i need to learn to not check twitter and instagram first thing in the morning or at least, when i open twitter and see a ss of one of the members’ bbl messages to take that as a warning before opening ig or any other social media platform
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!!!
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
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 ❤️🤭🤩
well now.... this was just pure sweet deliciousness... hmmm, im always a sucker for the friends-to-lovers trope, that shit gets me so good every time!! and the reader being a brat and pushing Chan's buttons? yes. omg yes! Chan's self control hanging on by the thinnest of threads was so hot and so real. he lasted longer than I would have anticipated... I would have loved a glimpse into his mind to understand what he was thinking and why he was holding back so much when the reader had made her intentions clear.
im so happy you posted this. creators like you make this fandom feel so full 🤗💙
heart and mind ; chan x reader ; omegaverse ; one-shot
masterlist.
You don’t want to share your first heat with just anyone. You want someone good, someone protective, someone who respects you, someone who can laugh with you.
You want your alpha. You want Chan.
pairing: bang chan/reader
content info: friends2lovers, omegaverse, omega!reader in heat, alpha!chan, explicit sexual content. the leather jacket and lace shirt did a number on me, man. anyway, omegaverse dynamics, heats, ruts, knots, pheromones, scent-marks, first times. biting, choking, claiming, piv, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, some possessive behaviour. it's fairly affectionate and sweet overall tbh. but they do get down nasty.
word count: 3500 words
enjoy ; )
-
You wake in pain. First, just a general stiffness, sharp in your neck and pinching your lower back. You fell asleep in the hallway outside his apartment door, slumped against the wall, so that figures. Then, the other pain. The one that brought you to his door in the middle of the night.
Your body feels like an echoing cavern, the ache reverberating in that great hollow space, so desperate to be filled. Your thighs clench together instinctively, even half-awake.
You blink your eyes open. At the sight of him, a wave of relief washes over you, numbing some of that horrible pain.
“Chan,” you whisper.
“Hey there, sleepy,” he says in a soft, smiling voice. “What’s all this? Why you out here, huh?”
As you wake a little more, you realize he is wearing cologne. It is subtle, just the faintest hint of something woodsy to underscore his natural pheromones. He isn’t due for a rut, not for a while, as alphas only rut a few times a year, but that subtle scent is always there. An alpha’s scent-mark is in their wrist, on the tender underside just above their pulse, similar but different to the omega scent-mark on your neck, thrumming above your pulse there.
He is touching your face, palm cupped over your cheek as his thumb strokes the rounded curve of it. It puts his scent-mark so close to your nose. Of course you can smell him, heady and rich and familiar, your best friend, your protector, your most trusted person. Your alpha.
Yes, you think, as much with your omega hindbrain as anything else, yes, my alpha, mine.
Your eyes are locked on his, his gaze so affectionate, making you feel so warm. You look at his face like it is the first time seeing it, as if you haven’t known each other for years, since you were gawky teenagers awkwardly developing into your new presentations. He’s still that goofy boy inside, though he looks like a man now and he so embodies his presentation. He is sturdy and strong, confident and competent. His dyed hair is blonde and long, framing his handsome, made-up face, one soft with smiling affection.
You blink to realization when you lay a hand on his shoulder and feel leather. You look down, breath catching at the sight of him: the not-so-modest lace black shirt under leather, the dark pants, the whole stark effect with his fair hair and dark eyes.
“You look so nice,” you say, and you mean it, but you pout regardless. “Why do you look so nice? Where were you? It’s so late, Channie.”
You would not usually ask. Well, you would not usually be curled up outside his apartment in the first place. You would not have rushed over in the middle of the night, forgetting your phone and spare key, your fuzzy brain having no need of such things because you assumed he would be home.
It isn’t your business where he went, of course, because he’s a grown man and you’re a grown woman and you’re best friends, nothing more, sweet and close but cordial and so polite. And if he wants to go out, if he wants some other person curled up in his lap with their hand on his leather lapel…
That thought bleeds into red as jealousy consumes you.
You breathe hard, closing your eyes, trying to eradicate that horrible image.
“I just went out,” he says, brushing some hair off your face, probably mistaking your closed eyes for sleepiness. “Didn’t really wanna, yeah? But the guys were kinda on my case about always staying in. I didn’t know you were here. Should’ve called me, love.”
“Did you get lucky?” you ask, eyes open but fixed on his chest, tracing the pattern of lace across his skin. You are still breathing hard.
“Uh, no, wasn’t really… trying… Are you okay?” He gently lifts your face to meet your eyes, his brows furrowed with concern.
You don’t blame him. These aren’t the questions you usually ask and this isn’t the way you usually behave. But you don’t have it in yourself to care. Besides, you could never feel judged with Chan. It is why you don’t feel insecure even though he is so handsomely done up but you are not. No, you are just yourself tonight, unadorned and simple. You pulled a long coat over your nightdress and your face is bare under his attentive regard.
“I need to tell you something,” you say.
He drops his hand and looks at you expectantly. He is crouched, balancing on his heels, his arms draped over his knees. His expression is rapt and fixed on you.
You feel overwhelmed, just being looked at by him. His gaze is so affectionate. Your lips part but your voice is caught.
He tilts his head, still concerned.
“Oh, Chan,” you whisper.
You move forward so you are kneeling. You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and guide his face to your throat.
He loses his balance, falling from his crouch to his knees. His arms are thrown out to his sides and his breath catches. He is probably about to laugh or lift his head, probably about to look at you with bewilderment, but then he freezes.
You feel the moment he scents you, his face so close to your scent-mark, because the line of his broad shoulders goes stiff.
His arms freeze, still out at his sides, practically held out in surrender.
You cling to him and close your eyes.
“You…” he starts and stops, his breath fanning over your scent-mark.
He presses his nose against your throat, breathes you in. Some of that tension melts away, his arms slowly lowering.
Your heart is absolutely hammering. You can feel yourself getting wet, so, so wet, just from his breath on your scent-mark, just from the proximity of his lips to your throat.
“Why do you… smell like you’re…” he starts and stops again, breathes you in again.
You know your scent is familiar to him. It is woven into threads of borrowed hoodies, embedded in his couch cushions, even his bedroom pillows. He smells it when you throw your arms around him for a hug. He scents it when you rush past him and it carries on a breeze. He knows it better than his own scent.
It should be familiar.
Tonight it is different.
“Are you…” he tries again, hands getting a little closer to your body. “Love,” he says gently and you start to tremble, “You’re not…?”
You have been on suppressants since you first presented in adolescence. You are something of an anomaly among omegas, one not envied by others. Your heats are debilitatingly intense and last longer than average. Your doctor recommended suppressants for your teenage years, until your body developed and could better tolerate it without falling ill.
When you matured out of adolescence, you were simply used to suppression. You have had a few relationships but nothing so intimate as to compel you to share your heat with them. You know it doesn’t have to be a big deal, that sex is sex at the end of the day, and the same birth control works on or off.
But it seemed the longer you put it off, the more important it became in your mind.
You don’t want to share your first with just anyone. You want someone good, someone protective, someone who respects you, someone who can laugh with you.
You want your alpha. You want Chan.
You went off suppressants last weekend, expecting it would take a month or so to stabilize and trigger an episode, maybe longer considering how long you had been on them. You thought you would have time to adjust. You thought you could talk to him properly, to see if he would be willing to see you through this.
Apparently, the length of your suppression had the opposite effect. It only took a week for your heat to come on, powerfully and all at once. It is not how you wanted to do things but the omega instincts that usually whisper guidance have commandeered utter control of your senses.
“I am,” you whisper.
Your temple is pressed to his, so you can’t see each other’s faces. It is all scent and feeling, all laboured breath and racing hearts. There is a bare inch of space between your kneeling bodies.
“Oh,” he says.
He is frozen another breathless moment.
Then he moves. You make a soft noise as he wraps his arms around you, so completely and tightly, pulling you right against him. He buries his face in your neck and opens his mouth to fully breathe you in. You feel every hot exhale, the pounding of his heart in his chest, his hands possessive on your body.
“You smell so good,” he says, voice suddenly deeper. “So fucking sweet… God, I could eat you up.”
A remark like that should make you laugh. He probably said it for that reason, something teasing to break the tension. But his tone and flirtation, to say nothing of his strength, makes you sigh sweetly.
You are already feverish and wanting, pushing your curves into the harder planes of his body. You gasp when you feel him against your middle, hard and getting harder, and the surprise makes your hips twitch backwards.
He pulls you against him again, so you can feel it.
“Please,” you whisper, can’t manage more than that. “I – I want it to be you. I’m sorry, I wanted to – to talk – but maybe we can in a few days – for now, I – I need –”
His hand curls around your throat, angling you so your scent-mark is easy to access. You exhale and it is a shuddering release. Your whole body goes soft and pliant. Such vulnerability could be frightening under the wrong conditions.
The stroke of his thumb, the caress of his breath, the teasing swipe of his nose against your jaw –
His scent, woodsy and warm and familiar –
This is right and your body knows it.
You offer your neck in sweet submission and he wordlessly accepts. He presses a soft kiss on that aching, vulnerable scent-mark, the collective source of heat pheromones that must be intoxicating him. He groans with deep, ardent pleasure, lingers just a moment with his mouth open and his breathing laboured.
Then your back arches as he bites that sensitive place in a claiming, hard, animalistic bite.
You see stars. You cling to him, grappling, scratching across the leather as he uses his last moments of coherent sense to scoop you into his arms and carry you into his apartment.
You don’t get much farther than the entrance. The door slams shut and he grabs your face, pulling you in for a kiss that is all teeth and tongue. You whimper at the demanding passion, opening your mouth to him. He kisses you dizzy, seems to swallow every gasp then give your breath back to you.
Your jacket hits the floor. Your shoes come off in your mad backwards scramble.
He grabs the front of your nightdress and tears it right down the middle. You squeak with surprise but not embarrassment, too hot and needy for that. You let the fabric float to the floor as he puts his hands back on you.
The length of your naked body presses to his clothed one. You moan, every inch of you sensitive to the sensation of leather and lace.
His hands cup your sides and slide down, down and around, guiding your back into an arch. His hand slides further, covers your ass and squeezes a curve like it’s always been his to do so.
He kisses you the whole time.
“C’mere,” he says against your mouth, like you aren’t already pressed against him, your arms around his neck, your bare breasts rubbing against his barely-there shirt.
Then you realize what he means as he closes the last important distance, his hand sliding down your front and between your thighs. You gasp against his mouth as his fingers slip through all that wet desire.
“That’s it,” he says. “That’s my girl. You can open your legs for me, just like that, yeah.”
You step apart. He puts his booted foot between yours, nudges them even further apart. You tip your head back and thrust your hips forward, riding the rhythm he starts with his hand. It is just a surface touch, just stroking you, just letting you soak his hand as your body opens up for him.
“Just like that,” he says. His other hand is on your lower back, keeping you steady. “I got you. You can come for me. I got you, I got you.”
You know it’s true. The truth of that promise has been a constant for years. You are his and he will take care of you.
You come with another swipe of his fingers. He holds you upright, taking the brunt of your weight as your legs get weak.
You are still shaking, still coming down from that high, when he twists his wrist and slides two fingers inside you. It is an easy touch, your body so ready and open, but it still makes you gasp. You clench around him like your body is desperate to pull him in, like it needs him there more than anything.
“Mhm,” he says, his mouth against your scent-mark, kissing and licking and sighing. He sways a little, almost like he’s drunk, but the only scent on him is a raging arousal pheromone and that masculine cologne and leather. And, despite the swaying, he stays planted on his feet, and his hand never ceases its thorough, pounding touch. “Can take it, can’t you, love,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating against your scent-mark in a dizzying sensation, “Show me, sweetheart. Show me, yeah? Show me how you’ll take my cock, hmm?”
You aren’t even trying, your body is racing ahead of you, clenching sporadically around him as he takes you apart with a few flicks of his wrist. He knows when he has you, takes you right over the edge then moves his hand as wet gushes between your trembling thighs.
You cling to his shoulders, all but sobbing as the intense orgasm washes over you in a tidal wave.
“Aha, that’s my girl,” he says, and bites your scent-mark again.
If your voice was not already shot, you might have screamed with the pleasure of it. As it is, your mouth opens and your chest heaves with every deep breath. He leaves a bruising bite mark on your throat, one that will tell every alpha who so much as breathes too close to you that you belong to him.
He keeps rubbing his fingers between your legs to prove it.
“Chan,” you whine, “I can’t – I can’t—”
“Oh, love,” he says. “Trust me, you can. We’re just getting started.”
He makes you come a third time in a matter of moments. This time, your legs fully give out, but he anticipates it. He swings an arm under your knees and smoothly sweeps you off your feet. You nuzzle against him, eyes closing, breathing hard as he carries you into the next room.
His mattress is soon under you. He has placed you in the middle of his bed and is standing there, looking down at you with a dimpled smile. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts your head back. His next kiss is sweet, tender warmth suffusing your body.
You lean back on your elbows while he finally pries that leather jacket off his shoulders. He tries to unbutton his shirt but then you inch your legs apart and his gaze is irrevocably drawn there. He hesitates only a moment before tearing through his shirt too, tossing the scraps on the floor. He doesn’t even look at the boots as he pries them off, then he practically flies onto the bed, crawling over you, his dark pants tented obscenely.
He is an intimidating bulk of power, making you throb with desire, but also making you instinctively close your legs. It’s like your body wants the game, knows how to speak the alpha inside him, beckoning him with every tip of your head and tease of your thighs.
He makes a low noise, almost a growl, then his hands are on your knees and he is pushing your thighs apart. He fits himself between them, lays you down flat, his teeth at your throat as he grinds against you.
“Don’t get shy,” he says, just short of a command, making you swallow. “Not with me, yeah?”
You nod rapidly. “Yes,” you say.
He grabs your throat, guides you, makes you look at him.
“Yes?” he asks, a dark brow lifted.
“Yes, alpha,” you rasp, staring back into his eyes. His grip is not mean, not really choking, just possessive, just tight enough you feel him wrapped so soundly around you.
Your eyes, gazing back at him so devotedly, softens his face so much. He is all yours, your best friend, your alpha, your Chan, and he smiles that dimpled smile even with his far less innocent hand on your pulse.
“Wanted you for so long, love,” he says.
Somehow, that is the remark that makes you squirm the most, clawing at the bedsheets under you, lifting your hips against him. You can’t move much farther than that, even though you are desperate for more action and less talking. He has you completely at his mercy.
As he always has, and reveals how much he knows it.
“Even on you suppressants,” he says, “You know when I’d go into rut, you’d react every time, like you knew before me? Would be standing in my kitchen… wearing my hoodie… standing there in your little shorts… and you’d stretch up on your toes to reach for something and I’d come up behind you to help… and you’d scent it, wouldn’t you, love? Because your hips would pitch backwards like your pussy was looking for my knot even while your mind was suppressing it…”
“Mmffph,” is the noise you make, the only noise you are capable of, as you rut your hips against his bulge.
Your eyes feel huge and wide, staring into his. Despite his words, his gaze is still affectionate, his smile still soft.
“Stop squirming,” he says, giving your throat one more squeeze before he gets up and kneels between your spread legs. He finally pries open his belt and opens his pants while you arch your back. “I said no squirming,” he repeats, grabbing your hips. “Want you to hear my words, love, you know why?”
You shake your head, breath stuttering as he gets his pants down his hips. Your eyes go his cock, to his hand stroking the full length it, wet at the tip, back up again, and down…
He reaches with his other hand, grabs your chin and makes you meet his gaze again.
“Because,” he says, “your heat will end sooner or later, yeah? But what I’m telling you right now?”
He leans over you, guides your hands to his bare shoulders and hovers his mouth above your scent-mark. He is hot and hard between your thighs, so close, so close, so close—
“Those words are me fucking that pretty mind of yours,” he says.
And you gasp as he slams inside you in one hard thrust.
“And you’ll remember them,” he says, fucking you with every word, “every – fucking – time – you – look – at – me. And every time you think about it…” He licks over your sore scent-mark, making you clench around him again and again. “Every time you look at me, I’ll be fucking you all – over – again.”
You come with another spasming wave, legs and arms wrapped so tightly around him while he fucks you through it. His words register somewhere deep inside you, further even than where his cock is hitting so hard and deep.
You know, even in your heat-brained animalistic state, that he is right:
He’s inside you now, and you’ll never be able to go without him again.
“Oh, Chan,” you say, sighing his name in the most worshipful, loving voice you can muster.
He returns all that affection, kissing you deeply, spreading your thighs, and swelling inside you. Your body opens for him, clings to him, pulls him deep inside and keeps him there, his knot hard and pulsing.
He kisses you softly, then kisses your scent-mark too. You squeeze him tight in your arms.
Then he lifts his head. You look at each other, breathing hard, bodies joined as thoroughly as your hearts and minds.
You smile. He smiles back, that friendly smile you know so well, only it softens with a new kind of affection.
“My love,” he says.
“My alpha,” you tease.
His smile deepens and leans down, kissing you again. You gasp when he thrusts a little, so swollen and huge inside you, and your brain gets dizzy again.
“Told you already, love,” he says with that dimpled smile. “We’re just getting started.”
yeah. ehem... this... this was hot. and cute. and sweet.... and hot. oh my.
is it bad i want like 20k more in this universe 😅😅 this was so good!! short and sweet and hitting all the right spots!!
ah darling, honestly, how do you do it?? I feel so spoilt!! your stories are like the sweetest nectar, and i am ADDICTED!! your description of Chan had me on the floor.. god that fucking shirt... the jacket... his face 😩😩 he's so gorgeous i wanna cryyyyyyyy 😭
*sigh* this was such a wonderful surprise. Thank you for sharing 🤗💙
You are on a terrible blind date when you run into a boy from your past - only, he is far from a boy now. And he is determined to prove it to you.
pairing: yang jeongin/reader
content info: a lot of sexual tension (thoroughly resolved). older woman/younger man. little brother's friend (hyunjin is the brother). reader's age is ambiguous but she is explicitly older. jeongin was hyunjin's friend when they were university freshman and she hasn't seen him since. power exchanges (she calls him a good boy and he basically says oh, really, you think huh?). one use of noona, more pointedly than anything. dom!jeongin, sub!reader, pussy-eating, hand kink, spanking, creampie.
also some drinking but no one is drunk. and reader's blind date is very rude and makes unprompted remarks (bringing up a piss kink randomly, comments about her ordering dessert, sexist comments about friendships with men.)
(word count: 8700 words.)
enjoy ;)
-
“And if tonight is gonna work,” your date says, “you will need to be good with piss.”
You freeze, your water glass halfway to your lips.
“Uh, sorry,” you say. You clear your throat. “Piss?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’ll need to piss on me. That’s not a problem is it?”
You like to consider yourself a reasonable person. You are not someone who jumps to conclusions or overreacts. People at work look up to you as a guiding figure in times of crisis. You are very in control of your emotions.
It is an astounding testament to your abilities that you refrain from chucking your glass at this moron.
It has been a few years since you were last on a blind date. You have since approached the oh-so shuddering threshold of long-term adulthood singleness, but how desperate is that supposed to make you? Does a vague gym buddy of your colleague genuinely think it’s appropriate to tell you, unprompted, that he wants you to piss on him tonight? Ugh.
For the first time, you wish you were more like your ridiculous little brother. Hyunjin would have flipped the table on this guy. You need to be a melodramatic bitch like Hyunjin.
You are shocked into silence. The waiter arrives and puts your food on the table. Your date thanks him.
“You think about it,” he says, still unashamed. “I’m gonna take a leak. But you hold onto yours, huh?” He laughs like that was funny.
You are still staring at his empty seat when he leaves. You put your water glass back on the table.
This is the last time you let Changbin arrange a blind date.
You look between your table and the exit, wondering if you can bolt and text your bad date an excuse. You can tell him you had a family emergency. Or a medical emergency. Or maybe you simply realized roasting your head over an open flame would be more fun than this date.
Your gaze wanders over the bar and stops on a head of dark hair. You tip your head, struck with a sense of déjà vu. The dark haired man is looking your way and he is as familiar as he is good looking. Not only is he impeccably dressed from his smart shoes to the crisp white shirt between the lapels of a jean jacket, but he is preposterously handsome. He is all long lines, svelte but athletic and flaunting it in the clean silhouette of denim on denim. His jaw is sharp, his cheekbones high, but his eyes are friendly. Dark hair falls neatly over his forehead, a smiling face just under it. His dimples are incredibly pronounced.
Those dimples. Oh.
You recognize him at the same time he recognizes you. Surprise bursts on both your faces.
He approaches the table, hands in his pockets and those deep dimples beaming at you. Your heart skips a beat and you blame it on surprise. It must be surprise, because it would be very inappropriate if it was spontaneous attraction for one of your little brother’s university friends.
“Hi!” Jeongin says, his laughter as endearingly wheezy as you remember.
The rest of him is not quite as you remember. Jeongin is a year younger than Hyunjin but Hyunjin spent a gap year in Paris ‘chasing his artistic soul’ so they were university freshmen together. They met at some summer program and Jeongin spent most of the season hanging around your house. Hyunjin is an irredeemable little twerp but his friends are remarkably nice. Jeongin was the sweetest of the lot. He was always helpful and polite, a little gawky and awkward in that over-grinning, brace-faced, eighteen-year-old-boy way, but nice.
You had nothing in common at the time so you didn’t spare him much of a second glance.
Jeongin is… not eighteen anymore. Not gawky. Not awkward. His smile is perfect now, his build still slender but strong, his dark eyes sparkling and his hands –
He extends a hand for a shake, his long, long ringed fingers reaching for yours. You can’t help but run your gaze up that hand, his arm, over the breadth of his shoulders, until you finally look into his smiling face.
“Hi,” you say. It takes another second, but you come to your senses. You shake his hand a little firmer. “Jeongin. Hi. It’s been a while.” You do remember he had a contagious smile. That much is still the same, those dimples coaxing your own smile out of hiding. “How are you?” you ask. And because the reality of it is still computing, you also blurt, “You look good. Really good. Wow.”
He laughs again, looking a little embarrassed with how his eyes drop. He is still smiling when he meets your gaze again.
“Thank you,” he says. “You too. Wow.”
He says it in the same awkward, surprised way you did. It makes you laugh together. It is a bubbly, champagne laughter, intoxicating, perched on the edge of anticipation.
Your hands are still clasped and your eyes still locked. Those bubbles start to feel suspiciously like butterflies.
You drop his hand. You have to press your palms together to numb the leftover tingles. His own hand flexes.
“I hope you’re doing well,” you say. “You must have graduated university already?”
He puts his hands in his pockets and nods, several head bobs in a row. A nervous fidget maybe. Not unlike your thumbs pushing at each other in your lap.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m a teacher. Substitute teaching right now. Hyunjin said you moved out of town for a while…?”
“Moved back a few weeks ago,” you say. “Promotion at work moved me out, another one moved me back.”
“Are you happy to be back?”
“Yeah,” you say, a little airily. It’s not a lie but also not the truth. You had as much going on back there as here, which is pretty much nothing but work. But you’re certainly not getting into the gritty details of all that with Jeongin. Not when Mister Golden Showers could get back any minute. So you just nod and say, “It’s nice being close to my old friends and family again.”
“Hyunjin missed you,” Jeongin says. He steps a little closer, speaking in a low voice. “I know he’d never say it, so I’ll tell you for him.”
You giggle, the sound surprising you. You bite your lip to hold it.
“Thanks,” you say. “Always good to have a spy giving up my brother’s secrets.”
He salutes, then admits, “Hyunjin is pretty easy to betray.”
“I believe you,” you say with a snort. “I love the kid, but I think the hair dye fumes are getting to him.”
“I shouldn’t say it,” he says, grinning, “but I was definitely the brains to his looks.”
“You could give him a run for his money now,” you say without thinking. It sounds more matter-of-fact than flirtatious, but that honesty is almost more provocative.
The tips of his ears turn red. It makes your own skin feel warm to the touch. He lifts his arm to rub the back of his neck. His ringed fingers circle his neck and settle on his shoulder, idly pressing there while he gazes down at you.
“Thank you,” he says. “You look… you look fantastic. Are you…” He glances at the food in your date’s spot. “With someone, I’m guessing?”
“Blind date,” you answer quickly. “So, yeah, I’m a little more dressed up, haha. Thanks. But yeah, I’m single and…” You look at your water glass. “I don’t think that’s gonna change tonight.”
“Uh oh.” He laughs, his face brightening once more. “Going that well?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” you say with a much beleaguered sigh. You’re usually more discreet, but tonight has taken a toll. You think you are going to explode. Piss? Really? During the main course? Come on.
“Sorry to hear it,” he says. His dimples soften as his smile goes from goofy to soft. “His loss. I’m serious.”
There’s a moment of charged silence. You really cannot deny the reciprocated attraction.
You try to suppress it. You are not in the habit of picking up early twenty-somethings who hang out with your dumb brother, especially not while out with someone else. So you clear your throat and reach for your glass, giving you an excuse to look away from him.
“What about you?” you ask. “Are you here with someone?”
It’s a casual question. At least, it’s supposed to be. It could be misconstrued as interest. Even your own ears catch the hint of curiosity.
You take a big gulp of cold water.
“I’m meeting a blind date too actually,” he says. He rocks on his heels. “I’m single too.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“Mhm.”
“Well,” you say with a curt nod. “I hope it goes better than mine.”
As if summoned like the demon of discomfort that he is, your date returns. There is a substantial musculature difference between him and Jeongin as your date is a self-identified gym rat, but he is so conventionally good looking in contrast to Jeongin’s distinguished character that he is immediately boring to look at.
You would far rather spend the night looking at Jeongin’s funny expressions. Even now, his thick eyebrows knit together as he gives your date a quick onceover. He looks back at you with a smile like you’re sharing a secret.
“We’re not quite ready for dessert,” your date tells Jeongin. “She probably doesn’t need any, but I’ll ask about the tart after.”
Jeongin tries to hide his laugh in a cough. Your date looks at him funny.
You suck in a breath, trying not to cringe at your date or laugh at Jeongin.
“Jeongin is not a waiter,” you say. “He’s a friend. He was just saying hi.”
“You’re friends with men?” your date says apprehensively. “As a female?”
Jeongin purses his lips, looking at you with a cringe. You do your best to remain composed.
“Yes,” you say with fake sweetness. “Like the one who set us up in the first place, remember?”
“I’m, uh, gonna head back to my spot,” Jeongin interrupts, pointing over his shoulder. “Cool, uh, meeting you,” he says to your date. “And getting your dessert order.” When he looks at you, it’s with a wink. He says your name and offers his hand for another shake. “It was nice talking. Good luck.”
You are about to respond, but then he lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. It’s so cheesy and stupid that it swings right back around to being adorable, especially with his mischievous eyes twinkling at you the whole time. Those dimples stay pressed, the touch of his hand lingering when he lets go. This time, there are leftover tingles from his lips as well.
“Have a good night,” he says. He gives one last nod then leaves.
You watch him go until your date scoffs. You look at him with a quirked eyebrow.
“No offence,” he says in an indubitably offensive manner, “but that’s why a female shouldn’t be friends with men. You might not know it, but he was being inappropriate.”
“Oh. Really.” Much as you smother your bitch gene, you and your brother share a natural propensity to glare a dummy down. You are certain your date feels the ice in your stare. “I know you’re good looking and it has allowed you to behave rudely and not get called a creep, but speaking as a woman with plenty of experience, you need to learn to show some respect for your partners and their wants. And for the record, no, I will not be pissing on you tonight, or any night. In fact, I have zero intention of even kissing you. No! No. Don’t say anything. It’s fine. Eat your food. I’ll eat mine. We’ll pay. We’ll go. Sounds good? Good.”
Unfortunately, your scolding probably gets him hard. At least he already peed.
-
You finish your meal in silence. Your date pays since he’s such an oh-so grand gentleman, then he leaves on his own.
You can follow. The dinner is over, the food gone, the cheque paid. It’s just you and the drops of white wine swirling around the bottom of your glass. You look into it, the little tang still lingering on your tongue. It’s almost empty. You can leave.
You should leave.
Here’s the thing: in the time it took to finish dinner, a pretty young woman joined Jeongin at the bar. Your gaze wandered over there despite knowing better. Curiosity and a hint of jealousy conquered your good sense.
Sensible, that’s what you always are. You do not suffer fools. But here you are, acting like one. It’s ridiculous. It’s fun.
You looked over more than once. The pair of them chatted politely, Jeongin friendly and laughing as always. She’s a lucky girl, you told yourself. And he’s a good guy. You wanted them to have a nice time.
Really.
But you are a little pleased they never left the bar. They had one drink each and chatted a little. He made no moves. She touched his arm a few times, leaned in when showing him something on her phone, but he leaned away and found reasons to move her hand.
Eventually, they hugged dispassionately and said good night. The woman left.
Jeongin is still sitting at the bar, nursing a drink that is also down to its dredges. He has his chin propped on his fist, his attention on his phone as he flips through it with a dull expression. You look at his long fingers wrapped around the device, at the rings on his closed fist, the way his hair flutters when he sighs and purses his full lips.
He casts you a sideways glance.
He’s been doing it all night.
Every time, your heart skips a beat. Your usual powers of deliberation are failing you. Going over there feels like a stupid thing to do. Sitting here also feels like a stupid thing to do. You hate that the wrong man is being a gentleman, waiting for you to decide if that’s the direction you want to go.
You take the final swig of wine and draw your purse over your shoulder. You walk over to the bar. He has no reason to be here, same as you, so it is abundantly obvious you are waiting on each other. That doesn’t have to mean anything. Maybe he just wants to catch up some more. You can talk as friends.
He lifts his head and his smile is not friendly at all, softer than a smirk but suggestive all the same. Oh, it feels very wrong to submit to the heat that follows, but that makes it all the more tantalizing. This is Yang Jeongin, you tell yourself, even while he checks you out and you very much let him, accentuating your walk with a swing.
“Hi,” you say, taking the seat beside him.
“Hi,” he replies. “How was dessert?”
You laugh while waving to the bartender. One glass of wine was enough to melt those bubbles into a warm simmer, but you suspect it is not quite enough to stoke whatever comes next.
That is unusual for you, usually so self-possessed, but the novelty makes your pulse pound.
The bartender brings you another glass. You sift through your purse for your wallet but Jeongin taps his card on the machine before you find it.
He grins at you with those deep dimples. His credit card is delicately balanced between two ringed fingers. He curls them back in and it’s all a little much, like he knows you’re looking at his hands that way.
“Since you’re older than me,” Jeongin says, making your heart skip a beat, “there is something I want to ask first.”
“Oh?”
Even though he says first, implying the expectation of every moment after that, you still anticipate a certain question. Should he acknowledge that age difference in how he addresses you?
But he tilts his head, his dark eyes so focussed on you. It makes you realize how intensely you have been staring back into his eyes. You lower your gaze. His long fingers are at his neck, fidgeting with the chain of a necklace.
“I’m just wondering,” he says, with a softer smile and a little laugh, “Does my age make you uncomfortable?”
“Uncomfortable?” You stare intently at your wine glass then take a slow sip.
You can feel him looking at you. You catch the wander of his gaze, eyes tracing the shape of you. You feel so very close. His knee touches yours under the bar.
“That is not the word I would use,” you say, voice just a little lower, just a little softer, so he has to lean a little closer.
“But you’re thinking about it,” he says.
You stare at your glass, feeling a lot of heat high in your cheeks. You rub your thumb up and down the stem.
“Yes,” you admit. You look at him slowly, not sure what to expect.
His whole face brightens with delight and he laughs. He is more than a little flushed too.
“Good,” he says and looks down at his own glass like he is embarrassed. He downs the last swallow of spirits.
“Good?” you ask with a helpless laugh, so taken aback by the reaction. “Why is that good?”
He hooks his foot around your bar stool. Startled, you gasp as he pulls you closer so you are touching along the whole side-lengths of your bodies.
“Because if you weren’t thinking about it,” he says with a blush, “it would mean you are here because you are just being friendly. It would mean you aren’t thinking about me as anything but your little brother’s friend.”
You sit a little straighter when you feel his hand under the counter. Just a touch, his fingers moving softly over your knee. The fabric of your skirt wrinkles under the gentle attention. When you do not protest – when your lips part and you press a little closer to his side, knee to knee and arm to arm and shoulder to shoulder – his thumb curls in and takes a bit of your skirt with it. You feel it whispering across your skin in a teasing suggestion.
“But if you are thinking about it,” he says, “then I think… maybe you aren’t here because you are just being friendly.”
“Mm, I see.” You tilt your head towards his. “You don’t think we can be friends?”
He laughs and says, “I can be friendly.” And he lightly squeezes you, his fingertips pressing the inside of your knee.
You are looking at each other so intently; anything could be happen in this room and you would miss it. You have eyes for each other and nothing else. The evening’s possibilities play as a shared fantasy between you.
The more pragmatic part of you says no, no way, not your thing. You’ve always been strict with men, no goofing around, no one night stands, and they always meet your approved list of expectations.
That list does not include a man this much younger than you, your little brother’s friend, with dark eyes and a far too mischievous smile.
“All right,” you say as your heart races with nerves and exhilaration. “Let’s be friends, then.”
-
A friend would walk you home after a bad blind date. A friend would ask all the nice questions that Jeongin asks, and he would make you laugh like Jeongin does. He would gasp with boyish incredulity when you tell him about your date’s inappropriate remarks. He would hum with sympathy that you were disappointed, that you were prepared for a long night, that with the right partner you might have allowed, well…
A friend would smile, his eyes sparkling, as he opened the door to your building. He would gently touch your lower back and press the elevator button for you.
Perhaps that is why the tension between you is so thick. A bubble surrounds it: the thinnest veneer of innocence to every interaction. If you both chose to say goodbye now, then nothing ever really happened, did it? You didn’t really go there, didn’t break all your rules. It wouldn’t be a lie to say you were friendly and nothing more. No explicit word has been spoken.
But if glances were words, Jeongin would have written you a novel tonight.
He leans against the opposite elevator wall, his eyes moving down your body while you pretend not to notice. He has already complimented every detail of your appearance, but much more has gone unsaid, at least verbally. Just like your preoccupation with his hands, his gaze keeps dipping to the flare of your hips, the curve of your thighs and where the skirt clings to your backside. His fingers twitch before he pockets them, like he is desperate to stroke the length of your body, to press his fingers on the softest parts of you.
You are almost embarrassed at the notion of him touching you so intimately. Usually, there is a process to getting turned on, and you and your partner get there together. But if those fingers dare to touch, he will find you have already melted into a puddle of longing.
At your apartment door, you take your time, looking in your purse for your key. He stands patiently at your side with his hands in his pockets.
“Would you like to come in for a drink?” you ask, like this invitation is at all unexpected, like you are still just being friendly.
Those dimples will be the death of you. They really do give the game away.
“Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”
You know he is already seduced, just as you are, so you really don’t have to do anything but drop your coat and say, kiss me. You can picture what would swiftly follow, are far too experienced to be naïve about the direction of tonight, yet it seems at once too near and too impossible. It remains a thrill to imagine the journey. Maybe that is why you don’t simply jump him in the doorway.
He continues to be good, obedient to your desires, though his gaze is ever more roving and he fidgets a little more. Much longer and he may break his constraints without your direction – and that should be alarming, right? But it makes your core tighten and your breath catch.
He is drawn as taut, back straight, taking a deep breath as he steps inside. That thick tension is ready to split as the veneer melts away.
“Have a seat,” you say, pointing to the couch in the main room.
You hang your coat. Shoes are left by the door. He wanders through your living space with his hands caged in the pockets of his jean jacket. He looks around, smiling. The living area opens into the kitchen so you make yourself busy with fetching some glasses.
He sits politely on the couch like you told him.
“Here we go,” you say. You return with two glasses and an open wine bottle.
You sit beside him on the couch. Your knees touch as you face each other. He thanks you as you pour a little wine into each glass.
Then you each take a sip, looking at each other in the silence. You both smile. He laughs a little, still flushed and not really from the wine. You feel very warm even though your dress is sleeveless.
You talk more about this and that, an everything and nothing conversation, just filling that silence. Yes, filling it, more and more until that tension is fit to bursting and the bubble can no longer contain it.
Your hand shakes uncharacteristically. You slosh a bit of wine while drinking and laugh at yourself.
“Sorry,” you say, wiping your chin.
You put your glasses down at the same time. He is laughing too, a still-friendly sound, eyes bright.
“Here,” he says. “You missed a…”
And he touches you.
It is just his thumb at first, there at the corner of your lips. He wipes that tiny little drop of wine, his eyes fixated so resolutely on it. Then his gaze drifts into yours.
His thumb is still there, his fingers curled loosely under your chin.
You breathe in, can see your own chest rise dramatically with the intake of breath. His eyes never leave yours.
His touch is still gentle, but coaxing. His thumb moves across your cheek, his fingers opening beneath your jaw.
You find yourself leaning into his hand, basically nuzzling it. It is an entirely thoughtless action propelled by the base and carnal need to touch, touch, touch. Your heart races at having his hand on you, even just caressing your face.
His fingers sweep along your jaw, down your throat. You don’t remember when you grabbed his wrist but you’re holding it like you’re the younger, girlish one, desperate with your wide eyes and open mouth as you cling to his hand. His fingers curl around the back of your neck and pull you close.
You lean in until your faces are almost touching. You look at his mouth and he looks at yours, then your eyes meet again. Your hand slides up his arm as your mouths move achingly closer. You can feel his breath coming quickly, your exhales colliding. His hair brushes your forehead, his nose your nose.
You make a horribly embarrassing sound, whimpering even though you haven’t even kissed. But it moves right through you, starts low and rises past your lips.
Your hand is on his collar now, tugging. Your faces are still close, breath still mingling, gazes moving to your mouths and back again. He lowers his hands to unbutton his jean jacket. You try to help but you are suddenly clumsy and you wish you could blame the wine but it’s not that.
It’s him. Oh, fuck, this is Jeongin. It’s really all him, having this effect, doing this to you.
And you are so close to each other, about to breach that space, about to break every rule and change everything together.
His hands are also clumsy until he gets that last button undone, then he is tearing his jacket off with quick force. He has just pushed it off, only just freed his hands, is sitting there in his jeans and t-shirt with his necklaces and his long ringed fingers, staring at you and breathing hard when –
You close the distance at once. His mouth is soft on yours despite the intensity with which he moves. You could sink right into him, the kiss so, so good, worth every second of anticipation.
Your mouths move together and sighs pass between you. You make a sweet noise when he cups your face with both hands. He pulls you even closer, kisses you even deeper. He licks into you, but not too much too fast, just enough to make you throb at the possessive sweep and still leave you yearning for more.
He returns a low noise of satisfaction. He breathes the word, “Yes.”
Your arch your back and press against him as his hands move down your face. For a moment, both his hands are on your neck and he tilts your chin up with a press of his thumbs. Then his thumb is on your pulse, pressing down as he slides his deft fingers down your throat.
You touch his biceps, feel the bare skin revealed by his t-shirt, squeeze the lean muscles there. Your fingers press in, climbing a little higher.
His warm kisses move from your mouth to your jaw. He leaves a few gentle presses there, then he is sucking a hot, harsh kiss on your throat.
His hands are quick in their sweeping caress down your arms. He takes the straps of your dress with him, the fabric looped neatly into his clever fingers. You shrug out of the top as swiftly as he did his jacket. He is fast then, unclipping your strapless bra and tossing it to the side.
Your eyes have been closed the whole time, so lost to sensation, but you open them when he wraps both his arms around your waist and hauls you easily into his lap. Perched on his thighs, you stare down at him, at the lushness of his mouth. His eyelids are heavy too, complexion so flushed. His necklaces are askew, his hair a little messy, his pristine t-shirt already rumpled where you fisted the material in your desperate clawing.
You feel your own desire, so evident in your expressions and movements. You have been stiff with tension all evening, but now you are so pliant and open, legs spread over his lap, dress tugged down to your waist, skin bare to him, and breathing hard.
He stares back at you, shifts his hands around your hips. You close your eyes and whimper again, though you’ll never admit you made such a sound. You certainly never thought you’d make it for Yang Jeongin, but here you are, an embarrassing bundle of nerves and desire, coming undone in his arms. That sound is whining and needy as he pulls you down into his lap, rolling his hips under yours.
“Jeongin,” his name is little more than a squeak of noise on your frantic mouth. You wrap a hand around the back of his neck, pull his face close. Your mouths are almost touching again as he grinds against you.
Your dress is hardly protecting your modesty in this state, bare breasts rubbing against his shirt, wet sex grinding against his thickening bulge. Only thin black lace is keeping you from making a mess on his jeans.
He makes a stuttering noise that might be an attempt at your name. You sink your fingers into his hair, press your open mouth to his and kiss him deeply. He moans into it while curving his hands down your thighs, then back up under your skirt. He touches your bare skin there, all those soft and tender place so close to the heart of your desire. His thumbs caress your inner thighs and his big hands squeeze their fill.
Then his hands are on your hips and he moves. You are surprised to find yourself once more sitting on the couch. He flips you in the space of a moment, sits you down, and pushes the coffee table out of his way. Then he is on his knees in front of you, your underwear already halfway down your thighs before you even fully realize it.
The panties join the bra somewhere on the floor with the jean jacket. He sits back on his heels and gazes up at you. His mouth is pink from kissing and his breathing a little laboured. But his smile – his smirk – is downright filthy. He looks at you as he plucks his rings off, one by one, and puts them on the table behind him. The necklaces follow. Then he kneels upright and runs his hands through his hair to clear his face.
You make a very undignified little squeak when he pulls you to the edge of the couch. He lifts your skirt to your waist and puts your legs over his shoulders. He wets his fingers in his open mouth and you laugh, breathless.
“Trust me,” you say. “That won’t be necessary.”
His finger leaves his tongue. It moves to the inside of your thigh, which is resting on his shoulder, the sensitive skin there a little ticklish. You squirm but are secure in his hold.
His hand continues its path, torturously slow. He is luxuriating in the feel of you while you rock your hips in need of more. He ignores that pleading, so cruelly, and continues to touch, stroke, caress, and tease until finally his knuckle moves between your thighs to find how much you want him.
“Oh,” you gasp. “Jeongin, please—”
For a moment, he is just breathing hard, slowly touching you, unfurling his fingers and sliding them inside you. He curses under his breath. When you clench involuntarily around his fingers, he seems to realize he isn’t dreaming. Then he smiles, looking very pleased with himself, but you can’t even feel embarrassed because he knows how to use his hands and he does. Competently. Thoroughly.
You throw your head back, slouching against the couch while he makes a complete mess of you. Then he dives forward and his mouth is there too, a moan in his throat as his tongue seeks out the swell of pleasure amidst all that wet heat. He is fast but steady, face happily buried there, your thighs pressing against his head. You shove your fingers into his hair and pull him even closer. You lift your hips and hiccup with gasps as he deftly and seemingly so easily draws you over that crest into a mind-shattering orgasm.
“Ah—!" is the only sound you manage, your eyes closed, your fingers pressing into his scalp.
He brings you to a slow descent, hands on the outside of your thighs as you twitch with shuddering aftershocks.
You loosen your grip and feather your fingers through his soft dark hair. You sigh, a satisfied exhale.
“Oh.” You feel fuzzy, like you are floating even though he has put your feet back on the ground. You look at him through heavy-eyelids. All those giggly, girlish bubbles are back, tingling through your whole body. “Oh, wow,” you say. He is already flushed but that makes him blush a little harder, though he stays grinning. “Oh, you are a good boy.”
That isn’t normally the type of thing you say; it just sort of comes out in your dreamy post-orgasmic haze. It doesn’t much resonate with you, but it certainly does with him. It makes him lift an eyebrow and tilt his head, his eyes narrowing just a bit, as if with determination.
“Good… boy…” he says. He kneels upright and looks at you with those dark, penetrating eyes. “Am I a boy, noona?” And he stands up between your legs so he is towering over you.
From your vantage on the couch, your eyeline directly falls to the thick, unmistakable bulge trapped in denim. Your gaze lifts when he gathers the hem of shirt and pulls it over his head. It falls somewhere but you don’t see it, because your eyes are on him, drinking in every hard plane of his naked chest.
Your eyes lower when his confident hands go to his belt and flick it open. Then he gestures to you, a come-hither command with the same two fingers that fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life.
“Come on,” he says. “Take it off. I’ll show you if I’m a boy, hm?”
You reach for him, a little shaky from the tremors of pleasure, so he grabs your hand mid-air and pulls it towards his belt as if impatient. You sit up straighter, determined now, weaving his belt through the loops and off. It clatters to the floor and he grabs your face with both hands, tilting your head all the way back, and swoops down to kiss you with a domineering, desperate hunger.
He pulls you up like that, kissing you, claiming you, probably ruining you for every other kiss in your life. Your legs are shaky under you but he holds you, first your face, then a hand on your lower back, bringing your body against his. That bulge presses against you and your skirt is rucked up between you, so it’s bare skin on denim. This time you don’t squeak but practically squeal.
You rear against him, desperate, hands on his bare shoulders and chest, feeling him up. You put a leg around him to press harder against his bulge. He catches that thigh, hiking it around his waist and holding you there. You tip your head back, his mouth finding your throat, both of you moaning as he grinds a filthy rhythm against your softest most vulnerable place.
“Bedroom,” he whispers into the skin of your throat. You point over his shoulder in the vaguest gesticulation, not entirely sure of up from down never mind the layout of your own apartment.
He scoops you into his arms. You wrap both legs around his waist, string both arms around his neck, and kiss him with frantic, impatient need. He kisses you back, carrying you to the bedroom door and kicking it. It flies open and probably hits the wall too hard, but you don’t even notice, lost in all those deep kisses.
He groans with pleasure and carefully places you down. It takes you a second to find your balance but you do. You rock on your feet, digging your fingers into his shoulders as he kisses and bites down your throat. He blazes a hot, wet trail to your breasts. His mouth is there as he fumbles with your skirt, finally tearing it off and leaving you completely bare.
He grabs the back of your neck and kisses your mouth, holding you against him while his other hand smooths down the curve of your spine. He guides you closer, encouraging you to arch into him, and eventually settles that hand in a possessive squeeze on your ass. Then it moves around your body until he finds your hand. He grabs it and puts it on his bulge, curves your palm around the hard shape of it, making you rub him until you are breathing hard into each other’s mouths.
“Am I a good boy?” he asks, mouth so close that your lips brush when he speaks.
You don’t answer because you have essentially descended into a primal state, thighs pressed together, pushing your naked chest against his, squeezing him in your hand. You have no thoughts for once, everything purely physical.
“Huh?” he asks. He squeezes the back of your neck, just enough to make you gasp into his open mouth. Just enough your eyes open, meeting his piercing, determined stare. He knows he has you. You have been talking all night. He knows your date, that man your age, was an immature disappointment. He knows you were looking at him all evening. He knows your thighs were rubbing together under that bar as you stared at his hands and his belt buckle and thought about this moment. He knows what you actually want. And he knows your answer to his question. “Am I a boy?”
“No,” you say, nearly breathless and dizzy with desire. “No, I’m sorry. You’re not. You’re—you’re—”
“I’m—?”
“Jeongin, Jeongin, please, please, please,” you cry out, trembling in his arms.
He smiles, those deep dimples far too sweet for the kind of look on his face. He kisses you deeply, his tongue in your mouth, soothing you and taking control of you all at once.
Then he laughs into the kiss, just lightly, and says into your obedient open mouth, “Good girl.”
You moan, already undone, clawing at his chest and shoulders as he lets go of you to open his jeans. You help push them down his hips then stumble towards the bed while he takes them off.
You face each other at the bedside, still standing, nearly colliding, breathing hard and faces close. There is a moment of pause, not hesitation but anticipation, like when you sat on that couch with your faces so close and the precipice before you. That moment right before the bubble burst, before you decided to throw away all your rules and change everything between you.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he says, just so the reality of it is totally inescapable. He says it right to your face, right against your lips, grinning while he runs his hands down your body like he owns it. “You want it, don’t you?”
He takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth. His eyes are fixed on yours while he kisses your fingertips then your palm, then opens his mouth and licks you, filthy wet. He leads your hand down between his legs where there is no barrier anymore. He wraps your wet hand around him, so fucking hard and hot.
His bigger hand is wrapped around yours as he guides you like he’s the older, more experienced one and you’re a trembling, helpless girl. His eyes are so intense, his energy so overwhelmingly dominant, that it is hypnotizing, and you think for a moment you must become exactly that.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes, sir.” It slips out as thoughtlessly as that good boy, but this time he rewards the correct answer.
He continues to guide your hand on his cock, stroking slowly, and touches you with his other hand. He is flushed and breathing heavy, and a little sweaty at his hairline, but he is still more composed than you. That never happens; you are the level-headed one, always. But he stares down at you, calm and collected as you touch each other. He is the one to work you into a frantic state, until you are crying out and close to coming.
Your legs are shaking. You can’t concentrate on touching him and he knows it, so he guides your hand to his hip instead. You hold onto him as he lays you down on the bed, his hand never stopping between your legs. You arch your back and close your eyes, riding the length of his fingers, shuddering under the steady roll of his thumb. You come again, shouting his name, gasping and writhing and slamming your thighs closed around his hand.
He pushes them apart again. He leaves you barely a breath before he is poised between your open thighs. He must know you are still throbbing from the rolling wave of your orgasm when he angles your hips and slides right into you. It happens so fast, so smooth and wet and easy, like that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be, like he’s been waiting far longer than a few hours to be there.
“Fuck,” he says, and finally seems to come a bit undone. If he intended to fuck you slowly, it doesn’t happen. It’s like his patience runs out all at once and he rolls his hips down into you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He goes breathless, voice disappearing, and he pants and whines instead, staring at where his cock slides wetly, messily in and out of your soft and needy pussy.
You hold onto his wrists, letting him move your body exactly how he wants, trusting he will give you what you need. And he does, stretching those soft walls and hitting all those squishy, weak places inside you, begging to surrender to him. You feel so open, so wet, and he feels so deep, even going so fast.
Then he somehow feels deeper. It makes your eyes roll closed. He pushes your thighs back and presses his body more closely to yours. Your faces are near again, whispering each other’s names before he kisses you. His tongue seems to claim you as deep as the rest of him, making you feel so wholly taken.
Both your hands are on his face, holding him there, kissing him back. You slowly slide one hand down his side, making him laugh when you touch somewhere ticklish and sensitive. You smile back, but that giggling mirth disappears when you take one of his hands and slap it to your ass – more your thigh, at this awkward angle.
He makes a noise into your mouth, rumbling and low. Then you are the noisy one, mewling as he flips you over with quick work of his hands. There is a mirror on your vanity that you can see now, cheek pressed on your sheets while he lifts your hips to get back inside you. You see the shudder that moves through his lean body as he sinks into your pussy and you squeeze around him.
You feel his thumbs rubbing circles where he spread you open, and you feel as his fingers splay across your skin. You see him lift his hand but it’s still a surprise when it comes down again.
Your eyes close instinctively and you whimper, feeling needy and pathetic and thrilled with it. You don’t feel like you have to hide anything, don’t think you even can, as you arch your back and beg for more. He brings his hand down again, again, as he fucks you, fast and dirty and mean until you are aching inside and outside.
Then he reaches around you and pulls you up, your back to his chest. He puts you in his lap and fucks you with an arm across your collarbone and another hand covering an obscenely bouncing breast. He squeezes and teases you, gets you moaning loud and carefree as him.
He notices the mirror at the last moment and looks momentarily stunned in the best way, then he smiles that mean smile at you. The arm across your collar shifts and he clasps his hand around your throat. Clutching you so possessively, he moans your name and thrusts hard. You feel as he comes, warm inside you, leaving no part of your body untouched by him.
“Oh,” you say, still shaking in the aftermath. You are both breathing hard, still clinging together.
He hums in agreement. His grip loosens and he moves, the slightest change in position making you whimper. He twitches inside of you, like that sound is almost enough to make him go again.
He lays you down on your front, the sheets cool on your hot skin as you press your cheek there. You gasp as he pulls out and you feel his cum leaking out of you. You can see him in the mirror, looking there, flushed and sweaty and surprised, like he was out of his body until this moment. You know the feeling.
Fuck, you think, your more rational self scolding you from where she is buried six feet in the back of your head. You just let one of your brother’s stupid little friends blow a load into you, idiot.
It will be fine. You had flirtatiously mentioned it earlier, having been oh-so prepared with internal protection and disappointed by your date, what a waste since you would have allowed, well…
It feels like years since you were just talking, merely perched on the edge of anticipation with all those champagne bubbles.
Now you are in the very real world after the fact. Even though you know you’re safe and fine, you still let him come inside you. You don’t even usually let a man hold your hand until the third date at least. So much for your lists and rules.
“You okay?” he asks, voice soft, a wonderful hand gliding gently up your spine. It feels so good, just that simple, comforting touch. The silly voice gets buried again.
“Hmm,” you say and nod, eyes closing, content.
You feel him lay down beside you. You are at the foot of the bed and will have to move, but you both catch your breath for now. You open your eyes to look at him, find his looking at him, his cheek squished into the bed too. You blink at each other, then smile at the same time.
“You okay too?” you ask.
“Oh yes,” he says, and you both laugh.
The laughter softens when he reaches out and touches your face, just stroking your cheek. His eyes follow the caress. You swear they are sparkling with his happiness.
Your heart does a funny summersault. You have never felt it do that and it surprises you. Is genuine affection a physical feeling? Maybe it’s just the aftermath of everything else.
Maybe, you think, it’s just him.
“Will you stay the night?” you ask, shyly. You are not usually shy. You would not care about the answer at all. But you care about his answer, you realize. You think you would be hurt if he said no. That is a little frightening, and also a little exciting, your heart racing with emotions.
He smiles at you and it races even faster.
“I’ll stay forever,” he says, and it’s probably supposed to be a joke but it comes out a little too sincere with his piercing eyes and sweet smile. It’s hard to tell if he’s blushing because he is still so flushed from exertion, but you think so.
It should make you cringe. But just like when he kissed the back of your hand, it is so goofy and ridiculous that it swings right back around to being endearing. And so you giggle instead, biting your lip to keep it in. But you don’t need to hide, because the giggling relaxes him, and he beams back at you.
He offers his hand. You take it and your clasped fingers rest between you.
“I’m afraid we’ve ruined our chance at friendship, Jeongin,” you say, looking at his fingers curled around yours.
“Hm,” he says. “That might be for the best. You don’t want to have to another date with the piss-before-dessert guy.”
You both laugh, squeezing hands.
“No,” you say. “You’re right about that.”
“Good thing I’m here,” he says.
“Yes.” You wonder if your eyes are sparkling too. It’s a little embarrassing to consider, but you find you don’t mind at all. “A very good thing.”
Your more pragmatic side does eventually surface. Tangled with this new version of you, she is a little shy, but Jeongin seems to understand her, so it’s okay. He agrees to follow your lead, that you don’t want to tell anyone just yet as you explore this thing between you. He just seems happy that there is something further to explore.
Eventually, his smug little grins and cheesy expressions are too much for you, and you laugh and swat his chest, and you both get under the covers and start kissing again.
-
Of course, your plan to not tell anyone is thwarted the next morning when Hyunjin barges into your apartment without knocking. Like the spoiled primadonna little brother he is, he waltzes right into your bedroom, complaining about something from work. Well, he promptly forgets all his problems, slack-jawed at finding you and Jeongin groggily stirring under the covers.
“Hyunjin—” you say, fully awake in a second, because you can tell what’s coming from that look on his face.
Hyunjin screams. Jeongin covers his ears, wincing, and you sigh, rolling your eyes.
“Hyunjin!” you shout, louder than him.
He runs out of the room. You and Jeongin exchange a glance, him smothering a laugh as you huff in annoyance. You throw on a house robe while Jeongin looks around for his jeans. You go to the kitchen where Hyunjin is rinsing his eyes in the sink.
“Hyunjin,” you grunt. “For goodness’s sake.”
Jeongin emerges from the bedroom, shirtless because his t-shirt was abandoned somewhere near the couch. You look at each other, helpless but to smile in the morning light, even while your melodramatic brother has a breakdown by the faucet. Keeping it a secret was your only real contingency, and now that’s done and over. It leaves you without any sort of plan at all.
You walk over to the couch and find Jeongin’s t-shirt. You hold it out to him. He approaches slowly, still smiling. When he takes it, you tug on it, pulling him close.
So it turns out you have no plan at all. And you should be panicking, should be descending into melodrama.
But he smiles at you. Those dimples really will be your undoing.
And so you smile back, unbound by any rules or expectations, completely and totally free.
-
“Oh my god, stop kissing,” Hyunjin says. “That’s my sister! What the hell! When did you two even meet again? What is going on right now?”
afsgajnFsjjedhjSjnajxjdjja leaving a comment here too because OMG THIS WAS SO GOOD!!!!
but i need a moment coz the image headers for this post TOOK ME OUT... okay. breatheeeeee.... whew..
yes... okay.... This. This was So So Good. So sweet and so hot and AAAH SO GOOD.
I seriously love the way you write. You're probably in my top 5, even top 3, favourite authors, Period. The way you incorporate humour and emotions and descriptions and action, how it all flows together so well and is so easy to follow along and paints a crystal clear image in your head is brilliant. You are one of a kind. You are the reason I started reading Stray Kids fanfiction, and I am so so glad you share these wonderful stories because it's writers like you inspire so many others, and that's how a fandom becomes a community.
I am so eager for literally anything you put out, and I will wait as long as needed to get my fix 😅😅
