Exhibiti0nism, Public Risk, Light Dominance, Quicki€ Vibes, Gender-Neutral.
The stadium’s alive, a sea of screams and flashing lights vibrating through the walls. Backstage, Stray Kids are catching their breath, swapping outfits for the next set, with fifteen minutes before they’re back under the spotlight.
You’re here to cheer on your man, Bang Chan, slipping into the dressing room to hype him up. “You killed it out there!” you grin, all sunshine. “Gonna slay the encore even harder.”
He’s shirtless—classic Chan—muscles glistening with sweat, curls damp against his forehead. He spins around, dimples flashing. “Oh, you’re here!”
He wipes his brow, closing the gap between you, and damn, he’s warm, all adrenaline and raw energy, wrapping those buff arms around you. He smells like sweat mixed with that crisp deodorant he loves—pure Chan, pure comfort.
You hug him back, chuckling, “You’re welcome, superstar.”
The staff’s buzzing on the other side of the room, helping the members with mics and clothes, while the others stretch and joke. But Chan? He’s not moving. His eyes lock on yours, dark and intense, hands playing with your hair.
“What?” you ask, raising a brow, half-laughing at his stare.
“I missed you,” he says, low and serious, like you didn’t wake up in his bed this morning.
You snort, rolling your eyes. “Ridiculous. We live together, dork. Here—” You grab a water bottle, shaking it at him. “Hydrate and get your ass back on stage.”
“I need you,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that husky tone that makes your knees weak.
“What?” you blink, caught off guard. “What?” he echoes, smirking like he didn’t just say that.
“What?” you fire back, laughing, but then—bam—the manager yells, “Ten minutes to stage!”
The members start filing out, but Chan’s still here, eyes burning into you.
Before you can process, he’s got you pinned against the nearest wall, your squeak echoing in the cramped space.
His hips press into yours, and oh shit—you feel exactly how serious he is, hard and ready against you.
Heat floods your face; you’re mortified at the thought of someone—staff, members, Stays—catching you, but the thrill? It’s sending you straight to the edge of heaven.
“Five minutes,” he growls, lips brushing your ear, fingers already tugging at your shirt’s hem. “That’s all I need to recharge.”
Five minutes? Yeah, right—he’s got you ready to give him forever, lost in the heat of his hands and the promise of what’s waiting at home.