➥ Idiots in Love, Secret (Mutual) Crush, Fluffy Sexy
➥ Contains: Just down bad Bartender!Chris railing you flat on a pool table after hours because my brain is R O T T I N G, a somewhat cute twist on the overused porn trope "I don't have money, how about I suck your dick?"
➥ You challenge the stupid hot bartender to a game of pool to get out of paying the gigantic bill your entourage racked up.
*a/n: Just one of the 971003 fics you will surely see about these pictures. And y'all are bad frens for not telling me about them as soon as they were out.
“Come ON, man! It’s Chae’s birthday, and we’ve been your regulars since THE DAY you opened this place!” you protest vehemently, pointing at your very inebriated group of friends waiting for their Ubers out front.
“And thank you for your continued patronage,” Chris responds flatly. “Was there a point?”
“I may or may not have said I’d pick up the tab as a birthday gift,” you grimace, then bat your eyelashes at him like a cartoon bunny. “Can’t tonight be on you just this once?”
“You want me to gift you a night for thirty people?” he snorts. “You guys dried out my entire inventory!”
“It’s good manners, and you haven’t even wished her a happy birthday,” you fake a pout.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHAEEE~!” Chris yells towards the entrance with a big smile, and she waves back at him with childlike joy, making hearts with her hands. He then looks back at you with murderous intent, sliding the bill across the counter like he wants gambling debts to be paid off. “Manners went out the window when you decided to trash my bar. In addition to your friends’ sailor drinking, you’ll be paying for the damages.”
“IT SAYS I OWE YOU LIKE TWO GRAND HERE, WHAT THE FUCK?!” you scream when you see the grand total of four digits.
“The pinball machine is broken, the toilet is overflowing, the wall needs to be plastered and repainted because your frat-ass himbos poked holes all over it with the missed darts, the darts weren’t the only things they couldn’t aim, AND they emptied the entire condom machine in the restroom,” he cites all the charges against you. “You’re lucky I’m not getting your house foreclosed.”
“Ugh, FINE, can I at least split it into four cards?”
“Can’t. The POS terminal doesn’t work.”
“I’ll pay you tomorrow then.”
“Oh, you’re not fucking going anywhere without paying me,” he sternly denies your motion.
“Where am I gonna find this much cash at this hour?!”
You look outside and watch your dear, dear friends wave you goodbye with dumb smiles as they get into their Ubers. As Chris wholesomely smiles at them all, the pool table at the back of the now-empty bar steals your attention.
“I’ll play you for it,” you propose.
“‘Scuse me?”
“I’ll play you for the damages,” you lean into the counter. “One hand. If I win, you clear the tab.”
“And when I win, you’ll still owe me money,” he scoffs. “What do I get out of this?”
“I don’t know, figure something out!” you raise your voice. “Just make it doable.”
You make it too easy for him sometimes. Chris bites his smile to keep the mask intact and declares his bet.
“Fine,” he crosses his arms against his chest. “You lose, you flash me.”
“Flash y— What?”
“You flash me,” he repeats. “Doable enough, yeah?”
“You can’t be serious,” you look at him blankly.
“I didn’t ask to fondle your tits. I just wanna look,” he says seriously, but is clearly trying to suppress a smirk. “All your friends saw it when you were playing truth or dare. Why shouldn’t the guy who served you the entire night?”
“Fine,” you grit your teeth as you extend your hand, shaking his like you want to break it rather than make an agreement.
Ultra content with your end of the bargain, Chris locks the front door and turns the sign on it to ‘Closed’ while you rack up the table. Ever the gentleman, he lets you go first and only lasts two turns before he starts dissing your skills.
“There is no way you’re gonna win like this, just saying,” he reaches for the chalk. “You’re making a few crucial mistakes.”
“Yeah, Cue-ristopher? ENLIGHTEN me, please,” you deride.
Chris takes that to mean ‘Legit give me a tutorial on how to properly play pool’. He gets behind you and practically hugs you, moving your arms like a puppeteer.
Meanwhile, you’re trying to think of ways to not die.
Not only is this the first time you’re alone together with the unofficial Chrome Hearts ambassador, but you have never stood in a proximity from each other that’s not at least a bar counter’s length apart. Now add the fact that you would suck this man’s soul out of him if you ever got him alone. Which is… right now… kinda sorta…
Fucking crazy he still hasn’t figured out why you’re forcing your entourage to hang out at that bar every goddamn night.
“See how the ball is too close to the pocket?” he points at your target. “If your bridge is this short, you’ll hit with too much force and send the cue ball right into the pocket. Longer bridge, slower speed, more control, yeah?” He then checks your grip and adjusts your posture. “Relax your wrist. Arm 90 degrees to the table. Don’t hold the very end of the cue.”
He holds your hand and slowly slides it a few inches up. You know you’re reading too much into this, but the way he moves is too reminiscent of… something else.
“Move up…” he softly instructs into your ear, “right here.”
HOW ABOUT HE MOVES UP RIGHT INSIDE YOUR PUSSY, THOUGH?!
“Now your front hand,” he leans forward and places his hand on yours. “Hook your index finger over the shaft.”
Is he picking these words on purpose, like…?! Since when is pool filled with innuendo for terminology? And more importantly, why is his body a million degrees behind you? Why is he taking deep breaths?
Is this a preview of what it would feel like to feel his body weight on you?
“That’s right,” he approves and gives you your final order. “Now hit that.”
You hit with remarkable accuracy, sending the cue ball to the very edge of the pocket, but it doesn’t fall into it. You can’t care less. You’re trying to brainstorm more ways to feel Chris closer. It’s going to look super tacky if you just said, “Fine, I quit,” right now and flash him, especially right after he’s shown you how to hit like a sniper. Will he think you’re just trying to get out of paying if you made a move on him right now? Will it make you look easy? Does he even find you attractive, or is the “Try this cocktail I’m experimenting with” thing something he does for a lot of people?
In the middle of your spiral, you feel a whisper in your ear, and it’s so soft that it makes you shudder. Nevertheless, you can swear you felt a little throb on your hips just now as he quietly speaks the words with a huge grin.
“Good girl.”
AAAND you snap.
You slowly turn around, resting the butt of the cue on the floor, and lean against the table. Your eyes narrow as if to scan him because something doesn’t make sense here.
“All the things you could ask from me, yet you asked me to flash you,” you recount the terms of your bet. “Why?”
“Can’t a man just want to enjoy a good view?” he retorts.
“He can,” you acknowledge, “but you’re an ass man.”
“How would you know?”
“When I’m by the bar, you never slip no matter how much of a low cut I wear, but you always check me out when I leave the stool,” you touché the crap out of him. “So spill.”
He feels so busted, breaking into a big smile as he averts his eyes from you. Now that it’s out in the open, he sees no harm in being more direct. He rests his hands on the table on either side of you and cages you under him.
“Maybe I was building up to something else,” he responds.
“Why not just go ahead and ask to fuck me then?”
“And you would agree?”
“If you can persuade me.”
He looks down at your chest and lightly brushes the back of his fingers from your exposed collarbone down to your cleavage. You gasp when you suddenly find yourself in the air in his arms, and he makes you sit on the table. He hooks his fingers into the belt hoops of your jeans and pulls you a bit closer, slowly undoing the button.
“So if I just… got on my knees for you right now,” he drags the zipper down, “gave you a nice, sloppy head…”
He slips a hand inside, gently caressing your soaked folds with two fingers. Then he removes them and spreads his fingers apart, licking his lips at the sight of the slick between them. You can’t help how thickly you gulp when he looks right into your soul as he licks them clean.
“...would that be persuasive enough to let me fuck you on this table?”
“What a freak,” you chuckle. “First time getting physical, and you want a threesome with the table?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he tsks. “It’ll be awkward between me and the table tomorrow since we work together.”
You burst into laughter, and he joins you. You feel like you can breathe again, but it’s short-lived. When the laughter dies down, the air immediately starts thickening again.
“You know,” you pull him closer from his collar, “your experimental cocktails have too much pineapple juice in them.”
“If you don’t like it, then stop drinking them,” he counters.
“Then stop feeding them to me.”
“Then stop accepting it.”
“Then stop acting like you’re not trying to get me to taste better,” you hold up his damp fingers. “Did it work, at least?”
“That’s a myth. I figured if you bought into it, you would start associating me with cum,” he replies with a smirk. “You taste so fucking delicious as it is, I should make a cocktail out of you.”
Yeah, you throb between your legs a little bit, and what about it?
“So if I just… paid a one-off service fee instead,” you slide your hands down his chest, “can we just call it even?”
“Just so you know, gratuity is not included,” he informs you before he leans in for a kiss.
His lips are impossibly soft, moving within yours with such a memorized rhythm as if you’ve already been kissing each other for years. His hands move to peel your pants off of you, and he drags them down to your ankles, spreading your legs while kneeling before you. You don’t get a heads-up before he dives right in, hands wrapped around your thighs as he drags his tongue all over your slick folds.
You can’t believe you have actually manifested your most frequented wank session material into existence.
“There is no way you’re gonna make me cum like this, just saying,” you lie your ass off for the sake of snark. “You’re making a few crucial mistakes.”
“Enlighten me, please,” he slurps into your entrance.
“Get your fingers wet,” you instruct him as you spread your lips. “Then wrap your lips around my clit.”
He follows your orders to perfection, and you move his hand towards your entrance.
“Now hit that,” you urge him.
And man, does he hit.
It has nothing to do with pace. Chris doesn’t rush. He sticks his tongue out, relaxes it, and presses it against your clit, moving his head in a circular motion and occasionally closing his mouth on your pussy. His middle and ring fingers keep working you as he eats, stimulating a delicious spot inside you in an almost languid rhythm. Yet it works so well that the slick you’re oozing is dripping down his wrist.
“Don’t–Don’t stop…” you moan, your eyes rolling back. You need something to grab onto and squeeze, but there’s nothing around you other than him. “So wet, god, Chris, you’re fucking killing me…”
He chuckles into your pussy so softly that something shoots up from your crotch and hits the ceiling of your head. When he notices how your legs shake, he starts moaning into you more, quiet but deep, and it sounds so lewd as if you’re the one satisfying him. You hold his head in place and ride his tongue, trying your hardest not to go insane while listening to his sounds of pleasure, and when he starts slurping on your clit, you snap.
Chris doesn’t remember ever witnessing something so obscene and so beautiful in the same breath.
He gets back up on his feet, and you almost lose your mind seeing half his face covered with you. He seems proud of it. He seems like he wants a reward for it. A kiss, a compliment, a flash of your tits…
He unbuckles his belt and takes his cock out, his tip flushed dark pink with how hard he is. It’s so mouthwatering that your hands move on instinct to feel him, tracing the bulging veins with your thumb.
“Any mistakes here I need to be aware of?” he asks, aligning himself with your entrance.
“Just hit that,” you hold onto his shoulders with a fucked out smile.
A deep groan rips from his throat as he disappears into you. You lick your palm, reaching under to cup his balls, and he starts smiling to himself with his eyes closed like he’s getting high. His girth makes you feel so full, and your mind goes more blank with every thrust, unable to form a single thought. Before it becomes a full white space inside your head, your end of the bargain knocks on the door of your consciousness, and you peel your top off, pressing your breasts together while pinching your nipples a little bit. His face contorts at the sight, and he leans in to suck on them, his pace suddenly turning erratic.
“Lie down for me, beautiful, I’m gonna cum on them,” he requests. “Play with those for me, yeah?”
You lie on your back and get your fingers wet, looking right into his eyes as you rub your nipples. He feels incredible being buried deep inside you, all swollen and wet for him, but the way he makes your tits bounce just makes him wanna hit that harder.
“Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. Yeah, like that. Like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. I’m gonna cum so hard for you, baby, clench. Clench harder. Harder, yes. Yes. FUCK!”
The warm, thick strings of his seed land on your breasts, and it feels so strangely satisfying. You smear it all over your skin like your bespoke moisturizer, and even though he’s just cum, Chris loses it a little bit. You hold onto his hands and pull yourself up, kissing him through his faded euphoria.
“For your information, I was just trying to be a gentleman,” he holds your face, “I’m also a tits man.”
“You don’t say,” you narrow your eyes, joining his silly giggles, and as you put your clothes back on, your phone goes off with a notification.
Chaerry Blossom
say thank you to chris again for the gift <3 he’s the best
also hit that already before someone else does smh
“Um… Efren Reyes, yes, hello,” you snap your fingers in front of Chris’ face. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
“About what?”
“What does Chae mean with ‘gift’?” you show him the screen.
Chris reads the text, then fashions a response template for you. “Tell her I said, ‘Anytime, and happy birthday’.” He buttons his pants back on and fixes your hair. “The mention of hitting that is up to you, but if you do, a five-star review of my performance would be appreciated.”
“What are you saying?” you furrow your brows.
“Oh, come on, it was her birthday today. Wouldn’t be good manners to take money,” he explains with the most vexing smile. “Consider it a gift from me.”
“So… we didn’t have to do this shit at all,” you purse your lips, brows knit so tightly with the realization of being hustled that a valley forms between them. “In very camp porn fashion, you were already planning to fuck me for the tab.”
“I never opened a tab for you guys tonight.”
Your mouth parts open, and all that comes out for a while is ceaseless stammering. What does he mean he didn’t open a tab? What does he mean consider it a gift from him?
“What the heck was that whole production then?!” you eventually yell at his face.
“Wanted to shoot my shot. I was prepared for you to cuss me out, and if that happened, I was just gonna say I was messing with you,” Chris shrugs. “Which, I technically was.”
“You freaked me out just for the LOLs?”
“I freaked you out for a chance to finally get you alone so I can ask you out,” he confesses.
Your flabbers are gasted, your dumbs are founded, and your thunders are struck. You don’t know what to say to him for a while, much less when you realize some things you’ve been carrying around for the longest time might not have been one-sided at all.
“We’re… literally here every night,” you state the obvious.
“Yet every night you come in together with your friends, too busy chatting it up at your booth, then leave together,” he gives an executive summary of your nightly routine. “Even when you guys go to the restroom, you move in flocks, like what’s up with that?”
“We’re not rampant alcoholics, dumbo. Why would we hang out here every night?” you emphasize once again.
Chris takes a moment to process your words, then his dimples start to deepen. It’s like a yawn effect—every time you see him smile, you inadvertently smile, too.
“Well, at least we were able to test how sturdy the pool table is,” you caress the green surface, then look at him with a smirk that’s up to no good. “Wanna go test how sturdy my bed is?”
“I can tell you the results up front; it’s so failing the test,” he melts into your lips again.
❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to make Chris hit that.
pairing: chan x gn!reader
contains: fluff — all chan wants to do is work, sleep, and be given enough forewarning to fix his hair before you come over. unfortunately, jeongin cannot get his nose out of chan’s love life even if he wanted to (which, for the record, he doesn’t). 2.1k words
♡ note: pretend this isn't a reupload. if you love me you'll keep an open mind about the rules of grammar.
dividers by @lariesographic
Time is a game and Chan has bugged out of the map. At best, he’s doing side quests. He’s hunting down flawless amethysts and family swords, meanwhile there’s fucking dragons and a civil war to be concerned about. You would tell him he’s being dramatic. He feels perfectly validated in his dramaticness. He defies anyone to wrestle with his music program over a four-second snippet, with an album deadline looming over their shoulders, without losing their mind.
He doesn’t know when an update is due. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a week. Either way, he needs to start making actual progress soon. It’s not like he’s gotten nothing done tonight — he’s added a riff to a song he’s still workshopping, tweaked it, removed it, added it back in, then ultimately removed it again. He glares at the screen. His laptop, cruel and unforgiving, glares back.
Most times, it’s nice having his own personal studio in his and Jeongin’s dorm. Most times, he doesn’t have to remind himself that dousing the whole thing in lighter fluid would mean his bed also goes up in flames.
He presses play, and the chorus is still missing something he can’t quite place. The beginnings of a migraine twitch behind his eyes.
He can buy a new bed pretty easily.
The fact you haven’t responded to him for the worse part of seven hours has absolutely nothing to do with his obsession over creating something within his control. Those are two separate issues that he is handling perfectly, thank you very much, and he’s succeeding at not thinking about you. Or what you would think of this song. Or whether or not he did something to cause you to ignore him.
Before he can act on his arsonist fantasies, Jeongin raps his knuckles on the familiar doorframe. “How’s it going?” the youngest asks, fully aware of the answer by the deep set shadows under Chan’s eyes. He doesn’t wait for a response before continuing, “Your favorite member is here to detach you from your laptop.”
Without looking, Chan chucks the nearest object that won’t actually hurt – a stuffed plushie no bigger than his hand – at his voice. He grins at the thud of it hitting Jeongin square in the chest. Then, purely to add insult to injury, “Oh, is Felix here?”
Chan expects to be conked in the head with the same plushie, or with Jeongin’s fist, depending on his mood. If living with Jeongin for so long has taught him anything, it’s that he will not let that slide. The youngest has been much more dramatic over much less – he distinctly remembers Jeongin threatening to “live somewhere I’m appreciated” when Chan once tried to wake him up ten minutes early.
Nothing comes flying back at him. Jeongin stays firmly in place, keeping his knuckles to himself. “Nope,” he says, popping the p, and Chan doesn’t need to be looking at him to know he’s grinning. His tone is too I’m-happy-to-watch-you-dig-your-own-grave for Chan’s comfort.
Chan finally looks up, pushing his headphones all the way off his ears and blinking through his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
Jeongin stands in the doorway, as he expected, sporting a shit-eating grin to end them all.
You stand behind him, the subject of his unrequited love and picture of perfection, watching their exchange with amusement glittering in your eyes. You’re clutching the plushie.
Chan stands up so fast his head rushes. The wired headphones clatter against the ground. He’s acutely aware he hasn’t touched a hairbrush today – or yesterday, if he can figure out what time it is. He briefly considers if it’s too late for him and Felix to debut as a duo.
To make matters worse, you just say, “You threw this at me,” and toss the stuffed animal back at him. He doesn’t catch it. It fumbles from his grasp, and lands with a humiliating thump right next to his headphones. Your resulting giggle will be the death of him. Or Jeongin. Quite possibly both.
Chan does his absolute best not to succumb to mortification right then and there, and instead asks, “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t meet your eyes.
“Innie texted me to come over. He said it’s important I see you.” Still smug as hell, Jeongin nods. “And you didn’t answer my texts, so I wanted to see if you’ve eaten. Hold on.” You disappear from the doorway, leaving just Jeongin, mischievous and defenseless.
Chan pounces. “Dude,” he hisses through his teeth, “what happened to the ten-minute warning before they see me?” The standing agreement exists to give Chan time to get his heartbeat under control. He hasn’t even had time to use his emergency travel-sized mouthwash (just in case, you never know, and he prides himself on being prepared).
Jeongin, of course, ignores him. “Dude,” he mocks, “Why don’t you answer your texts?”
Your words come back to him. And you didn’t answer my texts.
Huh? He grabs his phone off the desk, tries to turn it on, and is only met with a black screen. It’s dead.
It’s dead!
You answered him, and he just didn’t see it. He could cry.
When you appear back in his sight, you’re carrying an opaque container, no doubt containing a homemade meal. He could cry again; he doesn’t know the last time he ate anything that didn’t come out of a wrapper. Jeongin gets out of your way so you can step into the room with Chan – who kicks his discarded hoodie under the desk and prays you didn’t notice to whatever god that hasn’t given up on this entire situation.
Once he’s in the living room, Jeongin catches Chan’s eyes and smiles at the back of your head. Oh no. Much like how animals can sense incoming weather, Chan can sense when Jeongin’s about to pull some terrible cretin shenanigans. He is correct. With all the subtlety of a flare gun, Jeongin begins horribly, slowly, obnoxiously making out with the air behind your back. Apparently, people are allowed to still do that past middle school. He’s dangerously close to getting to second base with an oxygen molecule.
Chan, subtle as a brighter flare gun, shoots Jeongin a withering glare over your shoulder. If looks could kill, Stray Kids would be a seven-member group right now. Fat lot of good it does anyway, because Jeongin’s eyes are scrunched shut as part of his whole routine.
Chan forgot that you can actually see him trying to mentally will Jeongin to burst into flames – and, in the worst moment of his life, you turn around to see what’s so distracting.
Your body freezes.
Oh God.
This is it. This is the end of Chan. He has to bury himself alive once this is all said and done. There’s just no other dignified option.
Like the car crash of a person he is, neither one of you is able to tear your eyes away from Jeongin’s one-person show.
Where’s the lighter fluid when you need it? The next time he’s out – which, if he’s honest with himself, isn’t as soon as anybody would hope – he’ll have to remember to buy a bottle.
Jeongin cracks one eye open, and is met with both you and Chan wearing the exact same horrified expression. He doesn’t look nearly as scared as he probably should be, considering Chan is mentally planning his funeral. There will be lilies and carnations. No roses, he doesn’t deserve them.
He finally straightens out his posture. “Well, I’ll leave you two to…” he winks and Chan decides in that moment to outsource his eulogy, “Talk.”
Chan waits until he hears the lock of Jeongin’s bedroom door clicking shut before he breathes again. A wet blanket of silence settles over the room. From two walls over, he can practically hear Jeongin heel-clicking in joy at being the root cause of All of Chan’s Problems.
You swallow, the gulp audible in the quiet, and Chan prays the ground would open up and swallow you two whole while you’re at it. Dimly, the not-evolved-from-monkeys part of his brain wonders what else you swallow, but there’s no way he’s letting himself follow that train of thought. Last time he followed that train of thought was when you licked vanilla ice cream from the side of your mouth, and Hyunjin kicked him in the shin so hard he had a bruise for two weeks.
He’s weighing the pros and cons of just walking out and starting a new life. Stray Kids? Never heard of ‘em.
A small infinity passes before you both speak at the same time, because good lord of course this situation needs any more awkwardness. “You go,” Chan digs the toe of his shoe into the hardwood floor.
Your voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it. “Sorry about him,” you say. Chan’s head snaps up. Oh, Jeongin better count his days for making you feel the need to apologize. “He’s always,” you take a deep breath, like you’re stalling saying something big. Despite himself, Chan leans forward. “He’s always making fun of my feelings for you.”
“What,” Chan croaks. Then, because his brain still needs time to catch up and denial is easier, he so matter-of-factly states, “You don’t have feelings for me.”
Confusion laces your expression, which, fair. “I - what?”
His cheeks burn hotter than lava. “You can’t like me.” What happened to the confident leader of a chart-topping idol group? His mental state has apparently diminished to the sound logic of “nuh-uh”/”yuh-huh” arguments.
You set the container down in favor of crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “Well, I do.”
“No you don’t.” Denial is not starting to feel easier. In fact, it’s starting to feel like he’s in kindergarten again, filling his school days pulling girls’ pigtails and picking his nose. He’s about three steps removed from accusing you of having cooties.
“This is an argument between five-year-olds,” you point out. Hey, he was just thinking that. “It’s a wonder I still like you.”
Oh yeah. The mortification isn’t gone, because what the hell Jeongin, but his stomach is starting to flutter as his brain comes online again. More than anything, he needs to navigate his response with grace to not scare you off, but his pulse is too quick and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. In a move that will haunt his nightmares for years to come, Chan stumbles over, “I like - I have feelings for you too.”
Chan wishes he could frame the way your face lights up at his admission. He’d hang it over his bed; it would be the last thing he sees before he sleeps and the first thing he wakes up to each morning. You already are the first thing he thinks about, but it would be nice to have a picture to go along with his imagination.
Usually, he has to do his best to squash down any evidence that your smile turns him into mush, and he’s already instinctually biting his lip, when he realizes: he doesn’t have to do that anymore.
He pulls you into him with trembling hands. When your lips connect, it’s better than anything he has ever let himself dream about. You taste like warmth and love and a little bit like your lip balm, and Chan would kiss you forever if he could. He’d stay here, the world could pass you two by, all he needs is you holding him.
Thank God for Jeongin texting you, the bastard. Jeongin, the best person he kno-
Wait.
Chan pulls away. It takes every bit of willpower he can conjure up not to give in to your frustrated whine. “Did you say he’s always making fun of you?”
“Yeah?” You bring a hand up to brush a stray hair out of his eyes, and he’s about to abandon his line of questioning entirely. Not yet, though.
“How long has he known about it?”
“Well,” you let your hand drop, looking thoroughly confused why he’s decided to play detective, “He officially started about six months ago, but I think he knew way before then. Why?” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Minho and Han too.”
As a kind and benevolent leader, Chan will wait until tomorrow’s dance practice to hurt them for sitting on the biggest secret in the world for Six. Months.
Right now, Chan has you all to himself, and he’s not leaving this room for anything in the world. He pulls you back into his arms, taking a moment to angle your foreheads together, trying to memorize every detail of your face. He’s sure you can hear his heartbeat. He doesn’t care. “No reason,” he whispers, before bringing you into him again.
♡ note: i wrote most of this at 2 am and my nose bled 4 separate times before finishing it, so most writing & any (read: none) proofreading happened under blood loss. don't point out anything negative, ty love you.
skz taglist: @emilyywhyy @velvetmoonlght @opiumfidgetspinner @bahngarang @angelwings-fly @pixie-felix @certainstarfishmiracle @luvvvivi @strhwa @ayedomino008 @flwrkssed @breakmeoff @foppishitudinality @ilovedallywinston @cookiewookie9t @astrayapple @teffyx @geni-627 @kpopgirliez
lmk if you want to be added/removed from the taglist!
contains: +18, friends to lovers, grinding, dry humping, fingering, nipple play, protected sex, back scratching, lots of moaning
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
⋆｡°✩
summary: Close friends. Endless tension. Everyone’s been waiting for you two to finally do something about it. New Year’s eve in hot Australian summer was the perfect setting for a terrible idea. Except that… it doesn’t feel terrible at all.
The house was already glowing when you arrived, warm light spilling through wide glass doors, music humming low beneath the sound of laughter. The air was thick with summer heat, that unmistakable Australian kind that clung to skin and made everything feel slower, heavier, more alive.
It didn’t feel like a party. Felt more like being invited into someone’s dream version of New Year’s, bare feet on cool floors, open windows, the promise of fireworks and bad decisions later.
Chan spotted you before you even made it past the gate.
“You came,” he said.
He crossed the distance easily, silk catching the light as he moved. The blue Fendi set looked criminal on him, fluid, the fabric clinging just enough in the heat. The set hung loose on him, collar open, sleeves pushed up. Blue like water. Like calm. Like control.
Then there was you.
He stopped in front of you, eyes flicking over you once, quick, polite, absolutely not fooling anyone.
You were dressed in red. The kind of red that didn’t blend into a room, didn’t soften under warm lights. It held its ground. The heat seemed to belong to you, clinging to your skin, pooling at your collarbone, your legs.
Where Chan looked cool despite the night, you looked like the reason it felt so hot.
“Of course I did,” you said, smiling. “You made it sound impossible to miss.”
He laughed softly, glancing back at the house. “Yeah. I wanted it to feel… right.”
And somehow, standing there with the warm night pressing in around you, it already did.
Inside, the boys drifted in and out of your orbit, greetings, teasing, drinks pressed into your hands, but Chan stayed close. Too close to be accidental. Every time you turned, he was there, leaning in to hear you over the music, shoulder brushing yours like it belonged there.
The heat made everything more intimate. The way his arm hovered behind you. The way his knee brushed yours when you sat. The way his gaze lingered a second too long, then did it again.
You talked about nothing. And everything.
About the year ending. About plans that weren’t fully formed yet. About things that made him laugh in that quiet, breathy way that always felt personal.
At some point, you noticed the shift.
The boys had moved on to the backyard. Voices blurred into background noise. Music pulsed low and lazy.
And suddenly, it was just you and Chan.
Chan beside you like an anchor of blue, calm and steady. You like a red spark that refused to dim. The air between you felt charged, thick as the summer night.
Like something waiting.
Like heat before a storm.
Like fireworks, holding their breath.
The moment didn’t break all at once. It cracked.
Footsteps, louder now. Familiar voices drifting back in like they owned the place. Seungmin appeared first, drink in hand, eyes flicking between you and Chan with immediate, sharp interest. His mouth twitched, already amused.
“Chan,” he said casually, way too casually. “Did you already show her where she’s sleeping tonight?”
The question landed heavy. Loaded.
Chan blinked. Once. Twice.
“Oh—” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly all shy energy where there hadn’t been any seconds ago. “No. Not yet.”
You watched it happen in real time, the way his ears tinted pink, the way his posture shifted, like he had been caught doing something he absolutely had been thinking about.
Lee Know leaned in from the side, unbothered, eyes sharp with that familiar menace. He followed Chan’s gaze, then yours, and smirked.
“He already did,” Minho said. “He’s standing right in front of her.”
Silence.
Not awkward. Charged.
Chan let out a breathy laugh, half-embarrassed, half-nervous, shaking his head like that would somehow erase what Minho just implied. “You’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.
And you... You didn’t even try to hide it.
The corner of your mouth lifted. Slow. Knowing. A smirk that said yeah… maybe.
Chan saw it.
His laugh cut off just a fraction too early. His eyes flicked back to you, searching your face, catching that expression, and something in his gaze darkened. Not startled. Not upset.
Aware.
“Oh,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Minho noticed. Of course he did. He grinned like a man who had just confirmed a theory. Seungmin snorted, shaking his head.
“I’m grabbing another drink,” Seungmin said. “Before whatever this is catches fire.”
They left you there.
Chan shifted his weight, suddenly closer than before. Not touching. Just close enough that you could feel his warmth, the subtle change in his breathing.
“You think this is funny?” he asked softly, lips tugging upward, eyes still locked on yours.
You tilted your head. Innocent. Dangerous. “Maybe,” you said. “Looks like a great place to sleep in.”
His smile deepened. Slower now. Intentional.
“Yeah?” he replied.
And somewhere outside, a test firework cracked in the distance, early, impatient, like it couldn’t wait for midnight either.
You watched him for half a second longer than necessary. The way his smile lingered. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. He wasn’t backing away, but he wasn’t stepping forward either. That's when you thought: You know what? If he’s not jumping into it… I am.
A sudden crack echoed outside, bright and sharp. Light flashed through the glass walls, painting the room in brief color.
You turned your head toward the window, then back to him, already smiling.
“Looks like the party’s already starting,” you said lightly. “You’ll miss it.”
You took a step back, just enough to create space. Just enough to make it a choice.
But Chan? Chan didn’t even look at the fireworks.
His eyes stayed on you, steady, amused. Like he had caught the trick the second you played it. A corner of his mouth lifted, slow and confident. Oh. Yeah. He clocked it.
He stepped closer instead.
“My party,” he said calmly, voice low, warm, unmistakably sure, “is already standing right in front of me.”
The words settled between you, heavier than any explosion outside.
Another firework went off, gold this time, reflected in the glass, in his eyes. You could feel the heat of him now, close enough that moving away would be obvious.
He tilted his head slightly, studying your reaction. Testing.
“And besides,” he added, softer now, like it was just for you, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Well, I’m not.”
It slipped out easy. Casual. Almost bored.
He blinked. Actually blinked.
“What?” he laughed, genuinely thrown for the first time tonight. “You’re not?”
The confusion cracked his composure just enough, and that was all you needed. You stepped back into his space before he could recover, fingers catching lightly at the front of his shirt.
“Not yet,” you murmured.
Then you kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful either. Just decisive, like you had made up your mind a while ago and were finally, finally, acting on it. His breath hitched against your lips, surprise lasting only a heartbeat before instinct kicked in.
Chan kissed you back immediately.
His hand came up to your waist without thinking, grounding, warm. The world outside exploded, fireworks cracking louder now, brighter, but he barely seemed aware of it. His focus narrowed to you, to the way you fit against him, to the quiet little smile you felt curve into the kiss.
When you pulled back, just slightly, his forehead dropped to yours, laughter soft and breathless.
“Wow,” he said, stunned and delighted. “Okay.”
The word barely had time to exist before he kissed you again.
This one was different.
Less careful. Less surprised. Like something in him had finally snapped into place, like the realization hit all at once and he wasn’t about to waste another second. His mouth found yours with a soft kind of desperation, a kiss that carried regret and relief all tangled together.
"Why didn’t I do this before?" You felt it in the way he leaned into you, like he was making up for lost time.
His hand tightened at your waist, not rough, just sure, anchoring himself, anchoring you. The blue silk brushed against your skin, cool for half a second before it wasn’t, before the heat between you swallowed it whole.
The room changed. Or maybe you did.
The air felt thicker, heavier. Heat bloomed low in your belly and spread outward, lighting your skin up from the inside. Every nerve suddenly awake. Every brush of his thumb, every shift of his mouth registering too clearly.
Fireworks burst outside again, white, gold, relentless, but it felt like they were happening under your skin now, echoing through you instead of the sky.
Chan broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressing into yours again, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “I should’ve—”
He stopped himself, exhaled, then smiled against your lips like the thought alone was enough to undo him.
Instead of finishing the sentence, he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. And the heat only kept building. And you didn't want it to stop. You wanted more.
You didn’t register his hands moving at first.
They were just… there. At your waist. Your back. Sliding, steady, certain, like once he had decided, his body took over completely. The room blurred at the edges, noise dissolving into heat and color and the press of him against you.
You were vaguely aware of walking. Or being guided.
The next thing you knew, the balcony rail pressed against the back of your thighs. You gasped, not from the cold, but from him.
Chan lifted you easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he had done it a hundred times in his head already. Your breath left you in a sharp sound as he set you on the edge of the balcony, the contrast jolting, cool surface, hot body, blue silk and red fabric colliding.
Your legs wrapped around his waist without permission. Pure instinct.
“Oh—” you breathed, startled by how perfectly you fit, by how right it felt.
Chan felt it too.
He froze for half a second, like the realization hit him all at once, then his hands slid down, firm and grounding, squeezing your thighs just enough to make you inhale sharply. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, a low wrecked sound leaving him.
“Yeah, I know.” he murmured, voice rough now.
At some point, the restraint just... disappeared. You could feel him now, hot and hard, pressing insistently against your core through the thin barrier of clothing still between you. The pressure made you gasp, made your hips roll forward instinctively.
You couldn't help but grind against him, chasing friction, chasing relief, chasing him. Your fingers twisted in his hair, tugging slightly, and you felt him twitch against you in response. You wanted more. You needed more.
Chan answered with muffled moans against your lips, the sounds vibrating between your mouths as he kissed you desperately.
His hands squeezed your thighs even harder, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pulled you impossibly closer, pressing you back against him with enough force that you could feel every inch of him.
He rocked his hips up to meet yours, creating a rhythm that had you both panting, the friction not nearly enough. Every kiss bled into the next, softer but somehow needier, like neither of you could stand the space between breaths.
Chan’s mouth traced down your jaw, unhurried now, deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His lips lingered at your neck, warm, already familiar, sending heat straight through you.
Your fingers slipped to the buttons of his shirt without thought, undoing one, then another, until the realization hit.
You opened your eyes.
Reality snapped into place all at once.
“Chan,” you breathed, gently but firm, pressing your palm to his chest. “I swear I don’t want to, but… we should stop.”
He stilled immediately, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath uneven.
“What?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, confused, almost offended. “Why?”
You glanced around, heartbeat still racing. “Someone can walk by and see us.”
It took a second. Then he followed your gaze.
“Oh,” he said, blinking. A laugh escaped him, soft, helpless. “Right. Yeah. Hm.”
He thought for half a beat longer than necessary, like he was long, long gone.
“We could go to my room,” he offered, casual but not really. “If you want.”
You smiled, teasing despite the way your skin still hummed. “You’ll really miss the fireworks at the party you’re hosting?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed you again, quick, warm, certain. Like punctuation.
“I already told you,” he murmured against your lips, smiling. “My party is right here in front of me.”
Your heart did something complicated in your chest, a skip, a stumble, something that felt dangerously close to falling.
"That's really unfair," you whispered, but you were already kissing him back, fingers curling into the open collar of his shirt.
Chan pulled away just enough to look at you properly, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Is that a yes?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He took your hand without another word, leading you back through the party and up to his room. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the noise below to almost nothing.
For a moment, you just stood there, looking at each other. The urgency from outside had shifted into something slower, heavier.
"Hey," he said softly, stepping closer. His hands found your waist again, but gentler now. "We don't have to—"
You kissed him before he could finish, rising on your toes, walking and kissing and touching towards his bed. You felt him smile against your mouth.
"Okay," he breathed. "Good to know."
His fingers found the hem of your dress, but there was still a question in the touch. You answered by reaching for his buttons again, finishing what you had started outside.
His shirt fell open and you let your hands explore, palms flat against warm skin, feeling his breath hitch under your touch.
His hands slid beneath the skirt of your dress, warm and steady against your thighs, fingertips tracing slow lines upward that made you shiver. The fabric bunched around your hips as he explored, palms smoothing over skin, grip tightening when you pulled him closer.
"God," he breathed against your mouth, settling his weight between your legs. You could feel him again, hard and straining against his shorts, pressing right where you needed him. When he rolled his hips, the friction made you both gasp.
Your hands mapped the muscles of his back, nails dragging lightly down his spine, feeling him shudder and press harder against you.
He kissed you like he was drowning, one hand sliding higher under your dress while the other gripped your hip, angling you so he could grind down with more pressure.
“Chan,” you breathed, already desperate, already aching. Your dress was bunched around your hips, legs wrapped around him, and you could feel how wet you were, how ready.
"Yeah?" he murmured against your jaw, lips trailing down your neck. His hand moved between your thighs, fingers brushing over your panties, just the lightest touch, and he groaned low in his throat. “Fuck, you’re soaked through.”
The fabric was damp against his fingertips, clinging to you, and the evidence of how much you wanted him made his jaw clench.
"Touch me," you managed. "Please, just—"
He didn’t make you finish. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, sliding through your wetness, and the first touch of skin on skin drew a moan from you that you couldn’t control. Your hips jerked toward his hand involuntarily.
“Shit,” he breathed, circling slowly at first, gathering your slickness on his fingers. He watched your face, studying every reaction.
His fingers were skilled, confident, applying just the right amount of pressure as he explored. When he found your clit and circled it directly, your fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Like this?” he asked, voice rough with arousal, adding more pressure and picking up speed.
“Yes—god, yes—” You could barely form words, pleasure already building embarrassingly fast.
When he slipped one finger inside you, pressing deep, you gasped. Then another finger joined the first, stretching you, and when he curled them just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, your whole body arched off the bed.
“Fuck, Chan—right there—”
“Yeah?” he murmured, keeping that angle, those fingers curled and pressing exactly where you needed. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you steady.
“You look so perfect like this,” he said, almost reverent, thumb finding your clit again while his fingers continued moving inside you. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
His fingers worked faster now, thumb circling in tight, precise movements while he pumped his fingers in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.
Your breathing came in short gasps, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. “Fuck, I— I can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”
The confession made something twist in your chest. Your hands found his waistband, desperate to feel more of him.
He helped you, shoving his shorts and boxers down just enough to free himself. When your hand wrapped around him, hot and hard and already leaking, he groaned into your mouth, hips jerking forward into your grip.
"Fuck," he choked out. You stroked him slowly, feeling him twitch in your palm, smearing the wetness at his tip with your thumb. His whole body tensed. "Wait—I'm gonna—we need—"
"Where is it?" you finished for him, not letting go.
"Drawer," he managed, reaching over blindly.
While he fumbled for it, you sat up enough to reach for the zipper at the back of your dress. Chan noticed immediately, his hands joining yours, pulling the zipper down slowly. His fingers traced the line of your spine as it was revealed, making you shiver.
You lifted your arms and he helped pull the dress over your head, letting it fall to the floor.
His eyes roamed over you, your flushed skin, the rise and fall of your chest, the way you looked spread out beneath him, and he let out a shaky breath, like the sight of you alone was enough to undo him.
“Jesus,” he muttered, voice thick with want. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the lace of your bra, then reaching behind you to unhook it with surprisingly steady fingers.
“You’re incredible,” he breathed, leaning in to press his lips to your collarbone. The kiss was soft, reverent, a stark contrast to the urgency from moments before. He trailed lower, mouth moving across your chest with deliberate slowness, placing kisses along the swell of your breast.
When his lips finally closed around your nipple, you gasped, the sensation sending a jolt straight through you. Your fingers threaded through his hair instinctively, holding him there, and he hummed against your skin.
His tongue circled slowly, then flicked, before he sucked harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into his mouth.
His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in rhythm with his mouth.
“Chan—” you breathed, tugging at his hair.
The sensation had you squirming beneath him, hips shifting restlessly, seeking friction. Your core ached with need, still throbbing from how close his fingers had brought you earlier.
"Chan, please—"
He pulled back, grabbing the condom, tearing it open with shaking hands. You watched as he rolled it on, your chest heaving, completely bare beneath him now.
He hooked his fingers in your panties and you lifted your hips so he could pull them down your legs, tossing them aside.
For a second he just looked at you, sprawled beneath him, flushed and wanting and completely his.
"You're sure?" he asked one more time.
"Chan, if you don't fuck me right now—"
He kissed you hard, lining himself up, and pushed inside in one slow, steady thrust that had you both gasping into each other's mouths.
The stretch of him filling you completely made your eyes flutter closed, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Chan stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against yours, breathing hard.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice wrecked. "You feel—god, you feel so good."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he groaned, pulling back only to thrust in again, finding a rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders.
He moved with purpose now, each stroke deliberate and deep, angling his hips until you gasped and he knew he had found the right spot. Then he kept hitting it, over and over, watching your face like nothing else in the world mattered.
"Look at me," he said softly, and you opened your eyes to find him staring down at you with an intensity that made your chest ache. "I want to see you."
You couldn't look away even if you wanted to. The connection between you felt like a live wire, electric and all-consuming.
His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pinning it gently above your head while his other hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you harder.
"Chan—" His name came out broken, desperate.
"Fuck," he murmured, kissing you deeply. "I know."
The pleasure built and built, coiling tight in your belly. Your free hand dragged down his back, nails leaving marks you'd both see tomorrow, and he hissed, hips snapping faster.
The room felt suspended in time, just the two of you, the sound of skin against skin, ragged breathing, whispered words that might've been confessions or curses or both.
And then…
The first firework exploded outside.
The boom rattled the windows, followed by another, then another. Distant screams of joy from the party downstairs, from the neighborhood, people counting down a new year you had both completely forgotten about.
But Chan didn't stop. He didn't even slow down.
Instead, he kissed you like the world was ending and beginning all at once. His mouth moved against yours with a desperation, a passion that stole the breath from your lungs and replaced it with something that felt dangerously close to devotion.
"It's midnight," he breathed against your lips between kisses.
"Don't stop," you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. "Please don't stop."
Something shifted in him at that; permission, encouragement, need.
His grip on your hip tightened, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks, and he drove into you harder, deeper.
"Oh—F-fuck," he groaned, the sound raw and unrestrained.
Your nails dragged down his back again, scratching hard enough that he hissed and somehow moved even faster, chasing something primal between you. The sharp sting only seemed to drive him higher, his breathing ragged against your neck.
"God, yes—I like that," he panted, one hand sliding under your thigh to hitch your leg higher, changing the angle. The new position made you cry out, louder than before, and you immediately bit your lip.
Chan noticed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide. "You can let go," he said, voice rough and strained, barely holding himself together. "No one will hear you over the fireworks."
That made something inside you crack wide open.
You stopped holding back. The next moan tore from your throat freely, unrestrained, and Chan groaned in response, the sound broken and desperate. He kissed you messily, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your sounds like he needed them to breathe.
"That's it," he encouraged, breathless. "Let me hear you."
Your nails raked down his back again, harder this time, and he actually whimpered, a gorgeous, wrecked sound that made you clench around him. His rhythm faltered for just a second before he recovered, fucking into you with renewed intensity.
"You feel so fucking good," he gasped against your mouth. "So perfect—fuck—"
You were being louder now, completely uninhibited, moaning and gasping with each thrust. It felt freeing, intoxicating, especially when you could see how it affected him, the catch in his breath, the groans he couldn't quite muffle, the muttered curses.
His hand found your clit again and you cried out, back arching off the bed. The sensation was overwhelming, pleasure building so fast and intense you could barely breathe.
"Chan—I'm—"
"I know, I can feel it," he panted, circling faster, pressing harder. "Come for me. Please, babygirl, I need to feel you—"
Hearing Chan calling you babygirl combined with the desperate edge in his voice, pushed you over. You came apart beneath him, crying out his name without caring who heard, nails scratching down his back one more time as your whole body tensed and shattered.
"Oh, fuck—" Chan's voice broke completely. Your walls clenching around him was too much. He thrust twice more, deep and erratic, before burying himself fully with a groan that sounded almost pained, shuddering as he came.
Chan collapsed against you, carefully shifting his weight. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest. Both of you were breathing hard, skin damp with sweat, limbs tangled together.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice still rough. “You okay?”
You tilted your head up to look at him, “I’m more than okay.”
Relief and something warmer flooded his expression. That dimpled smile appeared, the one that made your chest feel too full.
“Good,” he murmured, pulling you closer. He was quiet for a moment, just holding you, his thumb stroking your shoulder. Then he laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “You know… that’s actually everything I asked for this new year.”
“Just this?” you teased, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion threatened to overwhelm you.
“Just this,” he confirmed, kissing your forehead. “Just you.“
—
happy 2026, everyone! 💫
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place (note: i write smut fics!) ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
One day when Chris finally takes a step back you'll realise just how lucky you were to have someone as caring and selfless as him to look up to. One day he's going to put a stop to all of this and choose something private to pursue that none of you will be able to have access to, and you're going to regret the way you treated him despite how kind he's always been, regardless of the hurt that gets spewed his way.
You forget that under his public image, he's a normal person just like anyone else, who's trying his hardest to do what he enjoys while also helping millions of people, which isn't something he's obligated to do. He doesn't have to spend his time thinking about how he can make complete strangers feel better and like they aren't alone. He doesn't have to spend his time sending messages in the hopes of making the people on the other end smile and forget about their worries for a moment. He doesn't have to put everyone first and forget to take care of himself. But he does because he genuinely cares and wants people to be happy - and if that's corny to you, then I worry for you. Clearly you haven't experienced any sort of care or kindness in your life and that's why it makes you feel uncomfortable. Otherwise, it doesn't make any sense for you to treat him the way you are. And why feel the need to say anything at all? If you don't like him or the things he does - which is completely valid, it's impossible to like everyone or to be liked by everyone - then don't say anything at all. Why are you wasting your time bringing your own character down just to hurt someone who has shown nothing but kindness to you? If someone in your day-to-day life came up to you and treated you personally the way he treats his fans, would you treat that person the same? Would you call them corny for being kind? Would you say horrible things when they make time for you? I highly doubt you would unless you're a complete and utter cunt ... which I wouldn't put past a few of you. So why treat him that way? What exactly are you gaining from this?
The worst part is, I know a large chunk of you who are behaving this way are also the same people who complain on a regular basis about him not doing his lives anymore, and act all entitled like you deserve to have his time. You're the same people who claim he can't do anything right, yet as soon as he disappears for a day, he's the one in the wrong for not being there. Not only does that make you hypocritical, it makes you downright selfish, rude, and overall a shitty person. You make him apologise for things he has no business apologising for. He's the one who deserves hundreds of apologies - yet he always apologises first because he doesn't want more hurt to be spread around.
Maybe you don't understand what you have in front of you right now. One day when it's all gone you'll realise. But it'll be too late for you to do anything about it.
Genre : fluff, friends to lovers trope, first kiss ( of reader )
Warnings : a swear word has been mentioned once
Characters: Chan, reader
Synopsis: Introvert reader has been in love with chan but chan has been lowkey oblivious about it. His funny drills lead upto a moment of tension where reader ends up confessing and gets kissed for the first time ಥ‿ಥ
" really? At this hour?" Chris raised his brows in disbelief.
"wha- why not? Are you scared of ghosts? I'm just asking for your company Chris, I'm gonna go for the night walk even if you don't come with me"
" oh come on, don't be mad I'm just kidding , HEHE, ofcourse I'll come join you " Chris grinned mischievously.
" you were not kidding, you're just scared that I'll kick your ass if you don't " you squinted your eyes and whispered.
"uh- that too yes but again..." He shrugged "....how could I ever say no to that face?" A side eye is all he got in response to the sweet remark.
Your friendship dynamic was just like that, he's never been afraid to show his love or compliment you at every chance he gets. There were times where he caught you off guard with his random appreciations but you've always been very fond of them, secretly. Secretly, yes. Because you've been a wallflower your entire life, always hiding away from people who makes you vulnerable, detaching yourself from others and ghosting every single person you know when you feel like they're crossing the emotional walls that surround you , you've ALWAYS been like that. But ever since you met Chris , things have been different. Being the loner meant you didn't have a lot of people you could count on, and that's on you, you pushed them away. But Chris, he is tough. No matter how much you tried to ghost him out of your life , or repulse him when you didn't feel like yourself , he held on. He stood there, in the sidelines, waiting for you to get it together, sometimes helping you out through the journey in doing the same , but he stayed. Always. He was the first person you let your guards down to, and he didn't disappoint . Even though you're not so valiant about your feelings, you always end up finding ways to tell him that you love him. And he gets it. He understands. He appreciates.
The lane was lifeless at this hour as usual, and the breeze was cold. You and Chris were strolling in silence as your hands occasionally touched or you- thanks to your incapability of walking straight- bumped into him occasionally, followed by silent laughs.
He suddenly spoke up " i need to test out a theory " . Why is he so random?, You thought to yourself.
"....okay?"
" yes, i need your help " he grinned
" my...help? How so? "
" you need to kiss me " he spoke up casually as if it's a normal thing to ask for
You paused in your track, " are you kidding me?" You gave him a disgusted look which was apparently very funny to him.
" COME OOOON, kissing friends are normal" he bumped your shoulder with his.
" SINCE WHEN?" you almost shouted as a joke.
" since....forever." he hesitantly smiled and grew serious the very next moment, "No really, can i kiss you? "
You stared into his eyes intently for a little longer before finally speaking up, " you aren't kidding. "
" nope "
" can i ? " He walked closer to you. You weren't really sure of having your first kiss in the middle of road at 2 in the am, but COULD IT BE ANY BETTER? The growing tension was getting too hard to resist with every passing minute. " Yeah but- I've - I've never been kissed before Idon'tKnowHowTo-"
" it's okay just - just close your eyes " he whispered. You felt his words on your lips.
You did. You did close your eyes. His lips brushed against yours here and there, breaths fanning across each other's faces,he wanted to make sure this doesn't ruin things between you two, as he took his time to mentally convince himself that he hasn't been reading it wrong before he dove all in.
You lost track of the time you stood their in the middle of the road, kissing each other. His hands travelled from your palms to your temple as you held onto his toned arms. You've thought about your first kiss a couple of times but this, it was waaay better than what you thought it would be like. It felt right. So right that at some point between devouring each other's mouths you hastily stopped and blurted out " i think I'm in love with you " . He paused, trying to take it in, he didn't see it coming, not like this atleast, but he was glad, so glad , that the love of his life, the woman of his dreams, his best friend loves him back too.
He didn't respond, he leaned into you, grabbed your neck kissing you more passionately. Momentarily pausing to catch his breath , Chris ended up pecking you a thousand times, while you stood there giggling with your face squished in his palms as he kisses.
Summary: After experiencing loads of chemistry with Chan during a magazine photoshoot, your insomnia leads to a chance encounter with him late night at the hotel pool that turns into an intimate one-on-one private photography session.
Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff
Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.
Word Count: 15,451
You arrive at the studio two hours before the scheduled shoot, the weight of your camera bag a familiar comfort against your hip. The space smells of cleaner and expensive equipment, a scent you've come to associate with the peculiar blend of anxiety and control that defines your work. Your footsteps echo across the polished concrete floor as you flick on the industrial lights, transforming the cavernous room from shadow to clinical brightness. Today’s subjects are from Stray Kids; they’re a global sensation, eight impossibly photogenic men.
This is huge for you and you refuse to be anything less than impeccable.
The studio assistant has already arranged the sets according to your specifications, but you double-check everything anyway. Your reputation for perfectionism precedes you in the industry; it's how you landed this high-profile job in the first place. You adjust a reflector panel by two inches, tweaking the angle until the light bounces exactly right. Not harsh, not flat. Perfect.
You examine the concept boards propped on sleek easels with minimalist black frames housing images of striking contrasts and bold silhouettes. The brief called for "raw authenticity with polish," whatever the hell that means. But you understand the visual language behind the marketing jargon. These men need to look accessible yet untouchable, human yet godlike. The contradiction that sells.
Crouching beside your primary camera, you check the settings for the ninth time. Your fingers dance across the dials with practiced precision, muscle memory taking over as you mentally run through your shot list. Background music flows through hidden speakers; something ambient and unobtrusive, selected to create the illusion of calm in a space that will soon vibrate with heightened energy.
"Checking the histogram?" asks your assistant, materializing with a clipboard and a coffee that's more cream than caffeine.
"Always." You straighten up, rolling your shoulders to release the tension gathering there. "Did the stylist confirm the wardrobe arrived?"
Before she can answer, the atmosphere shifts. The front door swings open, and suddenly the air in the room feels electrified. You hear them before you see them; laughter, rapid-fire Korean interspersed with English, the unmistakable sound of a group that shares years of inside jokes and comfortable chaos.
Stray Kids spill into the studio like paint splashing onto canvas; They are vibrant, impossible to ignore, instantly transforming the space. Your eyes dart from face to face, mentally matching them to the brief profiles you'd studied. The tall one with the intense gaze must be Hyunjin. The one with the angelic features and impossibly deep voice has to be Felix. The one joking loudly and making exaggerated hand gestures is probably Changbin.
While your assistant scurries to greet them formally, you hang back, observing. It's part of your process, watching subjects before they know they're being watched often reveals the most authentic versions of themselves. The group moves like a single organism with eight distinct personalities, a choreography of friendship that speaks of a long-term shared experience.
And then, separated slightly from the playful chaos, your eyes lock with his. Bang Chan. The leader. You'd recognize those dimples anywhere, those intelligent eyes that seem to register everything at once. While the others are still shrugging off jackets and exclaiming over the studio setup, he approaches you directly, purposeful and present.
"Good morning," he says simply, extending his hand. His voice carries a hint of Australia in the vowels, a warmth that seems both professional and personal. "You must be our photographer for today."
His hand meets yours, and the contact sends an unexpected current up your arm. Static electricity, you tell yourself. The dry studio air. Nothing more.
You gave him a calm, practiced smile. "That's me," you respond, impressed by how steady your voice sounds despite the ridiculous flutter in your chest. “And you must be the one they warned me about.”
That earned you a soft chuckle. “Guilty. But I have a feeling they probably warned you about all eight of us.”
"You’re right. ‘Complete and utter chaos’, they said,” you confirm with a smirk. “Welcome to the studio. I've been looking forward to working with you all."
Chan's smile deepens, dimples appearing like punctuation marks on his face. "We've heard great things. Your work with that indie rock band last month, MindSweep, was incredible."
The fact that he's familiar with your portfolio catches you off guard. Most celebrities arrive prepped only with the bare minimum about the shoot itself.
"You've done your research," you say, allowing a small smile.
"Always." His eyes hold yours a beat longer than necessary. "It's important to know who's capturing your image, don't you think?"
Before you can respond, the management team arrives, breaking the moment with schedules and logistics. You slip back into professional mode, addressing the group as a whole, explaining your vision for the shoot, how you'll be working with each of them individually and as a unit.
"We'll start with group shots, then break into individual sessions," you explain, gesturing toward the main set. "The concept is contrast; light against shadow, structured against fluid. I want to capture the duality that defines your group."
As you speak, you notice Chan watching you with an intensity that makes your skin warm. Not a critical stare, but something appreciative; like he's seeing more than just another industry professional running through a routine.
The shoot begins, and you fall into the familiar rhythm of direction and capture. Your voice becomes firm, confident, all business as you position the group, adjust lighting, suggest angles. This is where you shine; behind the lens, control at your fingertips, seeing what others don't.
"Changbin, chin slightly lower. Seungmin, quarter turn to your right. Felix, that's perfect; hold that expression."
Through your viewfinder, eight faces transform under your guidance. You work quickly, efficiently, calling out adjustments and praise in equal measure. But no matter where you point your camera, you keep finding your focus pulled to Chan. The way he positions himself naturally, understanding the composition before you have to explain it. The subtle shift in his expression when the shutter clicks; somehow more present, more aware of the lens than the others.
"Chan, can you move slightly to center? Perfect." Your voice betrays nothing, but when he follows your direction with a knowing half-smile, something unspoken passes between you.
Two hours in, you're reviewing images on your monitor when you sense him behind you, close enough that you can smell the faint notes of his cologne. It’s something woody with subtle hints of vanilla.
"How are we doing?" he asks, voice low near your ear.
You scroll through the images, hyperaware of his presence at your shoulder. "Great. Your group photographs well together."
"Professional harmony," he says with a light laugh. "Over eight years of practice."
"It shows." You stop on a particularly striking image of him, the studio lights catching the angles of his face in a way that emphasizes both strength and vulnerability. "You have a natural instinct for the camera."
"Maybe it's the photographer," he counters, and you refuse to look up, focusing intently on the screen to hide the flush that threatens to rise to your cheeks.
When you move to individual shots, the energy shifts again. Each member brings a different presence to the set: I.N with his fashion-forward confidence; Hyunjin with his intense, almost theatrical expressions; Lee Know with his effortless cool that makes every frame look like an editorial spread.
During Han's session, you catch Chan watching from the sidelines, his gaze moving between you and the set with quiet assessment. When he catches you noticing, he doesn't look away. Instead, he offers that same half-smile that somehow makes you feel both seen and challenged.
"Chan, you're up next," you call after concluding with Seungmin, who thanks you with surprising formality before bouncing back to make fun of Changbin, who promptly pulls the younger member into a headlock.
Chan steps into the light with an ease that speaks of countless photoshoots, but there's something different about his demeanor now; a focused intensity directed at you rather than the camera. As you approach to adjust his position, your hand briefly touches his shoulder, and the contact, though professional, feels charged with meaning.
"Turn slightly toward the light," you instruct, your voice lower than intended. "I want to capture the contrast between shadow and illumination on your face."
He complies, but his eyes remain fixed on yours rather than looking into the lens. "Like this?"
You step closer, reaching up to adjust the angle of his jaw with your fingertips. The touch is clinical, something you've done with countless models, but your pulse quickens embarrassingly.
"Almost. Look past the camera, not at it. I'm trying to capture contemplation."
He holds the pose perfectly, and you retreat behind your camera, grateful for the barrier. Through the viewfinder, you see him differently; fragmented into composition, light, and form. It's easier to maintain professionalism when reducing him to artistic elements.
"Perfect," you murmur, capturing frame after frame. "Now, relax your shoulders,” you say, voice low. “Think less magazine cover, more… album you made for yourself but never released.”
His brow arches with amused curiosity, but he follows your direction. And when he exhales, the wall drops. The image you capture in that instant is breathtaking; it makes your heart skip.
“Now, don’t move but look directly at the lens."
When he does, the intensity in his gaze seems to bypass the camera entirely, connecting with you despite the equipment between you. Your finger hesitates on the shutter for a fraction of a second before continuing.
Throughout his individual session, you maintain the appearance of cool professionalism, but there's an undeniable current running beneath each exchange. His responses to your direction come just a beat slower than necessary, as if he's considering each word. When you show him a particularly striking image on the camera display, his shoulder presses against yours briefly, and neither of you moves away.
Chan hovers near your table as you scroll through the preview reel on your laptop.
“Got a favorite yet?” he asks.
You tilt the screen toward him. One of him leaning against a pillar, looking half-bored, half-thoughtful.
He laughs. “I look like I just told someone they disappointed me.”
“It’s honest,” you say. “People like honesty.”
Your eyes meet again. Something soft flickered there; recognition, maybe. Or curiosity.
"I like how you see things," he says quietly, for your ears alone.
The final group shots are a controlled chaos of eight bodies and distinct personalities coming together under your direction. You navigate around the set, occasionally brushing past Chan as you reposition lights or adjust compositions. Each momentary contact feels deliberate on both sides, though nothing could be proven.
From across the room, you notice Felix whispering something to Seungmin while glancing between you and Chan. Seungmin responds with an eye roll that dissolves into a knowing smile. They've noticed something; perhaps the same electrical current you've been trying to ignore.
"Last set," you announce, positioning the group for the final concept. "I want movement in this one; natural interaction, nothing posed."
They fall into comfortable chaos: Changbin playfully headlocking Seungmin, Hyunjin dramatically posing while Han pretends to faint at his beauty, Lee Know trying to kiss I.N. while the youngest recoils in horror as he laughs, and Felix grinning brightly at all the chaos. Chan maintains his position slightly apart, his eyes finding yours over the top of your camera with unmistakable intent. When Han yells something loudly in Korean, Chan breaks the intense eye contact and dissolves into a fit of giggles.
You capture it all: the friendship, the playfulness, the subtle thread of tension that runs between you and the group's leader. In the viewfinder, they're just images, compositions of light and shadow. But the feeling in the studio, particularly when Chan's gaze meets yours, that's something no camera can fully capture.
When you finally call the shoot complete, the group erupts in relieved laughter and thank-yous. As they gather their personal items and the stylists begin packing up, Chan lingers near the equipment, examining your camera setup with genuine interest.
"This lens," he says, gesturing but not touching, respectful of your equipment. "It's the same one you used for that editorial last spring, isn't it? The one with all the dramatic shadows."
The fact that he remembers such a specific detail about your work catches you off-guard again. "Good eye," you reply, impressed despite yourself. "Most people wouldn't notice the difference."
He shrugs, a casual gesture that somehow manages to highlight the line of his shoulders. "I pay attention to things that interest me."
The statement hangs in the air between you, ambiguous enough to be professional, specific enough to be something more. Before you can respond, his manager calls him over to discuss scheduling, and the moment stretches thin, unresolved.
As the group prepares to leave, Chan turns back, catching your eye across the now-cluttered studio. The smile he offers is different from the ones he's given all day; smaller, more private, like a secret between the two of you. You nod slightly in acknowledgment, already knowing that the photographs you've captured today, technically perfect as they may be, won't fully convey what passed unspoken between photographer and subject.
You're coiling the last of the lighting cables as the clamor of eight voices, stylists' directions, and management's hurried phone calls has dissolved into a humming silence punctuated only by the soft clicks of your equipment being packed away. The overhead lights have dimmed to their evening setting, casting the space in a warm glow that softens the industrial edges of the room. You look up to find Chan standing by the door, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your hands fumble slightly with the cable. You didn't realize he had stayed behind.
"I thought you left with the others," you say, voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet studio. You loop the cable with methodical precision, focusing on the task to maintain composure.
"The others went ahead to dinner." His voice carries easily across the space between you. "I told them I'd catch up."
You nod, placing the coiled cable in its designated case. The studio feels smaller somehow with just the two of you in it, as though the walls have inched closer. Your movements are deliberate, professional, a contrast to the inexplicable nervousness fluttering beneath your ribs.
"Everything go okay with the shoot?" you ask, though you already know the answer. The images captured today were some of your best work, partly due to the subject matter, though you're reluctant to admit that to him.
Chan pushes away from the doorframe and moves into the room with unhurried confidence. His presence seems amplified in the emptiness, drawing your attention even as you pretend to focus on closing equipment cases and checking memory cards.
"Better than okay," he says, approaching your workstation where the monitor still displays the last image you were reviewing, coincidentally, one of him, eyes direct and challenging the camera. "I've done hundreds of these, you know. But this one felt different."
You glance up, meeting his gaze. "Different how?"
He considers the question, running a hand through his tousled hair in a gesture that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Most photographers see what they want to see. You seemed to be looking for what was actually there."
The compliment catches you off guard. It’s specific, thoughtful, not the generic praise you typically receive. You turn away, suddenly conscious of how close he's standing, his presence radiating a warmth that has nothing to do with the studio lighting.
"That's the job," you respond, closing the laptop with a soft click. "Finding the truth in the performance."
Chan makes a sound that’s half laugh, half acknowledgement. "Is that what you think I was doing? Performing?"
You look up at him again, allowing yourself a moment of professional assessment. "Everyone performs in front of a camera. It's human nature."
"And what about now?" He gestures to the empty studio. "No camera. No audience. Am I still performing?"
The question hangs between you, weighted with implication. His expression is open, curious, with something simmering beneath the surface that quickens your pulse.
"I don't know," you answer honestly. Most of the celebrities you meet are always on, camera or not, audience or not. "Are you?"
His smile appears slowly, creating those dimples that the camera loves so much. In the softened studio light, they appear deeper, more intimate somehow.
He ignores your question. "Thank you," he says suddenly, the phrase landing with unexpected significance.
You tilt your head slightly. "For the shoot? Just doing my job."
"No." He shakes his head, taking another step closer. "For seeing us, seeing me, the way you did. The pictures were..." he searches for the word, "honest."
You find yourself mirroring his movement, drawn forward by some invisible pull until barely two feet separate you. The air feels charged, like the moment before a flash fires.
"Honesty makes for better art," you say, your voice dropping to match the intimate atmosphere that's developed around you both.
"Is that what brought you to photography? The pursuit of honesty?" His questions feel deeper than the typical post-shoot small talk, probing gently at your passion rather than just your process.
You consider how to answer, surprised by your desire to offer something genuine rather than the practiced responses you usually give. "Partly. I like finding the moments between the moments, I guess. The truth that exists when people think no one's watching."
Chan's eyes hold yours, and for a second, you feel as exposed as if you were the one in front of the lens. "Like how you were watching me today when you thought I wouldn't notice?"
Heat rises to your face, and you're grateful for the dim lighting. "I was doing my job," you counter, though the defense sounds weak even to your ears.
"Very thoroughly," he agrees, the teasing lilt in his voice making your stomach flip. "Especially during my individual session. I counted at least twice as many shots as the others got."
"Some subjects require more work," you reply, surprising yourself with the boldness of your response.
He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet studio. "Ouch. Is that how you talk to all your clients?"
"Only the ones who hang around after hours to critique my process."
"Not critiquing," he corrects, his hand coming to rest casually on the edge of the desk, inches from your own. "Appreciating."
The proximity of his fingers to yours creates a tangible tension, a magnetic field you feel compelled to either break or complete. You remain still, neither of you retreating or advancing.
"You know," Chan continues, his voice lower now, "I requested you specifically for this shoot."
This admission is surprising. "You did?"
He nods, eyes never leaving yours. "Your work has this... rawness to it. Even with all the commercial gloss, there's something uncalculated about your images. It's rare in this industry."
You find yourself momentarily speechless, touched by the specificity of his observation. Most people in his position would hardly give a second thought to who was behind the camera.
"I’m sure the label had several options," you say, recovering. "I assumed they made the final call."
"They did… after I made my preference clear." His fingers drum lightly on the desk, still tantalizingly close to yours. "I can be persuasive when I decide I want something."
There's that unspoken current again, running beneath his words, charging the exchange with meaning that extends beyond professional admiration. You should probably create some distance, maintain the boundary between photographer and subject, but your feet remain rooted to the spot.
"Well, I'm flattered," you say, aiming for nonchalance despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "Though you might be overestimating my talent."
"I don't think so." His response is immediate, genuine.
Your phone vibrates on the desk, breaking the moment. You glance down to see your assistant's text asking if everything wrapped up okay and if you need her to come back. The real world intruding on whatever bubble had formed around you and Chan.
"I should finish packing up," you say, though most of the equipment is already secured.
Chan straightens, giving you space, though reluctance is evident in his posture. "Of course. I didn't mean to keep you."
You busy yourself with the remaining equipment, aware of his presence as he moves to the doorway again, one hand coming to rest on the pillar in a casual pose that somehow manages to highlight the lean strength of his body. Even in this unguarded moment, he's naturally photogenic, and your fingers itch for your camera.
"I meant what I said about your work," he says as you shoulder your camera bag. "It's special. You see things others miss."
You allow yourself to meet his gaze again, abandoning the pretense of professional detachment. "And what do you think I see when I look at you, Chan?"
The question is bolder than you intended, stripping away the polite veneer that's characterized your interaction so far. His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something darker, more intense.
"I'm not sure," he answers honestly. "But I'd like to find out." There’s a smirk on his face that you try to ignore as you sling your tote bag around your body and pick up your box of equipment.
You move toward the door where he stands, knowing you need to leave but reluctant to end whatever this is. As you approach, he remains in place, his body creating a partial barrier that will require you to pass close to him.
“Thank you again for today,” he says softly. “You’ve got a really calm energy. Kind of rare in rooms like this.”
“You’re not so bad yourself. Thank you for being a great subject,” you respond as you readjust the box to hold your hand out to him. “Hopefully I’ll get to work with your group again.”
He takes your hand in his and squeezes gently. “Hopefully.” He holds onto your hand for a second too long, before releasing.
As you move by him, he remains close enough that your shoulder brushes against his chest, a contact that could be dismissed as accidental but feels entirely deliberate.
At the threshold, you pause and look back at him, standing in the glow of the studio, somehow looking like he belongs there. The day has been a symphony of unspoken communication, charged glances, and professional pretense masking growing attraction. Now, on the cusp of leaving, that attraction crystallizes into something palpable enough to touch.
As you finally turn to leave, his voice follows you one last time.
"And for the record," he says, "I wasn't performing today. Not with you."
You glance back over your shoulder, allowing yourself one last look at his face, memorizing the way the fading light catches his features. "I know," you reply simply. "That's what made it interesting."
His answering smile follows you out the door.
****
You stare at the hotel ceiling, counting the tiny stucco bumps until your eyes cross and uncross. Sleep is playing hard to get tonight, flirting with your consciousness before ghosting you completely. The digital clock on the nightstand flashes 2:17 AM like it's mocking you. Your body also still hums from the shoot. You’re creatively energized and emotionally restless thanks to the residual adrenaline, as your mind replays today's session on an endless loop, specifically the moments when Chan's eyes found yours over the camera lens, the way his voice dropped when speaking only to you.
You reach for your phone, then think better of it. Your brain won't be silenced by another mindless scroll through social media or the muted sitcom reruns playing on the hotel TV.
"Fuck it," you whisper to the empty room half an hour later. With a frustrated sigh, you kick off the suffocating sheets and pad to your suitcase. If sleep is determined to evade you, you might as well do something about it. You pull out the yellow bikini you packed out of habit and a thin cotton cover-up that's seen better days but feels like an old friend against your skin. Hotels equal pools equal bikinis; simple traveler's math.
The elevator ascends silently as it carries you to the rooftop, the mirrors reflecting a woman caught in the liminal space between exhaustion and alertness. You pad across the marbled hallway and stop at the glass doors. According to the information packet in your room, the pool closes at midnight, but your keycard still grants access. Either someone forgot to update the system, or night swimming is the hotel's unspoken perk for insomniacs. You push through the glass doors into the night.
The rooftop deck appears as a midnight oasis, the pool a rectangle of liquid sapphire, illuminated from below by lights that pulse gently between shades of blue as moonlight dances across the water’s surface. The water glitters under the night sky, empty and peaceful, while silver patterns shift and reform with each gentle ripple. The city sprawls below in a patchwork of lights, but up here exists in a bubble of quiet separate from the urban pulse.
Not a soul in sight. Perfect.
You kick off your flip flops and drop the cover-up onto a lounge chair, its fabric forming a crumpled shape. You slip into the pool without ceremony, sighing as the warmth wraps around your skin when you slide beneath the surface. This is exactly what you needed, something real and immediate to wash away the day’s lingering electricity.
You float on your back, eyes open to the vast spill of stars above, letting your thoughts dissolve into the gentle lap of water against the pool’s edge. Your eyes gently close as the water plugs your ears against the world, creating a private universe as the silence holds you.
A splash shatters your tranquil solitude. It’s almost silent, signifying the execution of a clean dive.
You jerk upright, treading water, as a figure cuts through the water just below the surface with practiced grace and professional looking strokes, powerful arms slicing through the blue. When the swimmer surfaces with a satisfied inhale and exhale and pushes hair back from his face, your heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine against your ribs.
Chan.
He freezes and his eyes widen when they meet yours, recognition sparking between you like the underwater lights reflecting on the pool's surface. His surprised expression mirrors your own.
"Oh," he says, his Australian accent coating the syllable in honey as he treads water. "I didn't think anyone else was… I can go if you want privacy."
"No!" The word comes out louder, quicker than you intended. "I mean, it’s fine; it's a big pool. Plenty of room for two insomniacs."
His laugh is low and warm, creating ripples around his shoulders where they break the water's plane. "Is that what we are? Fellow members of the Can't Sleep Club?"
"Charter members," you confirm, treading water at what feels like a respectful distance. "I was halfway through counting those ceiling bumps when I had to bail."
Chan grins, accompanied by those infamous dimples. "I was writing lyrics in my head. Same ones I've been stuck on for three days. Figured maybe they'd flow better in water."
"Does that work? The water thing?"
He makes a so-so gesture with his hand, droplets flying from his fingertips like tiny diamonds. "Sometimes. Water, shower, driving; places where your body's busy but your mind can wander. You know what I mean?"
You do. You tell him about your own creative process, surprised at how the conversation flows easily, the water providing a buffer against the awkwardness of speaking with someone you spent the day assessing and photographing.
“What about you? What’s keeping you up?”
"Same disease, different symptoms." You don't mention that he, specifically, has been the primary thought keeping you awake. "The ceiling in my room was starting to mock me."
Chan laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the open-air space. "Mine was definitely judging my life choices."
He swims closer with lazy, confident strokes, coming to rest a respectful distance away. Water beads across his shoulders and collarbones, catching the moonlight like scattered diamonds.
"So," he begins, "do you crash hotel pools after 2 AM often, or am I witnessing a rare event?"
"Only when particularly photogenic boy band leaders keep me from sleeping," you quip before you can stop yourself.
His eyebrows shoot up, and for a horrifying second, you think you've overstepped. Then his face cracks into a grin. "Oh? And here I thought it was my sparkling personality that made an impression."
"That too," you concede, relaxing into the banter. "Though your dimples did most of the heavy lifting."
He splashes a small wave of water in your direction, the playful gesture breaking any remaining tension. "And here I spent all those years developing my musical talents when I could've just smiled my way to success."
You splash him back without hesitation. "Don't sell yourself short. Your music isn’t that bad,” you add with a smirk, causing him to laugh loudly.
"You’re funny. So do you leave tomorrow?" he asks, gliding even closer, his body a shadow beneath the illuminated water.
"Yeah, I'm covering a music festival in Austin on Saturday for an online magazine. Arts and culture beat."
"We fly out tomorrow too. We have a couple performances in Tokyo before heading back to Seoul." His gaze holds yours a beat longer than necessary, and the water suddenly feels warmer against your skin.
The two of you drift into an easy conversation. You talk about music; not just his, though you do mention a B-side from their last album that you particularly love, watching his face light up with pride. He asks thoughtful questions about your work, listening with his whole body, nodding and responding in ways that make it clear he's not just waiting for his turn to speak.
He’s different in this setting: looser, softer. He's not Bang Chan the performer right now; he's just Chan, a guy with tired eyes and a bright smile that seems to pull from somewhere genuine. And when you laugh together, it doesn’t feel like a first-time thing. It feels familiar.
"That's exactly what I was trying to express in that track," he says, after you describe how a certain chord progression in one of his songs made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something both terrifying and beautiful. "Like you're about to jump, and you don't know if you'll fly or fall, but the not knowing is what makes it worth doing."
The conversation shifts to art, to creativity, to the way certain combinations of notes or words or colors can crack something open inside a person. You're both moving in lazy circles now, sometimes drifting closer, sometimes apart, like binary stars locked in orbit.
"I’m surprised you've actually listened to our music. I thought maybe you just did your homework for the shoot."
"I like to understand what I'm capturing," you admit. "But I was a fan of your production style before I knew about this job. The layering you do with vocal harmonies on your solo tracks is..." You pause, searching for the right word. "It's architectural. I mean, it’s also there in many of the group songs, you singing harmonies in the background, but it’s more pronounced on the songs you record by yourself."
Chan moves closer, genuinely intrigued now. "Most people don't notice that stuff."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he agrees, eyes never leaving yours. "You definitely aren't."
A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the gentle sound of water as you both tread calmly.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice is softer now, more intimate.
"Depends on the question."
"What made you become a photographer? Like, really; not the answer you give in interviews."
The unexpected depth of his question catches you off-guard. You consider deflecting with humor but find yourself wanting to give him honesty instead.
"I was always the observer," you tell him. "The kid on the periphery watching how people interact, capturing moments in my mind before I ever had a camera. Photography just gave me a legitimate reason to keep watching."
Chan nods slowly, absorbing your words. "That makes sense. You have that quality of seeing beyond what people present."
"What about you?" you ask. "Was music always the path?"
"Always," he confirms with absolute certainty. "Even when I was being passed over for groups and debut and my parents were gently suggesting backup plans. Music wasn't just what I wanted to do; it was the only way I made sense to myself."
His hand gestures animatedly as he speaks, sending small ripples across the water's surface. One hand comes to rest briefly on your arm to emphasize a point, and the contact, though fleeting, sends warmth radiating through you despite the cool water.
"I get that," you say. "Some pursuits aren't choices, they're necessities."
He studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Exactly. That's exactly it."
You've drifted closer during the conversation, close enough now that you can see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.
"You know what's funny?" Chan says, his voice softer now. "I came up here to be alone, but this is the first time today I've felt like I could breathe properly."
"The irony of finding peace with a stranger in a pool at 3 AM isn't lost on me," you reply, and he laughs again, the sound rippling across the water's surface like rain.
"Are we still strangers, though?" he asks, and there's a genuine curiosity there, a head tilt that makes water droplets run from his hair down the curve of his neck.
You consider this. "Maybe not. Maybe we're... temporal friends. Friends for tonight."
"I like that," he says, swimming closer. "Temporal friends with potential."
"Potential for what?" The question hangs between you, heavy with possibility.
Instead of answering, he floats onto his back, staring up at the slice of sky visible above the hotel's glass barriers. You join him, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you drift. The contact sends tiny electric currents through your body each time it happens.
"Some people are just blips," he says eventually. "And some are turning points."
The philosophical tone surprises you. "Which am I?"
His hand finds yours underwater, fingers intertwining like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I don't know yet. That's what makes it interesting."
When you both right yourselves again, you're closer than before, your hands still touching. Close enough to see the water droplets clinging to his eyebrows, the moles scattered across his face and neck that makeup usually conceals. There's a small scar peeking out from the edge of his swim shorts on his hip; it makes you want to trace it with your fingertips.
"Today, during the shoot," he says quietly. "There was something there, wasn't there? I wasn't imagining it?"
Your heart hammers against your ribs. "No. You weren't imagining it."
"And now?" he asks. When you don’t say anything, he continued. "I have a confession," he says, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates pleasantly against your sternum despite the water between you.
"Should I be worried?"
"I couldn’t stop thinking about you from earlier today."
Heat that has nothing to do with the pool temperature rises to your cheeks. "Oh really?"
He nods, one hand reaching out to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. "How you talked about your philosophy for taking pictures, capturing the moments in between.”
His hand lingers near your face, and something shifts in the air between you. The playful banter recedes like a tide, leaving something more raw and honest in its wake.
"Chan…," you start, not entirely sure what you're going to say next.
"I like how you say my name," he interrupts softly. "Not like you're saying the name of someone you've heard of. Like you know me."
His arm brushes against yours as a slight current pulls you both toward the center of the pool. Neither of you moves away. The contact is deliberate now, the press of skin against skin underwater creating a different kind of conversation.
“Funny,” he says, bobbing in front of you. “I didn’t think the most memorable part of today would happen after the shoot.”
You look at him. “Are you trying to be charming?”
He shrugs, grinning. “Am I succeeding?”
Instead of answering, you move closer. So does he. And then the space between your bodies disappears.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks quietly, and the directness of it, the simple honesty, makes your breath catch.
You nod, and he eliminates the remaining distance between you with a smile that's equal parts shy and certain. His lips touch yours with cautious pressure, cool from the water but warming quickly. It's tentative at first. Slow, exploring, questioning. But when your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, the kiss quickly deepens into something hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip, and you open to him with a small sound that seems to echo across the water's surface.
His hands find your waist underwater, drawing you flush against him and anchoring you to him as your legs tangle together to stay afloat. The sensation of being weightless while he holds you makes every touch feel amplified.
You break apart, breathing heavily, foreheads touching. Around you, the water ripples with the movement of your bodies, small waves lapping against the pool's edge like applause.
"That was..." he trails off, searching for words.
"Good potential," you finish for him, and his laugh is breathless against your mouth before he kisses you again, more certain this time, his hands moving from your waist down to your ass.
You can feel every inch where your bodies connect: the firm plane of his chest against yours, the brush of his thighs against your own, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip. The water seems to echo the sound of your combined breaths, magnifying them in the quiet night.
When you pull away again, his eyes are darker, more intense than before. The playful musician has been replaced by something more primal, more focused. It sends a shiver down your spine despite the warm water.
"My room or yours?" he asks, his voice rough at the edges.
You consider for a moment. "Mine's on the twelfth floor."
"Mine's on the fourteenth, but we’re more likely to get interrupted by my bandmates. They’re a bit… mischievous. And nosey."
"Mine it is," you agree, and there's a moment where you both just look at each other, a silent acknowledgment of the threshold you're about to cross.
He kisses you once more, softly, before you both swim to the edge of the pool. You climb out first, water cascading from your body, suddenly aware of how your bikini clings to every curve. Chan follows, and you allow yourself to appreciate the way water runs in rivulets down the contours of his chest and arms, highlighting the definition of muscles that his usual oversized hoodies conceal.
He retrieves your cover-up from the lounge chair, holding it open for you with a gentlemanly flourish that makes you snort with laughter, breaking the tension. He grabs his own t-shirt, using it to roughly dry his hair before pulling it on over his wet skin. It seems neither of you remembered to bring towels for your late night swim.
As you walk toward the elevator, leaving damp footprints across the marble floor, his hand finds yours again. It's such a simple gesture, fingers lacing together, but it carries the weight of intention. This isn't just about physical attraction. There's a connection here that transcends the random chance of two insomniacs finding each other in a hotel pool at 3 AM.
The elevator doors close, and Chan leans against the wall, still holding your hand, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Still temporal friends?" he asks.
"With increasingly clear potential," you answer, and his laugh follows you all the way down to the twelfth floor.
When you and Chan finally make it back to your room, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels inevitable.
You fumble with the key card, your breath hitching when Chan’s hand brushes your hip, casual but deliberate. You open the door and step aside to let him in. The room is dim, painted in soft golds from the city lights bleeding through the windows.
The hotel room door clicks shut behind you with the finality of a decision made. The two of you stand in the dim entryway for a moment, water still dripping from both your bodies, the air between you thick with anticipation. You're suddenly aware of how small the space feels with Chan's presence filling it. His eyes catch the subdued light from the bedside lamp you'd left on earlier, turning them to liquid amber. The wet t-shirt clings to his chest like a second skin, leaving nothing to imagination yet somehow making you hungrier to see what's beneath. A small puddle forms where you both stand, neither of you moving, the moment suspended between hesitation and inevitability.
"So," Chan says, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh that humanizes him instantly. "This is the part where I'd normally make a joke about being all wet, but I'm trying not to be that guy."
"You just made the joke while saying you weren't going to make it," you point out, grateful for the tension breaker.
"Fuck. I did, didn't I?" His dimples deepen as he runs a hand through his damp hair. "Let me try again. Hi, I'm the hot guy from the pool who can't stop looking at your mouth."
Heat blooms between your legs. "Much better," you say, stepping closer. "I'm the girl who's thinking about peeling that shirt off you."
"Thinking about it, or...?" He lets the question hang.
In response you reach for him, bringing your lips to his.
The kiss is different now; deeper, more urgent. You curl your fingers into the hem of his soaked t-shirt, slowly pulling it upward. He raises his arms to help, and the wet fabric makes a soft sucking sound as it releases his skin. You break the kiss to pull it the rest of the way over his head. You drop it to the floor with a soft splat, your eyes tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen.
His hands settle on your ass, thumbs brushing the bare skin just beneath the bikini bottom.
He kisses down your neck slowly, as if savoring each inch of you. You shiver as his teeth graze your collarbone.
“You’re dangerous,” you whisper.
He chuckles against your skin. “Only if you want me to be.”
His palms slide over your ass, up your back, around your front and across your tits until they find the tie of your cover-up, tugging gently. "Fair's fair," he murmurs.
The light fabric falls open, then to the floor, and his breath catches audibly at the sight of your bikini-clad body. His eyes travel a slow path from your collarbone to your hardened nipples probing through the fabric, then down your stomach to your thighs, appreciation evident in the way his pupils dilate.
"You're staring," you whisper.
"Can you blame me?" His voice has a rough edge to it now. "I keep thinking I should pinch myself. The hot photographer from my shoot is standing in my hotel room in a wet bikini."
"Your hotel room is on the fourteenth floor," you remind him with a smirk. "This is my room."
"Details," he dismisses with a wave, stepping close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Important detail, though: I really want to kiss you again."
"Then do it."
His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a gentleness that contrasts the hunger in his eyes. This kiss is more deliberate, more knowing. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste chlorine and the steak he had for dinner. You press closer, your damp skin meeting his, and he groans into your mouth.
Your fingers dance along his spine, feeling each vertebra, mapping the terrain of his back. His hands move from your face to your shoulders, then lower, skimming the sides of your breasts through the wet bikini top.
"This needs to go," he murmurs against your lips, fingers finding the tie at your back. He pulls to loosen it.
"Yours too," you reply, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his swim shorts.
There's a moment of clumsy, laughing urgency as you both shed the last of your wet clothes. Chan's swim shorts stick to his thighs, requiring an ungraceful hopping movement that makes you both dissolve into giggles. But the laughter dies in your throat when he stands before you, fully naked and unashamed.
His body is a testament to discipline. It’s all lean muscle under smooth skin, the definition of his abdomen leading your eyes downward to where he's already hard for you.
"Your turn," he says, his voice lower now, serious.
You reach behind your neck to untie the second set of strings of your bikini top, letting it fall away to the ground. Chan’s sharp intake of breath is more gratifying than any practiced compliment. His eyes darken as he takes in your bare breasts, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in an unconscious gesture of want. The bikini bottoms follow, sliding down your legs to join the puddle of wet materials at your feet.
For a moment, you just look at each other, naked in more ways than one.
"You're fucking beautiful," he says, and there's something raw in his voice that makes the words feel like more than a line, more than what you say in these moments.
"So are you," you reply, meaning it.
He closes the distance between you again, and the first touch of his naked skin against yours pulls a gasp from your throat. His erection presses hard against your stomach as his arms encircle you, hands splaying across your back to pull you closer.
The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. You walk backward toward the bed, unwilling to break contact, until your calves hit the mattress. Chan follows you down as you fall back, his body covering yours, hips settling naturally between your spread thighs.
"You've been driving me crazy all day," he admits against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. "Standing behind that camera, completely in control."
Your fingers trail slowly down his back. "And now?"
His smile is wicked, dimples appearing like punctuation marks to his intent. "Now it's my turn to capture you. Tell me what you want," he breathes against your neck, where his lips have been leaving a trail of heat.
"You," you say simply. "But also… talk to me."
He raises his head to meet your eyes, a question in his gaze.
"I want to hear you," you clarify. "Not just the polite, edited version of the idol they train you to be. I want the real you."
A slow smile spreads across his face, something darker and more primal than his stage smile. "Careful what you wish for," he warns, then drags his mouth down your body, pausing to take a nipple between his lips.
You arch into the sensation, a moan escaping as he uses his tongue in wicked circles around the sensitive peak. His hand finds your other breast, thumb brushing back and forth across the nipple in counterpoint to his mouth's rhythm.
"Fuck, you taste good," he murmurs against your skin. "Been thinking about this since I saw you this morning, standing there looking all professional but with this mouth that had me imagining all sorts of unprofessional shit."
His confession sends a thrill through you. "Like what?" you ask, running your fingers through his damp hair as he moves lower, lips tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel.
"Like how you'd sound when you cum," he says, settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your center. When his lips kiss the inside of your right thigh, it quivers. "Like how your body would react to mine. Like whether you'd be loud or quiet." His tongue takes a long, deliberate swipe through your folds as if he was licking a large scoop of ice cream. "Like how wet you'd get for me."
Your hips buck involuntarily at the contact, a whimper escaping your lips.
"That answers one question," he says with a smirk you can feel against your sensitive skin. "You're responsive. I like that."
His tongue finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure to make your thighs tremble. One of his hands slides up your body to palm your breast again, while the other holds your hip, thumb making small circles against your hip bone.
"Chan," you gasp as he sucks gently at your most sensitive point. "That's… fuck…"
"That's the idea," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your arousal. "But not yet. Want to taste you first. Want to make you cum on my tongue before I fuck the shit out of you."
The crude words in his gentle voice send a fresh wave of heat through you. His mouth returns to your center, more insistent now, tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to your clit. He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit the spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.
Your body arches into his hand and mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. He watches your reactions with the same intensity he brought to your camera lens, learning what makes your breath hitch, what draws out the low moan from the back of your throat.
"Fuck," you breathe as his fingers establish a rhythm that sends heat spiraling through your core. "Right there."
Chan's smile is both tender and triumphant. "I like when you tell me exactly what you want."
So you do. With unfiltered directness that makes his eyes darken and his movements grow more urgent. The professional distance that separated photographer from subject dissolves completely as you hold his head between your legs, as his tongue trades places back and forth with his fingers with devastating precision.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice vibrating against you. "Let me hear you. Tell me how it feels."
"So fucking good," you manage, your hands fisting his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop…"
He doesn't. His fingers work in tandem with his mouth, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher. The tension coils tight in your core, your breath coming in shorter gasps.
"I'm close," you warn, and his response is to increase the pressure, the speed of his fingers, the suction of his mouth.
When you cum, you breathe out, “Oh Chan!” Your body arches off the bed. He stays with you through it, gentling his touch as the waves of pleasure wash over you, gradually bringing you down until you're boneless and breathing hard.
He kisses his way back up your body, a smug satisfaction in his eyes that you're too blissed out to call him on. When his mouth meets yours, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a renewed pulse of desire through you despite your recent orgasm.
"Condom?" he asks against your mouth.
You gesture vaguely toward your bag on the nightstand. "Travel pack. Always prepared."
He laughs, reaching over to open the bag and dig around until he removes the small box. "A woman who comes with emergency condoms. Be still my heart." He opens it and removes a packet.
"Less talking, more fucking," you say, grabbing his wrist to pull him back to you.
His eyebrows shoot up at your directness, but the dimpled grin that follows is approving. "Yes, ma'am."
He tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency. Then he's hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance.
"Ready?" he asks, his playfulness momentarily set aside for genuine concern.
You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him forward, guiding him into you. His cock enters you in one slow, delicious slide, deep and intentional like he wants you to feel every second of it. And you do. “Chan…” escapes your lips in a breathless sigh.
"Fuck," he groans this time, forehead dropping to rest against yours.
Your bodies fit together like they’d been crafted with this moment in mind. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that borders on too much but settles into perfect. For a moment, neither of you moves, adjusting to the sensation of being joined.
Then he begins to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, and coherent thought fragments into pure sensation. His eyes never leave yours, creating an intimacy that's almost too intense.
"You feel amazing," he whispers, pace quickening. “Better than I imagined.”
"You imagined this?" you ask, wrapping your legs higher around his waist.
His laugh is strained with pleasure. "All. Fucking. Day."
The admission pushes you closer to the edge, and you tighten your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his back, feeling the muscles work as he moves inside you, then up to tangle in his hair.
"Harder," you whisper, and something flashes in his eyes; relief, maybe, at being given permission to let go.
He complies, his hips snapping forward with more force, setting a new rhythm that has the headboard knocking gently against the wall. The new angle hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
Your hand slips between your bodies, seeking the additional pressure that will send you over. Chan watches with fascination as you touch yourself while he moves inside you, his rhythm faltering briefly at the sight.
"That's the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen," he murmurs, voice rough with desire as he increases the pace of his thrusts.
"There," you gasp. "Right there."
"Got it," he says, voice strained with the effort of control. He maintains the angle, the pace, then slides his own hand down to replace your fingers with his, circling your clit with the same rhythm he uses to fuck you. "Want to feel you cum around my cock, gorgeous."
The combination of his words, his skilled fingers, and the relentless pressure of him inside you pushes you toward the edge again. Your nails dig into his shoulders, causing him to hiss slightly.
"So close," you pant. "Chan, I'm…"
"Me too," he grits out. "Together, yeah?"
You nod, beyond words now. His movements become more erratic, his breathing harsh against your neck where he's buried his face. The tension builds and builds until it shatters, your orgasm washing over you in waves that have you crying out as you shake, clinging to him. He follows moments later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural sound torn from his throat as he pulses inside you.
Both of you lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin. For several heartbeats, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your combined breathing, gradually slowing, the silence filled with a kind of intimacy neither of you expected.
Eventually, Chan lifts his head, a dazed, satisfied smile on his face.
"Well," he says, "that was worth staying up for."
You laugh, the movement causing him to slip from inside you, which makes you both wince slightly. He deals with the condom, tying it off and reaching over to the bedside table for a tissue to wrap it in, before setting it on top. Then he lies back down beside you and closes his eyes.
Your bodies cool as breathing returns to normal, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on damp skin. He traces abstract patterns on your stomach with light fingertips.
You watch him as he breathes deeply. The bedside lamp casts a golden glow across his features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his shoulder, the contrast between light and shadow that defines his face. Something about the image calls to the photographer in you; the desire to preserve a moment of perfect vulnerability.
You sit up suddenly, propping yourself up on one elbow “Don’t move.”
Chan blinks, breath still shallow. “Huh?” He watches you with curious eyes as you reach for your camera bag on the bedside table. “What are you doing?”
"The light on you right now..." You turn back to him, camera in hand. "It's perfect."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flicker of hesitation. "You want to photograph me? Now? Like this?"
“Yeah,” you say softly, a hint of vulnerability in your tone as you sit cross-legged beside him. “You’ve never looked more honest than you do right now. I want to capture you as you are now, the moment between the obvious moments, you know? What no one else gets to see. And I'm not talking about dick pics for the internet. I mean... art. Something real. But only if you’re comfortable with it.”
He considers your words for a few seconds, vulnerability passing across his feature before resolution settles in. “I've been photographed thousands of times, but never like this. Never just as... me.”
His assessment touches something deep inside you. "Are you sure? These kinds of photos have a way of causing trouble if they get out."
"I trust you," he says simply with a sweet smile. "And only if I get to take pictures too."
“Okay,” you agree too quickly as you remove the lens cap.
"How do you want me?" he asks when you look back at him, bringing the camera to your face.
"Just be yourself," you say. "Forget I'm taking pictures. Just exist."
He nods, and you begin, the camera coming alive in your hands, an extension of your vision. Chan relaxes into the sheets, initial self-consciousness melting away under your gentle direction. You capture him in unguarded moments: stretching his arms above his head, the lines of his body creating geometric perfection against the white sheets, his hands covering his face as he tries unsuccessfully to hide from you. Fragments of him are immortalized in the frame: the curve of his hip disappearing beneath the sheet, the hollow of his throat, the play of light across his collarbones.
You continue to snap more pictures. He laughs at something you say and you capture him with his head thrown back, his whole face transformed by joy.
"Turn toward the window," you instruct softly. He complies, the city lights creating a backdrop of unfocused brilliance behind his silhouette as he looks thoughtfully out the window.
"Beautiful," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you capture the image.
Something shifts in the atmosphere as you work. What began as artistic appreciation transforms into another kind of foreplay, each click of the shutter heightening the renewed tension between you.
"Your turn," he says after a while, his voice low and sure. When Chan reaches for the camera, you surrender it without protest even though you’re hesitant.
"I don't usually…"
"You promised," he responds with an adorable pout, that vulnerability back in his voice. "I want to remember you too."
You nod and show him the basic settings. Chan's a quick study, his artistic eye evident in how he frames each shot. He directs you with surprising skill, finding angles that frame your body in light and shadow. The sensation of being on the other side of the lens is foreign, exhilarating. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with your physical nakedness, but his genuine awe at capturing you makes it easier.
"Beautiful," he murmurs as he reviews the images. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."
You move closer to see, your bodies aligning naturally. "You're good at this," you observe as he reviews an image on the small display.
"I've picked up a few things," he replies with a modest shrug that contradicts the confidence in his hands.
The photos are raw, honest; There’s one with your head thrown back in laughter; you gazing directly at the camera with an openness that startles you; you with your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips.
"We make a good team," you say, taking the camera back to scroll through all the images; his and yours intermingled, a visual conversation between two artists.
"We do," he agrees, and there's something bittersweet in his tone that makes you look up. "Come here," he says, arm outstretched in invitation.
You move into his embrace, your head fitting naturally into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you to trace lazy patterns on your skin. You capture a couple more photos. One of you and Chan’s legs intertwined with the sheets and selfies of you both looking into the lens as he kisses your forehead. Then you replace the camera on the side table and snuggle up closer to him.
Outside, the sky is lightening, the first hints of dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains. Reality begins to seep back in; he has a schedule to keep, a public persona to maintain. You have another job, a deadline looming.
"This was..." he starts, then pauses, searching for words.
"A perfect night," you finish for him.
He nods, relief in his eyes at your understanding. Without either of you saying it explicitly, you both know this can't be more than what it is, a beautiful, temporary connection between two ships passing in the night. You listen as his breathing steadies, but not deep enough for sleep.
"I should go," he says softly twenty minutes later, though he makes no move to leave the warmth of the bed, of your body against his.
You know he’s right, but neither of you seems ready to face the intrusion of reality. There’s a fragile peace in the air, an unspoken agreement to stretch this moment as long as possible. You shift slightly, soaking in the comfort of his skin against yours.
"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant.
A long silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It hangs there with weight and meaning, like an unfinished sentence where both parties know the end but are content not to say it out loud. Your fingers trace lazy circles on his chest and his hand moves slowly on your back, each of you committing this small eternity to memory.
Thirty more minutes have passed.
You lift your head from his chest to look at him. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you could almost believe that the rest of the world doesn't exist. He places his hands at the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his. The kiss is slow, easy, like it has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with connection. But you know better.
You turn your body to straddle him, and he lets out a small, surprised exhale against your mouth. You feel him harden beneath you, his body eager to defy the sense in his words.
"We're never getting out of here," he murmurs, voice a mix of amusement and longing.
You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. "I can live with that."
His laugh is a quiet rumble in his chest, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, hands finding your hips. You reach blindly for another condom, fumbling with eagerness, and break the kiss when your fingers wrap around it. He doesn’t stop you when you tear the wrapper open and slide the latex onto his already hard and ready cock; instead, he shakes his head like he can’t believe how lucky he is.
He sits up against the headboard, an appreciative smile on his swollen lips. He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers skim along his length, adjusting the condom into place. Then you lift your body over his dick to lower yourself onto it, feeling every glorious inch of him filling you once again. The sensation is so consuming that you forget to move at first, the both of you going still in awe of the hunger that pulls you together. His lips crash back onto yours, kissing you like he needs it to breathe, his grip tightening at your waist to bring you fully down on him. You start to rock your hips slowly.
Chan’s mouth and tongue are relentless as he kisses you at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. Your chests are slick with sweat as you lose yourselves in the friction, the heat. You move against him slowly, deliberately, savoring every pulse and gasp, determined to make this last, to stretch this out; this morning, this moment, this everything. His hips buck involuntarily upward in a particularly dizzy thrust, and you slip his name into his mouth like a secret, earning you a low growl of approval in return.
Your legs tremble while you try to maintain the languid pace, the teasing rhythm that has him groaning and biting at your lip in desperation. You know neither of you can hold on much longer, and you’re both okay with that. You arch your back, changing the angle, and Chan gasps your name like a plea, his fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. You clutch at his neck, your own breathing ragged as the two of you press your foreheads together, locking eyes and you let him guide you faster, harder, until there’s nothing left in the world but the two of you, right here, right now.
You and Chan move together in a rhythm that feels more like music than anything else. There is no rush. Just tension building between your bodies, heat cresting, pleasure folding in on itself. And when you finally come apart together, it is a full-body kind of release. You kiss again like you are trying to memorize his mouth, losing yourself in the taste and feel of him, in the beautiful lie that maybe this doesn't have to end.
But of course it does. Time is the only thing you don't have in abundance, and eventually, he draws back, the reluctance unmistakable. "One more for the road?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and it's clear he's not just talking about another kiss.
"Get out of here before I decide to keep you," you reply, though your actions say otherwise as you lean in to capture his mouth once more.
You finally roll off of him a few minutes later, and with a sigh he gets up. He drops the condom in the wastebasket under the desk and moves to the door. As he gathers his still-damp clothes from the floor, you watch him dress with an artist's appreciation and a lover's nostalgia. He looks younger somehow, more vulnerable as he struggles with the clinging fabric of his swim shorts then the t-shirt, an adorably embarrassed smile on his face.
You wrap yourself in the sheet, following him to the door. There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, neither of you quite knowing the protocol for this kind of goodbye.
"This wasn't..." he begins.
"I know," you interrupt gently. "It wasn’t for me either."
The understanding passes between you without need for elaboration. This wasn't casual, wasn't meaningless, but it also wasn't the beginning of something. It was complete in itself, a perfect composition needing no additional frames.
"I'll delete the photos if you want," you offer, giving him an out.
He shakes his head firmly. "Keep them. They're ours."
The possessive pronoun warms you, makes you smile. "Okay."
Chan leans in for one last kiss, soft and lingering. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips. "For seeing me. Not Bang Chan from Stray Kids. Just me. Chan. Chris."
"Thank you for being worth seeing," you reply, “and for seeing me in return.”
He smiles, dimples appearing one last time, and then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him. You stand there for a moment, the sheet wrapped around you like a toga, feeling the weight of the night settling into your bones, not with regret, but with a bittersweet satisfaction.
The camera sits on the nightstand, holding memories that will never make it to social media or a magazine spread. Just between the two of you, a secret collection of moments when two insomniacs found something real in the middle of the night.
You return to bed, sleep finally finding you as the sun rises, your dreams filled with chlorine-scented kisses and the echo of laughter across water.
****
Almost a year later, your name is finally starting to make the rounds in the art world, and even you have to admit it has a nice ring to it when you're not too busy downplaying your success. It’s been a whirlwind of openings, critiques, and collaborations, but this, your first solo show, is something else entirely. It feels like baring a piece of your soul on a white gallery wall. And nothing says "soul-baring" quite like the portraits from that night with Chan.
They’re intense, raw, somehow both detached and intimate. The more you think about it, the more you realize they belong in this show. They have to be in your show. You also realize you need Chan’s blessing before you drag his naked plump ass into your artistic existential crisis.
So you sit at your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as if they'll self-destruct upon contact. You know how careful he is about his image, how much he values his privacy. Asking him to let you display these photos feels like asking him to strip down in front of strangers. Something he probably wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, you think with a small smirk.
You stare at the blank email, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down the seconds of your courage. The intimate, raw, unflinchingly honest images of Chan are scattered across the floor of your home studio, some framed, some still rolled. You need his permission, not just legally but emotionally, to hang these moments between you on sterile gallery walls for strangers to consume with hungry eyes.
The warm yellow lamp casts dramatic shadows across the portraits. In one, Chan’s face is captured in moments of unguarded vulnerability, his eyes holding the weight of sleepless nights.
That one you printed just for you, not for public display.
Your fingers tap the desk, dancing with indecision. It's been eleven months since you last saw him. Eleven months since that night when he let you photograph him in the early morning hours, when your images became something more than pixels on a screen. Eleven months since there’s been any type of communication between the two of you.
You bite your lip and type out a message that walks the line between professional courtesy and personal appeal:
Dear Chan, you type, delete, then type again. Too formal.
Hey, you try. Too casual.
Hi Chan; or do you prefer Chris now? Delete delete delete.
Hey! Long time no see 😉 Yeah, no.
Chan, you settle on, simple and direct like the photographs that captured the planes of his face.
Your email takes shape, professional on the surface with undercurrents of something deeper flowing beneath each carefully chosen word:
I hope this email finds you well.
Better. You dive in from there.
My first solo exhibition opens in three weeks at the Harlow Gallery. It would mean a lot to me to be able to include portraits of the photos you and I took that night.
You pause, swallowing the memory of his skin warm against yours, how his fingers traced invisible paths across your back.
I believe these are among my strongest pieces. I wanted to formally request your permission to include them.
The truth clings to your fingertips: these are your strongest pieces because they're the only ones where your lens captured not just a subject, but a feeling; something raw and unfinished between you and him.
The images have been prepared with discretion in mind. Your privacy is my priority. Nothing identifiable will be shown in the pieces chosen for public display; no faces, no awkward explanations required if someone you know or who knows you comes across them. I've employed techniques to obscure any identifying features while preserving the emotional essence of the work.
Of course I’ll understand if you’d rather keep them private and will respect whatever decision you make.
You're lying through your teeth on that one; you will not "understand," you'll just quietly die inside, box up the portraits, place them in the darkest corner of your storage unit, and move on with your life.
The exhibition will proceed either way, with or without them, but these images, your images, represent something valuable in my artistic journey.
You stop typing, fingers trembling slightly. The lie burns in your chest; the exhibition would proceed, yes, but it would feel hollow without these centerpieces, these moments when your art found its truth.
If you could let me know by the end of the week, I would greatly appreciate it.
Too demanding? You bite your lower lip, tasting minty lipgloss and indecision.
At your convenience, of course. I know you’re a busy man.
Better. Respectful of his perpetually packed schedule; the endless rehearsals, the world tours, the 3AM studio sessions he described to you while in the pool, floating inches away from you.
Thank you for considering this request.
You hesitate over the sign-off. Warm regards feels too distant. Love feels too presumptuous. You settle on your name alone, letting it stand naked and honest like his portraits.
The completed email stares back at you. Your mouse hovers over the send button, your heart keeping time with the second hand of the clock above your desk. Your stomach twists with what feels like stage fright, though you're not the performer between the two of you.
With a deep breath, you click send before courage fails you and brace for an eternity of radio silence.
The email whooshes into the digital void, and you exhale. Your chest feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.
Your phone sits face-down next to your laptop; a deliberate choice. You know yourself too well; you'd check it every thirty seconds if you could see the screen. Instead, you slide it into your desk drawer and close it firmly.
You stand, stretching arms above your head, vertebrae cracking like kindling. The room suddenly feels too small, too full of reminders. You need distance from this space where his presence lingers.
Hours later, after a walk that took you nowhere in particular and a dinner you barely tasted, you return to your apartment. The desk drawer calls to you like a siren, but you resist, choosing instead to lose yourself in mindless TV until sleep claims you mid-episode.
Morning arrives with cutting precision, sunlight slicing through blinds you forgot to close. Your first conscious thought is of the email, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline that propels you from dreams to reality in seconds. You fumble for the desk drawer, fingers clumsy with sleep and anticipation.
Your phone screen illuminates with notifications in the form of social media updates, promotional emails, app reminders, but your eyes search frantically for only one name.
There.
Your thumb hovers over his name. Four letters that contain multitudes. You tap, holding your breath as the message loads.
Yes, you have my permission.
One sentence. Five words. That’s it. No greeting, no sign-off. Just a simple, efficient granting of what you asked for.
You read it again. And again. Turning the words over like stones in a river, searching for hidden meanings in their smooth surfaces.
You find none.
Your fingers feel numb, but you sense a warmth in your chest, an uncomfortable heat that you recognize as disappointment. The simplicity of the words leaves you reeling more than any objection could have. You expected... what? A question about how you've been? A comment about the images themselves? A catch, like maybe an interrogatory phone call? Some acknowledgment of what passed between you that morning? A cheeky postscript hinting at unfinished business?
But there’s none of that here. Just five words that feel as impersonal as a text alert reminder from your dentist’s office.
You place the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of your expectations. The logical part of your brain offers explanations: he's busy, he's professional, he's respecting boundaries. The emotional part whispers less comforting possibilities: he doesn't care, he's forgotten, it meant nothing to him.
"At least I have permission," you say to the empty room, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.
You force a smile that no one sees, straightening your shoulders as you stand. The exhibition preparation waits for no one's feelings, not even yours. You have frames to select, lighting to consider, labels to write. Professional obligations that require you to set aside the hollow feeling expanding beneath your ribs.
Your laptop wakes with a tap, calendar app open to a countdown of days until the opening. In twenty days the gallery will be filled with critics, collectors, fellow artists… people whose opinions could shape your career trajectory. This should be occupying every corner of your mind.
Instead, you find yourself opening your digital photo gallery, scrolling to the folder labeled simply "CCB." The photos inside are more honest than you've been with yourself. In every line, every shadow, every careful composition of his features, your feelings are transparent. No wonder you need these pieces in the exhibition; they're the only work where you've been truly vulnerable.
You close the folder and return to your email. You type a reply to Chan; brief, professional, and carefully constructed to match his tone:
Thank you. I appreciate it. I truly hope you’re good.
You send it without rereading, without allowing yourself to overthink, before opening your exhibition checklist. Then you immerse yourself in the practicalities of your upcoming show, burying your disappointment beneath layers of logistics and artistic decisions.
You have permission. That's all you needed.
The rest? The unspoken words, the space between five clinical words and the volumes you wanted to hear? You'll transform into nervous energy for the exhibition. After all, isn't that what artists do? Turn heartache into something strangers can hang on their walls?
****
When opening night arrives, the gallery buzzes with bodies and champagne chatter. You smile with practiced ease as a woman in architectural glasses gestures toward your most vulnerable piece: Chan's torso in black and white, his face artfully shadowed beyond recognition, but his essence unmistakable to anyone who's ever run fingers along the ridges of his abs.
"The vulnerability here is striking," she says, and you nod, wondering if she can see your own nakedness beneath your carefully selected gallery outfit, your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird sensing freedom on the horizon.
"That's precisely what I was exploring," you respond, your voice pitched perfectly between passionate artist and composed professional. "The tension between revelation and concealment."
The Harlow Gallery hums with the particular frequency of successful opening nights: crystal glasses clinking, expensive perfume mingling with the subtle scent of the fresh flowers arranged strategically throughout the space, conversations rising and falling like tide pools of intellectual pretension and genuine appreciation. Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that seem to dance across the sleek white walls as people move between installations.
You've been on display nearly as much as your art tonight, smiling, explaining, accepting compliments with gracious nods while deflecting personal questions with practiced pivots back to technique or inspiration. Your outfit, black, high waisted jeans and a silk blouse in a shade of gold that your best friend insisted makes your eyes and skin look "illegally good", was chosen specifically to make you feel armored without looking unapproachable.
A gallery assistant appears at your elbow with another flute of champagne, which you accept with a grateful smile even though you've barely touched your first. The cold glass against your palm grounds you as you survey the room, cataloging which pieces draw crowds and which visitors linger longest before particular portraits.
The unnamed portraits, displayed along the west wall in a deliberately subtle progression, have become an unexpected focal point. There are no names, no context; just light, shadow, and raw emotion. The Chan series, as you call them in your head, draw crowds who stand transfixed by their stark intimacy, unaware they're peering into their own fantasies as much as yours.
You watch as a couple stands before the centerpiece: the muscles in Chan's back rendered in exquisite detail, his head turned just enough that his jawline is visible but his identity preserved. The woman leans into her partner and whispers something that makes him nod slowly, appreciatively.
You feel a bizarre pride mingled with possessiveness. These strangers are connecting with intimate moments crystallized in grayscale, moments that belong to you and Chan alone. Yet sharing them was your choice; your art exists to be witnessed.
"The anonymity makes them universal," comments a man in a blazer too structured for the casual confidence he's attempting to project. "Yet they're so specific they feel like portraits of someone the artist knows intimately."
You offer a noncommittal smile. "Art exists in that space between the personal and universal."
"Did you sleep with him?" The question comes from a young woman with brightly colored hair and an MFA attitude, her voice just quiet enough to seem conspiratorial rather than rude.
You don't flinch, though something tightens in your chest. "I find that reducing art to biography limits its potential meanings," you reply, the rehearsed line flowing smoothly. You've anticipated this question, prepared for it, though hearing it still feels like a finger pressing into a bruise.
The critic from the local arts weekly approaches, notebook in hand, and you're grateful for the interruption. His questions are predictable but thoughtful, and you settle into the familiar rhythm of discussing inspiration and process without revealing the raw nerve at the center of this exhibition.
Hours pass in this manner; you circulate, champagne warming in your hand, feet beginning to protest against your sensible but still somewhat uncomfortable shoes, and your face aching from smiling too much. The gallery gradually empties as the evening progresses, guests departing in small clusters until only the most dedicated art enthusiasts and your closest friends remain.
Your agent catches your eye from across the room and offers a subtle thumbs-up. Red dots have appeared beside five pieces in the exhibition, each sold before the night is even over. Three from the Chan series. Success by any metric. You should feel elated.
Instead, you feel a curious hollowness. As if you've offered something precious to the world and the world has accepted it without recognizing its true value. Which is absurd; you created these works to be seen, to be sold, to launch this next phase of your career.
Eventually, even your most lingering supporters make their excuses. Your agent promises to call tomorrow with details about the sales and potential commissions. Friends hug you tightly, their proud whispers warming your ear. The gallery owner assures you the night exceeded expectations before instructing the staff to finish closing procedures.
"Take your time," she tells you with a knowing smile. "Artists should have a moment alone with their exhibitions. Lock up when you're ready."
Then they're gone, and the gallery transforms in their absence. The space seems to exhale, to settle into itself. The lighting, dimmed for closing, casts longer shadows that soften the stark whiteness of the walls. Without conversation to fill it, the room feels both vast and intimate.
You slip off your shoes, padding barefoot across the polished concrete floor, enjoying the cool firmness against your tired soles. The silence wraps around you like a familiar blanket. This is the moment you didn't know you were waiting for, communion with your own creation in the absence of external validation or scrutiny.
Your fingertips trail along the cool glass of one of the frames. You move slowly through the space, reacquainting yourself with each piece now that it exists in this public context rather than the private sanctuary of your studio.
When you reach the Chan series, you pause. In the softened light, the portraits seem to breathe with a life of their own. The careful shadowing that preserves his anonymity now looks like an invitation to peer closer, to discover the secret at the heart of each image.
You press your palm flat against the glass, as if you could reach through it and touch the texture of the print.
"They look different than I’d expected."
The voice freezes you in place. Low, accented, and unmistakable even after all these months. You don't turn immediately, irrationally afraid that doing so might dispel what must be an auditory hallucination born of exhaustion and champagne.
But then comes the soft sound of footsteps, and you have no choice but to face the source.
Chan stands at the far end of the gallery, half-illuminated by the ambient lighting. He's dressed simply, yet impeccably; black jeans, a white tank top beneath a black designer, tailored suit jacket, and those beat-up Converse he's always favored. His hair is slightly longer than when you last saw him, wavy strands falling across his forehead perfectly. The silver chain around his neck and the silver rectangles in his ears catch light as he shifts his weight.
Dimples frame his gorgeous smile as he stands there, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he can’t quite tell if he belongs here or not.
"Different from what?" Your voice emerges steadier than you feel, a small miracle.
He moves closer, each step deliberate. "Different from when we took them, I guess. You made me look… human."
“You are human, no?” you say with a small smile.
“Correction. I’m an idol.” He smirks, causing you to stifle a laugh at the memory of him sharing with you that part of the training they all received was that they could never admit they used the bathroom.
He stops before one of the pieces to the left of the centerpiece. In this portrait, one bare shoulder faces the viewer, head turned just enough to reveal the edge of his profile, one earring catching the light.
"You made me anonymous." It's not a question or an accusation, just an observation.
"I promised I would." You move closer, still maintaining a careful distance. "Your privacy was always going to be protected."
"I know." He nods, eyes still fixed on the portrait. "I trust you."
Three simple words that somehow mean more than his brief email permission. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.
"Why are you here, Chan?" The question emerges harder than intended.
He turns to face you fully now, and the full force of his attention hits you like a physical touch. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that can turn so intense, search yours.
"I wanted to see them. See how they looked here, on display." He gestures vaguely at the gallery space. "I didn't want to come during the opening. Too many people. Too much…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Performance."
You understand immediately. His life is an endless series of performances, of being watched and evaluated. This, whatever exists between you and him, happened in a private space, away from scrutiny.
"How did you know I'd still be here?"
A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, one of his dimples appearing. "I guessed. You seem like the type to always stay late. After shows, after shoots. You like the quiet after everyone leaves."
The fact that he deduced this about you from knowing you for a day, this small, insignificant trait, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
"Do you want me to show you around?" you offer, gesturing to the exhibition.
"I'd like that."
You move through the gallery together, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels charged with potential energy. You explain certain pieces, the techniques you used, the challenges you faced. He listens attentively, asking questions that reveal he's paying genuine attention, not just being polite.
When you return to the Chan series, a comfortable silence falls between you. You stand side by side, both facing the portraits that capture moments only the two of you remember.
"That morning," he says finally, voice low enough that you have to lean slightly closer to hear him, "after our impromptu photo shoot. When we lay there together..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You remember perfectly. The camera set aside, his arms holding you tight, your head on his chest, before you straddled him and the two of you fucked slowly, one last time.
"I never forgot," he continues as his eyes settle on the portrait of both of your legs tangled together with the sheets. "Even with everything; the tour, the comeback preparations, the endless meetings and recordings and fittings."
Your heart stutters in your chest. "I never forgot either."
His eyes find yours now, something vulnerable and determined in his gaze. "I know my email was short. Too short. I wrote about twenty versions before I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it aches. "I didn't know what was appropriate. What you wanted. If things had changed. But I wanted to ensure you had what you needed. So I just hit send."
"Nothing changed for me," you admit in a whisper, the words escaping before you can consider their wisdom.
Your fingers brush as you both shift position, and you feel a spark. Neither of you moves away.
"I'm here for three weeks," he says as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the casual tone of his voice belied by the intensity of his gaze. "Longer than I usually get. Some meetings, some studio time, but... lots of gaps. Actual free time."
You nod, not trusting your voice.
"Would you…" he starts, then reconsiders. "Could I see more of your work? The stuff you haven’t shown anyone yet?"
The invitation is clear; not just to show him your art, but to rebuild the private space you once shared. Where he isn't Bang Chan of Stray Kids, and you aren't a photographer with a sold-out exhibition. Where you're just two people who created something together that exists beyond glossy prints.
"Yes," you answer, simple and direct. "I'd like that."
His smile breaks slowly across his face, dimples appearing like parentheses around joy. In this moment, he looks exactly like the man in your most treasured, private photos, the ones too intimate to ever display.
"Tonight?" he asks, hope threading through the word.
"Tonight," you confirm.
“I made hotel reservations, but…”
“You can stay with me,” you whisper.
He nods. “I’ll call my manager and have him cancel.”
You stand together, face to face, before the images that capture your shared, secret night, the air between you charged with the promise of something more real than art, something waiting to be brought into existence with careful hands and open hearts. Chan’s hand reaches up to cup your cheek, the touch featherlight as though he’s worried you might vanish. He pauses, thumb grazing your skin, searching your eyes for any hesitation. Then he cradles your face with familiar tenderness, leaning in until his lips brush against yours, gentle at first. The kiss deepens, drawing you in. You taste longing and the months between now and your last kiss, an entire year compressed into this one moment. His mouth moves with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring every second he wasn't sure he’d get again. His free arm circles your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you.
The two of you indulge in the quiet, charged moment. There are no loud declarations, just two people finding each other again. Maybe for real this time.
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 when someone else eyes your man at the Fendi afterparty
featuring: Christopher Bahng x AFAB reader
warnings: suggestive
notes: kinda late but idc lol. inspired by Miss Possessive by Tate McCrae.
The Fendi afterparty was in full swing—golden lights reflecting off champagne glasses, designer-clad elites laughing too loud, music thrumming beneath the conversations of Hollywood’s most coveted faces. It was the kind of place where power hummed in the air, where influence was measured in glances and whispers.
Chris had his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing mindless patterns against the silk of your dress. He was effortlessly charming, flashing that dimpled smile at executives and fellow artists alike, his Australian lilt melting smoothly into conversation. You loved him like this—glowing, confident, in his element.
His eyes light up when he spots somebody in the distance, his grip loosening on your hip.
“Gonna go say hi to someone real quick,” Chris murmured close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Come with me?”
You glanced up at him, catching the excitement in his expression. He lived for moments like this—connecting, networking, floating effortlessly through rooms filled with people who mattered. And you loved seeing him like this, loved knowing how easily he fit into this world.
But right now? You weren’t in the mood to entertain small talk.
“You go ahead,” you said, offering a small smile. “I’ll wait here.”
Chris hesitated for a fraction of a second, his fingers grazing your side like he was debating whether to push. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave your waist one last squeeze before slipping away, weaving through the crowd with an ease that came naturally to him.
You swirled the champagne in your glass, watching from a distance as Chris greeted the man with an easy smile, his shoulders relaxed, his charm effortless. He was always like this at events—engaging, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
And neither was she.
Standing just a little too close to the man Chris was talking to, her arm looped loosely through his, yet her gaze was fixed elsewhere. Fixed on Chris.
You noticed it immediately—the way her lashes fluttered as she watched him, the way her lips curved, not in polite acknowledgment but something softer, something indulgent. She was interested. Not in the man beside her, the one she was presumably here with, but in yours.
The realization settled over you like ice water, sharp and immediate. You’d seen this before—too many times, in too many rooms just like this. Women who thought their status or their beauty somehow made them untouchable, that their interest was a gift, not an intrusion.
She wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it.
You stayed quiet, simply watching, your expression unreadable as Chris continued his conversation, seemingly oblivious. He laughed at something the man said, dimples flashing, and you didn’t miss the way her lips parted slightly, like she was already imagining what it would be like to taste that smile.
Bold.
Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass, the cool surface grounding you. You weren’t the type to make a scene, weren’t the type to claw at Chris’s arm like a warning. Your confidence ran deeper than that.
Chris, as if sensing your gaze, glanced over his shoulder then, his expression softening when he saw you. His eyes lingered, and for a moment, the entire party seemed to fade into background noise.
Then, just as quickly, he was saying his goodbyes, excusing himself from the conversation. You didn’t miss the way she watched him go, her lips pressing together like she was debating something.
Too late.
Chris was already making his way back to you, his attention exactly where it should be. Where it had always been.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low as he slipped an arm around your waist again, reclaiming the space that had never been hers to take.
You let out a quiet hum, lifting your glass to your lips, your gaze flickering past him for only a second—long enough to see her still watching, her expression carefully composed but not nearly careful enough.
Chris followed your gaze, and something in his expression shifted. Understanding dawned, slow and steady, before amusement danced in his eyes. He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to you.
“You know,” he murmured, leaning in so only you could hear, “you don’t have to pretend you’re not annoyed.”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Who said I was annoyed?”
Chris grinned, giving your waist a squeeze. “You’ve got that look,” he teased, voice full of knowing. “The one where you’re pretending not to care, but you’re already making up ways to subtly ruin her night.”
You exhaled a soft laugh, finally turning your full attention back to him. “She was looking at you like she wanted to take a bite.”
Chris let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “You do realize that was his wife, right?”
You barely blinked, lifting your glass to your lips. “And?”
Chris grinned. “And maybe she was just being friendly.”
You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Chris. She was practically undressing you with her eyes.”
His dimples flashed as he grinned wider, but before he could say anything, you tilted your head, considering. “Or,” you mused, voice dripping with amusement, “maybe they’re into that sort of thing.”
Chris choked.
You watched with no small amount of satisfaction as a flush crept up his neck, his usual effortless confidence flickering for just a second. “What—” He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “You think—”
You shrugged, all faux nonchalance. “Wouldn’t be the first time a couple tried to recruit you.”
Chris groaned, tipping his head back dramatically. “Jesus. Don’t remind me.”
You smirked behind your champagne glass, watching as he rubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to physically erase the memory.
“What was it that one guy said to you? Something about how he and his girl would ‘love to explore your energy’?”
Chris visibly shuddered. “I am begging you to never repeat that sentence again.”
You laughed, letting your fingers trail along the nape of his neck. His skin was warm, the heat creeping up from his collar, and you couldn’t resist the way he reacted to you, how easy it was to pull him in when you wanted to.
You glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of her again. She was still watching—her gaze dipping once more, as if mapping out his body, as if picturing all the ways she might get closer. Bold, but ultimately useless.
Chris was already here, with you.
You decided to prove the point.
With deliberate slowness, you let your hand slide lower, fingers pressing into the small of his back as you leaned into him, your lips grazing just beneath his ear.
“You know,” you murmured, voice soft enough that only he could hear, “if I was annoyed, I’d have a much better way of handling it than ruining her night.”
Chris inhaled sharply, and you felt the way his body tensed under your touch. His grip flexed on your waist before settling firm, almost possessive. “Yeah?” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.
You let your lips brush the edge of his jaw, just for a second, just enough. “Mmhmm.”
Chris exhaled slowly, his hand shifting—sliding down, fingers pressing into your hip in a way that felt like both a warning and a plea
His fingers dug into your hip, just enough to make his point. “Careful,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “You keep this up, and we’re leaving this party early.”
You smirked, entirely unbothered by the threat. “What a shame that would be,” you mused, dragging your fingers just barely under the hem of his blazer. “Missing out on all this networking.”
Chris exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip flexing again—like he was reminding himself where you were, who was watching. But his eyes darkened, and you knew he wasn’t entirely in control of himself anymore.
You had him.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his fingers slid just a little lower, his palm pressing flush against the curve of your hip. His body shifted, subtly angling you away from the rest of the room, from prying eyes, but you caught it—the way she was still watching, her expression unreadable, her lips pressed into a careful line.
You smiled. Slow. Sweet. Possessive in a way that didn’t require theatrics.
And then, just to seal it, you leaned up, brushing your lips against the shell of Chris’s ear, making damn sure she saw the way he shivered.
“Baby,” he muttered, like a warning, like a plea.
You pressed your smile against his jaw. “Mmhmm?”
Chris exhaled through his nose again, steadying himself, and when he finally pulled back to look at you, his eyes burned. His amusement was still there, but now it was tinged with something else, something hotter.
“I’m getting you another drink,” he said, his voice low, steady. But his fingers lingered on your waist, like he didn’t actually want to step away.
You tilted your head, gaze steady. “I don’t need another drink.”
Chris huffed out something that was almost a laugh, but his fingers flexed against your waist like he was hanging onto his last shred of composure. His jaw tightened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and then he shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “You definitely do.”
You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Oh? And why’s that?”
Chris ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose as he took another step away. “Because,” he said, voice rougher than before, “if I stand here for one more second, I’m gonna forget we’re at a party.”
You smirked, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way he practically forced himself to step back. He needed the space—needed to pull himself together, to break the spell you’d so effortlessly cast over him.
Chris was disciplined, always the one in control, always the level-headed leader who could charm his way through any situation. But right now? Right now, his composure was cracking at the edges, and you loved knowing you were the reason why.
He cleared his throat, dragging a hand down his face before glancing toward the bar like it was some kind of lifeline. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, already turning.
You didn’t stop him. You didn’t need to. Because the second he put even a step of distance between you, he hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking his head, like he was trying to clear you from his system.
You didn’t look away.
Not at first.
No, you let her stare, let her sit with it, let her marinate in the realization that whatever fleeting fantasy she’d entertained—whatever sliver of hope she’d foolishly clung to—had never stood a chance. Because this? This wasn’t a maybe. This wasn’t an opening.
Chris had already made his choice.
So you lifted your glass that Chris had just handed you, slow and deliberate, meeting her gaze with something just a touch too sweet, just a shade too knowing. And then—because you could—you raised it in a silent toast.
A petty, razor-sharp little acknowledgment.
I see you.
Her expression barely flickered, but you caught it—the subtle shift, the way her fingers curled slightly at her side, the way her lips pressed together in something that wasn’t quite a smile. She didn’t like being caught. Didn’t like that you knew exactly what she had been thinking.
Didn’t like that she had lost before she’d even started.
You took a slow sip of your champagne, savoring the moment, before finally, lazily, turning your attention away. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? She didn’t matter enough to keep looking at.
Chris did.
And Chris? He was watching the entire thing unfold, his gaze flicking between the two of you, amusement flickering beneath something darker.
"You’re insufferable," he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear.
You tilted your head, all innocence. "What ever do you mean?"
Chris let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but you saw the way his fingers flexed around the glass in his hand, saw the way his jaw tightened as he leaned in, voice just for you.
"That was mean."
You shrugged, unfazed. "That was mercy."
Chris huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but the way his fingers curled around your waist said he wasn’t entirely unaffected. His grip was firm—just shy of possessive, like he needed to ground himself in your presence, like he needed to remind himself that no amount of fleeting attention from anyone else could touch what was his.
"You’re a piece of work, you know that?" he murmured, eyes still dancing with amusement.
You smiled, slow and sweet. "And yet, here you are."
Chris exhaled sharply through his nose, his dimples flashing as he tipped his glass to his lips. "Yeah," he admitted, voice low, warm. "Here I am."
And that was it, wasn’t it?
You didn’t need to stake your claim, didn’t need to sink your claws into him in some desperate display of ownership. Because Chris wasn’t looking at anyone else. He wasn’t thinking about anyone else.
And the way his hand slid lower, fingers pressing into the small of your back like he couldn’t help himself? The way his eyes softened, darkened, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered in a room full of noise and flashing lights?
That said everything.
So you let the moment settle between you, let the warmth of the champagne hum through your veins as Chris traced absentminded circles against your hip, his fingers slow, lazy.
His hand slid lower, a warning, a promise, before he took a slow step back, eyes still locked onto yours. "We should go," he murmured, voice rough. "Before I forget how to behave."
You hummed, pretending to consider it, even as your body leaned into his touch like it already knew the answer. “That bad, huh?”
Chris let out a low chuckle, his fingers tightening against your waist, his breath fanning warm against your cheek as he dipped closer—just close enough to make your pulse stutter. “You have no idea.”
You knew exactly what was running through his head, how tightly he was holding the last threads of his composure, how close he was to losing the game he always played so well.
So you tipped your chin up, gaze steady, letting your lips just barely graze his jaw as you murmured, “Then what are we still doing here?”
Chris exhaled sharply, like he was physically restraining himself, before shaking his head with a breathy laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already slipping his hand into yours, already leading you through the crowd with a singular purpose.
You let him. You followed, matching his pace, feeling the heat of his palm against yours, feeling the weight of his gaze every time he glanced down at you like he was already thinking ten steps ahead.
A/n: the painting that I talk about in the fic, is the same one I've used in the cover picture, it's originally drawn by our talented hyunjin himself. This fic is basically a token of appreciation towards his beautiful artworks. Please ignore the grammatical or punctuational mistakes I've made here and there throughout ( i swear I've read it a couple of times and i can't find any more, but I'm sure they are there) and yeah enjoy :)
Do share your thoughts about this if you have any <3
....................................
You loved your Friday nights with Chris. Amidst the chaotic and super busy life both of you had , this was a small getaway that you two cherished. Usually you would be watching a movie that you've uploaded on your shared letterboxd list, or shit talking about people at work, or just cooking in peace with songs playing from your shared playlist in the background, followed by drinks. And sometimes, you would get lucky enough to get an early leave from work to get to do all of that on the same day. Today was one such fortunate day.
Chris was talking over the song running in the background, while meticulously cutting the potatoes in the right shape and size for the French fries . " ...and since I did finish the task early, the company said I can take the weekend off, isn't that cool? "
" it is very cool " you acknowledge, briefly stealing a look of his joyous face and refocusing on the sauce you're cooking for the pasta that Chris loves.
" Will you be free this Sunday? We should go to that cafe you wanted to visit and maybe get dinner after? "
" oh. " You don't take spending time with him as granted. Because of it's rarity , you are reluctant to skip on any. But tonight, you're not lucky. "... Well actually, hyunjin texted today. He said his dance lessons got cancelled this Sunday , so he was going to the new art gallery that opened last week and he asked me to join him."
Thanks to Chris, you were introduced to a bunch of good people, who are just as nice and cool. You always had the time of your life when you hung out with the entire group. Karaoke nights with seungmin and jeongin were always fun. Minho and you undisputedly took the duty of cooking during group hangouts, felix helped you for the desert. Han and changbin were the brothers you never had, always bickering about something or the other. Your equation with each one of them was different, but equally beautiful. Hyunjin was the one you found to be the most similar to yourself. You had a bunch of shared hobbies and hence never ran out of topics to talk about over texts, and occasionally over a ciggerette. Often you two would go out to visit an art exhibition or a museum, but more often than not, it would happen as a result of the others rain-checking at the last minute.
" Oh. Okay, when are you going then? "
" we didn't discuss times yet. But my shift ends at 6, so after that maybe. And we'll be getting dinner too. So- "
" woah. So art gallery AND dinner date? " he chuckled surprisingly, with an undertone of something you couldn't quite figure out.
Defensively, you shrugged " it's not a date. "
" oh yeah? What do you call it then? " Chris smirked teasingly.
" it's - just a normal...going out thing. With a friend. "
" with a friend. " Chris repeated more to himself than to you.
You scoffed. " what?"
" what?"
"Are we not hanging out right now? Would you call this a date? " your voice had a tint of playful annoyance.
" would you? "
Honestly, you would like to. But that's probably not what he would want. Right?
" no? " You feign non-chalance.
You expected Chris to say something witty in reply, like he always does. But this time, even if he came up with something, he kept it to himself and just nodded and went ahead with his potato cutting duties. You were disappointed that you didn't get your question answered, but you decided not to press on it further. A silent awkward dawned upon you . You wondered if he felt it too, but his eyes were laser focused on the knife. You wish you could hear what he was thinking.
You've always admired his passion for the art . On most days, he would send you a new picture of the things he's been painting, the new art supplies he brought, the medium he looks forward to use in the future. While you were not as talented as him at painting, you have loved discussing art with him. Sometimes on video calls, he would just be painting while you studied for your research. You mentioned that to Chris once, and he annoyingly joked about hyunjin being into you. But that's just what friends are for , right? The others always shipped you and Chris too, but that didn't mean anything either. So neither should this.
However, when hyunjin came to pick you up and you opened the door to him looking drop dead gorgeous, all adorned in a black, with a beautiful bouquet in his hand, it occured to you for the first time that maybe not all of this is platonic. Hyunjin took a good look at you in your black dress and said , almost inaudibly " you are beautiful "
You could only chuckle awkwardly to that "you look gorgeous too , as always. "
" this is for you. " Hyunjin handed over the bouquet of dark violet and black roses. " This is so pretty, I've never seen a black rose before " you say taking a good long sniff of the flowers.
" yeah me neither actually. Got my florist to find me some hehe "
You had no clue where all of this was heading, but you really appreciated his efforts . " Thank you so much. I love this. "
The gallery was pretty empty at that hour which meant you could peacefully take your time to go through all the exhibits, without having to keep moving forward to avoid queues. From the moment you walked in your eyes were caught by this one painting that stood lonely at the corner. Hyunjin was going around the venue looking at the breathtaking canvases that adorned the plane white walls of the gallery. Your legs unconsciously dragged you to the exhibit at the corner. Something about it was so immensely sad, it was tugging your heart strings uncomfortably. It tells a story. You can't figure it out yet but you know it's tinged with melancholy, longing and perhaps, unfulfilled love.
You didn't know how much time has passed before hyunjin brought you out of your reverie " looks like you found a favourite "
" i don't know, i haven't looked at the rest yet"
" oh? " He came and stood beside you, the sleeves of your overcoats kissing each other. "....so what's so captivating about this ? " his voice so much softer than before.
" i don't know. The person in the right looks so patient. He's sitting in stillness perhaps longing for a recognition or a moment of connection? " You look up at hyunjin, trying to decipher his thoughts from his usually transparent face. Surprisingly, it was blank at the moment. He didn't say anything either so you continued " the person on the left however, looks fragmented. Chaotic even. The abstract lines. Could that mean emotional complexity? Maybe, they have a natural tendency to see the world through a hazy lens, making it difficult for them to perceive love or care clearly. "
" there's this tension here." a deep breath followed " One heart fully aware and brimming with affection, while the other remains distant, shrouded in a fog they may not even realize is there. You know what I mean? " You look back up at him. His eyes now reflected more light than before. Maybe he too is equally impacted by the picture. Maybe he too can relate to it. Maybe.
" Do you know what I think the most beautiful part of this painting is? " he spoke with the weight of something unspoken and suppressed evident in his voice.
He continued without waiting for your reply " if there's love here, like you claimed , It's neither rejected nor accepted, simply suspended in a space where time, patience, and longing seem to stretch endlessly. It's the silent hope that's beautiful and enduring that love of the person on the right, even when there is no promise that their feelings will ever be acknowledged is what's beautiful about this. " He nodded to himself.
The atmosphere got too heavy and serious with what he said. While you agreed with him , you wanted to know more about what he was thinking. Unfortunately, the security guard told everyone to start leaving the premises as they reached the closing time. With a heavy heart of not being able to look at the other paintings, while also being somewhat content about the conversation you had before you slowly walk out.
On his way out, hyunjin stopped momentarily and took one last look of the painting. The one painting he didn't give updates to you about the second he came up with the idea of it, because he painted that with you in his mind. The two humans on the painting you spent almost an hour talking about were the reflection of how he perceives you and your friendship. And just like every other painting of his, he wanted you to see it first, hence the invite. And maybe, he'll muster the courage to tell you what he feels tonight.
Unknowingly you've put his feelings , that he was astoundingly unsure about, into words. The frustrated brush strokes that accessorised the painting finally made some sense to him too. Ironically.
" do you have a ciggerette? " Hyunjin asks.
You had decided to walk to the restaurant nearby , the breeze was cool and the roads were empty " i think i do, yeah. " you shuffled through your bad to found a singular ciggerette sitting idly in the packet. " There's only one. You have it , i don't want it "
" that's alright we can share " he took the ciggerette in his mouth and lit it up quickly. Taking two quicker steps he went ahead and leaned into the railing of the bridge, closing his eyes softly when the breeze from the river below hit his face.
Something about sharing that ciggerate was strangely intimate. You stood really close to each other looking ahead into the dark oblivion, scatteringly decorated here and there with the city lights, your mind still fogged by the painting you saw earlier.
" do you like him ? " Hyunjin unpredictably whispered.
A part of you knew who he was referring to. But you didn't understand why he would ask something like that so randomly. Or maybe you just chose to ignore the obvious.
" who? " You look at him half confused and half shocked
" chris"
" i- " you tried to calculate the number of consequences of you telling the truth can bring. Because ofcourse you did. All the feelings you have for chris is hidden in one secluded corner of your heart. There was a lot of unattended thoughts and feelings that you cannot quite name, because you would do absolutely anything to hide what you feel for him from yourself, chris and everyone. But you knew it's love nonetheless. " Not really. Why? Why do you ask ?"
" you really took your time huh? " He scoffed, which annoyed you a little. " No reason. Just- just wanted to make sure before I- "
You look at him to find him looking back. There's a hesitation in his voice, a doubt in his eyes. And his breath is awfully cold, like he's frozen from the inside. You realise how close you're standing to him now, his lips mere inches away from the tip of your nose, his uneven breaths delicately reaching your eyes. His right hand brushed upon the back of your neck and spread fire in your otherwise cold body. " I don't know if you lied or not but regardless, i can't live with myself if i don't tell you." He softly caressed your cheek with his thumb as if he's never seen anything more frail, more delicate and brittle , as if one wrong move from will make you disappear.
" i like you...like- a lot. " Hyunjin sighed. Saying it out loud released him from the weight of holding everything in. He gently pressed his lips onto your forehead. A meaningful kiss, conveying everything else he doesn't or couldn't say.
Dinner was unmistakeably awkward after that. You had most certainly lost your appetite after the conversation you had with him
"Hyun- i- " he waited for you , patiently, just like the guy in that picture of the exhibition was. " I just- i don't think this is a good idea " you were scared he would get mad, not because he was a short tempered person but the situation is itself that nerve wrecking.
"so your feelings were always platonic? About me ? "
You could only sigh " it doesn't matter "
" ofcourse it does" he was surprisingly calm, as if he saw this coming.
" i don't want to give you false hopes, or lead you on more than how much I've unintentionally had already. "
" you didn't lead me on " he chuckled
" everyone thinks you and Chris should be together. I do too. It's true that it hurts like hell to think i can't replace his place in your heart but I'm okay with it. Really. It's selfish but I just wanted to let you know how I feel about you. " His eyes were so kind, so calm. It pained you. He smiled softly and it looked so genuine and excruciating.
If anything that you're sure about this whole situation is that you're left utterly confused by it. After years of failed convincing that Chris is just your friend, you've let yourself embrace the fact that you are terribly in love with him. And after days of contemplating you finally decided that you want to share this one last secret that your heart carries so sacredly, with your best friend too. That you would tell chris that you love him, and then deal with whatever happens next. All of that courage leaked out the second hyunjin confessed. " I like you but he loves you " he had said. You don't know what to do with that information, or if it is even correct to begin with.
You're lying at your bed staring aimlessly at the mundane ceiling of your room. Chris has given you two missed calls already. He's waiting on the other side, fidgeting with his phone ,for you to pick up and tell him about the secret you mentioned to him about before. Hyunjin had apologised for the umpteenth time that evening. He shouldn't need to apologise for his feelings but he did and you're still mad. At him. At the situation. But mostly, at yourself.
Fuck.
How did you get yourself here? You wished you could move to a different country and change your identity altogether, so that you don't have to face them again. Or face the horrible truth that you can't be with Chris, not anymore, not after hyunjin's confession. It would kill Chris if he found out.
Your phone rang again. And unsurprisingly, it's him again.
" what. " You hated how you had almost no control over your anger. Your voice was inevitably rude than what chris had expected.
" hi. Hyunjin said you're back, and you said you wanted to have a chat earlier" his voice sounded weaker.
" yeah, about that- "
" it's okay if you're tired, we can talk later. "
You audibly sigh.
You knew you're about to cry.
" you okay?"
" yeah. I'll talk to you later okay? " You utter in a single breath.
It was only after a brief pause that he spoke again " sure. I'm only a text away if you need me "
You knew he was. That's what hurt the most. And there's no way out of this without atleast one of you getting hurt.
Not even Chris's busy life could keep him distracted from the fact that your voice grew more distant every time he tried to talk to you on call, your texts grew drier and not seeing you that Friday has stretched to three more of those. He didn't stop trying though. When he called you to ask about your day, that inevitably always went unresponded, you wished he would stop. Every time he knocked at your door with your favourite take-away food in hand, only to be lied to about you not being at home, you selfishly hoped that this would be the last time and then it'll be easier for you to live with the fact that you're pushing him away, even if your heart is getting shredded into bits and pieces in the process .
Chris couldn't keep moving any further. He is angry, and so so hurt that you, out of all the people, is doing this to him. What did he even do to have you cut him out from your life without an explanation?
Frustrated, chris opted for the only option he had left. He asked hyunjin. And Hyunjin wouldn't lie to him, not willingly anyway.
How stupid, Chris thought. How fucking stupid of both of you. With all the knowledge of what exactly triggered this reaction from you, and how it's more directed towards him than hyunjin, he's put one and one together, and realised that his feelings for you weren't all one sided afterall. But he can't ignore how he's mad at you for the way you're dealing with your feelings. It's not something he can help with , but it frustated him nonetheless. Loving you was lonely for him. But it's never been as painful as it has been lately.
So here he is again, incessantly knocking at your door. It's friday, 8 in the pm, and he knows you're at home.
" open the door. I know you're in there. "
You are standing across the hallway. He's mad and it's unmistakeably evident in his voice and you know he doesn't deserve what you're doing to him, but your rotten brain still holds you back from opening the door for him.
" y/n. " He rests his forehead on the door and closes his eyes dejectedly. " We should stop dancing around our feelings. It's hurting us. You and me both. Can you not see? "
Your hands softly land on the doorknob. Your forehead resting on the hard surface of the door unknowingly mimicking his gesture. A tear ran down your face.
" you're - you make me so angry sometimes. I feel like screaming. And I love you so goddamn much, it's tearing me apart.
Will it kill you to be honest with me about your feelings for once? " his voice only grew weaker with each words "i know you're listening, answer me. Please. Say something."
You don't know how to answer him. You would love to just run away, but you've done that enough. How far can you even go than you might already have from Chris? But, he said he loves you, right? You didn't hallucinate that. You heard him.
Gently you open the door. The anger within him softened the second he saw your tear stained face, eyes bloodshot. Chris's brows furrowed together, the frown on his beautiful face looked so painful, and you hated how you caused it.
" chris. "
His face looked defeated, bearing an expression so excruciating, eyes fighting tears and he pulled you close. Into his warm embrace.
After everything you've done to him, he still held you close and buried his head into your neck like the times he did when the world was being mean to him.
" I'm sorry " your breathy voice came out broken, almost inaudible. " I'm so sorry" . You realise it's not just Chris' trembling body, but you are shaking too. His cries grew louder and yours followed soon after.
Your insides burn in pain, but there's no medicine on earth that can soothe your bruises the way his mere presence does in your life. There's no other place you'd rather be, than here, with him. He makes you feel extremely brave , so you did what you've dreaded doing all this while.
" i really fucking love you. And it's killing me "
He breaks the hug first. Only this time his expression is replaced by a more content one. There's a relief painted across his face.
" i know. " His contorted into what looked like a smile. "You shouldn't have pushed me away. We don't do that, not with each other. "
" i know " you mouthed as he closed the door behind him and rested his back on the door frame.
" cowards. Both of us "
" mostly me. And stupid. "
You heard him laugh softly and it watered your dry, barren, thirsty heart that was burning under your thoughts all this while.
" we're gonna talk and fix whatever's there to be fixed and we'll be okay " his voice sounded more sincere than ever.
Hyunjin found himself standing right where you stood that night at the exhibition, in front of the picture he drew with floods of unnameable feelings oozing out of him. He'll never know if your heart ever skipped a beat for him the way his always did when you were around. Or if you ever searched for him in a crowd, the way he did. You probably didn't even stare at your phone endlessly waiting for him to reply back. Although that's because he always made it a point to reply astronomically fast to your texts. It's pathetic how he can never like anything a normal amount. And you weren't an exception either. He would give up his all, even his own feelings, if it meant he could see the smile he loved so dearly on your face, the one he can draw with his eyes closed because of the amount of times he's drawn it on his canvases in the disguise of a flower, sometimes a butterfly.
But hyunjin knows better than to have to win your love and hate himself for it when he doesn't. One of you had to lose and he's fine with being the loser. He doesn't even want the sadness to go away. It is afterall, the only place you're still his. He's going to find a way to live around it. And maybe someday he'll wake up with the memories of his love for you so faint , he wouldn't even notice it was there at the first place. And then, only then, he'll be okay.
That thick, suffocating kind of late where the world feels slowed and heavy, where the darkness presses against the windows like something alive. The air feels dense, weighted, humming with the kind of quiet that makes everything feel sharper, louder, every breath, every shift of fabric, every beat of your heart feels like it echoes. Like it matters. It's the kind of late where thoughts feel heavier, where wanting feels worse and better all at once.
And his voice is there, low, rough, barely a whisper, but it cuts through everything, straight into you. As if it’s not just sound, but a touch, as if it’s his hand sliding under your shirt, his mouth brushing over your skin, his breath ghosting over your ear. It's too close, too real, the only thing tethering you to the moment, but it doesn’t feel safe. It feels dangerous. Too intimate, too much.
Neither of you says it, what this is. What you’re doing. You stay on the edge of it, toes against the line, pretending like it isn’t real if you don’t speak it. Like it isn’t him lying in his bed, hand moving slow and tight beneath the sheets, like it isn’t you, hiding beneath your sheets, skin flushed and aching, breath shallow, fingers tracing slow, careful circles that have nothing to do with comfort, nothing to do with sleep.
But it is. And you both know it.
What are you doing?, his voice is low, rougher than it should be, it scrapes against his throat, like it costs him to keep it that steady. Like it costs him not to say more.
Your breath catches. You swallow. The sound feels loud in the quiet, your fingers still, just for a moment, hovering, wondering if you should lie. Say you’re reading, watching something, doing anything else but this. But it would be a waste, because he knows.
You know, you whisper, and your voice feels fragile. Almost shy, as if the admission will shatter something between you.
There's silence, but it isn’t empty. It fills the space, thick and heavy, stretching out between you like heat, like honey, like wanting. You feel it on your skin, warm and slow, it feels like his hands, his mouth, his breath. He exhales, low and controlled, like he’s holding something back, like his body’s fighting him. Yeah, he says, just that. Rough and low and ruined. Yeah, I know.
It’s worse that he doesn’t ask, worse that he lets the silence fill with everything he isn’t saying, everything you’re both thinking. The wanting, the imagining, the ache, the fact that you can feel it sitting there, heavy and real. And maybe that’s why you don’t stop.
Your hand moves again. Slow. Careful. Fingers dragging over skin that feels too hot, too sensitive, light enough to make you shiver. But it isn’t enough, it never is. Because it isn’t him.
You think about his hands. The way they move, the way they know you, strong and sure, but soft when you need it, rough when you beg. You think about the weight of them, how they’d feel pressing into your skin, holding you down, keeping you still, you think about how they'd slide under the fabric, slow and warm, how they'd trace the same path as yours but deeper, better. You think about his fingers, about how they'd slip lower, teasing, lingering, knowing exactly how to ruin you, how to take you apart slow, careful, like it mattered. You think about the roughness of his fingertips, about the way he’d press them against you, slow and steady, coaxing you open. Making you wait. Making you want.
And you know he’s thinking it too. You can hear it. The shift of his breath, the small hitch in his throat, the faintest sound that says his hand is moving too, that says he’s thinking about your skin, your mouth, your body, your smell, about how you’d feel beneath him, soft and aching, begging for more.
Thinking about me? His voice is low, dangerous, the kind of soft that feels sharp, the kind of soft that cuts. Like it’s meant for you and no one else.
You don’t answer, not right away. You let the silence stretch, heavy. Let him sit in it, let him think about what you’re doing, what you’re feeling. Let him imagine.
Yeah, you breathe, and it’s the truth. It's always him.
And the silence is never empty. It’s thick, loaded. You can feel it, how it hums between you, how it burns. You know he's thinking about your fingers, about the way they move beneath the sheets, about the way your skin feels when you're this close, this open, this wet. About the way you’d feel if it was him instead, his hands, his mouth, his body.
You’re not helping, he says, and his voice is rough, uneven. Like he's struggling to stay quiet. Like his hand is moving too now, slow and tight, just enough to take the edge off. Not enough to finish, not yet. Not when it feels better to stretch it out, to drag it out until it hurts.
You smile, slow and soft, but it feels cruel. I’m not trying to help.
And that’s the truth.
You close your eyes and think about him. About the weight of him, heavy and warm, pressing you into the mattress about his hands, wide and rough, sliding under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. About the way he’d move, slow at first, teasing, making you wait, making you ache. About his fingers slipping beneath your waistband, slow and sure, pressing exactly where you need him, rubbing your clit just the way you like, just the way that makes you gasp, makes you shake.
You think about his mouth. Hot and open, tongue slow, lips soft. You think about how he'd kiss you there, how he’d hold you still, how he'd take his time, how he'd ruin you with every slow, deliberate pass of his tongue, how he's taste and devour you for hours on end. How he'd listen to every gasp, every moan, and give you more, until you couldn’t take it. Until you broke.
You wonder if he's thinking about the same. If his eyes are shut, his head tipped back against the pillows, eyes closed, mouth open, hand wrapped tight around his throbbing cock, imagining it’s yours instead. Imagining it’s you, warm and wet and open beneath and around him, begging for more, begging for him. You wonder if he’s thinking about the last time, how you sounded when he pushed inside, slow and deep. About the way you gasped his name, the way you clawed at his back, the way you begged him not to stop, never stop. To go deeper, deeper, harder. The way you broke beneath his hands.
You should stop, you whisper, though it feels like a lie.
So should you, he says, and his voice is lower now, rougher, almost broken. It spreads along your skin like heat, makes your breath catch, makes you shiver beneath the sheets.
But neither of you stops.
Because it feels better to pretend, better to stay quiet, to let the silence say everything you can’t, everything you shouldn’t. It feels better to think about his hands, about his mouth, about how he’d feel pressing you down, stretching you open, filling you until you couldn't think about anything else. Better than thinking about the truth.
That you miss him.
That you need him.
That you're aching for him.
You bite your lip, press down on the sound, but it slips through anyway. A soft gasp, s breath. Too loud. Too much. And you hear him, too, the rough pull of breath, sharp and uneven. The way it tears out of him like it burns.
It should be him.
It should be his hand, his mouth, his body moving against yours, slow and deep and heavy. It should be his name you're gasping, his skin against yours, hot and slick and shaking, it should be his breath on your neck, his hands pressing you down, his voice in your ear saying things he shouldn't, doing things he shouldn't. You both know it.
You wonder if he's close. Wonder if his hand is moving faster, rougher, desperate. Wonder if he’s biting down on the sound, if he’s whispering your name into the dark, low and ruined. Wonder if he wishes it was you.
And when he says your name—low and soft and broken—you know. You know it's you, you know it's your body he's chasing in the dark, your skin, your breath, your mouth. You know it's you he’s aching for.
And it ruins you.
Because you want him.
You want him here, now. Pressed against you, heavy and hot, slow and deep. You want to hear him gasp your name into your skin, want him inside you, stretching you open, filling you, ruining you, claiming you. But you can’t have it. Not tonight.
So you take what you can.
The sound of his breath, rough and ragged, the soft curse under his breath, the way he says your name, like a confession, like a prayer, like a promise. And when it’s over—when the silence falls heavy and sharp, when your body aches and your breath stutters—you don’t say anything. Neither does he.
Because it's too much, yet not enough.
Because it's easier this way. Easier to pretend. Easier to hold onto the silence than admit how deep it runs.
somebody PLEASE help me find this one fic i read a long while ago, it's a chan x reader fic called soundbox ( i think). It was quite angsty, reader pushing chan away and everything. VERY ANGSTY.
I'll be really grateful if someone could find me that :)
a/n - This was typed based off of an overwhelming feeling I got while listening to This is How It Feels by d4vd and Laufey so I'm sorry if it's kinda messy. Hope you enjoy!
Chan has been dreaming of you again.
He has for a while. He's found that it gets more painful with the frequency of frames that pass his still lids in the night.
He can only describe it as an act of masochism. The epitome of pleasure and pain intertwining to create what we've all come to know as love. But Chan didn't always love you, not like this. He was able to keep you in a lighter gaze. He was able to separate you from his desires until you became the center of them all.
It was 3:30 am when he first noticed it. He was on the phone with you, something that the two of you do when he can't sleep. You had passed out an hour ago but he stayed on the call. He listened to the soft sound of your breathing and memorized the pattern of your snores.
You groaned and turned in your sleep and he heard it all. For a second, he held his arms open for you to slot between them. He held himself open to embrace your absent figure before he could even realize it.
Chan stood awake that night. Staring at the ceiling with the sweet sounds of you creating storms in his busy mind. You've unearthed something new in him. His heart turned and he found something underneath.
He found love.
He was content on dry drowning through his emotions after that night. He was okay with taking the bare minimum from your soft and generous hands just to imagine that it could be more one day.
It took another night of listening to you sigh and snore through the night for him to realize that this is just a pain he'll have to deal with. Confessing is not an option in his busy mind. It would be the introduction to the end, and that would kill him. Though, he is sure that you’ll be the death of him either way.
Chan convinced himself that he's content with these phone calls. The act of falling into a deep peace beside you felt natural for him. It felt right.
When 3:30 am snuck up on him during this call he sighed as the whirlwind picked up in his chest.
The thoughts
The desires
The pain
The love
It all belongs to you, and you'll never know it.
The warm and erratic fluttering against a rib cage too small to contain the swelling of his heart has become a familiar sensation on nights like these. The shadow of swirling rose colored smoke that he's been desperate to pass to you is something that he'll have to inhale by himself.
You. This atmosphere that the two of you have created. This connection that vibrates strong through time and space has metamorphosed him in the dark hours of the night like magic.
And suddenly, he feels it spilling over. Bubbling tall and staining the fabric of his sanity.
"You always fall asleep first..." Chan whispers into the receiver as he turns to face his phone. To face you. "I'm jealous."
He chuckles, closing his eyes as the whirling in his chest gets lighter with each word he speaks.
"I wish I could join you... or maybe you join me. I wish you were.. here. I wish you were here." He's whispering, his heart pounding loud in his ears. Parts of him dissolve in the quiet night, he wishes you were here to fill in the gaps.
"While you're sleeping I'm falling in love." He smiles to himself. "I never knew that this is how it would feel to fall for you."
He sighs, laying on his back now. He stares at the ceiling, imagining constellations that should have your name.
"It's hopeless." Chan looks back over to his phone. Your soft breathing has slowed. It's quiet, and for a second, he convinces himself that he doesn't care if you hear him. He takes a leap of faith and says it. Simple and soft.
"I love you so much."
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ie. three times chan really wanted to tell you he loves you and the one time he does. (reverting to this style of fic bc i actually really like it lol)
a/n: title has one (1) maybe two (2) things to do with the actual fic. three if you squint. point is, it's not important. chose it bc it was the second first thing to come to mind // in the wise words of ao3, please see the end of the work for more notes.
w/c: 2.3k
tags: friends to lovers (maybe??? idk u choose ur own interpretation ig), lots fluff, small angst and comfort
c/w: mild (?) descriptions/implications of dissociation and negative thoughts; mentions of alcohol
oki enjoy the piece my dudes <3
one;
your name rings out into the still of chan’s apartment, the question mark hovering in the hall where he stood. he wouldn’t have even known you were here, if not for your shoes by the door.
the apartment is cold, the evening air having found a home in the empty space. there's no sign of you on the couch, or in the kitchen. the balcony is empty too - a favourite place for the both of you during the sunset hours when the city is painted in hues of red and gold. it was well past sunset now, the city instead bathed in evening’s blues.
if you weren’t in these places, then that leaves one more - because there was no way you were in the laundry or in the bathroom, right?
chan makes his way to his bedroom, feet padding across the floor with only the soft shuffle of socks against the laminated surface indicating his presence. he drops his backpack on the dining table as he passes by it, being careful as to not make too much noise..
the bedroom door is slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of the dark bedroom inside. he pushes the door open gently and your name leaves his lips with hope on its tail.
even in the dark room, he could tell it was you on his bed.
you’re asleep with a hand under your chin, another between your legs. why you had fallen asleep atop the covers instead of under, he didn’t really know.
he sits on the floor by the head of the bed and for a moment, all he can do is watch you. he rests his elbow on the mattress and his head on his arm, and watches. the careful, rhythmic rise and fall of your body. the way your lashes flutter just that much whilst your eyes dart behind your eyelids.
how long, he muses, could he keep doing this before it got weird? better to wake you now than have you wake and find him staring at you.
he pats your arm; once, twice. you only let out a low moan. your brows furrow ad body curls up more. a breath of laughter escapes him, and he tries again to wake you. this time, he reaches for your arm, rubbing gentle circles into your inner wrist.
“y/n,” he whispers. “y/n, i’m home. have you had dinner yet?”
the large inhale you take lets him know that you’re awake. he pulls his hand back, leans back altogether - no need to be so close, after all.
you raise the hand under your chin to rub your eyes, scratch your cheek - it's endearing, so endearing.
i love you, he thinks, and the thought is as new to him as the way you blink wearily as your eyes adjust to the dark. it’s as new to him as the way you let out a tired groan, pulling your whole body into a ball - and that’s to say it’s not new at all, because after so many years of friendship, he knew your habits and the things you do when you wake up. after so many years of friendship, the thought had taken residency in his brain the way the evening air had in his apartment, or the way the sun’s golden rays had across the cityscape.
“chan?” you stifle a yawn behind your hand and just when he thinks you’re about to get up, you close your eyes again, a tired smile falling on your lips as you snuggle back into his pillow. “welcome home.”
two;
he finds you on your couch, gazing at the coffee table without really seeing.
he knows that dazed look on you, knows that slight furrow of the brows and the tightness of your hands. he knows that you know he’s here from the way your head cocks towards the sound of his footsteps, the sound of your name. your eyes stay unseeing.
the sofa dips and you sway towards him when he takes a seat on the couch, facing you. you welcome the movement and the way it breaks your daze. chan extends an arm as you let your body continue to fall, and then he’s holding you against him.
“you okay?” a silly question, but it was a start.
the silence that surrounds the two of you is filled only by the static of the fridge in the kitchen, it’s electric buzz audible despite the distance. he can feel you take deep breaths, feel every exhale warm his chest.
“sorry, chan, i don’t think we can do movie night today.”
he shrugs, holds you tighter. what does it matter if plans change?
“you don’t need to stay. i’ll be okay later, but i- i don’t want you to stay here for no reason.”
he lets out a chuckle. “no, i’ll stay. of course i’ll stay.”
because i love you, he thinks, but the words are caught in his throat and something about the situation made him think that no, this wasn’t the time to confess his feelings, even if he meant well and wanted to help you with those words.
he knows that sometimes it’s not always a matter of making you feel better. sometimes it’s just a matter of being there for you, and sometimes that will be enough.
for however long he loves you, he’ll be there for you.
“when you’re ready, and if you want to, we can talk about what’s going on.”
“it’s just the same-”
“even if it’s just the same things as before.”
his heart is heavy with the pain of seeing you like this. his heart is heavy with the love he carries for you. his heart is heavy with his inability to make it all go away with a click of his fingers - if only it was that easy. one could wish, he supposes, but not all wishes can be fulfilled.
it’s not the first time he’s seen you like this, and it probably won’t be the last, but he’s okay with that. he wishes it was the last, of course, but chan knows that change takes time and he knows that loving you means loving all the versions of you, not just the versions that make him smile, or the ones that reassure him, or the ones that make him laugh (though he loves these ones immensely, too).
loving you means being on your side when your own brain is your biggest enemy. loving you means standing his ground about the fact that you are lovable and you are important and you do matter, even when you can’t stop thinking that you aren’t. loving you means being atlas, sometimes, and carrying the weight of your world for you so that you don’t need to do it alone.
for however long he loves you, he’ll make sure you’re not carrying your burdens alone.
three;
after-dinner walks with you are one of the things chan cherishes the most. the kiss of evening on his cheeks, your presence by his side as the two of you walk down streets lit by the yellow lights from the restaurants, the way you occasionally brush each other.
on this particular friday night, after a well-deserved dinner and a glass or two of wine, you’d decided to go on a stroll through the city and god was chan was glad he’d agreed to the aimless stroll.
if he were to recount this evening to someone else, they would probably be surprised that he hadn’t noticed the music until you’d pointed it out. following the sound, you’d found a small circle of people surrounding a performer- a guitarist, open case at their feet, mic stand raised to their height, and fingers playing the chords to a familiar song as they sang. a ring of fairy lights surrounded them, adding a wistfully magical atmosphere to the cold evening.
people were smiling, waving their phones with their flashlights on, and in the middle of the circle, people were dancing. children and adults, friends and lovers. it was a beautiful scene, but not quite as beautiful as your face lighting up as you pull him into the middle as well.
you’re pulling his hands out of his pocket and he thought he would mind the cold but it’s not so bad when your hands are in his and you’re smiling up at him. he’s being pulled along by your eyes your lips, the gentle swaying from side to side that he quickly matches. it’s magical, it’s blissful, its euphoric. he’s laughing at the enjoyment in your eyes, at the way you cheer when the busker finishes one song and moves onto another - one, two, three; one, two, three.
you’re holding onto each other’s elbows - not exactly the most intimate thing, or nearly the most romantic, but you’re rocking side to side together and there’s nowhere else that chan would rather be on this friday night, because-
because god he loves you so much - its all he can think about as the final chords of the outro play, as adlibs rise like adrenaline in chan’s veins because he wants to kiss you so bad right now and he doesn’t even care that there are people around but- but he does care what you think and maybe this isn’t the way to do it.
so as the song comes to a close, chan pulls you in and he might be smothering you with his jacket but he doesn’t care - if he looks at you any longer, his feelings would physically manifest and he doesn't know what he would do if that were to happen.
“chan?” your voice is muffled against his puffer, confusion and laughter softened against his chest.
“your face looked cold.” it’s a half truth to cover up the bigger lie.
“well,” you mumble, “it’s a good thing you’re warm.”
when you wrap your arms around him, the crowd applauds - at the two of you or at the performer, he doesn’t know.
and to be quite honest, he doesn’t care.
one;
you’d both fallen asleep with the curtains half opened - it had been too dark outside, too late in the night, the weariness of the day’s fun too heavy, that neither of you had realised the curtains weren’t fully closed.
not that it was a major problem, being three floors up, but it did make for an early rise.
chan finds his face closer to yours than he would have liked, though he confess the sight wasn’t too bad a thing to wake up to.
in the past, perhaps, he would have had no reservations, no worries about being so close to you in bed - but years of friendship had matured like wine, had left an aftertaste in his mouth that he was still trying to figure out if he enjoyed or not, if he wanted more or not.
no, he knew he wanted more, and that was what scared him. what if a bit more was actually too much? he didn’t know his limits, not with something like this. he didn’t know your limits. it was risky, was like drinking for the first time - the consequences didn’t quite hit until they hit. he could have a sip, have three, five, could be enjoying it all until suddenly it was too late-
rustling sheets pull him back to the present.
“chan?”
he’s reminded of an evening long past, as you rub your eyes. your gazes meet, but the fragility of tension is barely present this many years into the friendship.
“what are you thinking about, so early in the morning?”
a rhetorical question, perhaps, but the sunlight dancing on the wall behind you and the warmth under the covers and the innocent curiosity in your eyes pulls the words out of him.
“that i love you,” he says.
it’s… not as cathartic as he thought it would be but it’s enough.
it brings the dancing sunlight and gentle rise and fall of your body to a standstill. it brings the ticking clocks in his room and the saturday morning traffic outside his apartment to a mute. it brings his heart’s bpm from an andante to a moderato, an allegretto; he can hear it in his ears, feel it in his chest. the disjointment between his internal and external world almost sends his mind into momentary panic.
but you smile an angel’s smile, and he doesn’t quite understand what it means yet but he knows it’ll be alright.
“i know.”
for a moment, he thinks that those two words were all you had to say in reply. his mind dances on the line between friends and more (whatever that is, at this point) and whilst he can’t deny the existence of the slight disappointment in him, he’s grateful that nothing has changed.
until- until things do change.
“me too.” you pull the blankets up to your chin, curl up closer to him like you had so long ago when you were both younger with neither questioning the relationship. “i love you too.”
in some other universe, he might have disregarded your words as nothing more than ones of friendship - you both knew you loved each other as friends do, as you always had. but in this universe, he grasps onto the way you’ve practically buried your head into his chest. he grasps onto the warmth of your body, so early in the morning, so close to his. he grasps onto the slight shake in your voice, the way you had breathed out the words like a confession.
“okay,” he whispers into the crown of your head, arms almost shaking in disbelief as they settle around your body and draw you closer. “okay.”
—
a/n: scene 3 is inspired by this!! also, anyways, i havent written anything outside of academic work and evening star in so long that im surprised this even... ended up finished LMAO but ye i hope this was an okay read, if not enjoyable! gentle reminder that interactions of any kind will make my heart soar <3
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