#straykids fluff

[leriexoxo]

Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

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

Word count : 9.6k

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

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

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There was no knock. There never was.

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

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

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

“You don’t know my life.”

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

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

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

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

Normal.

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

This was just how it had always been.

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

Not even close.

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

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

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

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

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

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

He grinned. “Always.”

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you felt it.

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

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

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

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

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

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

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

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

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

But this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

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

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

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

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

“You okay?” he asked.

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

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

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

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

“What?”

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

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

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

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

At first, it was nothing.

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

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

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

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

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

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

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

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

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

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

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

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

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

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

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

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

You were still. Too still.

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

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

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

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

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

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

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

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

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

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

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

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

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

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

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

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

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

He followed. One step. Two.

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

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

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

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

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

You froze.

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

Your voice came out small. “So?”

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

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

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

Chan stepped a little closer.

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

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

Just… observing.

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

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

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

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

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

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

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

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

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

You felt it.

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

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

“Chan—”

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped breathing.

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

Then— He wrapped.

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

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

Everything in you went still.

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

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

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

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

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

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

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

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

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

You blinked.

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

He glanced back with a smirk.

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

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

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

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

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

Not with intent.

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

You poked at your own noodles.

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

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

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

A beat of silence.

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

You stared at him.

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

And suddenly?

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

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

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

“…Now?”

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

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

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

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

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

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

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

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

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

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

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

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

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

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

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

You paused. “…Both?”

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

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

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

Your breath caught.

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

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

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

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

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

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

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

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

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

You should’ve walked away.

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

Not rough.

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

And God… you did.

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

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

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

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

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

He pulled back.

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

“What?”

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

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

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

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

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

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

“What?”

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

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

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

Your heart thumped.

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

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

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

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

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

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

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

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

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

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

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

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

Your stomach flipped.

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

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

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

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

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

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

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

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

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

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

Your legs weakened.

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

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

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

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

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

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

Chan’s eyes darkened.

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

You blinked. “Your turn.”

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

Then leaned forward and said—

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

You froze.

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

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

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

But Chan didn’t back down.

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

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

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

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

“And now?”

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

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

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

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

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

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

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

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

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

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

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

“What side?”

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

You shivered.

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

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

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

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

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

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

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

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

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

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

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

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

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

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

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

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

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

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

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

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

You nodded without thinking.

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

Your lips parted, breath catching.

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

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

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

You gasped again, this time audible.

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

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

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

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

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

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

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

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

But then his head dipped lower.

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

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

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

And then he bit you.

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

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

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

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

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

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

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

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

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

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

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

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

“What?”

“My name.”

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

And that was it.

That broke him.

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

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

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

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

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

It shattered him.

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

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

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

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

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

Loud. Guttural.

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

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

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

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

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

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

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

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

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

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

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

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

You could feel how hard he was.

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

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

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

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

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

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

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

You gasped. Shuddered.

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

You whimpered.

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

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

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

You swallowed, chest heaving.

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

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

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

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

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

You cried out, knees trembling.

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

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

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

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

You screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head, biting your fist.

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

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

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

“What—?”

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

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

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

You stared.

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

This was feral.

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

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

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

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

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

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

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

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

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

Chan paused.

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

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

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

Chan blinked slowly.

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

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness

[sunboki]

⋆୨୧˚ gentle but dominant (and gentleman-ly) chris who, without possessiveness or jealousy, establishes himself whenever and wherever he’s with you.

at the grocery store, letting you check off things from the list while he takes to goods from the top shelf without needing a thank you.

always walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street. one hand on your back at an event, a dinner. cooking dinner when you’ve had a long day, fixing your shoes at the doorway so it’s easier in the morning.

tracking your period and cooking meals accordingly. more fiber during certain phases, more iron intake or meats.

introducing him to family or friends, his hand extending where he stood by your side, one hand loosely resting on your hip. no pressure, just a reminder that he’s there, present, a grounding touch.

bringing hair pins in his pockets or an extra lip gloss he saw you eyeing before leaving. just in case.

holding your heels—holding you—when your feet hurt too bad while dancing. and if he’s not dancing with you? he’s leaning against the bar, both admiring you and guarding your drink.

a steady anchor when you need it. never too much, never too little.

[hyunniesamericano]

His love for your titties

Pairing: Hyunjin × fem!reader

Hyunjin has a thing for your chest and not in a shallow, one-track-mind kind of way. It's deeper than that. Emotional. Borderline spiritual.

He’s shameless about it too. Doesn’t even try to hide how his eyes drop the second your hoodie comes off. Always has his hands under your shirt like it’s second nature, like your body is the only place he feels at peace. Sometimes it’s not even sexual—just comfort. He’ll curl into you, bury his face between your tits and breathe like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Says he can’t sleep unless at least one hand is resting there, fingers splayed, tracing the skin lazily as if to say, I’m here. You’re here. We’re okay.

But when he’s stressed really stressed he goes quiet. Withdrawn. Brows furrowed, jaw tight. And that’s when he climbs into your lap, pushes your shirt up with trembling hands, and takes your nipple into his mouth like it’s his only lifeline. He doesn't say a word ,just breathes shakily through his nose, clinging to you, sucking softly like he's trying to calm the storm inside. Sometimes he hums while doing it. Quiet, low vibrations against your skin that make you feel like he’s a boy again, seeking safety.

And then… there’s the jealousy.

Hyunjin gets possessive. The second someone else’s eyes wander especially toward your chest he’s already moving, already guiding you away with a hand on your lower back. His grip is tight, protective, but there’s something needy about it too. Like he needs to reclaim you. Like the idea of someone else even thinking about your body drives him wild. The second you're alone, he's pushing you against the nearest surface, mouth hot and desperate against your skin. “You’re mine,” he growls into the curve of your chest, lips dragging, tongue leaving trails. “No one gets to see you like this but me.”

He leaves bruises when he’s like that. Marks shaped like his mouth, like his fingers. He stares at them afterward with a dazed look in his eyes—somewhere between love ,satisfaction and obsession.

When he’s needy and overstimulated, it’s a mess in the most beautiful way. He could’ve cum already, twice even, but he still wants to keep going. Wants to keep sucking on you, mouthing at your tits like he’s losing his mind. His moans turn to whimpers. His voice cracks. “I know I came, I know,” he pants, tears building at the corners of his eyes, “but please—just a little more. Just let me feel you.”

Even when his body is trembling from too much, his mouth never leaves your chest. He worships them like they’re sacred. Like he needs them.

And don’t get him started on when you’re out in public wearing something tight or low-cut. He gets all pouty and bratty, drapes himself over you like a possessive boyfriend in a teen drama. His arm tightens around your waist, his hand subtly brushes your chest like he thinks no one notices. But they do. He just doesn’t care. “They’re mine,” he whispers with a smug smirk, lips brushing your ear, “don’t care who sees.”

And when you’re fucking?

Oh, he’s in heaven. He can’t focus on anything else. Has to have his mouth on your tits, tongue swirling, fingers squeezing like he’s starving. If you try to pull your shirt down after, he whines actually whines like you’ve taken away his favorite thing. “Please,” he begs, voice thick, eyes glossy, “just lemme touch ‘em. I missed them.” Like you didn’t let him suck on them for hours earlier.

To Hyunjin, your chest isn’t just something to get off to—it’s a place of comfort, obsession, and love. It's his anchor. His favorite addiction.

A/n : inspired by

[strayalivekid]

off balance

pairing: lee minho x reader (no pronouns mentioned)

summary: becoming close friends with minho was inevitable. falling in love with him even more so. but when a new trainee joins jype, you lose hope of ever being with him { requested by anonymous }

genre: fluff, best friends to lovers { ~ 3.3k words }

warnings: dancer!reader, jealousy, miscommunication

₊˚⊹∘•····································•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•·····································•∘⊹˚₊

you and minho had always joked that the practice rooms at jype were haunted, but if anything really lingered inside those walls, it was the memory of two exhausted trainees who somehow found comfort in each other long before either of you realised it.

you were both dancers first, dreamers second, and too stubborn for your own good. the instructors liked to pair you together because you matched well: clean movements, the same kind of perfectionism that drove you to stay hours past the official end of practice. it didn’t take long before staying late became a silent agreement. he’d be there, you’d be there, both pretending it was coincidence.

you still remember your very first day so vividly. you had walked into the studio clutching your trainee folder a little too tightly, scanning the unfamiliar faces. minho had been leaning against the mirror, and his expression seemed unreadable. you remembered thinking he looked absolutely breathtaking, but intimidating. sharp eyes, sharp jawline, sharp tongue as you were just to find out.

“you’re standing in my spot,” he had said without even glancing at you properly. you blinked. “i didn’t see your name on the floor.”

he finally looked at you then, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t help it. “wow. bold on day one. you’ll fit right in.”

most trainees might have backed away, flustered or intimidated. but something about his tone told you he wasn’t actually annoyed, just testing you.

when the instructor started practice, minho sighed, standing next to you. "fine. stay in my spot. you’re welcome,” he muttered.

“i didn’t thank you,” you replied.

that made him look at you a second time. and for a brief moment, you saw the softness hiding behind all the sarcasm, the kind that didn’t show itself to people easily.

from that day on, minho’s comments became a fixture of your training life. “your footwork’s sloppy today,” he’d say.“what a coincidence! so is your attitude,” you’d answer without missing a beat. he’d roll his eyes, but the corner of his mouth would twitch every time.

somehow, you read him effortlessly from the beginning. his deadpan jokes, his quiet acts of kindness, the way he nudged a water bottle towards you when he thought you weren’t looking. minho wasn’t easy to understand, not for most people, but you picked up on every subtle shift in his expression, every sarcastic jab that actually meant he cared. and he noticed that you noticed.

maybe that was why, before either of you knew it, he had become your closest friend. your person. the one who stayed long after everyone else left, dancing beside you until the sky turned pale with morning.

and maybe that was why falling for him felt less like a decision and more like gravity. completely out of your control.

the turning point happened on a random monday. you were stretching on the floor when the door slid open and the instructor ushered in someone new.

she looked nervous in that hopeful way new trainees often did. polite smile, stiff posture, eyes scanning the room like she was trying to memorise every face all at once. you offered her a small smile back, because you remembered how it felt.

minho barely glanced up at first, too focused on retieing the laces of his shoes. but when the instructor introduced her and said she’d be joining your group training, he lifted his head.

“great,” he muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “a monday surprise. my favourite.” you elbowed him lightly. “be nice.”

“i am nice,” he said, straight-faced.

you stared at him. he sighed. “fine. i’ll pretend to be nice.”

during warm-ups, she struggled to keep up with the tempo. minho noticed immediately, because of course he did. despite the sarcasm, he was annoyingly observant. when she fumbled a turn and nearly bumped into him, he caught her elbow before she could fall.

“careful,” he said, tone neutral but not unkind. “your weight’s too far forward. try shifting it back.”

she blinked, grateful. “oh– thank you..." she trailed off, hinting that she didn't know his mame.

“minho,” he cut in. “lee minho.”

you watched them from across the room. he’d help anyone who looked like they were about to break an ankle. he wasn’t smiling at her. he wasn’t giving her the soft patience he saved for you on your worst days. but still.

still, something in your chest tugged uncomfortably when she lingered near him during water breaks. when she asked questions only he could answer. when she started hovering a little too close, laughing a little too loudly.

and minho… didn’t exactly push her away.

his friendliness had that polite stiffness. the version of him that appeared in front of people he didn’t fully trust yet. but you didn’t see the stiffness. you didn’t hear the subtle sigh he let out when she clung a little too much. you didn’t catch the look he threw your way whenever she asked for help, as if silently asking you to save him.

from your angle, from your insecurities, it all looked painfully simple. minho liked her. and somehow, that thought settled in your stomach like sinking stones.

after that, you started stepping back, hoping that he wouldn’t notice. fewer jokes. fewer late-night practices. fewer easy smiles thrown his way.

you told yourself it was for the best. you told yourself he was too busy with her to care. but minho noticed anyway. he always noticed when it came to you. he just didn’t understand why.

during stretching, he nudged your foot with his own. “you look like an elderly doing that,” he said, tone light, the usual teasing in it.

normally, you would’ve shot back something sharp. instead, you just hummed, not even lifting your head.

minho frowned. “wow. no comeback? should i check for a fever?” you forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes but you hoped would be convincing enough. “i’m fine. just tired.”

that made him pause in that serious way he got when he was genuinely concerned. his eyes softened, shoulders lowering slightly.

“you should get more rest,” he said, voice dropping to something gentler. “you’ve been pushing too hard again.” you shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter. “i’ll be alright.”

"i don't want you to overwork yourself."

"minho, i'm okay, really."

he stared at you for a moment longer, as if trying to read the real meaning behind your half-smile. then he grinned, catching you off guard.

“how about ending practice early for once?” he suggested. “we grab some food and then you can actually go to bed before 3am.”

this time, your smile came naturally. “yeah. that sounds nice.” he tilted his head pleased. “great. i’ll go change after this. wait for me outside, okay?”

you did. you waited… and waited… and waited.

after half an hour, the hallway felt too cold. so you walked back inside, checking the practice rooms one by one. that’s when you found them.

in the far room, minho was going over a segment of choreography with the new trainee. his hands hovered near her waist, not touching, but guiding. she wasn’t as careful. her hand lingered on his shoulder, then slid down his arm, her laugh soft. your stomach twisted.

minho’s back was to you, so you didn’t see the way his jaw clenched. you didn’t see how he subtly shifted away every time she got too close. you didn’t hear his voice, becomign increasingly impatient, muttering, “we’re done for today. seriously, i have to go.”

all you saw was the picture in front of you. and that was enough to make your chest tighten painfully.

you stepped back quietly, not trusting yourself to take a full breath. disappointment washed over you, a sinking weight. you turned around and headed home without a word, without a message. for the first time in months, you walked home alone.

you didn’t see minho finally disentangle himself, bowing politely while clearly trying not to look annoyed. you didn’t see him hurry out of the room, checking the hallway twice, then three times. you didn’t hear him curse under his breath when he couldn’t find you. you only saw your phone light up, messages coming in one after another.

« where are you?? »

« did you leave already? »

« what about dinner? »

you turned off your screen.

training the next day felt heavier. maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was everything sitting uncomfortably in your chest, maybe it was the way you kept replaying that practice room scene like a loop you couldn’t shut off. minho noticed instantly that something was off.

“you look like death,” he said as he dropped his bag beside yours.

you didn’t laugh. you didn’t even look at him. you just mumbled something that vaguely resembled, “good morning to you too."

he paused, thrown off just enough for you to catch it in your peripheral vision. his brows knit together, the smallest crease forming between them.

“are you still tired?” he asked, softer this time.

“yeah,” you said, keeping your eyes on your shoelaces.

minho opened his mouth as if to say more, but the instructor called everyone to line up, and he let it go, for now.

training was brutal that day. fast tempo, intricate footwork, too many corrections. by the time break finally came around, you were sweating, breath shaky, shoulders tight with exhaustion.

but you refused to take a break, wanting to go through the choreo once more. that’s when hyunjin approached you.

he had always been kind to you. polite smiles, soft greetings. he offered you a bottle of water, eyes gentle.

“you’re pushing a little hard,” he said, not scolding, just observing. “want to go over the steps together?”

normally, you would have declined out of habit, because minho was always the one you practiced with. but today… today felt different. today, you didn’t want to face the confusion or the hurt. so you nodded.

hyunjin smiled, relieved as if he’d been waiting for you to say yes for longer than he'd admit.

you practiced together in the corner of the room, him counting the beats softly, correcting your posture with careful, respectful touches. nothing flirtatious hidden behind, just gentle help. he made you laugh once with a silly impression of the instructor, and you were too tired to hold it in.

that laugh caught minho’s attention. you felt his stare before you saw it, prickling against your skin. when you finally glanced his way, his expression was tight, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed just slightly.

you looked away first. he didn’t.

for the rest of practice, minho’s mood was different. harder. his movements sharper, his sarcasm a little too quick, his corrections to other trainees clipped and impatient. when hyunjin walked you through the turn sequence, minho let out a scoff loud enough for everyone to hear.

you pretended you didn’t notice. you pretended it didn’t sting.

after practice, hyunjin walked with you towards the hall. you talked about nothing, just light chatter about music and the upcoming monthly evals. he made it easy to breathe again.

you didn’t see minho behind you, watching the two of you walk away together, expression darkening by the second. you didn’t see the way he almost kicked the doorframe, just to let out the frustration chewing at him from the inside.

and you didn’t hear the words he muttered under his breath bitterly, “so that’s how it is now.”

the next day after practice, you were packing your things quietly, mind set on going home, maybe showering, maybe pretending your heart wasn’t a mess of tangled feelings. you haven't spoken to minho all day. at least nothing more than a quick "good morning".

minho hovered nearby, pacing a little, tying and retying the strap of his bag like he was waiting for something. or waiting for you.

you didn’t say anything first. so he did. “so,” he said, voice dripping with lazy sarcasm, “will hyunjin walk you home today too? or was that just a one time thing?”

you froze. your hands stilled on your zipper, breath catching before you could force your expression neutral.

“why does it matter?” you asked, not looking at him.

“oh, it doesn’t,” he snapped back, far too quickly. “just didn’t know you replaced me already.”

that one hit deeper than you expected. you let your bag fall to the bench and turned towards him, jaw tightening. “really? you’re giving me crap about that?”

minho’s eyes flashed. “i’m just calling it how i see it.”

“how you see it?” your laugh came out hollow. “minho, you’ve practically been glued to her. every time i see you, you’re teaching her something or letting her hang off you like–"

“like what?” he cut in sharply, stepping closer. “like i’m being nice for once? sorry, didn’t know that was a crime.”

you clenched your fists. “it's just... unlike you. but it's not even about that. it’s the fact that you ditched me for her.”

he blinked, thrown off. “ditched you? when did i–"

“the night we wanted to grab dinner,” you said, voice cracking despite your best effort. “i waited for you for half an hour. and where were you? in the practice room with her, letting her touch you every five seconds and–"

“you think i wanted to be there?” he cut in harshly. the room went quiet. you swallowed, throat tight. “looked like it.”

“well you didn’t look,” he shot back, frustration spilling over. “you didn’t see me trying to leave. you didn’t hear me telling her i had to go. you just saw what you wanted to see.”

that stung. partly because it wasn’t fair. partly because it was exactly what you had feared.

he stepped closer, anger tightening his shoulders. “and you’ve been off with me for days. barely talking. barely looking at me. should i have guessed this was why?”

you held your ground, but your voice wavered. “it just… felt like you didn’t need me anymore.”

minho let out a humourless laugh. “really? that’s rich. because it kinda felt like you’re the one who didn’t need me.” your chest tightened painfully.

somewhere between the tension, the jealousy, the misunderstandings, and the exhaustion, the fight was no longer about the new trainee or hyunjin.

it was about you. the distance. the hurt neither of you had known how to speak aloud.

your voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “if you didn’t want me around anymore, you could’ve just said so.”

minho’s face twisted, "god, you’re impossible,” he muttered. but beneath it, something inside him cracked. and everything was about to fall out at once.

minho’s jaw tightened, his voice lifting only by a fraction, just enough for you to hear the frustration shaking inside him. “you were the one who told me to be nice to her,” he said, each word controlled. “you asked me to give her a chance. so i did. for you. because i thought it’d make you happy.”

you stared at the floor, fingers curling and uncurling around the strap of your bag. the weight of his words pressed against your chest, and they were suffocating. you opened your mouth, closed it again, opened it one more time.

finally, you whispered, “i didn’t know you being nice to her would make me jealous.”

minho swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “jealous?”

you nodded, barely. “i know i have no right to be…”

he laughed in disbelief. “if you don’t have the right to be jealous, then what the hell does that say about me?” he ran a hand through his hair, pacing, “god, just seeing you with hyunjin–" he cut himself off, shaking his head, turning away like he needed distance before his emotions boiled over completely.

you didn’t let him get far. “he was just being nice to me,” you said softly. “i thought i could use some help since you were… unavailable.”

minho froze. he spun around so fast it startled you. in three long strides, he was in front of you again, closer than before, anger simmering beneath his skin, but something else burning far hotter.

“then ask someone for help who doesn’t want to get in your pants.”

your breath hitched, “minho! that's absolutely not–" he didn’t let you finish. he stepped closer, eyes dark and locked on yours like he was done pretending, done holding back. “someone who doesn’t look at you like he wants to take your clothes off.”

you instinctively stepped back, pulse fluttering out of control. you didn’t even realise how close the wall was until your back hit it.

minho caged you in without hesitation. his hands slid up the wall and planted themselves on either side of your face, his breath fanning across your cheeks, uneven and tortured.

“because that truly drives me insane,” he said, every word rasped between clenched teeth. “he doesn’t deserve to have you.”

your eyes flicked up to his, pulling him in without meaning to. your lips parted, a shaky exhale slipping past them. minho’s gaze dropped to your mouth for a split second too long. that was all it took. he leaned in, voice a low, breaking whisper.

“because you’re mine.”

and his mouth crashed onto yours with weeks of swallowed frustration and unspoken longing poured into a single breathless moment. his hands moved from the wall to your face, fingers firm along your jaw as he angled you perfectly, deepening the kiss like he’d been dying to do it for far too long.

your mind was stunned with shock and adrenaline, but your body didn’t need time to think. your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him back with all the desperation you’d tried so hard to hide.

the moment your lips moved against his, something inside minho seemed to snap and melt at the exact same time. his kiss deepened instantly, growing messier, like he’d been holding himself back for so long that now he physically couldn’t. he angled your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks in frantic strokes, and you felt his whole body lean into you, chest pressed against yours, breath mingling in uneven bursts.

you tugged him closer, needing him closer. you weren’t thinking anymore, just feeling. the warmth of him, the tremble in his jaw, the soft groan that escaped him when your lips moved a little more urgently against his.

minho’s hand slid from your cheek down to your waist, then around your back, pulling you flush against him with a needy strength that made your knees buckle. he held you like he couldn’t stand the thought of even a breath of space between you.

you melted into him, completely. your arms looped around his neck, your fingers brushing the soft hair at his nape, earning another breathy exhale from him. his lips moved hungrily against yours, then softer, then desperate again, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to kiss you hard enough to make up for weeks of tension or slow enough to savour the fact that you were finally in his arms.

he kissed you like he had wanted this for months. like he had dreamed of it in the empty practice rooms and swallowed it down every time you laughed with someone else.

your heart pounded against his chest, and you could feel his racing just as wildly.

at some point, he broke the kiss only to breathe, forehead resting against yours, his chest rising and falling fast. his lips brushed yours again softly, before he whispered against your mouth, “and i’m always available to you.”

the words knocked the air from your lungs. you closed your eyes, hands still clinging to him. “i’m sorry, minho,” you whispered, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “for acting like that.”

he didn’t even hesitate. he kissed you again. this time slow. like he finally had what he’d been craving, waiting for, breaking over. his hands stayed at your waist, grip softer now, thumbs stroking lightly.

when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, he gave you a tiny, breathless smile. “will you finally have dinner with me now?”

₊˚⊹∘•····································•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•·····································•∘⊹˚₊

taglist: @inlovewithstraykids @leewayout @alondra6011 @smiileflower @iconicallyher @aiyanotfound @velvetmoonlght @11racha @nightmarenyxx @thatonegirlonhere ♡

[christopher-bangnaldoskzz]

No Nut November -Hyung Line

Bang Chan

It started as a joke.

Chan, ever the responsible one, made the bet first. “One month. No distractions. We focus on our health, our music, and our discipline.”

And then Y/N walked into the studio wearing his oversized hoodie. His hoodie.

He blinked once. Twice. Then promptly forgot what he was producing.

“You good, Chan?” you ask, sipping your drink, perched on the edge of the couch like temptation wrapped in casual comfort.

“Mhmm,” he hums, eyes fixed on the computer screen that’s not even on anymore.

He convinced himself it was manageable—he could handle this. But the moment you stretched and yawned softly, he nearly lost it. Later, he was found doing push-ups in the hallway.

“Bro... what are you doing?” Changbin asked, surprised.

“Working out the energy,” Chan responded between clenched teeth.

Lee Know

Minho insists he’s unbothered. “It’s easy,” he claims. “Just don’t think about it." But he's clearly lying.

Because Y/N chooses to sit beside him during movie night—and not just beside him, but nestled into his side, fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of his sweater.

“You’re tense,” you tease with a smile.

"Am I?” he mutters, voice dropping an octave.

He stays perfectly still, not even shifting when you rest your head on his shoulder. His eyes stay fixed on the screen, seemingly reciting the alphabet backwards in his mind just to keep it together.

Hyunjin glances over from across the couch and whispers, “Minho’s gonna combust.”

By day ten, Minho is cleaning everything— not out of hygiene, but to distract himself from thinking about you. Even the cats seem to be judging him.

“You’re so weak,” he mutters to himself in the mirror.

"You lasted two minutes of cuddles," he adds, as if taunting his own resolve.

⸻

Changbin

Changbin was determined to win the bet. “I’m strong,” he boasted, flexing his muscles. "I have willpower." But he never saw Y/N walking into the gym in leggings.

“Spot me?” you ask casually.

“Y-yeah, sure,” he stammers, hurriedly trying to compose himself.

Throughout the set, he avoids eye contact, glancing anywhere but at you. The mirror? Nope. The ceiling? Maybe. By the third rep, his face is flushed, and he's mumbling prayers to every deity he knows.

After finishing, he dashingly heads to the locker room to dunk his head under cold water, desperate to cool off.

Later, Chan greets him with a curious, "How’s the challenge going?"

“I’m… suffering," Changbin admits, exhaustion plain in his voice.

He begins doing late-night runs to “clear his mind,” but it’s no use—especially when he sees your text: “Don’t forget to stretch 😉".

⸻

Hyunjin

Hyunjin was brimming with confidence. “I’ll just channel it into my art,” he declared.

But that turned out to be a bad idea. Every painting he created wound up looking just like Y/N.

One night, you visit his studio out of curiosity about what he’s working on.

“Can I see?" you ask.

“No!” he snaps, hastily shielding his canvas as if it’s top secret.

You tilt your head, smirking. “Is that supposed to be me?”

His ears flush bright red. “No… maybe… shut up.”

You sit beside him, peering over his shoulder, and swear you can feel a static warmth radiating from your proximity.

He drops his paintbrush abruptly.

You giggle softly.

He mumbles something that eerily sounds like a prayer.

Later that night, he sends a message to the group chat:

Hyunjin: I think I lost the bet.

Lee Know: How far did you get?

Hyunjin: She smiled.

Taglist: @daceydeath @krishastumblernow @cakeracha @armystay89 @bakedlilgoonie

[catiuskaa]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒

sum: chan is having a hard time not missing you while he’s on tour, missing you even when you’re doing facetime with him.

wc: 1.3k

cw: lowercase, this is very sweet, don’t be fooled by the “dead wife” on the title, it’s all just Banter™️ and people being lovingly missed -but no one dies dw. <3

[🔸★💗★🔸]

when his back finally touches the so mercifully cold fabric of his bedsheets, chan doesn’t even dare to move beneath the covers.

he lets out a groan that could’ve contained stress and tiredness across several generations, and now is released as his eyes flutter close, not quite tired —he wishes he could be that lucky— but itchy in that sleepy way that tells him he’s well over his bedtime.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame him? love makes people a little bit crazy.

“chan-ahhhh,” your voice echoed in the hotel room through his computer, left not too far away from the bed, sitting on the dark desk table there. “muffinnnn,” you teased.

chan knew himself to be a weak man. and a weak man knows no law. or what was it?

“oh noooo,” your voice echoed with that electric sound coming from the computer call. if chan’s eyes were open, he could see you lying on your bed, arms folded beneath your face with one hand holding your face up as you made silly faces at the screen. “baby, your camera’s off.”

a weak man knows no law? no, that can’t be. a something man knows no something. god, english can be such a prick of a language sometimes.

it only came to chan’s head when you started making kissy sounds from your end of the facetime. drowning. a drowning man knows no law. and it only occurred to him because chan would’ve given by now exorbitant amounts of anything, there it be money or else, to be drowning in your kisses as you spoke.

“mmmm,” he hummed all smily, knowing you could hear it from the other end.

“darling,” you mumbled softly, sweet as so many different things that chan would probably get type one diabetes if he tried them all one after the other.

you teased him. “you’re soooo sleepy, mr. chan.” your accusation was met with nothing but silence, so you knew you were right. “you should sleep, honey,” you spoke, softer again.

chan let out tiny whines and moans as he stretched himself.

you hummed, smiling. “mmm, hot boy noises.”

“yes,” he let out before relaxing his body again, now less tense. “your hot boy,” he giggled, the smile rolling off his tone.

there was a bit. two. he turned his head over and looked at the camera.

maybe it was how you were the closest thing he could get to have you there with him, in the flesh, and still, the computer screen could never be enough, or maybe he was just very sleepy indeed, but before he could think too much about it, he let out a soft,

“i miss you so much i get flashbacks of you when i close my eyes.”

and the worst part is that the affirmation wasn’t just said to hear your lovingly cute giggle and the “awww baby” that you let out before, or to see your face all smiley on his computer screen. It was true.

“really?” you asked all giggly, like just the mere thought of your boyfriend thinking of you could turn your heart and your brain into fluffy mush.

it was something like that, to be honest.

“i swear,” he sighed softly, both loving and tired.

“what do you see? Is it like, do you picture me like in dead wife flashbacks, or like, more of a powerpoint of me’s.” you rambled, also starting to feel sleepy.

he snorted, and snuggled into himself, lying on the bed the closest he could be to the computer.

“dead wife?” he let out, “i don’t want my wife to die.”

you cackled, your chest all warm and fuzzy just because he uttered the w-word. “im not dead yet, silly. you don’t know what dead wife flashbacks are?”

maybe chan knew what it was. maybe he’d seen some in a couple of movies here and there. but, it was the perfect excuse to keep hearing your voice and watching you talk as you snuggled against your pillow at the other side of the screen.

he’d be a fool not to take it.

“what are you even talking about.”

you snorted at his tired confussion, and answered the question he was too tired to ask with the necessary questioning tone. “it’s like, in movies, when the main character’s partner dies, usually when they also have a child together, and there’s always like, old videos of usually him recording her while they’re like, on the beach late in the day and the sun is going down and it shines against her and she’s laughing, or something,” you licked your lips, yawning.

he yawned back, the damn thing ever so contagious.

he closed his eyes again, and now tried to imagine you in the way you just described. but, without noticing, he turned around and opened his eyes again, staring at the screen.

“i see my beautiful girl,” he started, his heart softening when he saw your smile on the screen. “she’s all smiley. i see her in a computer screen, lying on her bed,” he chuckled as you started cackling.

“so you just see me in your flashbacks?”

it wasn’t just you. it was you. he didn’t need anything else but you. and he loved you. he loved you, warm, and solid, and equally soft, and tender, and all so… yourself. he’s truly mad for you. and it’s all madness. the one that made him unable to think about all this properly, let alone put it into words —not when there’s so many things left to be said.

he loved you. he’d be nothing but a fool if he didn’t mention the way he was obsessed with every square milimeter of your skin. he wanted to crawl beneath it and cover himself with it like a blanket. he wanted to swim in the ever so shimmery colour of your eyes.

but this was all too much to let out for sleepy, sleepy chan. so he blinked slowly as he looked at you.

“yeah,” he sighed instead, smile still on his face. “no wives killed in the process.”

you let out a soft giggle at his sleepy humour.

“it’s so unfair that your camera’s off,” you then mumbled, your face snuggled in your pillow.

chan shrugged, even though you couldn’t see him. “I turned off the lights, so the camera can’t really see anything. maybe that’s why it turned off.”

“maybe,” you nodded softly.

there’s a beat in which none of you spoke, and then you sighed.

“my love.”

he found himself in awe at how soft the words came out. It tickled his heart, warming it. chan blinked, looking at his computer’s screen.

“i’m so in love with you,” he mumbled. “i miss you so much. two months without seeing you is torture,” he almost whined. “and there’s still a month left.”

“i miss you too. so much.” you smiled sofly, honesty oozing off of it. “i should let you sleep.”

you giggled at chan’s dramatic whine, as you started to drag out the moment you’d need to hang up the call. but you couldn’t help but smile. maybe because you were so in love with your boyfriend he had already drove you mad.

or maybe because of the plane ticket you had, scheduled in a couple days.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame you? love makes people a little bit crazy.

[🔸★💗★🔸]

~kats, who'S POSTING AFTER ALMOST A YEAR?? …yeah, um, sorry, my dudes. this doesn’t mean im back (because writer’s block is still out to fucking catch me and i don’t like making promises i could break) but this short bit came out in a whim and i miss my little tumblr blog corner <3 hope y’all don’t hate me for this one.

catiuskaa, july 2026 ©

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @lyramundana @cheeksung

[iconicallyher]

STRAYKIDS WITH AN INTROVERTED GF .ᐟ

・ PAIRING — bf!skz x fem!reader ・ GENRE / fluff ・ OUTLINE — how i think straykids would act with an introverted girlfriend ・ WARNINGS — nothing..?・WORDCOUNT — 846・ A/N  — cortis version coming soon .ᐟ

STRAYKIDS MASTERLIST.

CHAN falls in love with your quiet presence before anything else. he’s used to noise—music, people, constant motion—so when he’s with you, everything finally slows down. you don’t have to say much; he reads you like lyrics he already knows. when you get overwhelmed in crowds, he’ll step in front of you, subtly shielding you from attention, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your hand. he never forces you to talk in group settings—instead, he’ll glance back every now and then to make sure you’re still comfortable. late at night, you’ll find him lying beside you in silence, soft music playing, his voice low as he whispers, “you don’t have to say a word, baby. i get you.”

MINHO respects your space more than anyone else. he understands the need for quiet, for stillness. when you spend hours reading or doing your own thing, he never interrupts—he’ll just sit beside you with the cats purring between you, both of you lost in your own little worlds. he teases you sometimes, calling you his “quiet storm,” but there’s deep affection behind it. when you’re at gatherings, he keeps an eye on you—not hovering, but protective in the softest way. and when it’s just you two, he’s at his gentlest: brushing stray hairs away, pressing his forehead against yours, whispering, “you don’t have to talk, just stay right here with me.”

CHANGBIN is energy—laughter, excitement, movement—but he never pushes you to match it. if anything, he loves that you balance him out. he’ll talk a lot, and when you simply nod or smile, he feels understood anyway. he gets protective when you’re quiet around others, not because he thinks you can’t speak for yourself, but because he knows you prefer peace. when you get overstimulated, he’s the one who quietly leads you out, hand on your lower back, voice low and reassuring. later, he’ll wrap you in a hug and murmur, “you don’t gotta say anything. i like it when it’s just us.”

HYUNJIN thrives in your silence. as an artist, he finds beauty in the spaces between words, and that’s exactly where you exist—in soft glances, gentle gestures, quiet comfort. he loves when you sit with him while he paints or sketches, sometimes reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear without breaking focus. when he talks, he loves the way you listen—not because you’re quiet, but because your silence feels like care. he’ll take you to calm places—art galleries, hidden parks, late-night drives—because he knows peace means more to you than noise ever could.

HAN is talkative and chaotic, but around you, he softens. he’ll ramble about something for ten minutes, then pause, realizing you’ve just been listening with that tiny smile he loves so much. “you’re really okay just listening to me talk, huh?” he’ll laugh, but there’s awe in his voice. when you speak, he gives you his full attention—leaning in, eyes soft, treating every word like it’s the most important thing in the world. he’s also the type to notice when you’ve had enough socializing; he’ll whisper excuses to the group and sneak you out for snacks and a quiet walk. “just us, yeah?”

FELIX matches your calm like he was made for it. he doesn’t need chatter to feel close to you. quiet mornings with coffee, your head on his shoulder, his hand lazily tracing shapes on your thigh—that’s his paradise. when you get shy around others, he doesn’t tease; instead, he gently keeps you included with small touches or soft glances. “you okay, angel?” he’ll ask under his breath, his deep voice grounding you instantly. when the world gets too loud, felix is the one who holds you close, his warmth and scent enough to remind you that silence can be the safest sound in the world.

SEUNGMIN is calm by nature, so he gets you immediately. he enjoys your quietness because it gives him space to just be. he’ll sit beside you reading, headphones in, no need for conversation—just quiet companionship. but he also likes teasing you when you least expect it, leaning close and whispering, “you’re thinking too loud.” when you get nervous around others, he never calls you out—instead, he quietly takes your hand or changes the topic. seungmin doesn’t need to talk about feelings often, but every once in a while, he’ll look at you with that small, genuine smile and say, “you make silence feel like home.”

JEONGIN loves your introverted side. to him, it feels soft, sincere—like you save the best parts of yourself for him. he’s playful in public, but when you’re quiet, he tones himself down naturally, his teasing gentler, his eyes softer. if he sees you uncomfortable in social settings, he’s quick to offer an out: “wanna go home?”. his voice so quiet it’s just for you. he loves staying in with you, watching movies or baking something new, even if half of it goes wrong. when you thank him for understanding, he’ll grin and shrug, “you don’t have to talk a lot for me to know how you feel.”

A/N: I FUCKING LOVE MARTIN, not edited

© all writing rights reserved @iconicallyher . do not repost, ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎translate, plagiarize, or feed my works to ai.

[lcvelyskz]

Straykids cuddling ⊹ ࣪

ᥬᩤ pairing: ot8 (separate) skz x f!reader

ᥬᩤ content: fluff, sweet skz, cuddling, a bit of jealousy on leeknows

! This is my opinion on straykids favorite way to cuddle their partner!

M.list

Authors note: I've had the urge to write like crazy today lol

🐺 Bangchan ⊹ ࣪

Type: Face-to-face cuddling.

He kicks off his shoes by the front door, shrugs off his jacket, and quietly makes his way to your shared bedroom before taking a shower. As he passes the bed, he notices you fast asleep... on his side.

Whenever Chan comes home after one of those days, the kind that leaves him frustrated with everything but cuddling you somehow makes it all melt away.

A small smile tugs at his lips.

After his shower, he returns with damp hair and slips into bed beside you. The mattress dips beneath his weight, stirring you from your sleep. Your eyes slowly flutter open to find Chan lying on his back with his eyes closed, exhaustion written all over his face.

Normally he'd tease you about stealing his spot, but tonight he doesn't have the energy.

He lets out a quiet sigh before opening his eyes and turning onto his side to face you. You gently brush a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

Without saying a word, you reach over and rest your hand against his chest.

He doesn't need to talk about his day.

Almost instinctively, he shuffles closer until his forehead rests against yours, one arm finding its way around your waist.

He just wants to hold you, feel your warmth, and let the comfort of being in your arms remind him that everything will be okay.

😺 Leeknow ⊹ ࣪

Type: Arm around your shoulders.

Lee Know loves cuddling in private, but when you're out together, his favourite way of showing affection is draping an arm around your shoulders. It's subtle, comfortable, and, in his opinion, the perfect way to keep you close.

This weekend, the two of you had escaped the city for a camping trip, hoping to enjoy a couple of peaceful days surrounded by nature.

Peaceful... until your neighbouring campsite arrived.

Their friend, however, seemed to have taken a particular interest in you.

The group consisted of three people a guy around your age and another couple who seemed perfectly happy keeping to themselves. The couple spent most of the afternoon setting up their tent together and laughing between themselves.

Every now and then he'd wander over with another excuse to chat.

"Need help setting up?"

"Nice weather today, isn't it?"

"Where are you guys from?"

You answered politely every time, completely oblivious to the fact that his conversations sounded a lot more like attempts to flirt.

Unfortunately for him...

Each time the guy appeared, Minho's eyes would flick over from whatever he was doing. He'd quietly watch the interaction before returning to his task, though not without rolling his eyes.

Leeknow noticed.

By the late afternoon, you'd started to notice he seemed quieter than usual.

"Babe?" you asked, nudging his arm. "What's the matter? You've been a little off all day."

He glanced at you before offering a small smile.

"It's nothing~"

You weren't convinced.

As the sun disappeared behind the trees, the temperature began to drop, and everyone started preparing for the evening.

Minho crouched beside your campsite, carefully building a fire.

"Hey!" the neighbour called, wandering over with a grin.

Just as the first flames caught...

"My friends are still messing around with ours. Mind if we hang out here for a bit?"

The conversation started innocently enough.

Before either of you could answer, he plopped himself down on the mat opposite you. A few moments later, his two friends, the couple joined him, apologising with an awkward smile before sitting together on the other side of the fire.

You chatted about camping, favourite hiking spots, and the best places to visit outside Seoul.

Minho had had enough.

Every so often, though, the neighbour would direct another question only at you.

Without a word, he shifted closer until your shoulders brushed.

Then, as naturally as breathing, he slipped his arm around your shoulders and gently pulled you into his side.

The neighbour's eyes flickered down to Minho's arm before looking back up.

You instinctively leaned against him.

A tiny, almost smug smile appeared on Minho's face.

"...Oh."

He wasn't trying to start an argument.

He was simply making one thing very clear.

You were his.

And judging by the way the neighbour suddenly became much more interested in talking to his own friends and left pretty soon...

The rest of the evening passed with you tucked comfortably against his side, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles over your shoulder whenever the conversation drifted away.

The message had been received.

🐰🐷 Changbin ⊹ ࣪

Type: laying on his arm

If there's one thing Changbin takes pride in (besides you), it's the fact that his arms make the perfect pillow.

After every gym session, he'll jokingly flex and say,

"See? Told you these muscles were useful."

Whenever the two of you settle down to watch a movie or climb into bed after a long day, he already knows exactly where you're going to end up.

Curled into his side with your head resting on his arm.

At first, you used to worry about making his arm go numb.

"Binnie, aren't you uncomfortable?"

He'd look at you like you'd just asked the most ridiculous question.

"Why would I spend hours in the gym if my girl can't use my arm as a pillow?"

You couldn't help but laugh.

Somehow, no matter how long the two of you stayed like that, he never complained.

Even when his arm inevitably fell asleep.

Instead, he'd quietly shift just enough to keep you comfortable without waking you.

The TV would still be playing in the background while you drifted off, your breathing evening out against him.

Changbin would glance down with the softest smile, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"...Sleep well, baby."

His arm might be numb.

His shoulder might be aching.

But as long as you were sleeping peacefully beside him...

He wouldn't move an inch.

🥟 Hyunjin ⊹ ࣪

Type: laying into him

Hyunjin has always believed that actions speak louder than words.

He isn't the type to constantly ask for cuddles.

Instead, he'll quietly open his arms, knowing you'll naturally find your way into them.

Whether you're sitting on the couch, the floor, or at the end of the bed, he'll sit behind you and let you lean back against his chest. One arm rests securely around your waist while the other absentmindedly plays with your fingers or traces lazy circles along your arm.

Sometimes the two of you don't even talk.

You'll be reading a book while he sketches in his notebook.

Watching a movie.

Scrolling on your phones.

Or simply enjoying the quiet.

Every now and then, he'll rest his chin on

your shoulder just to steal a glance at whatever has your attention.

"You look comfortable."

"I am."

"Good."

He'll smile to himself before pressing a soft kiss against your temple.

If you start to drift off, he'll gently tighten his arms around you, making sure you're fully supported before continuing whatever he was doing.

To Hyunjin, moments like these are his favourite.

No big gestures.

No words.

Just the quiet comfort of knowing you're safe in his arms, exactly where you belong.

🐿️ Han ⊹ ࣪

Type: as close as physically possible.

If Han could somehow merge into you while cuddling...

He absolutely would.

Whether you're lying in bed, sitting on the couch, or waiting for your food at a restaurant, he's always finding a way to be touching you.

An arm around your waist.

Your legs tangled together.

His hand intertwined with yours.

It doesn't matter how—as long as he's close.

His favourite thing, though, is burying his face into you.

Your neck.

Your shoulder.

The crook of your neck.

Your chest.

He'll nuzzle into whatever part of you is closest, letting out the happiest little sigh before mumbling,

"You're comfy..."

Sometimes you'll laugh because his hair tickles your skin.

"Jisung..."

"Mhm?"

"I can't breathe."

He'll pull back for approximately two seconds.

"...Sorry."

Then, before you even realise it, he's tucked himself right back against you again.

"You literally just apologised."

"I know..."

"...I missed you."

Even if you've only been apart for an hour.

He's constantly stealing forehead kisses, wrapping both arms around you, and pulling you impossibly closer whenever he gets the chance.

He's basically your own personal weighted blanket.

Except this one occasionally starts talking, laughs at his own jokes, and refuses to let go until you promise you'll stay for "just five more minutes."

Because if Han had it his way...

Every cuddle would end with the two of you practically glued together, his face hidden against your shoulder while he quietly drifted off to sleep, completely convinced there was no better place in the world to be.

🐥 Felix ⊹ ࣪

Type: his head in your lap

Felix's favourite place in the world isn't a beach, a studio, or even his own bed.

It's your lap.

No matter where the two of you are, if you're sitting down for longer than five minutes, he'll somehow end up lying across the couch with his head resting comfortably in your lap.

It's become such a normal occurrence that you don't even question it anymore.

Watching a movie?

Felix is already making himself comfortable.

Reading a book?

His head is in your lap before you've even finished the first page.

Scrolling on your phone?

He'll quietly wander over before gently laying his head down like a cat searching for the warmest spot in the house.

Almost immediately, your fingers find their way into his hair.

He absolutely melts.

His eyes flutter shut as you scratch lightly at his scalp, twirl strands of his hair around your fingers, or gently massage behind his ears.

"...Don't stop."

"I wasn't planning to."

A sleepy smile spreads across his face.

He'll happily stay there for hours if you'll let him, occasionally looking up at you just to admire you before reaching up to intertwine your fingers with his.

"You know..." he mumbles.

"Hm?"

"I think this is my favourite place."

You smile, pretending not to know what he means.

"Your lap."

His answer is so quick it makes you laugh.

"If I could stay here forever, I would."

🐶 Seungmin ⊹ ࣪

Type: legs intertwined

Seungmin isn't overly affectionate in obvious ways.

He doesn't always need to be wrapped around you or constantly holding your hand.

But if the two of you are sitting or lying down together...

Your legs are almost guaranteed to be tangled together.

It's something that happened so naturally neither of you even remember when it started.

You'll be watching a movie, reading, or scrolling through your phones, and before you know it, his leg has found yours beneath the blanket.

Sometimes it's just your feet brushing together.

Other times, your calves are hooked together so naturally that if one of you moves, the other follows without even thinking.

"You know..." you mumble one evening, glancing down at your intertwined legs.

"Hm?"

"I don't think we've sat separately in weeks."

Seungmin looks down for a second before a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

"...Really?"

"You've literally got me trapped."

"I do?"

He says it so innocently that you can't help but laugh.

Instead of apologising, he simply shifts a little closer, his leg pressing more comfortably against yours.

"Better?"

"You made it worse."

"Good."

His teasing grin gives him away immediately.

It's never something he thinks about.

His body just unconsciously seeks yours.

And on the rare occasions your legs aren't touching...

He'll quietly stretch one out until they are again, almost as if he's checking you're still there.

Not because he needs reassurance.

But because being connected to you even in the smallest way makes being together feel complete.

🦊 I.N ⊹ ࣪

Type: Spooning

Spooning is Jeongin's favourite way to cuddle.

Not because it's the cutest.

Not because it's the comfiest.

But because he loves knowing you're safe in his arms.

The moment the two of you climb into bed, he'll instinctively reach for you, gently wrapping an arm around your waist before pulling you against his chest.

It doesn't matter if you're watching a movie, talking about your day, or simply getting ready to fall asleep.

If you're together...

He's spooning you.

"You comfortable?" he asks quietly, adjusting the blanket around the two of you.

"Mhm."

"Too tight?"

You shake your head, smiling to yourself.

"Perfect."

Satisfied, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your head before resting his chin lightly against your hair.

His arms never stay still for long.

Sometimes he'll absentmindedly rub slow circles over your stomach.

Other times, he'll gently trace patterns against your arm or intertwine your fingers with his.

If you're having a rough day, he'll hold you a little closer without saying much at all.

He isn't always the best at finding the right words.

But somehow, the warmth of his embrace says everything he wants to.

And on the nights when you're the one who wakes up first...

You'll often find Jeongin still holding onto you exactly the same way he did when you both fell asleep.

As if, even in his dreams, the last thing he wants to do is let you go.