QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 42
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pairing chan x reader
genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,
summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.
Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.
status ongoing
taglist OPEN
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You wake up in the circle of his arms, the sunlight playing in ribbons across your bedroom.
You pretend not to wake, really, not for several minutes even though it is well past your usual rising. You stay where you are instead and live a moment longer in your memory of last night. Instinct tells you that reality will catch up to you the moment you let it; lethargy keeps you half asleep, so that you may dream anyway.
It is only when Chan moves, sighing and pulling you closer, that you realise there is no need to live in the past. He is right here, chest against your back; the warmth of his skin still the same, his legs tangled with yours, and his hands-
“I can hear you thinking,” he says in your ear, his breath fanning softly across your face.
“You’re not even awake,” you say to him in return, squeezing his fingers with the hand he still holds.
“I was until you woke me up,” he grumbles, and presses his mouth to the hollow of your neck.
You can’t help the small noise that he elicts from you. “I wasn’t even – thinking anything bad.”
“Good,” he replies, and nothing more. He is too busy – his hands sliding over your skin and his mouth occupied with making your spine shiver and your stomach clench.
You turn before he can get any ideas, facing him just so that you can capture his mouth for yourself, explore the planes of his body as if you hadn’t already made endeavours to learn every inch. The cut of his muscle ripples and shivers under your touch, his mouth swearing at you for being a tease, even as he pulls you over the top of him, trapping him between your legs.
It is nice, the lazy morning light and the way that he moves so slow and languid underneath you. The way the world holds its breath for you on this one day, when normally it would call on you by now. It’s as if responsibilities don’t exist anymore, right up until the moment that he says;
“We should probably talk now.”
You have enough sense to know that that is the moment you’ve been trying to avoid. You sigh, and roll over to stare at the ceiling, the sweat cooling on your skin.
“Y/N,” he says before you can articulate a response. “I know we had a deal, and this doesn’t have to be-”
“As a leader,” you say over the top of him, “what’s your opinion on dating?”
He blinks. Several times.
“Neutral,” he says after a moment, and then, “Why? Do you have someone in mind?”
“I might,” you sigh. “I don’t know if he likes me though.”
His hand creeps across the bedsheets, sliding over your stomach. “Funny,” he says. “Does this mean you don’t want to talk about it?”
You meet his eyes for a moment – patient, and amused, not frustrated by the thought. Too good for you, and yet here he is, closing the small distance between you the moment that you open it. “I want to talk about it,” you say. “I’ve been thinking about it, actually.”
He pauses, lifting his head to look at you properly. “You have?” he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “When?”
“Since I told you no,” you admit. “I was trying to figure out how to make this work.”
“And?”
You consider it, tight-lipped, the way you have been for months now. “I have conditions.”
He laughs at you, a low noise that rumbles in the back of his throat. “You want me to sign a contract?”
“If that’s what it takes.” Your heart is in your throat, your breath only just squeezing past it, but you still can’t resist the urge to run your fingers along his skin, your touch feather-light on his arm.
His skin shivers, his mouth curving into an indulgent smile. You'd thought he would be worried, but he is only amused, even in the way that he says, "Can I bargain?"
"Bargain?" you ask. "For what?"
"Fair compensation," he answers, and then, "Creative liberty." He doesn't get to say whatever third stupid thing is going to come out of his mouth because he's too busy laughing at himself, unable to keep a straight face.
"I thought you wanted to talk seriously," you say, swallowing the giggle that rises in the back of your own throat. It makes you feel giddy anyway, rising in your chest and leaving all the air high and light in your lungs. You can't remember a time that you've ever felt more content.
"I do," he answers, and struggles to compose himself. There's not much he can do with the way his hair sticks up everywhere and that stupid smile plastered all over his face. "Tell me your terms. Please."
Your mouth twists, trying to pretend you are annoyed - really, it holds back that breathless laugh that sits in the back of your throat. "You agree that the company shouldn't know about this, don't you?" you ask.
"No," he answers, the edges of his smile fading. "I don't know if anyone should know about this."
"But you want to...date?" you question. "Seriously?"
His hand finds yours where your fingers trace his arm, capturing them between his own. “I want you,” he confirms. “All to myself. That hasn’t changed since January.”
“Even if it might not work out?” you question.
“Why wouldn’t it work out?” Chan asks.
“Schedules. Secrets. Fans making things up.” You list them off sa they come to mind, your well of potential catastrophes unending. “We’ve never actually lived together.”
At that one,’ he snorts. “We spend more time at work together than we do at home.”
“That’s still different to being at home,” you insist.
“I already know everything annoying about you,” he tells you. “You only eat half your lunch, you leave your table a mess at venues, and when you get intimidated, you make yourself really small and hide behind the others.”
He pauses to take breath, running back over the words that have poured out of his mouth at the same time you process them. “I’ve already thought about it,” he adds after a moment. “There’s no part of you that I’m not sure about.”
“Chan, I-” The words get caught in your throat, welled u in the great knot of fear and love and possibility that this path has tangled inside you. You feel raw, flayed open by this truth so that a wound might heal clean.
“All we have to promise is to talk to each other,” he continues, as if your breath is not caught in your throat, your heart in his hands. “No secrets. No hurting each other. And if something doesn’t work anymore, then we go back to being friends. Easy.”
“Easy,” you repeat slowly.
He huffs a laugh. “What are you worried about? It’s never going to happen.”
“It could,” you insist, though you believe it less with every word he says. “People change as they get older – maybe not soon, but in ten, twenty years…”
“Twenty years?” he says. “We could be anywhere in twenty years. We could be married in Australia with three kids by then.”
Shock lurches in your heart, your mouth open as you stare at him. He laughs at you in the next moment, anchoring you with his weight as he buries his nose into your neck.
“”We met ten months ago,” you say, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief. “You can’t just bring up marriage. Who are you?”
“Sounds good though, doesn’t it?”
“You’re hopeless,” you sigh, and his laughter rumbles across your chest.
“Are those all of your conditions?” he asks when he is done laughing at you, falling back across his own pillow.
“Nearly,” you reply. “I have one more.”
“Tell me,” he requests.
It takes you a breath to put the words together, in and out of your lungs. “Keep work and this separate. Anywhere there might be cameras, we’re just friends. Not even friends that hug.”
“No fooling around,” he summarises, and it sounds, to your ears, like he is agreeing with you.
“Not at work,” you confirm. “I don’t want fans breathing down my neck, and I don’t want to sneak around the company or shows or whatever, worrying about if we were caught or not.”
He hums agreeance. “Some of the others do a lot more than hugging, or holding hands, you know.”
“I know,” you say. "I can't though. You know it'll just worry me until it kills me."
His smile is soft, his fingers squeezing yours gently. "Me too," he tells you.
"So you agree?" you ask.
"Of course," he says, and then, "Do you think it would be hard to pretend to be your friend? We've been doing that for months now."
You stare at him for several seconds before you realise that it's true. When you do, you blow out a sigh from between your lips, disturbing the still air of the room. "Nothing changes, then," you say, and let the statement settle over you. It's comfortable. Easy, even - just the same thing you've been doing this whole time, life going on as usual. You can handle that.
Chan's face twists though, his smile growing wicked. "Some things change," he amends, before you can get too comfortable with the idea, and kisses you again, drawing the thought right out of your head.
TAGLIST
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