university. He’s… solid. Successful. A little more serious than me, but you’ll like him. He’s bringing someone too."
You tilt your head. "Someone he’s serious about?"
Chan’s mouth quirks. "Something like that. He doesn’t usually introduce people, so this is new."
A small, private part of you wonders what it would be like if the roles were reversed, if Seungcheol were the one introducing you to a friend. You push the thought away.
The waiter arrives with menus. Chan orders for both of you without asking, the way he sometimes does when he’s feeling particularly possessive. You let him. It feels nice tonight.
Conversation flows easily. He tells you a story about a disastrous client meeting that had you laughing into your champagne. You tell him about the ridiculous request one of your design clients made last week. The food arrives in courses: delicate, beautiful, almost too pretty to eat.
Halfway through the second course Chan’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, then silences it with a quick "He’s running a few minutes late. Traffic."
You nod, taking another sip of champagne. The bracelet on your wrist catches the light every time you move your hand. Chan notices and smiles, quiet and pleased.
"You look good in my things" he says.
"I know."
His eyes darken just a little. Under the table his foot brushes against yours, lingering.
You’re still smiling at him when the hostess appears again, leading two people toward your table.
You glance up, polite curiosity already in place.
And the world tilts.
Seungcheol is walking toward you in a perfectly tailored black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly at the small of the back of the woman beside him. His eyes are already scanning the table the way they always do when he enters a room.
Then they land on you.
He stops walking so abruptly the woman almost bumps into him.
For one endless second no one moves.
Chan’s voice comes from somewhere far away. "There he is. Seungcheol, about time."
Seungcheol’s gaze locks on yours, shock and recognition crashing across his face in the same breath. The woman beside him looks between the three of you, confused.
You feel the blood drain from your face, then rush back all at once. The champagne glass in your hand suddenly feels too heavy.
Chan stands, smiling, completely unaware. "Baby, this is my oldest friend. Seungcheol, this is..."
He never finishes the introduction. Because Seungcheol is still staring at you like the floor just disappeared under his feet and you are staring back the exact same way.
The private table, the soft music, the expensive food, all of it fades into white noise.
Your two sugar daddies. Best friends. Same night. Same table. And neither of them had any idea.
The silence stretches long enough that the woman beside Seungcheol shifts uncomfortably, glancing between the three of you with growing confusion. Chan is still half-standing, smile faltering as he registers the way his oldest friend is staring at you like he’s seen a ghost.
You set your champagne glass down carefully, afraid it might shatter if you hold it any tighter. Your pulse is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
Seungcheol recovers first, but only barely. His voice comes out low and controlled, the tone he uses when he’s trying not to lose it in public. "Chan." He looks at you again, eyes dark with something that isn’t just surprise. "This is… unexpected."
Chan’s hand finds the back of your chair. "You two know each other?"
The question hangs there, ridiculous in its simplicity.
You force yourself to speak before either of them can. "I think we should sit down." Your voice sounds steadier than you feel. "All of us."
The woman: tall, elegant, clearly dressed for a night that was supposed to be uncomplicated, clears her throat. "I can go if this is-"
"No" Seungcheol says, still looking at you. Then he softens it for her. "I’m sorry. Something’s come up. I’ll have the driver take you wherever you’d like. This isn’t fair to you."
She studies the three of you for another second, then nods with quiet dignity. "I understand." She doesn’t wait for more explanations. Seungcheol walks her a few steps away, murmurs something low and she leaves without looking back. The hostess appears as if summoned by the tension, and within a minute the table is rearranged for three instead of four.
Chan sits again, but his posture has changed. The easy warmth from earlier is gone, replaced by sharp attention. Seungcheol takes the empty chair across from you, the one that puts him at an angle where he can see both your face and Chan’s. The waiter starts to approach with the next course; Chan lifts a hand without looking and the man retreats.
For a long moment no one speaks. The restaurant noise feels distant, like it’s happening in another room.
Chan is the first to break. "How long?"
You know the question isn’t directed only at Seungcheol.
You meet his eyes. "Five months with him. Six with you."
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You never mentioned him."
"You never mentioned him either" you answer quietly. "That was the point."
Chan leans forward, elbows on the table. "You’re telling me my best friend and I have been… sharing the same woman for months and neither of us knew?"
"We weren’t sharing" Seungcheol says, voice edged. "We each thought we were the only one."
The word sharing lands heavy between you. You feel heat rise in your cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and something sharper.
Seungcheol gaze cuts to you. "Is that why you turned me down tonight? Because he asked first?"
You nod once. "I didn’t know it was the same place. Or the same friend."
Seungcheol exhales through his nose, a short, disbelieving sound. "I texted you this morning. Double date with a friend. You said you weren’t free."
"Because Chan had already asked." Your hands are folded in your lap so no one can see them trembling. "I don’t cancel on either of you unless I have to."
The honesty sits there, raw.
Chan runs a hand over his face. "Damn."
Seungcheol is watching you with that intense focus he always has when he’s trying to read past what you’re saying. "How did this even happen? The same network?"
You nod again. "Different contacts. Different introductions. I never connected the names. You both used first names only. And you never talked about each other in enough detail for me to put it together."
Chan’s laugh is short and humorless. "We’ve known each other since we were nineteen. I introduced him to half the people he still does business with. And somehow the one person we both…" He stops, searching for the right word, then settles on the blunt truth. "The one person we’ve both been paying to be with is the same woman."
The transactional reality of it hangs in the air. You don’t flinch from it. You’ve never pretended the arrangements were anything else, not at the start. The feelings that grew later complicated things, but the foundation was always clear.
Seungcheol’s voice drops. "Does he treat you well?"
The question is directed at you, but he’s looking at Chan when he asks it.
"Yes" you say. "Both of you do."
Chan’s eyes flick to Seungcheol. "And you? You’re good to her?"
"I am."
Another silence. The waiter appears again with water; no one acknowledges him. When he’s gone, Chan speaks more quietly. "I don’t like this."
"Neither do I" Seungcheol answers. "But here we are."
You look between them. "If either of you wants to end it, I understand. I never meant for this to happen."
Chan’s hand finds yours under the table, warm and firm. "I didn’t say that."
Seungcheol’s gaze drops to where your hands are joined, then lifts back to your face. Something complicated moves behind his eyes: jealousy, calculation and a darker curiosity he doesn’t bother hiding.
"You could have told one of us" he says.
"And risked losing both?" You shake your head. "I like my life. I like both of you. Separately. That was the only way it worked."
Chan’s thumb strokes once over your knuckles. "And now that it doesn’t work separately?"
The question is careful. Testing.
You don’t answer right away. The champagne from earlier sits warm in your blood, making everything feel sharper and slower at the same time. You can feel the tension rolling off both of them: possessive, competitive and underneath it something neither of them has named yet.
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, studying the two of you. "We’ve shared worse things over the years."
Chan’s head turns toward him. "Not like this."
"No" Seungcheol agrees. "Not like this."
You feel the shift before either of them speaks again. The anger is still there, but it’s cooling into something else, something more dangerous and more interesting. Chan’s fingers tighten slightly around yours. Seungcheol’s gaze lingers on your mouth for half a second too long.
"I need air" Chan says suddenly. He stands, still holding your hand and looks at Seungcheol. "Come with us. Outside. We’re not doing this in the middle of a restaurant."
Seungcheol rises without argument. You follow, clutch in hand, the black dress suddenly feeling thinner than it did an hour ago. Chan’s hand stays at the small of your back as the three of you move through the dining room. Eyes track you but no one stops you.
Outside, the night air is cool against your bare shoulders. Chan leads you a short distance down the sidewalk to a quieter stretch near the side entrance, away from the valets and the glow of the restaurant windows. Seungcheol follows, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
Once you’re alone, Chan turns to face both of you.
"I’m not walking away" he says. The words are directed at Seungcheol as much as at you. "I don’t care how this started. I’m not done."
Seungcheol meets his stare without blinking. "Neither am I."
Your breath catches.
Chan looks at you. "And you? You said you like both of us. Separately. What about together?"
The question is so direct it steals the air from your lungs. You search his face for jealousy, for anger and find something else instead: heat, challenge, and a willingness to explore the edge of something none of you planned.
Seungcheol steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne, different from Chan’s but just as familiar. "We’re not children. We can be adults about this. Or we can pretend it never happened and go back to lying by omission. Your choice."
You look from one to the other. Best friends. Your two secrets standing side by side in the dark, waiting for an answer you never thought you’d have to give.
"I don’t want to choose" you say finally. The honesty feels reckless and necessary at the same time. "I never did."
Chan’s mouth curves, slow and dangerous. "Then don’t."
Seungcheol’s voice is lower. "You’re sure?"
You nod once. "I’m sure."
For a moment the three of you simply stand there, the city moving around you, the weight of the decision settling into place. Then Chan reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture intimate and proprietary.
"My place is closer" he says. The words are casual. The meaning is not.
Seungcheol doesn’t look surprised. He glances at you one more time, seeking confirmation, and when you don’t pull away he gives a short nod. "All right."
Chan’s hand slides from your back to your waist as he turns toward the curb. The car is already waiting, his driver must have been circling. Seungcheol opens the rear door and waits for you to slide in first. Chan follows and Seungcheol takes the seat on your other side so that you are framed between them in the quiet dark of the back seat.
The driver pulls away without being told the destination. He already knows.
No one speaks for the first few blocks. Chan’s hand rests on your thigh, fingers warm through the fabric of the dress. Seungcheol’s arm is along the back of the seat, not quite touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him. The earlier tension has transformed into something thicker, heavier, charged with the knowledge of what’s about to happen.
You glance at Chan. He’s watching the city lights slide past the window, but his thumb is moving in slow circles against your leg. You turn your head the other way and find Seungcheol already looking at you. There’s no smile, only that steady, assessing focus and beneath it, clear hunger.
The car turns onto a quieter street. Chan’s building rises ahead, glass and steel, the kind of place that requires a key card and a quiet nod from the doorman. When the vehicle stops, Chan is the first out. He offers you his hand. Seungcheol follows, closing the door with a soft click.
Inside the elevator, the three of you stand in a triangle of silence. Chan’s floor is near the top. The ride feels longer than it should. When the doors open onto the private hallway, Chan unlocks the apartment and holds the door for both of you.
The lock clicks shut behind you and the soft ambient lighting of Chan’s apartment wraps around the three of you like a held breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city in glittering gold and silver, but none of you look at the view. Seungcheol stands close behind, palms settled firmly on your waist, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress.
Chan’s thumbs stroke along your cheekbones. "Still with us?"
You nod, voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."
That’s all he needs. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours with deliberate hunger. Seungcheol’s hands slide upward, mapping the curve of your waist, the soft underside of your breasts through the dress. His mouth finds the side of your neck, open and hot, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees weaken. You reach back, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, while your other hand fists in Chan’s lapel, holding both of them to you.
Chan breaks the kiss only long enough to murmur against your lips "Bedroom."
He guides you backward without letting go, Seungcheol following so that the three of you move as one unit across the open living space and down the short hallway. The bedroom door is already ajar. Chan shoulders it open. The large bed is neatly made, dark sheets, low lamps casting everything in warm shadow. The moment you’re inside, Seungcheol closes the door and turns the lock.
Chan’s hands find the zipper at the back of your dress. He draws it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric loosens, then slips. Seungcheol helps it fall the rest of the way, letting it pool at your feet. You’re left in the black lace set Chan bought you weeks ago: strapless bra, matching panties, the delicate gold bracelet still on your wrist. Both men look at you like they’ve been starving.
Seungcheol steps in first this time. He cups your face and kisses you hard, the way he always does when the careful control starts to fray. His tongue claims your mouth while Chan’s hands roam your body from behind: over your hips, up your stomach, unhooking the bra with practiced ease. The lace falls away. Chan’s palms cover your bare breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten under his touch. You moan into Seungcheol’s mouth.
Chan’s lips find your shoulder, then the curve of your neck. "Fuck, you feel good between us."
Seungcheol pulls back just enough to look down at you, eyes dark. "On the bed."
You sit on the edge. Chan kneels in front of you and hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties, dragging them down your legs and off. Seungcheol is already shrugging out of his suit jacket, then his shirt, revealing the broad, solid chest you know so well. Chan stands only long enough to strip: jacket, shirt, belt, trousers, until he’s in nothing but black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how hard he is. Seungcheol follows and then both of them are naked, standing in front of you like a matched set of hunger and intent.
Chan drops to his knees again. He spreads your thighs and leans in, mouth open, and the first drag of his tongue over your clit makes your head fall back. Seungcheol climbs onto the bed behind you, kneeling so you can lean against his chest. His hands cup your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers while Chan works you with slow, filthy precision: long licks, the flat of his tongue, then the pointed tip circling exactly where you need it. You reach back and wrap a hand around Seungcheol’s cock, stroking him in time with Chan’s mouth. He’s thick and already leaking, the way he always is when he’s this worked up.
"That’s it" Seungcheol murmurs against your ear. "Let him taste you. You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?"
You can only nod, hips lifting into Chan’s mouth. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. Two of his fingers slide inside, curling and the dual sensation of his tongue and those fingers has you trembling within minutes. Seungcheol’s hands never stop: pinching, soothing, keeping you on the edge. When you come it’s sharp and sudden, thighs clamping around Chan’s head, a broken sound leaving your throat. Chan works you through it until you’re gasping and pushing at his shoulder.
He rises, mouth shiny, eyes almost black. "My turn to feel you."
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him. You sink down onto his cock in one slow, continuous motion, both of you exhaling hard at the stretch and the heat. Seungcheol moves behind you again, kneeling close. His hands stroke down your back, over your ass, then lower, fingers sliding through the wetness where you and Chan are joined. You feel him press one slick finger against your other entrance, circling, testing.
"Okay?" he asks, voice rough.
"Yes." The word comes out shaky. "Please."
He takes his time. One finger, then two, working you open while you rock on Chan’s cock. Chan holds your hips steady, letting you adjust, kissing your throat and the tops of your breasts. When Seungcheol finally replaces his fingers with the head of his cock, the pressure is intense, overwhelming in the best way. You breathe through it, forehead pressed to Chan’s shoulder, until he sinks in inch by careful inch until both of them are fully inside you.
The three of you stay still for a long moment, just breathing. You feel impossibly full, stretched, claimed from both sides. Chan’s hands stroke up and down your back. Seungcheol’s mouth presses open kisses along your spine.
Then they start to move.
It’s slow at first: Chan thrusting up in short, deep rolls of his hips while Seungcheol matches the rhythm from behind. The dual friction is almost too much. Every movement drags against every sensitive place inside you at once. You cling to Chan’s shoulders, moaning openly, the sounds raw and unfiltered. Seungcheol’s grip on your hips tightens. Chan’s mouth finds yours again, swallowing the noises you make.
"Look at you" Chan pants against your lips. "Taking both of us so well."
Seungcheol’s voice is lower, strained. "She’s perfect like this. Always has been."
They find a rhythm that has you shaking between them. When Chan pushes up, Seungcheol pulls back just enough; when Seungcheol drives forward, Chan grinds deep. The pressure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly. One of Seungcheol's hands slips between your bodies so he can rub circles over your clit. The added sensation tips you over hard. You come with a cry, clenching around both of them, the orgasm rolling through you in waves that leave you trembling and wetter than before.
They don’t stop. If anything the way you tighten around them makes them move harder, a little less controlled. Seungcheol’s forehead drops to your shoulder. Chan’s breathing turns ragged. You can feel them both getting closer: the way Chan’s thrusts grow sharper, the way Seungcheol’s grip becomes almost bruising.
"Not yet" Seungcheol says, voice rough. "Want to see you on your back."
They ease out of you carefully. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper. Chan rearranges you on the bed so you’re lying on your back, head on the pillows. He stretches out beside you and pulls one of your legs over his hip, sliding back into you in a single smooth thrust. Seungcheol moves to the other side, kneeling near your head. You turn and take him into your mouth without being asked, tasting yourself on him, the salt and heat of his skin. Chan fucks you in steady, deep strokes while you suck Seungcheol, one hand wrapped around the base of him, the other braced on Chan’s chest.
Seungcheol’s fingers thread into your hair, not forcing, just holding. "Fuck, just like that."
Chan’s pace increases. You can feel another orgasm building already, the wet sounds of him moving inside you loud in the quiet room. Seungcheol pulls out of your mouth with a soft curse and shifts down the bed. Chan rolls onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re riding him again. Seungcheol kneels behind you once more and pushes back into your ass, the stretch easier this time, the dual penetration even more intense after the brief break.
They fuck you together in earnest now: harder, deeper, no more careful testing. Chan’s hands grip your waist, lifting and lowering you onto his cock while Seungcheol drives into you from behind. The room fills with the sound of skin against skin, your broken moans, their low groans and the occasional filthy encouragement.
"That’s it, baby...take it."
"So fucking tight around both of us."
"Come again. Want to feel it."
You do. The third orgasm crashes through you harder than the first two, white-hot and overwhelming. Your body clamps down, pulsing around them and the sensation drags Chan over the edge with a guttural sound. He comes deep inside you, hips jerking, fingers digging into your hips. Seungcheol lasts only a few more thrusts before he follows, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into you with a low, rough curse against your shoulder.
For a long time afterward the three of you stay locked together, breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. Eventually Seungcheol eases out carefully, then Chan. You collapse onto the mattress between them, boneless and spent. Chan pulls you against his chest. Seungcheol settles behind you, one heavy arm draped over your waist, his hand resting on Chan’s side so that all three of you are connected.
No one speaks for several minutes. The only sound is the gradual slowing of three heartbeats and the distant hum of the city far below.
Chan’s fingers stroke lazily through your hair. "You okay?"
You nod against his chest, voice soft. "More than okay."
Seungcheol’s mouth brushes the back of your neck. "Good. Because this isn’t a one-time thing. Not for me."
Chan’s arm tightens around you. "Not for me either."
Pretty vendor selling pretty lemonades. I'm thirsty I'd like to place an order too. Since I am in the mood for smth risqué, I'll get A spiked lemonade, crushed ice, pulp in float to share with my man Bangchan.
I'll be looking forward to the drink. Don't hold back on the spice😏
“Are you biting the pillow?” Chan laughed, thrusts hard. Your body rocking against the bed with his thrusts, not bothering or even thinking of responding.
He grinned, recognizing exactly what state you were in even without you saying anything. Hand coming up to pat your head.
“You all floaty?” He teased. Brushing your hair to the side.
You only whined in response. Clenching the sheets as he thrust particularly hard- hitting that sensitive gummy spot in you.
“Yeah, thought so.”
“Been needing this.” He groaned. Hand on your hip tightening. Your body prone on the bed. Feeling all fuzzy, as if floating. Only feeling the pleasure and heat from his body.
He glanced up, grabbing some of your hair firm enough it hurt in a way that felt good. His eyes on your face. “You’re gone, aren’t you?”
You didn’t bother to respond. Using the bit of will you could muster to let go of the pillow and push your face further into it.
“Look at me.” His voice was stern, pulling your head out from the pillow.
You whined, breaking your focus on the pleasure you were feeling to look up at him. Eyes gone as you looked up at his face and then slowly trailed down before you gave up on focusing on anything.
He chuckled, letting go of your hair. Watching as you hid your head into the pillow again. “Good girl.” He praised. A loud ‘thwack’ echoing in the room, mixed with your gasp as he slapped your ass.
“Don’t worry, you can go all dumb now.” He gave permission- not that it mattered, you were already stupid as stupid gets.
His thrusts sped up but faltered rhythm. Low moans flowing from him more.
“Shit.. ‘m close,” He muttered. Hands gripping your hips ‘n pulling them up closer to him. Sudden, loud moans falling from your lips at the touch that felt way hotter ‘n better than it should, and the sudden change in depth.
He looked up at you. Chuckling, fond smile making its way onto his face as he saw you. Mouth open in a mix of audible and silent moans. ‘n gasps. Small bit of drool on your chin and the pillow.
Your thighs shook lightly as you came- sudden and unannounced. Whines falling from your lips as your hips tried to get away but Chan held you in place.
“Aw, couldn’t even say you’re gonna cum?” He hummed, thrusts more frantic as he got closer and closer.
Your toes curled as overstimulation kicked in, moaning into the pillow as he suddenly stopped. Hips pushed flush against your ass, groans falling from his lips as he came.
“Fuck- shit..” He cursed, thrusting shallowly as he came in you. Biting his lip hard, watching where he disappeared in and out of you. Cum starting to spill out around him.
“That’s it,” Chan murmured, still catching his breath. Hand splaying possessively on your lower back. “There you go. All full.”
You let out shaky breaths as he finally pulled out. Pussy clenching around nothing. Shivering as you felt cum run down your thigh.
His hand was gentle on your back as he ran it up and down. Voice soft as his other hand wiped at the drool on your chin.
Turns out I am motivated by OnlyChan's™ disguised as workout videos...
TAGS: idol!Chahn x reader, smut, established relationship, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names? I guess?, big!dick Chahn believers over here, a bit of a daddy kink because of course, creampie (PLEASE don't), essentially PORN WITH NO PLOT.
Enjoy !
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"CHRIS!"
I cried while he pounded into me relentlessly, his large palms on either side of my hips, grip bruising as he held onto me for leverage, pulling me back into his pelvis.
"Shh, babygirl, do you want the entire neighborhood to hear us? Huh?" He panted, voice trembling as he looked at my face.
Not for long though. For some reason, Chris was entirely focused on the area where our bodies met and fused. It was as if he was in a trance, he just couldn't look away!
"God, look at that." He cooed, "Look at that tight little pussy taking me so well. Isn't she?" He asked, no-one in particular, "Isn't she just taking me so well? Hmm?" His head fell back, a groan-y moan escaping from the depths of his throat, "Oh, fuck." He whined, looking back down at my cunt.
"Chris..." I tried, my lips bitten bloody as I tried to conceal my sounds even just a little, "Chris, just— please... It's t-too much, baby." I cried, one arm thrown over my eyes, the other scrambling around the rumbled sheets and pillows to find something to grab.
Chris's only response was more strangled sounds as he tilted my hips up, placing my ass on top of his knees that were folded underneath his centre, supporting his thrusts. The new angle made him hit deeper, something I didn't think possible, and a loud cry was ripped out of me.
"Shit." He hissed, "Oh, look at that..." He trailed off, one wide palm caressing my lower stomach where his dick created a bulge with every pistoning motion of his hips, "It's so deep, baby. I'm in your fucking guts, fuck." He pressed down on the softness and I squirmed, my hands trying to reach for him.
"Not today, gorgeous." He mumbled as he took my wrists and pulled them both under me, behind my back, creating an insane arch even if we were in a simple missionary today, "Today you stay put, yeah? You stay put and let daddy fuck you stupid." With one hand holding my wrists, the other had to find its way back on my hip to hold onto, not before landing a sharp slap to my ass though.
"Chris, it's too much, baby, it's too much." I arched even further, "You're so d-deep!"
"I know, beautiful. Why do you think I can't take my eyes off of you?"
His hips were working nonstop, snap after snap after snap, driving inside me with a bruising pace, making sure I knew I would be sore before it even happened. But the feeling was so good. Jolts of electricity worked through my legs as Chris's enormous body forbid them from closing, resulting in them fruitlessly shaking around his slutty waist. Meanwhile, I couldn't do anything but watch as he ruined my ability to walk, talk and exist altogether, both from the fucking and the view.
Oh, the view — long fingers splayed on the place my hip met my thigh, strong forearms and huge biceps flexing with every pull, abs contracting deliciously with every push. His sweet eyes though were nowhere to be seen, literally glued to my fucking vagina. Not even looking at my boobs which usually occupied the majority of his brain capacity during sex.
"Chrisss!" I whined in disappointment. I wanted to look at his face.
Was that too much to ask?
"What's got you whining so much today, pretty?" With a fleeting glance to my eyes, smirk plastered on his stupidly handsome features, he let go of my hands, "Keep them above your head for me, can you do that, babygirl?" I simply nodded but he wouldn't have that, slapping my ass as his other palm found its way back down, "Words darling, I need words."
"Y-Yes." I moaned as my eyes welled with tears from the overwhelming pleasure.
"Such a good girlll." He hummed, hips working even faster even harder, sweat droplets running down his enlarged pecs and sculpted torso, making me want to devour him.
And I would if he wasn't being so fucking needy today.
His movements turned erratic, a simple sign he was close. Within a few minutes of mind-numbing, mouth-watering, bone-shuttering, eye-rolling sex, we were both so close we could burst.
"Babygirl, I'm so close, I'm so fucking close." He pulled my hips against his with such a tight grip, it was borderline painful, "Can I come inside? I-Inside this pretty pussy, please, baby, can I?"
He was lost, eyes wide and not even blinking as they stared down at our conjoined bodies.
A continuous cry left my vocal cords as I nodded repeatedly, trying to form words, to say "Yes", but failing. Only airy cries managing to leave.
"Inside." I finally mastered, "Inside, daddy, please inside!"
"Oh, baby, oh." He moaned, "You make me the happiest man, you know that?" He asked, finally looking in my eyes, smile devastating, "Gonna come inside." Aaannnddd he looked back down, this time his left palm moving a bit so his thumb could rub my puffy clit in time with his thrusts, bringing me dangerously closer to the edge, "Gonna come inside this pretty pussy. Fill her up. Gonna come so deep you're gonna feel it for days, yeah?"
"Please." I squeaked (the only possible sound I could produce).
With a loud guttural moan, Chris shot his load, flooding up my insides, me following suit. His hips stilled, only small aftershocks making them jerk forward slightly. When his soul returned to his body, eyes still locked right there, he pulled out, dick still semi-hard in his large palm, somehow making his hand seem small in comparison. We both hissed at the disconnection and Chris released a long pained breath as he ran his flushed tip up and down my slit, spreading the mixture of white liquids all over my folds and drawing shapes on my mound. Even now that the sex was over, he still couldn't take his gaze away, now transfixed on the way his cum and mine flowed out of me.
"You're gonna make me jealous of my own body parts." I joked, still trying to acquire a normal breathing pattern.
He smiled, cheeky eyes momentarily on me, before looking back down at my swollen folds.
"What can I say, baby, she's so pretty to look down at."
cw: manhandling, subspace, hyunjin ‘n chan are soft but kinky
You weren’t sure who moved you- too dumb to bother knowing. You went from on your knees to flat on your back with your hands pinned to the side next to your head.
Chan’s mouth bit lightly on your ear while Hyunjin’s sucked hickeys onto your throat. One hand holding your hips down into the bed.
“Aw, so gone already.” Chan teased, leaning up to look at you. “Seems the night caught up to you.”
“Looks so pretty and floaty.” Hyunjin added. Glancing up at you before littering kisses along your jaw.
Hyunjin’s hand on your hip moved, sliding between your thighs. Thumb finding your clit and pushing down, rubbing small circles on the swollen ‘n sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Fuck, Channie. I can feel how much she’s dripping around your cock. ‘S so hot.”
A whimper escaped your lips at the pressure on your clit, his words and Chan’s soft thrusts.
A chuckle escaped Chan’s lips as he felt you clench around him. Free hand coming up to hold your flushed ‘n sweaty waist.
“She liked that.” He teased. Squeezing your waist gently.
Your head lolled to the side, mouth slightly open in a silent ‘o’ as Hyunjin’s thumb kept rubbing slow, hard circles on your clit.
“Of course she does,” Hyunjin smirked, watching your face contort in pleasure. “She likes anything we say to her.”
His free hand that was resting on the bed moved up to hold your chin. Thumb brushing your lower lip before pressing it into your mouth.
You immediately started sucking on his thumb. Your body instinctively knowing what to do- or maybe it’s just your oral fixation desperate enough to suck your boyfriend’s thumb like a baby.
He chuckled, thumb pressing down on your tongue to hear you gag. “Didn’t even need to ask.”
“Such a good, dumb girl.” Chan added, smiling as he watched you and your blissed out face. “Always so good when she gets like this.” He hummed, hand on your waist coming up to brush your hair away from your face. “So pliant and dumb.”
You whined softly around the thumb in your mouth. Desperate for more on both ends- Chan going harder and something bigger ‘n better than a thumb in your mouth.
“You’ve been so good,” Hyunjin hummed. Hand moving up to squeeze your tits. “Should i give you something as a reward?” He teased. Wet thumb sliding out of your mouth, dragging along your bottom lip.
You whined- your way of saying “yes” when words were too difficult for your dumb self.
“Yeah, i think you earned it.”
He grinned and shifted. Sitting onto his knees, bracelet falling further down his wrist as his hands went to his zipper.
You watched before your attention was diverted back to Chan. Small gasp falling from your lips as he repositioned you. Pulling you up ‘n reaching back to adjust the pillow.
When he let go your back fell into pillows that kept you up just enough.
Hyunjin’s pants were pulled down when your attention shifted back to him. Cock in his hand, jerking off slowly. Hand moving to the back of your head and holding, pushing you closer to him.
“C’mon baby, use your mouth.”
You glanced up at him before grinning stupidly, your hand replacing his. Wasting no time on licking up from his base to the tip before taking him into your mouth. Already sloppy.
His hand fell limp to his side, moan falling from his lips as your head bobbed up and down.
