contains: +18, idol!chan, backstage pass, "come here" chan, praise, reader is his babygirl, slowww burn, teasing af, dom/sub energy shift, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), grinding, riding, unprotected sex (don't, pls), overstimulation (f rec.), size kink
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)
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summary: You were just another fan. One among many. You were always at the front. Always perfectly put together. And now, for the first time, wearing a Wolfchan pin. And Chan? Chan noticed. He always notices. That night, with the stage lights flashing and his gaze locking on you in the crowd, you knew: He was playing with you. And you? You were ready to play back.
!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!
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You didn’t go to every concert. Just… enough of them.
Enough that the boys had started to recognize your face. Enough that you didn’t really have to scream or wave for their attention anymore, they just knew you were there.
You always stood close, always made sure you got there early enough to be in their line of sight. You dressed up for it. Full face, perfect hair, outfits that took effort. You liked feeling put together, like you belonged in a crowd that was watching, like you might just catch someone watching you back.
And maybe you had. Because lately? Lately they were looking. Really looking. They noticed. But Chan? He noticed differently.
Chan had this… way. This whole thing he did when he was looking at someone. Like he was reading them. Like he could crack a person open just by holding eye contact a second too long. He made it feel personal, even in a crowd of thousands.
You weren’t wearing anything new, really. Same makeup, same lashes, same signature lipstick. It was cute, but not groundbreaking. No... the only thing different tonight was the pin. Small, clipped to the strap of your shirt: a little Wolfchan SKZOO plush pin. Just a nod, just something fun. Not that you had a bias or anything, you loved all of them, and you weren’t lying when you said that.
And Chan?
Chan fucking noticed.
You didn’t catch it at first. You were busy dancing, singing, caught in the high of it all. But then… you looked up. And he was staring. Dead at you. No smile, no crowd-pleaser expression, just a tilt of the head, and those sharp eyes locked on the pin like it meant something.
And then... then he smirked. A tiny twitch of his mouth. Private. Subtle. But you felt it.
And you shouldn’t have, but your stomach flipped.
Why did he notice? Out of all things, out of all people, why did he look at a pin and suddenly see you?
—
You were already nervous before you even left the house for this concert.
Two days, that’s all it had been. But you hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The way he looked at you. The smirk.
You told yourself it was nothing. You weren’t that kind of fan. You weren’t delusional. You weren’t reading into it. But now, standing here again, same spot, same energy, same beating in your chest, you wondered if maybe… just maybe, you were right.
Tonight, you didn’t do anything different. Same full face, same energy. Same love for all of them. But the pin? You wore it again. Because… how could you not?
The show goes on like always, flawless vocals, blinding lights, sweat and glitter and power. You’re in it, screaming lyrics, jumping with the beat. But somewhere inside, you’re waiting. Hoping.
And then, it happens.
During the talk break, the boys are on stage. Chan’s holding the mic, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He laughs at something Jisung says, but then, unprompted, he starts talking. “You know…” he says, voice smooth but a little distracted, like his thoughts are elsewhere. “We’ve done a lot of shows lately. Different cities. Different stages.”
He looks out over the crowd. Not at you, not even close. But still, something about the way he pauses makes your skin spark.
“But it’s kinda crazy. I keep seeing familiar faces. People who show up again and again… makes me feel lucky, y’know?”
The crowd cheers. It sounds like white noise in your ears. And then, his voice drops just a little.
“Especially the ones who wear Wolfchan pins.”
A beat.
“Ugh. So cute.”
Chan laughs, smiling with his eyes. He definitely doesn’t look at you. But the crowd erupts. Screaming. Laughing. Some girls flash their pins. Some tease each other. The moment moves on.
But for you?
Your heart has completely stopped.
Because somehow, you knew. You knew he meant you.
And suddenly the lights feel hotter, your hands a little shakier. You look up, and just for half a second, half a breath, his eyes flick your way.
And then he’s gone again.
The concert doesn’t slow down after that moment, it only gets hotter, louder, more chaotic. But for you, everything is muffled around the edges.
Because now you know. He saw you. Really saw you.
You try to keep cool, try to stay in it, singing, dancing, smiling like your heart isn’t climbing out of your chest. But the moment replays in your head over and over again: Especially the ones who wear Wolfchan pins. Ugh. So cute.
He said it like a throwaway line. But it wasn't.
And now, halfway through another song, he's moving across the stage, close to your section. He’s hyped, bouncing with the beat, sweat glistening on his collarbone, and you're ready to stay chill, keep your hands down, your expression calm...
Except.
He glances toward your row.
Just for a second.
And suddenly, you can’t help yourself.
You catch his eyes, quick, electric, and without thinking, you do it. That little two-finger move: from your own eyes to him. A silent “I’m watching you.” A "don’t think I didn’t catch what you did." A tease.
And the second he sees it, he stops walking. Dead in his tracks. He's... smiling.
His grin spreads slow, devastating. Dangerous. Then he points. Directly at you. Not casually, not passively, but with intention. And then? He lifts that same hand and points to the floor in front of him.
Like: "Yeah. You. Come here."
The world disappears. You feel it in your spine, in your fingertips, in the burn rising up your neck. You can’t breathe. But you keep your posture. You don’t step forward. You don’t scream or wave.
You just smile, tight, smug, and say it low under your breath, knowing damn well there’s no way he could hear you over the noise:
“Don’t you dare me.”
But he’s still watching you.
And somehow, somehow, you know he read your lips. Because his eyes drop. Right to your mouth.
And then he mouths back, slowly, making sure you'd understand what he's saying:
“Oh, I do.”
—
The final bow is chaos. Confetti in the air, lights pulsing, the crowd’s screaming so loud it feels like thunder inside your bones. The boys wave, laugh, say their final thanks, and Chan?
Chan doesn’t look your way again.
Not even once.
And that, somehow, makes it worse. Or better. Or… whatever this thing crawling under your skin is.
You stay in your spot even as the crowd starts shifting, still coming down from the high, wondering if you imagined it all. The smirk. The stare. The Oh, I do.
You almost decide to leave. But then.
A hand taps your shoulder, light, but deliberate. You turn, and there’s a staff member standing there. Lanyard around her neck, black earpiece in her ear.
She leans in. “This is for you,” she says, voice just loud enough to cut through the buzz. She slips something into your hand and disappears before you can ask a single thing.
You look down.
It’s a small black envelope. No writing. Just sealed. Heavy in your hand like it knows something you don’t.
Your fingers shake slightly as you break the seal.
Inside: a single piece of paper.
“Come backstage. I’ll be waiting. - CB97”
You don’t remember how you get to the hallway. You just follow where you’re led, escorted through security, past double doors, into quieter corridors.
You were told to wait.
“Just a few minutes,” the staffer had said, smile polite but unreadable. “He’s just wrapping up some press stuff. We’ll let you know.”
So now you’re alone, backstage, but not with him. You sit on a low bench in the hallway, staring at the ground, heart hammering like it’s trying to break through your chest.
You haven’t even had time to process.
He invited you. You are backstage. For him.
It’s not like you ever thought he didn’t see you. The eye contact, the teasing, the way he pointed at the floor like he owned the goddamn world, but still, sitting here now, in the silence, it feels too big. Too unreal.
Your phone buzzes in your lap. You glance down.
Bubble.
From Chan.
You open it with a shaky thumb.
thank you guys so much for tonight! we really felt the love out there. it’s crazy seeing familiar faces again… you guys always show up looking so good tho.
Your stomach tightens.
Another message pops up almost immediately.
especially the ones wearing wolfchan pins! how do u expect me to resist when my babygirls show up like that?
You blink.
Stare.
Read it again.
And then again.
Babygirls.
Was Chan… was he... calling you… his babygirl?
You scroll up, looking for context, for anything that would make this more general. But the way it’s written, soft, teasing, casually possessive, like he meant it for someone specific.
You press your thighs together. Suddenly, you’re too hot. Your pulse is rushing in your ears. Your phone buzzes again, a different notification this time.
You look up.
The same staff member is back, smiling gently. “He’s ready for you now,” she says. “Let’s go?”
You don’t answer right away. Because all you can think is:
He invited you backstage.
He pointed at you in front of everyone.
He called you babygirl.
And now you’re going to him.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening.
—
The door closes behind you with a soft click.
And just like that, you’re alone with him.
Chan’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, damp hair pushed back, black tee clinging to him like sin. A towel hangs loose around his neck, and there's still a flush in his cheeks from the stage. He looks tired. Lit. Alive.
But the moment he sees you, he straightens. Subtle, like a reflex. His lips curl. That smirk.
“You came.”
You shrug, trying to play it cooler than your heartbeat allows.
“You dared me.”
He laughs softly, nodding once, gaze still locked on yours.
“Yeah, I did.”
You step further inside, heart pounding, body high on adrenaline and something else entirely, something heavier, slower. His eyes follow you, dragging slow, like he's taking his time now that you're finally in reach. You don’t sit. You stand your ground.
He watches, waiting for something, maybe a word, maybe a slip-up.
When you give him nothing, he’s the one who gives in.
“So.” He tilts his head, chin up just a little. “How many shows now?”
You meet his gaze. “Enough.”
“Yeah?” He leans back against the couch, lazy. “And you always dress up like that?”
Your arms fold instinctively across your chest, a defense. “Just feels right. It’s a concert.”
“No, it’s our concert,” he says, low, amused. “Feels more personal when you keep showing up.”
Your breath catches, but you don’t flinch.
“Recognize a few people by now,” he goes on, eyes never leaving you. “But you? You're always front row. Always… ready.”
You raise a brow. “Ready for what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just smirks again, like he knows you know.
Then his eyes flick down, to the Wolfchan pin on your shirt.
“You wore that again.”
You glance down like you forgot it was there. “It’s cute.”
“It’s mine.”
That pulls a reaction out of you, a faint smile, despite yourself.
But you don’t let it show too much. Instead:
“Doesn’t mean you’re my bias.”
That stops him. Briefly. Just a flicker across his expression. Then he sits forward, elbows on his knees, watching you with that infuriating calm.
“Oh.” A pause. A slow, almost dangerous tilt of his head.
“Is that so?”
You nod. “I like all of you.”
He hums at that. Not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just a low sound in his throat, thoughtful. Almost like a warning.
Then...
“Wow,” he murmurs, leaning back again. “I’ll ask that again by the end of the night. We’ll see.”
We’ll see.
And just like that, the floor beneath your feet shifts. The air turns heavier. The smirk is still on his lips, but there’s something in his eyes now, locked in, lit with intent, and it knocks the breath out of you.
The words linger. Heavy. Direct.
Your stomach flips, but you don’t let it show. You hold his gaze, steady and just a little dangerous. Then, with a soft, almost lazy shrug:
“Hmm. Okay.” A pause. A tilt of your head. “Looking forward to seeing what you’ll do to win my bias title, then.”
You swear he stops breathing for half a second. Then, his tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a quiet laugh. Not out of amusement, out of approval.
“Shit,” he says under his breath, grinning now. “You’re trouble.”
The kind he likes.
His eyes drag down on you again, slower this time. Less subtle.
“Good,” he adds, voice a little rougher now. “I like working for what’s mine.”
Your skin sparks at the word — mine — but you keep your expression carefully neutral. Let him be the one off-balance tonight.
You just smile, sweet as sin.
“Guess we’ll see if you’re worth the bias spot.”
That earns a quiet groan from him, like you hit a nerve on purpose.
“Oh, babygirl,” he murmurs, low and deep, voice full of gravel and certainty. “I am.”
Babygirl.
Your breath catches. Your body reacts before your brain does, skin prickling, stomach twisting. That word again. That nickname. And hearing it out loud, in his voice?
It melts you instantly. You try to recover. Try to play it off.
“You always call random girls babygirl?”
He laughs, quiet, warm, and completely unbothered.
“Of course not,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Only the ones that are mine.”
You freeze. No witty comeback. No smug little line. Just, nothing.
He sees it. Smiles wider. Softer, this time. And then he really kills you.
“Yeah,” he says, taking one slow step closer. “You heard that right. You’re mine for tonight.”
Another pause, deliberate, held just long enough to feel like a challenge.
“I promise I take good care of my babygirls. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Your knees almost give.
And the worst part?
He knows.
He sees the way you freeze. The way your breathing shifts. The way your lips part just a little like you want to speak but don’t know how. He’s watching every tiny movement like it’s his favorite song. So you force your body to stay upright. You meet his gaze head-on.
And you say, soft, but clear:
“I’m not.”
No wobble in your voice. No flinch. His jaw tenses. Just a little. Like that answer did something to him.
“Good,” he watches your face a beat longer. “Come on,” he says, voice low, sure. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
And just like that, you follow.
No questions. No hesitation. Just your heart thundering behind your ribs as you trail behind him, out of the venue, through the private corridors, into the car. The windows are tinted. The space is dim. Private.
You sit beside him. The leather seats cold beneath you.
But his presence?
Blazing.
He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t touch you. But he’s close.
Close enough that when you shift your leg, it brushes his. When you breathe in, you can smell the faint warmth of his cologne, the sweat from the show still clinging to his skin.
Your thighs are barely touching.
At first.
But as the car moves, and the minutes pass, Chan relaxes.
His legs spread wider, just naturally, lazily. His knee nudges yours once. Then again. And then he doesn’t move it away.
Your body goes still, hyperaware of the contact. He still hasn’t looked at you. Still hasn’t spoken.
And then...
His hand moves. Not sudden. Not demanding. Just a slow shift to his side, and then...
He touches your knee.
Warm palm. Light grip. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
You look down. His hand rests there for a beat.
Not moving. Just being there.
You don’t say a word. Neither does he.
The car slows. The lights shift. The driver says something quiet into the mic, and the door unlocks with a click.
Chan finally turns his head. Leans a little closer. And with that same casual, quiet confidence, he pats your thigh.
Soft. Warm. Possessive.
“We’re here.”
You’re not sure how you’re still breathing.
But you follow him out of the car anyway.
—
The door clicks shut behind you.
And before you can turn…
He’s already there.
You barely register your back hitting the wall. His body presses into yours, not hard, but like gravity, like inevitability.
His hands find your waist first, firm and steady, like he’s making sure you’re real. Then your face, his thumb under your jaw, tilting you up.
And when he speaks, his voice is rougher, lower, more him than it’s ever been.
“You know what you did to me?”
You blink, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
“Always showing up this pretty. And now wearing that pin… giving me those fucking eyes all night?”
Your lips part. Maybe to respond. Maybe to breathe. But you never get the chance.
Because he kisses you.
Hard.
No hesitation. No buildup. Just all that slow-burning tension finally crashing down, his mouth hot and demanding, lips bruising yours in the best way.
And the way he kisses?
It’s not messy. It’s focused. Like he’s been waiting, fantasizing, knowing exactly how this would feel. Like he wants to memorize your taste before he even thinks about anything else.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you there. Not so you can’t move, so you won’t dare.
And he doesn’t stop to ask if it’s okay.
Because your hands are already in his shirt. Your body is already arching into his like you need it. Like you've wanted this just as bad.
He breaks the kiss only to breathe against your mouth.
“You’re mine tonight, babygirl.”
And when he says it this time?
It’s not a flirtation.
It’s a fact.
The second his lips crash into yours, the world disappears. There’s no hotel room. No walls. No floor beneath your feet.
Just him.
And god, his mouth.
You had seen it so many times. On screens, in stages, curved into grins that felt too sweet to be real. But this close?
It’s criminal. The most kissable mouth you’ve ever seen. Soft, full, sinful.
But his kiss?
It’s sweet and sharp. Like honey laced with poison. Like something designed to ruin you slowly.
And it does.
You melt into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His body is solid against yours, like he’s built to hold weight, your weight, and he’s not letting go.
His scent hits you next.
Clean sweat. Faint cologne. Skin and heat and adrenaline. You don’t even realize you’ve inhaled until it makes your knees go weak.
And his hair…
Damp from the show. Little curls at his nape breaking free, curling behind his ears, soft and unstyled and real. You bury your hand there before you even think about it, and fuck, it’s like silk under your fingers.
He groans into your mouth at the touch, and the sound sends a pulse straight through your stomach.
And his hands…
You don’t know how someone so strong can touch you this gently.
There’s nothing frantic. Nothing sloppy. Every brush of his fingers is grounding, your waist, your back, your cheek. Like he’s mapping you out. Memorizing you through the skin.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, foreheads brushing, lips barely apart.
His thumb strokes your cheekbone.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, like the question costs him effort to ask.
You nod before you even mean to.
Your voice? Gone.
Because you’ve never felt anything like this. Never been this seen. This wanted. Every part of your body is on fire and floating at the same time.
And he’s right there, holding you through it.
You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling like a storm. Your skin still tingles from his touch, every inch of you alive and raw.
“God, Chan,” you say, voice low but full of awe, almost a whisper but sharp like a blade. “Why the fuck are you this charming? You don’t even seem to try. You just are.”
You brush past him, needing space, air… anything to steady the fire burning inside you.
But even as you move, you don’t look away. Your eyes catch his, wild and dark, and something unspoken passes between you.
“You know,” you murmur, stepping closer again, your fingers brushing over his arm, “I’ve dreamed about you.”
Chan stills.
Your hand trails upward, the curve of his shoulder, the line of his neck, until you’re cupping his jaw, your thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. His skin is warm beneath your touch. Real. Too real.
You trace his lips, watching how they part slightly under your fingertip.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low, rough. “What you dreamed about?”
You shrug, all fake casual. Like your heart isn’t trying to punch out of your chest.
“Well, you know… I bet you’d be an awesome boyfriend and all. Sweet. Caring.”
You look at him through your lashes, and fuck, the smile already tugging at his mouth sends a jolt down your spine.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with amusement, heat building behind them.
“But?” he prompts, soft and dangerous.
You smirk, just a little.
“But I… I kinda…”
The word hangs there, teasing. He leans in slightly, eyes locked on yours like he already knows you’re about to wreck him.
“You kinda what, babygirl?”
That word again.
And just like that, your breath stutters. Your knees almost give out, again.
But you hold your ground. You bite your bottom lip, and let the words spill, soft but laced with fire:
“You’re kinda naughty, aren’t you?” You tilt your head, watching him freeze, just for a beat. “So that’s the kind of stuff I dreamed about.”
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with heat, with want, with everything that’s been boiling under the surface since the minute you locked eyes.
Chan’s jaw tenses. His hands flex at his sides, like he’s barely keeping them from reaching for you again.
And then, he steps forward, into your space, until your back hits the wall again.
His face is so close, you feel every word ghost across your lips:
“Then let me make your dreams come true.”
You don’t remember how you made it to the bed. Only that one second you were standing there, breathless and burning, and the next you were falling back onto cool sheets, with Chan crawling over you like a storm rolling in, steady, powerful, inevitable.
His mouth is on you again before you can speak. Not just kissing. Claiming. Your lips, your throat, your collarbone, each kiss deliberate, deep, like he’s trying to ruin every inch of you with his mouth. You arch into him and he groans like the sound is being torn out of his chest.
“Fuck—” he pants, dragging his hand up your thigh, “you feel unreal, babygirl.”
That nickname again. And this time, it doesn’t just make your knees weak, it pulls a moan straight from your throat. You’re already squirming under him, nerves buzzing so loud you can barely think. And he notices. He loves it.
“Yeah? This what you wanted?” he whispers against your skin, lips ghosting over your stomach as he drags your shirt up slowly, watching your body twitch under the touch. “You dreamed about me all over you like this?”
Your hands twist in the sheets as he finally gets the shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him. He just looks at you for a second. Chan freezes. Eyes dark. Mouth parted. Chest rising and falling like he’s trying not to devour you all at once.
You're in a black corset, hugging every curve, cinched perfectly at your waist, boned structure pushing your tits up just enough. It’s not subtle. It’s not sweet. It’s intentional.
And the way Chan’s jaw tightens, the sound that rips from his chest? Wrecks you.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “You wore this under your shirt?”
He reaches out like he needs to touch to believe it, hands gliding along your sides, slow and reverent.
“You tryna kill me, baby?”
You blink up at him, breathless, just watching his reaction.
“No,” you whisper. “Just thought… if I ever got this close to you, I wanted to be ready.”
That breaks him.
He leans in, groaning, pressing his forehead to yours as he mutters, “You’re insane.” His fingers dig into your waist now, not hard, but firm enough to make you whimper. Grounding. Claiming.
He looks down at you again, at the way the corset lifts your chest, molds to your skin, and he laughs, soft, dark, disbelieving.
“How the fuck am I supposed to behave now?”
His mouth finds your chest, kissing along the edges of lace like he’s worshiping you, sucking marks into skin wherever he can reach. His hands roam lower, gripping your thighs like he’s memorizing every inch.
His lips trail slow, deliberate kisses along the edges of the corset, fingers tracing the delicate lace without breaking contact with your skin. Every soft touch sends electricity shooting through you, and you can feel him fighting to stay composed, but failing.
He groans low, breath hitching as his hands slide up and down your waist, the boned structure pressing firmly under his palms.
“Damn,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with need. “This… this is torture.”
His mouth drifts back up to your collarbone, lips sucking and biting gently, but his hands don’t stop teasing the corset’s tight fit, fingers dragging along the satin in a maddening dance.
His eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and wild.
“I wanna take it off,” he admits, voice raw. “But right now… I wanna drive you crazy with it on.”
And with that, he presses a kiss just under your ear, teeth grazing softly as his hands keep teasing, sending shivers racing down your spine.
You arch into him, breath catching.
His fingers curl tighter around your waist, nails barely grazing your skin through the fabric, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the hunger, the impatience.
Then, without warning, he grips the edge of the corset’s laces and pulls.
The satin slips down your curves like liquid, exposing every inch of skin beneath. Your breath hitches as cool air hits you, and his mouth drops open just a little, raw, unfiltered desire shining in his eyes.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice husky and broken. “You’re fire.”
He leans in, lips crashing against yours with a desperate hunger, hands sliding over your bare waist and back. His mouth moves with an urgent, needy rhythm, and you melt into him once more, skin alive with every touch.
“Mine for the night, huh?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip.
You meet his eyes, breath shallow. “No,” you whisper. “I think I’m yours for real.”
His grin is slow and wicked, a glint of satisfaction lighting up his face. “Oh, I guess I’m winning already,” he laughs softly, dragging his fingers down the curve of your waist, “and I haven’t even started.”
He leans in, mouth brushing against your ear, voice low and dirty. “You remember what you said earlier? That you didn’t have a bias?”
You nod, barely, your body arching toward his.
“Well,” he breathes, lips grazing your skin as he trails down your neck, “by the time I’m done with you, you won’t remember anyone else.”
His fingers slide between your thighs, finally touching where you’re aching for him, slow and deliberate. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders.
“You’ll only remember me,” he whispers against your collarbone, then kisses it. “My name. Your favorite.”
He looks up at you then, eyes dark and full of promise.
“You’ll say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You’ll say my name while I make you come.”
You whimper, already breathless, hips twitching as he kisses lower and lower, closer and closer, but never quite where you need him. You didn't even realize he took off your pants until you felt the heat of his hands press against your thighs, keeping them open, keeping you at his mercy.
“But not yet,” he smirks, trailing the tip of his nose along your inner thigh, you were feeling his hot breath in your skin. “Not until I say so.”
He licks a slow stripe along your skin, giving you several kisses, still avoiding the spot that’s throbbing for him. You let out a desperate little sound, back arching off the bed, but he only chuckles.
“Already begging and I haven’t even tasted you yet?” His voice is a low rasp, almost affectionate. “You really are mine.”
You reach for his hair, trying to pull him where you want him, but he tuts and pins your hips down firmly.
“Patience, babygirl. I’m gonna take my time with you.”
His thumbs hook under your thighs, spreading you wider, and his eyes drop to the soaked fabric between your legs. He groans, low, hungry, like he’s barely holding himself back.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging one finger along the damp cotton. “Dripping through your panties. Fuck, you really did dream about this, didn’t you?”
Your hips roll instinctively toward his touch, chasing friction, but he pulls his hand away just as quickly, smirking.
“Desperate little thing,” he teases, placing a soft kiss right over your clothed core. The pressure makes you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “You gonna be good for me and wait?”
“Chan,” you whimper, voice already trembling.
He gives you another kiss. "Hmm, you smell so good."
He hums, pleased, and then slides one finger over the wet patch again, slow, steady, applying the slightest pressure. Then back. Then again. Just enough to make you ache for more.
You twist under him, and he finally slips the tip of his finger beneath the edge of your panties, brushing against your folds, barely there. Maddening.
“You’re so wet,” he groans. “And so fucking soft.”
He watches you like he’s studying every reaction, eyes locked on yours as he presses against your entrance, just enough to tease.
Then his mouth is back on you, this time, tongue pressing against the soaked fabric in one long, slow stroke. The heat of it through your panties sends sparks up your spine.
You moan, your thighs clenching around his head, and he just laughs, low and wrecked.
“I can taste you through these,” he mutters against you. “You gonna come like this, baby? With your panties still on?”
His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles over your clit, the thin fabric of your panties the only thing keeping him from truly devouring you. It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough, but it’s making you insane all the same. Your hips buck involuntarily, desperate for more, but his grip is firm, keeping you right where he wants you.
“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, breath hot against the soaked fabric. His tongue flicks again, slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “Tell me and I promise I’ll take care of it.”
You’re panting now, fingers tangled in his curls, eyes half-lidded as you look down at him.
“I want you,” you breathe. “I want your mouth. No teasing. Please, Chan—”
“Mmm,” he hums, mouth curving against you in a smug smile. “Good girl.”
His hands slip beneath the curve of your ass, lifting you just slightly, and he mouths at you again, harder this time, dragging his tongue in deeper pressure over your clit, still through the soaked fabric.
“Fuck, I loved hearing you beg,” he growls, voice muffled. “And you taste so fucking sweet like this.”
Then finally, finally, his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and he pulls them down, slow and deliberate, watching your face the entire time.
“You’re gonna fall apart for me now, babygirl,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs again. “And you’re gonna say my name when you do.”
His mouth is on you, bare, hot, devastating. No more barriers. No more teasing. Just Chan, and that sinful tongue, and his name in pieces on your lips.
He groans the moment he tastes you properly, like it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever had in his mouth, and then he dives in, tongue flat and wide as he licks a slow, firm stripe from your entrance up to your clit. You gasp, back arching, and his hands grip your thighs tighter to hold you in place.
“God, Chan—”
“That’s it,” he pants, lips wet, eyes glazed. “Say it again. Louder.”
He locks his mouth around your clit and sucks, tongue flicking in tight, focused circles, and your hips jerk off the bed, his hands press down harder, grounding you. Controlling you.
One of his hands leaves your thigh just long enough to slide two fingers into you, deep and smooth, curling up at the perfect angle.
“Fuck—” you cry out, hands grabbing at anything, his hair, the sheets, your own skin.
His mouth doesn’t let up. Not for a second. He’s moaning into you like the taste of you is driving him wild, his fingers moving slow and deep, tongue fast and relentless. The contrast is devastating.
You feel it building fast, hot and tight and overwhelming, your body trembling from head to toe.
“That's it, babygirl,” he growls between licks, fingers never stopping. “You're so close. I can feel it.”
He speeds up, tongue working your clit like it’s his only job in the world, and you break, your thighs shaking, body tensing, and then unraveling in his hands as you come with a loud, desperate cry.
“f-fuck, Chan—!”
He groans at the sound, eyes fluttering closed as if you saying his name like that feeds something deep in him.
He doesn’t stop.
He keeps licking through it, slower now, coaxing every last wave out of you until you’re twitching and whimpering from overstimulation.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, chin wet, and there’s a look in his eyes that’s pure wrecked pride. He crawls up your body, hovering over you, his voice wrecked and low.
“There she is,” he whispers, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Good fucking girl. You said my name so pretty.”
You’re breathless, completely boneless beneath him, limbs trembling, chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven bursts. Your thighs are still twitching from the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy with the kind of bliss that feels almost unreal.
“God, Chan,” you manage, voice raw and shaky, “you’re insane. You’re better than what I dreamed of.”
He laughs, low, dark, satisfied.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, brushing your sweaty hair back from your forehead. “Didn’t think I could top your dirty little imagination, huh?”
You shake your head, lips parted, still trying to process the wreckage he just left behind. His hand slides down to your thigh again, gripping it with possessive ease, thumb stroking slow circles into your skin.
“You’re still shaking,” he whispers, voice smug now. “Still fucking trembling and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
You let out a broken sound, part whimper, part breathless laugh, and he leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then your throat.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Wrecked. Messy. Dripping all over the sheets because I ate you through your panties.”
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, expression gleaming with that cocky, almost reverent intensity. Your heart kicks in your chest, but your lips curl into a slow smile, something shifting behind your eyes.
Still breathless, still aching, but now… now you want a taste of him.
Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers skating over his abs, down to the waistband of his pants. You feel him suck in a sharp breath as your fingers graze over the hard line of him beneath the fabric.
“Then let me return the favor,” you whisper, voice sweet but loaded with intent. “I wanna see how loud you get.”
He raises an eyebrow, but his breath stutters.
“Oh?” he says, tone amused but shaky around the edges. “You think you can wreck me?”
You lean up, mouth brushing his ear now, voice sultry and daring.
You trail your fingers lower, brushing over the bulge in his pants with deliberate slowness, feeling him twitch beneath your palm. His breath hitches, the muscles in his stomach tensing.
“You really thought you’d fuck me tonight?” you whisper, your voice all soft venom and promise. Then you lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “Oh no, Channie. I’m the one riding.”
The moment the name slips from your lips, something in him snaps.
His eyes go wide, like you just knocked the breath out of him, and his jaw clenches tight. You feel it, the way his whole body reacts, like the word hit him straight in the gut.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice suddenly wrecked, strained, hips jerking up instinctively against your hand. “Don’t—don’t call me that looking at me like that unless you want me to lose my fucking mind.”
You smile, wicked and slow, and you do it again, just to watch him fall apart.
“Aww, does Channie like that?” you crawl over his lap now, straddling his thighs. “Is that what makes you weak?”
He groans, head falling back against the pillows, chest rising in shallow breaths.
“Jesus, you really wanna play this game?” he rasps.
You lean down, grinding your hips against his, slow and deep, and he bucks beneath you, a choked sound escaping him.
“Oh yeah,” you murmur against his throat. “I want to watch you break.”
You drag your lips along his jaw, your fingers dipping under the waistband of his pants, teasing the skin just above his cock, but not freeing him. Not yet.
“Listen, Channie,” you purr, kissing his pulse point. “I'll show you what good girls can do when they’re on top.”
“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “You’re not real.”
But you are. You’re very real, and you’re about to ride him until he forgets his own name. Unless, of course, he’s too busy moaning yours.
You stay hovering above him for a second, catching your breath, your thighs still trembling just slightly from the way he wrecked you moments ago. Chan watches you with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide, hands resting warm on your hips, like he’s trying not to grip you too hard, like he’s letting you decide the pace now.
You lean down and kiss him once, soft and slow, then slide your hands down his abs, once again down to the waistband of his pants.
“Let’s take these off,” you murmur, voice low, still breathless.
He lifts his hips obediently, eyes locked on yours, and you tug his pants down his legs, tossing them somewhere to the floor.
Only his underwear now, dark, tight, and doing nothing to hide just how hard he is for you. You pause, breath catching in your throat as your eyes drag over the thick shape of him straining against the fabric.
“Oh,” you whisper, lips parting. “You’re… big.”
He smirks lazily, head sinking deeper into the pillows, completely in his element now.
“Scared?” he teases, one hand brushing down your side, light as air. “It’s not too late to run, babygirl.”
You shoot him a look, climbing back over his lap, one knee on either side of his hips.
His groan is ragged, full of heat. And then you lower yourself, slowly, your soaked cunt meeting the wet spot already forming on his boxers. The fabric drags against your folds, heat against heat, and both of you feel it.
He sucks in a sharp breath the second you settle on him.
“Fuck—” he exhales. “You’re soaking me.”
You smile against his throat, rolling your hips once, slowly. A moan catches in your throat as your clit drags perfectly over the pressure of him, both of you desperate already.
He grips your hips tighter this time, grounding you, guiding you without taking over.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice thick. “Ride it. Nice and slow.”
And so you do.
You grind down on him in a slow rhythm, pressing deep into the heat of his body, his length solid beneath the damp fabric. You can feel how soaked both of you are now, his underwear stained with precum and your slick.
Each roll of your hips sends sparks up your spine, pleasure building again in lazy waves. Chan’s head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as he groans deep in his chest.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasps. “And I'm still fucking clothed.”
You kiss him again, open-mouthed and messy, grinding down harder this time, and the way he whimpers into your mouth makes you clench. His hands are all over you, gripping your ass, your thighs, sliding up your spine like he can’t get enough of touching you.
“Baby,” he rasps, voice rough, “take them off.”
You don’t even hesitate.
Your fingers slip between your bodies, and you hook them into the waistband of his underwear, eyes locked on his as you drag the fabric down his hips. His cock is flushed, thick, glistening with precum. He’s hard and heavy against your skin now, and your mouth actually falls open at the sight of him.
Chan watches your face closely, breath shallow, chest rising and falling.
“Still not scared?” he murmurs.
You shake your head slowly, lifting yourself just enough to position over him again, your slick folds brushing along the length of his shaft now, bare to bare. The sensation makes both of you moan at once.
“No,” you whisper. “Not scared. Just… needy.”
You start to move again, hips rolling forward in a slow, torturous grind, your clit dragging along the underside of his cock, spreading your wetness all over him.
“Fuck,” Chan groans, hands trembling where they grip your waist. “You’re gonna make me come like this.”
His cock twitches beneath you, leaking even more as you keep moving, slick and soft, never letting him inside. You’re both flushed and panting, bodies burning, but you? You won't rush it. God, you want this to last forever.
Your rhythm stays slow, purposeful. Your folds part around him with each movement, teasing him with every pass.
“You feel so good,” you whisper, eyes heavy as you watch his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his lips fall open, the way his gaze flickers between your face and where your bodies grind together.
He lets out a helpless moan, thrusting up just slightly to meet your body, but you flatten your hands on his chest, holding him down.
“Not yet,” you murmur, barely a breath.
Chan swears under his breath, eyes wild.
“You’re trying to kill me.”
You lean down, lips brushing his ear.
“No,” you breathe, grinding your wet heat over the head of his cock again, slow and deep. “I’m savoring you. When will I have another chance to grind on you like this?"
Your pace shifts, faster now, rougher, the wet drag of your folds over his cock becoming messier, louder, filthier. You moan shamelessly with each roll of your hips, chasing the friction as your clit catches the head of him over and over again.
Chan doesn’t answer.
He just stares up at you, lips parted, sweat beading at his brow, his hands digging into your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. His jaw clenches, chest heaving. He bites his bottom lip hard, like he’s trying not to lose it.
You can feel how close he is. How much he's trying not to move. Trying not to flip you, thrust into you, ruin the slow burn you built.
But he’s barely hanging on.
And then you stop. Just like that.
His eyes snap open, breath catching, and before he can ask why, before he can beg, you lift your hips just enough, angle your body, and push him in.
Slow. Stretching. Full. Hot.
His cock slides into you and your breath stutters from the fullness, from the perfect way he fills you.
“Fucking— Jesus,” Chan chokes out, eyes wide, head falling back with a low, guttural moan. “You didn’t even—fuck—warn me.”
You sink all the way down, walls clenching around him tight and wet, and the moment you bottom out, you both freeze.
You’re panting, shaking, overwhelmed.
He’s already wrecked.
He can’t even speak.
“Holy shit,” he gasps, hands trembling now where they hold you. “You... you feel unreal. You’re so fucking tight.”
You roll your hips once, slow and deep, and his whole body arches off the bed.
“Baby, please,” he groans. “You’re really gonna kill me.”
But you're not rushing. Now that he’s inside, you want to feel everything. You shift again, your walls fluttering around him as you start to move, just enough to make him whimper. His hands are gripping you now like he’s scared he’ll fall apart without you anchoring him.
He’s not in control, you are.
And he’s absolutely losing his mind.
You keep him deep inside as your hips start to roll, slow, deliberate, grinding rather than thrusting. It’s not just about moving; it’s about feeling. About dragging every inch of him against your soaked walls, over every nerve that’s already on fire.
You press your palms to his chest and roll your hips forward, a slow, sinuous grind that makes him pulse inside you. Then you rock back, letting the head of his cock rub right where you’re sensitive, your breath catching hard.
“Fuck,” you whisper, your voice wrecked.
Because it’s too good.
Because you could fuck him fast and fall apart in seconds, but you don’t want to. You want to last. To memorize every stretch, every twitch, every broken sound he makes when he’s buried in you like this.
Chan is beneath you, jaw clenched, eyes dark and burning as he watches the way your body moves over his. His hands slide up your waist, trembling slightly, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs.
You do it again, hips forward, hips back, a slow drag, deep and hard. His cock presses against that sweet spot inside and you gasp, your thighs shaking as you fight the urge to speed up.
“Oh, f-fuck, you feel—” you start, but can’t finish.
Because the words won’t come. Your body’s too full, your mind too foggy. So you just keep moving.
Another roll. Another moan. Another slow drag of your soaked heat around his cock.
And Chan is unraveling.
His hands grip your hips again, fingertips digging into your skin, holding you in place as his breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts.
“You’re— Oh, fuck, babygirl—” he grits out, hips bucking up once, just enough to push deeper.
You both moan at the same time.
Then your hands are in his hair, tugging, and your lips are at his ear.
“If I move faster,” you whisper, desperate, “I’m gonna come.”
Chan’s hands slide up your spine. He cups the back of your neck and pulls your forehead to his, his voice breaking as he says, "Good. I wanna feel it.”
But still, you stay slow. Still, you grind. Still, you make him feel every aching second of being inside you.
You’re soaked. Warm. Clenching. Every tiny movement sends sparks straight through your core.
You roll your hips again, a little deeper, a little firmer, and Chan swears violently, head falling back.
You lean in, lips brushing his jaw.
“Do you feel how wet you made me?”
“Yes, fuck, baby, I feel all of you—”
You squeeze around him once, just to prove it, and he chokes out your name. And then, just then, you shift your hips back and begin to build a rhythm. Still slow. Still grinding. But deeper now. Sharper. Enough to make his thighs flex beneath you, enough to make your toes curl.
The pace is changing.
The tension is rising.
You’re both so close.
And you? You can’t hold back anymore.
The slow, teasing grind has your body trembling, your breath ragged, and the fire building inside your chest is too much to ignore. You want more, harder, faster, deeper.
With a low, desperate moan, you push down harder with your hips and start to ride him faster.
Your movements sharpen, no longer lazy rolls, but quick, controlled thrusts that press him fully inside you every time. Your thighs tighten around his hips as you set the rhythm, each bump and roll sending jolts of pleasure through your nerve endings.
His hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to hold you close, and you want that. You want him to feel how much you’re giving, how much you need him.
The heat between you is suffocating. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, hair sticking to your sweaty forehead as you bounce harder, faster, every slick slap of skin on skin driving you wild.
You feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot, the head of his cock hitting deeper, brushing your walls in ways that make your knees weak.
Your hips rock forward in rapid, rhythmic motions, slow enough that you can feel every inch of him, but fast enough that the burning pressure in your core sharpens into a delicious ache.
“Fuck, Chan,” you gasp, biting your lip, “You’re so... so good.”
His breath hitches, voice rough as he groans your name.
“Holy shit, you’re wrecking me, baby.”
You squeeze your thighs together, grinding down onto him, your soaked folds slick against his skin, and he lets out a ragged moan, hips thrusting up involuntarily to meet your pace.
The room is filled with the sound of your gasps, moans, and the wet slap of your bodies moving together.
You’re lost in the sensation, riding him harder, the sweet burn building rapidly as you edge closer to the edge.
Your hands clutch his shoulders for balance, nails digging in as you push your limits, faster and faster, your breath hitching with every movement.
Chan’s hips jerk, a deep growl rumbling from his chest, and you know he’s close, so are you.
And neither of you want to stop.
Your thighs burn from how hard you’re riding him, from how tight you’re gripping his sides, knees pressing into the mattress as your hips roll with fierce, frantic need.
Every time you sink down, you feel the thick head of his cock hit that spot inside you that makes your vision spark, and your breath catches on a soft, choked moan. You swear you can feel him everywhere, stretching you open, throbbing deep, thick veins dragging against your walls in the most perfect way.
He’s watching you, eyes glazed over with heat, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts beneath you.
“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he groans, voice low and ragged.
You tilt your hips forward on the next grind, gasping when your clit brushes the base of him, slick and swollen and aching. It’s messy now, the sound of you taking him echoing through the room, skin on skin, wet and sharp and so filthy you could cry.
“Fuck, Chan,” you whimper, and your voice cracks around it, the sound raw and desperate.
He moans your name back like it hurts, like it’s everything. His fingers dig into your waist again, steadying you as your pace falters for just a moment, because the pleasure is too much, and he knows it.
“Right there?” he pants, lifting his hips to meet your next grind. “That’s the spot, isn’t it, baby?”
You nod, eyes squeezing shut, jaw slack, mouth open around a breathless cry as you move harder. Faster.
You don’t bounce, not now. You’re rolling your hips with long, deep, dragging thrusts, soaking him, grinding your swollen folds over the base of his cock every time you bottom out. You chase friction. You chase that burn.
You’re soaked, it’s leaking down your thighs, slicking the space between you, coating his cock, his stomach, his hands when he runs them down your ass to squeeze, to help you move.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re fucking soaked for me. Come for me, baby. Do it, let go.”
You nod, broken, because your release is right there. You can feel it, heat building in your belly, tight and electric. If you let go now, you’ll fall apart completely.
But you still fight it. You slow for half a second. Grind down hard, then back again. You want it to last. Still want to feel everything.
You’re panting, dizzy, forehead pressed to his, eyes wide and glassy. Your lips are red and parted, chest flushed. His hands grip your ass again, then slide up your spine like he’s grounding himself on your body, like he needs every inch of your skin under his hands or he’ll lose it.
“Don't forger to say it,” he pants again. “Say my fucking name when you come.”
You nod.
You will.
And then it hits. Hard.
It crashes into you like a wave, a violent, shaking wreck of a climax that tears through your whole body without mercy.
You cry out, not just his name, but a string of whimpers and curses, syllables falling apart on your tongue.
“Chan— oh my god—fuck—”
Your thighs tremble as your orgasm pulses through you, wave after wave ripping from your core, and your hips lose their rhythm, all you can do now is grind, desperate and messy, soaking him, your slick making everything slippery and loud and so fucking filthy.
Your nails rake down his chest. Your head drops to his shoulder, forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, moaning his name over and over like it’s the only word left in your brain.
He holds you through it, hands locked on your ass, your waist, steadying you as your whole body jerks and clenches around him. His cock throbs inside you, thick and twitching, and he’s panting, groaning, barely holding on.
“Jesus fuck, babygirl—” he growls, his voice tight, raw, completely undone. “You’re squeezing me so tight—fuck—you feel like heaven.”
You try to lift your hips again, but your body’s too wrecked. Too overstimulated. All you can do is stay slumped against him, letting the aftershocks ripple through you while his hands roam your back and his cock pulses inside your still-clenching walls.
You came so hard, you’re still shaking. Still moaning his name. Still dripping down his length.
And Chan? Well, he's fucking desperate.
You're still trembling on top of him, breath shallow, body limp with the weight of your orgasm. Your skin is damp with sweat, your thighs soaked, your muscles too soft to move.
He groans, low and desperate, and in one quick motion, he pulls out of you, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Your slick clings to his cock, glistening, dripping down his length and his stomach.
“Fuck—” he growls, voice guttural now. “You’re my fucking dream.”
You blink up at him, wrecked, and then you watch, eyes wide, as he wraps a fist around himself. He strokes hard. Fast. Frantic.
Like he’s been holding back this whole time, and now it’s snapping. The pressure, the need, the pure hunger for release. His hand is a blur, slick from you, pumping over his length with punishing speed.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans again, head tipped back, lips parted, muscles tight. “You got me this fucking desperate.”
You moan, half from the oversensitivity, half from the sight of him: flushed and wild and so close he’s falling apart right in front of you.
His abs flex with every pump. His other hand fists your waist. His cock is flushed deep red, leaking so much it drips onto his hand, and his movements get more messy, more needy.
“Gonna come—” he gasps. “Fuck, I’m gonna come—”
And he does.
With a loud, broken moan, his body jerks beneath you and thick ropes of cum spill across his stomach and chest, messy and hot and endless. His fist keeps stroking through it, wringing out every last drop as his hips twitch beneath you, his breath ragged, every muscle clenched.
It’s feral. Unfiltered. He groans your name through his teeth.
And when he finally slows, hand still lazily stroking himself through the comedown, he blinks up at you with a ruined kind of smile.
“Look what you did to me,” he breathes, voice shot and full of awe. “Fuck.”
You finally let your body give in, limbs heavy as you slide off of him and curl into his side. The heat still clings to your skin, your pulse still not quite settled, but your mind drifts somewhere quieter now. Somewhere slower.
He turns to look at you, eyes hazy, lips swollen, hair a complete mess. But it’s the way he’s looking at you that gets you. Like you’re not just someone he brought back to a hotel room after a show. Like you’re something more than that.
You swallow, breath shaky. “Fuck,” you whisper, eyes on the ceiling before you glance back at him. “I didn’t want it to end.”
He exhales softly, then pulls you closer, pressing a hand to your bare waist. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”
You blink at him again, and for some reason, your chest tightens, just a little. His gaze flickers over your face like he sees it too, the shift, the ache, the unspoken wish for more time. He leans in and kisses you, slow, deep, lingering. Like he's holding on.
When he finally pulls back, his lips still brush yours as he speaks.
“So…” he whispers, voice low and warm. “When’s the next concert you’ll come to?”
"I guess all of them. I guess... I'd do anything to see my bias again"
+++ authors note: holy shit. that babygirl message on chan's bubble made me fucking lose my mind today. this man fucking drives me crazy. I’m delusional af.
Tags: smut, explicit sex, unprotected sex/creampie, no condoms mentioned, fingering, clitoral stimulation, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, masturbation, mutual masturbation, voyeurism/exhibitionism, light dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, size kink, impulsive friends-to-lovers intimacy, misassumption of sexual orientation, brief hentai porn mention, strong language/swearing during sex, morning-after cuddling and kissing, emotional aftercare/check-ins
Word count: 6.2k
Summary: For years, you were certain your best friend Chan was gay—too kind, too gorgeous, too perfectly unattached to women. You shared keys, late nights, and every detail of your dating disasters, never noticing the way he always chose you first. One frustrated night alone with a new toy goes spectacularly wrong… until Chan lets himself in and accidentally catches you at your most vulnerable. What starts as an mortifying interruption quickly turns into a hands-on lesson you never knew you needed—and suddenly every assumption you had about him (and about yourself) comes crashing down in the hottest way possible.
🎄: This fic was requested by @peach-nyoung
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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You had known Chan for what felt like forever, since those awkward college days when you’d both been fumbling through late-night study sessions and cheap ramen dinners. He was the kind of friend who slipped into your life so seamlessly that you couldn’t quite remember a time without him. He lived two blocks away, in his modern high-rise with sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that made everything feel a little more polished, a little less lived-in, he was your constant.
You had a key to his place, tucked into your wallet like a lucky charm, and he had one to yours, a cozy, slightly cluttered apartment with its mismatched furniture and endless stacks of vinyl records. Sleepovers were routine: crashing on each other’s couches after movie marathons or bad days, no questions asked, no boundaries crossed. It was easy, effortless, the way best friends should be.
Chan himself was a walking contradiction, or at least that’s how you saw him in those quiet, introspective moments when you let your mind wander. He was undeniably sexy; broad shoulders that filled out his shirts just right, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and those dimples that flashed when he laughed, pulling you in like a secret. His hair was always a bit tousled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and his eyes held this quiet intensity that made people stare. You’d seen it happen countless times: heads turning in coffee shops, lingering glances at parties. He attracted everyone; men, women, anyone with a pulse, but from what you’d observed, it was always the handsome boys who caught his eye. You’d been around for a few of those fleeting encounters, overhearing snippets of conversation or catching him mid-laugh with some charming guy at a bar.
His closest friend besides you was Han, unapologetically gay and head-over-heels for his boyfriend Minho, and the way Chan fit into their world so naturally only confirmed what you’d assumed. He was gay, through and through, always too kind, too attentive, too green a flag to be anything else. Straight men didn’t carry themselves with that effortless grace, that quiet confidence that never veered into arrogance.
You never pried into his love life, though. It wasn’t your place. But yours? Oh, you rambled endlessly about your dates, your flings, the highs and lows of it all, assuming he was your gay bestie, the perfect sounding board. He listened with that patient smile, offering advice that was always spot-on, never judgmental.
“Sounds like he wasn’t worth your time,” he’d say, or “You deserve someone who makes you feel alive.”
And you’d nod, feeling seen, even if a tiny part of you wondered why he never shared his own stories. Not that it mattered. But you weren’t blind though, In the privacy of your thoughts, you’d admit he was one of the sexiest men you’d ever laid eyes on, a fact that simmered low in your mind like background heat, never boiling over into anything more.
Lately, though, things had shifted just a touch. It had been two months since Chan had shown up unannounced at your place, his sneakers kicked off by the door, raiding your fridge like he owned it. You hadn’t thought much of it, life got busy, runs turned into routines, and you both had your own orbits. But in that quiet space, your curiosity had turned inward. Your girlfriends had been on you about it for weeks:
“Girl, you need to try some toys. You’ve never made yourself cum? That’s criminal.” You’d laughed it off at first, but the seed was planted. You’d never been one for self-exploration like that, relationships had always been about the other person, the chase, the connection. But alone in your apartment, with the city lights flickering through your windows, the idea took root. What would it feel like to chase your own pleasure, to unravel without an audience?
You’d ordered a vibrator discreetly, a sleek little thing that arrived in plain packaging, and tucked it away until the moment felt right. Tonight was that moment. The air in your bedroom was thick with anticipation, the silk robe you’d slipped into earlier now feeling like a second skin, soft and teasing against your body. You dimmed the lights, letting the glow from your laptop screen cast shadows across the room. You put on some Hentai; it was your guilty pleasure, the exaggerated animations pulling you in faster than anything else, stirring that heat low in your belly. You hit play, the sounds filling the space: soft gasps, exaggerated pleas, the kind of fantasy that made your pulse quicken.
Settling back against the pillows, you untied the robe slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric peel open like an invitation. Cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hips. You bit your lip, a mix of nerves and excitement twisting inside you as you reached for the vibrator. It hummed to life in your hand, a low vibration that sent a shiver up your arm.
You didn’t know the first thing about this… your friends’ advice echoed vaguely: start slow, find what feels good. But as you pressed it against yourself, tentative at first, then with more intent, frustration crept in. It wasn’t clicking, not the way you’d hoped. The rhythm felt off, your mind wandering despite the hentai playing out on screen, those illustrated bodies twisting in ecstasy that seemed so far from your grasp. You shifted, spreading your legs wider, arching your back slightly as you tried to focus, to build some momentum. Your breaths came shorter, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you chased that elusive spark, the tension coiling tighter but never quite snapping.
Unbeknownst to you, your phone sat silent on the nightstand, set to Do Not Disturb, oblivious to the barrage of calls lighting up the screen. Chan had been trying to reach you, at first casually, then with growing worry when you didn’t pick up. He was out on his evening run, sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his chest, earbuds blasting a playlist to match his steady pace. But concern gnawed at him, pulling him off course. Your building was just two blocks away, after all. It was nothing to swing by, use his key, check in. That’s what friends did.
The door clicked open quietly as he let himself in, kicking off his shoes out of habit, his breathing still a little ragged from the run.
“Hey, it’s me,” he called out softly, not wanting to startle you if you were home. But the apartment felt still, the only sound a faint, muffled hum from down the hall.
He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios—were you okay? Had something happened? He moved toward your bedroom, the door slightly ajar, and pushed it open without a second thought.
And there you were.
Time seemed to fracture in that instant, the world narrowing to the sliver of space between you and the doorway. Chan froze, his hand still on the knob, his wide frame silhouetted against the hallway light like some unintended intruder in a dream you hadn’t meant to share. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the sweat from his run glistening on his skin, making the thin fabric of his tank top cling in ways that accentuated the hard lines of his muscles, the kind of detail your mind latched onto even as heat flooded your cheeks. You didn’t move, couldn’t, your body splayed open on the bed, robe fallen away like forgotten silk, the vibrator still humming faintly in your hand, its vibration a traitorous echo in the sudden silence.
His eyes; those dark, intense eyes that you’d always thought held secrets, widened just a fraction, a flicker of shock rippling across his features before he schooled them into something unreadable. But you saw it, that raw, unguarded moment: the way his gaze dipped involuntarily, tracing the curve of your exposed breast, the arch of your hip, the vulnerability of your spread thighs. It wasn’t leering, nor crude, but there was hunger there, a spark that ignited low in your gut despite the mortification clawing at you. He’d seen you like this; intimate, frustrated, chasing something alone and the air thickened with it, charged like the calm before a storm.
Chan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tore his eyes away, fixing them on the floor, the wall, anywhere but you.
“Shit,” he muttered, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it, laced with an edge that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t disgust; no, it was something deeper, more tangled; regret for barging in, maybe, or surprise at the heat that mirrored your own. His hand flexed on the door, knuckles whitening, as if debating whether to bolt or step closer.
You could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his body leaned forward just a touch, betraying the pull he fought against. He’d always been so composed, your steady best friend, the one who listened to your rambles about lovers without a hint of jealousy or want. But now, in this suspended breath, you wondered if you’d misread him all along. Was that flush creeping up his neck from the run, or something else?
You shifted then, finally, pulling the robe closed with trembling fingers, the vibrator silenced with a click that echoed too loudly. Your heart hammered, a mix of embarrassment and an unexpected thrill…had he really just seen you like that? And why did the thought of his eyes on you make your skin tingle, heat pooling anew despite the interruption?
“Chan,” you breathed, your voice a whisper that broke the spell, pulling his gaze back to yours. There was no judgment in it, only a quiet storm brewing, questions unspoken hanging between you like smoke.
He took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck, his dimples absent, replaced by a tight line of his mouth.
“I… I called. You didn’t answer. I got worried.” His words tumbled out, excuses wrapped in concern, but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking down for the briefest second before snapping away. The room felt smaller, the distance between you electric, as if one wrong move could bridge it in ways neither of you had anticipated.
Your face burned hotter than you thought possible, a wildfire spreading from your cheeks down your neck as you clutched the edges of your silk robe, pulling it tighter around yourself like it could shield you from the raw exposure humming in the air. You tried to speak, anything to break the suffocating silence, but the words tangled in your throat, coming out in fractured stutters.
“I—I didn’t… Ch-Chan, I’m s-sorry, you weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, and you curled inward, drawing your knees up to your chest on the bed, hugging them as if they could anchor you against the embarrassment crashing over you in waves.
But beneath the mortification, something darker and unexpected stirred. Your body, still thrumming from the interrupted attempt, reacted to him in a way the hentai never could. Watching Chan’s face; those chaotic emotions flickering across his usually steady features, shock giving way to something raw and unguarded, lifted a veil you hadn’t even known was there.
For years you’d slotted him neatly into the role of gay best friend, safe and sexless in your mind. Yet now, seeing the flush on his skin, the way his eyes darkened as they briefly met yours before darting away, you looked at him anew. He wasn’t just handsome; he was magnetic, potent, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, making you shift uncomfortably against the sheets.
Chan cleared his throat, the sound rough, and took a half-step back toward the door. “I—I should go,” he said quickly, ever the green flag, trying to salvage the moment with kindness. “Pretend I was never here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, wait—” The words burst out of you before you could stop them, desperate and unfiltered. “I was… I was trying to do it for the first time. Like, really trying. And it… it wasn’t working.” You buried your face against your knees for a second, the confession hanging heavy in the air, making your skin prickle with fresh shame.
Why had you said that? But you couldn’t take it back now, so you forced yourself to look up, voice smaller. “It just… wasn’t working at all.”
He froze mid-turn, his hand still on the doorknob, mouth parting as if to speak but no words coming. Slowly, he let go of the door and faced you fully again, his gaze dropping to where you sat huddled on the bed, robe clutched tight, looking small and undone. Silence stretched between you, thick and electric, until something shifted in his expression; hesitation warring with concern, and beneath it, that same unreadable heat you’d glimpsed earlier.
Then he did the unthinkable.
His voice came low, tentative, almost swallowed by the quiet room, but it hit you like a spark to dry tinder.
“Can I… can I see what you’re doing wrong?” The words were careful, edged with disbelief as if he couldn’t believe he’d said them aloud. His face was flushed deep red, ears burning, but he didn’t look away this time. He took one small, deliberate step into the room, lingering just inside the threshold, body tense like he was giving you every chance to shut this down.
Your breath caught. Your mind screamed that this was insane—your best friend, the one you’d assumed was gay, asking to watch you touch yourself? But your body betrayed you utterly. A sharp, involuntary pulse throbbed between your legs at the mere suggestion, foreign and dizzying, like a door you hadn’t known existed had swung wide open. You should say no. You should laugh it off, tell him to leave. Instead, you found your grip on the robe loosening, your knees uncurling just slightly as a strange, hazy obedience took over.
Chan noticed. His shoulders eased a fraction, the tension in his stance softening as he watched you visibly relax, or at least stop fighting the pull. His eyes, dark and intent, stayed fixed on you, no longer fleeing.
Emboldened by the shift in the air, by the way he looked at you now, like you were something he’d been denying himself for longer than you could fathom, you let the robe fall open again, slower this time. Not all at once, but enough to bare the smooth plane of your lower body, thighs parting shyly as you reached for the vibrator on the sheets.
A subconscious performance crept in, your movements languid, almost teasing, as if testing the waters of this new, charged space between you. You switched it on, the low hum filling the room again, and pressed it where you had before, repeating the same frustrated motions—circling, pressing, chasing that elusive rhythm—your breath hitching softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.
He watched, unmoving at first, but you saw the way his chest rose faster, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. The room felt smaller, warmer, every second stretching into eternity.
Then his voice cut through, deeper than you’d ever heard it, gravel-rough and commanding in a way that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Stop.”
You froze, the vibrator still buzzing against you, eyes wide as they locked on his.
“Try with your fingers first,” he said, the words low and steady despite the flush still staining his cheeks. And then—God—he took another step closer, closing some of the distance between the door and your bed, his gaze never leaving your body.
Your heart raced in a dizzying cocktail of confusion, shock, and an arousal so potent it bordered on delirium, as if you’d stumbled into a dream where boundaries blurred and desires you hadn’t named came alive. Without a second thought, you obeyed his command, setting the vibrator aside entirely, its hum silenced like an afterthought. Your fingers trembling but eager, slid down your body, parting your thighs wider under his unwavering gaze.
Chan’s eyes locked onto the intimate dance of your hand, tracing every tentative stroke along the slick folds of your pussy, circling the sensitive swell of your clit with a hesitancy born of inexperience. Self-consciousness burned in your chest, making you hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin, every shallow breath that escaped your lips, but it only fueled the fire. This felt like devouring the forbidden fruit; sweet, sinful, and utterly intoxicating, your best friend watching you unravel, peeling back layers you’d kept hidden even from yourself.
The first moan slipped out unbidden, a soft, breathy sound that hung in the air like a confession. It was involuntary, pulled from you as your fingers found a fleeting rhythm, and the effect on Chan was electric. His eyes darkened further, a spark igniting behind them as if that single noise had shattered whatever restraint he’d been clinging to. It was like he awoke, the composed facade cracking to reveal something primal beneath. He leaned forward slightly, his voice emerging soft yet laced with an undeniable dominance that sent shivers cascading down your spine.
“That’s it,” he murmured, the words a gentle command. “Slow down a little—feel it, don’t rush.”
He edged closer then, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat at the foot of the bed, his presence a magnetic pull that drew you in without conscious effort. You shifted toward him, your body moving on instinct, knees parting further as if inviting him into this sacred space. Your eyes stayed glued to his face, those sharp features softened by arousal, dimples hidden behind a focused intensity as he watched you intently, your fingers rolling and pinching your clit under his guidance.
“Circle it lighter,” he directed, his tone steady but deepening, “build it up. You’re doing so good—look at how wet you are already.” It felt better, undeniably, his words weaving through your mind like threads of silk, heightening every sensation, coaxing sparks of pleasure that had eluded you before. But still, it wasn’t quite enough; the edge remained just out of reach, a frustrating tease that left you whimpering softly, hips twitching in search of more.
Chan’s breath hitched audibly, his gaze dropping to where your fingers worked, and when you dared to glance down, you saw the unmistakable tent straining against his gym shorts, massive and insistent, a visual testament to the effect you were having on him. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you, your core clenching in response. His voice turned huskier then, thick with arousal that mirrored your own, rough around the edges like velvet dragged over gravel.
“Let me help,” he whispered, the words hanging heavy, a question wrapped in inevitability.
Before you could process, before doubt could creep in, his hand reached out, long fingers, warm and sure, brushing yours aside with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. The moment he touched you, every nerve in your body ignited, a electric jolt that arched your back and drew a gasp from your throat. It was forbidden, this shift from spectator to participant, your assumed-gay best friend now exploring you with an intimacy that shattered all your preconceptions. But God, it was hot… so achingly good, his skin against yours sending ripples of pleasure outward like waves from a stone dropped in still water.
He took over slowly, deliberately, his touch a masterclass in restraint and tease. First, he traced the outer edges of your folds with the pads of his fingers, gathering the leaking juices that betrayed your arousal, spreading them with languid strokes that made you slicker, needier.
“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble close enough to feel his breath fan across your thigh.
“You’re so responsive, listen to how your body wants this.” He circled your clit then, not directly at first, but around it, building pressure in widening spirals that had your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained now, filling the room as he rubbed with just the right firmness, alternating between feather-light flicks that teased the sensitive bud and firmer presses that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He played with you like he knew your body better than you did, dipping lower to collect more of your essence, slicking his fingers before returning to your clit, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger with a precision that drew out whimpers you couldn’t contain.
“Shh, breathe through it,” he coached, his free hand resting on your inner thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his other hand drove you higher. “Let it build, I’m right here, I’ve got you.” The tension coiled tighter, your body trembling under his ministrations, moans escalating into desperate pleas as he stimulated every inch, rubbing your folds open, playing with the pooling juices until you were drenched, the wet sounds mingling with your cries. It was exquisite torture, the slow burn of his touch unraveling you thread by thread, making you forget the shock, the confusion, lost in the haze of how right it felt.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, when the pleasure hovered on the brink, intoxicating but not quite tipping over, his movements shifted. A single long finger, slick from your arousal, pressed at your entrance, teasing the soaked heat before sinking in slowly, inch by deliberate inch. The stretch was perfect, filling you in a way your own fingers never could, curling just so to brush against that spot inside that made your vision blur and a loud, keening moan tear from your lips.
“Chan—” His name tore from your lips in a broken cry as that single long finger fully seated inside you, your walls fluttering and clenching greedily around the intrusion. The raw and desperate sound of it, seemed to hit him like a physical blow.
“Holy fuck!” A low, ragged curse escaped him, something filthy and reverent under his breath, his jaw clenching so tight you could see the muscle jump. You felt the tremor in his hand, the way he held himself perfectly still for a heartbeat, as if one wrong move would unravel whatever thin thread of control he was clinging to.
But you were already too far gone to care about restraint. The emptiness you’d chased for so long was suddenly filled, stretched, owned by him, and it wasn’t enough.
“Please,” you whimpered shamelessly, hips rocking up to meet the slow, deliberate pump of his finger. “More—Chan, please, I need more.”
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and blazing, and the intensity of his stare sent goosebumps racing across your skin. He looked wrecked, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, silently pleading for something you couldn’t yet name. Without a word, he slid a second finger alongside the first, the added thickness making you gasp as he stretched you open further, curling them just right to drag against that devastating spot inside. Your hand flew to his forearm, nails digging into the flexed muscle there for anchor as he picked up the pace, thrusting deeper, faster, the wet sounds of your arousal obscene in the quiet room.
You were climbing, spiraling, so close and then, cruelly, he slowed. His fingers stilled, then withdrew entirely, leaving you empty and aching. A broken whine escaped you, hips chasing his hand on instinct.
“Do exactly what I did,” he said, voice low and rough, though it shook at the edges. “Finish yourself. Show me you can.”
It was like he’d yanked you both back from the edge, reminding both you and himself why this had started: to help you, not to lose control. You wanted to protest, to pull him back, but the command in his tone rooted itself in you. Whimpering, you obeyed, one hand sliding down to pump two fingers into your soaked heat the way he had; slow at first, then deeper and curling while the other returned to your clit, rubbing in those firm, perfect circles he’d shown you.
He didn’t move away. He stayed right there, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his eyes never leaving your face, your body.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice velvet and gravel. “Just like that—fuck, you’re so beautiful. Keep going, let it build. You’re so close, I can feel it.”
And this time, you got it right. The pleasure coiled tight and hot, then snapped, your orgasm crashing over you in relentless waves that bowed your back and tore his name from your throat again and again. Your forehead fell against his shoulder as you shuddered through it, breath coming in ragged gasps, his low praises—“Good girl, just like that, let it take you”—vibrating against your skin.
When the aftershocks finally ebbed, you stayed there, face tucked into the curve of his neck, inhaling the salt-sweat scent of him. That’s when you felt it, really felt it… the massive, straining bulge pressing against his gym shorts, the damp spot darkening the fabric where he’d leaked through. He was huge, impossibly so, and the realization sent a fresh pulse of heat through your spent body.
Without thinking, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his.
Chan froze for half a second, a sharp curse spilling against your mouth—“Fuck”—before he surged forward, kissing you back twice as hard, twice as hungry. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made you moan into him. The kiss turned filthy fast; teeth and desperation, years of unspoken something igniting all at once. He kept swearing under his breath between kisses, the words muffled against your lips, turning you on all over again.
Your hand drifted down, cupping the thick length of him through the fabric. He jolted like he’d been shocked, fingers wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist to still you.
“You don’t have to,” he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t want us to do anything stupid or anything you’ll regret.”
You looked up at him, chest heaving, and asked the only question that mattered.
“Do you want me, Channie?”
Something fractured behind his eyes. The dam broke.
He kissed you again hard, swallowing the soft laugh that escaped you as you added, breathlessly, “Let’s worry about the questions later.”
The words hung between you like a match struck in the dark and Chan’s restraint snapped with an audible groan. He crushed his mouth to yours again, the kiss no longer exploratory but devouring, years of quiet tension pouring out in the slant of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. You tasted salt and heat and something uniquely him, and it made you dizzy. His hands; those careful, talented hands, slid up your thighs, pushing the silk robe fully open until it pooled beneath you like spilled ink, leaving you bare to the cool air and to him.
He pulled back only far enough to look at you, eyes dark with want, chest heaving. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice shredded, “and I will. Anytime.” But his thumb was already tracing the inside of your knee, a silent plea for the opposite.
You answered by arching into him, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his tank top. “Don’t stop.”
That was all it took.
Chan surged forward, guiding you back against the pillows with a gentleness that contrasted the urgency in his kiss. He peeled his tank top off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside, and the sight of him; broad shoulders, defined chest glistening with the remnants of his run, the cut of muscle disappearing into low-slung shorts, stole what little breath you had left. You reached for him, palms skating over warm skin, feeling the tremor that ran through him at your touch.
He settled between your thighs, the heavy weight of his arousal pressing against you through the thin barrier of his shorts. A slow roll of his hips dragged the length of him along your slick folds, and you both moaned at the contact. His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged.
“You feel—” He broke off with a curse as you lifted your hips to meet him again, chasing the friction.
Impatient now, you tugged at the waistband of his shorts. He helped you, rising just enough to shove them down and kick them off, and then he was bare against you, hot skin on skin, the thick, leaking length of him sliding along your stomach as he lowered himself again. You wrapped your hand around him instinctively, marveling at the size, the velvet heat, the way he jerked and swore into your neck when your fingers tightened experimentally.
“Later,” he growled against your throat, nipping the skin there. “I need to be inside you now.”
He reached between you, guiding himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging through your wetness in a slow, deliberate press. You gasped at the stretch, it was much much more than his fingers, fuller and perfect… and your nails dug into his shoulders. He stilled instantly, letting you adjust, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“Breathe,” he whispered, voice trembling with the effort of holding back. “I’ve got you.”
When you rocked up against him, taking him deeper, he exhaled shakily and pushed forward in one smooth glide until he was seated fully inside you. The sensation was overwhelming, yet intimate in a way that went beyond bodies, like every unspoken moment between you had led to this. He stayed buried for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing each other in.
Then he started to move.
Slow at first; long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside you, drawing soft cries from your throat. His hand slipped between you again, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, circling in time with his thrusts. The rhythm built gradually, unhurried but relentless, pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He obliged, pace quickening, the slap of skin on skin mingling with your shared gasps and moans. His mouth found yours again, swallowing every sound you made, kissing you like he couldn’t get close enough.
“Chan—” you whimpered against his lips, feeling the edge approaching fast. “I’m—”
“I know,” he panted, voice rough and reverent. “Let go. I’m right here.”
The coil snapped, and you came undone around him; walls pulsing, back arching, his name a broken prayer on your tongue. He followed moments later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, spilling inside you in hot pulses that left you both trembling.
For a long minute, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, arms braced on either side of your head, breathing hard against your neck. Eventually he softened, slipping out gently, but he didn’t go far, just shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into his chest. You curled into him instinctively, ear over his racing heart, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine.
The room was quiet except for your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. Questions lingered in the air; about assumptions, about labels, about what this meant, but for now they stayed unspoken. You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone instead, feeling his arms tighten around you.
But tonight, there was only the warmth of his body against yours, the lingering ache of pleasure, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
——
Morning light filtered softly through the half-drawn blinds, painting pale gold stripes across the tangled sheets and the bare skin of Chan’s back. You’d been awake for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling, then at him, then back at the ceiling again, as if the plaster might offer some explanation for how everything had shifted overnight. His arm was still slung heavily across your waist, his body curled behind yours, and you could feel him still thick, half-hard even in sleep, nestled warm and heavy between your thighs where he’d stayed most of the night. Every small shift sent a quiet, delicious ache through you, a reminder that last night had been real. Mind-blowing, earth-tilting, assumption-shattering real.
You turned your head carefully on the pillow to look at him. He was beautiful like this…peaceful, unguarded, lips slightly parted as he breathed out the softest little snore. Those full lips you’d kissed a hundred times last night in the dark, now soft and inviting in daylight. You couldn’t stop yourself. You leaned in and brushed your mouth against his, feather-light, just once.
He stirred immediately, a quiet hum in his throat. His eyes fluttered open, confusion flickering for half a second before recognition flooded in. A slow, sleepy smile curved his mouth as he registered you, and then his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep, and kissed you properly, lazy but deep, like he’d been dreaming about doing exactly this. Your brain short-circuited all over again, warmth pooling low in your belly as his tongue teased yours, slow and unhurried. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little harder, foreheads still touching.
He searched your face, the smile fading into something softer, more careful. “Hey… you okay?” His thumb stroked along your cheek. “No regrets?”
You shook your head without hesitation, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “None. Not even a little.”
Relief flashed across his features, and he pressed another quick kiss to your lips, like he couldn’t help himself. Then you took a breath, the question that had been circling your mind all morning finally spilling out.
“Channie… I thought you were gay.” You bit your lip, half-laughing at how ridiculous it sounded now. “Did I, like… break you?”
He blinked once, twice, then burst into genuine deep laughter, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his dimples appear. He rolled onto his back, dragging a hand over his face, still chuckling.
“Why would you even think that?”
You propped yourself up on an elbow, suddenly feeling a little sheepish.
“I mean… Han and Minho are literally your closest friends besides me, and they’re together. You’re always hanging out with them. And I’ve never once seen you with a girl. Ever. You never talk about hooking up with anyone, never bring anyone around, never even mention crushes. Every gender on the planet throws themselves at you, and you just… smile and move on. It added up in my head.”
He turned his head to look at you, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “That’s pure coincidence, babe.” The pet name slipped out so naturally it made your heart skip. “I’ve had girls over. Plenty. Parties, hookups, whatever. Just never anything serious enough to turn into conversation. I didn’t think you needed the play-by-play.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And Han and Minho?”
“I love those idiots,” he said fondly. “And I don’t give a damn who they date. My little sister’s pan, actually she came out years ago. So yeah, I’m an ally. Always have been. Doesn’t mean I’m in the community myself.”
You groaned, dropping your face into the pillow beside him. “I feel so stupid.”
He laughed again, softer this time, and tugged you until you were half-draped over his chest. “You’re not stupid. You just never asked.” His fingers threaded through your hair, soothing. “And honestly? I kind of liked that you didn’t. You’d come over all flustered about some guy who ghosted you or whatever, and you’d ramble for an hour, and I’d just sit there thinking how cute you were when you got worked up. I never wanted to interrupt that.”
You lifted your head, cheeks warm. “So all this time…”
“All this time,” he confirmed, eyes steady on yours, “I’ve been into girls. Into you, if we’re being honest. But every time I got close to someone, they’d get weird about how much time I spent with you. How I’d drop everything if you needed me. Apparently that’s a red flag.” He shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “So I stopped trying for anything serious. Friends-with-benefits, one-night stands—easy, no strings. I didn’t mind. I had you anyway.”
The words settled between you, heavy and sweet. You’d been the reason without even knowing it.
You leaned down and kissed him again, softer this time, pouring everything you couldn’t quite say into it. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, that familiar heat flickering back to life.
“So,” you whispered against his lips, “now that we’ve cleared that up… what do we do about it?”
Chan’s smile turned slow and devastating. He rolled you gently beneath him, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.
“I’ve got a few ideas,” he murmured, and kissed you until talking was no longer an option.
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Authors note: MERRY CHRISTMAS FINE SHYTS!!! 😍🤩❤️🎄🎄
You didn’t think I was gonna let the year end without dropping something in December, did you? 🌝 I do have one more lined up before the end of the year still so stay tuned! Drop a comment too if you wanna be added to the new taglist! And to my new followers… ✨Hiiiii ✨ I promise I’m not always this tardy with uploads but my first book is finished yaaay!! Its going through the editors right now before i publish! I’m actually so excited about it! Anywho, if you made it to this point, follow me and check out my masterlist for more of these!!
Tags: slow burn, best friends to lovers, rich chan, spoiled reader, sexual tension, sexy dance, sexting, domestic softness, jealousy, power imbalance, bratty reader, smut, unprotected sex, possessive chan, dom bff.
Word count: 9.8k
Summary: You’ve lived with Chan long enough to forget that he’s your best friend and not your boyfriend. He spoils you. Buys you things you don’t need. Lets you walk around his house in little shorts and call it “comfort.” And you let him—because he never says no. Until the night you take it too far. A party. Too much champagne. A dance that should’ve never happened.A pair of hands that should’ve never touched. Now, there’s a line you both can’t unsee. And when the tension finally breaks, it’s not just about lust—it’s about five years of blurred boundaries, unspoken rules, and a love neither of you were supposed to feel.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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The sound of the blender was the first thing you heard when you padded into the kitchen, still half-asleep and wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies. Your feet dragged across the cool marble floor, a lazy yawn escaping as you rubbed your eyes and rounded the corner.
There he was barefoot, shirtless, and already fully awake like some kind of freak. Hair tousled, muscles flexing slightly as he screwed the lid onto a protein shaker. He looked up when he noticed you, and his entire expression softened.
“Mornin’, baby girl.”
You grunted in response, collapsing into one of the barstools like you’d been dramatically wronged by the concept of morning itself.
Chan chuckled, already reaching for a mug. “Coffee?”
“You’re my favorite person in the world,” you mumbled, cheek squished against the counter.
“I know,” he said with a grin, setting the coffee down in front of you with that same quiet care he always gave you. “Drink up. You’ve got a shoot today, yeah?”
“Mmm.” You barely nodded. “No energy.”
“You say that every morning. And then you post ten stories looking like a literal angel.”
“Because I am an angel. Just a tired one.”
He shook his head fondly, walking around the counter and tugging lightly at the hood you had up. “You could’ve worn your own clothes to bed, you know.”
“But yours smell better.”
That earned you a half-smirk and a soft pat on the head. “Fair.”
It had been four years since you moved in. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement; a few weeks to get your life together after cutting ties with your parents, turned into an unshakable routine. A shared home. A rhythm. Chan never pushed, never questioned your decision to stay, not even after he offered to set you up in your own place. A luxury penthouse. Any neighborhood, any view. All you had to do was ask.
But why would you leave? You had everything here. Your safe place. Your comfort. Your best friend who treated you like you hung the moon.
Chan made sure you never lifted a finger unless you wanted to. New car? Done. Spa weekend? Booked. Your favorite snacks flown in from another country? He’d find a way. And when the world got too loud, too cruel, too exhausting—he was there, holding space for you, letting you just be.
You never had to earn his affection. It was freely given, infinite and warm. And never once did you see the sharp edges of his temper directed your way. He could be terrifying when provoked; intense, commanding, even explosive in his rare moments of fury, but with you, it was different. Always gentle. Always soft.
“You want me to drive you today?” he asked casually, taking a sip of his shake.
You blinked at him over your coffee mug. “Don’t you have meetings?”
“Pushed ‘em.”
“You didn’t have to—”
He raised an eyebrow.
You shut up.
Because of course he did. That was just Chan. No matter how much you insisted he didn’t need to baby you, he always would. And deep down, you didn’t really want him to stop.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Anytime baby girl.”
<><><>
The next morning, you danced around the kitchen like you always did on pure instinct, pulling open drawers, prepping ingredients, making enough breakfast for two without even asking. Chan tried to stop you every time. He could afford a chef. He had one on call. But you never listened. This was your thing.
“You know I can make my own eggs,” he said from behind you.
“No, you can’t,” you replied easily, tossing a glance over your shoulder. “You burn eggs. It’s a weird talent.”
“That happened once.”
“Mmhmm.”
He didn’t argue after that, just leaned against the counter and watched you move. You weren’t dressed yet, still in that hoodie he liked seeing on you more than he’d admit, hair messy, face bare. Comfortable. Real. This was what his mornings had become: you humming under your breath, feeding him like it was your mission in life, and making the house feel like a home instead of a museum of expensive things.
Chan didn’t need much. He didn’t ask for much. But you noticed everything. The way his shoulders tightened after late-night calls with his team. How his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed. How even on his best days, he carried this quiet heaviness like something he couldn’t shake.
So you filled in the spaces.
You did his laundry, folding each item with absurd care. You stocked his favorite snacks, kept his vitamins in a tiny container by the sink, laid out his hoodies when you knew he’d had a long day and just wanted something soft. You never said you were doing it for him, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw it. Felt it. And maybe that was why he never asked you to leave.
Because you were his peace.
You set a plate down in front of him with a satisfied little sigh, then went back for your own. “Eat, you’ve got stuff to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted you with his fork.
He had just taken his first bite when your phone lit up on the counter beside him. His eyes flicked toward it casually, and something about the name flashing across the screen made his brow twitch.
He didn’t say anything, but you noticed. Of course you did.
You reached for the phone and stared at the name.
Eli.
You hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. Not since you blocked his number and told him to stay the hell out of your life.
Your stomach turned.
You didn’t answer. Just locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it didn’t matter.
Chan watched you closely, chewing slower. “You good?”
“Yeah.” You gave him a quick smile. “Just a ghost.”
His jaw tensed.
He didn’t push you. Not yet. But you could feel the shift in the air—like something had cracked just slightly. Like the bubble you and Chan had built so carefully around yourselves had caught a whisper of the outside world trying to crawl back in.
You didn’t mean to flinch when Chan spoke.
“You gonna block him again?”
It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way his voice sounded when he asked it. Flat. Too calm. Like the kind of calm that only came before a storm.
You kept your back to him, rinsing the last plate and placing it carefully in the drying rack. “Yeah. I mean, I already had him blocked. He must’ve used a new number.”
Silence.
Then, “Persistent.”
You dried your hands slowly, pretending the slight tremble wasn’t real. “He’s not important.”
“He used to be.”
That one hit harder than you expected. You turned to face him, brows pulling together slightly. “You mad at me?”
His expression didn’t shift much, but his jaw moved—tight, clenched.
“No,” he said almost instantly, voice lower. “Never at you.”
But there was something in his eyes.
You didn’t see it often, well atleast not directed at you. Not ever, actually. You’d seen Chan angry before. In business meetings, in defense of someone he loved, once even on the phone with a producer who had crossed the line. But never like this. Not standing in front of you. Not burning behind his stare like that.
You didn’t know what to do with it.
So you just nodded, like that made it all okay, and turned back to finish wiping the counter. Your hands moved on autopilot, scrubbing the same spot twice.
And then, quieter—deadly quiet—you heard him speak again behind you.
“Don’t answer him again.”
You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course.
But Chan wasn’t done.
“Ever,” he said, voice dropping further. “Or I swear to God—”
He cut himself off.
You looked at him then, really looked. His fingers were white-knuckled around the counter’s edge. His breathing had slowed into something controlled. Too controlled.
And even then, even now, your first instinct wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion.
It was to calm him down.
Without a word, you stepped closer and reached for him. Your arms circled his waist like it was nothing—like you hadn’t just seen a glimpse of something primal behind his usually warm eyes. You laid your cheek against his chest, right over his heartbeat.
“I won’t,” you whispered. “I promise.”
He didn’t move at first. Didn’t even breathe.
Then you felt it—his shoulders sinking, that tension leaking out like someone had pulled the plug. His arms came around you, pulling you in, hands splaying wide across your back like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.
“I just—” His voice cracked slightly. “I can’t stand the thought of him near you again. Not after everything.”
“I know.” You pressed your lips to his chest, right where his heart thudded. “He won’t get near me. Not while I have you.”
That was the truth. You didn’t even think about it anymore—how natural it felt to belong here, in his arms, in his home. How much of your life revolved around this man, this space, this rhythm. You didn’t care about penthouses or privacy. You didn’t need freedom when you had this.
Because Chan was your home. And more than that—you were his.
“Don’t forget your water bottle,” you called out, tossing it across the living room.
Chan caught it one-handed like the athlete he always pretended he wasn’t, but the smug grin that followed gave him away. “You just wanna keep me hydrated so I live long enough to keep spoiling you.”
You gave him a look. “Duh.”
He laughed, slinging the strap of his gym bag over one shoulder. He’d been dragging his feet all morning—pretending he was gonna leave, then circling back to ask dumb things like “Do we have any more peanut butter?” or “Should I shave today or keep the scruff?”
Now he was hovering by the front door, sneakers half on, clearly stalling again.
“You gonna go, or do I have to call the trainer myself and tell him you’re scared of cardio?”
“Rude,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. Just eyed you for a moment.
You were back in the kitchen, wiping the counter down for the second time that morning. Another instinct. Another way to make sure his space felt good, clean, safe. You didn’t think about it—you just did it. You always had.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly.
You looked up. He wasn’t asking like earlier. This time, his voice was softer. Less fury, more concern.
You rolled your eyes with a little smile. “Chan. I blocked him. It’s done.”
He nodded. “Still wanna know how he got a new number. Motherfucker’s like a roach.”
You laughed. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours and saw your name in my contacts. Thought you’d forgotten about him.”
Chan’s expression darkened just slightly.
“I didn’t forget. Told him what I’d do if he reached out again.” He didn’t say it like a threat. It was a statement. Calm. Dead serious.
You blinked. “Wait—you talked to him?”
Chan shrugged, casual as hell. “Last time he called you. I answered instead.”
Your eyes widened. “When was this?!”
“Few years ago,” he said, grabbing his keys off the hook. “Told him to disappear. Guess he forgot.”
You stood there, towel in hand, heart thumping for no good reason. Not scared. Not upset. Just… a little stunned.
“Chan.”
“Hm?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You were already going through enough.” He looked at you like it was the easiest decision in the world. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”
You tossed the towel at him. “You terrifying, overgrown guard dog.”
He dodged it and smirked. “Someone’s gotta scare the vermin away.”
You walked over and poked him in the chest. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“So lucky,” he drawled, catching your finger and tugging you just slightly closer.
There it was again—that quiet intensity. Not romantic. Not lustful. Just… full. You filled his world, and he didn’t know how to hide it anymore.
You leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and easy like always. “Go train, old man.”
Chan huffed a laugh and finally turned to leave, but before he stepped out, he paused and said over his shoulder:
“If he texts again, you tell me. No matter what.”
“I will,” you promised.
Because you knew he meant it. And maybe that was why the idea of Eli crawling back didn’t scare you anymore.
Not when you had Chan.
<><><>
That evening started like any other movie night. You padded into the private cinema room wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies—soft, warm, and swallowed in the scent of him—because you always did. His cologne clung to the cotton, familiar and comforting, and it made you feel closer to him. Closer than you probably should have.
He was already sunk deep into one of the reclining chairs, phone in hand, a bowl of snacks resting lazily on his lap. He looked up and smiled when you walked in, like nothing made him happier than just seeing you. Like you were all he needed to end the day right.
You curled up beside him without a word, folding into the crook of his side like you belonged there. His arm lifted automatically, welcoming you into his warmth. It wasn’t weird. This was just what you two did.
But it felt different tonight.
You weren’t sure if it was the way his hand dropped to your bare thigh beneath the blanket, fingers drawing mindless shapes against your skin—or the way your own hand somehow found his chest, fingers brushing softly, tracing the shape of his collarbone like you had every right.
You didn’t mean to kiss him.
Not on the mouth, of course. That’d be crazy.
But you’d always been touchy with him, hadn’t you? Just little things. Kisses to his shoulder when he carried you to bed, to his jaw when he bought you something ridiculously expensive just because he felt like it. So why should tonight be different?
Your lips pressed gently to the curve of his bicep, then again, just higher. He tensed slightly beneath you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t stop you.
Instead, his fingers slipped up under the hem of the hoodie, splaying across the small of your back—warm, possessive.
You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten until you were practically on his lap. The movie blurred in the background, completely irrelevant.
You pressed another kiss to his shoulder. Then another, slow and deliberate. He turned his head toward you, breathing heavier now, eyes hooded.
“Baby,” he said softly.
You froze. “What?”
His hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging you back just enough to look in your eyes. His thumb brushed your cheek like he couldn’t help himself.
“You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Your heart skipped. But you smiled, trying to play it off. “I was just thanking you. You’re comfy.”
“I’m serious.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “You keep doing stuff like this and one day, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”
That hit you like a match to gasoline. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy the air had become between you.
But still… you didn’t pull away.
And he didn’t let you go.
<><><>
You were already in a good mood when he came home, but the shopping bags in his hand? That turned it into ecstasy.
“Wait—are those from Dior?” you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as he placed them casually on the marble kitchen island like he’d just come back from buying groceries.
Chan didn’t even look fazed. “Got bored waiting for a meeting to end, so I stopped by the boutique. Thought you’d like some of this.”
“Some?” you echoed, your voice high-pitched as you tore into the first bag, a squeal leaving your lips when you found a silky black slip dress folded like a secret inside tissue paper. “Channie, are you kidding?”
“Do I ever kid?” he smirked, walking past you, casually undoing his watch and setting it beside the sink. “Try it on. The others too.”
There were others.
Gucci. Prada. Cartier.
And you? You were living. Floating. Glowing. Letting him spoil you was second nature by now, but nights like this reminded you—he didn’t just give you luxury. He wrapped you in it.
“You’re such a menace,” you muttered, eyes sparkling as you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re gonna ruin me for everyone else.”
He glanced down at you with that lazy smile, the kind that curled slow and deep. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”
You wore the Dior slip dress that same night to the rooftop party Chan reluctantly agreed to attend with you. It fit like it had been painted on, soft and glossy, barely brushing your mid-thigh, your legs on full display in the matching Louboutin's he also got you.
“Baby,” he said when you walked out of your room, one brow raised, voice a little tight. “You’re not serious.”
You twirled for him with a smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He stared. Stared like he was trying to burn it into memory. “Do not disappear from my sight tonight.”
<><><>
You were tipsy. Not sloppy—just glowy, warm in the chest, your limbs loose and fluid with every bass-thumping beat. The rooftop was packed, the skyline glittering behind you like a movie set, and your dress—courtesy of Chan’s impromptu Dior shopping spree—sparkled just as hard.
He’d barely looked at you when he handed it over earlier that night, like it wasn’t several thousand dollars of backless silk. “Wear it if you want,” he’d said casually, as if it were groceries.
You’d worn it.
Now you were dancing. And not just dancing—moving like you had something to prove. Letting your hips roll too slow. Letting a stranger rest his hands too low. Your smile too wide. Your laugh too sweet.
You felt Chan’s eyes on you before you even turned.
He was stalking through the crowd like something out of a damn K-drama, black button-down unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up, eyes locked on you. You barely had a second to giggle before his hand was wrapping tight around your wrist.
“Outside. Now.”
You squeaked. “Channie, I’m just—”
“I said now.”
Oh. He was pissed.
You let him pull you off the floor, across the rooftop to a shadowed corner near the stairs where the music was distant and no one could hear him grinding his teeth.
“Are you insane?” he snapped, dropping your wrist only to press both hands to his hips like he had to physically restrain himself from pacing. “You don’t let strangers touch you like that. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I looked hot,” you said, crossing your arms—half-defensive, half-drunk. “And it was just a dance.”
He turned to you slowly, brows raised. “Just a dance? Do you see yourself right now?”
You did. You looked like luxury and trouble. And maybe you leaned into that just a little more.
“So what if I had a little fun?” you said sweetly, stepping into his space. “You dragged me out just to scold me like some angry boyfriend?”
“I’m not your boyfriend,” he ground out, jaw ticking.
“No. But you act like it.”
That shut him up.
He stared at you, unreadable. Furious, maybe. Or barely hanging on.
So naturally, you kept going.
You twirled around, your dress fluttering around your thighs, swaying again just a little too close, dragging your hands slowly up his chest—pure mischief. “You shouldn’t buy me pretty things if you don’t want people to stare, Channie.”
His hand caught your wrist again—tighter this time.
“You’re really pushing it tonight.”
“I know.” You smiled up at him. “You’ll still let me go home with you though, right?”
His nostrils flared. “You live with me.”
“Exactly.” You beamed. “Now can we go back to the party? Or are you gonna keep playing possessive best friend in the dark?”
You barely had time to blink before he spun you, gently but firmly pinning you to the railing behind you, just inches from his chest. He leaned in close, voice low and dangerous in your ear.
“You don’t want to see what real possessive looks like, baby.”
Your stomach dropped—heat rushing everywhere.
But he stepped back a second later like nothing happened, casually running a hand through his hair.
“Go ahead,” he said, shrugging like his entire body hadn’t just radiated barely-contained rage. “Go dance. But if another guy touches you—don’t expect me to be this nice.”
And then he walked off, leaving you pressed to the railing with your heart pounding, legs weak, and absolutely no idea what game you were playing anymore.
You caught up to him at the bar again—he’d tried to disappear into the crowd, tried to drown his irritation in another glass of whiskey, but you were too far gone and way too stubborn to let him off the hook that easy.
“Chan,” you whined, grabbing his arm and tugging like a bratty little siren, “you ruined my dance.”
“I saved your ass,” he muttered, not even looking at you.
“You owe me.”
He glanced over finally, eyes sharp but dark under the club lights. “Don’t push it.”
You smiled sweetly. Fake as hell. “Just one dance.”
“No.”
You dragged him anyway.
He let you.
Let you guide him right into the dim VIP corner—where the bass was deeper, the lights darker, and the crowd less concerned with what anyone else was doing.
The second the music shifted—low and filthy—you turned, pressed your back to his chest, and rolled your hips into him like you’d done it a thousand times.
Chan froze.
Dead silent.
You were smiling to yourself, just drunk enough to be shameless, just bratty enough to know you were pushing every single one of his buttons.
You grabbed his hands and placed them on your waist, forcing him to hold you as your ass moved in slow, hypnotic circles, rubbing right against him in time with the beat.
“Don’t you dare let go,” you teased over your shoulder.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.
You dipped lower, grinding harder, and heard the way his breath hitched behind you.
He wasn’t dancing. Not really.
He was just… enduring.
And you were loving every second of it.
Your fingers slid up his forearm, dragging along the veins you knew always popped when he was tense. You leaned back into him, head brushing his shoulder as your hips kept moving, smooth and slow and deliberate.
“Thought you didn’t want weirdos touching me, Channie,” you said, faux-innocent, breathless from the rhythm. “So dance with me.”
“You call this dancing?” he growled into your ear.
You arched your back, hands in your hair now, dress hiking up just enough to flash more thigh than he’d probably ever seen on you.
“Mmm, yeah,” you moaned softly, throwing it back again—slow, deep, filthy.
He cursed under his breath.
His fingers flexed around your waist, digging in just a little tighter. You were dizzy with music, heat, and alcohol—but fully aware of the way he was breathing now. Shaky. Unsteady.
You had him.
He wasn’t just watching you anymore—he was feeling you.
Everything about the moment was screaming wrong—you were best friends, and this wasn’t how best friends danced—but still, he didn’t stop you.
Didn’t step away.
Didn’t tell you to quit.
He just held on tighter… and let you work.
When the bass dropped again. Darker now. Slower and even dirtier. You didn’t hesitate.
One arm reached back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck while your other hand guided his—down your stomach, over your hips, until both his palms were molded around you like you were made for him.
You leaned back into him, ass pressing right up where he’d been trying not to feel you—where the thin fabric of your dress was the only thing separating you from him—and you moved.
Dragged. Rolled. Grinded.
Like you didn’t care how many red lines you were crossing.
“Y/N—” he warned, voice raw, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “Behave.”
You didn’t.
You let his hands roam further, teasing his fingers up toward your waist—up your ribs—then dragging one dangerously close to the underside of your breast.
He flinched like you’d shocked him, like your skin was on fire.
And maybe it was.
You turned your head, brushing your lips across his jaw, not quite kissing, just lingering.
“You’re not stopping me,” you whispered.
He growled.
Actually growled.
His grip on your waist tightened, fingers sinking into your sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality—like your body grinding against him, soft and sinful, wasn’t about to unravel every last thread of his control.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” he grit out.
“So stop me,” you whispered, shifting your hips again—slow and deliberate—dragging yourself up his thigh like a stripclub fantasy gone rogue.
One of your hands slid down to his again, guiding it back to your waist, but lower this time—so low his fingers brushed the curve of your ass and you swore you felt his whole body tense behind you.
You smirked.
Chan didn’t find it funny. He was seething.
His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it brush against your temple, and his voice when it came was low, strained, and barely human:
“Y/N, if you don’t stop…”
But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know what would happen if you didn’t. And neither did you.
You just kept moving.
The second your ass arched back again—grinding slow, sultry, shameless—Chan’s grip locked on your waist like a vice.
“Enough.”
You didn’t get the chance to blink before he spun you around, one hand wrapping around your wrist, the other coming to the small of your back, steering you through the crowd like he didn’t give a damn who saw.
You giggled.
He didn’t.
Not even close.
“Chan, where’re we goin’?” you asked, voice slurring just enough to make it sound like a song.
He didn’t answer. Not really.
“Home.”
One word. Clipped and dangerous. And fuck, he was walking like a man on the edge—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, muscles rippling with every step while you were practically tripping over your heels trying to keep up, your drunk giggles only making him grip you tighter.
Like your laughter was gasoline on a flame.
“You’re mad,” you teased, leaning your weight into him like deadweight.
“I’m furious.”
That made you giggle harder.
He didn’t stop until he’d yanked the passenger side door open and dropped you in the seat like you weighed nothing. Slammed the door. Rounded the car with the same heat in his steps. He slid into the driver’s side, slammed that door, and his knuckles went white around the steering wheel.
You turned to him with a cheeky smile, tugging on his sleeve.
“You’re not really mad.”
He didn’t even look at you.
“Put your seatbelt on.”
“Why? You afraid I’ll fall into your lap again?”
He finally looked at you—and that look?
Could’ve melted diamonds.
“You think this is funny?”
The laugh you gave him was light, teasing. “A little.”
Chan shifted, arm coming up to rest behind your seat, so he was fully turned toward you. His voice dropped—low, firm, the kind of tone he only used when you were being a real pain in the ass.
“You don’t get it, do you? You almost made me cross a line in there.”
You blinked, still a little tipsy, still smiling. “What line?”
His eyes burned into yours.
“The one where I stop being your best friend and start being the guy who ruins you.”
That wiped the smile right off your lips.
You sat back in the seat, heart kicking, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle over your skin like static.
Chan turned away, facing forward again.
“You’re gonna sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow. And you’re gonna listen, for once. Because you don’t get to keep pushing me like this and acting like it’s cute.”
Silence.
“Maybe I spoilt you too much,” he muttered, shifting into gear. “Cos clearly, you don’t like to fuckin’ listen.”
And just like that, he drove off—leaving the music, the crowd, and the heat of temptation burning behind you.
<><><>
Your head was pounding.
Throbbing, actually.
Like someone had taken a bass speaker and shoved it directly into your brain. You groaned as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling in confusion.
…This wasn’t your bed.
Wait. Yes, it was.
But why were you in his shirt? And why did you have glitter on your thighs?
Oh no.
You sat up slowly, spotting the water and ibuprofen on your nightstand—placed there no doubt by one incredibly annoyed but still annoyingly sweet man. The man whose footsteps you now heard approaching from the hallway.
You flinched at the sound. He was stomping.
“Someone’s heavy-footed this morning,” you muttered.
Chan stepped into the doorway with a blank stare and a mug in his hand. The look on his face? That one he reserved for when you did something so wildly irritating he couldn’t even find the words yet.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
You offered him a sheepish smile. “…Did I do something?”
He just stared.
“Chan?”
He placed the mug on your nightstand with a bit too much force.
“You don’t remember?”
You blinked up at him with your most innocent expression. “I mean… I remember the party? The rooftop? I think I danced a little?”
“A little,” he repeated, deadpan. “You grinded on me. In the corner. Like it was a fucking stripclub. Like we weren’t best friends. Like I wasn’t five seconds from hauling you over my shoulder and taking you home.”
Your cheeks flushed hot. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
You cleared your throat, unable to stop the sheepish grin creeping in. “Did I look good though?”
Chan’s face did something strange. Like he short-circuited. “Are you—? What?”
“I mean,” you teased, poking at him now because why not, “was I sexy? Did I make your heart race? Or was it just embarrassing and sad?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Just answer the question.”
Chan ran a hand over his face like he was praying for patience. “That’s not the point.”
“But did you like it?”
Silence. His stare burned holes into you.
You leaned back against the headboard with a slow smirk, hugging your knees to your chest. “You’re mad and flustered. That’s a good sign.”
Chan tilted his head, voice low.
“Do you really wanna know how it felt?”
You nodded way too fast. “I do.”
He leaned down, eyes locked on yours, one hand braced beside your head on the headboard.
“It felt like temptation.”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t blink. “It felt like you knew exactly what you were doing, and you wanted to see just how far you could push me. And it felt like if I hadn’t dragged you out of there, I’d be doing things to you we couldn’t take back.”
You stared up at him, mouth parting in surprise.
Then you whispered, “…Shit.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Shit.”
You blinked once. Twice.
“…Still kinda flattered though.”
Chan groaned and pulled away, heading for the door again.
“You’re not allowed to drink for at least a month. Minimum.”
“Chan, don’t be like that—”
“A month.” he repeated, disappearing down the hall.
You flopped back into your pillows, heart still racing. A grin slowly crept over your lips.
Damn. Maybe you did get carried away.
<><><>
You were in the zone. Like, completely tuned out, bopping your head to the music in your ears as you folded Chan’s fresh laundry on his bed. Your hips swayed with every beat; every little spin you gave the shirt in your hands before laying it down neatly beside the others.
Your little frilly shorts fluttered with every movement, riding higher each time you reached or twisted or bent. But you didn’t notice. You were too busy humming along to your playlist and tossing socks into a neat pile.
The door had been left cracked open.
And Chan had come home earlier than you realized.
He paused when he saw you from the hallway—his girl, his best friend, in his bedroom, dressed in that matching little cotton set that barely counted as clothing. The fabric on your shorts stretched and hugged the soft curve of your ass as you bent over to tuck the edges of his sheets into place, clearly trying to finish making the bed for him.
His lips parted slightly. A breath caught in his throat.
He was supposed to head to his studio.
But then you wiggled your hips to the beat—innocent, playful—and Chan’s thoughts scattered like smoke.
Something possessed him.
Next thing you knew, you felt a presence behind you.
A firm, warm grip closed around your ass, fingers spreading possessively over the curve.
You jumped, yanking a single AirPod out with a startled gasp, only to spin around and find Chan.
Standing behind you. Wide-eyed. Frozen.
“Oh—fuck,” he blurted, jerking his hand back like it burned him. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t even think—”
You blinked up at him, heart thudding. But honestly? Not because you were mad.
Your lips curved, and you shrugged softly. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”
Chan’s whole brain short-circuited.
You didn’t… mind?
You weren’t mad?
That was all it took. His hand—that same hand—dropped right back down to where it had just been, like it had a mind of its own. It found your ass again, slow and deliberate this time, fingers pressing in like he needed to confirm how soft it felt.
You didn’t move. You just looked up at him, blinking innocently.
“Just finishing up,” you said, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Like his hand wasn’t full of your ass.
Chan stared at you like he’d never seen you before. His throat worked around a swallow.
Then—fuck it—he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you in a hug. Except… his hands didn’t settle at your waist like they always did.
No. One hand stayed exactly where it had been—on your jiggly ass—while the other pressed into the small of your back, pulling you close.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered into your hair.
You tilted your head. “What’d I do?”
“You exist in those shorts,” he gritted out. “That’s what you did.”
You smiled against his chest, your cheek warming against the familiar scent of his cologne.
“Guess I should wear them more often then.”
Chan exhaled shakily. You could feel the way his fingers twitched against your ass.
Yeah… this tension? This was no longer accidental.
“I mean…” you hummed into his chest, arms looping lazily around his torso, “you did kinda sneak up on me. Could’ve warned me first.”
“You were too cute to interrupt,” he mumbled. His voice was gravel-soft, barely there. “You were doin’ that little dance again.”
You pulled back just enough to raise your brows. “You were watching me?”
He looked guilty. Just for a second. Then shrugged, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he should play it cool or apologize.
“You were in my room, playing house in my shorts, dancing to music like nobody was watching. What was I supposed to do?”
Your smirk deepened. “Not grab my ass?”
“I panicked.”
You burst into a soft laugh, resting your head back against his chest again. The moment felt too warm, too familiar, too… dangerously close to something else.
“I didn’t know you liked them this much,” you teased, wiggling your hips just a little. Just enough to make his hands twitch.
Chan exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” he muttered, one hand dragging lightly up your spine.
You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes wide, soft with curiosity. “Good?”
“Respectful,” he clarified. “You’re my best friend.”
You blinked. “And best friends don’t touch ass?”
“They shouldn’t,” he bit out, and that was the first real crack in his voice. “But you’ve been pushing it lately, baby. You’ve been testing me.”
Your chest fluttered at the way he said baby. So casually, like it slipped out before he could stop it.
“Have I?”
Chan’s hand slid lower. Not enough to be scandalous, just enough to let you feel that he wasn’t kidding anymore. His palm was warm and heavy, anchoring you to him like he was suddenly realizing he didn’t want to let go.
“You’re not as innocent as you act,” he muttered.
You gave him your best doe-eyed look. “I never said I was.”
That was when he lost it a little.
One of his hands slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he leaned in like he was thinking about kissing you—but didn’t. His lips barely ghosted yours.
Not a kiss. Not quite.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
You did. You absolutely did. But you didn’t say a word.
You just smiled.
“Laundry’s done,” you whispered, pulling back with one last squeeze around his waist. “You’re welcome.”
And then you walked out of his room like you didn’t just flip his entire world upside down in cotton shorts and a matching button-up.
<><><>
That night, you were wide awake.
The house was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant rustle of trees outside, and your pulse drumming hard against the pillow.
It’d been hours since you left Chan’s room. Hours since you’d walked out of there trying to act like your skin wasn’t still tingling where his hands had been. Like your heart hadn’t stuttered when his lips brushed yours without ever truly kissing you.
You should’ve let it go.
But the problem was, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then… tapped.
You: You up?
The read receipt appeared too fast.
Chan: Always. What’s wrong?
You stared at the screen for a second too long.Then:
You: Nothing. Just thinking about earlier.
Chan: Which part?
You smiled. Bit your bottom lip. That was bait, and he knew it.
You fed him a little more.
You: You touching me like that in your room.
Another instant reply.
Chan: I shouldn’t have. I got carried away.
You: I didn’t mind.
A pause. Longer this time. You imagined him lying in bed with that furrow between his brows, one hand behind his head, trying to figure out if you were just being bratty again—or if you meant it.
Chan: I could tell.
You laughed quietly to yourself, propping your phone against your knee, thumbs ready to wreck your whole friendship.
You: You’re really gonna act like you didn’t like it?
Chan: Is that what you want me to say? That I liked having my hand on my best friend’s ass?
You: I mean… you did keep it there for a long time.
Chan: You looked really good like that.
You sat up a little straighter, nerves flickering through your chest like sparks.
You: Like how?
Chan: Bent over my bed in those shorts. You know what you were doing.
You: I was folding your laundry.
Chan: While dancing. In those tiny ass shorts.
You: You liked that?
The dots blinked.
Stopped.
Started again.
Chan: Too much.
You took a shaky breath.
This felt reckless. You were under the same roof. Just down the hall. Separated by a hallway and years of pretending your friendship was innocent.
Your fingers moved again.
You: If I came to your room right now…
No reply.
Not yet. You could almost hear his breathing. Almost feel how still he was on the other side of the house.
Then finally:
Chan: Don’t. If you come in here like that, I won’t let you leave untouched.
You stared at the message. Bit your lip and tucked yourself a little deeper into your sheets, thighs brushing, breath catching.
Your fingers trembled when you typed again.
You: Untouched where?
You saw the typing bubble appear immediately.
Chan: Everywhere.
You: Be specific.
Chan: You want me to tell you how I’d touch you, best friend?
That sent a chill up your spine. Something about the way he called you that. Not sweet. Not teasing. Dangerous.
You: Yeah. I do.
Chan: I’d start with those legs you’re always stretching across my lap. I’d make you open them wider for me.
You: Keep going.
Chan: I’d touch you over those tiny little shorts you love wearing around me like you don’t know they drive me fucking crazy.
Your mouth went dry. Your hand slipped beneath the covers, not to touch—just to feel. To let your own heat rise in the quiet dark.
You: I knew they drove you crazy.
Chan: Of course you did. You’re a brat. You do it on purpose.
You: You like when I act like a brat.
Chan: I like shutting you up when you get too mouthy.
Your stomach flipped. God, this felt wrong. You were just supposed to be folding laundry and going to bed like normal.
Instead—
You: If I was in your bed right now, what would you do to me?
Another pause.
You waited. You could feel the shift. Could practically hear the internal war going on behind his silence. How much he was willing to say. How far he was willing to go.
Then:
Chan: I’d drag you under me. Pin your wrists. Tell you to stop squirming but know damn well you wouldn’t. I’d make you beg me to touch you properly.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Face flushed. Legs pressed tight under the blanket.
You weren’t sure who you were anymore. You weren’t just his best friend. Not right now. You were something else entirely.
You: Would you let me touch you too?
Chan: Not unless you asked real nice.
You: Please, Channie.
That one made him pause. You could feel it. Like the air had been sucked from the room.
Then:
Chan: You’re really playing with fire tonight, baby.
You: You’re the one who said you wanted to touch me.
Chan: And now I wanna do a lot more than that.
You: Yeah? Like what?
Chan: Like make you mine.
Your breath hitched. You blinked at that message for a long, long time. Because it didn’t feel like flirtation anymore. It didn’t feel like a joke.
You: But I’m already yours… aren’t I?
This time, there was no pause.
Chan: Fuck yes, you are.
Your heart was thudding. Your body humming. But your fingers moved with more confidence now. There was something intoxicating about knowing exactly how to push him.
Something dangerous.
You: I remembered the party.
The typing bubble popped up immediately.
Chan: What about it?
You: How you grabbed me like you wanted to throw me over your shoulder.
Chan: You were asking for it.
You: And then you let me grind on you like that? In public?
Chan: Correction. You made me stand there and take it.
You: Mm. I remember how hard you got through those dress pants.
You bit your lip. Your thighs squeezed again.
Then added: You were so thick and heavy against me, Channie. I still feel it.
A full minute passed. He didn’t respond. You almost thought you’d pushed him too far.
Then—
Chan: Keep talking like that and I’ll be in your room in under sixty seconds.
Your breath caught. You smiled to yourself, devilish.
You weren’t done yet.
You: You didn’t even stop me when I dragged your hands over my body. You wanted to feel me, didn’t you? Even when you told me to behave, you kept touching.
Chan: God, you’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the nearest couch right there.
Your mouth dropped open slightly. But you were thriving in this game now. Riding that high. And you hadn’t even touched yourself yet—just lying there soaked and giggly like you’d been corrupted through a screen.
You: You could’ve. I wouldn’t have stopped you.
Chan: Say that again.
You hesitated. Then: I wanted you to touch me at the party. I wanted you to pull me into that corner and make a mess out of me. Is that so bad?
Chan: Baby, if you knew what you were saying right now…
You: I do.
Chan: And I want you to say what you wanted. Out loud. To me.
Your fingers stalled. You swallowed.
Then typed: I wanted to feel your hard dick against me again. I wanted you to grip my hips and hold me still and tell me I was yours. I wanted your voice in my ear, telling me not to run.
Chan didn’t respond for two whole minutes.
You were about to text again when—
Chan: I’m coming up. Don’t move.
Your heart leapt into your throat. You barely had time to throw your phone down before you heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Then—your bedroom door creaked open.
And there he was.
Hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, chest rising like he’d sprinted the last few steps. His eyes landed on you—bare-legged under your little blanket, looking like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.
But oh, this wasn’t about cookies.
He shut the door with his foot. Click.
“You’re seriously playing with fire, you know that?”
You blinked up at him, lips parted. “What, just texting my best friend?”
Chan’s laugh was dry—no humor. Only disbelief.
Then his hands were on his hips, like he needed to physically restrain himself from pouncing. His eyes travelled down your body, slow and possessive, before he stepped closer to the bed.
“You said some wild shit just now, baby.”
“I meant every word.”
He tilted his head, smirking. But his voice dropped a little darker. “You wanted to feel me? Hm?”
You nodded, biting your bottom lip.
“Say it again,” he said, close enough now to tug the blanket down from your waist.
“I wanted to feel you,” you whispered.
He leaned in. “Where, sweetheart?”
Your breath hitched. “Against me.”
“Where else?”
You swallowed. “Inside me.”
That was it. That was fucking it.
In a blink, he was crawling over the bed, pinning you back with one hand on your waist and the other sliding under your thigh to pull you open for him.
“Guess what, baby?” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw as you shivered beneath him.
“You’re about to.”
Your breath caught in your throat as Chan’s weight settled over you, his body a solid, grounding force that made the room feel smaller, hotter, like the air itself was pressing against your skin. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough to feel the heat of his breath but not quite touching. It was torture. It was deliberate.
“Chan,” you whispered, voice trembling with something you couldn’t name. Anticipation. Need. Fear of what this moment meant for the two of you.
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there was a storm behind them. You could see it—the way his restraint was fraying, the way his fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, like he was fighting himself as much as he was holding onto you.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, like he was giving you one last chance to back out. One last chance to keep things the way they’d always been.
But you didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not after the texts, the dancing, the way his hands felt like they belonged on your body.
You nodded, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. “I’m sure.”
That was all he needed.
His lips crashed into yours, and it was like the world tilted. It wasn’t soft or tentative—not like the almost-kiss in his room earlier. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for you and only just realized it. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, your body arching into his like it had a mind of its own.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands finding his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. You tugged lightly, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. His tongue brushed against yours, and you felt it everywhere, like a current running through your veins.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You smiled, breathless, and tugged him closer. “Good.”
He growled low in his throat, and then his hands were everywhere—sliding under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach, your ribs, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. He was teasing you, and you hated it as much as you loved it.
“Chan,” you whined, squirming beneath him, trying to guide his hand higher.
He smirked knowingly. “What, baby? Use your words.”
Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Touch me.”
“Where?” His voice was a low rumble, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hipbone, maddeningly close but not quite enough.
“Everywhere,” you breathed, echoing his text from earlier.
That did it.
His hand slid up, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that made you gasp. His other hand yanked your thigh higher, hooking it over his hip as he pressed himself closer, letting you feel every inch of him—hard, heavy, and so real it made your head spin.
“You wanted this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your ear. “You wanted me to lose it, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” you gasped, arching into his touch as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and possessive against your bare skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of awe and something darker—something that made your heart race even faster. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
Your breath hitched. “Then why didn’t you—”
“Because you’re you,” he interrupted, voice rough. “You’re my best friend. My safe place. I didn’t want to fuck this up.”
You reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You’re not fucking anything up, Channie.”
His eyes softened, but only for a moment. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into it. His hands roamed—over your sides, your thighs, tugging your shorts down just enough to feel the bare skin of your hips.
You tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling back to yank it over his head. The sight of him—bare-chested, muscles flexing, eyes dark with want—made your mouth go dry. You’d seen him shirtless a thousand times, but this was different. This was yours.
“Like what you see?” he teased, catching the way you were staring.
You didn’t even bother hiding it. “Always have.”
He froze for a second, like your words hit him harder than he expected. Then he was on you again, kissing you like he was trying to make up for lost time, his hands slipping under your shirt to tug it off completely. The cool air hit your skin, but his touch was fire, burning away any chill.
His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to murmur, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” before continuing lower, kissing the curve of your chest.
You gasped when his mouth found your skin, warm and deliberate, his hands holding you in place as he took his time exploring you. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a confession—like he was saying all the things he’d held back for years.
“Chan,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed lower, his breath hot against your stomach.
He looked up at you, eyes dark but soft. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Don’t you dare,” you said, voice shaking but certain.
He grinned—slow, wicked—and then his hands were on your shorts, tugging them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. You were bare beneath him now, vulnerable in a way you’d never been before, but there was no fear. Only trust. Only him.
His hands slid up your thighs, parting them gently, and he leaned down to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was savoring it. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips.
“Then die happy,” you shot back, and he laughed—a real, warm laugh that made your heart ache.
But then his touch turned serious again, his fingers brushing against you in a way that made your breath catch, your body arching toward him instinctively. He watched you, eyes locked on yours, gauging every reaction, every little sound you made.
“Channie,” you gasped, when his fingers pressed just right, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you.
“Shh,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ve got you.”
And he did. He always had.
His touch was patient, reverent, but there was an edge to it—like he was holding himself back, trying not to lose control completely. You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled slightly, the way his breath hitched when you moaned softly under him.
“More,” you whispered, tugging him closer, needing him closer.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
His fingers worked you with a rhythm that made your head spin, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to ground yourself. But it was too much and not enough all at once, and you could feel the heat building, coiling tight in your core.
“Channie, please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
“You,” you managed, voice breaking. “I want you.”
That was all it took.
He pulled back just enough to kick off his sweatpants, and then he was back, settling between your thighs, his body warm and solid against yours. He kissed you again, deep and slow, and you felt him—hard, heavy, pressing against you in a way that made your entire body hum with anticipation.
“You’re sure?” he asked again, one last time, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.
You nodded, pulling him closer, your lips brushing his. “I’ve always been sure.”
He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for years, and then he was there—sliding into you, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none. Only heat, only fullness, only him.
You gasped softly, your hands finding his back, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. He moved slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but it wasn’t long before you were urging him faster, harder, your hips meeting his with every thrust.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “You feel so good.”
“So do you,” you whispered, and you meant it—every word, every touch, every moment.
The world outside didn’t exist anymore. It was just you and him, the heat of his skin, the way his hands gripped your hips, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer. You were his, and he was yours, and for the first time, that truth didn’t scare you.
It felt right.
The tension built, higher and higher, until you were trembling beneath him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. He could feel it too—you could tell by the way his movements grew less controlled, more desperate, his lips finding yours again as he pushed you both closer to the edge.
“Chan,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the wave crashed over you, your body shuddering beneath him.
He groaned, low and deep, following you over the edge moments later, his body tensing, his arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let go.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just held each other, the world quiet except for the sound of your racing hearts.
Then he kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.
“You okay?” he asked, voice soft now, almost shy.
You nodded, your cheek pressed against his skin. “More than okay.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can go back to pretending after that.”
You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Then don’t.”
His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I won’t.”
<><><>
The next morning was different.
Not awkward or weird. Just… new.
You woke up tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, letting the reality of it sink in. You weren’t just best friends anymore. You were something more, something unspoken but undeniable.
He stirred behind you, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Morning, baby girl.”
You smiled, rolling over to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.
“Morning Channie,” you whispered back, reaching up to trace his jaw.
He caught your hand, kissing your palm. “You’re not gonna start teasing me already, are you?”
You grinned. “Maybe.”
He groaned, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a lazy, sleepy kiss that made your toes curl. “You’re trouble.”
“You love it,” you shot back, snuggling into his chest.
He didn’t argue. Just held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.
You didn’t talk about what this meant—not yet. There’d be time for that later. Time to figure out how to navigate this new thing between you, how to balance being best friends with being… more.
But for now, you were content to just be. To lie there in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
Because you were completely his. And that was enough.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Authors note: Hiiiiiii! How’s it going guys? I have been soooo busy lately like i need my life backkkkk 😩😩😩 i’m so sorry that i have bot responded to my dms, but its all for a good cause. So tell me how did you like this fic? Its a little on the long side with an almost 10k wordcount but i was hoping that could make up for lost time… this one has been sitting in my drafts for months so i released it because i know i owe yall some content. Sooooo enjoy this while i get the next entry for NAUGHTY DORM CHRONICLES READYYYY ❤️🤭🤩
contains: +18, idol!chan, bf!chan, fluff, praise, soft!chan, lots of kisses, nipple play, biting, fingering (f receiving), mentions of masturbation, unprotected sex (don't, pls), chan loves and misses reader SO MUCH!!!!
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)
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summary: When Bang Chan comes home after weeks away on tour, all he wants is to be close to you, and finding you in cozy Wolfchan pajamas? Completely melts him. The two of you spend the evening wrapped in each other, sharing soft kisses, whispered confessions, and the kind of quiet intimacy that only comes with deep love. As the night unfolds, the kisses linger, time seems to slow down. Until… Chan gently asks if he can take things further. And you nod. Of course you nod.
!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!
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The apartment door clicked open with a soft beep, followed by the familiar thud of Bang Chan's boots against the floor. He let out a quiet sigh as he stepped inside, shaking off the day's exhaustion like a coat at the door. He was wearing a black cap and hood, and he was so tired, so sleepy, his eyes were almost closed.
“Baby? I’m home,” he called softly, not wanting to disturb you if you were resting.
The faint sound of music drifted from the bedroom, and the scent of your favorite body wash lingered in the air: warm, sweet, comforting. Chan smiled to himself. You had just showered. He padded quietly down the hall, loosening the buttons on his jacket, already imagining the feel of your arms around him.
Then he saw you.
You stood in front of the dresser, gently combing through your damp hair, completely unaware of the way his heart just stopped. You were dressed in a pair of fuzzy, navy blue Wolfchan pajamas, the ones he thought no one actually bought. The top had wolfchan's floppy ears and round face, and the matching pajama bottoms were decorated with little paw prints.
Chan froze in the doorway, eyes wide, lips twitching into a helpless smile.
“Oh, wow. You’re… wearing that?” he asked, voice filled with disbelief and delight.
You jumped slightly, turning to him with a sheepish laugh. “You weren’t supposed to see me yet! I was going to surprise you.”
Chan slowly walked over, already giggling, not even bothering to take off his jacket fully, letting it slide from his shoulders and fall onto the floor.
“That,” he said, pointing at your outfit, “is the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
You giggled, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. “I figured I’d wear it as a joke. But… it’s kind of cozy, actually.”
Chan wrapped his arms around you from behind, burying his face into your shoulder. “Ugh, you’re not allowed to wear anything else to bed ever again,” he mumbled, his voice muffled in your damp hair.
You leaned back into him with a smile. “Even if it’s got your skzoo's face all over it?”
“Especially if it’s got my skzoo's face all over it,” he said, pulling you tighter. “Now I get to cuddle my girl and Wolfchan at the same time. Dream come true.”
You laughed. And Chan didn’t let you go.
His arms stayed wrapped firmly around your waist as he swayed you gently side to side, like the two of you were dancing to the soft music still playing in the background. His cheek rested against yours, warm and a little stubbly from a long day.
“God, I missed you,” he whispered, his voice low, the kind that made your heart ache in the sweetest way.
You turned slightly in his hold, just enough to meet his eyes. They were tired, puffy from travel, a little red from long hours, but full of something soft and unguarded. The kind of love that doesn’t need big gestures to be real.
“I missed you too,” you said, cupping his face in your hands. “You’ve been working so hard…”
Chan let out a breath, half a sigh, half a laugh. “I know. Every day I was counting down the hours until I could come home to this. To you. And now you’re standing here in Wolfchan pjs like you just unlocked a new level of adorable.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Well, I figured if I couldn’t see you on tour, I’d keep the next best version of you around.”
“Oh, so I’ve been replaced?” he gasped, mock-offended.
“Temporarily.”
He laughed and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. “I’ll accept that for tonight.”
Before you could tease him back, he scooped you up bridal-style without warning, causing you to yelp in surprise.
“Channie!”
“I need to hold you properly,” he said, walking you both toward the couch. “Couch cuddles. Now. It’s mandatory.”
You clung to him playfully, still giggling, and he dropped onto the couch with you in his lap, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t quite believe you were together again. He nestled his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like your presence alone could calm every nerve in his body.
“Mm,” he hummed against your skin. “You smell like peaches.”
“Because I used your body wash.”
He pulled back, eyes wide. “Mine!?”
“You left it here last time and I missed you. Don’t act shocked.”
Chan groaned dramatically and pulled you closer, if that was even possible. “Why you keep getting more adorable?.”
You tucked yourself under his chin, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. His heart slowed to a peaceful rhythm, like your touch was the balm he didn’t even realize he needed.
“I kept your spot warm,” you whispered.
“Of course you did. You always do.”
There was a long, comfortable silence after that, just breathing, the weight of bodies relaxed against each other, fingers tracing lazy shapes on arms and backs.
Then Chan lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, one by one.
“I don’t care where I go or how far I travel,” he murmured. “You’re always home.”
You looked up at him, your heart full to bursting. “Will you stay a little longer this time?”
He didn’t answer right away, he just leaned in and kissed you softly. Not rushed. Not heated. Just pure and tender and full of everything he couldn’t say with words. The kind of kiss that whispered, I love you, I love you, I love you, between every brush of lips.
When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed like he was savoring the moment.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I just want to be right here.”
The two of you stayed tangled together, wrapped in each other and a fuzzy blanket, with the soft rhythm of Chan’s heartbeat beneath your cheek and his fingers tracing slow, loving patterns along your spine.
The apartment had grown quiet. Just the soft hum of the city outside, the faint ticking of the clock, and the slow rhythm of breath shared between two people who hadn’t seen each other in far too long.
You were still wrapped in Chan’s arms, your legs tangled with his under the blanket. At some point, the TV had been left playing in the background, but neither of you were paying attention. Your focus was on the gentle way his fingers traced lazy circles against your waist, the brush of his lips against your temple every few minutes, like he needed to remind himself you were really there.
You tilted your head up, and he was already watching you. His gaze was soft, almost reverent. You couldn’t help but smile.
“What?” you whispered.
Chan shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Nothing. Just… I really missed you.”
“I missed you too,” you replied, your voice just as soft.
He leaned in, and you met him halfway.
The kiss was slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that made the world shrink down to just the two of you. No urgency. No destination. Just the quiet pleasure of being close again.
It lingered, again and again, lips brushing gently, fingers grazing skin, shared breaths mingling in the stillness. He kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your neck. Whispered your name. Told you how beautiful you looked. How much he had thought about you. How you were the one thing that got him through the lonely nights on tour.
And you whispered things back. About how empty the bed felt without him. How much you missed the sound of his laugh. How safe you felt with him now, how it felt like you could breathe again just being here like this, in his arms.
The kisses deepened, but they never lost that softness. It wasn’t about wanting more. Not yet. Just being together. Relearning the shape of each other. Letting your hearts speak without words.
The kisses went on forever.
At some point, his hand began to move, slowly. Tentatively. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His fingers brushed your hip, your waist, then slowly slipped under the hem of your shirt, just resting against your bare skin like he was asking a question without speaking it aloud.
You didn’t stop him. You didn’t flinch. You just kept kissing him, your hand sliding down his arm until it found his wrist, and then you gripped it. Not to hold him back, but to pull him closer. To let him know, without words: You can touch me. You can have all of me.
Chan froze for half a second, breath hitching in surprise. Then he leaned his forehead to yours, and you could see it in his eyes, the relief, the want, the love. All of it.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your gaze answered for you, soft and open.
So Chan moved.
He shifted slightly, guiding you back into the cushions, careful like you were something breakable. His mouth found your neck again, slower now, trailing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone while his hand moved up under your shirt, tracing along the soft skin just beneath your tit but not quite touching yet.
“You always wear this Wolfchan pjs?” he whispered against your throat, voice a little breathless.
You giggled, heart fluttering as his hands finally cupped your tits, warm and steady. “Only when I miss you.”
He kissed your smile. “Hm, is that so?”
His thumb moved in slow, teasing circles in your nipples, and his kisses deepened again, hotter, but still controlled. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring.
“Tell me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, “what else did you do while I was gone?”
Your breath hitched as he kissed lower, lifting your shirt gradually with each movement. One of his hands slipped behind your thigh, gripping it gently, encouraging you to open up beneath him.
“Missed you” you whispered.
He smiled against your skin. “That’s not an answer.” His hand slid further down, resting over your hip, fingers brushing the waistband of your pajama shorts. “Did you think about me?” he asked, his voice soft, low.
You nodded, cheeks warm. “Every day.”
His mouth hovered above your chest now as he slowly pulled your shirt over your head, baring you to the soft glow of the room. His gaze swept over you, reverent. “I thought about you too, baby” he said. “Every night. I kept picturing this.”
You arched gently into his touch as his lips closed around your nipple, slow and careful, his hand still stroking over your waist like he needed to touch every part of you at once. His tongue swirled, teasing, then flattened with a hot pressure that made your breath hitch. He sucked your tit gently, then again, firmer this time, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. The warmth of his mouth, the way he groaned low in his throat, sent a pulse straight between your legs.
He grazed his teeth over your sensitive nipple, bitting it, just enough to make you jolt beneath him, your fingers tightening in his hair. Then he soothed it with his tongue, lapping slow, sensual strokes before his lips closed around it again. His free hand moved to your other tit, thumb brushing over your nipple in lazy, rhythmic circles. The contrast made you squirm, warm mouth on one side, teasing fingers on the other, both driving you wild.
“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked. Then he bit again, a little firmer this time, just a soft pinch of his teeth that made your hips lift off the couch. “I missed watching you fall apart like this.”
He looked up at you, eyes dark with affection. “Did you sleep in our bed while I was away?”
You were breathless, the ache between your legs growing. “Yeah.”
Your thighs pressed together, desperate for friction. He noticed, of course he did. His hand slipped lower, sliding across your stomach, fingertips brushing just under the waistband of your pajama shorts. He didn’t move further, not yet. Just let his fingers rest there, just close enough to make your breath catch.
You gasped, instinctively lifting your hips into his touch.
“Did you sleep in my shirts too?” he whispered, his lips grazing your jaw as his fingers pressed more firmly, working you with slow, steady pressure.
“Sometimes,” you breathed. “Smelled like you. Had to feel something yours in me somehow”
“Fuck,” he whispered, kissing you hard again.
He slipped his hand slowly beneath your waistband, touching you fully, skin to skin. He groaned softly at how warm and wet you already were, brushing over your folds.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “So soft... I missed this. I missed you.”
You whimpered, hands clutching his shoulders as his fingers dipped inside you slowly, one at first, then two, pushing deep, curling gently, stroking with care. His pace was patient, controlled, his thumb rubbing soft, deliberate circles over your clit that made your legs tremble. Every movement was like he was learning you all over again, memorizing every sound, every shiver.
And still, he talked to you. Soft, breathy questions between kisses.
“Did you touch yourself while I was gone?”
You nodded, lips parting. “Yeah.”
His smile curved against your mouth. “Thinking about me?”
Your voice was barely a whisper. “Always you.”
“Yeah?” he breathed, his fingers moving a little faster between your legs, curling deep. “And did it feel this good?”
You shook your head, gasping as his thumb pressed tighter against your clit, with a very precise rhythm, practiced. “Nothing feels like you.”
He groaned at that, low and genuine, the sound vibrating against your skin as he began kissing his way down your body, your tits, your nipples, his lips lingering as he bit again, making you arch beneath him. Then his tongue was there again, swirling, soothing, only to repeat the teasing all over.
“Fuck, I missed your body,” he muttered. “Missed the way you sound when you’re falling apart for me.”
You whined, thighs parting more for him instinctively, greedy for everything he was giving you.
Chan was fingering you slowly, and your ache was only getting bigger. Your hips started to rock against his hand, need building, burning, cresting.
“God, baby,” he whispered, watching your face. “You’re so wet for me.” His voice was low, reverent. His eyes didn’t leave yours, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of your pleasure.
You were biting your lip as your body clenched around his fingers.
"I need you,” he said, voice thick. “Wanna be inside you, wanna feel you wrapped around me.”
“Chan, please… I-, I need it too”
“Yeah?” he murmured, easing his hand away. “I’ve got you.”
His hips were already pressing against yours, the hard length of him straining beneath his sweats. He didn’t rush, didn’t push. Just waited, eyes locked with yours. Then his hand slid down to push your pants off completely, baring you to him, and you felt his hips shift as he tugged down his own pants, his cock hard, already leaking for you.
He lined himself up between your thighs, pressing against you but not pushing in yet, just looking at you like he needed to see your soul first.
“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Being inside you again. Feeling all of you.”
You reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Then do it, please, Channie”
He groaned, soft and broken, and leaned down to kiss you as he slowly pushed in.
Your breath caught.
The stretch was immediate, thick, hot, overwhelming in the best way, and you gasped into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders as he sank into you. He didn’t rush it, didn’t slam forward; he gave you every second to feel the way he filled you, your walls clenching around him, adjusting to the pressure, the weight, the perfect fit. His forehead pressed to yours, his lips brushing yours as he breathed, “You feel so good. You always so good for me.” He stilled there for a moment, foreheads still pressed together, both of you already trembling with the intensity of it.
Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him deeper.
When he finally started to move, it was slow at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that made your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting with a soft moan. He watched every expression, kissed every sound from your mouth. Each time his hips rolled forward, he angled just right to hit that spot that made you cry out for him.
And he gave it to you, all of him. You felt every part of him, not just in your body, but in your chest.
Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Intentional. He kissed you through it, murmuring your name.
“I missed this… I missed you.” His voice cracked slightly. “This is all I thought about. Coming home. Having you all just for me again.”
Your hands ran over his back, nails lightly dragging down his spine as your hips lifted to meet each of his thrusts. The pace was unhurried, sensual, his strokes long and deep, dragging pleasure through you slowly, making you feel everything.
“Let me hear you, baby,” The pleasure coiled tighter with every deep, rhythmic thrust, and you could feel yourself getting close, so close, but not quite there yet. “You always moan so pretty for me"
You slid a hand down your stomach, slipping it between your bodies, your fingertips brushing over your swollen clit, rubbing soft circles in time with his thrusts that made you whimper.
A gasp escaped your lips the moment you touched yourself, the added pressure sending a jolt through your entire body.
Chan’s eyes flicked down immediately, and when he saw what you were doing, something in him snapped.
“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough with disbelief and want. His hips faltered for a moment before picking up pace again, harder now, desperate. “You’re touching yourself? While I’m inside you?”
You moaned in response, your fingers moving in quick, tight circles, "F-fuck, don't stop, Chan, please", the friction just right, so much better with the thick weight of him thrusting deep inside you.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing your ear. “You’re so fucking cute,” he breathed, the sweetness in his tone making the next words even filthier. “So fucking sweet… and then you go and do shit like this? Touch yourself while I fuck you?”
His hand gripped your thigh tighter, pulling your leg higher up around his waist to sink in deeper. The new angle made you whimper, your fingers speeding up, chasing that edge you were tumbling toward.
“You're that desperate, baby?” he whispered, completely fixated on you, your pleasure, your touch, the way your body tightened under his. “You couldn’t wait for me to make you come, huh?”
Your lips parted, but all that came out was a broken cry of his name. You were right there.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Let go. Let me feel you. Come with me inside you.”
Your orgasm hit you like a wave, rolling, intense, body-tightening. You clung to him, moaning his name as your walls clenched around him, and he groaned in response, kissing you hard, messy, full of need. Chan held you through it like he never wanted to let you go. Your whole body seized, head tipping back as your orgasm crashed through you, intense and blinding, your fingers working your clit even through the aftershocks.
“All those cute little smiles, those silly pajamas… and underneath all that you’re like this” his hips pushed in faster “so good for me, always taking me so well."
His thrusts grew shakier, shorter, as he chased his own release, until he buried himself deep inside you with a strangled moan, spilling into you as his body trembled against yours.
He didn’t pull away. He stayed inside you for a few seconds. You both breathless. He held you even tighter.
“I love you, baby girl” he whispered again, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You sighed, sweetly wrecked. “I love you more, Channie”
Chan chuckled softly. “Impossible.”
You stayed like that for a long while, wrapped in each other, the room still and glowing with leftover affection. And as you drifted into sleep, you felt it, the safety, the warmth, the love so deep it didn’t need anything flashy to prove it.
It was just there.
Always.
-
taglist @velvetmoonlght <3
(taglist post)
+++ authors note: I had this idea on my mind since I saw an ttk edit of Chan talking about Stays in Wolfchan Pjs. Honestly, soft!chan is underrated af.
I want a bang chan fic where he always comes and visits reader as soon as he is back in korea. and when he is in korea, they see each other often, like she takes him lunch, he buys her stuff, and they hang out a lot, but when he's on tour or out of the country he doesn't really call and will send like one text.
then, one time when he's at her apartment (literally right after landing in korea), he asks what she did that day and she's like oh I went on a blind date and he's like ????? why would you do that when you're my gf?? and then reader is ???? back and is like wdym I'm your gf? angst and laughter and comfort all the things
i just had to write it. aaand added a bit of +18 content too (sorry) (not really) (there's always smut with me)
radio silence
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pairing: bang chan x fem reader
word count: 4.5K
contains: 18+!!!! friends to lovers, chan is the sweetest gentleman ever, lots of confessions, angst, comfort, lotssss of kisses, non explicit smut, grinding, oral (f. receiving)
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
⋆｡°✩
You met Bang Chan through Jisung a few months ago, in one of those crowded nights that blurred into laughter, music, and too many voices talking over each other. At first, it was all polite smiles and easy small talk, until it wasn’t. Somehow, within an hour, you and Chan had carved out your own corner of the room, trading stories like you had known each other for a long time.
After that, it just… happened. You started seeing each other, in the way his life allowed. Lunches in cafés, coffee runs that turned into long conversations, stolen hours here and there when he wasn’t in the studio or halfway across the world.
Chan was never much of an online person. His phone stayed buried more often than not, and when he was touring, you’d be lucky to get a single text every week.
But when he was around? He was around. He’d listen closely, catch the small things. If you mentioned you needed new headphones, he’d have them in his bag next time. If you admired a sweater in passing, he’d show up with it folded under his arm. He did that often, buying you things without hesitation. And he was observant in ways money couldn’t cover. He’d notice when you were tired, or when something weighed on you, and his quiet presence alone made it easier to breathe.
He was caring, in all the ways that mattered, attentive, thoughtful, always there with his quiet steadiness.
But that was it. That was where it ended.
When he was around, the world felt smaller, softer. But the second he stepped onto a plane... Weeks could pass with nothing but the occasional “hope you’re doing okay” text.
The days without him blurred together, quiet in a way life with Chan never was. You worked, saw friends, tried not to check your phone too often. You told yourself you didn’t mind the silence, that you had grown used to it, but every so often, you caught yourself wondering if maybe you wanted more. More of him.
It became harder when your friends started asking if you were dating, even Jisung.
Hanji • 08:03 PM
yo… how’s it going with Chan?
You • 08:05 PM
wdym how’s it going? normal?
Hanji • 08:06 PM
okay but
aren’t you guys like… dating or something?
You • 08:06 PM
we’re just friends
Hanji • 08:07 PM
are you joking?
he looks at you like you’re his entire world
You ignored that text. Told yourself that if you didn’t give it attention, the feeling would fade. Still, at night, when you replayed moments you shouldn’t; his hand on the small of your back, the way his eyes softened when he said your name, you couldn’t quite convince yourself.
You kept repeating that whatever you had with Chan was enough. It had to be. Because he never said he wanted anything more.
This weekend was no different. Chan had to fly to Italy for an event, only a few days, but enough for that familiar gap to settle in. You knew what it meant, radio silence. No good morning, no good night, no little check-ins between schedules.
And that was... okay. You were used to it.
And then, just like always, the cycle reset. The trip ended, the world spun him back to you, and suddenly, you hear the knock before you even register the sound of his suitcase wheels against the hallway tiles. It’s the same every time, no warning, no text, just Bang Chan fresh off a fourteen-hour flight, standing at your door like your place is his first stop on earth.
He’s in a hoodie, cap low, mask still hooked around one ear, and his eyes crinkle when you open the door, “Hey,” he says, voice rough with travel. “Missed you.”
It’s always like this. He’ll drop his bags, flop onto your couch, and look at you like the exhaustion doesn’t matter because he’s here, with you. You’ll heat up leftovers or order takeout, he’ll tell you about the flight, and eventually he’ll fall asleep in your bed like it was his house.
Tonight is no different... until it is.
He’s spooning rice into his mouth when he asks it, casual, like small talk, “So, what did you do this weekend?”
And you, not thinking twice, said, “Oh… went on a blind date.”
The chopsticks freeze halfway to his lips. For a moment, you think he didn’t hear you, then his head lifts, eyes sharp, disbelieving.
“A blind date?” His voice is flat at first, like he’s making sure he caught it right.
“Yeah,” you say slowly, frowning at his tone. “Why?”
He sets the chopsticks down with a clatter, leaning back on the couch like he needs distance just to process. “Why would you do that?”
Your brows knit together. “What do you mean, why? It was just—”
“You’re my girlfriend,” he cuts in, too fast, too certain, the words spilling like they’ve been obvious all along.
The air goes still. You blink at him, stunned. “I’m your what?”
“My—” He stares at you, chest rising and falling, frustration and confusion twisting across his face. “Wait—, what do you mean, what? You’re mine. We—this—what the hell do you think we’ve been doing all this time?”
You let out a shaky laugh, more disbelief than humor. “Chan, we’ve never even—” Your voice breaks, sharp with something between hurt and anger. “You don’t call. You barely text. You disappear for weeks like I don’t exist. And now you’re sitting here acting like I should’ve just known I was your girlfriend?”
His jaw tightens, hands flexing helplessly on his knees. “I thought it was clear. I thought…” His voice drops, raw now, eyes searching yours. “I thought you knew.”
He runs a hand through his hair, tugging his cap off and tossing it onto the couch, eyes wide and frantic now. “I mean—I never said it out loud, I know, but—God, wasn’t it obvious? I come here first thing after every flight, I buy you stuff because I actually listen when you talk, I don’t—” His words tumble faster, tripping over each other. “I didn’t want to rush you, okay? I respect you too much for that. I thought maybe if I just… showed you instead of pushing, you’d know. I didn’t even kiss you because I didn’t want to if you weren’t ready yet—”
Your heart lurches. “Wait, what?”
He doesn’t even hear you. His knee bounces, hands moving as though to catch the thoughts spilling out of him. “Shit, I can’t believe I just assumed—this is my fault, I’m so sorry, I should’ve said something, I should’ve made it clear. I didn’t mean to mess this up, I swear, I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t important—”
“Chan—”
“—I just thought we were on the same page, I thought you felt it too, but maybe I was wrong and—God, I can’t believe you went on a date, that means you don’t, that means—”
“Chan, stop.”
“—I didn’t mean to pressure you, I didn’t mean to take you for granted, I swear to God, I’m so, so sorry—”
“Chan!”
His head snaps up, eyes blown wide, chest heaving.
You stare at him, bewildered and aching. “Stop. Talking.”
He doesn’t even hear you. His voice just keeps going, low and frantic, like if he keeps talking maybe he can fix this. “I swear I didn’t just see you as— as some convenience. God, no. I’ve never wanted to disrespect you, not once. You’re— you’re everything to me, and I thought I was showing it, I thought you knew. I didn’t want to rush you, I didn’t want to scare you off, I didn’t want to be another guy who only wanted one thing—”
He’s pacing now, hands dragging down his face. “I should’ve said it. I should’ve told you. I just thought actions were enough, but they weren’t, they weren’t, and now you’re gonna think I’m a jerk, you’re gonna think I only wanted you for—”
You’re not even hearing the words anymore. Not really. They blur at the edges, a rush of apologies and self-blame spilling out of him.
He likes you.
No, he loves you?
Bang Chan, your Bang Chan, standing in your living room, eyes wild and voice shaking, practically confessing between every breath. He’s been yours, this whole time. And he thinks he’s losing you.
Girlfriend. He called you his girlfriend.
Girlfriend. Wait.
Girlfriend.
Fuck. That means... Bang Chan. Your boyfriend. Fuck.
He’s still talking. Still spiraling. His lips are moving, beautiful and soft and so, so kissable, and suddenly that’s all you can focus on. The way they form your name, trembling around apologies. The way they’ve never even kissed you because he was too careful, too respectful, too afraid.
You take a step toward him. He doesn’t notice.
Another step. His voice is a low frantic buzz in your ears now.
“—I just wanted you to feel safe, I never wanted to hurt you, I’m so sorry, I’m so—”
“Chan,” you say softly. He doesn’t stop.
“—I didn’t mean to assume, I didn’t mean to—”
“Chan,” firmer this time.
He finally looks at you. His eyes are glassy, his chest heaving.
You breathe out, a shaky little laugh. “Shut up,” you whisper. “Stop talking.”
And then, you kiss him.
For a heartbeat, he’s frozen.
His eyes go wide, hands hanging uselessly at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them, like he’s afraid to even move. You taste the faintest hitch of his breath against your lips, the shock radiating off him in waves.
And then, he melts.
His hands fly up, one cradling the back of your head, the other clutching at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. He kisses you back with the kind of desperation that speaks louder than every rambling apology he just spilled, all this restraint breaking all at once.
It’s messy, uneven at first, but it doesn’t matter. It’s him. It’s you. And the relief that floods through his chest pours straight into the kiss, warm and endless.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and shaky. His voice is wrecked, broken with disbelief.
“So, you… you feel the same?”
You can’t help but laugh, soft and breathless, your hands still fisted in his hoodie. “Of course I do, idiot.”
And the look on his face, pure relief, makes your heart warm. He closes his eyes, exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months, and whispers, “Holy shit... Thank God.”
The words barely leave his mouth before he’s kissing you again, harder this time, deeper, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that can fill him. His hand tightens on your waist, dragging you flush against him, and you gasp into his mouth, clutching at his hoodie.
“Chan—” you try, but it comes out as a breathless whimper against his lips.
“I can’t—” he murmurs, his mouth moving along your jaw, hot and desperate. “I can’t believe I waited this long. Should’ve kissed you a hundred times already.”
You shiver as his lips find the soft skin beneath your ear, his words between kisses. “Do you know how hard it was? Sitting next to you, wanting this, and telling myself to slow down because I didn’t want to ruin it?”
“Could’ve just asked,” you breathe, tilting your head back.
He huffs a shaky laugh, one hand sliding up your back, holding you closer still. “Yeah. Should’ve—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips swollen.
And then, before you can blink, his arms are crushing you to him again. You gasp at the sudden press of him, chest solid, heartbeat racing, the scent of his cologne dizzying now that it’s this close, warm spice tangled with laundry detergent and the faintest salt of his skin. His cheek brushes your temple as he buries you in him.
“God,” he breathes into your hair, voice breaking with relief, “I’ve wanted to hug you like this for so long.”
Your fingers knot into the fabric at his back, because how could you not? He’s everywhere, heat and weight and muscle, holding you in his arms.
You feel the hitch of his breath, the twitch in his shoulders, the desperate tremor of someone who’s been waiting. He eases back, just slightly, just enough to see your face. His smile is crooked, almost boyish, though his eyes are glassy with something heavier.
“You know what almost killed me? Every time you said goodbye in a hurry, and I couldn’t even hug you. Felt like my chest caved in.” You laugh, startled and shaky.
Then his voice dips lower, “Though maybe it was worse when you did hug me. Because then I didn’t know if I was allowed to…” His gaze flicks down, shy and hungry at once, before he hitches you higher in his grip, arms locking around your thigh with a playful growl. “Do this.” You squeak at the motion, but he only tightens his hold, burying his face in your neck.
Somehow, without thinking, you both end up stumbling to the couch, his hand tangled with yours, his other still sliding over you, fingertips brushing your waist, the back of your neck, your hair. You fall together, half sitting, half tangled, and the air between you feels thick with something new but achingly familiar.
“Do you remember that time… when you spilled iced coffee all over yourself outside the studio?”
You groan. “Don’t remind me.”
“I wanted to kiss you so bad that day.” His grin almost shy despite the way he’s holding you. “You looked so embarrassed, and all I could think about was how cute you were. I had to bite my tongue not to just—” He gestures vaguely with his lips, making you laugh.
Your cheeks burn, but you can’t stop smiling. “Are we really doing this? Sharing all the times we almost—?”
“Yeah,” he says, no hesitation. “I’m not keeping it in anymore.”
You shake your head, biting your lip. “Fine. Then… remember that day you drove me home after practice? I was staring at your hands on the wheel the whole time, trying so hard not to let it show.”
His eyes widen, then he laughs, head tipping back against the couch. “What? My hands?”
“You have nice hands,” you shoot back, grinning.
That sets him off, his laughter loud and unguarded, shaking through both of you as you cling to him. And in between the laughter, in the warmth of his arms and the brush of his lips, it hits you again and again: this is really happening.
“Remember when you wore that red hoodie?” he says suddenly, eyes locked on your mouth. “The cropped one? I couldn’t breathe the whole night.”
You laugh, swat his shoulder. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, leaning in closer, his nose brushing yours. “I had to keep my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t—” He breaks off, shaking his head, but the look in his eyes says enough.
Your pulse stutters, heat curling low in your belly. The room feels smaller, hotter. His hand is on your thigh now, thumb stroking lazy circles through your jeans. Yours drifts up his arm, over the slope of his shoulder, curling into his hair. You don’t even notice when your knees angle toward him, bodies slotting together as if you’ve done this a thousand times.
And then you just… move.
Your lips find his in a sudden, breathless kiss. It’s hungry from the start, not careful like before, the kind of kiss that makes your chest ache. He groans into your mouth, low and rough, and his hand tightens on your thigh.
That’s all it takes. You shift, straddling him in one swift motion, your knees pressing into the couch cushions as you sink onto his lap. He catches you easily, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, one arm clamping around your waist, the other cupping your jaw to keep you close.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice hoarse, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted—”
You don’t let him finish, your mouth claims his again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip, making him groan. His hands are everywhere now, sliding over your waist, your hips, your back, like he can’t decide where to hold you first.
You grind down instinctively and the sharp inhale he drags into your mouth makes your head spin.
“Jesus, don’t—” His words break off into a hiss as your hips roll again, unthinking. His grip tightens, anchoring you in place, fingers digging into your skin through your shirt. “I’m—fuck, I’m trying to be careful.”
“Don't,” you whisper, desperate, your hands threading into his hair, tugging just enough to pull another groan from him. "I want this too."
Months of stolen hours, almosts, and unspoken want are crashing through you all at once, and now that you finally have him, it isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Every brush of his fingers sets fire to your skin. The way his thumb drags under the hem of your shirt makes your stomach twist with heat. You can’t help but push into it, seeking more, needing more. Even when his hold tightens, it’s never rough; just steady, sure, anchoring.
The kiss turns hungrier, your lips parting to let him in, your tongue meeting his in a wet, desperate slide. You whimper when his grip shifts lower, his fingers digging into your thigh, tugging you closer on his lap. The sound embarrasses you for half a second, until you feel the way he groans into your mouth, the way his hips twitch up into yours like he’s just as gone.
Your mind is dizzy with it. The press of his chest against yours, the scent of him thick in your lungs, the solid heat of his body under your hands.
You’re not sure when wanting him turned into needing him, but right now, with his lips swollen and his breath mixing with yours, it feels like you’ll burn alive if you don’t have more.
You kiss him harder, hands sliding into his hair, tugging until he groans again. The sound rips through you, hot and low, and you roll your hips again and again, chasing the friction, chasing him.
And God, the way he holds you through it, firm, steady, yet so careful, just makes you want him more.
The ache between your thighs sharpens, desperate, and you grind down harder, swallowing his groan with your mouth.
His grip changes instantly, tighter, surer, both hands anchoring your waist as if he’s guiding you, moving you over him in slow, deliberate drags. The pressure makes your head tip back, a broken sound spilling from your throat before you can hold it in.
“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead pressed to your jaw, his voice wrecked. “You feel so good like this. You don’t even know—”
Your whole body jerks at the shock of pleasure, and you curse under your breath, nails digging into his shoulders.
He bites back a hiss, fingers flexing against your skin. And then, softer, shakier: “Can I…?” His lips brush your ear, your temple, your cheek between words. “Can I make you feel good?”
The question shatters you.
“Fuck,” you gasp, clutching his hoodie tighter, grinding down once more just to feel the drag of him against you. “Yes. Please.”
Your whispered “please” barely fades before he moves, sudden but careful, guiding you until your spine sinks into the couch. The world tilts, and you gasp, breath catching as he settles above you, caging you in with his arms.
For a heartbeat he just looks at you, his chest heaving, eyes dark and blown wide, like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you laid out beneath him. And then he shrugs his hoodie off in one rough motion, dropping it somewhere on the floor.
You’ve seen him shirtless before, plenty of times. But never like this. Not with his body hovering over yours, muscles taut with restraint, the warmth of him so close your skin prickles. It’s overwhelming, dizzying, and your whole body shivers under his gaze.
“God,” you whisper, almost to yourself.
He smiles, small, crooked, before bending down to kiss you again, hungry, reverent, lips pressing yours open until you’re gasping.
His hand finds the button of your jeans, fumbling only for a second before it slips free. The sound of the zipper sliding down is louder than it should be, sharp in the silence between your ragged breaths.
Then his mouth trails lower, over your jaw, down your throat, his teeth scraping just enough to make your toes curl. His hands are steady, sliding your jeans down your hips.
By the time the jeans is tugged off and abandoned, your pulse is racing so hard it feels like it’s in your ears. He settles between your knees, spreading you open, and for a moment, just a moment, he pauses, looking up at you. Looks at you like you're his entire world.
You let out a breathy laugh, head tipping back against the couch, thinking again: Fuck. This is really happening.
And then, his mouth is on you.
The first brush of his mouth makes your breath stutter, a startled sound spilling from your throat before you can hold it back. He lingers, tasting slowly, relearning how to breathe through you.
Your hips twitch at the contact, the instinctive roll betraying how badly you’ve wanted this, and his hands catch you instantly, one braced firm on your thigh, the other spreading wide across your hip, grounding you. The contrast makes you shiver: the restraint of his grip and the gentleness of his mouth.
He’s testing, listening to every sound you make, adjusting until your head tips back against the couch with a broken gasp. You clutch at him without thinking, fingers sinking into his hair, tugging harder when his tongue drags deeper. The groan that rumbles out of him vibrates straight through you, and your hips jerk again, helpless.
The way he looks up at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded between your thighs, nearly undoes you by itself.
Your pulse hammers in your ears, heat coiling low, building sharp and fast as if every second of waiting for this moment has come crashing back all at once. You can’t keep still, you chase the friction, grind up against his mouth, desperate and messy, and he only anchors you tighter, arms locking around your waist to hold you in place. Not to stop you, but to steady you, to take all of it.
It’s overwhelming, the wet sounds, the warmth of his breath, the scrape of his hair against the inside of your thighs.
Every nerve feels like it’s lit up, and the tension inside you spirals tighter, higher, until you’re trembling in his hold, thighs shaking against his shoulders.
And when it finally breaks, it’s like falling; your back arches, a choked cry tearing out of you, his name tangled in it. The release rips through you hard, shaking, and he doesn’t let go. His mouth stays on you, drawing it out until you’re collapsing back against the cushions, dizzy, ruined.
His hands soothe over your hips now, slower, gentler, like he’s easing you back down. His lips trace one last lingering kiss against your thigh before he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes blown wide.
He pushes up slowly as he climbs back over you. His lips are still swollen, glistening, and when they find yours again it’s soft, giving you time to breathe.
Then he breaks away just slightly, dragging his lips across your cheek, pressing small, scattered kisses there like he can’t get enough. Down to your jaw, then lower, the sharp edge of your throat. His breath is warm where it ghosts over your skin, his words muffled into the curve of your neck.
“Did it feel good?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing with every syllable, as if the question itself is another kiss.
Your fingers tangle tighter into his hair and you nod, the motion small, hurried, because you’re already pushing up to catch his mouth again. The kiss crashes together messy, breathless, your answer pressed against his lips instead of spoken.
He smiles into it, a low, rumbling sound caught in his chest as if your reaction alone undoes him. His hand slides up your side, splaying wide over your ribs like he wants to feel every shiver running through you.
The smile lingers even as the kiss deepens, a soft curve of his mouth against yours, like he can’t believe this is real.
He can't stop kissing you. Little brushes of his lips at your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, almost frantic in their tenderness. He shifts down beside you, body pressed warm against your side, propped up on one elbow. His other hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing gently.
Between kisses, the words tumble out, low and restless, “I thought we were already us,” he murmurs against your temple, another kiss pressed there like punctuation,“I thought you knew.”
You blink up at him, your chest tight, and he shakes his head, huffing out a rough laugh. “So when you said you went on a date…” His voice falters, his hand tightening slightly at your jaw. “God, it felt like my stomach dropped. I kept thinking—what if he gets to be the one? What if I’m just the guy who left you waiting? Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
Your lips part, but no sound comes, and he just keeps going, voice breaking softer now. “I didn’t want to push. I didn’t want you to think I only wanted you for… for this kind of thing. So I waited. I thought I was respecting you, waiting for you to make the first move. But tonight, hearing that—” He shakes his head again, pressing a kiss to your cheek, desperate. “I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else touching you, laughing with you, looking at you like…” His breath stumbles. “Like I do. You can't be someone else's world when you're already mine."
The confession hangs between you, raw and trembling. His forehead drops against yours, lips brushing yours again.
“So, hm— Can I…” He swallows hard, eyes searching yours, voice small but steady. “Can I be your boyfriend?”
—
+++ authors note: writing this was soooo much fun, so much so that i wrote it almost in record time. aaand i tried my best to write it without explicit content since op didn't mention smut (but i just can't help but write smut, so......)
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place (note: i write smut fics!) ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
contains: +18, kinda slow burn, chan's a gentleman but he teases like a pro, fingering, handjob, nipple play, protected sex, masturbation (f.), lots of worship, reader’s a bit impatient, yappy chan (<3)
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
⋆｡°✩
summary: After your first date ended without a kiss, you and Chan spend a week building... tension. On your second date, a broken zipper and Chan's inability to stop teasing you leads to way more than just a kiss.
The first date hadn’t been anything extravagant, but somehow, it had still felt like the kind of night you’d remember longer than you should.
He had picked a quiet place, the kind where the music was soft and the lighting made everything feel like a secret. Chan had been exactly the kind of charming you couldn’t prepare for, not loud, not showy, but in the way he listened. In the way his smile lingered just a second too long after you said something. He had made you laugh, too, not in that polite, date-appropriate way, but until your cheeks ached.
By the time you both stepped outside, the night air was cooler, wrapping around you in a way that made the warmth between you feel sharper. You walked side by side, your hands brushing until he simply took yours, his palm warm, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. Every so often, his other hand would drift, the lightest brush against your waist as he guided you around a group on the sidewalk, the quick press of his fingers at your back.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Just a soft press of his lips to your cheek, and it lasted long enough for you to feel his breath linger, long enough to tell you he wanted it as badly as you did.
You stood there frozen for half a second after he pulled away, your skin still tingling where his mouth had been.
You drove home thinking about him, the way his cologne had settled into the air between you, the way his hands felt around yours, how your chest had tightened when he leaned in, how unfair it was that someone could make you feel so much without even crossing that line. Chan was polite, maybe even stubbornly so; he wasn’t going to kiss you on the first date. But every touch he gave you sent chills rippling down your spine, the kind you’d remember far longer than you should.
So when Chan texted later:
second round? same charm, new place?
You didn’t even pretend to play coy.
idk… will you kiss me?
The reply came faster than you expected.
depends
You stared at the screen. That was it? Depends? Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart doing something stupid in your chest.
on what?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
on whether you ask nicely
You could hear the smirk in his text. That confident, teasing edge he had only let slip a few times tonight; when he caught you staring at his hands and when he leaned close enough to whisper something that definitely didn't need to be whispered.
haha. i don't beg, Chan.
didn't say you had to beg
just said ask nicely
there's a difference
You bit your lip, face warming even though you were alone.
fine. will you PLEASE kiss me on the second date?
The response was immediate.
see? that wasn't so hard
and yeah. i will
Your stomach flipped.
—
The week between dates felt longer than it should have.
You had texted every day, good morning messages that turned into hour-long conversations, random photos of coffee cups and sunsets, voice notes that made your day actually enjoyable. Chan was funny in a way that caught you off guard, the kind of humor that came easy and natural, never trying too hard. He remembered small things you had mentioned in passing. Asked how your presentation went. Sent you a song because "the lyrics reminded me of something you said."
He was sweet. Thoughtful.
And then, sometimes, he'd send you videos.
The first one came on a Wednesday. Just him at the gym, phone propped up somewhere, weights in hand. The angle was casual, too casual to be accidental. You watched him lift, watched the way his jaw tensed, the way his shoulders flexed. And then he groaned, low and rough, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Another video came Friday. This time he was stretching, arm pulled across his chest, neck tilted and a great, great frame of his hands. Another groan, and your brain short-circuited in the middle of a work meeting.
You didn't reply for an hour. You knew what he was doing. By the time Saturday came around, date number two, you were wound so tight you could barely think straight.
—
He picked you up this time. Showed up at your door in a black jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly damp like he had just showered. His cologne hit you first, familiar and devastating.
"Hey," he said, smiling in that way that made your knees forget how to work.
"Hey you."
His eyes dragged over you and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed.
"You look..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Yeah. Let's go before I forget I'm supposed to be a gentleman."
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
The drive was easy, comfortable. Dinner was at a small Italian place tucked into a corner you had never noticed before. Candlelit, intimate, the kind of place where you had to lean in close to hear each other. Not that you minded.
Chan was charming. Effortlessly so. He made you laugh so hard you almost knocked over your wine, told stories that had the perfect punchlines, listened like every word you said mattered.
But underneath it all, there was something else. Something simmering.
The way his gaze lingered on your mouth when you spoke. The way his hand found your knee under the table, thumb brushing against your skin. The way he leaned in when he talked, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
"You've been quiet today," he said softly, eyes locked on yours.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
You took a sip of wine, buying time. "About whether you're going to keep your promise."
His smile was slow, dangerous. "Which one?"
"You know which one."
Chan's hand squeezed your knee gently. "I always keep my promises."
"Do you?"
"Always." His voice dropped lower. "But I never said when I'd kiss you."
Your breath caught. He grinned, leaning back in his chair like he hadn't just made your entire body light up.
"You're terrible," you muttered.
Chan just… laughed. “Let’s go to the next stop?”
“Next stop?”
“Yeah, of course. You thought this was it? No, I have a whole schedule with you.”
—
The next stop was a rooftop bar, one of those places with fairy lights strung overhead and the city sprawling out below like stars. Chan's hand found the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd, and you were hyper-aware of every point of contact.
He ordered drinks while you leaned against the railing, letting the cool night air calm your racing pulse. When he came back, he handed you something fruity and way too pretty to drink quickly.
"Trying to get me drunk?" you teased.
"Trying to get you relaxed." His eyes glinted. "You seem tense."
"I wonder why."
He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. "If you want me to kiss you that badly, you could just—"
And that's when you felt it.
A soft pop near your ribs. A sudden looseness in your dress that definitely wasn't there before.
You froze.
"What's wrong?" Chan asked immediately, reading your expression.
"Um." You pressed your hand to your side, where the zipper had apparently given up on life. "I think... my dress just broke."
His eyebrows shot up. "Your dress?"
"The zipper. Side zipper. It just—" You huffed out a laugh because of course this would happen. "It just gave up."
Chan's lips twitched. "How bad is it?"
"Bad enough that if I move my arm, you're going to see things you probably shouldn't see."
His eyes darkened slightly, but his smile stayed playful. "Things?"
"Chan."
"I'm just asking for clarification."
You rolled your eyes, but you were fighting a smile. "My bra. And possibly my underwear, depending on how catastrophic this failure is."
"Matching?" The question came out before he could stop himself.
You didn't blush. Didn't look away. Just met his eyes with a small, knowing smile. "That's—that is not relevant information."
Something shifted in his expression. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it, heat. Real, palpable heat that made the air between you feel thick.
"So they are matching," he said slowly, and his gaze dropped. Just for a second. Just long enough to flicker down to where your hand pressed against your side, where the broken zipper had left a gap in the fabric. Long enough for him to catch the smallest glimpse of black lace against your skin.
When his eyes came back up to yours, they were darker. Hungry. "Fuck," he breathed out, so quiet you almost missed it.
Your pulse kicked up, but you didn't move. Didn't try to hide. There was something thrilling about the way he was looking at you, like he was trying very hard to be respectful and losing the battle spectacularly. But he didn't look away. He shifted, angling his body to block you from the crowd's view. "Okay. How do you want to handle this?"
You appreciated that he wasn't making it weird, well, weirder than it already was. There was something sweet about how quickly he had moved to shield you, even while teasing.
"I don't know. Do you have a safety pin? A sewing kit? A miracle?"
He thought for a second. "I have my jacket in the car."
His stare felt like burning alive, like every nerve ending in your body had suddenly woken up and taken notice. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn't quite know what to do with them.
You tilted your head, emboldened by the way he was barely holding it together. "You okay there, Chan?"
"No." He let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm really not."
"Need a minute?"
"I need—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. His hand came up to rest on the railing beside you, caging you in without actually touching you. "God, stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know exactly what you're doing."
You smiled. "I'm not doing anything. My dress broke."
"Right. Your dress." His eyes dropped again, he couldn't help it, tracing the line where fabric met skin, where lace peeked through. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Just your dress."
"Just my dress," you confirmed, voice soft.
He was so close now you could feel his heat, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each carefully controlled breath. His free hand lifted, hovering near your waist like he wanted to touch but didn't trust himself to.
"I'm—" His thumb brushed against your hip, barely, "I'm supposed to be a gentleman." He broke off with a rough laugh.
"Who said you’re not?"
His eyes snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The sounds of the bar faded into background noise, the chatter, the music, all of it distant and unimportant compared to the way he was looking at you.
"I need to get my jacket," he finally said, voice strained.
"Okay."
"From the car."
"Okay."
"And you need to stay right here. Don't move. And definitely don't lift your arm."
"Wasn't planning on it."
But he still didn't move. Just stood there, staring at you.
"Chan."
"Yeah?"
"The jacket?"
"Right. Yeah. Jacket." He stepped back, dragging a hand over his face. Then he paused, turning back with that dangerous smile, except now it was edged with something feral. "Is it all black?"
Your lips curved. "Why does it matter?"
"It matters."
"Go get your jacket, Chan."
He held your gaze for another beat, then shook his head like he couldn't believe this was happening. "God—"
"You like this, don't you?"
"Love it." The word came out rough, honest. "I fucking love it."
And then he was gone, moving through the crowd faster than necessary, and you were left standing there with your heart racing and your skin buzzing and the absolute certainty that this night was about to get a lot more interesting.
Chan returned a few minutes later, slightly breathless, holding his leather jacket. He draped it over your shoulders carefully, his fingers brushing your collarbone as he adjusted it.
"There. Crisis averted."
The jacket smelled like him, cologne and something warmer, more personal. You pulled it tighter around yourself.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." He was still standing close, his hands resting lightly on your arms. "Though I have to say, this night is not going the way I planned."
"No?"
"No. I had a whole thing. Very smooth. Very romantic." His thumb traced a small circle on your shoulder. "And now all I can think about is the fact that you're wearing matching underwear."
Your breath hitched. "Oh my god."
"Sorry. I'll stop." But he didn't move away. "Actually, no. I won't. Because that's kind of driving me crazy."
"It was just—I always match. It's not like I planned—"
"You always match?" His voice dropped, rough around the edges. "That's... that's worse, actually. That's so much worse."
"Why is that worse?"
"Because now every time I see you, I'm going to wonder."
The air between you felt charged, heavy. His hands were still on your arms, his face close enough that you could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to your mouth.
"Chan?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you kiss me already?" He froze. Completely still, his hands on your arms, his eyes locked on yours. "Please." The word came out softer, and something in his expression shattered.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his hand was cupping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "You can't just—"
"I can," you interrupted, holding his gaze. "And I am."
His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, his touch reverent and desperate all at once. He leaned in, close enough that his lips barely ghosted over yours, a whisper of contact that made your breath catch. "You're really something, you know that?"
And then, he kissed you.
It wasn't soft. Wasn't tentative or testing. It was sure and certain, like he had been thinking about this for days, which, judging by the way his other hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, he probably had.
Your hands found his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as you kissed him back with everything you had been holding in all night. All week. Since the moment he had decided to be a gentleman on the first date and leave you wanting.
He made a sound low in his throat, a groan tangled in relief, and deepened the kiss, angling your head just so. His tongue swept across your bottom lip and you opened for him immediately, tasting the whiskey he had been drinking, something sweet and dark and perfectly him.
Your back hit the railing and his body pressed against yours, solid and warm, one hand still cradling your face while the other splayed across your lower back, holding you steady. The jacket started to slip from your shoulders and he caught it without breaking the kiss, adjusting it back into place even as his mouth moved against yours like he was starving.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, you were both panting.
"Should've done it sooner."
"Probably." He kissed you again, softer this time but no less devastating. "But this was worth the wait."
You hummed against his mouth, and he smiled into the kiss.
"We should probably leave," he murmured between kisses. "Before I forget we're in public."
"Where are we going?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the heat in his eyes made your stomach flip. "Anywhere that's not here. Your place? Mine? I don't care, I just—" He kissed you again, quick and desperate. "I really need to get you alone."
Your heart was racing. "Mine's closer."
"Perfect." He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Let's go."
As he led you through the crowd, his jacket secure around your shoulders and his hand warm in yours, you caught the smile on his face, satisfied and a little bit smug.
"What?" you asked.
He glanced back at you, eyes bright. "Nothing. Just thinking about how you're still wearing that matching set under my jacket."
"Chan—"
"And how I'm really looking forward to seeing it properly."
Your face went hot, but you squeezed his hand. "Drive fast."
His laugh was dark and promising. "Yes ma'am."
The drive to your place felt both endless and too short. Chan kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, his thumb drawing absent patterns against your skin that made it impossible to think straight.
Every red light felt like torture. At the second one, you put your hand over his, stilling his movements.
Your apartment building came into view and you had never been more grateful to live on the second floor. Chan found parking quickly, too quickly, like he had manifested the spot through sheer willpower, and then you were both getting out, his hand finding yours immediately.
The walk to your door was quiet, charged. You fumbled with your keys and he stood behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his breath against your neck.
"Nervous?" he murmured.
"No."
"You're shaking."
"That's your fault."
The door finally opened and you stepped inside, Chan following and closing it behind him with a soft click. The lock turned. And then you were alone, really alone, for the first time.
He leaned back against the door, watching you with dark eyes as you set your bag down, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.
"So," he said.
"So."
"Nice place."
You laughed, breathless. "You haven't even looked around."
"I'm looking at something better." His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate. "Come here."
You crossed the distance between you, and his hands found your waist immediately, pulling you flush against him. This kiss was different, deeper, unhurried now that you had privacy. His tongue swept into your mouth and you made a sound that had him groaning in response.
His hands slid up your sides, careful of the broken zipper, and then he was shrugging his jacket off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His fingers traced the gap in your dress where the zipper had failed, feather-light touches that made you shiver.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmured against your lips. "All week. Just... thinking about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made your knees weak.
"That's why you sent those videos?"
He smiled against your skin. "You liked them though."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He nipped at your pulse point and you gasped. "I could tell."
His hands were still exploring, tracing the broken zipper's path, fingers brushing against lace. He pulled back just enough to look down, and his breath caught.
"All black," he said, almost reverent.
"Told you."
"You didn't tell me anything." His finger hooked into the lace edge of your bra, just barely, and your breath hitched. "You made me think about it all night."
"Good."
He made a sound low in his chest, something between a laugh and a groan. "You're trouble."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." His eyes met yours, dark and wanting. "Can I...?"
You knew what he was asking. Nodded.
His fingers found the broken zipper, working it down slowly, carefully, until your dress loosened completely. It should've felt more significant, maybe, but instead it just felt right; Chan's hands on you, his eyes drinking you in.
The dress slipped down and you stepped out of it, standing there in just the black lace set and your heels. His gaze traveled over you, slow, burning, and when his eyes met yours again, they were absolutely molten.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're—" He shook his head like words were failing him. "Come here."
You stepped closer and he pulled you in, kissing you hard, his hands everywhere now, your waist, your hips, sliding up your back. Your fingers worked at the hem of his shirt and he helped you, shrugging it off impatiently.
"Bedroom?" he asked against your mouth.
"Down the hall."
He lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you, his mouth never leaving yours. You directed him between kisses, left, second door, and then you were falling onto your bed together, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way.
His mouth traveled down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your tits above the lace. "Tell me if I should slow down."
"Don't you dare."
He laughed, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Yes ma'am."
His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits through the lace, and you arched into the touch. The calluses on his fingertips, rough from the gym, from guitar, from whatever else kept his hands this perfect, caught slightly on the delicate fabric, sending little sparks of sensation through you.
He took his time, mapping every inch of exposed skin with his mouth, your sternum, where he paused to feel your racing heartbeat with his lips, your ribs, tracing each one like he was counting, the soft curve of your stomach. Each kiss was deliberate, worshipful, memorizing the way your skin heated under his attention.
"Chan," you breathed, fingers threading through his hair. It was softer than you expected, and you could smell his shampoo mixed with his cologne.
"Mm?" He looked up at you from where he had been kissing just above your hip, and the sight of him, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left, lips swollen and wet from his mouth on your skin, hair a complete mess from your hands, looking absolutely wrecked already, made heat pool low in your belly, made your thighs clench.
"You're taking forever."
His smile was slow, dangerous, the dimple in his cheek appearing. "Am I?" His fingers traced the edge of your underwear, the touch so light it was almost not there, just the ghost of sensation that made you want to scream. "I'm just... appreciating."
"Appreciate faster."
He laughed against your hip bone, the warmth of his breath spreading across your skin, making goosebumps rise. "Where's the fun in that?" His mouth moved lower, kissing along the lace edge, his tongue occasionally darting out to taste bare skin. "Besides, you look so good like this. All impatient for me."
You tugged his hair gently, pulling him back up, and he went willingly, crawling up your body. He settled his weight between your thighs, and you could feel every inch of him, the hard planes of his chest against your tits, the ridges of his abs against your stomach, and him, hard and insistent through his pants, pressing right where you needed him most. The friction of the fabric, the heat of him even through the layers, it was almost too much, except that it was nowhere near enough.
"I've been patient," you said, rolling your hips up against him, feeling the way his cock twitched at the contact.
His breath caught, a sharp inhale that you felt against your neck, eyes fluttering closed for a second like he was trying to compose himself. "Fuck—okay, that's not fair."
"All's fair."
"Is it?" He rocked against you deliberately this time, a slow grind that had the seam of his pants pressing against your clit through the thin lace, the friction making you both gasp. His forehead dropped to yours, breath coming faster, hot against your lips. "You're gonna kill me. You know that?"
He kissed you hard, deep, tongue sliding against yours. His hips moved in a slow grind that had you seeing stars, the rhythm steady and purposeful, like he was fucking you through your clothes, testing what made you gasp, what made your nails dig into his skin. Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours.
"Can I—" His hand slid up your back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra with the kind of ease that would've made you self-conscious if you weren't so desperate. He paused, thumb rubbing small circles on your spine. "Can I take this off?"
"Please."
The clasp gave way with a soft click and the lace fell away. His gaze dropped, pupils dilating even further, you didn't think that was possible, a low groan rumbling deep in his chest that you felt as much as heard. "Jesus Christ." His hand cupped your tit, palm hot against your skin, thumb brushing over your nipple almost reverently, watching it harden into a tight peak under his touch. The contrast of his rough hands against your soft skin made you shiver. "You're so—I don't even have words."
"Then stop talking."
His eyes flicked up to yours, amused, that dangerous smile playing at his lips. "You want me to stop talking?"
"I want you to do something."
"I am doing something." He lowered his head, tongue flicking over your nipple, a quick teasing touch that had electricity shooting straight between your thighs, and your back arched off the bed. "See? Doing lots of things."
"F-fuck, Chan—"
"What?" He sucked your nipple into his mouth, gentle at first, just his lips and the barest suction, then harder, teeth grazing, tongue swirling, and your fingers tightened in his hair. When he released you with a soft pop, the cool air hitting wet skin making you gasp, he was grinning. "You were saying?"
"I hate you."
"I doubt that." His mouth moved to your other tit, giving it the same attention, licking, sucking, the occasional graze of teeth that made you jerk, while his hand palmed the one he had left wet and wanting, fingers rolling your nipple, tugging gently. The dual sensation, the heat of his mouth and the pressure of his fingers, had you writhing beneath him. "You like me. You asked me very nicely to kiss you, remember?"
"That was before you decided to torture me."
"This isn't torture." His teeth grazed your nipple harder this time and you gasped, hips bucking up involuntarily. "This is foreplay."
"It's torture."
He kissed his way back up to your mouth, slow and thorough, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His lips were so soft and you could feel the slight roughness of stubble on his jaw scratching against your chin. "Tell me what you want then."
"You know what I want."
"Maybe." His hand slid down your stomach, fingers playing with the waistband of your underwear, dipping just beneath the lace and then retreating, over and over. "But I want to hear you say it."
You grabbed his face with both hands, making him look at you, and the heat in his eyes nearly undid you. "Touch me. Please."
His pupils dilated impossibly further, the last bit of brown disappearing into black. "Where?"
"Chan—"
"Tell me where." His fingers dipped just below the lace, not nearly far enough, just barely brushing. "Here?"
"Lower."
"How much lower?" He was definitely teasing now, enjoying watching you squirm, watching the way your chest heaved with each frustrated breath. "You gotta be specific."
You grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand down, and his breath stuttered when you pressed his against you through the lace. "There. Touch me there."
"Fuck," he breathed when his fingers finally slid beneath the lace, through your wetness. His whole body went rigid, every muscle tensing. "You're so—how are you this wet already?"
He circled your clit with gentle pressure and you moaned, hips rolling up into his touch, chasing more friction. His fingers were perfect, long and skilled. "Is this what you wanted?" His voice had gone rough, strained, like he was barely holding himself together. "Is this what you've been thinking about?"
"Yes—god, yes—"
"What else?" He increased the pressure slightly, circles getting faster, and you could feel your thighs starting to shake. "What else did you think about?"
"Your fingers," you managed, words coming out breathy and broken. "How they'd feel—oh—"
He slid one finger inside you and you both groaned, you at the sensation, at the stretch, at finally having something inside you, him at how easily you took him, how wet you were, how your walls clenched around even just one finger. "Like this?"
"I need more, Chan—"
He added a second finger, the stretch more noticeable now, a slight burn that quickly melted into pleasure, curling them just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Better?"
"Yes—don't stop—"
"Wasn't planning on it." His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, pumping slowly, deliberately, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, and the dual sensation had you gasping, had you seeing stars behind your eyelids. "You feel so good. So fucking good around my fingers."
"Chan—"
"I love the way you say my name." He kissed down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Say it again."
"Chan—"
"That's it, baby." His pace increased, fingers curling with each thrust, finding that spot inside you over and over, thumb circling your clit in steady rhythm that was quickly unraveling you. You could hear how wet you were, could feel it dripping down to his palm. "You're so close, I can feel it. Can feel you tightening around me."
You were almost gone now, words dissolving into incoherent sounds as pleasure built low in your spine, spreading through your limbs like fire. Your nails raked down his back, hard enough to leave red lines, and he groaned against your neck, the sound primal and desperate.
"That's it," he murmured, his own breathing ragged now. "Take what you need. Use my hand. I want to feel you come."
"I'm—I'm so close—"
"I know." He adjusted the angle of his fingers, pressing up harder, and hit something inside you that made your whole body jerk, made you cry out. "Right there, baby? That's the spot?"
"Yes—right there—don't stop—please don't stop—"
"Not stopping." His fingers worked faster, harder, exactly where you needed, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with each thrust. "Come for me. Let me feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my fingers."
The orgasm slammed into you like a wave, your body arching completely off the bed, back bowing, as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your thighs clamped around his wrist, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers, and he worked you through it, fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing it out, prolonging it until you were shaking, pushing weakly at his wrist.
When you finally opened your eyes, vision slowly clearing, he was staring at you like you had just performed a miracle. His hand was still between your thighs, fingers still inside you, and you could see them glistening when he slowly withdrew them.
"That was—" He shook his head, seemingly at a loss. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come." He brought his fingers to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he sucked them clean, and the sight made your still-sensitive core clench. "... and you taste incredible."
You pulled him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet and intimate, your hands already moving to his belt. The metal clinked as you worked it free.
He caught your wrists, but loosely, like he didn't really want to stop you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your pulse points. "We don't have to—"
"I want to." You held his gaze, made sure he could see how much you meant it, how badly you wanted him. "I really want to."
Something in his expression shifted, the control he had been holding onto, slipping. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You worked his belt free, popped the button of his pants, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Unless you want to keep being a gentleman?"
He laughed, breathless and a little desperate. "I think we're past that point." He helped you push his pants and boxers down his hips, lifting slightly to kick them off completely, and then he was bare above you, and fuck.
He’s so beautiful. All lean muscle and smooth golden skin, a trail leading down from his abs that you wanted to trace with your tongue. His chest rose and fell rapidly, abs clenching with each breath, and you could see the sheen of sweat on his skin. And his cock, hard and flushed, curving slightly up toward his stomach, already leaking at the tip, made your mouth water, made you clench around nothing.
"You're staring," he said, but his voice was strained, his hips shifting slightly under your gaze, his cock bobbing with the movement.
"You're worth staring at."
His hand wrapped around himself almost unconsciously, a slow stroke from base to tip, collecting the precum and spreading it, and you watched his stomach muscles clench, watched a vein in his neck stand out. "If you keep looking at me like that, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like you want to eat me alive."
You smiled, slow and deliberate, licking your lips. "Maybe I do."
He made a choked sound, his hand tightening around himself, squeezing at the base like he was trying to hold back. "Jesus—you can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He cut himself off with a groan when you reached out, replacing his hand with yours. His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, silk over steel, and his hips jerked forward into your grip. "Fuck—because I'm barely holding on here."
You stroked him slowly, learning what he liked, firmer at the base, where your fingers couldn't quite touch around his girth, a twist of your wrist at the tip that made him curse and his thighs tremble. His precum made the glide easier, slicker, and you could feel every ridge, every vein under your palm. "Then don't hold on."
"You sure?" His hand covered yours, stilling your movements, and you could feel how his fingers were shaking.
You kissed him, soft and sure, feeling his lips tremble against yours. "I want you."
He reached for his pants, fumbling in the pocket for his wallet, and you watched his hands shake as he pulled out the condom. Found it, tore it open with shaking hands, nearly dropping it. You watched him roll it on, watched the way his jaw clenched when he touched himself, the way his eyes squeezed shut for a second, and then he was settling between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot even through the latex.
He pushed in slowly, so slowly, and you both gasped at the sensation. The stretch was perfect, that edge of too much that quickly melted into exactly right. He was thick, much thicker than his fingers, and you felt every inch as he sank into you. He buried his face in your neck, breathing hard, body trembling with the effort of holding still, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest.
"Fuck," he groaned against your skin, the word muffled and desperate. "You feel—I can't—give me a second or this is gonna be over before it starts."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper until he was fully seated inside you, and felt him twitch, felt every pulse of his cock. "You feel so good."
"Don't—" His hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding deeper. "Don't say things like that. I'm trying to—I'm trying to hold on."
"I don't want you to hold on." You rolled your hips experimentally, clenching around him, and he made a sound that was almost pained, almost a whimper. "I want you to move."
He lifted his head to look at you, and the expression on his face, desperate and wanting and barely hanging on, sweat beading on his forehead, lips parted around harsh breaths, made your heart race. "Oh, fuck."
"Chan. Move."
He did. Pulled out slowly, the drag of him against your walls making you both moan, and pushed back in. He set a steady rhythm, deep and thorough, his forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing.
"Is this—" His breath hitched, voice strained. "Shit, is this how you want it?"
"Faster," you managed. "Harder."
His control snapped. He grabbed your hip with one hand, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head, bicep flexing as he held himself up, and fucked into you exactly how you had asked, faster, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin obscenely loud in the quiet room, the headboard starting to hit the wall with each thrust.
"Fuck—you feel so good—" He was gone now, words tumbling out between gasps, filter completely gone. "So tight and wet and—god—perfect—didn't know it could feel this good—"
Your nails dug into his shoulders, his back, dragging down hard enough to make him hiss. The slight pain seemed to spur him on, his hips snapping faster. "Don't stop—right there—Chan—"
"I'm not—I'm not gonna last—" His rhythm was getting erratic, chasing his release, each thrust slightly off-beat, desperate. "Touch yourself. I want to feel you come again. Need to feel it."
Your hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit, still sensitive from your first orgasm, and the added stimulation had you clenching around him hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, hips stuttering.
"That's it—fuck, that's so hot—" He buried his face in your neck, his words muffled against your skin, lips moving against your pulse. "Come with me—please—I'm so close—can't hold it—"
"I'm—oh god—"
Your second orgasm hit different, deeper, longer, starting from where you were connected and radiating outward, pulling him right over the edge with you. He came with a broken sound of your name, hips jerking erratically as he spilled into the condom, and you felt every pulse of it, felt him throbbing inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just lay there breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, heartbeats gradually slowing, still connected. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, could feel his lips pressed against your neck, could feel the occasional aftershock flutter through both of you.
Finally, he lifted his head, brushing sweaty hair out of your face with shaking fingers, his touch so gentle compared to how he had just fucked you. "So," he said, breathless and grinning, that dimple appearing again. "Was that worth waiting for?"
You laughed, pulling him down for a kiss, soft and sweet and completely at odds with what you had just done.
"Yeah, it was."
—
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place (note: i write smut fics!) ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
contains: +18, bf!chan, possessive behavior, mentions of blood (mostly about his lip cut), praise, soft dom!chan, rough sex x aftercare, table sex, unprotected sex (don't!!!), vulnerability, shower scene, oral (f receiving), chan loves reader sm!!!! (i think that's it??)
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)
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summary: Chan has always been protective. But when someone disrespects you? Well, he crosses a line and throws a punch without thinking twice. You find out too late, when he's already home, bruised, breathless, unapologetic. What follows is a fight of your own: you're furious. He’s relentless in his love, in his need to remind you who you belong to, and just how far he’d go to keep you safe.
!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!
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You were curled up on the couch, the TV playing in the background, phone forgotten in your lap. It buzzed once, then twice. A notification from someone you barely knew. Just a mutual through Chan.
“Girl, I don’t want to freak you out but Chan literally just decked someone. Are you okay???”
No context. No details. Just that.
Your hands were already shaking as you dialed his number. Straight to voicemail.
Again. Still nothing.
Panic bubbled up in your chest, sharp and choking. You tried not to spiral, tried to breathe, tried to remind yourself that Chan was smart, careful, always in control. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
He was always in control.
Except when it came to you.
You knew that. You knew how protective he could get. The way he’d go tense when a guy looked at you too long, the way he would pull you close with an arm tight around your waist, that low voice in your ear: “He’s looking too hard. Don’t like that.”
It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t toxic. It was just… Chan. Always watching. Always guarding. Like he was built to keep you safe.
But a fight?
Before you could even respond the text, the door opened.
Chan stepped in, hoodie half-zipped, a split lip and red blooming under his eye, his breath a little heavy like the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.
“What the fuck, Christopher?” you asked, voice breaking as you jumped to your feet.
He barely flinched. Just shut the door behind him like he didn’t look like he walked out of a street fight. Which he did.
“I’m fine,” he muttered. “And Jesus, don't call me Christopher”
“You don’t look fine! What happened? Why-”
“Some asshole thought he could talk about you like that,” he cut you off, voice low and dangerous. “He said your name like it belonged in his mouth. I told him once. He didn’t listen.”
Your hands trembled. “And so you punched him because of it?”
“After he pushed me,” he replied, you were looking at him chocked, with your heart almost exploding. “Don't look at me like that. I won't say sorry.”
“You could’ve gotten arrested. Or seriously hurt. Jesus, look at your face!”
You softly passed your fingers through his face. Chan’s jaw ticked, eyes locked on yours. “You think I care about that more than someone disrespecting you?”
“I care!” you shouted. “You didn’t even tell me! I had to find out from someone else when you were already bleeding?”
He took a step closer, even closer. “I can take a punch, baby. What I can’t take is someone talking about you like you're some girl they can just objectify,” Chan’s tone was flat, but his eyes were anything but calm. They were still burning. “saying things he shouldn’t even think.”
“That doesn’t make it okay, Chan.” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of fear and love tangled together. You pushed at his chest, but he caught your wrists gently.
“That scared the hell out of me” you choked out. He reached you, rough knuckles brushing your cheek.
He leaned down, brushing his nose against yours. “I’m sorry for scaring you. But I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d do it again. Thousand fucking times”
You looked into his eyes.
“You're an fucking idiot,” you murmured, full of anger and fear. Foreheads touching.
“Yours,” he replied, like it was the only thing that mattered. Looking at you with those eyes… those eyes you knew burned for you. For all of you. Chan leaned in, but you turned your face away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked quietly, like he didn’t already know.
“Don’t think you can kiss me and make this okay.”
“I just want you to understand,” His hands found your waist, slow and firm. “No one touches you. No one talks about you like that,” he growled. “You’re mine.”
One of his hands slid up to your face, fingers cradling your jaw like it was something precious. For him? You were.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
You did.
“You can be mad,” he said. “You can scream at me. But don’t you ever forget that you’re mine. And I will burn the whole world down if someone disrespects you.”
Your breath caught, but not from his words. From the rage twisting inside your chest.
“Well, then, fuck you, Christopher!” you snapped, voice breaking as you shoved at his chest. “Fuck you and your bruised goddamn ego.”
His jaw tensed, but he didn’t move. He took it.
“You think this is romantic? You think coming home with blood on your fucking face is some kind of proof that you care?”
“I did it for you-”
“I didn’t ask you to!” Your voice cracked, loud, raw. “You think I want to watch you self-destruct just to defend my name?”
Chan was silent.
“I’m not scared of what you did,” you whispered, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m scared I’m gonna lose you one day because you’re too fucking stubborn to think.”
Chan’s lips parted, breath shaky.
“You come home,” you choked, voice barely holding. “Bleeding. Smiling like it’s fine. And I’m supposed to just what? Patch you up like it's nothing?”
You turned your face again, wiping your eyes. You hated crying in front of him. Hated how much it made you feel exposed.
“I don’t care about pride,” you said. “I only care about you and—”
He grabbed your face. And kissed you.
Hard. Furious. Like he’d been drowning in your anger and finally found air in your mouth.
You gasped into it, fists clenched in his hoodie, and kissed him back with the same violence, the same desperation.
It was a blood-tinted, tear-soaked kiss.
You kissed him like it hurt. Like loving him hurt. And sometimes it did.
His hands were in your hair, your waist, your spine— everywhere at once. Dragging you in like he was terrified you’d disappear if he let go for even a second.
You broke the kiss first, panting, face flushed and wet with both tears and sweat.
His thumb swept under your eye. He rested his forehead against yours again.
He kissed you again, harder this time.
Your back hit the nearest wall with a thud.
"Chan, stop- you're-you're hurt"
"I don't fucking care"
Teeth. Tongue. Blood. Lust. Everything.
“I should be fucking mad at you,” you breathed as he kissed down your throat, sucking marks into your skin like he needed to brand you.
“Be mad,” Chan growled. “Scream at me. Hit me. But don’t you dare pull away now.”
You yanked at his hoodie, dragging it off his body with shaking hands. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Then shut me up,” he rasped.
You did. You pulled him back into you, nails dragging down his bare chest, mouth meeting his with a violence that almost made you dizzy. His hands roamed everywhere: your waist, your thighs, under your shirt - possessive, frantic.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he said, voice shaking, hips grinding into yours. You could feel through his jeans, he was hard. And it made you whimper.
“Yours,” you gasped, rocking against him. “I’m yours.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I fucking mean it,” you moaned. “I'm fucking yours. All of me.”
That was it.
Chan turned you around and bent you over the table. You heard the clatter of keys falling, something crashing to the ground. His hands were on your hips, yanking your pants down, and you were already dripping for him.
“Look at you,” he muttered, sliding his fingers between your legs. “All this for me? Even after screaming at me like that?”
You gave him a little giggle.
“Oh? Laughing now, baby? Let's see if you'll keep on laughing,” he warned, voice low, dark. “I’m not going slow.”
He didn’t wait. He pushed in hard and deep, and you cried out, gripping the edge of the table like your life depended on it.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Always so tight. Always so perfect. You need me like this, don’t you?”
You nodded, gasping. “Yes—yes, Chan, I do.”
He set a brutal pace, hips slamming into you with raw, pent-up fury. His hands bruised your hips, his nails dug into your skin. He was groaning, panting, whispering filth against your spine.
“You think anyone else could touch you like this?” Thrust.
“Think anyone could make you fall apart like I do?” Thrust.
“No one gets you like this, baby. No one gets to see you like this.” Thrust.
You were unraveling—eyes shut, mouth open, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Say it,” he growled.
“Only you—fuck—only you, Chan!”
He bent over your back, chest pressed to yours, breath hot against your ear.
“You’re mine,” he whispered again. “You always fucking will be.”
“No one gets to talk about you,” he growled. “No one gets to look at you. You’re mine to love. Mine to touch. Mine to fucking ruin. You understand me?”
You nodded. You couldn't possibly answer, you were so close.
He knew it.
“Can’t even speak now, huh?” he grunted, voice thick with lust. “Does my princess feel good?”
You nodded.
“Yeah? You want to cum, baby?”
You nodded again.
His hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with cruel precision. Circling, pressing, teasing, punishing.
“You gonna cum for me, princess?” His voice dropped, deep and rough in your ear. “You gonna cum on my cock?”
You whimpered, body shaking, walls fluttering around him, pleasure building so fast it almost scared you.
“Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl,” he groaned, hips snapping harder, faster, his own control slipping.
“You feel that?” he panted, fucking into you like he was losing his mind. “That’s how deep I am. That’s how far you let me in. Because you’re mine.”
Your legs buckled.
“Cum, baby,” he ordered, low and desperate. “Cum for me now.”
And you did.
Your body shattered, convulsing, exploding around him. You screamed his name, voice raw and shaking, as pleasure ripped through you like a wave crashing too fast to fight.
Chan lost it.
He buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, and spilled into you with a ragged groan. Your name on his lips. Like he’d die saying it.
He didn’t move for a second, just stayed there, chest heaving, face buried in the back of your neck.
Then, finally, he eased out, hands gentle now, smoothing down your spine, your waist, like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Still his.
“Fuck, you're the love of my life.” he murmured, pulling you up, turning you to face him.
Your legs felt like jelly, your breath uneven, your eyes glazed, but he kissed you anyway. Soft this time. Careful. Like an apology and a promise all in one.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours again, eyes closed, still trying to breathe through the weight of everything.
“You scared me too,” he admitted, voice rough, low. “I thought you were looking at me and seeing a monster”
“You’re not a monster,” you interrupted.
His eyes opened. “Then why did you look at me like that?”
“Because I love you.” Your voice cracked. “I love you, Chan. And I don't want to fucking lose you in some stupid fight.”
That hit him. You saw it land. Saw it in the way he looked at you like your pain was his own.
“I’ll be more careful,” he said, pulling you into his chest. “But I’ll never stop protecting you.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered into his skin. “I just don’t want to lose you in the process.”
He kissed the top of your head. “You won’t. I promise.”
You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, sweat cooling, his hands warm on your back, your face buried in his shoulder. Everything else could wait. Right now, it was just the two of you.
You nodded, letting him guide you toward the bathroom, still clinging to his hand like he might disappear if you let go.
-
The bathroom filled with steam as soon as the hot water hit the tiles, fogging the mirror. Chan stepped in first, reaching a hand out for you, and you took it without a word, letting him pull you under the stream.
The water hit your skin, warm and soothing, washing away the sweat and tension from before. But none of it compared to his touch.
Chan’s hands found your waist, then slid up your sides, slowly. He looked at you like you were art. Like you were a miracle for still being here, still loving him, even when he made mistakes.
He cupped your jaw with one hand and tilted your face up to him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “Even when you’re yelling at me.”
You laughed quietly.
His lips were on yours again in a heartbeat, softer now, slower, but no less intense. His hands explored you carefully, worshipfully, like he needed to relearn every inch of you. And you let him. You wanted him to.
You returned the favor—tracing his bruised ribs, brushing your thumbs over the cut on his lip, placing the softest kiss to the angry mark on his cheek.
“I hate that they hit you,” you whispered.
“Didn’t feel it, promise.”
“How bad does it hurt?” you asked.
“Not as much as you looking at me like that,” he said quietly.
You pressed your forehead on his shoulder. “I don’t want to see you like this ever again.”
“I know.” He exhaled, long and quiet. “I’d do it again, though.”
You didn’t answer. Just kept washing him in silence. Soft motions. Careful fingers. A kind of intimacy that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with I love you. I see you. I’m here.
When he turned to face you again, you moved to his face, wiping away blood that had dried, brushing your thumb gently along his jaw.
“You look like you pissed off a bear,” you muttered, lips twitching.
He smiled faintly. “He looked worse.”
You leaned in, pressing the lightest kiss to the cut. “Idiot.” Different this time, laughing quietly.
“Yours,” he replied again, voice low and sure, with a smile on his lips.
You ran your hands over his shoulders next, down his arms, checking every inch of him, like if you missed one spot, one scrape, you’d fail at keeping him safe in return.
He let you. Let himself be vulnerable in your hands, like he trusted you with the parts of him he didn’t show the world.
“I should be the one taking care of you,” he murmured, looking down at you.
“You’re always taking care of me,” you whispered.
You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands sliding through his wet hair, your body pressing close. You could feel him, hard again against your stomach, but he didn’t rush. Neither of you did.
This time, it wasn’t about claiming or punishing. It was about belonging.
Then slowly, he sank to his knees in front of you.
“Chan-” your voice caught, breath hitching as his lips met your inner thigh.
“Let me take care of you, baby” he said, voice low and reverent. “Just let me love you.”
And he did.
He kissed you like he meant it. Touched you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel alive. He brought you to the edge with slow, aching devotion, tongue, fingers, praises whispered into your skin. It wasn't rough or frantic. It was steady, grounding. Right. The rhythm of two people who knew exactly where they belonged. You came once again with his name on your lips, trembling, overwhelmed, worshiped.
Then he stood, holding you as you caught your breath, and kissed your forehead.
“I love you,” he said, simply.
“I love you too.” you whispered back.
You were his. Entirely. Devoutly. His.
-
Once you were warm, dry and dressed in one of his oversized shirts, he pulled on a pair of sweats and guided you to bed. You crawled under the covers, both of you still damp around the edges, skin flushed from heat and love and everything in between.
He slid in behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you close until there was no space left between your bodies. His chest was against your back, his legs tangled with yours, chin resting on your shoulder.
His hand rested just above your heart, thumb brushing the soft fabric of your borrowed shirt.
“I still feel you everywhere,” you murmured.
“Good,” he whispered against your neck. “I want you to.”
His hand splayed wider over your ribs, holding you like an anchor.
There was silence again. Not heavy, just full. Full of words unspoken, full of trust. Full of the kind of love that didn’t need to be declared every second because it lived in every breath, every glance, every touch.
You turned your face slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I am now,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion but laced with warmth. “Are you?”
You nodded. “Just… don’t do that again. Don’t scare me like that.”
He kissed your shoulder. “I’ll be smarter next time. But I’ll still protect you.”
“You’re impossible,” you whispered, turning fully now to face him.
“And you’re mine,” he said.
"Yours, always"
You kissed him one last time, slow, sleepy, like a promise. And then tucked your head under his chin, feeling his heartbeat steady against your cheek.
He whispered one last thing before you drifted off, his voice barely above the hush of the night.
“Forever, y/n. You and me.”
And in that moment, wrapped up in his arms, you believed it with your whole soul.
I love your work, your recent Changbin fanfic is a masterpiece 😭💕
I recently discovered that somebody can be "submissive top" and the first person that came to my mind was Bangchan can you write a fanfic about this please 💕
purple light
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pairing: bang chan x fem reader
word count: 5.7K
contains: +18, sub top channie, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (don’t, pls), fingering, chan gets whiny and messy, lotssss of kisses, kinda slow burn, praise kink, yappy needy chan
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
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summary: Chan’s all composure when the world is watching; steady hands, measured words, a kind of armor he never lets slip. But the second it’s just you and him… all that control cracks. He’s the one moving, fucking, pushing deeper, the one physically leading, but now, it’s never about control. It’s about obedience. Every thrust is for you, because you told him to, because he needs your praise, he needs you to feel good. Behind closed doors, he's yours to command.
The restaurant was warm with low light, the kind that made everything look a little softer. Glasses clinked, conversations overlapped, and Chan was right in the middle of it all, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, shoulders relaxed, that easy grin pulling everyone in.
You had seen him like this before, the way he could navigate a group without ever looking like he was trying.
He didn’t talk over people, but somehow the conversation kept coming back to him. When he leaned in to say something, everyone leaned a little closer to hear.
You caught the subtle markers of his confidence, the way his forearm flexed when he rested it on the table, the way his thumb traced the rim of his glass without thought, the way he met people’s eyes with calm steadiness.
And then there were the smaller things, the ones only you would notice.
The way his gaze always circled back to you. How his knee brushed yours beneath the table and stayed there. The faint curve of his mouth when you returned the pressure.
You were laughing at something one of your friends said when you felt his hand slip under the table, just resting against your thigh. Not possessive, not even necessarily sexual, just grounding. His thumb brushed lightly once, twice. You glanced at him.
He was still talking to someone else, but there was a different kind of smile now, a spark in his eyes that was just for you.
You leaned in slightly, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm, and said in a voice only he could hear, “You’ve been looking at me like that all night.”
That got his attention. His head turned toward you, a small, private tilt of his lips. “Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about something you won’t say out loud.”
He let out a quiet chuckle, looking back at the table like he hadn’t just been caught. “Maybe I am.”
Your hand found his under the table, fingers brushing the back of his knuckles. “Save it for later, baby” you murmured, tone light but full of promise. “I want to see it when we’re alone.”
It wasn’t a demand, more like a soft, knowing hook. One that made his gaze flick to you again, just for a heartbeat longer this time, before he nodded.
—
The night air was cooler than you expected when you stepped outside, the hum of the restaurant fading behind you. Chan walked ahead a few steps, fishing for his keys. Even in the quiet, he still carried himself the same way, steady, sure.
The car gave a soft beep as he unlocked it, and he reached to open your door first, holding it with that small, gentlemanly motion he never really drew attention to, but you always did.
“Always so proper,” you teased as you slid into the seat.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied with a grin, rounding to the driver’s side.
The engine purred to life, headlights washing the street. For the first few minutes, it was just the quiet hum of the tires and the low thump of the playlist he had queued. His hand rested easily on the steering wheel, the other draped over the gearshift, casual, controlled.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, the way the streetlights skimmed over his jaw, catching the glint of the chain around his neck. There was still that faint curl to his mouth from earlier, but his focus was on the road.
A block later he slowed; the lights ahead flipped to red and he eased the car to a stop, hand steady on the wheel. On impulse, you leaned, brushing your fingers along his wrist. He glanced at you briefly, just long enough for you to tilt your chin up and press your lips to his. It was soft, unhurried, a barely-there drag before you pulled back.
Before he could say anything, you slid your hands down his forearm, gently lifting his right hand from the gearshift and settling it on your thigh.
His breath caught almost imperceptibly. “Oh… you’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes flicking to you, then back to the road.
“Just drive,” you said softly
And he did, but his hand stayed where you had placed it, warm and steady, thumb brushing into your skin every so often. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t claiming, it was a quiet promise, one that carried all the way home.
The street outside was quiet when Chan eased the car into the driveway. His hand lingered on your thigh even after the key turned, as if he hadn’t registered that the ride was over.
You didn’t move it, just slipped out of your seatbelt and opened the door. He followed a beat later, locking the car behind you, still close enough that your shoulders brushed as you walked to the front door.
Inside, Chan dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, tugging at the collar of his shirt like he was finally letting the night fall away from him. You slipped off your coat and turned to find him watching you. Not in the casual, confident way he had done all evening, but with a quieter focus, like he was already tuned to your frequency, waiting for you.
“Good night out?” you asked, leaning against the wall.
His lips curved. “Better now.”
It was easy to close the space between you, a few unhurried steps, your fingers finding the edge of his shirt. He didn’t move until you tilted your head up, brushing a kiss just below his jaw.
“You kept your hand on me the whole way home,” you murmured.
“I liked it there,” he said simply. His voice was lower now, a little rougher.
You smiled, letting your palm smooth over the center of his chest before trailing down, slowly, to rest over his belt. Not grabbing, not demanding, just letting him feel the weight of your hand there.
“Then you can keep it up,” you said gently. It wasn’t an order, not quite, but his breath hitched like it might as well have been.
His hands found your waist, tentative at first, waiting for the unspoken yes. When it came, in the form of you leaning into him, brushing your mouth against his, he melted into it, deepening the kiss like he had been holding himself back all night.
And there it was, the first crack in that public armor. The way his fingers tightened, the way his breathing picked up, like your approval was the only green light he needed. You didn’t rush him. The two of you moved together down the short hallway, his hand brushing yours but not quite holding it, as if he was still fighting the urge to grab you and keep you close.
By the time you reached the bedroom, the only light was Chan’s purple lamp and the city lights peeking through the window. Chan closed the door behind you, not because anyone would hear, but because it felt like the night deserved its own small, sealed world.
You crossed the room without a word and settled into the armchair in the corner. Your fingers went to the zipper of your boots, slow and unhurried, as if you didn’t notice the way his eyes tracked you. The first boot came off. Then the second. You leaned back, stretching your toes, completely at ease.
He stayed by the door a moment longer than necessary, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself without you near him. Finally, he bent to untie his sneakers. When he straightened again, his hands went to the hem of his shirt.
But before lifting it, he looked at you, really looked, the faintest question in his eyes.
You met his gaze and gave one small nod.
The breath he let out was almost audible, like he hadn’t realized he had been holding it. The shirt came over his head in one smooth pull, the muscles in his arms and back shifting in the purple light. He didn’t drop it carelessly; he folded it once and set it on the chair by the door. You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered on him long enough for his shoulders to tighten. He stood there for a beat, shirtless in the muted light, waiting for another nod, another unspoken permission to keep going.
You shifted in the chair, resting one arm along the side, and let your gaze sweep over him without hurry.
He swallowed, the movement visible in his throat, and for a moment he stayed like that, bare from the waist up, eyes still searching yours.
“Come here,” you said, the words almost too gentle.
The change in him was subtle but deep, his chest rose higher with each breath, his pace careful as he closed the distance between you. When he reached you, he stood there, close enough for you to feel the faint heat radiating off his skin, but not touching.
Your fingers brushed the back of his hand, barely there. He tilted forward, like the smallest pull from you was enough to undo all that space he had been holding, fingers curling lightly around his. The warmth of his skin was immediate, his knuckles rougher than they looked. You brought them to your lips, pressing the faintest kiss to the side of one of his fingers, then another.
His breath caught. You didn’t look away. Every kiss you placed, you gave him your eyes, letting him feel the full weight of your attention.
By the fourth kiss, his hand had gone perfectly still in yours, like he was afraid to break whatever spell you were casting. His chest rose and fell faster now, the faint tremor in his exhale betraying him.
“Can you take my clothes off for me, Channie?” you asked, your voice low, smooth.
The sound he made was barely a murmur, not quite a word, more a breath that could have been yes, before he crouched slightly in front of you, hands hesitating at the hem of your top.
He lifted the hem slowly, watching your face the entire time, checking, waiting. When you didn’t stop him, his hands slid higher, the backs of his knuckles grazing your stomach. He swallowed again, breath hot and uneven now, before tugging the top over your head in one smooth motion.
For a moment, he just looked at you, lips parting like he had forgotten what came next. Then something shifted, the pause broke, and his hands came back to you, this time with more intent. He traced the edge of your bra, fingertips pressing into the soft skin just beneath it. His touch wasn’t rough, but it had lost the shyness; there was a steadier weight in his palms now.
When he leaned in, his mouth brushed your collarbone, not quite a kiss, more like he needed to feel you against his lips. You felt the faint scrape of his teeth there, the way his breath stuttered when you shifted in the chair, giving him just a little more access.
By the time his hands reached for the button of your jeans, his pace had changed, quicker now, thumbs pressing into your hips as if he couldn’t help himself.
He hooked his thumbs into your waistband, tugging your jeans down in one smooth pull. The denim caught at your knees for a moment before sliding to the floor, and before you could move, his hands were on you again, firm, almost desperate, pulling you forward until you were at the very edge of the chair.
Your legs wrapped around his waist without thought and the second later he pushed you flush against him. The impact sent a quiet shiver through him; you felt it in the way his chest rose hard against yours, in the small sound he didn’t quite swallow.
“God, you can’t even wait, can you?” you murmured, a slow, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
He tried to answer, but you were already leaning in, your mouth brushing his in the lightest tease before finally closing the distance.
The kiss was slow at first, the kind that sinks into your bones, but it deepened quickly, his lips parting under yours, tongue sweeping against yours like he couldn’t get enough.
His hands roamed without direction, sliding up your sides, down your back, gripping at your hips as if every inch of you demanded his touch. You felt him press closer, every shift of his mouth on yours just a little rougher, a little hungrier, but never breaking the pull of that long, unhurried kiss.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, chest rising and falling fast against yours. You trace your thumb along his bottom lip, dragging it slowly until he parts for you without thinking.
“You’ll do anything I want right now, won’t you?”
The question hangs between you like a spark. He doesn’t even hesitate, he nods, quick, almost desperate, before pressing your thumb back to his mouth. He kisses it, then sucks, proof that he’s being good, that he will be good.
When you tilt your head in approval, his whole body loosens, “Use me however you need, princess. I’m here for you,” he breathes, voice wrecked already, words rushing out like he’s afraid you won’t let him.
Your smile is soft, almost indulgent. “I know you are.”
That alone makes his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his hand sliding up your thigh. He leans in again, but not to take, he’s waiting, hovering, his lips just shy of yours as if he needs your permission to close the space again.
You let him. You catch his jaw with your palm, guide him in, and his kiss is fire and surrender all at once: eager, sloppy, his tongue sweeping desperately against yours. His lips part so willingly, molding to yours with a heat that makes your stomach flip. He tastes faintly of mint, sweet and sharp, and he kisses you like he’s starved, like every second his mouth isn’t on yours is wasted.
His tongue drags against yours, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier when you don’t push him away. You feel his breath shudder in your mouth, hear the small, desperate noises escaping his throat as if he can’t control them. He tilts his head, chasing more, and his hand fists at your hip to pull you closer even though there’s barely any space left between you.
You bite lightly his bottom lip, and he gasps, then surges back in, kissing you harder, messy, wet, unrestrained. His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s terrified of not giving you enough.
When you finally pull back, he’s breathless, pupils blown wide, mouth red and wet. His forehead drops against yours like he’s grounding himself.
“Please,” he whispers, “tell me what you need. I’ll give you everything.” His lips trail lower, softer now, peppering kisses along the column of your throat.
“Keep going down,” you murmur, tilting your head back to give him more.
And he does. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think. His mouth finds your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. Then lower, across the swell of your chest. When his lips brush against the curve of your tit, he pauses, glances up at you. The look in his eyes nearly undoes you, hopeful, hungry, waiting. He closes his mouth around you, warm and wet, sucking softly before flicking his tongue against your nipple.
You flinch, hips jerking a little at the sharp spark it sends through you. “I said keep going down, Channie baby,” you whisper, voice steady, coaxing.
His breath leaves him in a shaky rush, and then he obeys, lips traveling lower without question. Down the center of your torso, over your belly, leaving a trail of heat everywhere he touches. His hands never leave you, gripping your thighs, your hips, holding you close.
By the time he reaches the waistband of your panties, his breath is coming fast, chest tight against your knees. He presses a trembling kiss just above the thin fabric, eyes fluttering shut, waiting if you would stop him. But you don't.
And then he can’t help himself. His mouth dips lower, over the cotton, kissing you there like he’s worshipping. Once. Twice. Then again, wetter this time, lips parting as he breathes hot against you. His nose nudges the fabric, his tongue dragging over the barrier, and the low sound he lets out vibrates straight into you.
His fingers clutch tighter at your thighs, anchoring himself. He kisses you again, messy, open-mouthed, his lips moving against you like he had memorised the shape of you.
“Please…” he mumbles against the dampening fabric, voice breaking. He kisses you again, harder, before lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, lips swollen, pupils dark and blown. “Please, baby—let me taste you. I need it. Need you.”
Your lips curve, slow, indulgent. You smooth your hand through his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and tilt his face just enough that he sees the nod you give him.
That’s all it takes. He exhales like you’ve just set him free, then he’s gone; hooking his fingers in your waistband and tugging your panties down in a frantic rush, dropping them to the floor without even looking.
The second you’re bare, his mouth is on you. No hesitation, no teasing.
His tongue pushes deep, greedy, like he’s been starving for this all night and finally got fed. He groans against you, low and broken, the sound vibrating through your core as he drags his tongue up, then down again, licking you open like he doesn’t care how messy it gets.
His hands are firm, holding your thighs wide apart, almost shaking with the force of keeping you still for him. Every time you twitch or shift, he growls into you, pressing harder, sucking harder, desperate to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“Fuck,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his curls, pulling without meaning to. He only moans in response, pushing his face deeper like he wants to disappear inside you.
When he flicks your clit with his tongue, sharp and fast, you jolt; and instead of pulling back, he doubles down, latching his lips around it and sucking so hard your vision blurs. He’s messy, uncontrolled, but every movement screams of his need to please you.
He pulls back just a fraction, panting, lips shiny and wet. “So good—fuck, you taste so good. Gonna make you cum for me, yeah? Please… let me make you cum.” Then he dives back in before you can even answer, tongue relentless, like he’s chasing something only you can give, and you can feel the world narrow to the slick, wet heat around him. When you try to pull him up, his hands clamp to your hips like anchors, not rough, but pleading.
“Channie—come up,” you murmur, tugging at his hair gently.
He doesn’t want to stop. His mouth works greedily against you, tongue circling, lips sucking, every sound he makes vibrating into your core. When your hand tugs at his curls, trying to guide him up, he ignores it, groaning low like a protest, gripping your thighs tighter to keep himself there.
You thread your fingers deeper into his hair and pull, firm, decisive. His head jerks back, lips wet, chin slick with you. His eyes are wild, chest heaving as he pants.
“Up here, Channie,” you say, voice steady but soft enough to sound like coaxing. “I want your mouth on mine.”
He shudders at the words, but before obeying, he drags his tongue one last time through your folds, slowly, collecting every drop of you he can. The sound he makes as he does it is desperate, wrecked.
Only then does he rise, and you don’t let go, still holding his hair, guiding him until his face hovers just over yours. His lips are shiny, cheeks flushed, and he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Give it to me,” you murmur, tilting your head back, tongue peeking out in invitation.
Something in him cracks. With a guttural sound, he crashes into you, kissing you open-mouthed, tongue messy and insistent as he feeds you every taste of yourself he gathered. The kiss is frantic, wet, overwhelming and he melts into it completely, groaning into your mouth like giving this to you is the only thing he’s alive for.
All restraint disappears. It’s not delicate, not careful, your mouths crash together, wet and hungry, teeth scraping, tongues sliding deep. He moans into you, raw and guttural, and you answer with a whimper that’s almost a growl.
His hands roam everywhere, gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise. You pull him closer, gasping into his mouth only to chase his lips again, desperate not to lose the heat of him. Every kiss feels like it could tear you both apart if you stop.
You break for air just long enough to grab his chin, forcing his wild gaze to yours. Your voice is low, almost a hiss against his lips.
“Fuck me.”
He freezes, breath catching, eyes flickering like he’s not sure he heard you right.
“Now, Channie,” you insist, sharp, needy, your grip on his chin unyielding. “I need you to fuck me.”
The command detonates in him, and with a rough groan, he scoops you up from the chair, hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. You gasp, arms looping around his neck, as he carries you with a strength that feels as desperate as it does sure.
Your mouths crash together again mid-motion, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, both of you panting into the kiss as he stumbles the few steps to the bed. He lays you down, hovering over you for half a second, chest heaving like he’s about to come undone, then dives back in, kissing you hard enough to steal your breath.
He kisses you like he’s drowning, like he’ll never get enough, until finally he has to tear himself back for air. His chest heaves as he stares down at you, eyes glazed, lips swollen, hair a mess from your grip.
Then he’s moving, messy, frantic. His hands found his jeans, clumsy fingers fighting the button, cursing under his breath when it sticks. “Fuck—baby, I—” His voice cracks, whining as he finally shoves them down, kicks them off.
You reach up, but he pins your wrist to the mattress with one big hand, eyes flashing. “No. Don’t move,” he rasps, the command breaking on his tongue, more plea than order. His strength is undeniable, your body trapped under his weight, his grip firm, holding you in place even as he shakes with urgency.
“Need—need to give you what you want,” he pants, fumbling with his boxers now, nearly tearing them in his rush. When he finally frees himself, he groans, low and wrecked, rutting against your thigh once, unthinking. But then he catches himself, presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s holding back. “Tell me again. Say it again, baby, please—I need to hear it.”
Your breath fans across his mouth, and you don’t hesitate. “Fuck me, Channie.”
He whines, actually whines, the sound guttural and desperate, and you feel his whole body tense. His grip on your wrists tightens, holding you down like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and with one rough, hungry thrust forward, he gives you exactly what you asked for.
He pushes into you in one desperate, unsteady thrust, and your breath shatters. The stretch rips through you, sharp and overwhelming, forcing a gasp out of your lungs.
“F-fuck—” his voice cracks, a broken whimper as his forehead falls against yours. He freezes, buried halfway, his body trembling like holding back is agony. His grip on your wrists tightens, pinning you to the mattress as his chest heaves, sweat beading along his temples.
“So—so fucking tight,” he groans, hips jerking forward another inch, almost involuntary. He shakes his head, teeth gritted, as if he’s fighting himself. “God, baby, you’re—fuck—you feel so good around me. Can’t—can’t—”
You arch under him, the drag of him splitting you open exactly what you need. “Don’t stop, baby, please” you whisper against his ear. He moans, high and wrecked, and drives the rest of himself in with a rough snap of his hips. The force rocks you up the bed, and his whole body jolts with it, a strangled whine breaking free of his chest.
“Channie—” you gasp, but the name barely makes it out before he’s moving again, messy, frantic thrusts pounding into you. “f-fuck, keep going,” his rhythm is sloppy, uneven, like he can’t control the hunger consuming him. Each thrust knocks another cry from your throat, and he groans into your mouth, swallowing every sound.
He shifts his grip, releasing one wrist only to hook his arm under your thigh, pushing it up and out, spreading you wide open for him. His strength is staggering, he holds you down like nothing, driving into you harder, deeper, like the only thing in his head is the need to fuck you just because you told him to, just because you needed him to.
“Wanted this—fuck—wanted this so bad,” he babbles, words breaking apart as he thrusts faster. “Wanted to be good for you, make you feel so good. Am I, princess? Am I giving you what you need?”
You nod frantically, nails digging into his back, and the sound he makes in response is almost feral. “Faster, Channie, please—”, and he fucks you harder at that, hips slamming into yours with raw, reckless force, his moans spilling out unchecked, high and needy.
The bed creaks beneath the both of you, the world collapsing into sweat and heat and the filthy wet sound of him driving into you again and again, every stroke deeper, hungrier, like he’ll break apart if he doesn’t give you everything you asked for.
His thrusts grow sharper, more frantic, but you can feel it, the stutter in his hips, the way his forehead presses harder against yours like he’s trying to hide how close he is.
“Shit—fuck, baby—” His voice cracks, a whine dragged out of him against his will. His fingers tighten painfully around your thigh, pinning you down, grinding himself deeper. “Too much—too fucking good—gonna—” He cuts himself off with a sharp, guttural groan, hips jerking like his body’s betraying him.
You feel it in the way his cock throbs inside you, the twitching pulse that gives him away. His face twists, eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down his temple. “N-no, not yet. Not until you—” His words dissolve into another strangled whimper, chest heaving.
“Don't you dare stop—” you hiss, nails scratching down his back, and he shudders. “Please—fuck, please cum for me. Need you to—need you to first—”, he buries his face in your neck, mouth hot and wet as he pants against your skin. His whines are muffled there, spilling with each snap of his hips.
He pulls out so suddenly you gasp, your body clenching around nothing. "Chan!—”, you don’t even have time to continue before his hand replaces him; two fingers shoved deep, knuckles pressing against your heat.
“Fuck, Chan—” you cry out, hips jerking, eyes rolling back as he sets a brutal rhythm. Not in and out, not teasing, his fingers drag up and down inside your walls, pressing exactly where he knows you’ll break. The pressure is relentless, constant, almost punishing, his wrist snapping quick and filthy between your thighs.
“Chan—holy fuck, baby—” Your voice cracks, every curse spilling out like it’s ripped from you. “I'm almost—fuck, don’t stop—don’t you dare fucking stop—”
Your whole body trembles with the force of it, your thighs quivering around his arm. He’s staring at you like a man possessed, lips parted, sweat beading on his chest, hair sticking to his forehead. “Cum for me,” he pants, his voice low and sharp, his free hand holding your hip down because you’re thrashing against the bed. “Cum on my fingers, baby, please—”
He pulls out just for a second and your broken whine tears through the air, then he’s flicking your clit, fast, ruthless, wet sounds filling the room as his fingers slide over your swollen bud. Your back arches off the sheets, nails digging into his shoulders.
“God—fuck, fuck—yes—” you choke, every word cut off by another ragged moan. “So fucking good, Channie—fucking hell—”
And then he’s slamming them back inside you, deeper this time, curling up as he fucks you with a pace that makes your vision blur. The heel of his hand grinds your clit while his fingers work you mercilessly, wet, obscene sounds matching your cries.
“Oh, fuck,” he growls, almost frantic. “Take it for me—give me everything, please—”
You can’t even form words anymore, just curses tangled with his name, your voice breaking apart. “Oh my fucking god—yes, yes, right there— right there, you’re perfect, Chan—you’re so—”
Your whole body seizes when he curls his fingers just right, dragging hard against that spot that has you screaming. The pressure builds so fast it’s blinding, your vision going white at the edges.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Chan, I’m gonna—oh my god—”
He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his teeth gritted as he watches you fall apart. “That’s it, baby—give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my fucking fingers.”
And you do. The orgasm rips through you so violently you nearly sob, thighs snapping shut around his wrist, back arching clean off the bed. You’re cursing, moaning his name over and over as waves tear through you, milking his fingers until you’re shaking, drenched, trembling in his hold.
The sight of you, wrecked, destroyed, breaking under him, pushes him over the edge too. A strangled groan rips out of his throat, low and guttural, and his hips jerk helplessly against the sheets. He’s not even touching himself, but he’s gone, cock twitching as he spills hot and messy all over himself. Just from you. Just from giving you everything.
“F-fuck—baby, oh my god—” His voice cracks, needy and ruined, his forehead dropping against your neck as he rides it out, still working his fingers inside you even as his own body convulses.
You’re both shaking, clinging to each other, his chest heaving, yours pressed tight to his, his fingers still buried in you like he can’t bear to let go.
His mouth finds yours in a rush, lips crashing against yours, sloppy and hungry, tasting of sweat and the wreckage you both made. He’s panting into the kiss, swallowing your moans, like if he stops touching or kissing you, he’ll fall apart completely.
You gasp against his mouth, every nerve in your body still sparking, your thighs trembling. “Chan—” You pull back just enough to breathe, brushing your lips over his, your voice ragged but steady. “Fuck, baby, that was so good.”
The words hit him like a blow. His whole body jolts, a broken whimper spilling into your mouth, his eyes squeezed shut as if he might actually cry. “Yeah baby?” He kisses you harder, deeper, teeth clashing, almost frantic to prove himself again, even though your praise already undid him.
Your hand cups his jaw, steadying him, and he shudders under your touch “...you’re such a good boy for me.”
The words fall soft against his lips, but they don't just touch him, they land like a charge. For a second he freezes, eyes going wide. His breath hitched, shallow and fast, and the weight of him shifts, pressing into you harder like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“F-fuck—” It tears out of him. His face collapses into your neck, forehead hot against your skin, and he buries himself there as though hiding will steady him. He starts to tremble, small, helpless shakes through his shoulders, the kind that come when something inside finally gives. “Baby…” His voice is muffled, fraying against your throat. His lips brush at your skin in messy little kisses, then harder, clumsy messy little bites. His hands clutch at your back, fingers digging in.
You thread your fingers through his hair and stay there, steadying him with the same gentle pressure you used to pull him up earlier. “Yeah, my good boy,” you whisper, measured and soft, and the sound of it, approval, makes him break open.
You can feel the tension in his shoulders dissolve, fingers loosening until they’re soft against your back.
The man the world sees, the leader, the steady, guarded presence, peels away in thin layers until all that’s left is this: a boy who leans into your hands and trusts you completely.
You stroke the nape of his damp hair, the heat of him still clinging to your chest, and you realize how utterly he’s given himself over. He doesn’t need to carry the armor, the composure, the control he wears in public. He’s not here to be anyone but yours, to follow the subtle weight of your hand, to respond to the quiet pull of your approval.
Everything he’s ever held onto; the confidence, the assertiveness, the careful restraint, falls away in this purple light. And in its place, he is yours, willing to do exactly what you want, desperate for you to tell him he’s good, to let him know that this is enough.
Watching him surrender like this, you can see how much it pleases him, how much he thrives on being needed and directed, how much he trusts you with the part of him that the world never gets to see.
And you know, with every shiver that runs through him, every tremor of his breath, that he would trade all of that public armor, all of that careful control, just to be this, to be your good boy.
—
+++ authors note: dear anon, sorry for taking so long. i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did. i actually loved writing sub top channie, this is SO bang chan coded......
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place. ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: heavy makeout, cussing, gripping, p in v (wrap it up you whores), riding, clit rubbing, unprotected sex (reader is on birth control), established relationship.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2k (yes, i went hard)
𝐑𝐐 𝐁𝐘: this story has been brought by the author.
𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓: this is a complete work of fiction, nothing interpreted in the fic is how the person acts or talks.
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐒: @luviedovie for the pics and @chrisssiren for the dividers!
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: driving chan got me going man...
the rain’s been steady for an hour, tracking neat stripes down the windshield and thrashing faintly as it hits the hood. you’re parked in a quiet lot beneath a single sodium lamp, the city muted around you, the engine long since cut. steam crawls up the glass; your breath fogs the windows into a private, warm world.
yeah, he said he would drop you off at home since it was dark and way past the usual time you leave the dorm. 3:57 am. wow. game night with the boys were your favorite but sometimes it always ended with you leaving too late or crashing at their place. right now, it was a similar case. you had work in the morning and you didn't want to bother the boys with sleeping on the couch or sleeping on a rug in the corner of the living room. you do that sometimes in the dorm — er, minho and jisung's dorm, specifically. you were never the type to intrude on other people like that, even if it is people you are close with.
you sigh, leaning your forehead against the glass, waiting for chan to come back out of the nearest open starbucks. you got thirsty and craved something to drink at this time of day. you never liked coffee, not really, despise it, really. so you opted for boba tea, which is something chan found adorable. admist other things.
it wasn't long before you heard the faint footsteps of shoes hitting wet concrete, low cussing filling the outside space of the car as the door opened. chan slid in, jacket dripping wet as he placed your boba in the cup holder next to him. he cursed, his accent twisting around the word, hands running through his silver dyed hair as he shook his head.
you tsked, cold droplets landing on your skin. you didn't say anything, just watched him as you grabbed your boba with eager hands, punching the straw into the lid before taking a sip. you sighed. you always found the tea mid, but you didn't mind sucking the little black balls inside the drink. chan knew this habit. never said anything.
he took a deep, low breath. holding it in for a few seconds as his head hit the back of the seat. he let out said breath, lolling his head to the side to look at you. soft, warm, intimate. "the things i do for you." he whispered it low, more to himself, not meaning for you to catch it. but you did.
your eyes flicked to the side for a second, lips curled around the straw before retreating, looking at slightly to your feet. ah. see, sometimes you feel guilty. you know you'll never find someone who's ready enough to get you boba past 3 am. you know chan; sweet, kind, gentle, selfless and you know he'll do anything for you. you use that to your advantage, of course. you take, but oh you give back, of course you do. you take and take but you give it back just as much. because he's yours.
his eyes softened into something gentler, noticing the way your expression shifted, hands almost slipping from the cup. he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “you couldn’t wait,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate through the leather. he doesn't sound mad, he's the one who offered to get it anyway.
you swallow, placing the boba on the dashboard. you turn your head, giving him a look that screams both guilty and something soft, eyes flicking across his features. he smirks faintly, wrist resting on your shoulder as his thumb runs over your eyelid. "don't do that.” he whispered, voice softer yet deep then it normally was. normally is. it makes heat rise in your lower belly.
"come here.”
you cross the small space of the console as the words left his lips, fingers slipping into the collar of his shirt. he lets you, breath hitching at your touch. when you lean in, he tilts his head and your lips meet — soft at first, then a hard press that deepens on the second, third contact. his hand comes up to the back of your head, thumb rubbing warm circles at your hairline. the sound he makes against your mouth is half–grunt, half–laugh.
he pulls back first, looking up at you with a faint look of lust, love hidden behind it because how can it not be there? he stroked your thigh gently with his other hand, inching further up your short jeans. "you know it's raining,” he mused, looking down for a moment before catching your eyes, fingers now tracing random patterns by your inner thigh. your pussy throbbed.
he smiled. “i take it you want something more.” it wasn't even a question.
you didn't have time to answer because he was already unbuttoning your jeans, pulling it down with the help of you raising your hips off his lap for a second. he thanks the lord jesus christ that the windows are tinted.
his hands travel from your thighs to your breasts, thumbs tracing the seam of your bra underneath the tee as if measuring the exact pressure he’ll need. he tugs it up with one easy move — no fumbling, only intent — and the cool air on your stomach makes you shiver. the seats creak when he shifts, bringing you flush to him, comfortable and raw at the same time he hums, not bothering to unhook your bra, thumb tracing the nipple over the black fabric.
“did you really want boba tea or was that just a distraction?” he asked, eyes flicking to the abandoned tea that was sitting on the dashboard. half empty. you don't answer, he already knows what it was. “don’t be loud,” he murmurs, but the warning is a tease.
his palm cups your pussy through the fabric of your panties while his fingers find the right angle. he pushes them aside, making room for him. you swallow, hands placed on his shoulders like it'll anchor you, breathe catching in your throat.
you were really about to do this. in a car. he could sense your vulnerability; the way your lips brush under your teeth, the way your hands clench around the fabric of his jacket. he senses it. he lets you remove the leather, throwing his jacket in the backseat before cupping your cheek.
“we don't have to do this.” he settles you, one hand bracing at the small of your back, the other sneaking between your legs to test. you feel it before anything else: solid, hot, already hard. you know he means it when he says it. he won't push you into anything, he cares that much about your comfort. it takes you back to when he loved you for the first time. he was so gentle when he stripped your clothes off for him, fingers gliding across your skin like it was sacred.that's part of the many reasons you trust this man with your entire being.
the scent of him — old spice and rain — fills your head. you can't say no, not right now. you'll take a risk. why? because you're horny and knows he'll be gentle. “no, no,” you sigh out, hands cupping his neck, thumb running over his jaw. “i want it– i want you.”
chan's expression softens. that's all the permission he needs.
he pushes inside you in one slow, deep roll that steals your breath. the confined space makes every inch of contact feel intimate and increased ten fold: his chest pressed to yours, his breath hot at your throat, the soft skin of his against your hands. it's perfect. his rhythm starts softly, long strokes that sink in so deep you can feel him all the way to the bone. the car rocks with each motion — quiet, soft — until the need in your lower half throbs hard and insistent. he watches you the whole time, eyes hooded but attentive, as if your face draws a song he wants to memorize.
your eyebrows stitch together softly in bliss, head tilting up. chan swears he's seeing stars right now. you move, adjusting on top of him before burying your face in his neck. he hums softly, a hand trailing up to cup the back of your head, still moving his hips. it's a little hard to move in a space like this. and yes, even though you're stuffed full and can feel the tip pressing against your gspot, you can feel his movements falter every few seconds. that small pause before lifting his hips again. it makes you want to laugh.
you chuckle softly, moving back to look at him. “babe, wait,” you pull the lever at the bottom. his seat reclines back. he gasps softly, hands clutching the edge of the seat, eyes flickering to meet your glazed ones. “love.” he breathes out, hands resting on your thighs. you don't say anything. you just move. small grinds at first, like a roll of the hips that has him already groaning and throwing his head back.
when he wants more, he takes it. he grabs your hips with rough hands, guiding you faster as his jaw sets. there’s a push and pull to him: possessive when he calls you “mine,” careful when he checks in with a low, “you okay?” between grinds. the safety of the parked car is a paradox — public enough that the danger fills the scent of rain outside, private enough that you can love him like this.
you tilt your head forward against his shoulder, breath sharp. he grabs your jaw, gently this time before pulling your face back and finds your mouth and kisses you hard — no gentling, just a claim. your fingers drag down his arm, nails digging little crescents that leave heat-smudged paths. he groans softly into the kiss at the light sting.
at one point he fucks up into you harder — so hard the seat frame thumps and the car makes this noise — and you choke out his name. he answers by snapping his hips into yours in a way that lifts you against him and has your knees breaking. then he shifts, leaning forward so he can cup your face and bite the hollow beneath your ear. his teeth graze skin, tongue touching it whenever he talks. “look at me,” he rasps. when you do, his pupils are blown, dark and gentle at the same time. “there she is, pretty baby.”
you whimper so softly.
he smiles.
he moves again with an urgency that’s almost desperate — closer, faster — leaning back against the seat while his hand moves down — first feeling the bulge of him moving in your lower belly, then down to rub your clit for more pressure. you hiss. “c–chris, i'm close..” you moan out softly, hand clutching the wrist that's working your clit, mouth parted in bliss. he groans. he loves that expression.
he finds a pace that’s brutal and caring at once, angling his hips so each thrust slides home deeper than before. your tightness clamps around his cock and he groans low, a sound that vibrates against your sternum.
“cum for me,” whispered, voice breaking with its own need.
you do. your body folds around him; your nails run down his shoulders, head dropping back and the sound you let out is a mix of a groan and a whimper, thighs clenching around his. you cream around him, warm and sticky and that's enough to send chan over the edge too.
he fills you up with your permission, low groans and high curses filling the air. “fuck– baby..” he hisses, hips relaxing as he finally calms down, sweat dripping down his cheek and past his jaw. he pulls you back down to him and kisses the salt from your lips like it’s a prayer. the motion slows. he rests his forehead to yours, breath coming in hard pulls, hands still heavy on your thighs as if making sure you didn’t vanish from him. outside, the rain has eased to a whisper. inside, your breathing finds a shared rhythm.
“next time,” he murmurs into your hair, voice soft now and threaded with something almost like apology, “i'm taking you home.” then he laughs, small and rough. “and loving you properly.”
you smile faintly, flicking his forehead in silent protest. “this was hot. we're doing it again.”
he groans, a hiss leaving his lips after, head falling back against the seat. “shut your fucking mouth or i'm using that throat of yours.”
you know he means it and if you're being honest? you don't mind.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: all rights reserved to @luvlve , please do not copy my work.
Pairing: Bang Chan × Wife!Reader
Genre: Fluff • Domestic • Idol!AU
Word Count: ~5k
Summary: When Chan takes the members to his parents’ house in Australia, they expect a warm family visit. What they don’t expect is you—his wife, waiting quietly on the sidelines. Chaos, laughter, and tenderness unfold as secrets are revealed, bonds are tested, and family grows in unexpected ways.
——————————————————————————————————
The warm scent of eucalyptus drifted in through the open window, carried by the late afternoon breeze. I could hear the faint laughter of children playing somewhere down the street, the sound mingling with the rustle of leaves and the clink of dishes in the kitchen.
“Sweetheart, can you grab the glasses from the cupboard?” Mrs. Bang called out, her voice carrying the same gentle lilt as her son’s.
“Of course,” I replied quickly, padding across the polished wooden floor to help. I still wasn’t used to how natural it felt—being here, being part of this family. Some days it startled me, the thought that I wasn’t just visiting Chan’s parents. I was their daughter-in-law.
My hands trembled slightly as I stacked the glasses onto a tray. Today was no ordinary visit. Today, Chan was bringing the members of Stray Kids home—his brothers, his family in Korea—to meet the family he had here in Australia. Including me.
The catch? They had no idea I existed.
I pressed my lips together, trying to keep calm, but my stomach was a bundle of knots. Chan had told me over the phone a week ago, his voice careful and full of quiet excitement.
“I want them to see this side of my life, love. I want them to meet you. It’s time.”
I had nearly dropped the phone when he said it. For years, we had kept things private. His career demanded it, and I had respected that without question. But now… after the whirlwind of tours, albums, and endless schedules, he wanted to bring the two halves of his world together. And I wanted to be brave enough to let him.
“Don’t look so nervous, darling,” Mr. Bang said from the doorway, leaning against the frame with an amused smile. He had the same smile lines as his son, creasing warmly around his eyes. “You’d think you were meeting your in-laws today, not the other way around.”
I laughed weakly, setting the tray down. “I don’t know how to… be. They don’t even know about me.”
He tilted his head, thoughtful. “And yet, Chan loves you enough to share you with the people most important to him. That says everything, doesn’t it?”
His words should have steadied me, but instead they made my heart race even faster. From the living room, Mrs. Bang called out again, “They’ll love you, sweetheart. You’ve been part of this family since the day Chan brought you into his life.”
The crunch of tires on gravel snapped me out of my thoughts. My heart lurched. Through the curtains, I could see a large van pulling into the driveway. Voices spilled out, loud and playful, even before the door slid open.
It was them.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I froze in place, staring at the doorway like it might swallow me whole.
“Alright,” Mr. Bang said softly, clapping a reassuring hand to my shoulder. “Showtime.”
The front door rattled, followed by the sound of multiple voices tripping over each other in excitement.
“Smells so good already!” one of them shouted in Korean, laughter echoing after it.
I stood frozen in the hallway, heart beating so hard I thought they might hear it over their chatter. Every instinct told me to run upstairs, hide until the moment passed—but Mr. Bang gave me a look that said you belong here.
The door swung open.
“Welcome home, Christopher!” Mrs. Bang’s voice rang out, warm and bright.
“Mum!” Chan’s voice answered, and in that instant all the nerves in me melted just a little. I could picture his wide smile, the way he always softened around his family.
I peeked from the edge of the hallway as the boys spilled into the entryway like a tidal wave. Eight young men, all wide-eyed and buzzing, shoes squeaking as they shuffled to take them off.
“Whoa—this is hyung’s house?”
“It’s so cozy!”
“Feels like him somehow.”
Chan was at the center of them all, grinning ear to ear. His parents reached out immediately, pulling him into a hug that looked years overdue. He buried his face against his mum’s shoulder, and even from my hiding spot, I could see the weight of homesickness leave him.
It was then that his father said it—words that flipped the entire room upside down.
“You brought your brothers, son. And your wife is here too.”
The boys froze.
The entire group turned their heads in unison, like a scene out of a comedy movie.
“...His what?” one of them whispered.
I stiffened, caught in their line of sight. My body screamed at me to disappear, but Mrs. Bang was already waving me forward like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Come, darling. Don’t be shy.”
Chan’s head snapped up, eyes immediately locking onto mine. Relief washed over me at the way his face softened—like I was his anchor in this chaotic storm. He extended a hand without hesitation, silently urging me closer.
I forced my legs to move. One step, then another, until I stood at his side. The silence from the boys was deafening.
“This… is my wife,” Chan said finally, his voice gentle but steady. He squeezed my hand, grounding me. “I wanted you to meet her here. At home.”
For a moment, all I could see were their stunned expressions. Wide eyes. Open mouths.
Then came the explosion.
“WHAT?!”
“Hyung, you—you’re married?!”
“Since when?!”
“Hyung! How could you hide this from us?!”
The room erupted into chaos, voices overlapping, questions flying like arrows.
I instinctively shrank back, overwhelmed, but Chan’s arm slid around my waist, holding me firmly at his side. “Hey, hey, calm down,” he laughed, though his cheeks were pink. “One at a time.”
Still, the questions kept pouring in until Mrs. Bang clapped her hands. “Dinner first, questions later. Everyone inside, shoes off properly, go on.”
The boys shuffled forward reluctantly, still staring at me like I was a puzzle piece they hadn’t known was missing.
And just like that, I was officially no longer invisible.
The dining table was bigger than I remembered, but somehow it looked too small with nine extra bodies crammed around it. The boys were loud, even before the food was served, their voices bouncing off the walls in rapid-fire Korean. I caught bits and pieces, enough to know that every other sentence contained the words “married” or “wife.”
Chan sat close beside me, his hand brushing mine under the table in quiet reassurance. He was trying not to laugh at the chaos, but his ears had gone bright red.
Finally, Hyunjin leaned forward, his long hair falling dramatically into his face. His eyes narrowed at me, suspicious.
“So… when exactly were you going to tell us, hyung?”
The table went silent. All eyes on us.
Chan cleared his throat. “Well… now?”
Groans erupted, chairs squeaking as they all turned to face him at once.
“Now?!” Seungmin repeated, his tone scandalized. “We could’ve been uncles this whole time and not even known!”
I choked on my water, eyes going wide. “Uncles—?! No, no, no, we don’t—”
“Kids?!” Felix gasped, his Australian accent cutting through as he clutched his chest. “Mate, you’re holding out on us twice over?!”
The entire table burst into laughter. Even Chan doubled over, his forehead hitting his hand as he groaned.
“No!” he insisted between laughs. “No kids. Just—just married.”
Relief rippled across the group, but the teasing didn’t stop.
“Still can’t believe you managed to keep this a secret.” Han shook his head, but his grin gave him away. “You’re sneakier than I thought, hyung.”
I ducked my head, cheeks burning. “It wasn’t… meant to be a secret forever. We just wanted some time before… well, before everyone knew.”
That seemed to soften them. For a moment, their teasing expressions gave way to curiosity—gentle, genuine curiosity.
“So…” Jeongin piped up from across the table, his eyes wide and innocent. “What’s your name? And… do we call you noona now?”
The question broke the tension, laughter bubbling up again.
I smiled timidly. “You can call me whatever makes you comfortable. Noona is fine.”
That earned a chorus of “Noona!” shouted around the table, some voices playful, others respectful.
Felix leaned closer, his grin boyish and sweet. “You’re Aussie too, yeah?”
I nodded. “Born and raised.”
“Yesss!” He fist-pumped dramatically. “Finally, someone who understands the slang. I’m not alone anymore.”
The others groaned. “Great, now there’s two of them.”
The conversation flowed easier after that. Questions still came, but gentler ones: how I met Chan, how long we’d been together, what it was like living here while he was in Korea. They weren’t interrogating me anymore—they were trying to know me.
At one point, Jeongin asked, “So… do you listen to our music?”
I hesitated. “Of course I do. It’s impossible not to when my husband is in the group.”
The word husband slipped out naturally, but it sent the boys into another frenzy of groans and squeals.
“Did you hear that? Husband!”
“Hyung, I can’t believe this is real.”
“This is actually insane.”
Chan only smiled, quiet pride in his eyes as he reached for my hand under the table again. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, calming, grounding.
For the first time all evening, I let myself relax. Maybe… just maybe, this was going to be okay.
The dining room buzzed with energy, louder than the cicadas humming outside. Plates clinked, chopsticks clicked against bowls, and laughter filled every space between.
Mrs. Bang had outdone herself. The table was covered in dishes—Korean, Australian, and a few fusion recipes she had been experimenting with for Chan. It smelled like home, though I wasn’t sure anymore if that meant my home or his. Maybe both.
I kept busy refilling bowls, sliding platters closer, making sure no one went without. But even as I fussed, I felt his gaze. Warm, steady, constant.
“Eat,” Chan whispered, nudging a plate toward me. He didn’t say it like a suggestion. He said it like a promise—that I was allowed to sit, to be taken care of too.
I obeyed, stealing a bite of kimchi pancake. The crunch, the spice—it grounded me.
Around us, the boys were a storm. Han and Hyunjin competed to see who could eat the fastest, Felix kept trying to feed everyone bites of his favorite dish, and Jeongin asked endless questions about Australia that had the table in stitches.
“What’s a bogan?” he asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Felix nearly choked laughing. “You’ll see, mate, you’ll see.”
Chan shook his head, exasperated but fond. Then he turned to me, brushing his shoulder against mine. “You okay?”
I glanced at him, surprised by how gentle the question was. He didn’t mean are you surviving dinner. He meant are you surviving being seen.
My throat tightened. “Better than I thought I’d be.”
His lips quirked into the smallest smile, like he was holding back everything he wanted to say. Instead, he slid his hand under the table, fingers intertwining with mine. Hidden, just for us.
The conversation shifted again when Seungmin leaned forward, eyes sharp but not unkind. “So… what’s it like? Being married to him?”
The table quieted. Every face turned to me.
I blinked, thrown by the sudden seriousness. My gaze flicked to Chan, who looked just as curious as the others. He wouldn’t answer for me. He wanted to hear it too.
I thought for a moment, then said softly, “It’s… like coming home, no matter where we are. Even when it’s hard. Even when he’s gone. It always feels like home when it’s him.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than I meant them to be.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Hyunjin made a dramatic gagging noise, breaking the tension. “That’s so cheesy, I can’t—!”
The whole table burst into laughter again, the weight lifted. But beneath the laughter, I saw it in their eyes—something tender, something real. They understood.
Dinner blurred into dessert, then into tea, until the night softened around us. One by one, the boys slumped into couches and armchairs in the living room, bellies full, voices tired but still playful.
I sat on the edge of the couch, watching them. They felt like a pack of puppies—messy, chaotic, but inseparable.
Then a warm hand touched my shoulder. I looked up to see Chan standing over me, his smile soft.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get some air.”
He led me out to the back porch, where the night was cool and the stars spread endlessly above us. The sound of the boys’ laughter still drifted from inside, muffled but present.
For the first time all day, it was just us.
Chan leaned against the railing, looking at me with that gaze that always made the world fall away. “You did so well tonight,” he said quietly.
I let out a shaky laugh. “I thought they were going to eat me alive at first.”
“They’re just shocked. You’re… the best surprise I could ever give them.”
His words caught me off guard. “You mean that?”
He nodded, eyes earnest. “You’re the part of me they’ve never seen. The part I can’t live without. Sharing you with them—it means everything.”
The night air was cool, but my cheeks burned. I stepped closer, resting my forehead against his chest. He smelled like laundry detergent and home.
For a moment, there was only the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, grounding me in a way nothing else could.
Inside, I heard Felix’s voice shout dramatically, “Hyung, where’d you go?!” followed by a chorus of teasing calls.
Chan groaned, resting his chin on my hair. “They’re never going to let me live this down, are they?”
I laughed, muffled against his shirt. “Not a chance.”
The house had gone quiet, but not peacefully so. It was the kind of quiet that comes after chaos, heavy with the echoes of laughter and footsteps.
Most of the boys had collapsed into makeshift beds—couches, sleeping bags, and one rather unfortunate air mattress that squeaked every time Jeongin shifted. The sight of them sprawled across the living room was oddly endearing.
I lingered in the hallway, unsure if I should retreat upstairs or hover nearby in case someone needed something.
“You don’t have to stand guard, you know,” Seungmin’s voice came, calm and dry.
I startled, turning to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes were sharp as always, but softer than before.
“I wasn’t—” I began, then sighed. “Okay, maybe I was.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “You really care about him, don’t you?”
The question was simple, but the weight behind it made me pause.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “More than anything.”
Something in his expression shifted. Approval, maybe. Or acceptance. “Good. Then… welcome to the family, noona.”
Before I could respond, he slipped away, disappearing into the darkened living room.
My chest tightened unexpectedly. One by one, they were letting me in.
Later, I padded into the kitchen for a glass of water and found Felix there, rummaging for a midnight snack.
He beamed when he saw me. “Noona! Want some Tim Tams?”
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “It’s nearly two in the morning.”
“Exactly. Prime snack time.” He pushed the package toward me anyway. “Hyung’s lucky, you know. You make him brighter. I can see it.”
The sincerity in his tone startled me. I blinked, throat thick. “Thank you, Felix.”
He grinned, taking a bite of chocolate. “Don’t make him too soft, though. We still need our leader.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry. He’s still Bang Chan.”
But inside, I thought: He’s just Chan to me. My Chan.
When I finally made it upstairs, Chan was waiting in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hair damp from a quick shower. He looked up the second I entered, his smile slow and tired but full of love.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Did they treat you okay?”
I crossed the room and slid into his arms without answering. He held me tightly, no questions asked, just warmth and steadiness.
After a long silence, I whispered, “They like me.”
His chuckle rumbled against my cheek. “Of course they do. You’re you.”
I pulled back to look at him. “I was so scared.”
“I know.” He cupped my face, his thumbs brushing lightly over my skin. “But you didn’t need to be. You’re my home. I wanted them to see that.”
Tears pricked my eyes, but they were soft ones, the kind that came from being seen.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He kissed my forehead, lingering. “No, love. Thank you.”
Outside the window, the night was quiet again, the stars endless over the Australian sky. Inside, surrounded by family—old and new—I felt something I hadn’t realized I was missing.
Belonging.
And as I drifted to sleep against his shoulder, one thought echoed clear and certain: this was only the beginning.
Pairing: Bang Chan x Wife!Reader
Genre: Fluff, Domestic, Smut, Established Relationship
Word Count: ~3.5k
Summary: Chan comes home with freshly dyed silver hair. Your one-year-old isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at Daddy’s new look… but once the baby’s asleep, you finally get to appreciate just how dangerously good your husband looks.
Warnings: smut (oral f. receiving, unprotected sex, praise kink, soft dom!Chan, lots of kissing, aftercare). Fluff and domestic themes throughout.
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The morning sunlight spilled softly across the living room as you balanced your one-year-old son on your hip. He was babbling to himself, small fingers clutching at your shirt while you swayed gently to keep him calm. Life with a toddler was messy, loud, and exhausting—but also full of these little pockets of sweetness that made you feel like your heart might burst.
You heard the front door click shut, followed by the sound of shoes being toed off and a duffel bag hitting the floor.
“Daddy’s home,” you whispered, smiling down at your son.
His little head perked up, eyes widening as he recognized the voice singing lightly from the hallway. “Hey, my loves!”
Bang Chan appeared, still in his hoodie and joggers, hair slightly damp from a quick rinse at the studio. But today… something was different. You blinked.
His hair.
It wasn’t the usual warm brown you’d grown used to running your fingers through. It wasn’t the blond phases or the darker shades he’d played with before. No—his hair was a striking, cool grey that caught the light in a way that made him look effortlessly mature and heartbreakingly gorgeous.
Your mouth actually went dry.
Chan’s smile softened when he saw you holding the baby, but then his attention shifted to your son, who had stopped mid-wiggle. The baby stared at him—long and hard. His chubby brows furrowed, lips trembling slightly.
And then, a tiny whimper.
Chan froze. “Uh oh…”
The baby buried his face into your neck, peeking out at Chan like he was a stranger.
“Love, what happened?” Chan chuckled nervously, touching his hair self-consciously. “It’s just me.”
You tried not to laugh, but the situation was too adorable. “I think…” you whispered, bouncing your son gently, “he doesn’t recognize you.”
Chan gasped dramatically, hand over his chest. “My own son? Already betrayed me?”
The baby whined again, eyes still fixed on the unfamiliar silver locks. You could practically see the gears turning in his little head—Daddy smells the same, sounds the same… but why does Daddy look different?
You stroked your son’s back, soothing him while you grinned at your husband. “I mean… to be fair, you do look really different.”
Chan tilted his head. “Different bad or different good?”
Your cheeks warmed as you looked at him properly for the first time, really taking in the sharpness it gave his features, how the grey made his skin glow, how it highlighted the deep warmth in his eyes. It was… unfair, really.
“Different… dangerously good,” you admitted under your breath.
Chan’s smirk returned instantly, dimples flashing. “Oh?”
The baby squealed at his tone, confused again, and clung tighter to you. You rubbed soothing circles on his back.
“Don’t tease,” you whispered, biting back a smile. “Your son thinks you’re an intruder.”
Chan crouched down a little, softening his voice. “Hey, buddy. It’s still Daddy. Look—same smile, same hugs.” He reached his arms out gently, not pushing too much.
The baby considered it for a long moment, lips wobbly, then cautiously reached one pudgy hand out to tug at Chan’s hoodie strings.
“See? Still me,” Chan murmured, kissing his tiny fingers.
Your son blinked, eyes darting up to the silver hair again, but this time he didn’t cry. Instead, he let out a questioning little “Da?”
Chan’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Da. Daddy.” He scooped him carefully from your arms, peppering kisses all over his cheeks until the baby giggled despite himself.
You crossed your arms, watching the two of them with a smile tugging at your lips. It was the same sight you saw every day—your husband with his whole world in his arms—but the grey hair added a new layer, like you were suddenly looking at him in a new light.
A light that made your stomach flip and your heart race.
Chan caught your gaze over your son’s head, reading you instantly. His lips curved in that teasing, knowing way that always made your knees weak.
Yeah. You were in trouble tonight.
Dinner was a blur of highchair mess, mashed veggies smeared on the table, and your son shrieking happily every time Chan made airplane noises with the spoon. You couldn’t stop smiling—even when you were on cleanup duty—because Chan looked so content. His silver hair fell into his eyes as he leaned forward, soft laugh echoing through the kitchen every time your son giggled back.
Eventually, bath time came. The routine was familiar: Chan hummed soft melodies while holding your slippery toddler steady in the water, you scrubbed carefully, and together you wrangled pajamas onto a wiggly, giggling body.
By the time your son was tucked into his crib, a lullaby humming from the small speaker and his little chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep, you felt the kind of bone-deep exhaustion only parents could understand.
You leaned against the nursery doorway, whispering, “Finally.”
Chan came up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. “Finally,” he echoed, but his voice carried a warmth that wasn’t just about rest.
You turned slightly, meeting his gaze in the dim hallway light. Up close, the silver strands shimmered, and you felt that strange little flutter in your chest again.
“You really like it,” he murmured, eyes searching yours.
You tried to play it cool, even though your pulse betrayed you. “It’s… not bad.”
He raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. “Not bad?”
You smirked, leaning closer. “Okay, fine. It’s… ridiculously sexy. You look like you stepped out of some drama where the mysterious, devastatingly handsome man breaks hearts without trying.”
Chan chuckled, low and pleased, dimples flashing. “And here I was worried my wife wouldn’t like it.”
You scoffed softly. “Your wife is currently wondering how fast she can get her son back to sleep tomorrow night just to have you all to herself.”
That earned you a quiet groan, his forehead pressing into your neck as he held you tighter. “Don’t say things like that when I can’t touch you properly in the hallway.”
You laughed, swatting his arm lightly before tugging him toward the bedroom.
Once the door closed behind you, the atmosphere shifted. No baby monitor beeping, no toys scattered across the floor, no sticky hands tugging at your shirt. Just you, Chan, and the soft lamplight casting a warm glow over the room.
He leaned back against the dresser, watching you with that lazy, smoldering gaze that always unraveled you. His fingers raked through his hair—silver glinting against tan skin—and you swore he knew exactly what he was doing.
You crossed your arms, trying to keep your composure. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” His voice was teasing, but his eyes were hungry.
“Like you’re undressing me with your eyes.”
Chan smirked. “Maybe I am.”
You took a slow step toward him, heart hammering. “Bold.”
“Honest,” he countered, tugging you flush against him the moment you were within reach. His hands splayed across your back, holding you like he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment.
You curled your fingers into his hoodie, tilting your head up. The grey hair caught your attention again, and before you could stop yourself, you reached up to run your fingers through it.
He closed his eyes, sighing softly. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
“Actually,” you whispered, brushing a strand back from his forehead, “I think I do.”
His laugh was soft, breath warm against your lips as he kissed you—slow at first, then deeper, more insistent, like he couldn’t get enough.
It had been a long day, but in that kiss, in his arms, you forgot about the exhaustion, the mess, the endless routine. All that existed was the two of you, tangled together in the quiet of your shared space.
Your lips moved in sync, hungry and desperate, as though you’d both been starving all day. Chan pressed you back against the dresser, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, effortlessly lifting you until you wrapped your legs around his waist.
The kiss broke only when he needed air, his forehead pressed against yours, chest heaving. His voice was low, rough. “You drive me insane, you know that?”
You smiled breathlessly. “Me? You’re the one who came home looking like—” your eyes flicked up to his hair, “—that.”
He smirked, lips brushing your jaw as he trailed kisses down your neck. “So you really like it.”
Your fingers tugged lightly at the silver strands. “I love it.”
That was all the encouragement he needed. He carried you to the bed, laying you down carefully before crawling over you, his weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress. His hoodie was the first casualty—you tugged it up and over his head, revealing the toned chest and arms you knew so well.
Your hands roamed greedily, memorizing the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your toes curl.
When his hand slipped under your shirt, you gasped softly, arching into his touch.
“Still so sensitive,” he whispered against your lips, palming your breast gently through the fabric. “Even after all this time.”
You bit back a moan. “Chan—”
“Shh.” His mouth found your collarbone, sucking lightly until you whimpered. “I’ll take care of you.”
And he did.
Piece by piece, he undressed you with a reverence that made your heart ache. Every kiss, every touch was worship, like he couldn’t believe you were his. The cool strands of his silver hair brushed against your skin as he trailed kisses down your stomach, and you couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you.
When his mouth finally settled between your thighs, you muffled a cry against your hand, hips jerking at the first flick of his tongue.
“Always so sweet,” he murmured, glancing up at you with eyes dark and full of heat. “Let me taste you, baby.”
You could only nod, already too far gone.
He worked you slowly at first, tongue teasing, savoring every reaction. But when your legs started trembling and your moans grew desperate, he held you steady, devouring you with a hunger that left you dizzy.
Your release hit hard, your back arching as you cried out his name. He didn’t stop until you tugged gently at his hair, gasping for breath.
Chan crawled back up, kissing you softly, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “Good?”
You laughed weakly, still trembling. “You’re asking me that after that?”
He grinned, dimples flashing. “I like hearing it.”
You pulled him down for another kiss, rolling your hips against his. The hard length pressing against you left no doubt what he needed.
“Please,” you whispered.
That single word broke whatever restraint he had left. He shed the rest of his clothes quickly, then aligned himself with you, pausing just long enough to kiss you deeply before sliding inside.
The stretch made you moan, nails digging into his shoulders.
“God—” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “You feel perfect.”
He moved slowly at first, savoring every inch, every sound you made. His pace built gradually, each thrust deeper, harder, until you were clinging to him, whimpering against his ear.
The bed creaked softly under the rhythm of your bodies, but the world outside ceased to exist. There was only Chan—his warmth, his strength, the love in his eyes every time he looked at you.
“Look at me,” he whispered, tilting your chin until your eyes locked. “I want to see you when you fall apart for me.”
And you did.
The second orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, your body tightening around him as you cried out his name. He followed soon after, groaning into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, holding you as if he’d never let go.
For a long moment, you just lay there together, sweaty, tangled, and blissfully spent. His hand stroked your hair, his breathing gradually steadying.
“Still scared of Daddy’s hair, huh?” he joked softly, voice hoarse but teasing.
You laughed weakly, swatting his chest. “Your son might be. Your wife, on the other hand…” You kissed him gently, savoring the taste of him. “She’s obsessed.”
He smiled, eyes softening as he kissed your forehead. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
You curled into him, heart full, body sated, and knew that silver hair or not, he’d always be the man you’d choose a thousand times over.
Summary: You and Chan may have gotten away with sneaking off for a dangerous quickie in the kitchen—but you definitely didn’t get away with it quietly. When you return to a suspiciously quiet living room full of your friends, all eyes are on you. Spoiler alert: everyone knows. And Chan? He’s not shy about claiming what’s his.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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Weeks Later…
You still crashed at Chan’s. Still wore his shirts. Still stole his hoodies and helped him fold laundry on Sundays. He still touched you—more now, and far less innocently. His hand around your throat in the hallway, your legs over his shoulders in the shower, his voice wrecked in your ear when he whispered mine.
But when the sun was up and your friends were around, it was like nothing had changed.
Because neither of you had said anything.
Because technically, you weren’t… anything.
Just best friends who sometimes fucked each other dumb.
So, you didn’t overthink it when Jisung plopped down beside you at Chan’s house one night, slinging an arm over your shoulders like he always did.
You were curled up on the couch—legs stretched out over Jisung’s lap like you had no idea what your body was doing.
Which, of course, you did.
But it was harmless, right?
You and Ji had always been like this. Teasing. Playful. His hand on your calf, your fingers brushing the back of his neck when you leaned over to whisper something about the movie’s terrible dialogue. Laughing when he joked about running away with you if your dream man didn’t show up by thirty.
And Chan?
Chan was seated on the opposite side of the room, beer in hand, back slouched against the armrest of his own damn couch like he was trying not to break the bottle between his fingers.
You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Jisung casually reached to tug at a string on your hoodie.
You didn’t see how hard he gripped the cushion when you threw your head back laughing, swatting Jisung’s chest when he made some inappropriate quip about how “you were looking dangerously inviting tonight.”
But Binnie did.
Binnie was seated closest to Chan, and the energy was radiating. Like a storm behind a dam.
He peeked between Chan and you—then leaned closer, nudging Chan’s shoulder, voice low.
“You good?”
Chan didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on your face like a warning. Or a dare.
“Dude,” Binnie tried again. “You’re gonna snap that bottle.”
Then Jisung did it.
He leaned in, finger trailing your thigh playfully before he whispered something that made you laugh loud enough to turn heads.
That was it.
Chan’s jaw flexed.
When Jisung nudged your side and joked, “Damn, you’re really sweet today—what’d I do to deserve this kind of attention?” you laughed along, but something tensed inside you.
Because Chan was still watching. Still unsuccessfully pretending not to be bothered.
And when your gaze flicked to him—when your eyes met his—you saw it.
The jealousy.
The storm.
And something else.
Something ugly.
You didn’t get to think about it too long because the moment Jisung leaned a little closer to whisper something dumb in your ear, Chan’s voice sliced across the room.
“Yo, you good, Ji?”
You both looked up.
Jisung blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”
Chan’s smile was all teeth. “Cool. Then take your fucking arm off her.”
The room froze.
It wasn’t loud. But it hit like a slap.
You blinked.
Jisung’s arm dropped instantly. “Whoa. Chill, bro.”
Chan didn’t answer. Just turned and walked off—shoulders tense, hands shoved in his pockets.
You stood up.
Followed him down the hall.
Found him in the kitchen, staring out the window, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep from exploding.
“Chan…”
He didn’t turn around. “What?”
“What the hell was that?”
“What was that?” He finally turned. “You were all over him.”
You folded your arms. “We always joke like that.”
“Not like that.”
“Are you seriously jealous right now?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped, voice tight. “Am I allowed to be?”
That shut you up.
Because no. Not officially.
You weren’t his.
Not on paper.
But in every other way?
He was yours.
And you were his.
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You sleep in my bed. You moan my name. You suck my dick like you were born for it—and then I have to stand there and watch you flirt with someone else like I’m not in the room?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
He reached for you—gripped your waist like he needed to remind himself you were real.
“I am jealous,” he said quietly. “I’m fucking jealous. And I don’t even know if I have the right to be. Because we never said what this is.”
You looked up at him—heart in your throat.
“I don’t want you touching anyone else,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone else touching you. And I know that makes me sound like a possessive prick but—”
“Good,” you said, cutting him off.
His brow furrowed. “Good?”
You nodded slowly. “Because I don’t want anyone else but you.”
He stared at you.
And then? He kissed you.
Right there. In the kitchen. With his hand wrapped tight in your shirt and his mouth hot and desperate over yours like he couldn’t take one more second of uncertainty.
He kissed you like a man unhinged.
Hands fisting your shirt, mouth clashing with yours, dragging you backward until your hips bumped the edge of the counter. His tongue was deep, claiming, and when your fingers slipped into his hair—tugging hard—he moaned against your lips like he needed the pain.
“Mine,” he whispered into your mouth. “I don’t care if it’s selfish. I don’t care if it’s messy. I need you to be mine.”
You gasped as he lifted you—effortless—hoisting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing. The red solo cup tipped and spilled behind him. Neither of you noticed.
Your legs parted automatically. His hips slotted between them, his hands sliding down your back to pull you close, his forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to anchor himself.
“I can’t watch it again,” he panted. “You touching someone else. Laughing with them like that. Even if it means nothing—you mean everything to me.”
Your chest clenched.
And maybe it was the tension of weeks you’d danced around. Maybe it was the feel of his hands gripping your ass. Maybe it was just finally hearing the truth—his truth—but something in you broke open.
You cupped his cheeks. “Then say it.”
He blinked, breath catching.
“Say you want me. Say this is more than just sex.”
“I do,” he said immediately. “Fuck—I do. It was never just sex for me. You think I let anyone else sleep in my bed? Wear my clothes? Use my toothbrush like it’s nothing?”
You grinned. “Okay, that one’s still a little gross.”
He groaned, laughing against your throat before nipping it. “You know what I mean.”
You nodded, fingers stroking his hair, lips brushing his temple.
Then—because you couldn’t help it—you whispered, “You were kinda hot when you got mad.”
He froze.
You smirked.
“Don’t give me that look, Chris. You stormed off like a jealous ex and then growled at Ji like a possessive boyfriend. I was, like… kinda turned on.”
His head dropped to your shoulder with a wrecked groan. “You’re evil.”
You laughed—and then gasped when his hand slid under your thigh, gripping hard.
“You like testing me, huh?”
You shrugged. “You’re cute when you pout.”
He looked up, eyes gleaming. “And what am I when I fuck you into the kitchen counter so everyone knows you’re mine?”
Your breath hitched. “Dangerous… but you wouldn’t”
He licked into your mouth again—slow, deep, deliberate.
“Then don’t test me again,” he warned. “Because next time? I’ll bend you over right in front of them.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You wouldn’t.”
His voice was a growl. “Try me.”
You bit your lip.
And in that moment—your legs wrapped around his waist, his hair tangled between your fingers, the sound of your friends laughing faintly down the hall—you realized something:
You didn’t need a label. You had him.
His body. His voice. His possessiveness. His softness. His broken jealousy. His perfect rage.
And he had you.
All of you.
Even the bratty parts you hid from everyone else.
Especially those.
Which is why the kiss should’ve ended there.
It should’ve been the resolution, the wrap-up to a long overdue conversation—but when your back hit the fridge and his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth, you knew.
It wasn’t over.
Not even close.
His hands were wild, greedy. One on your waist, the other slipping under the hem of your skirt with a low groan like he couldn’t wait another second.
You gasped into his mouth, instinctively glancing toward the hallway—but Chan didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just mouthed hotly down your jaw as he muttered, “Be quiet for me, baby… You can do that, yeah?”
You nodded, already breathless.
He kissed you again—rough, possessive—and the next thing you felt was your panties snapping at the sides. The elastic gave way with a soft pop, fabric torn and tugged from between your legs so fast it made your knees buckle.
Your gasp was sharp.
“Shhh,” he whispered, holding you steady, already stuffing the torn panties into his hoodie pocket like a prize. “Be a good girl now.”
You whimpered.
He turned you around.
Hands flat on the counter, chest pressed to the cool marble as he shoved your skirt up and dragged his fingers between your thighs.
“Still so wet,” he groaned. “You fucking like this. You like knowing they’re all out there—thinking you’re so innocent.”
His fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing.
You bit down hard on your fist.
He lined up behind you—cock already out, flushed and heavy against your ass—and the second he pushed in, slow but deep, your mouth dropped open in a silent scream.
You clawed at the counter, legs shaking.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “This pussy…”
You tried to move—anything to brace yourself—but he clamped one hand over your mouth and gripped your hip with the other, pulling you back into every thrust.
“Don’t make a sound,” he breathed into your ear. “Not one fucking sound.”
It was brutal.
He was brutal.
Thrusting hard enough to jolt the counter, angled so deep you saw stars. Your body rocked with every snap of his hips, and the stretch burned in the best way, overwhelming and messy and silent only because you had to be.
“Should’ve fucked you like this the second you walked in tonight,” he growled. “Skirt all cute, acting like you wouldn’t be under me by the end of the night.”
You moaned against his palm.
He leaned closer, biting your ear. “You know who you belong to, right?”
You nodded frantically.
“Say it.”
He pulled his hand away for just a second, and you gasped, “Yours. Always yours.”
That was it.
He snapped.
One arm locked around your waist, the other clamped over your mouth again as he pounded into you like he needed to mark you from the inside out. The sounds of your skin slapping echoed far too loud in the kitchen—anyone could walk in, but neither of you could stop.
His breath was ragged against your neck, hips stuttering.
“Gonna come,” he warned, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Where do you want it, baby?”
You tried to answer—but all that came out was a broken, needy cry into his hand.
And then he buried himself one last time—deep, full, pulsing.
You felt it all.
Every twitch. Every drop.
His forehead dropped to your back, his entire body trembling.
And when he finally pulled out, panting, sweat-drenched, and completely wrecked?
He kissed the back of your neck. Still holding your ruined panties in his pocket.
—
You tried to fix your hair in the hallway mirror.
Chan didn’t even try to hide the smirk on his face as he tugged his hoodie back over his head, still smug with your ruined thong tucked in his pocket and your lipstick barely smudged off his throat. You were still catching your breath, still trying to remember how to walk, when he reached for the door to the living room.
“Act natural,” you whispered.
He snorted. “You just screamed into my hand like a porn star in my kitchen and now you want natural?”
You slapped his chest. “Shut up—just… act like we weren’t gone that long.”
You stepped in first.
The living room was too quiet.
Way too quiet.
Your eyes bounced from person to person—every single one of your friends was staring at you. The TV was on, but the volume was muted. The speakers were dead silent. Drinks half-lifted, conversations paused.
All of them watching.
You blinked.
Chan stepped in behind you, and the second the door clicked shut, a low wolf whistle cut through the silence.
“That was so fucking hot,” Jisung said.
“That was so fucking hot,” Hyunjin echoed at the same time.
Both of them turned to each other in shock. “Jinx,” they said in unison, then burst into laughter.
And just like that?
The room exploded.
“Oh my god—were you guys actually—”
“In the kitchen?”
“Bitch, we were out here!”
“Did you break anything?”
“I KNEW IT—I TOLD YOU THEY WERE FUCKING!”
“Wait, wait—back it up!” Jisung shouted, standing on the couch like a referee. “You left here acting like you were about to throw hands—how did it go from ‘we’re just best friends’ to raw-dogging next to the spice rack?”
The noise was chaos.
Everyone talking at once.
Seungmin was already miming pelvic thrusts. Someone else yelled “PLOT TWIST!” like they were live-tweeting it. Your face was on fire, and Chan?
Chan was thriving.
He let the chaos rise for a beat, then casually slid his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side like he’d done it a million times. His fingers curled possessively at your hip.
“Well,” he said, smirking at the group. “I don’t think I need more explanations, do I?”
The room erupted.
You covered your face with your hands, groaning, and Chan just laughed, tugging you closer, letting everyone else lose their minds while he leaned in and whispered, “You’re never living this down.”
You peeked at him from between your fingers. “Neither are you.”
“Good,” he murmured, voice low and cocky. “Let ‘em talk.”
He kissed your temple.
And just like that?
You weren’t hiding anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: There we have it!! Part two! Its short but i had to deliver since alot of you asked for it! Thanks for all the encouragement really, you guys are the best!
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!!!
Next>>
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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.”
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.
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!
genre: smut (yep, that’s it); established relationship
wc: 3.3k
cw: pure smut; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!); silver bang chan (that’s the biggest warning)
summary: you never realised how much a mirror could change everything - now you’re pressed against the wall, forced to watch every moment as your boyfriend makes you come undone in ways you never thought you’d see
a/n: did y’all see the last skz-talker? DID YOU???? that’s all i have to say (and blame for this idea)
dinner is simple but perfect, the kind of night that doesn’t need anything grand to feel special. just you and chan tucked into a corner booth of a small restaurant, the hum of quiet conversation around you, the low lighting catching in his eyes every time he leans forward. he insists you order dessert, even though you say you’re full, and then eats half of it himself while pretending it was always for you.
he makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts, telling some ridiculous story from practice, exaggerating every detail until even he’s grinning too wide to keep going. his hand never leaves yours on the table, thumb tracing circles absently across your knuckles like he can’t stop touching you.
it’s soft, easy - love that doesn’t need to be spoken because it’s there in every glance, every brush of his fingers against yours.
the walk home is just as gentle, your hand still in his, swinging lightly between you. the city feels alive around you, neon lights and cool air, but it all fades in comparison to him. by the time you reach your door, your heart is already too full, a warm ache blooming in your chest just from being near him.
inside, the shift is subtle. chan’s tugging at the collar of his shirt, muttering something about how warm it is, his voice rougher now, carrying easily across the room. he moves towards the mirror without thinking, and you follow with your eyes, the way you always do.
you catch yourself staring. not just at him, but at his reflection in the tall mirror propped up against the wall. the way his broad shoulders fill the frame, the soft glow of the lamp catching on his hair, the curve of his smirk when he notices you watching.
“what?”, he asks, playful suspicion in his tone. he doesn’t look at you directly - he looks at the mirror instead, at your wide eyes flicking away too late.
“nothing”, you say quickly, but the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.
he chuckles low, dragging his shirt over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. his reflection shifts, all lean lines and muscle, and your breath stutters before you can stop it.
“mm”, he hums, stepping closer until he’s right behind you, his chest warm against your back. his eyes meet yours in the mirror, sharp and knowing, “you like watching, huh? didn’t think you were that shameless”
your mouth opens, then closes again. he grins, satisfied, his hands already finding your waist.
“don’t get shy now”, he murmurs, voice brushing hot against your ear, “you’ve been looking at me all night. thought i wouldn’t notice?”
the mirror holds it all - the way his fingers press into your hips, the way your lips part on a shaky breath, the way he looks at you like he owns every inch of your reflection.
his reflection fills your vision, silver hair catching the lamplight in pale strands that shimmer almost unnaturally, like he doesn’t belong fully to this world. the contrast is dizzying - the warmth of his chest pressed to your back, solid and grounding, and the cool flash of that silver in the mirror that makes your pulse quicken.
“look at you”, he murmurs against your ear, voice low and rough with amusement. his eyes don’t leave the mirror. neither do yours, not really. you’re caught between wanting to hide and wanting to see more, the heat creeping higher up your neck.
his fingers toy with the hem of your top, dragging lightly across your stomach, back and forth, never quite lifting it.
“should i?”, he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear, knowing the way your body tenses at the question.
you nod, too quickly, and he chuckles, slow and pleased, “thought so”
his hands move with infuriating patience, gathering the fabric, brushing his knuckles over every inch of skin he uncovers. you watch as more of you appears in the glass, the shape of your waist, the rise of your ribs, the flush spreading across your chest. he pulls the shirt over your head, dropping it carelessly, and immediately brings his hands back to your bare skin, palms wide, possessive.
“don’t look away”, he says when your eyes flick down, the command soft but unyielding, “i want you to see how beautiful you are like this”
the mirror reflects the tremble in your body when his fingers trace along the edge of your bra, the way your lips part without sound, the silver of his hair falling forward as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. he unhooks the clasp slowly, deliberately, and the straps slip down your arms like a secret you’re not supposed to share.
your breath hitches, your hands twitching like you want to cover yourself, but he catches them gently, guiding them down.
“no”, he says softly, eyes meeting yours in the glass, “let me”
the fabric falls, and his gaze lingers on the sight revealed, dark and hungry even as the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk.
“perfect”, he whispers, like he’s talking to himself, though you hear it clear.
he lowers his mouth to your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, while one hand comes up to cup you, thumb brushing across your nipple until it hardens under his touch.
you gasp, the sound filling the quiet room, and he smiles against your skin.
“see?”, his voice is warm now, velvet and fire, “even your body likes being watched”
you do look - you can’t help it. the way your chest rises and falls unevenly, the way his strong hands touch your frame, the way his silver hair shines as he kisses along your collarbone. it’s overwhelming, too much and not enough, the intimacy doubled, tripled, by seeing it reflected back at you.
he drops lower, fingers brushing at the waistband of your skirt, teasing.
“should i keep going?”
the question is a formality - he already knows your answer, already feels the way your body leans back against him, needing more. still, the way he waits for your nod, for the small whispered “yes”, makes your skin prickle with anticipation.
the zipper slides down, slow, exaggerated, and he pushes the fabric over your hips, letting it pool at your feet. you step out of it without thinking, breath catching when he settles his hands back on your bare thighs, thumbs tracing circles dangerously close to the lace still covering you.
“look at you”, he says again, more heated this time, and in the mirror you see it - the flush across your chest, your parted lips, his silver hair glinting as his mouth curves in satisfaction, “so good for me”
his fingers trace the lace between your thighs, the slightest pressure that makes your knees weaken. in the mirror, you see yourself tilt into his touch, without thinking, desperate for more, and he hums with satisfaction like you’ve proven his point.
“watch”, he whispers, the command almost reverent, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “don’t look away. i want you to see what i do to you”
your pulse is erratic, your breaths shallow, but you can’t look anywhere else. the reflection pulls you in - the sight of your own body trembling under his control, his hair falling forward as he presses kisses along your shoulder, your throat, down the line of your spine until he’s crouched behind you, a bit to your side so you can still see his face in the mirror.
he tugs your lace aside with careful fingers, exposing you just enough, and your stomach flips at the vision in the mirror: chan on his knees, silver hair gleaming, eyes dark and fixed on you like you’re something holy.
then he touches you - slow at first, his fingers sliding through heat, circling where you’re most sensitive until your legs almost give. your hand flies out instinctively, bracing against the mirror, palm flat against cool glass.
“that’s it”, he breathes, his voice lower now, thick, “hold yourself up. let me see you”
your eyes blur with the force of it, but you obey, watching as he works you open with his fingers, patient but relentless. the sounds fill the quiet - your shaky breaths, the wet slide of his touch, his small hums of approval.
then he moves you. hands firm but careful on your hips, chan turns you sideways until the wall beside the mirror is behind you. your palm presses to the cool surface for balance, chest rising and falling fast. before you can question, he slides one hand up, cradling your jaw, guiding your face until you’re forced to look again.
the reflection burns into you - your body trembling against him, lips parted, hair mussed - and chan directly in front of you now, on his knees, silver hair shining under the dim light as his mouth lowers between your thighs.
the sight nearly undoes you.
his tongue finds your clit, hot and wet, flicking against where you need him most before dragging slow and deep. you see every movement in the mirror - his lips parted around you, his eyes half-lidded but sharp, fixed on your face as he devours you. your own expression looks foreign, undone, and the intensity of seeing both at once makes your stomach clench.
“chris-”, his name slips out, broken, and his only reply is a low hum against your skin. the vibration travels through you, your knees threatening to give out, but his hands are there - gripping your thighs tight, keeping you open for him.
his tongue alternates, teasing circles, then hard pressure, then a sudden flick that pulls a cry from your throat. the sound bounces back at you from the walls, raw and unguarded, while his fingers slide back inside, curling just right, pushing you higher.
the mirror doubles everything - the heat in your face, the way your body jerks under his touch, the hunger in his eyes as he watches you watch yourself. it’s unbearable, the intimacy of it, and yet you can’t look away.
“i-i can’t- don’t stop, please”, you can’t help but beg while he keeps pushing you to your limit.
your palm smears against the glass as you struggle to steady yourself, your chest heaving. he only tightens his hold, mouth relentless, tongue stroking you as if he’s tasting you to memory.
you can’t breathe, can’t think - only feel the sharp coil inside winding tighter and tighter. he tilts his head, silver hair falling across his forehead, his tongue pressing harder, his fingers thrusting deeper, and that’s it - your body bows against him, your cry spilling out sharp and desperate as you come undone.
the reflection sears itself into your mind - your body trembling, your face flushed and wrecked, his mouth buried against you, silver hair gleaming as if lit from within.
you clench hard around his fingers, your walls gripping him desperately, and he groans low, almost guttural, the sound vibrating against you until your shaking finally fades away.
he slows gradually, easing you down, his tongue gentler now, his fingers still stroking until your muscles finally soften. your hair sticks to your forehead, the glass cool against overheated skin, your breath jagged and uneven.
chan finally pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark and soft at once, his chest rising hard with his own ragged breath. he tilts your chin slightly so you have to see - your reflection in the mirror, your body trembling, his mouth swollen, his hair mussed silver and wild. the smirk curving his lips is edged with pride and something deeper.
“look at you”, he murmurs, reverent and rough at once, “so perfect for me”
his words still echo inside you, but before you can even recover, chan is moving. his lips trail upward, slow and hot, leaving a damp line across your stomach, your ribs, your chest, until he’s kissing your mouth with the taste of yourself still fresh on his tongue.
you’re trembling in his arms, but he doesn’t give you time to steady. one hand cups your jaw, tilting your face back towards the mirror again, while the other slips to his belt and the sound alone makes your stomach flip.
you glance at the reflection - chan had already taken his shirt off before, but now his fingers go to the button of his jeans. the sound of it popping open fills the room, followed by the slow rasp of the zipper. he doesn’t rush - he lets you watch in the mirror as he pushes them down, his boxers going with them, until he’s completely revealed.
your breath catches. silver hair messy across his forehead, body flushed from the effort of holding himself back, the hard line of him standing proud and ready - every inch of him is laid bare, and the sight alone makes your thighs press together instinctively.
he notices, of course. his smirk flashes, sharp and knowing, before his hands find you again. one slips down the curve of your hip, fingers hooking beneath the last thing you’re wearing - delicate lace, the thin scrap of fabric clinging to you like it has any power left.
“so pretty”, he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, “but i want you bare for me”
with one smooth tug, the lace falls away, left forgotten on the floor. the mirror reflects you now - completely stripped, your skin flushed and trembling under the weight of his gaze.
the contrast vanishes. there’s no more fabric between you, no barrier, nothing left except you and him. he steps closer, pressing himself against you, the hard heat of him nudging at your thigh, slick evidence of your need already smeared against his skin.
your breath shudders out, your palm flat against the mirror for balance, as he tilts your chin so you’re forced to keep watching. his reflection with yours is devastating - silver hair glinting in the dim light, broad chest heaving, his body lined perfectly against yours as he positions himself.
his forehead rests against the side of your head, silver hair brushing your skin as his breath shakes. his hands slide along your sides, warm palms skimming your bare waist, your ribs, before settling on your hips.
“look at us”, he whispers, tilting your chin again, just enough so your gaze catches the mirror.
you see it all there - two bodies pressed close, nothing between you now, his chest flush against yours, your lips parted as you try to breathe. the sharp ache of wanting him coils inside you, deeper now that you’re bare together.
he guides himself lower, dragging the head of his cock through your slick, spreading you open with nothing more than the weight of his need. you shiver, nails curling into his shoulders.
“chris…”, your voice trembles, not quite a plea, not quite a warning.
he answers with a kiss - hungry, messy, all teeth and tongue - as he finally presses forward. the stretch steals the air from your lungs, your body clenching reflexively as he pushes in, slow and deliberate.
your cry spills into his mouth, and he swallows it, groaning low in his chest.
“fuck, you’re so tight”, his words vibrate against your lips, rough and unguarded, “always so perfect for me”
you force your eyes to the mirror, and the sight unravels you. your own face twisted in pleasure, the long line of his body pressed against yours, the way he buries himself inside you inch by inch until you’re full, stretched around him completely.
“eyes on us”, he reminds, his thumb brushing your jaw as he bottoms out, “don’t look away, baby. i want you to see how good you take me”
your breath catches, chest heaving against his, “i can’t- it’s too much-”
his smirk flickers, soft but mischievous, “yes, you can. you’re stronger than you think. and i want you to watch how beautiful you are when i make you fall apart”
he pulls back and pushes in again, deeper this time, and the shock of the sensation rips a sound from your throat. your reflection shows everything - how your mouth drops open, how your body jolts almost against the wall, how he clings to you like he’s desperate to never let go.
his rhythm builds, steady but consuming, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your knees buckle. your hands scramble against his shoulders, clutching tight, but he steadies you with his grip at your waist.
“that’s it”, he breathes, teeth grazing your neck, “hold me tighter. i want to feel you everywhere”
you do - wrapping your legs around his hips, dragging him closer, both of you falling against the wall behind you, the slick slide of skin against skin sparking heat across every nerve.
his hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts. the double sensation has you gasping, head tipping back until you nearly lose the reflection.
he doesn’t let you. his hand catches your jaw again, forcing your eyes back to the mirror.
“watch”, he growls, his hair sticking damp to his forehead, his chest heaving with effort, “watch yourself come apart for me”
your body clenches hard at the command, walls gripping him tighter with every deep stroke. your reflection blurs, tears of pleasure pooling at the corners of your eyes, but you still see it - yourself trembling, chan’s muscles straining as he holds you up, the raw need written all over both of you.
the pressure inside coils unbearably, wound tight by his fingers and his thrusts and his voice in your ear.
“i can’t- chris-”
“yes you can”, he insists, his own voice breaking now, guttural and raw, “come for me, baby. let me feel you”
the words tip you over the edge. pleasure bursts through you in sharp waves, your cry filling the air as your body clamps down around him. your reflection shows every tremor, every shudder, every moment of you unraveling completely.
he groans, the sound ragged, his rhythm faltering as your body drags him down with you. his jaw tightens, silver hair damp against his flushed face, as he buries himself deep one final time.
“fuck-”, his voice shatters, his whole body stiffening as he spills into you, clutching you so hard you feel it in your bones.
the mirror holds it all - the way you collapse together against the wall, shaking and breathless, your mouths finding each other in a desperate kiss as the aftershocks ripple through you both.
for a long moment, it’s just the sound of your heartbeats crashing in sync, your breaths tangled, your skin sticky where it presses together. his forehead rests against yours, eyes still dark but softened now.
“look at us”, he murmurs again, but this time his voice is quiet, reverent, “i don’t think i’ll ever get over this view”
your laugh is shaky, small, but real, “you mean your silver hair or the mirror?”
he grins, mischievous even through the exhaustion, “both. but mostly the way you looked when you fell apart on me”
you smack his shoulder weakly, but he only kisses you again, deeper this time, and your laughter dissolves against his mouth as he murmurs, “round two later?”
and with the mirror fogged around your shapes, you kiss him back, smiling into each other like there’s no one else in the world.
tangentwithtanner
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gummygunk
2087
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
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