a/n: since Chan is so loser in a hot body coded, I was kinda inspired lol. Please leave a like or a comment if you enjoyed it! This is my first time writing for skz and the first time writing for non fictional characters in ages! I’m kinda nervous
“Did you like our performance today?”, Chris grinned, his cute dimples pretty prominent like this.
“Did I-“, you snorted, casually touching his forearm as he was sitting beside you, “Of course I did”.
His brows did furrow at your first reaction but he certainly was relieved at your following words. You couldn’t ignore the faint pink on his cheeks.
Chris tilted his head, watching you paint lazy circles on his arm.
“Though I don’t know if it was really necessary for you to take your clothes off on stage”, you teased him, relishing in the fact that he really turned red at that.
His grin didn’t fade - you loved that sheepish look on his face.
“They did love it, though”.
There was no doubt of that, your boyfriend really worked hard to maintain his form. The blond looked like he wanted to say something, unsure if he should.
“What did you think about it?”, he asked quietly.
You chuckled softly, abandoning his arm to grab his chin and reposition his face to look properly at you while you leaned forward a bit.
“Couldn’t get my eyes off you, baby”, you whispered, “I know that was for me. Making a show for the fans but only wanting to be mine”.
It was kinda endearing. The strong and independent leader being so desperate for you. No matter how he acted on stage when he performed or how often he flirted with his fans, he folded under your touch, your gaze. And it was damn empowering.
Watching him squirm beside you, trying so hard to maintain his composure.
When he was on tour, away for days and weeks - he would always return to you so needy and touch starved. Quite the opposite of what a stranger would think about him.
Maybe he acted so different around you because he knew with you, he didn’t need to be the strong leader. Of course, he loved his members, but this was something different. Pure devotion.
“You can’t say stuff like that so casually”, he replied.
“Why not? You’re the one posting all these gym videos”, the grip on him was still there, he could easily free himself but chose not to.
You probably loved his posts as much as everyone else did, but you loved the fact that you were the only one able to witness all of it in real life. You weren’t that possessive usually, but he sometimes gave you no other chance.
Chris facial expression was something you wished you could just frame on the wall. He was obviously flustered and it only spurred you on to continue to tease him.
“You’re doing that on purpose, huh?”.
“What do you mean?”, he licked his lips out of nervousness, watching you get up on your knees beside him to be taller.
“Turning me on”.
Chris gasped softly, his dark eyes widening at your words. It was so much fun to rile him up like that, you often thought that he looked cute like this. So startled, lips parted, mind blank.
“I- uhm, that wasn’t my intention“, a sly grin formed on his lips again.
You decided to scoot closer, straddling his lap now. A hand was slightly grazing his jaw with your nails, the other coming up to comb through the short dyed hair.
“As if you don’t know how good you’re looking”, you sighed, noticing him slightly shivering, “So tell me, did you think of me while taking your shirt off?”.
You leaned down a bit, your lips touching his left cheek.
“I-“.
You took his face into your hands, kissing him before he could even answer. He immediately let his shoulders fall, hands on your waist to pull you flush against him.
You always loved how you could hear the low hum in his chest when kissing him, his hands always wanting to grab you everywhere at the same time, muscles tensing and flexing under your touch.
He was completely gone like this, mouths moving against each other, his lips so soft and gentle yet desperate on your own. You couldn’t get yourself to end the kiss so soon, only separating to re-angle your face and let your fingers slide into his neck.
Your fingertips slipped under the hem of his shirt, making him gasp into the kiss.
You finally broke the contact but he chased your lips for a second.
“Christopher, answer my question”.
You knew what the answer was but you wanted to hear it either way.
“Huh?”.
You grinned. God, he was so hot. He really was. Hair disheveled, lips swollen from kissing. But you couldn’t help but love the loser who was trapped in that gorgeous body even more. And you meant that with the deepest and most sincere love you could muster, not in a bad kind of way.
All it needed was a few kisses and a bit of teasing to make him forget everything else but you.
“I- Baby, I always show off just for you”, his grip around your waist tightened, his face was pressed into the crook of your neck, “I’m yours”.
It was nothing new that he was begging for your attention. It was hard to deny him that, though. Especially in this position, with his lips delicately kissing your throat and feeling his growing erection right underneath you.
You couldn’t fight the urge to grind down, to move your hips into his for a second, not when he grunted so loudly against your skin. His hands guided you, encouraging you to do that movement again, but not in a dominant way. He was squeezing you, clinging on to you so pathetically, asking you to give him some more like that.
And of course, you did. You would do anything to hear that man whimper and feel his teeth skating on your neck. So you gyrated your hips a bit more, making his dick twitch.
It rubbed against your clothed clit like this, your sob matching the sounds he did. Chris looked up to you, already looking so wasted, so down bad. He was such a simp for you, every time you laid hands on him.
“So you did all of that on purpose”, your hand rested on his chin.
“Yeah”, he smirked slightly, hips bucking up to meet yours.
“Brat”, you huffed at him, locking your knuckles into his hair to raise his head a bit more.
You could very clearly see his pupils dilate from arousal before getting off of his lap. You knew he was weak for this word and you dominating him for a bit, as much as he was to praise.
“What are you- oh god”.
You stood in front of him, taking off your shirt like he did in front of the cameras on stage. But this was only for his eyes to see. And basically basking in his stare made you feel so good.
He never made you feel insecure about yourself, damn, this gaze made you feel like you were the most beautiful person on earth.
The bulge in his sweatpants was very prominent now, yet he didn’t really seem to care about it in this moment - as if he was entranced by your half naked form.
“Can you behave now, at least?”, you asked, cupping his cheek.
How could he already look so done? His eyes were so hazy, attentively watching every move of you. Full blown pupils following you when you came closer and leaned forward to almost get on his eye level. Your thumb swiped over his lower lip.
“Yeah”.
Oh, his voice was so raspy, so full of desire.
“You’re going to be a good boy for me, Chris?”.
You used the opportunity of his whimper to slip your fingertip into his mouth, his teeth digging into it. His hands squeezed his own thighs, nails buried into his pants. He really held himself back now.
“What’s on your mind, huh?”.
He let go of your thumb and you retracted completely, opening the button of your pants and shimmying out of it.
“Can I-“, Chris swallowed, “Would you let me pin you up against the wall?”.
You hummed, feeling your heart beat faster with every second. With a grin, you pretended to think about it, although it was pretty obvious you would agree to something like that. Especially with that look on his face.
“Say please?”, you let your fingers comb through his hair.
“Please baby”, he stood up in an instant, his hands grabbing your waist again, “Please, let me fuck you”.
His hands on your unclothed skin felt so good, so gentle yet firm.
“I just love when you beg all pretty for me”, you whispered.
You helped him out of his clothes, but not without a few chaste kisses and lingering touches. Chris was thorough in kissing your hand, your wrist, your forearm, your biceps, all the way to the collarbone.
It was torture, although not intended. But you couldn’t help but writhe in his arms by how much you swooned because of this.
That man was a gentleman with every ounce of his being, even the way he pulled your panties down and cornered you against the wall was so soft, always making you feel like you were made out of glass. Like he had to handle you with utmost care.
His palms roamed over you, almost not touching you. Going down to your ass after shortly cupping your tits to hoist you up into his arms.
He actually was strong enough to hold you up on his own, but pressed you against the cold surface for more leverage either way.
The head of his cock nudged against your clit, making both of you gasp. You couldn’t hold yourself back anymore from clawing into his shoulders, kissing him with a hot burning desire and relishing in the warmth of his embrace.
It was sloppy, your tongue licking into his mouth and against his own tongue, your mouth swallowing every little sound of pleasure he was ready to give you. That kiss on his own was enough for him to grind his hips forward, jerking into you involuntarily until he blindly breached your entrance.
Chris moaned into your mouth, one hand gripping your thigh as if his life depended on it. He guided you to wrap your legs around his hips in between kisses.
“Please”, he whimpered into the crook of your neck, “Please. Please, just take it”.
He pushed in, inch by inch and made sure to go slow enough to let you get accustomed to his girth. The stretch was intense but only made this even better.
“Take it, take it, take it”, the blond chanted these words like a prayer, “Fuck, you feel so good”.
Your nails dug into his back, definitely leaving crescent marks as he bottomed out. The warmth he was emitting was pushing the air out of your lungs, his scent so divine it was making you dizzy. With a sigh, you let the back of your head hit the wall, giving him more space where he was kissing you down your collarbone.
He started moving, slow, holding back and so precisely, it was almost creepy how easily he found your g-spot without even trying. Every time the tip of his cock pressed against it, you involuntarily jolted, your grip on him increased until he hissed.
The heat was unbearable, your bodies stuck together and your sweaty back felt uncomfortable against the wallpaper, but you didn’t care.
“Fucking you raw is always so- ughhh.. can’t believe you let me do this”, he almost growled, voice slurred, open mouthed kisses being littered onto your skin.
You actually whined because of his words, his dick twitching inside you to emphasize his feelings.
He grew bolder, hips thrusting in a quicker pace. Your lower abdomen tingled and burned with pleasure as he pressed your thighs against the wall as well.
“Ohhh, fuck, I’m gonna-“, he fell into his Australian accent, too lost in the moment to concentrate, “Please, baby, please”.
You chuckled, gripping his hair to pry him off your throat and make him look at you.
“What are you begging for?”.
“I don’t know”.
Your heart soared when he almost sobbed out of overstimulation, staring at you in a daze. His pace was erratic but slow, sometimes even halting to properly take a breath.
“You gonna cum for me, Chris?”, you cooed, using your grip in his hair to guide his face closer towards you.
He didn’t answer, just nodding and gasping. He took the grin on your lips as a sign to finally lose himself. You let go of his hair and he immediately took his place with his face on your shoulder again.
Chris steadied himself, all of the sudden using much more force to fuck you. Both of your breaths were staggered, coming in short puffs in sync with his thrusts and being more of a combination of groans and whines than actually breathing.
He rutted his hips into yours quick and hard and you already felt the coil in your stomach tighten, especially when he sunk his teeth into the skin of your shoulder. His whole body tensed up, squeezing you by pressing against you with everything he got while cumming with a feral and guttural growl rumbling in his chest. The thrusts had subsided, he was just grinding into you now, painting your walls and filling you up. Your clit was so deliciously stimulated like this, his pelvis rubbing against it with his motions. It made you feel so hungry for him, so full of love, desire, pleasure. You wanted more.
The twitch of his cock relentless, he was still not letting go of you. Not even when he was coming down from his high, he hugged you tightly - stepping away from the wall but holding you close and not let himself slip out.
He basically stumbled to the bed, sitting down with you still being on top of him. The blond kissed the bite mark apologetically, trying to soothe it with a soft peck.
“I love you”, he whispered, ”Saranghae”.
“I love you, too, baby”, you smiled, “But I’m not done with you”.
You pushed him back with your hands on his chest. His lips were parted, tongue sticking out quickly to wet them.
“Huh?”.
Teasing him was probably your favorite thing to do, it was so much fun and his facial expressions were so endearing. You loved how easily he was flustered, how cute he looked when his face was red.
You began to move your hips, sit up a bit only to slam them down again.
Chris gasped at the sensation, being this stimulated after he just came always knocked him out a bit, his hands were on your waist, not knowing if he wanted to push you off or encourage you to go faster.
His eyes were closed, eyelids fluttering every now and then. Incoherent words left his mouth, mostly in Korean, babbling words you knew and some you never heard before.
“Is it too much?”, you asked, nails scratching over his abs.
He nodded but it quickly turned into him shaking his head instead. This was such a sight to see, he arched his back off the mattress, hips jerking up so casually to meet you. When his eyes fluttered open, they were almost rolled back into his skull.
“Chris”, you said, hand moving up to grip his jaw, “You always look so pretty when you’re fucked dumb like that, you know that?”.
Your hand sneaked down and wrapped around his throat to squeeze him there lightly, letting his moan die down before it could properly form.
“So pliant”, you praised him, “Only for me”.
Your tiny fingers looked so good on him, you were so glad that he happily let you do everything you wanted with him.
He moaned again, his big hands squeezing you as you continued to fuck yourself on his dick.
“Deo juseyo”, he breathed, “More- please”.
How could you say no to that? With a grin on your lips, you squeezed the sides of his throat some more, actually increasing the pace of your movements. His cum slowly trickling down worked as some nasty kind of lube, letting him slide in so easily every time. He filled you so good, tip kissing your cervix in this position so perfectly.
You were close, so damn close. You stayed down, his dick fully inserted and rocked your hips back and forth. The friction on your clit was just right, grinding down like this made you moan out loud.
You felt your muscles seize, your walls clenched around him as you reached your high like this. Chris had his second release coming when he felt your pussy gripping him, slamming you down and fucking up into you as if his body acted on his own.
His sounds were broken and hoarse, choked by your hand on his windpipe but he seems to enjoy that very much. He actually leaned into the touch, his fingers bruising you with his hands locked in, it took him a bit until his body relaxed again.
The look on his face when you let go made you almost think he was missing the sensation.
“You okay?”, you asked, breathing heavy.
Chris just hummed in satisfaction, pulling you closer until you laid on him - chest to chest. He hugged you tightly, although he seemed pretty exhausted right now.
You almost thought he would fall asleep now, with his chest heaving in a steady and slow rhythm after some time.
“I should take my shirt off on stage more often”, he laughs, “If that leads to this“.
“You can just say when you want to be dominated more often, baby”.
Warnings: p in v, unprotected sex (condoms are good), oral (f. and m. receiving), handjob, face riding (and sitting obviously), mention of hickeys, praise kink, creampie, multiple orgasms, groping
I think that’s it!
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“So.. How did it go with that guy last night?” Hannah asked you, taking a sip from her coffee. You shrugged. How had that gone? Terribly. The poor guy just wanted to kiss you, and you ended up laughing at him. It wasn’t your intention. You weren’t mean. You were just awkward.
“It went..” you started, pursing your lips. “Not good, Hann.” You said finally, glancing up at her. “I laughed at him when he tried to kiss me.” You admitted quietly, sighing heavily.
“Why would you do that?!” Hannah asked, blinking at you.
“I don’t know!” You exclaimed, burying your face in your hands. “Something’s wrong with me. I can’t.. I can’t function around men. I never could.” You sighed. “What the fuck’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you, hun. You just haven’t found the right one yet.” Hannah reassured you, rubbing your arm.
“Yeah, but I’m already twenty four. When will I find the right one, or when will the right one find me?”
“You can’t know that, it just.. Happens. When the time comes, you’ll know!” She said, smiling.
“Okay, now you sound like my mom,” you said, glaring at her.
“Come over to mine tonight?”
“You know I will.”
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By 9:30 PM, you had managed to shower and get dressed to leave for Hannah’s house. You glanced at your reflection, sighing softly. “You’re a mess.” You mumbled, brushing your hair gently.
Once outside Hannah’s house, you raised your hand, knocking on the door as you waited for her to open. Not even ten seconds later, the door opened, and Hannah grinned as she saw you. “Hi!” She greeted, pulling you inside.
“Woah—Hi,” you said, smiling. “Everything okay?” She nodded feverishly. “Guess who’s coming to Sydney.” She said, biting her lip as she giggled. You furrowed your eyebrows. “Who?”
“Christopher!” She exclaimed, smiling like crazy as she showed you her calls. “He called like ten minutes ago. He said he’s landing tonight.”
Christopher? “Christopher?” You asked, cocking your head to the side. “Like.. Christopher Bahng? Your brother? Your older brother?” You asked, blinking.
She nodded. “Uh-huh!”
You hadn’t seen him since you were little. The last time you saw him when you were twelve and he was sixteen, before he left to become a trainee. And now you were twenty four, meaning he would be twenty eight. You were always pretty close. He always treated you like a little sister, and you were always proud to have him protecting you all the time.
But as you grew, you didn’t keep in touch. He barely visited Sydney, and when he did, you weren’t there to meet with him.
But now, he was coming. And you’d be here. You’d meet him. Christopher. After twelve years. “Oh my god,” you whispered, running your fingers through your hair.
Hannah furrowed her eyebrows, noticing the slight trembling in your voice. “Hey, c’mon. It’s just Christopher.”
“That’s the problem, Hann.” You said quietly, taking a deep breath. “I haven’t seen him in twelve years.”
“Yeah, but still! He’s still Chris! I promise you, he hasn’t changed one bit.”
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The doorbell rang at 11:47PM. Hannah had gone to the bathroom to shower, and you were left alone in the living room. When you heard the doorbell, you froze.
For a moment, you didn’t move, because you knew that if you did, if you walked over to the door and opened it, you’d be met with Christopher.
But your feet moved on their own, padding quickly towards the door. When you opened it, you swore you felt your heart flutter. Was this what Hannah was talking about when she mentioned the feeling of falling in love?
Christopher blinked as he looked at you, his eyes darting all over your face. “Uh.. Hey,” he greeted, low and steady. God, even his voice was attractive. His Australian accent was making your knees weak, and your panties wet, but you tried to not let it get to you.
“H-Hi.” You greeted back, your voice wavering slightly as tears formed in your eyes.
Chris bit his lip nervously, a habit he had since you were kids, and that dimple you loved so much popping at the side of his mouth. “Y/N, I—” you cut him off by jumping in his arms, throwing your arms around his neck as you buried your face in his neck.
He let out an ‘oof’, before wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you up. “I missed you so much,” he mumbled, kissing your forehead.
You had been so worried that he’d be different, more cold and stern. But hearing him say that he missed you made those worries go away in an instant. “I missed you too.” You whispered, sniffling quietly.
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“And then there’s Jeongin, the youngest. You’d love him. He’s quiet but can be loud, he has the sweetest smile and personality, and he’s gentle.” Chris rambled on as he sat on your couch, in your apartment.
You nodded along as he talked, genuinely interested in what he was saying. He’d told you about his members, their debut, how he produced the songs and how he wrote the lyrics.
“So when are you leaving again?” You asked quietly, turning to face him fully. Chris paused, letting out a soft sigh. “In a few days.” He said, pursing his lips.
You frowned at that. “Oh.”
He looked at you then, a small, sad smile on his lips. “Yah,” he said, reaching for your hand. “I’m here now, yeah?” He smiled. “We have a few days to spend time together.”
You nodded, biting your lip.
“So, how have you been holding up?” He asked gently, leaning back against the couch.
“I’m.. I’m holding up fine.” You mumbled, glancing away.
“Define ‘fine’, Y/N.”
You let out a frustrated huff, sinking back into the couch. “I.. I guess my job’s good,” you started. “I mean.. It doesn’t exactly provide me good money, but I guess it could be worse.”
It couldn’t have been worse. Sure, you had an apartment. But it wasn’t big. It wasn’t how you wanted it to be. It wasn’t necessarily bad or not tidy, you actually kept it really clean. But the money you got weren’t enough. You weren’t broke, but it wasn’t really convenient either.
You worked two jobs, and the only reason why you weren’t at work right now was because it was Sunday.
“And you know, things get tough from time to time, but I manage. I mean, I.. I have Hannah! She’s great!”
“Y/N—”
“I hang out a lot at her house. She’s been helping me—Not financially, of course! I can’t accept money. But she’s there for me, you know.”
“Y/N-ah—”
“And I’m trying! Two jobs are exhausting, but at least I get paid, right? I mean—”
“Y/N!” Chris finally managed to cut you off, grabbing your hands. “Look at me.” He said softly. You bit the inside of your cheek, turning your head to the side. That’s when he saw the tears. “Hey, hey—None of that,” he pulled you closer immediately, wiping away your tears with his thumbs.
You cried for quite a while in his chest before you pulled back, your eyes red and puffy, but you were feeling much better.
“Talk about something else,” you said quietly. “Tell me about your love life.”
He laughed, throwing his head back. “Seriously?” You nodded. “Mm, okay. Let’s see..” he trailed off.
He looked at you, a gentle smile on his face. “There’s this girl I was really close with when we were younger,” he started, and you already knew he was talking about you. “Then we grew apart. And I was really sad that we did, because as I grew up, I developed feelings for her, even though I hadn’t seen her in ages.”
He cupped your jaw gently, pulling your face closer to his. “And then I came back to Sydney. And she opened the door, and when I saw her, I realized I was in love.”
You didn’t think of who initiated the kiss first. But what you thought of was the feeling of his lips on yours. The way his tongue was in your mouth, licking around before pressing flat against yours.
You hummed against his mouth, shifting on the couch until you were on his lap, your knees on either side of his muscular thighs as you started grinding shamelessly on his cock. He was already half-hard, but when you ground on him? He was a goner.
He broke the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer, pressing you tightly against him. “You feel so good already,” he muttered, kissing down your neck. “Wonder how you feel under those clothes..”
“Mm, you should find out..” you encouraged, leaning back and lifting your arms so he could pull up your shirt. It hit the floor with a quiet thud, and his hands were immediately on your bare skin. “Fuck, so beautiful..”
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“C’mon, beautiful, don’t be shy now.” Chris muttered, playfully slapping your ass. “Sit on it.” He demanded, and fuck, it turned you on so fucking much. “I don’t wanna hurt you, Channie..” you mumbled, but you were already pulling your panties down.
“Channie? You haven’t called be that since we were kids.” He said with a smile. You smiled back softly. “Mm, we’re not kids anymore though,” you whispered, crawling up his chest. “We’re not.” He agreed, shifting back against the pillow to get more comfortable.
Once you were hovering over his face, you glanced down at him. He looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, winking at you once before pushed you down by gripping your ass.
He started slowly, taking his time dragging his tongue up your inner thighs, mouthing at your skin, leaving small hickeys. You tangled your fingers through his silver hair, tugging. “Don’t tease..” you whined.
He hummed, but continued doing it anyway. “You always had a thing f’my nose,” he muttered against your soft skin. He finally titled his head up, licking a fat stripe up your folds, making your thighs clench and tighten around his face. You looked down at him. “I’m—Fuck.. I’m sorry, did I.. Hurt you..?” You panted, biting your lip.
He just shook his head, his eyes closing in pure bliss as he devoured you. Tongue twisting and flicking teasingly at your dripping hole, his hand rubbing your stomach gently while his thumb circled your clit, the other hand wrapping around your waist. “You taste divine,” he murmured, moaning against your skin.
The vibration of it was enough to make your hips stutter, unconsciously grinding against his face as you felt his nose, that fucking nose, nudging your clit every time your hips rolled forward. “Shit—Chris..!”
You breathed out, gripping his hair tighter as you reached behind you with your free hand, sliding your hand down his body until it wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping it up and down. His hips jerked up immediately, his mouth opening against your skin to pant, his tongue never faltering, though.
“Fuckfuck, I’m coming—Chris!” You moaned, your hand speeding up as your hips lifted in the air, but he held you down, tongue working you through your orgasm. He followed right after, your moans triggering his own release as he threw his head back, grunting when he felt his cum shooting out.
You were quick, turning around and leaning down, holding your hair back with one hand as you swiped your tongue over the tip, humming at the salty taste of him, before taking him in your mouth. He was definitely bigger than average, your throat struggling slightly to relax, but eventually, it did.
“Fuck—Y/N, you don’t have to..” he trailed off, letting out a breathy chuckle as he gathered your hair up with his hands, stroking it gently as he pushed your head down. “Don’t stop—Just like that, ma..” he sighed.
He was a mess. He had already cum once, but he was about to do it again on your tongue. You started bobbing faster, your free hand cupping his balls. You pulled back just slightly, making him whine. “Need it inside me,” you mumbled, pushing yourself up. You crawled up in his lap, wrapping your legs and arms around him.
“Put it in, pretty.” He muttered, hands groping and squeezing your flesh. He helped you lift up slightly, before helping you lower down. “Fuuuck.” He moaned, his forehead falling to rest against yours. “Fuck, Y/N.”
You moaned the moment you rolled your hips, your one arm wrapped around his neck, the other resting on the back of his head as you started to move, slowly at first to savor the feeling of him inside you. “Oh, Chris..” you moaned, your eyes rolling back in your head as you felt his warm palms squeeze your ass cheeks, stroking them and spreading them apart.
“That’s it, ride me love.” He breathed against your ear, leaving a trail of wet kisses down to your chest. “I could stay in you forever—Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight..” he murmured, muttering praises between kisses.
Eventually, your hips sped up as the warmth inside your lower stomach spread, chasing your second orgasm. “Chris, I’m.. Fuck!” You moaned, head falling to his shoulder. He started thrusting upwards, his owns movements fast and desperate. “Yeah? Go on, milk my cock like the good girl you are. Wanna.. Fuuck, wanna it.” He panted, pulling you by your hair to kiss you.
You were both a moaning mess now, panting and moaning into each other’s mouth, your hands gripping his hair, shoulders, nails digging into his skin, leaving faint scratches as his hands kneaded your ass, your waist, your breasts, everywhere he could, until a shallow thrust and a twitch of your hips broke the both of you, reaching your peak as you whimpered into his mouth, his owns eyes rolling back as he released inside you.
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“You’ll stay at my house,” he started gently, rubbing your arm up and down. “I’ll lend you as much money as you need until everything is settled. Until you’re financially stable.” He muttered against your hair, closing his eyes as he inhaled your scent.
You stiffened against his chest, your fingers pausing their movements on his skin. “Chris—”
“That’s final.” He interrupted, tilting your face up. “I make billions, Y/N. Lending you money is no problem.” He reassured you, leaning down to kiss you gently. You exhaled shakily against his lips before you both pulled back.
“Let me be here f’you.” He muttered, stroking your cheek. You bit your lip, blinking slowly as you nodded. “Thank you so much.” You said softly, shifting to hug him. “I don’t know how to repay you.” He chuckled.
“Well.. You can start by letting me fuck you again.”
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."
Summary: What starts as a game becomes a night of stolen kisses, ending with Chan asking for your number and promising he wants more of whatever started building between you two. Carefully orchestrated dates where Chan exercises deliberate, maddening restraint, kissing you thoroughly at every doorway before pulling back and saying goodnight. Each date builds tension as he makes it clear he’s savoring the buildup, taking his time because he wants you to know this matters. As the dates go by, his composed patience and the accumulated wanting has you both unraveling at the edges.
Warnings: non-idol!au, bang chan x f.reader, smut but it’s not graphic still MDNI!, oral(m&f.rec),lots of kisses,slowish burn, week/months of buildup as foreplay, they say hi to each other a lot because I think it’s cute and it’s also just them checking in with each other through the entire thing, multiple rounds on every possible surface in his apartment(he has a thought out list),mentions of 97line friendship, it’s not explicitly mentioned but they’ve known each other for a while so it’s not some love at first sight kinda thing, Twice’s Jihyo as your bestie, lowkey glucose guardian Chris, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 12.8k
A/N: This was a requested piece from an anonymous ask.
It was definitely BamBam’s idea.
You’d clocked that the moment Jaehyun had stood up with that particular grin on his face, the one that meant someone had fed him the dare in advance. The room had erupted and you’d sat very still in your corner of the couch thinking about how Jihyo owed you something significant for this, dinner, at minimum. A full apology, maybe both.
Now you’re here, cross-legged on Chan’s bedroom floor while the party carries on without you through the wall and Chan is sitting across from you close enough that you can see the small details of him you don’t usually get at a distance. The way his hair falls slightly across his forehead. The particular set of his mouth when he isn’t performing for anyone. He’s watching you. Not nervously, exactly, but with a kind of attentiveness that makes the air in the room feel different.
“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t wanna,” he says.
His voice is different in here. Lower. Like he’d adjusted the register of it to match the room. You don’t say anything. There are several things happening in your chest simultaneously and you haven’t sorted them out yet. He leans in, not aggressively; just closing the distance by a few inches, enough that you’d have to deliberately look away to avoid his eyes. He smells good. Warm. Something with a little smoke and cedar in it.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
Not can I. Not the performative version that’s really just waiting for the yes. A genuine question, delivered quietly, with his eyes on yours and absolutely nowhere else. The honest answer surfaces before you can overthink it.
“Yes,” you say.
Something in his expression settles. Like he’d been holding something carefully and could finally set it down. He doesn’t rush it. That’s the first thing you notice, he doesn’t treat the yes as a signal to close the remaining distance as fast as possible. He reaches out first, slow enough that you see it coming, watching you while he does it, watching the way you let him, then his hand curves around the back of your neck and he brings his mouth to yours.
The kiss is unhurried in a way that feels almost indulgent.
He kisses like he has nowhere to be. Like the seven minutes on BamBam’s phone is a concept that applies to other people. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of easy confidence—not hurried, not searching, just certain, like he already knew exactly how he wanted this to go and had decided he was going to take his time getting there. You feel yourself lean into it before you consciously decide to.
His other hand finds your knee. Rests there, warm and still.
When he tilts his head and deepens it you make a small sound you weren’t planning on and he catches it like he’d been waiting for it, one hand tightening slightly at your nape, and the kiss goes slower and more deliberate in a way that does something deeply unfair to your ability to think clearly. He pulls back just barely—not to stop, just to change the angle—and when he comes back his bottom lip drags against yours in a way that makes your fingers curl against his shirt. He notices. Of course he notices. His hand moves from your knee to your hip, unhurried, and he kisses you again like the movement of his hand and the movement of his mouth are one continuous thought.
Time stops doing anything useful.
BamBam’s knock is obnoxious, as promised.
“Seven minuteeeees—”
Chan pulls back slowly, breathing slightly uneven. His thumb traces a short line along your jaw before his hand drops and he looks at you with an expression you don’t have an immediate word for; not smug, not the grin he usually wears. Something quieter and more interested.
“Yeah?” he says. Soft. Like he’s checking.
“Yeah,” you say.
The door swings open and BamBam reads the room with approximately zero subtlety. “Oh, interesting,” he says to no one and everyone. Chan stands, easy, unhurried, you follow and Sora says something pointed to her friends that you decide not to hear.
The game moves on without you the way these things do. Someone gets dared to text their situationship. Jaehyun ends up with a dare involving ice that he refuses to explain after the fact. The room rearranges itself and you find a spot near the edge of the living room where the energy is slightly less loud. You’re standing there, drink in hand, half-listening to a conversation nearby, when you feel warmth at your back.
Chan doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps up behind you, close enough that you’re aware of him the way you’d be aware of a fire nearby, heat and presence, not quite touching. Then his hand finds the small of your back and he leans down so his mouth is at your ear.
“Hi,” he says.
That’s it. Just hi. But his lips brush your ear when he says it and his hand presses slightly at your back and you feel it everywhere.
“Hi,” you manage.
He turns you gently by the hip—subtle enough that no one’s watching, or maybe he doesn’t care who’s watching—and walks you backward two steps until your back meets the wall of the hallway just off the living room. He looks at you in the low light with that same considering expression and then he dips down and kisses you slow and deep against the wall, one forearm braced above your head, his other hand settled at your waist with his thumb tracing a slow path just beneath the hem of your shirt against your skin. You grab the front of his shirt and he smiles against your mouth before he pulls back.
“There you are,” he says quietly, like he’d been looking for something and found it.
An hour later you step out onto the balcony because the apartment had gotten loud, warm and you needed two minutes of cold air and the wide quiet of the city at night. You’re leaning on the railing, eyes closed, when you hear the glass door slide open. You don’t need to turn around. His arms come around you from behind, chin dropping to your shoulder and he stays there for a moment just breathing.
“Hiding?” he asks.
“Getting air.”
“Sure.”
His mouth finds the curve of your neck, and you exhale shakily. He presses a slow kiss there—open-mouthed, unhurried, and then his teeth graze the skin just beneath your jaw with enough intention that you grip the railing.
“Chan—”
“Mmmh.” He doesn’t stop. He kisses up the side of your neck, his hands sliding from your waist to your stomach, pulling you back against him, you can feel how interested he is in the situation and it makes thinking substantially harder. He mouths at the spot just below your ear until you turn in his arms because you need to kiss him properly and he meets you immediately, one hand coming up to grip your jaw with a kind of deliberate possession that pulls a sound from you that you’ll be embarrassed about later.
The kiss is less slow now. Still deep but hungrier, his body pressing yours back against the balcony railing, his hand sliding to your nape and tilting your head exactly where he wants it. You get your hands under his jacket, and he makes a low sound against your mouth that you feel more than hear. When he pulls back, he looks at the mark he’s left on the side of your neck with open satisfaction.
“That’s going to be visible,” you say.
“Good,” he says simply, and kisses you again before you can respond to that.
By the time people start leaving in earnest you’ve lost count. A kiss stolen while you stood in the kitchen doorway. His mouth at your temple, brief and warm, while Jihyo was distracted on her phone. A longer, slower one in the dim hallway when the crowd had thinned enough to make it almost private, his hands on your ass, yours draped over his shoulders, both of you slightly breathless when you’d finally surfaced. He walks you to the door when Jihyo announces she’s called the car. His hand finds yours and he keeps it loosely as the group clusters at the entrance exchanging goodnights. Jihyo gives you a look of supreme, detailed significance. You ignore it completely. At the door he steps close one last time.
“I want your number,” he says. Not asking, exactly. More like stating something he’s already decided.
“That so?”you tease as you take his phone from his hand and put your number in.
“I’m going to find more reasons to do that,” he says, and the directness of it—no deflection, no performance—catches you somewhere low in your chest. His hand comes up and his thumb brushes over the mark on your neck, lightly, and his eyes find yours. “If you want.”
The car is outside. Jihyo is very pointedly already halfway out the door. You lean up and kiss him once more, slow and brief with enough intent to make the point, and you feel his hand catch your waist for just a second before you pull back.
“Text me,” you say.
The look on his face when you walk away—warm, unhurried, certain—stays with you the whole ride home.
The first date is dinner.
Not a casual, let’s-grab-food-somewhere kind of dinner. A reservation. A place with low lighting and a wine list and a host who leads you to a corner table that feels deliberately chosen. Chan is already there when you arrive, standing when he sees you and the way his eyes move over you when you approach is slow enough to make your face warm before you’ve even sat down.
“You look good,” he says. Simple, like a fact.
“You clean up well yourself,” you say, because he does; dark shirt, collar open just enough and he smells the way he had on the balcony that night, warm and faintly woody, and your memory does something unhelpful with that information immediately.
Dinner is easy in a way you hadn’t fully anticipated. Chan is good at conversation in the way that some people are naturally good at it—he listens like he means it, follows threads, asks questions that show he’d actually retained the last thing you said. You talk about your work; he talks about his and somewhere in the middle of the second glass of wine you realize you’ve been leaning toward him across the table for the better part of an hour.
He walks you to your door at the end of it.
You’re expecting the kiss. You’d been thinking about it since the balcony, if you’re being truthful; the specific way he kisses, slow and deliberate and entirely too aware of what it does to you. You’d been half-distracted by the anticipation of it through most of the entrée. He cups your face in both hands and kisses you softly. Thoroughly. Long enough to make your fingers curl around his wrist and your breath go slightly uneven. Then he pulls back with his forehead tipped against yours, you can feel him breathing, the space between you is very small and very warm.
“Goodnight,” he says.
You blink. “That’s,”
“Goodnight,” he says again, with the edge of a smile, and kisses your forehead once before he steps back.
You stand at your door and watch him go and feel the specific frustration of someone who has just been handled with great expertise.
The second date is a movie at his place.
You’d thought—reasonably—that come over and watch something was a particular kind of invitation. You’d shown up in something casual that was also not entirely accidental. You’d been prepared. What you had not been prepared for was Chan, who makes popcorn with real butter and argues earnestly about film scores and pulls you into his side on the couch so naturally that you’re tucked against him with his arm around you before you’ve registered the transition. He smells good. He’s warm. His thumb traces absent patterns on your shoulder throughout the movie and every time you shift slightly, he tightens his arm around you in a way that suggests he’s paying some attention to you in addition to the screen.
Halfway through he tips his head down and presses a kiss to your temple. Then your cheekbone. Then he turns you gently by the chin and kisses your mouth, slow and soft and unhurried, tasting faintly of salt, and you get your hand in his hair, and he makes a low, quiet sound against you and then he pulls back. Settles you back against his side. Returns his attention to the movie with an expression of perfect composure. You stare at the screen unseeing for several minutes.
At the door again, at the end of the night, the kiss is longer. His hands at your hips, yours gripping his jacket, his mouth moving against yours with intent and patience in equal measure. You press closer and he lets you, hands tightening, and just when you’ve decided something is finally going to give, he pulls back and looks at you with dark, steady eyes.
“I’ll call you,” he says. He does the next morning.
The third date he takes you to a gallery, which you hadn’t expected, and he stands close behind you in front of each piece with his chin nearly at your shoulder, speaking quietly about what he sees in it, what it reminds him of. His hand finds the small of your back and stays there the entire afternoon—not pulling, not directing, just present, warm and consistent, and you are aware of it with a focus that has very little to do with the art.
In a quieter corridor near the back, while two other visitors murmur on the far end, he turns you toward him and kisses you unhurriedly against the wall. Deep and slow. His hands bracketing your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones, like he has all the time in the world and has decided to spend it here specifically. You make a small, frustrated sound against his mouth and his chest shakes with something low and quiet, not quite a laugh. More like satisfaction.
“Chris,” you say against him.
“Hmmm?”
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are darker than usual and the composure he wears is slightly less airtight than it was twenty minutes ago, which is at least something.
“Doing what?” he asks, with innocence that fools neither of you.
You give him a look. He gives you a small, unhurried smile, and kisses you once more—soft and brief and devastating in its restraint—before taking your hand and steering you back toward the main galleries like nothing happened.
The fourth date is dinner again, different restaurant, closer to your place this time. Easier commute, he’d said on the phone. Practical. It’s not practical. You both know it isn’t practical. He’s better at keeping his composure than you’ve given him credit for, that’s the thing. He watches you across the table with those steady, attentive eyes and finds every opportunity to touch you—your hand when he’s making a point, your knee briefly beneath the table, his fingers at your wrist when you’re both reaching for the wine—and every contact is casual enough to read as unconscious and deliberate enough that you know it absolutely isn’t.
You lean forward at one point, elbows on the table, and say, “You know what you’re doing.”
He tilts his head slightly. “What am I doing?”
“Drawing it out.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Takes a slow sip of his wine. His eyes don’t leave yours.
“I like the buildup,” he says simply.
“Chris...”
“I like knowing exactly how much you want it before we get there.” He sets his glass down. Calm, unhurried. “Don’t you?”
The honest answer, which you resent slightly, is yes. You’ve been thinking about him with an intensity and frequency that would be embarrassing to quantify. Every slow kiss at every door has left you with the specific, accumulated frustration of someone who keeps getting handed the first chapter of something and being told the rest is coming. And he knows that. He’s been watching you figure it out for weeks.
“You’re insufferable,” you say.
“You keep showing up,” he points out.
Correct. Accurate. Fully damning.
At your door at the end of the fourth date, he kisses you the way he sometimes does when his composure slips slightly; deeper, both hands in your hair, your back against the doorframe and his body warm and close and there. You get your hands under his jacket, and he exhales against your mouth, and for a long moment the careful, practiced restraint he’s been maintaining feels genuinely fragile.
He pulls back. Breathing slightly uneven this time. That’s new.
He presses his mouth to your jaw. Your neck. Lingers at the spot below your ear that he’d already catalogued as effective on the balcony that first night, and you feel your fingers tighten in his shirt.
“Baby,” you say, and it comes out less steady than you intend.
He lifts his head and looks at you. Something in his expression is quieter than usual. More open. “Soon,” he says. Low. Like a promise with a specific weight to it.
Not eventually. Not someday. Soon.
He kisses your forehead and steps back and you watch him go for the fifth time at this same door and the wanting follows you all the way inside and doesn’t really go anywhere after that.
You are, you think, extraordinarily in trouble.
You’d cleaned your apartment twice.
Not because it was dirty—it wasn’t, particularly—but because Chan was coming over for the first time and there’s a difference between knowing someone and letting them into the specific, curated intimacy of your living space. The books you’d left on the coffee table. The throw blanket on the couch that had seen better days but that you couldn’t bring yourself to replace. The small, accumulated details of a life that hadn’t been arranged for anyone else’s benefit.
He shows up with two pizza boxes and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, and when you open the door he looks at you first—just for a moment, the same way he always does, like he’s taking inventory—before his eyes move past you into the apartment.
“Nice,” he says and he means it. He steps inside and takes it in properly, setting the boxes down on your kitchen counter and looking around with genuine interest. Picks up a small ceramic thing on your shelf, examines it, sets it back exactly where it was. Reads the spines of your books. Pauses on a framed photo.
“This you?” he asks.
“Obviously.”
“You still have a baby face.” He says it like it’s a thing he’d been curious about. He looks around for another moment and then at you, and there’s something settled in his expression. Comfortable. Like he’d walked into a room and found it matched what he’d imagined. “I like it.”
You pour the wine while he opens the boxes and you eat on the couch the way you’d both independently imagined this night going; pizza balanced on the coffee table, some movie neither of you will fully follow playing on the TV, the easy quiet of two people who’ve gotten past the performing stage of things. He’s mid-bite when he says it.
“Be my girlfriend.”
Not will you or I was thinking maybe. Just that. Like he’s stating something that already exists and simply needs your confirmation. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, eyes still on the screen, jaw working through his pizza, utterly and almost infuriatingly casual. Then he reaches into the front pocket of his jacket—draped over the arm of your couch—and sets something on the coffee table between the pizza boxes.
An open jewelry box. Chrome Hearts, the hardware unmistakable, the gold matching the silver Tiny E Choke chain sitting at his collarbone that you’d clocked the first time you’d seen him in a v-neck and filed away without meaning to.
You look at it. Then at him. He finally glances over. Waiting.
“You bought this before asking me,” you say.
“I was confident,” he says.
“That’s—”
“Arrogant, probably.” The corner of his mouth moves. “You gonna say yes or are you gonna keep stating facts?”
You pick up the necklace. The weight of it is immediately apparent—cool and solid in your palm, the kind of quality you feel before you fully register it. You look at the one at his throat.
“Put it on me,” you say.
Something in his expression shifts. Still composed, but warmer underneath it. He takes it from your palm, you turn lifting your hair, and his hands are steady and unhurried at the back of your neck. When the clasp catches, he doesn’t move away immediately. His hands rest lightly on your shoulders, and his mouth brushes the back of your neck—soft, brief—before you turn back around. The necklace settles at your collarbone. His eyes drop to it for a moment.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “There.”
The movie plays. You finish the pizza. The wine gets poured a second time.
At some point the space between you closes the way it always does—gradually, without announcement, until you’re fitted against his side with his arm around you and his hand making those absent, familiar patterns on your arm. The lamp in the corner is low. The city outside your window is a quiet hum. The necklace sits cool against your skin and every time you’re aware of it something in your chest does something inconvenient.
You turn your head and look at him.
He’s watching the screen. The line of his jaw in the low light. The chain at his throat. The particular quality of stillness he has when he’s relaxed, unhurried, his guard fully down in a way you’ve only started to see recently. You’ve been on the receiving end of this for weeks. The slow kisses at doorways. The careful, deliberate buildup. His hands and his mouth and his composure, all deployed with a patience that has had you losing your mind incrementally since that first night on the balcony.
You’re done waiting for it to come to you.
You turn into him and kiss his jaw. His hand stills on your arm.
You kiss it again, slower, closer to the corner of his mouth, and then you move down—his jaw, the hinge of it, the side of his neck—and you feel his breath change. The hand on your arm doesn’t pull you back. Doesn’t redirect. His head tilts slightly, just slightly, giving you room.
So you take it.
You mouth at the curve of his neck with intention—not gentle, not passing. You find the spot below his jaw and you stay there, sucking a slow mark into his skin, and his hand grips your arm.
“Hey,” he says. Low. Not a protest.
“Hi,” you say against his neck.
You feel his chest move. Something between a breath and a laugh, quietly undone. You press another open kiss lower, at the side of his throat and the hand on your arm loosens and slides to your waist and you take that as the information it is.
You shift. Swing a leg over and settle into his lap properly, knees bracketing his thighs, and his hands move to your hips with the immediacy of someone who’s been waiting for somewhere to put them. The chrome hearts chain swings slightly forward as you look down at him. His composure is doing something interesting. Still present—still Chan, still steady—but the edges of it are softer. His eyes are dark and his hands at your hips are warm and certain and when you roll forward, just slightly, testing, his fingers dig in and a low sound leaves his throat that does something catastrophic to your ability to think in straight lines.
“You’ve been doing this to me for weeks,” you say. Close to his ear, voice low. You feel the way he responds to it—hands tightening, the subtle shift of his breathing. “Every time at the door. Every time you pulled back.”
“I know,” he says. Rough at the edges.
“Was that fun for you?”
“Yeah.” An exhale. “A little bit.”
You bite his earlobe and he grips your hips hard enough to bruise, and you smile against his skin. You move back to his neck. Find a spot lower this time, where his collar sits, and you work another mark into his skin slowly and with great attention while his hands guide your hips in a rhythm that’s barely-there and devastating. His head falls back against the couch. His throat works. You pull back to look at what you’ve left there—two marks, both visible, both unmistakable—and something deeply satisfied moves through you.
“Fair’s fair,” you say.
He looks at you with dark, blown eyes and the loosened composure of someone whose careful strategy has successfully backfired on him, and underneath that, something that looks very much like admiration. Your lips brush the hinge of his jaw again. Travel deliberately back to his ear.
“Can I taste you?” you ask. Quiet. Direct.
His hands still on your hips. Not pulling back. Not redirecting. Just…still, for a held moment, like he’s making sure he’s heard you correctly. Then one hand slides up your back and into your hair and he tilts your head back enough to look at you properly. His eyes search yours. Dark and steady and certain.
“Yeah,” Chan says. Voice low and unhurried and entirely unwound. The composure that’s survived five dates and every deliberate, practiced act of restraint now thoroughly, quietly dismantled. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
You hold his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, just to watch him wait for it. His jaw tightens slightly. His hands are warm and still in your hair and at your hip and he’s looking at you the way he had across every dinner table—steady, patient—except the patience now has a frayed edge to it that you find enormously satisfying.
“You’re doing it again,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, and kiss his jaw so softly it barely counts. His grip tightens. You smile.
You take your time getting there.
That’s the first thing. You’d decided somewhere around the second date—watching him pull back with that composed, deliberate expression while you stood at your door trying to remember how breathing worked—that if you ever got here first, you were going to take your time. You start at his mouth. Kiss him slow and deep until his hands are restless in your hair, until he’s kissing back with an urgency that’s a little more honest than his usual careful control. Then you pull away from his mouth and he follows—catches himself—and you feel more than hear the low, frustrated exhale that escapes him.
“Easy,” you say softly.
“Don’t,” he says, “tell me to be easy right now.”
You kiss his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth when he turns toward you instinctively, and you pull back just in time so he catches nothing.
“Hey—”
“Shh.” You press your lips to the hinge of his jaw and he goes still underneath you with great visible effort. “I’ve got you.”
You feel him exhale through his nose. Feel the deliberate way he loosens his hands in your hair. Choosing to let you lead, which from Chan is something—you understand that. You press a kiss to the soft skin just below his ear in acknowledgment and he shivers, which you file away immediately. Down the side of his neck. You take your time here because you’ve thought about this specifically, about getting his collar out of the way and having access to all of it. You push it aside and drag your mouth slow across his collarbone and his head tips back against the couch cushion and he says your name once, low, like it left without permission.
You look up at him from there.
He looks wrecked already. Hair slightly disheveled from your hands, throat marked from earlier, chest rising and falling with a breathing pattern that has abandoned its usual steadiness. He looks down at you with dark, blown eyes and the particular expression of a man who has been extremely patient for a very long time and is now experiencing the consequences of all of it arriving at once.
“Hi,” you say.
“You think this is funny,” he says. His voice has dropped to something rough and low that moves through you like a current.
“I think it’s fair,” you say, and press another open, slow kiss to his collarbone. “You left me at my door five times, Chan.”
“I know.” His hand slides through your hair. Not directing, just feeling. “I know I did.”
“On purpose.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think about this?” you ask. Mouth moving lower. You work at the buttons of his shirt, one at a time, unhurried. “When you were being so patient. Did you think about what would happen when I finally got here?”
A beat of silence.
“Yeah,” he says. Rough. “A lot.”
His shirt falls open and you take a moment to just look, which you can tell costs him something in the way his hands go still and careful like he’s trying very hard not to rush you. You spread your palms flat against his stomach and feel the muscle jump beneath your hands. Drag them slowly up his chest and watch his throat move as he swallows.
“You’re doing this intentionally,” he says.
“Mmmhm.” You lean down and press your mouth to the center of his chest. Feel his heartbeat against your lips, quicker than he’d ever let you hear in it his voice. “How does that feel?”
He makes a sound that’s not quite a word.
“I couldn’t hear you,” you say pleasantly, kissing across his chest to his ribs.
“I will—” he starts.
“You’ll what?”
He tips his head back and says nothing, jaw tight, and you smile against his skin and continue.
You move slowly off his lap, trailing your mouth down the center of his stomach, and his hands follow you—smoothing down your shoulders, the sides of your neck, tangling in your hair again—maintaining contact because apparently he needs to be touching you right now, which you understand. You feel the same pull toward him constantly, have since the first night, and there’s something quietly leveling about watching it operate on him now.
You settle between his knees and look up at him.
His eyes are very dark and very focused. The composed, careful Chan of five dinners and doorstep kisses is largely gone; what’s left is warmer, more open, the version of him you’ve been catching glimpses of and wanting the rest of. You hold his gaze and slowly, deliberately, work open his belt. He watches. Jaw set. Hands in your hair going still. You take your time. Of course you do. You get his belt open and his button undone and you press a slow kiss just below his navel and feel his stomach contract sharply under your mouth.
“You’re going to kill me,” he says.
“You’re fine,” you say.
“I’m not fine.”
“You’ve been doing this to me for weeks,” you remind him gently, and mouth along the skin just above his waistband. “Every time you pulled back at the door. Every time you kissed me exactly long enough and then stopped.” You look up at him. “Remember that?”
His eyes close briefly. “Yes.”
“Good,” you say, and finally, finally give him what you’d promised.
He’s quiet at first—contained, in the way that he is, processing it with that same deliberate control—but you’re patient now that you’ve started, you know exactly what you’re doing and within a few minutes the control starts to slip in small, telling ways. His hand tightens in your hair. His breathing goes ragged at the edges, the careful evenness of it entirely abandoned. He says your name once and then again, lower, and when you take your time with a specific swirl of your tongue, he groans, low and genuine, from somewhere deep in his chest, and you feel it everywhere.
You draw it out. Sweetly, deliberately, pulling back when he’s close enough that his hips shift forward involuntarily, looking up at him with an expression of perfect attentiveness.
“Don’t,” he says roughly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stop and look at me right now, I’m begging you—”
“You said you liked the buildup,” you say.
He looks at the ceiling. “I’m going to lose my mind.”
“How does that feel?” you ask, because you’d genuinely like him to sit with that for a second.
“Terrible,” he says, and you can hear the fractured quality underneath it, the genuine unraveling, and you take pity on him—mostly—and go back, this time you don’t stop.
His hand in your hair. Your name in his mouth, wrecked and low and entirely unwound. His other hand gripping the couch cushion and then letting go, dropping to your jaw, cradling it carefully even now and you feel that, the tenderness of it even here, even like this; when he finally goes over the edge it’s with your name and his head tipped back and his whole body going momentarily, completely still.
The room resettles. The movie has long since ended on its own. The lamp in the corner is still low. The city outside is its quiet, distant hum. You move back up to sit beside him, and he pulls you in immediately; arm around you, your head against his chest, his mouth pressing slow to the top of your head. His heart is still working its way back to a normal pace and you can feel it under your cheek. His hand moves through your hair.
“Hi,” he says eventually. Still rough.
“Hi,” you say.
A long, comfortable quiet. “Come here,” he says, and tips your chin up and kisses you slow and deep and with the particular quality of someone who’s just had everything rearranged and is taking a moment to be grateful about it. His hand curves around your face and he kisses you like he has nowhere to be, like the night is long and he intends to stay in it.
When he pulls back, he looks at you. The necklace sitting at your collarbone. The marks on his own neck that you’d put there. Something in his expression is open in a way you hadn’t seen before; the last of the careful distance he’d maintained across five dates, five doorways, finally and completely dissolved.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the balcony,” he says.
“I know,” you say. “So have I.”
His thumb traces your lower lip. Eyes following it.
“It’s my turn,” he says quietly.
The words sit in the air between you. Chan looks at you with dark, unhurried eyes and the particular quality of patience that you now understand is not passivity—never has been. It’s intention. It’s someone who has thought carefully about what they want and decided to take their time getting it exactly right.
“My turn,” he confirms.
“We’re keeping score now?” you ask.
“We’ve been keeping score,” he says. “You know that.”
You do know that. You’ve known it since the second date when he’d kissed you on his couch and pulled back with that composed expression while you’d sat there completely unraveled. The score has been running the whole time, quiet and patient, and you’d just spent the last hour settling a significant portion of it and you know—looking at him now, at the steadiness in his eyes and the warmth underneath it—that he’s been waiting his turn with the same specific, detailed attention he brings to everything.
“Okay,” you say.
The corner of his mouth moves. Just slightly.
“Okay,” he says.
He starts at your mouth. Of course he does. He cups your face in both hands the way he had at every door across every date and kisses you slowly, thoroughly, taking the time to relearn it now that there’s nowhere else to be and no reason to stop. His thumbs trace your cheekbones, and you feel the familiar pull of him—that particular gravity—and lean into it the way you always do.
Then his mouth moves. Your jaw. The soft skin beneath it. He finds your pulse point with unerring accuracy and presses his lips there, open and warm, and you feel your head tip back without your permission.
“Chris—”
“Shh,” he says against your neck. “I’ve got you.”
Your own words. Delivered back to you with a composure you know is at least partly performance, and you’d find it infuriating if his mouth wasn’t currently doing something to your throat that makes thinking feel like a distant, theoretical activity. He kisses down the side of your neck slowly, cataloguing. Learning which spots make your breath catch, which ones pull sounds from you that you don’t entirely choose—and he remembers all of it, you can tell. Files it away with the same attentiveness he’d brought to every conversation across every dinner table.
He finds a spot at the curve of your neck and shoulder and stays there. Works at it with his mouth until you grip his hair and he hums against your skin, satisfied.
“Fair’s fair,” he says, quietly.
He moves you, not hurried—everything he does is unhurried—but deliberate. His hands find your waist and shift you until your back meets the couch cushions and he’s leaning over you, one arm braced, and he looks at you for a moment before continuing like he wants to see your face. The lamp catches the necklace at your collarbone and his eyes drop to it for just a second. He lowers his head and presses his mouth to the necklace. The skin beneath it. Drags his lips slow across your collarbone and you feel the goosebumps chase his mouth across your skin.
“Been thinking about this,” he says, against your collarbone. “Specifically.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I have a good memory.” He kisses your shoulder. The strap of your top gets nudged aside and he follows the newly exposed skin without any hurry. “I remember the first time I kissed your neck on the balcony. What sounds you made.” He mouths at the curve of your shoulder and you exhale sharply. “I thought about it a lot after that.”
“How much is a lot,” you manage.
“Distracting amount,” he says. His mouth moves back up to your jaw. “Ended up being a pretty good motivator to see you again.”
“And here I thought it was my personality.”
“It was your personality,” he says, pulling back to look at you, and he’s completely serious when he says it which does something to you that has nothing to do with what his hands are doing. “And this.” His thumb traces your jaw. “Both at the same time.”
He kisses you again before you can respond to that.
His hands are different from his mouth; where his mouth takes its time, his hands are warm and certain, moving across you with the confidence of someone who’s been patient long enough and knows exactly where he’s going. Your waist, the curve of your hip, sliding beneath the hem of your top to find your skin and spread his palm flat against it. You pull him closer by the nape of his neck. He comes willingly, mouth back at your throat, and his hand travels with slow, deliberate intention. Up your side, your ribcage, his thumb tracing each curve with focus. His mouth finds a new spot at the base of your throat and stays there working at it with patience and specificity until you make a sound that breaks in the middle and his chest moves against yours with something low and warm.
“There,” he says quietly.
“Don’t be smug,” you say.
“I’m not smug.” He lifts his head to look at you. Eyes dark, mouth curved. “I’m thorough.” He dips back down before you can answer.
He maps you.
That’s the only word for it. Methodically, unhurriedly, like he’d planned the route in advance and intends to follow it exactly. His mouth leaves marks at your throat, your collarbone, the soft skin of your inner thighs; none of them accidental, all of them placed with intention, and when he surfaces to look at his work he does so with an expression of open, unashamed satisfaction.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you say. An echo.
He looks up at you from where his mouth is at your hip. “When do I do anything that isn’t on purpose?”
Correct. Fully accurate. You pull him up by the jaw and kiss him deep and slightly desperate and he meets it—finally drops some of the careful patience, kisses you back with enough heat that the room feels ten degrees warmer and your hands find his open shirt and pull him closer. His hand finds the curve of your waist and grips. Slides lower. Over the line of your hip, the curve of your thigh, and you shift against him and he groans quietly into your mouth—the same low, undone sound you’d had from him earlier—and his hand tightens on your thigh and stays there.
He drags his mouth from yours to your jaw, your neck, finds one of the marks he’d made earlier and mouths over it gently, and the contrast—the careful tenderness of it following everything else—makes something in your chest pull tight.
“Chris,” you say. Quiet. Not frustrated this time. Just his name. He hears the difference. Lifts his head and looks at you. His hair is completely undone now. His shirt still open. The marks from your mouth dark at his throat, his jaw slightly flushed, and he’s looking at you with an expression that has nothing left hidden in it—no careful distance, no composure serving as buffer. Just him, warm and present and genuinely, entirely here. His thumb traces the line of your jaw.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you say back.
He kisses you again but slowly this time, differently; less fire and more warmth, his hand cradling the side of your face, his body settling against yours with a kind of ease that feels like something being decided. Something being named without words. When he pulls back his forehead drops to yours.
“Can I?” he asks. Not an assumption. Not casual. Just a quiet ask, offered the same direct way he’d placed the necklace on your coffee table between pizza boxes like it was already a fact. You look at him. The chain at his throat. The marks at his neck that mirror yours.
“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”
His exhale is slow and warm against your mouth.
He kisses your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth.
“Good,” Chan says simply before he shifts to his knees using his shoulders to spread your legs as his hands travel up under your dress again.
Two months after that night, you’ve learned the geography of Chan’s apartment the way you learn a second language—through immersion and repetition. The way the morning light comes through his bedroom window at a specific angle that means you’ve slept past eight. The particular creak of the floorboard between the kitchen and the living room. Which drawer holds the good coffee mugs and which one is full of takeout chopsticks he’s been meaning to organize for months.
You’ve learned him, too. The things that don’t make it into dates and doorway kisses. That he’s quiet in the mornings until he’s had his morning smoothie, that he runs warm at night and kicks the covers off around three AM, that he keeps his space cleaner than you’d expected but there’s always one chair that becomes a catchall for clothes that aren’t dirty enough for the hamper but aren’t clean enough to go back in the drawer.
It’s Saturday. Late afternoon, the kind where the day has gone soft and golden at the edges and neither of you has changed out of comfortable clothes or done anything more ambitious than order food and exist in the same space. You’re on his couch, legs stretched across his lap, reading something on your phone while his hand absently traces patterns on your ankle. The TV is on but neither of you is watching it. This is what you do now, coexist. Comfortably. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of weeks.
“I’m thinking about dinner,” he says.
“We just ate.”
“I’m thinking ahead.”
“Revolutionary,” you say, not looking up.
His hand slides up from your ankle to your calf, warm and present, and you feel the shift in his attention even before you glance over. He’s watching you with that particular expression; the one that means he’s been thinking about something for a while and has just decided to act on it.
“Come here,” he says.
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
You set your phone down and let him pull you across the couch until you’re settled in his lap, knees bracketing his thighs in the position that’s become familiar over the past two months. His hands find your hips immediately. The necklace—which you’ve worn every day since he put it on you—swings forward slightly and his eyes drop to it for just a moment before coming back to your face.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.” He leans up and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t have anywhere to go. Just existing for its own sake. His hands are warm through your shirt and when you settle your weight more fully against him, he makes a quiet sound of contentment and deepens it slightly. This is what you do now, too. Kiss on his couch or yours without the weight of a timer or a goodbye waiting at the end of it. It’s been two months of this—this careful, deliberate building of something. He still kisses you like he has all the time in the world, still touches you like he’s cataloguing, but there’s an ease to it now. A settled quality. Like you’ve both stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop and started just…being.
You pull back and look at him. The late afternoon light catches in his hair, turning it warm. His hands are steady at your waist and he’s looking at you with an expression that’s become familiar—interested, attentive, present.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just looking.”
“Yeah?” His thumb traces a slow line just under the hem of your shirt. “What do you see?”
You lean down and kiss him instead of answering, and he lets you redirect, his mouth curving slightly against yours like he knows exactly what you’re doing. His hands slide up your back under your shirt, palms flat and warm against your skin, and you feel the shift in his breathing when you roll your hips forward slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, pulling back just enough to look at you.
“Hi.”
“We should talk about something,” he says.
“We should?”
“We should.” But he’s still looking at you like he’s thinking about not talking at all, and his hands are still moving slow up and down your back, and you’re fairly certain this conversation is going to get derailed before it starts.
“Okay,” you say. “Talk.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifts—settles, like he’s made a decision.“I want you,” he says. Simple. Direct. “I’ve wanted you. I’ve been taking my time because—” He pauses, and one hand comes up to cup your face. “Because I wanted to do this right. I wanted you to know it wasn’t just about getting here.” His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “But I think you know that now.”
Your heart does something complicated in your chest.
“I know that” you say quietly.
“Good.” He kisses you again, softer this time. “So I’m saying—if you want to—we don’t have to stop anymore.”
The thing is, you’d known this was coming. Have felt it building for weeks in the way his hands have lingered longer, the way the kisses have gotten deeper, the way he looks at you sometimes like he’s exercising active restraint. You’ve felt it in yourself too; the wanting has gone from a spark to a constant low heat, banked but present, waiting.
“I want to,” you say.
Something in his expression clears. Warms. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses you again and this time it’s different—still slow, still Chan, but there’s an intent under it now. A promise. His hands slide back under your shirt, higher this time, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs, and when you shift in his lap you feel that he’s already interested in where this is going.
“Here?” you ask against his mouth.
“Here,” he confirms. “And probably other places. I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Have you.”
“Mmhm.” His mouth moves to your jaw. “I have a whole list.”
“A list.”
“I’m thorough,” he says, which is what he always says. You’d laugh except his teeth graze the spot below your ear that he knows about and has been systematically destroying you with for two months, and instead you make a sound that’s not quite words and feel him smile against your skin.
“Starting here though,” he says. His hands slide to the hem of your shirt and pause. Waiting for permission even now, which does something to you. You lift your arms and he pulls it off in one smooth motion and then just looks at you for a moment, sitting in his lap in the golden late-afternoon light, and something in his expression makes your breath catch.
“You’re so—” he starts and doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head slightly and leans in and kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the skin above the necklace that matches his. His hands are warm and certain on your waist, and you thread your fingers through his hair and just feel it; the wanting, the patience finally reaching its conclusion, the months of careful building coming to whatever this is now. His mouth travels lower and his hands move with it, tracing the lines of you like he’s still cataloguing, still learning. When he reaches the center of your chest he pauses and looks up at you with dark eyes.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say. “Chan, yes.”
He takes his time.
Of course he does. You’d known he would—he’s taken his time with everything, every kiss and touch weighted with intention—but it’s different now. Now there’s no timer, no stopping point, just the long stretch of the evening and his apartment and his hands learning you the way he’s been wanting to.
He maps you there on the couch with his mouth and hands until you’re squirming in his lap and saying his name in a way that makes his grip tighten on your hips. Until you pull at his shirt and he leans back just long enough to let you take it off, and then you’re skin to skin and you can feel his heart racing under your palm and it settles something in you to know you’re not alone in this wanting.
“Bedroom,” he says eventually, voice rough. Not a question.
“Bedroom,” you confirm.
He stands with you wrapped around him like it’s nothing—like he’s thought about this too, the logistics of it—and carries you down the hallway to his room. The one you’ve slept in a dozen times now but never like this. Never with this intent. He sets you down at the edge of his bed and just looks at you for a moment, standing between your knees, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. The late light is softer in here, filtered through curtains, and his hair is a mess from your hands and there are marks blooming on his neck that you put there on the couch and he looks…
“What?” he asks, echoing his question from earlier. “What do you see?”
You reach up and trace the chain at his throat down to the marks on his collarbone. The line of his stomach where it disappears into his waistband.
“You,” you say simply.
His eyes darken and he leans down and kisses you, deep and thorough, until you’re lying back on his bed and he’s following you down, settling his weight against you in a way that makes your breath catch. This…this is new. The full length of him against you, warm and solid and here. His mouth finds your neck and stays there while his hands work at the rest of your clothes with patient efficiency, and when you’re finally bare beneath him, he pulls back and just—looks. Studies you the way he’s been studying everything about you for months, committing it to memory.
“Baby,” you say, and there’s something in your voice that makes him look up.
“I’m here,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” you say, and you do. You’ve known it since the first night, really. Since seven minutes in this very bedroom when he’d asked permission before kissing you. Since every door and every goodbye and every time he’d pulled back when he could have pushed forward.
You reach for him and he comes, mouth finding yours again, and his hands are everywhere now—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your hip—mapping and cataloguing and learning, and you do the same, finally getting full access to all of him. The muscles of his back under your palms. The way he shivers when you drag your nails lightly down his spine. The particular sound he makes when you roll your hips against him just right.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back. “I need—hang on.” He reaches over to his nightstand and you watch him, your chest rising and falling, as he takes care of the practicalities with the same unhurried focus he brings to everything. When he comes back to you his eyes are dark and warm and certain.
“Pretty baby,” he says.
“Hi,” you say with a soft smile and pull him back down.
He goes slow. Achingly, deliberately slow, watching your face the entire time, one hand cupped against your cheek while the other grips your hip.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained, holding himself so still you can feel the tension in his shoulders under your hands.
“Yes,” you manage. “move, please—” He does. Finally. And the feeling of it wipes out every coherent thought you’d had. He moves like he kisses—unhurried, thorough, paying attention to every response, every sound, adjusting and learning. His forehead drops to yours and his breath is ragged and you’ve never felt so completely present in your body, so entirely here with someone.
“You feel…” he starts, voice broken at the edges. “God, fuck, you feel—”
You pull him into a kiss instead of making him finish that sentence, he groans into your mouth and the pace shifts, just slightly, enough that you’re both chasing something now, building toward it together. His hand slides between you and finds where you need him and you arch into it, into him, his name leaving your mouth without your permission.
“There,” he says quietly, watching your face. “Yeah. There.”
He’s relentless now in that patient way of his; not rushing, not frantic, just absolutely focused on taking you apart piece by piece. His hand between you, his mouth on your neck, on your chest, the slow steady rhythm that’s pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Chris,” you say, and it comes out desperate. “I’m—”
“I know, baby” he says. “I can feel it. Lemme…just let me—”
And when you finally go over it’s with moans of his name, your hands fisted in his hair and your whole body pulling tight and then releasing, waves of it rolling through you while he keeps moving, keeps his hand exactly where you need it, drawing it out until you’re shaking underneath him.
“That’s it,” he says quietly, and there’s something wrecked in his voice. “Come for me, love.”
You pull him down into a kiss and roll your hips and he makes a sound that’s punched out of him, raw and genuine, his control finally fracturing. His rhythm stutters and his hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, when he finishes it’s with his face buried in your neck, your name on his lips and his whole body trembling against you.
The room settles back into itself slowly.
You’re both breathing hard, hearts racing, skin damp with sweat. Chan’s weight is warm and heavy on top of you and you’re stroking your hands through his hair, down his back, gentling him through the aftershocks the same way he’d done for you. Eventually he stirs, presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“I need to—hang on,” he says, and carefully extracts himself, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment before coming back with a warm washcloth. He cleans you up with the same careful attention he brings to everything, his touches gentle, and when he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth toward the bathroom and collapses back onto the bed beside you.
“Come here,” he says, already reaching for you, and you go willingly, tucking yourself against his side with your head on his chest. His arm comes around you immediately and his other hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
The light outside has gone deep gold, nearly orange. The city sounds drift in through the window. His heart is still working its way back to normal under your ear.
“That was…” you start.
“Yeah,” he says.
A long, comfortable quiet.
“I thought about that a lot,” he says eventually. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”
“It was fairly obvious,” you grin.
His chest shakes with quiet laughter. His hand tightens on yours.
“Was it…” he pauses. “Was it what you wanted?”
You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him. He’s watching you with an expression that’s more open than you’ve ever seen—vulnerable in a way that makes something in your chest pull tight.
“Yes,” you say simply. “It was exactly what I wanted.”
Something in his expression settles. He pulls you back down and kisses the top of your head.
“Good,” he says quietly. You lie there together as the light shifts from gold to amber to the soft gray of early evening. His hand traces absent patterns on your arm. Your fingers trace the chain at his collar. The comfortable silence stretches, easy and unhurried.
“Hey,” you say eventually.
“Hmmm?”
“You said you had a list.”
His hand stills on your arm. Then starts moving again, slower. “I did say that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“What else was on it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice has dropped to something lower, warmer.“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
He shifts, moving to sit up against his headboard pulling you onto his lap. His eyes are dark again and there’s something in his expression that makes your breath catch.
“I thought about having you in the kitchen,” he says quietly. His hand traces down your neck, over your chest to your stomach and lower. “On the counter. Against it, bent over it. I thought about it a lot, actually. Every time you’ve been in there making coffee in the morning.”
Your breath catches.
“I thought about the shower,” he continues, his hand still moving, slow and deliberate. “How the water would feel. The sounds you’d make, would they echo...”
“Chris—”
“I thought about my couch.” His eyes follow his hand as it traces back up your ribs. “Which we started on, but I thought about finishing there too. Thought about what you’d look like in the light from that window.”
His hand slides higher.
“Basically,” he says, leaning down so his mouth is near your ear, “I’ve thought about having you in every room of this apartment. Multiple times. Multiple ways.” He pulls back to look at you. “So, if you’re asking what else is on the list—”
“Show me,” you say.
The smile that crosses his face is slow and warm and edged with something that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Show me the whole list.”
The kitchen happens before you’ve even fully decided to leave the bedroom. You’d gotten up—both of you—some vague idea about food or water or rejoining the living, you’re in one of his shirts and nothing else, he’s in his boxers and you make it as far as the kitchen before he’s turning you around and lifting you onto the counter in one smooth motion.
“This,” he says, stepping between your knees. His hands are on your thighs and his eyes are dark and focused. “This is what I thought about.”
“We should—” you start, but he’s kissing you and his hands are sliding up under the shirt you’re wearing and whatever you were going to say dissolves entirely.
He’s less patient this time. Or maybe just more urgent, the careful control he usually maintains loosened by what happened in the bedroom, by having finally gotten what he’s wanted. His mouth is demanding on yours and his hands are everywhere, when he pulls you to the edge of the counter you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer.
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “This. Exactly this.”
He doesn’t even take the shirt off you; just pushes it up and out of his way, his mouth following his hands, and when he’s ready, he pulls you onto him in one motion that has you gasping against his shoulder. The angle is different here. Deeper. More intense. Your back arches and he catches you, one arm around your waist and the other braced on the counter beside you, and the leverage lets him move in a way that has you seeing stars.
“Baby…nhng, fuck—oh god—”
“I’ve got you,” he says roughly. “I’ve got you, just—so fuckin’ tight—” He shifts the angle slightly and hits something that makes you cry out and his grip tightens and he does it again, and again, relentless and focused and watching your face the entire time with that same dark attention.
“There?” he asks, voice strained.
“There,” you confirm, barely coherent. “Don’t stop, don’t—”
“I’m not stopping.” His voice has gone rough and low and determined. “Not until you…I want to feel you,”
And when you go over this time it’s harder, sharper, your body clenching around him and your nails digging into his shoulders, dragging down his back with his name torn from your throat. He follows almost immediately, the feeling of you pushing him over, and he buries his face in your neck and holds you through it while you both shake apart together.
The shower happens an hour later. You’re both sticky and spent and when he suggests it you agree immediately, following him into his bathroom on unsteady legs. He gets the water running and you step in together and for a few minutes it’s actually just a shower—the water hot and good, washing away the evidence of the evening so far. But then his hands are on you again, soapy and slick, he’s washing you with that same careful attention, and when his hands linger between your legs you lean back against his chest and let him.
“Again?” you ask, breathless.
“I told you I had a list,” he says against your ear. His fingers are skilled and patient and you’re already sensitive from earlier, so it doesn’t take long before you’re shaking against him, his arm around your waist holding you up while his other hand takes you apart.
“I want—” you start, when you’ve caught your breath.
“What do you want?”
You turn in his arms and kiss him. “More. You.”
“You have me,” he says.
“Chris,” you say, and drop to your knees.
His eyes go wide and dark and his hand comes up to brace against the shower wall.
“You don’t have to—” he starts.
“I want to,” you say, looking up at him through the water. “Please?”
And who is he to deny you? Taking your time the way he always does, paying attention to what you learnt makes his breath catch and his hand tighten in your hair, and when he finally finishes it’s with his head tipped back and your name echoing off the bathroom tiles and his whole body trembling.
The couch happens last, deep into the night when you both should’ve been exhausted but somehow aren’t. You’d made it back there after the shower, skin still damp, wearing clean clothes that lasted approximately ten minutes before he was pulling them off again. The lamp in the corner is the only light now, warm and low, and you’re in his lap again where this whole thing started hours ago.
“Hi,” he says, smiling up at you.
“Hi,” you say back.
This time is different from the others. Slower. Not because he’s being careful but because you’re both exhausted and wrung out and this is less about chasing something and more about just being close. Being together. He moves under you with easy, rolling motions and you move with him, hands braced on his shoulders, and it’s intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. His hands are gentle on your hips and his eyes don’t leave yours and somewhere in the middle of it you feel something shift.
“Chan,” you say quietly.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here, baby.”
“I think—” you start and stop but his eyes are steady on yours and you can see your own feelings reflected there and suddenly it doesn’t feel scary to say it. “I think I’m in love with you.”
His hands still on your hips. His eyes search yours.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice soft.
“Yeah,” you say.
He pulls you down into a kiss that tastes like relief and something deeper, something unnamed but present. When he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.
“I’m in love with you too,” he says quietly. “I’ve been in love with you. I think—I think since the balcony, maybe. Or the first date. Or—” He pauses. “I don’t know when exactly. But I am.”
You kiss him again and this time when you move together it’s different; not desperate or urgent or playful but something else entirely. Something that feels like a promise. His hands are gentle and his mouth is soft and when you finally finish together it’s quiet and mutual and perfect.
Later—much later—you’re back in his bed. Actually in it this time, under the covers, your legs tangled with his and your head on his chest. The city has gone quiet outside, and the apartment is dark except for the ambient light coming through the windows. His hand is tracing lazy patterns on your back. Your finger traces the chain at his throat.
“So,” you say eventually. “That was your list.”
“That was the list,” he confirms.
“Thorough.”
“I told you I was.” You can hear the smile in his voice.
“You did warn me,” you say.
A comfortable quiet settles over you. His hand continues its slow path up and down your back. You’re both exhausted now—truly, finally exhausted—but neither of you seems ready to let go of being awake yet. Of this.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hmm?”
“I meant it,” he says. “Earlier. I love you.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. He’s watching you with soft eyes and an expression that’s completely unguarded.
“I know,” you say. “I meant it too. I love you.”
He kisses your forehead. Pulls you closer. “Good,” he says simply.
And finally, hours after the sun went down on this lazy Saturday, you let yourself drift off in his arms, the necklace cool against your skin, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and the certain knowledge that this—this careful thing you’ve been building for months—is exactly what you both needed it to be.
i feel like he is totally a groaner. he groans in your ear as he thrusts into you with his left arm by your face and his right hand interlocked with yours. just because he groans doesn’t mean he is always rough, if anything he perfers slower more sensual sex. he groans more when he goes slow because he feels every part of you, your warmth, how you clench around him when you get close.
"you feel so fucking good baby" "my pretty girl doing so good for me" "you getting close baby? i can feel you clench around me" "do that again, please"
lee minho
groaner all the way. unlike chan he loves being rough. groaning at how you wither under him, tears in your eyes from the overstimulation. he loves knowing that he is the only one who can make you cry from the pleasure. will have one hand wrapped around your throat while the other wipes the tears off your face, looking down at you with a teasing pout on his face.
"you crying for me baby?" "be a good girl for me and take it" "don't you dare look away from me" "c'mon you can give me one more jagi"
seo changbin
groans but like sensual groans, like he groans at your pleasure. like has a deep groan, like it is almost raspy. loves loves loves how he can bearly touch you and can get you going. will look into your eyes as he thrusts into you and he will always always hold eye contact so he likes mirror sex fsfs.
"look at yourself for me pretty girl" "you look so beautiful taking me like this" "fuck just like that baby" "all this from just my voice?"
hwang hyunjin
both but groans more. will only whimper when you take control and that is once in a blue moon. he will whimper when you're on top of him moving up and down on him slowly. all the other times he has you on top pounding up into you or pounding into you in missionary. i feel as he has an almost pornographic groan, it just sounds so beautiful.
"want me to move faster for you?" "fuck you feel amazing baby" "so beautiful, so mine" "oh i love you so much like this"
han jisung
whimper all the way. 99% of the time y’all have sex you’re riding him. he loves that idea of you being in charge of yours & his pleasure. he loves when you tease him by going fast then slowing down so slow it’s like you stopped moving when you feel him get close. let’s out the prettiest little whimpers when you deny him of an orgasm. then when you finally let him cum he cries & whimpers out for you, grabbing the closest thing to him. even though he cries for you when you keep on going after he’s cum because of the overstimulation he always thinks you look so sexy chasing your own orgasm.
“please baby” “i’ve been good for you, i promise” “too much baby, ‘s too much”
felix yongbok lee
both. totally depends on what kind of mood he’s in. but he’s totally the perfect medium, he doesn’t groan more then he whimpers & vice versa. but i will say when he’s gone on tour he sends you videos of him jerking off and whimpering in the background because he misses you so much. then when you go see him he fucks you into the mattress & lets out the deepest groans like there is no tomorrow. he doesn’t prefer one over the other & quite frankly neither do you because either way you both cum at LEAST twice.
“i miss you so much baby” “i wish this was your hand instead of mine” “oh baby you are not going to walk tomorrow” “i missed this pussy so fucking much”
kim seungmin
groans all the way. butttt he had to grow into it. at first he was quiet, barely making any noise when y’all had sex. then he grew more confident in himself and his skills, then a switch completely flipped in him. but he’s not a loud groaner, he likes groaning into your ear, so only you can hear him. and he likes himself being the only one to hear you too. likes the almost possessive idea of you both being the only ones who knows what the other sounds like in bed.
“fuck you feel so good wrapped around me” “just like that baby, so good for me” “you don’t want anyone hearing now do you?” “only i know how to get you going”
yang jeongin
this man groansssss. a whimper has never and will never leave his mouth. is very possessive over you but will always talking about your sex like with the guys (without going into detail of course) almost as a way to prove that he isn’t the 17yr old boy with braces anymore. that he is a 25 yr old man who definitely knows his way around your body. i don’t think he’s a loud groaner per say but he isn’t quiet either. just enough to where someone walking by your room could hear but couldn’t hear from the living room or kitchen.
“no one will ever make you feel as good as me” “it’s like you were made for me” “my pretty girl” “this pussy belongs to me”
lmk what y’all think in the comments! love hearing everyone’s opinions :)
Recipient: Female Kindergarten Teacher ✵ Bang Chan
a/n: yayyyyy a new mini series with loser chan entering the chat!! all the fluff with the kicks and giggles ❤︎︎ apologies if i misrepresent chris and the kids, this is all a head canon of how i see our lovely leader in this situation. a slow burn with Bang Chan and his neighbor who happens to be a kindergarten teacher as asked in this request that won my heartttt (〃艸〃)
📲 Next Message: Breakfast, Pics, & Panics
warning (s): drama kings// sassy kids// profanity// petnames// awkward chan// jeongin getting secondhand embarrassment// friends being friends—aka useless// ALL fictional
