Warnings: SMUT, unprotected sex (don’t be silly wrap that willy), subby felix (kinda), first time
Summary: Felix and his girlfriend, Y/N take their relationship further…
A/N: can you tell i have no clue how to come up with good titles
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The Seoul night presses against the windowpanes of Felix’s apartment. Inside, it’s warm, almost stiflingly so, thick with the scent of jasmine tea gone cold and the faint, ever-present aroma of Felix’s vanilla-sandalwood cologne that clings to everything he touches. You’re curled on his plush, gray sofa, the only light coming from the flickering glow of the TV playing some forgotten variety show at low volume.
Your head rests against his shoulder, feeling the subtle tension vibrating beneath his thin cotton t-shirt. He hasn’t said much in the last half-hour, just traced idle patterns on your arm with a fingertip that trembled almost imperceptibly.
Felix. Lee Felix. Sunshine incarnate on stage, a blur of sharp angles and blinding smiles under the concert spotlights. But here, now, pressed against you in the quiet intimacy of his living room? He’s a tightly wound spring, radiating a nervous energy that’s palpable.
You shift slightly, tilting your head to look up at him. His profile is sharp against the TV’s glow—caramel, dart towards yours for a fleeting second before skittering away, fixed resolutely on the meaningless chatter on the screen.
"Lix?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it seems loud in the thick silence.
He jumps, a full-body flinch that makes you feel a pang of guilt mixed with something hotter. "Huh? Yeah?" His voice cracks on the last syllable, high-pitched and strained. He clears his throat roughly. "Yeah, Y/N? What’s up?"
You slide your hand over his thigh, feeling the dense muscle beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants tense instantly. "You okay? You seem… jumpy." You keep your tone light, teasing almost, but the undercurrent is undeniable. The air between you hums with unspoken want. You’ve been dating for months, stolen kisses growing deeper, hands exploring with increasing boldness beneath layers of clothing. But the final frontier remains untouched. Felix’s virginity hangs between you like a tangible thing—not a burden, exactly, but a shared secret, a threshold neither of you has dared to fully acknowledge crossing until tonight’s quiet determination settled in your chest.
He swallows hard, the sound audible. You see the rapid flutter of his pulse in the delicate hollow of his throat. "Jumpy? Me? Nah. Just… tired. Long day. Practices were brutal." His attempt at nonchalance is endearing and utterly transparent. His hand, still resting on your arm, is clammy.
You push yourself up slightly, turning to face him fully. The TV light catches the sheen of sweat forming at his temples, glistening along his hairline where the dark strands are starting to stick. His breathing is shallow and quick. "Felix," you say softly, deliberately. You cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated almost entirely black, swallowing the warm brown. Fear and desire war within them, raw and unmasked. "Do you trust me?"
The question seems to punch the air out of him. He lets out a shaky breath, a small, involuntary whine escaping his lips—high, needy, utterly vulnerable. "God, Y/N… of course I trust you. You know I do." He leans into your touch on his jaw, his own hand coming up to cover yours, his fingers cold despite the warmth of the room. "It’s just… I’ve never… you know…" He trails off, cheeks flushing a deep, mortified crimson that spreads down his neck.
"I know," you soothe, brushing your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone. "And that’s okay. It’s just me. Just us." You lean in slowly, giving him ample time to pull away, but he stays frozen, those big eyes locked on yours. Your lips brush against him, a feather-light touch at first, tasting the faint salt of his sweat and the mint toothpaste he must have used hours ago. He makes another small sound against your mouth, a muffled whimper, but his lips part instantly under yours, yielding and soft.
Kissing Felix is usually like sipping sunshine—warm and bright and energizing. Tonight, it’s different. Deeper. A slow-burning fuse igniting something primal beneath the nervous surface. His hands flutter uncertainly at your waist before finally settling, gripping the fabric of your shirt tightly enough for his knuckles to whiten. You deepen the kiss, sliding your tongue tentatively along his lower lip. He gasps sharply into your mouth, a delicious little intake of breath that sends a jolt straight to your core. His own tongue meets yours hesitantly, clumsy and eager at the same time, exploring the new territory with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
You pull back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his. His breath fans hot and fast across your face. "You taste so good," you murmur, watching the shiver run through him at your words.
"I… I don’t know what I’m doing," he whispers hoarsely, a note of panic threading through the confession. His eyes search yours desperately. "What if… what if I mess up? What if I’m bad?"
"Shhh," you soothe, tracing the shell of his ear with your fingertip, making him shudder violently. "There’s no messing up. There’s just feeling. Just following what feels good." You lean in again, kissing a hot trail down the column of his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse against your lips. He lets out a choked moan this time, louder, his head falling back against the sofa cushions to give you better access.
Your hands slide beneath the hem of his t-shirt, finding the smooth, warm skin of his stomach. The muscles there contract instantly beneath your touch, rock-hard and trembling. "Can I?" you ask softly, fingers hovering at the edge of his waistband.
He nods frantically, another whimper escaping him. "Please… please touch me, Y/N." His voice is wrecked already, strained and high with need. It’s incredibly sexy—this raw vulnerability mixed with desperate want.
You push the shirt up slowly, revealing the defined planes of his abs, the sculpted chest dusted with fine dark hair. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, all lean muscle and smooth skin flushed pink with arousal and nerves. You lower your head, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his collarbone, down towards a peaked nipple. When your tongue flicks over the taut bud, he cries out—a sharp, startled sound that echoes in the quiet room. His back arches off the sofa cushion, pushing himself further into your mouth. "Fuck! Oh god… that… please…"
His hands are suddenly everywhere and nowhere—tangled in your hair, gripping your shoulder, then fluttering helplessly against your back. His hips make small, involuntary thrusts against nothing, seeking friction. You tease his nipple with your teeth gently, then soothe it with your tongue, loving the broken sounds spilling from his lips—whines and moans and breathless gasps that sound almost like sobs.
Your hand drifts lower, tracing the defined V-line leading down into his sweatpants. You can feel the hard ridge of his erection straining against the fabric. His whole body tenses as your fingers brush over it lightly through the material. "F-Fuck," he gasps, his hips jerking upwards involuntarily. "Y/N… please… I need…"
His eyes are squeezed shut now, long dark lashes fanning against his flushed cheeks. His lower lip is bitten raw. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers together, pushing them down just enough to free his cock.
It springs free, thick and hard and flushed a deep crimson, curving proudly upwards towards his stomach. A bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip. He’s big, impressively so, and incredibly beautiful in his arousal. He makes a sound like he’s been punched when the cool air hits him, his eyes flying open wide with shock and intense vulnerability.
"Look at you," you breathe, wrapping your hand around him slowly. The velvety heat of his skin against your palm is electric. He’s burning hot and hard as steel beneath your touch. He cries out again, a high-pitched whine that dissolves into a choked moan as you give him one slow stroke from base to tip, your thumb smearing the slickness gathered there.
"Ah! Nghh… oh god…" His hips buck helplessly into your hand. "S-So sensitive… feels… too much… but good… so good…" His words are fragmented gasps. He’s trembling violently now, every muscle in his body coiled tight as a bowstring. Sweat slicks his forehead and chest.
You lean down again, replacing your hand with your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the swollen head, tasting him, salt and musk and something uniquely Felix. The sound he makes is inhuman—a guttural cry ripped from deep inside his chest. His hands fist in your hair almost painfully as his hips lift off the sofa completely.
"Y/N! Please! Wait… I’m gonna… I can’t…" His voice is strangled with panic and overwhelming sensation.
You pull back immediately, looking up at him. His face is contorted with intense pleasure just shy of pain, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. "It’s okay," you soothe quickly, stroking his thigh with your free hand while the other maintains a loose hold on his cock, feeling it throb violently against your palm. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."
He gulps in air like a drowning man, chest heaving. "S-Sorry," he whimpers, looking utterly mortified but still achingly hard in your grip. "It just… felt so… intense." He closes his eyes again, a tear escaping to track down his temple into his hairline.
"No sorries," you murmur, leaning up to kiss him deeply again. He kisses back desperately now, hungrily, tasting himself faintly on your lips. His hands roam down your back, clumsy but urgent, fumbling with the clasp of your bra beneath your shirt. You help him guide it open, shrugging off your own top and bra in one fluid motion. The sudden cool air on your bare skin makes you gasp, but the heat in Felix’s gaze as he takes you in is far more potent.
His eyes are huge, dark pools of pure lust now, any remaining nervousness momentarily eclipsed by primal hunger. "Fuck… you’re so beautiful," he breathes hoarsely, his hands hovering over your breasts like they’re sacred artifacts before finally cupping them reverently. His thumbs brush over your nipples, making you arch into his touch with a low moan of your own.
The shift in atmosphere is sudden and powerful. The nervous boy is still there, you can feel the slight tremor in his hands, but something else has clicked into place: raw, untamed desire overriding fear. He pushes you back gently onto the sofa cushions, following you down so he’s hovering over you. His kiss is suddenly demanding, possessive even, his tongue delving deep into your mouth as one hand leaves your breast to trail down your stomach and slide beneath the waistband of your leggings and panties.
His touch is hesitant at first as he encounters your wetness, his fingertips exploring your folds with clumsy wonder. A low groan rumbles in his chest when he feels how slick you are for him. "So wet," he murmurs against your lips, voice thick with awe. "For me?" His finger slides lower, finding your entrance but not pushing in yet.
"Yes," you gasp as he rubs slow circles around your clit instead, making stars burst behind your eyelids. "All for you, Lix."
His experimentation grows bolder as he learns what makes you gasp and writhe beneath him. The clumsy circling becomes more focused pressure as he watches your face intently. He dips a finger inside you shallowly, encountering tight heat that makes him groan again.
"Fuck… so tight," he breathes, eyes wide with wonder as he feels your inner muscles flutter around his fingertip. He pushes deeper slowly, carefully watching your expression for any sign of discomfort. There's none—only desperate need reflected back at him.
The sight of him like this—so focused on pleasuring you, his pupils blown wide with lust and concentration—is unbearably erotic. His brow is furrowed slightly in concentration as he moves his finger inside you in a tentative come-hither motion that hits a spot deep inside that makes you cry out.
"Yes! Right there! Fuck, Felix!" You buck against his hand.
He groans at your reaction, adding a second finger slowly as you clench around him. The stretch burns deliciously. "Like that?" he asks, his voice rough and strained as he focuses intently on curling his fingers inside you just right. "You feel… fuck… you feel incredible inside."
He bends his head to capture one of your nipples in his mouth while his fingers continue their delicious torment inside you. The dual sensation, hot suction on your breast and those clever fingers hitting your sweet spot—is overwhelming. Pleasure coils tight in your belly like a live wire.
"Lix… I need you inside me," you gasp out when you can’t take anymore teasing. "Please… now."
He freezes for a second above you, fingers stilling inside you. The nervousness flickers back into his eyes briefly, that deer-in-headlights look, quickly overtaken by intense arousal and determination.
"Yeah?" he breathes, pulling his fingers out slowly and staring down at you with such raw need it steals your breath. "You sure? I won’t… hurt you?"
"Positive," you assure him, reaching down to guide him towards your entrance. His cock is slick with pre-cum and your own arousal now, hot and heavy against your inner thigh.
He positions himself awkwardly at first, fumbling slightly with one hand on himself while trying to support his weight on the other. You can feel the head of him pressing against you, big and blunt and demanding entrance.
"Okay?" he whispers again, looking down at where your bodies meet with intense focus.
"So okay," you murmur back.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath that shakes his entire frame. Then he pushes forward slowly, so agonizingly slowly, watching your face intently for any sign of pain.
The initial stretch is intense—he’s thick and you’re tight—but the burn quickly gives way to overwhelming fullness as he inches deeper inside you.
Felix makes a sound unlike anything you’ve ever heard, a choked sob mixed with a guttural groan of pure pleasure as he feels himself enveloped by your heat. He stops when he’s fully sheathed inside you, buried to the hilt.
"F-fuck," he stammers out on a shaky exhale. "Oh my god… Y/N… it’s… it’s so much." Sweat drips from his chin onto your chest as he trembles violently above you. "S-So tight… so hot… fuck." He drops his forehead against yours for a moment as if trying to regain control.
You can feel him inside you, every inch stretched deliciously around him, feel the frantic pulse of him buried deep within you. He feels huge and overwhelming and perfect.
"Move," you whisper against his lips. "Please move."
He whines low in his throat again, that sound of overwhelmed vulnerability mixed with desperate need, before pulling back slowly until just the head remains inside you.
The drag of him pulling out is exquisite torture. Then he pushes forward again with more confidence this time, seating himself fully inside you with a deep groan that vibrates through both of you.
"Fuck," he gasps against your neck as he begins to move—slow, deep thrusts that stroke every nerve ending inside you with relentless pressure. His rhythm is awkward at first—too shallow or too deep—but he quickly finds a steady pace that works for both of you as he learns your body.
His breathing is ragged in your ear, shallow gasps punctuated by broken whimpers and soft groans of pleasure each time he sheathes himself fully inside you.
"Feel so good," he pants against your skin between thrusts. "So fucking tight… wrapped around me… squeezing me… fuck!" His hips snap forward sharply as he says this.
He lifts himself slightly on his elbows so he can watch where you're joined, mesmerized by the sight of his cock sliding in and out of you slickly with each slow thrust.
The vulnerability is still there, in the slight shake of his arms holding himself up, but it’s now completely fused with an intense masculine power as he moves inside you with increasing confidence.
One of his hands slides between your bodies to find your clit again, rubbing circles over it while he thrusts steadily inside you.
The dual stimulation is too much, intense pressure coiling tighter and tighter low in your belly.
"I'm close," you gasp out, unable to hold back any longer as pleasure crests inside you.
This seems to snap something inside Felix even further, a final release of any lingering nervousness replaced by pure possessive desire.
His thrusts become harder, deeper, faster, each one punching a desperate moan from both of you as he chases his own climax while helping you reach yours.
"Come for me," he demands hoarsely, breathlessly, against your lips, rubbing your clit frantically now as he pounds into you relentlessly, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours as he fucks you hard enough to make the sofa frame creak beneath you both.
His command combined with the relentless pressure inside you finally tips you over—pleasure detonating through every nerve ending in blinding white heat as you clamp down hard around him—crying out his name as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.
Feeling your inner muscles clamp and flutter around him violently as you climax is too much for Felix to withstand any longer.
He lets out a broken cry that sounds suspiciously like a sob—burying himself deep inside you one last time—grinding against you as he comes violently inside you with sharp thrusts that shudder through both your bodies as he spills himself hotly within you, pulsing again and again as he empties himself completely into your welcoming warmth.
For long moments afterward—there’s nothing but ragged breathing filling the quiet room— punctuated only by the distant sounds of late-night Seoul filtering faintly through the windowpanes.
Summary: Chans always wanted to see you get fucked…
A/N: someone asked me to write this but i forgot who lol
The air in Chan’s apartment hangs thick and warm, smelling faintly of stale beer, expensive cologne, and the lingering sweetness of the takeout pizza box still open on the coffee table. Bass-heavy music thrums through the floorboards, muted just enough for conversation but still vibrating in your chest. You’re perched on the deep, charcoal grey sofa, nursing a lukewarm beer.
Opposite you, Minho sprawls with predatory ease in an armchair, his sharp eyes tracking you over the rim of his own bottle. His usual playful smirk feels different tonight—heavier, loaded. Intense.
Chan isn’t opposite you. He’s standing by the large window overlooking the city lights, back mostly turned, a silhouette against the glittering sprawl. He hasn’t said much since Minho arrived, just poured drinks and let the music fill the silence. But you feel his presence like a physical weight, a coiled tension radiating from his still form. You catch him glancing back, his dark eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before flicking away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. There’s a hunger there, raw and barely contained.
"You look tense, Y/N," Minho drawls, his voice a low purr that cuts through the music. He sets his empty bottle down with a decisive clink. "Chan-hyung’s fancy sofa not comfy enough for you?" He stretches languidly, the movement pulling his thin black t-shirt tight across his chest. His gaze dips deliberately down your body, lingering on the strip of skin exposed between your crop top and jeans.
You shift slightly, the leather sticking to the backs of your thighs. "It’s fine," you manage, your voice sounding too high. The atmosphere is charged, electric. It’s not just Minho’s obvious flirtation; it’s Chan’s watchful silence by the window. It feels like waiting for a storm to break.
Minho chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. He pushes himself up from the chair in one fluid motion and walks towards you. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you, his knees almost brushing yours. He smells like spice and something vaguely smoky.
"Fine?" he echoes, tilting his head. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, the touch surprisingly gentle but sending a jolt straight down your spine. "Doesn’t look fine." His thumb traces the line of your jaw, calloused skin rough against yours. "Looks like you need… loosening up."
Behind Minho, you see Chan turn fully now. He’s leaning against the window frame, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just watches. His eyes are dark pools in the low light, fixed unblinkingly on Minho’s hand on your face. The raw intensity of his stare steals your breath.
Minho notices your glance towards Chan. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his lips. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear. "He likes to watch, you know," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries in the tense silence. "Has been wanting this." His hand slides down from your jaw to cradle the back of your neck, his grip firm. "Wants to see me fuck you."
The crude word, spoken so bluntly while Chan’s hungry gaze burns into you, sends a hot wave of dizzying arousal crashing through your core. Your thighs clench instinctively. Minho sees it, feels the slight tremor that runs through you. His other hand lands on your knee, fingers digging in slightly as he pushes your legs apart, settling himself firmly between them.
"Look at him," Minho commands softly, tilting your chin up slightly so your eyes meet Chan’s across the room. Chan’s expression is unreadable except for the fierce blaze in his eyes and the tight set of his mouth. His knuckles are white where he grips his own biceps. He gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.
Minho doesn’t waste time. His mouth crashes down on yours. It’s all teeth and tongue and desperate pressure. One hand fists in your hair, holding you in place, while the other slides roughly up your thigh, under the hem of your top, finding your bare breast. His thumb flicks roughly over your nipple, already hard through the thin fabric of your bra. You gasp into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.
He breaks away just long enough to yank your top off over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows a second later, hooks popping open with a sharp sound. Cool air hits your skin, making your nipples peak even harder. Minho’s gaze rakes over you, hot and appreciative, before he dives back in, mouth closing hungrily over one breast, sucking hard enough to bruise. His hand snakes down between your legs, palming you roughly over your jeans.
You arch against him with a choked moan, your head falling back against the sofa cushion. Your eyes instinctively seek out Chan again. He hasn’t moved an inch. He’s transfixed, his gaze locked onto Minho’s mouth on your breast, Minho’s hand grinding against your clothed pussy. You see his chest rise and fall faster. One hand has dropped from his bicep to grip the window frame so hard you can see the tendons standing out.
"Fuck, you’re soaked already," Minho growls against your skin, pulling back slightly to look down at where his hand presses against your jeans. He unbuttons them roughly, yanking them and your panties down your hips in one impatient movement. The cool leather of the sofa meets your bare ass. Minho shoves your legs wider apart, kneeling between them on the floor.
His fingers find your slit immediately, not teasing, just plunging two thick fingers deep inside you without warning. You cry out at the sudden invasion, back arching off the sofa. "Christ," he breathes, watching his fingers disappear inside you, pumping slowly, deliberately. "Look at that." He glances up at Chan. "See how fucking wet she is for me, hyung? Ready and dripping."
Chan’s eyes are glued to Minho’s fingers working inside you. He licks his lips unconsciously. A low groan rumbles in his chest, barely audible over the music and your own ragged breathing.
Minho withdraws his fingers, slick and glistening in the dim light. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a filthy, deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. "Taste fucking perfect." Then he’s unbuckling his own belt, the metallic clink loud in the charged air. He shoves his jeans and briefs down just far enough to free his cock. It springs out, thick and already fully hard, the head flushed dark and leaking.
He spits into his palm, giving himself a few rough strokes, spreading the slickness before positioning himself at your entrance. He holds your hips firmly, pinning you to the sofa. His eyes flick past you to Chan one more time, a silent question or maybe just a taunt.
Chan doesn’t look away. He just nods again, sharper this time, a command.
Minho thrusts home in one brutal, deep stroke. You scream—a raw sound ripped from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you wide. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give you time to adjust. He sets a punishing rhythm immediately, hips snapping forward with brutal efficiency. The leather sofa creaks violently under the force of his thrusts.
"Fuck! Yes!" Minho grunts, his head thrown back, muscles straining in his neck. His grip on your hips is bruising. "Take it! Fucking take it!"
The angle is deep, each thrust hammering against your most sensitive spot. Pleasure spikes through you, sharp and overwhelming, tangled with the ache of being stretched so hard and fast. Your cries are gasps now, punched out with every slam of his hips. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity.
And through it all, Chan watches. His breathing is ragged now, matching the rhythm Minho pounds into you. One hand is clenched at his side, the other still gripping the window frame like a lifeline. His gaze is molten lava—focused entirely on where Minho’s cock disappears into your body, on the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, on your face contorted with a mix of pain and desperate pleasure.
"Look at her," Minho pants, driving into you relentlessly. "Look how fucking good she takes it." He leans forward, bracing one hand on the sofa beside your head, fucking you even deeper. "Wanna see her come on my cock? Wanna see her scream?"
Chan makes a strangled sound deep in his throat. He pushes off from the window frame. He doesn’t rush; he moves with deliberate slowness across the room towards the sofa, his eyes never leaving the frantic joining of your bodies.
Minho sees him coming and grins savagely. He slows his pace slightly, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in hard enough to make you sob. "Yeah? You want in on this, hyung? Want a taste?"
Chan reaches the edge of the sofa. He towers over you both for a moment, his presence immense. The raw need on his face is terrifying and exhilarating. His gaze locks onto yours for a heartbeat, an unspoken question filled with fire, before dropping down to where you’re impaled on Minho’s cock.
Without a word, Chan drops to his knees beside Minho on the floor. His large hands land on your trembling thighs, pushing them wider apart, exposing you even more completely to both their gazes. His touch is electric.
Then he leans down.
His mouth is hot and demanding as it covers your clit. He doesn't tease; he sucks hard and flicks his tongue over the swollen nub with ruthless expertise while Minho continues to piston into you from below. The dual sensation is blinding, the deep, stretching fullness of Minho’s cock pounding your G-spot and Chan’s mouth working magic on your clit.
You shatter instantly.
Your orgasm explodes like white-hot shrapnel tearing through every nerve ending. Your back bows off the sofa as an endless scream rips from your throat—wordless, primal. Your inner walls clamp down hard on Minho’s cock in uncontrollable spasms.
"Fuck YES!" Minho roars above you, slamming into you harder as he feels you convulse around him. "There it is! Look at her fucking lose it!" He leans over you again, his sweat dripping onto your stomach as he fucks you through your climax.
Chan doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking and licking relentlessly, drawing out every last shuddering pulse of your orgasm until it borders on painful oversensitivity. You writhe under their combined assault, whimpering helplessly.
Minho groans, a deep guttural sound of impending release. "Gonna fill her up… fuck!" His thrusts become erratic, losing their brutal rhythm. He buries himself to the hilt inside you and holds there as he comes, pulsing hotly deep within you. You feel the wet heat flooding you as he shudders above you.
He collapses forward slightly onto you for a second, panting heavily against your shoulder.
Chan finally lifts his head from between your legs. His lips and chin are slick with your wetness. He stares up at you, his eyes blazing with unchecked lust. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but doesn't look away.
Minho pulls out slowly with a wet sound that makes you flinch slightly. A gush of his come leaks out of you onto the leather sofa. He stays kneeling between your legs for a moment, catching his breath.
Chan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Minho’s shoulder firmly—not pushing him away so much as claiming the space. His other hand lands possessively on your hip.
"Move," he tells Minho, his voice rough gravel.
Minho smirks faintly but doesn't argue. He pushes himself up and back onto his knees beside Chan on the floor, giving him full access to you.
Chan runs his gaze over your wrecked body, flushed skin glistening with sweat, breasts heaving, thighs trembling and sticky with sweat and spend. His eyes fixate on your pussy, swollen and gaping slightly from Minho’s assault, glistening with a mixture of your arousal and Minho’s release leaking onto the leather.
The fire in his eyes ignites into an inferno.
He moves forward between your legs that are still spread wide apart from Minho’s earlier grip. His large hands push them even wider apart now as he kneels on the floor just like Minho had done earlier only moments ago but this time it feels different – heavier somehow – because now Chan isn't just watching anymore; he's taking charge completely without saying another word about what happens next.
hey i was wondering if you could do a handy man hyunjin smut! after seeing that one episode of him i need him to fix my life
!HANDYMAN!
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Paring: Handyman!Hyunjin x Fem!Reader
WC: 1977
Warnings: SMUT
Summary: Y/N’s sink is broken, hopefully the handyman she hired can help her…
A/N: somebody said that i used to much big words so i changed up my writing a bit, lmk if you prefer this style or the other!! also thank you for all the love!!
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*
The July sun beat down like a physical weight as you stood in your tiny kitchen, staring helplessly at the sink that had escalated from a drip to a full-blown geyser overnight. You’d tried. Really. But YouTube tutorials only went so far, and your knuckles were scraped raw from wrestling with ancient, corroded pipes. Defeated, you’d called the number on the slightly grimy flyer tucked under your windshield wiper: "Hwang Handyman Services."
And then he arrived.
Hyunjin filled your doorway, taller and broader than you remembered from the blurry community page photo. Sweat beaded at his temples, darkening the collar of his faded grey t-shirt that clung to lean muscle. Worn jeans hung low on his hips, secured by a thick belt weighed down by a heavy tool pouch. He smelled like sun-warmed skin, sawdust, and clean sweat.
"Y/N? Sink emergency?" His voice was a low rumble, smooth but with an underlying edge that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.
"Yeah," you managed, gesturing weakly towards the disaster zone. "It's... rebelling."
He gave a curt nod, dropping his heavy toolbox onto your linoleum floor with a thud that echoed in the cramped space. He didn't waste words. Crouching low, he slid under the sink cabinet on his back. Your view was instantly arrested by the way his jeans stretched taut over his ass, the t-shirt riding up to reveal a tempting strip of tanned skin and the defined dip of his lower back muscles. The rhythmic clinking of tools and muffled curses provided a strangely intimate soundtrack.
Suddenly, a sharp CRACK echoed, followed by a furious hiss.
"Fuck!" Hyunjin scrambled out just as a jet of cold water erupted from a severed pipe, drenching him from chest to face. He shot up, dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, grey t-shirt utterly transparent and clinging to every hard ridge of his torso. Water streamed down his jaw, tracing paths over the defined lines of his throat and collarbone.
"Shit! Are you okay?" You lunged forward with a dish towel, your own heart hammering.
He swiped water from his eyes, blinking rapidly. His gaze, dark and intense, locked onto yours, annoyance melting into something hotter, sharper as he took in your proximity. He pushed his wet hair back, revealing sharp cheekbones and a predatory focus that made your breath catch. "Valve blew," he muttered, his voice rougher now. Water dripped steadily from his chin onto his soaked shirt, plastering it even tighter. You could see the dark circles of his nipples, every ripple of his abs.
"Here," you whispered, thrusting the towel towards him.
His fingers brushed yours as he took it. A jolt of electricity sizzled up your arm. He didn't dry himself. He just held your gaze, the towel dangling forgotten in his hand. The air crackled—thick with the scent of damp cotton, male sweat, and pure, unspoken tension. His eyes raked over your face, lingering on your lips.
"You're soaked," you breathed, stating the obvious because your brain was fogged with lust.
A slow, dangerous smirk curved his lips. "Yeah," he rasped, taking a deliberate step closer. His heat radiated against you. "Distracting you?" His gaze dropped pointedly to where his wet shirt revealed every contour of his chest.
"Very," you admitted, your voice husky.
He lifted the towel slowly, deliberately… but bypassed his own face. Instead, he dabbed gently at a spot of water high on your collarbone. The rough terrycloth felt shockingly intimate against your skin. His knuckle brushed the strap of your tank top.
"You got sprayed too," he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow, burning line along your collarbone. His gaze flickered down to your lips again. When it snapped back up, the hunger was raw, undeniable. "Better?" His voice was pure gravel.
You couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Every nerve ending screamed under his touch.
He saw your answer. That half-smirk vanished, replaced by pure feral intent.
The towel hit the wet floor with a splat.
His hands shot up, framing your face, calloused palms rough against your cheeks. "No more talking," he growled, the command vibrating through your bones.
His mouth crashed down on yours. It wasn't a kiss; it was a claiming. Hard, possessive lips devoured yours, his tongue sweeping in without hesitation to tangle fiercely with yours. He tasted like rainwater and something darkly male. You gasped against him, your hands flying to grip his soaked t-shirt, feeling the hard muscle beneath flex as he yanked you flush against him. Your bodies collided—the heat of his wet clothes searing through your thin top, the hard ridge of his erection already pressing insistently against your belly through his jeans.
He groaned, deep and guttural. One hand fisted in your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back for deeper access. The other slid down your back, gripping your ass hard and grinding you against the thick bulge straining his zipper.
"Fuck," he hissed against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to trail burning, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to the frantic pulse in your throat. His teeth scraped lightly, making you whimper and arch against him. "Knew you'd feel this good." His hand under your top found bare skin at your waist, fingers digging in possessively.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes black with lust. "Wanna get me out of these wet clothes?" he challenged, his thumb hooking into your waistband.
You didn't hesitate. Your fingers fumbled with the heavy buckle of his tool belt. It clattered heavily to the floor. Then you yanked at the hem of his soaked t-shirt. He helped, pulling it over his head in one swift motion and tossing it aside. Your breath hitched. His chest was sculpted perfection—defined pecs, hard ridges of abs glistening with water droplets, a light dusting of dark hair trailing down into the waistband of his jeans. The scent of him intensified—pure male musk mixed with damp skin.
"Your turn," he demanded roughly, already tugging at your tank top. You raised your arms, letting him pull it off. The cool air hit your skin, followed instantly by the heat of his gaze raking over your breasts in your simple bra. He growled low in his throat.
He spun you around roughly, pressing your front against the cool edge of the kitchen counter. His body covered yours from behind, hot and solid. One hand snaked around your front, roughly palming your breast over your bra while the other worked frantically at the button and zip of your shorts. They slid down your hips, pooling at your ankles with your panties caught in the tangle. Cool air kissed your bare ass.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathed, his voice thick with lust. His fingers slid down your stomach, rough fingertips tracing the curve of your hip before dipping between your thighs without preamble. He found you soaked, slick heat already gathering. A thick finger slid through your folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit roughly.
You cried out, pushing back against him.
"Yeah? That's it," he murmured darkly, pressing hot kisses to the back of your neck while his fingers worked you. One finger pushed inside you easily, curling upwards, finding that sweet spot that made your knees buckle. "So fucking wet for me already." He added a second finger, stretching you, pumping them in and out with a crude rhythm that sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His thumb kept relentless pressure on your clit.
"Hyunjin!" Your moan was ragged.
"Need to be inside this tight little cunt," he growled against your ear, his breath hot. He withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving you clenching around emptiness. You heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of denim being shoved down his hips.
He pressed against you again, his cock hot and thick against the cleft of your ass. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise while the other guided himself to your entrance. The broad head nudged against you, slick with your own arousal. He didn't ask. He didn't tease.
With a low grunt of pure need, he slammed into you in one powerful thrust.
"Ahh! FUCK!" You gasped at the sudden stretch, the exquisite burn of being filled completely by his thick cock. He was big—bigger than you’d imagined—stretching you wide open. He held himself deep for a second, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.
"God damn... so fucking tight," he groaned, his voice strained. Then he pulled back almost all the way out before driving into you again, hard and deep. The force rocked you forward against the countertop.
He set a brutal pace immediately, no gentle build-up. Each powerful thrust punched the breath from your lungs, the base of his cock grinding against your clit on every drive home. The sounds were filthy: the slick slap of skin on skin, his harsh grunts in your ear, your own choked cries echoing in the small kitchen. Sweat slicked both of you now, mingling with the drying spray from the pipe.
His grip on your hip was iron-tight, holding you in place as he fucked into you with relentless force. His other hand slid up from your hip to grip your throat loosely, not choking, but holding you possessively. The dominance of it sent another wave of slick heat flooding around his cock.
"Take it," he commanded roughly against the shell of your ear. "Take every fucking inch." He punctuated each word with a punishing thrust that made you see stars.
You pushed back against him, meeting his force with yours, lost in the raw sensation of being filled so completely. The counter dug into your hips, the linoleum floor cold under your bare feet, but none of it mattered compared to the friction of his cock pistoning inside you, stretching you impossibly wider with every stroke.
"Gonna come in this sweet pussy," he snarled, his rhythm becoming even more frantic, erratic. "Fill you up." His fingers tightened slightly on your throat as he buried himself impossibly deep.
The pressure built rapidly inside you—a coil tightening beyond endurance. The rough drag of him inside you, the relentless pressure on your clit from his thrusts, the possessive growls in your ear… it overwhelmed you. Your orgasm tore through you violently—a white-hot explosion that made you scream his name, clenching hard around him like a vice.
"Fuck YES!" he roared as your inner walls spasmed around him. His thrusts turned jagged, desperate. Three more brutal drives and he slammed home one final time with a guttural groan that vibrated through your entire body. You felt the hot pulse deep inside you as he came, filling you in thick spurts, his body shuddering violently against yours.
He stayed buried deep for long moments, both of you panting raggedly, slick with sweat and exertion. His forehead rested against the back of your neck. The only sounds were your harsh breaths and the persistent drip… drip… drip from the broken pipe under the sink he’d never fixed. His softening cock was still inside you when he finally pulled out slowly, making you gasp at the sudden emptiness and the slick trail that followed him.
He turned you around roughly to face him. His eyes were still dark with lust, though sated for now. Water dripped from his hair onto his bare shoulders as he looked down at you. He ran a calloused thumb possessively over your swollen bottom lip, smearing a drop of sweat or maybe his own release. A slow, satisfied smirk touched his lips.
"Guess I found something else that needed fixing," he rumbled. His hand slid down over your bare hip to cup your ass cheek firmly. "Might need a follow-up call."
could I request for a Changbin x fem reader that the reader has been acting like a brat all day, teasing him while they are doing errands and just basically pissing him off
And so when they get back to their apartment or house whatever you want, Changbin puts reader in her place.
had this in my mind alll day.. need him so badddd
!PISSED!
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*
Paring: Dom!Changbin x Brat!fem!reader
WC: 2244
Warnings: SMUT, unprotected sex (don’t be silly and wrap that willy), changbin muscles, language
Summary: Y/N has been annoying Changbin since he’s woken up, he has to teach her who’s in charge…
A/N: i’ve never written anything brat related before so i hope i did okay lmaooo, also thank you for all the love on the last fic 🩷
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*
The fluorescent hellscape of MegaMart buzzed like a dying insect colony overhead. You trailed behind Changbin, two deliberate steps back, savoring the rigid set of his shoulders under the worn black hoodie. The brattiness had started over burnt toast at breakfast, escalated with critique of his driving "Aggressive much?", and hit its stride here amidst the canned goods and despair.
He paused by the oatmeal. "Instant or rolled?" The question was clipped, tight.
You leaned against a display of sugary cereal, examining a chipped nail. "Rolled," you sighed, dripping faux weariness. "The instant stuff tastes like damp sawdust. Honestly, Bin, your taste buds broken?" You knew instant was his weekday fuel.
His jaw muscle pulsed like a trapped heartbeat. He grabbed a canister of rolled oats and slammed it into the basket hard enough to make the metal ring. "Right. Sawdust. Noted."
In produce, he inspected bell peppers, one green, one red.
"Ooh, careful," you chirped, leaning in so close your breath feathered the shell of his ear. He stiffened. "That green one’s got a bruise. Probably teeming with E. coli. Trying to kill us?" You gave the offending pepper a poke.
He didn’t turn. Knuckles bone-white on the basket handle. He swapped the pepper with robotic precision, holding the new one aloft like a trophy he resented. "Satisfied?"
"Barely," you sniffed, turning to plop two outrageously priced organic berry punnets into the basket without glancing his way.
A slow, audible exhale hissed through his nose. "Y/N. Budget."
You batted your lashes. "Antioxidants, Binnie! For your grumpy old-man heart! Ungrateful." Your finger traced a slow, provocative line down his tense forearm. He jerked away as if electrocuted.
At the dairy fridge, his hand reached for the store-brand milk. You gasped, loud enough to turn a nearby shopper’s head. "That swill? Tastes like despair squeezed from a factory-farmed cow." You grabbed the diamond-encrusted organic bottle and dropped it into the basket with a thud. "We deserve luxury."
He finally snapped his head around. His dark eyes weren't just narrowed; they were black holes of contained fury under the harsh fluorescents. His voice dropped to a subsonic growl, vibrating in your bones beneath the supermarket din: "Put. It. Back."
You met his gaze, all wide-eyed innocence laced with a spark of defiance. "Make me."
For one frozen, electric second, you saw it – the predator finally spotting the rabbit that’s danced too close to the den. Then a terrifying calm descended over his features, cold and impenetrable as ice. He snatched the expensive milk out and replaced it with the cheap jug. "Done."
The drive home was a silent pressure cooker. The only sounds: the engine’s rumble and your deliberately loud sighs. You could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the acrid tang of his frustration cutting through his usual sandalwood scent.
He parked with brutal precision, killed the engine with a savage twist of the key. Slammed his door like he wanted to shatter it. You took your sweet time—unbuckling slowly, checking your reflection in the visor mirror, fluffing your hair.
He was already at the trunk, hauling grocery bags onto the sidewalk with enough force to make cans clatter inside. You sauntered over. "Need help?" you purred, knowing he wouldn’t accept.
Ignored. He hefted four heavy bags, biceps straining the hoodie sleeves into tight cords, and stalked towards your apartment building’s slightly grimy lobby. You followed, humming an off-key pop song just to grate. The elevator ride up vibrated with his silent rage. You leaned against the mirrored wall, watching his rigid reflection.
The apartment door unlocked. He shouldered it open, dumped the bags just inside with a crash that sent a can rolling under the couch. You stepped in, kicked off your shoes dramatically. "Ugh, exhausting. I need wine."
The deadbolt slammed home behind you. A sound like a gunshot in the sudden quiet.
You froze mid-step towards the kitchen.
Slowly, you turned.
Changbin stood with his back against the door, blocking it entirely. Not looking at the spilled groceries. Looking only at you. The playful anger you’d stoked had vanished, replaced by something terrifyingly still and lethally focused. His dark eyes pinned you like a specimen.
"Finished?" His voice was low velvet stretched over steel.
A sliver of real unease pierced your bravado. You lifted your chin. "I don't—"
He pushed off the door, crossing the space in two predatory strides. He didn’t grab; he engulfed. One arm banded around your waist like an iron bar, yanking you flush against his hard chest. The other hand fisted brutally in your hair at the nape, wrenching your head back until your neck screamed and tears pricked your eyes. His scent – sweat, sandalwood, pure, unadulterated fury – was a physical assault.
"You," he breathed, lips inches from yours, his voice vibrating with barely leashed violence, "have been pushing every single fucking button I own since dawn." His grip tightened on your hair, scalp burning. "Critiquing me. Undermining me. Playing the spoiled fucking brat."
His free hand slid down your back, palming your ass hard enough to bruise, hauling you impossibly tighter against the rigid heat already pressing against your stomach. "Thought it was funny? Thought there wouldn't be payback?" He leaned down, nose brushing yours. His breath scorched your lips. "Wanted my attention? You've fucking got it."
He didn’t kiss you. He used the grip in your hair to steer you backwards like a misbehaving animal, marching you relentlessly across the living room towards your bedroom door. Your feet scrambled, stumbling over each other as he forced you backwards. Panic warred with a traitorous spike of heat low in your belly.
"Changbin—" you choked out.
"Shut it," he snarled, kicking your bedroom door open and propelling you inside. He released your hair only to slam the door shut behind him. The lock clicked with chilling finality. Dim afternoon light cut through the blinds in dusty shafts. He crowded you instantly, backing you up against the locked door, his body crushing yours against the wood. One hand fisted in your shirt front; the other anchored on your hip.
"Think this is a joke?" His voice was a low, controlled snarl. His eyes bored into yours, seeing the fear flicker there. "Think winding me up like a fucking toy all day is entertainment?"
He released your shirt only to cup your jaw brutally, forcing your gaze captive. His thumb pressed hard against your bottom lip. "That smirk? That sigh? That constant fucking commentary?" He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, whispering venom: "I'm going to wipe them off your fucking face."
His mouth crashed down on yours, a punishment, not a kiss. Brutal, demanding, stealing breath and reason. His tongue invaded, claiming your mouth with aggressive possession. One hand stayed fisted in your hair; the other groped your ass roughly through your jeans, grinding you against the hard ridge of his cock straining against his zipper.
He broke away from your bruised lips only to trail sharp bites down your jawline to your pulse point. "All fucking day," he growled, sinking his teeth deep enough to make you cry out—a sound instantly choked off as his hand clamped back over your mouth like a vise. Palm rough and suffocating against your lips. "Uh-uh," he rasped against your ear, breath hot and damp. "You talked enough today."
His hand moved from your ass to your jeans button. Popped it open with brutal efficiency. The zipper rasped down like tearing metal. Fingers slid beneath waistband and underwear, shoving both down your hips and thighs in one violent motion. Cool air hit your exposed skin as they pooled at your ankles.
His hand slammed back over your mouth instantly as he kicked your discarded clothes aside. His gaze raked over you, flushed face half-smothered by his palm, chest heaving against your shirt, legs bare, with dark satisfaction.
"Now," he commanded, voice thick with danger. He stepped back slightly, undoing his belt buckle with one hand – a sharp, metallic clink that echoed in the charged silence, eyes never leaving yours above his muffling palm. "Time for quiet."
He grabbed you again, not by the shoulders this time. One massive hand tangled back into your hair near the crown, wrenching hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes as he forcibly bent you forward at the waist. Simultaneously, his other arm snaked around your upper body from behind, thick, corded muscle flexing under sweat-damp skin, and clamped across your collarbones like a steel bar.
The Chokehold.
His bicep pressed hard into the base of your throat, not enough to cut off air completely, but enough to trap sound and make every breath a conscious effort. It was a wrestler's hold, a fighter's control, raw power and absolute dominance pinning you in place, bent forward over nothing but air.
"Down," he growled, the word vibrating against your back where his chest pressed close.
He used his grip on your hair and the vise-like arm across your throat to force you lower, bending you further until your palms slapped flat against the cool wood of your bedroom door for balance. Your ass was presented high in the air, exposed and vulnerable, your back arched sharply. His massive arm remained locked across your upper chest and throat like an unyielding collar, his bicep bulging against your windpipe.
You were trapped. Bent double. Pinned by his strength. The wood grain of the door blurred beneath your tear-filled eyes. Your gasps were choked, pathetic little wheezes against his crushing forearm.
"No clever comments now?" His voice was a dark rumble right behind you, laced with cruel triumph. The sound of his zipper lowering was obscene in the stillness. Then you felt it, the thick, heavy head of his cock pressing against your bare entrance, already slick with your unwanted arousal.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t prepare you further.
He sheathed himself in one brutal thrust.
The invasion was shocking in its completeness, its merciless depth. A ragged scream tore from your throat but died instantly against the unyielding pressure of his arm. It became a choked gargle, tears spilling freely now onto the door beneath your hands.
He held himself deep for a heartbeat, buried to the hilt inside your trembling body, letting you feel every pulsing inch of him stretching you impossibly wide. His arm tightened fractionally across your throat.
"Feel that?" he ground out against the back of your sweat-damp neck. His breath was scorching. "Feel how deep I am inside you? How fucking owned you are right now?" He punctuated it with a minute roll of his hips, grinding impossibly deeper. Another muffled sob vibrated against his arm.
Then he moved.
His thrusts weren't frantic; they were deliberate, punishing pistons driving deep into your core with terrifying power. Each powerful surge forward slammed you forward into the door with a dull thud, rattling it in its frame. Each withdrawal pulled almost all the way out before plunging back in with bruising force.
His massive arm remained locked across your throat and upper chest like an iron restraint. It controlled your breathing, controlled any sound you might make beyond strangled gasps and whimpers that died instantly against his sweaty skin. It kept you bent forward, helplessly impaled, unable to move except for the involuntary jerks caused by his relentless assault.
"Take it," he snarled behind you, his voice guttural with exertion and fury barely contained. "Take every fucking inch." He snapped his hips forward with extra force. "This is what you earned." Another brutal thrust punched a muffled sob from you. "Your fucking consequence."
He shifted his grip slightly on your hair, pulling it taut enough to arch your neck painfully back against his crushing forearm as he pounded into you harder, faster now. The relentless rhythm built inside you – not pleasure yet, but an overwhelming tide of helplessness and sensation and brutal friction that coiled tighter and tighter despite the terror and pain.
His own breathing grew ragged behind you, hot gusts hitting your neck. A low groan rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating through your locked bodies. His thrusts became less measured, more frantic, driven by an anger that had finally found its purest outlet.
"Gonna come?" he rasped against your ear, voice thick and strained to breaking point. "Do it. Come for me." He slammed home hard enough to lift you onto your toes against the door. "Quietly."
The command broke you. The coil snapped. Your body convulsed violently against his unyielding hold, inner walls clamping down on him in frantic pulses that milked his cock ruthlessly. A silent scream ripped through you, utterly contained by the iron bar of his arm crushing your throat.
Feeling you clamp down triggered his own end. A guttural moan tore from him, muffled only by him pressing his face hard between your shoulder blades as he buried himself to the root and pumped hot ropes of come deep inside you with pulsing intensity. His hips jerked erratically against your ass as he emptied himself completely.
He slumped heavily against your back for a moment, breathing harshly into your damp shirt, his softening cock still buried inside you, his arm still a heavy weight across your collarbones and throat. The only sounds were his ragged breaths near your ear and your own choked sobs vibrating against his sweat-slicked skin as tears continued to drip onto the scuffed wood of the door beneath your trembling hands.
Summary: Chan and Y/N have to be quiet so his roommate doesn’t hear…
A/N: so this is actually my first fic, hope yall enjoyyyy
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*
The air in Chan’s bedroom feels like breathing soup—thick, humid, and clinging. Cheap fabric softener, stale takeout, and the underlying scent of boy – sweat, deodorant, Chan—hangs heavy. You’re perched precariously on the edge of his narrow single bed, the thin mattress groaning under your weight. Chan stands between your legs, your back pressed against the flimsy headboard, his hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
His eyes, dark and blown wide, haven’t left yours since Jeongin yelled "Heading to bed after this episode!" ten minutes ago.
Every nerve in your body is a live wire. Anticipation hums under your skin, a low-voltage buzz that makes your fingers tremble where they clutch his shoulders. You want him. God, you need him.
But the terror of being heard is a cold fist squeezing your lungs. The walls here? Cardboard cutouts posing as drywall. You can practically hear Jeongin breathing out there, let alone the canned laughter and explosions from whatever action flick he’s zoning out to.
"Fuck, he’s gonna hear," you whisper, the sound barely scraping past your dry throat. Your voice feels too loud in the suffocating quiet between bursts of TV noise.
Chan leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "He won’t." He says it low, rough, more a desperate promise than a statement of fact. His thumbs rub circles on the skin just above your waistband, sending shivers straight to your core.
"Just gotta be quiet. So fucking quiet, baby." His lips find the sensitive spot below your jaw, a hot press that makes your breath hitch audibly.
Shit. Your eyes dart towards the door, expecting it to burst open. Nothing. Just the muffled whump of an on-screen explosion.
Chan doesn’t stop. His mouth moves down your neck, teeth grazing lightly, possessively. One hand slides up your side, fingers skimming the curve of your breast through your thin top before sliding underneath. You bite down hard on your lower lip, trapping the moan that wants to escape as his thumb finds your nipple, rolling it into a stiff peak. Your hips lift off the bed involuntarily, seeking contact.
He gets the message. With a low groan that vibrates against your collarbone, he fumbles with the button of your jeans. You freeze again, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The TV dialogue rambles on, oblivious. Chan pulls your jeans and underwear down your hips in one rough yank, the cool air hitting your damp skin making you gasp. His own belt buckle clinks—a sharp, metallic sound that echoes in your ears—before his jeans and briefs are shoved down just enough. He’s already hard, hot and thick against your thigh.
No preamble. He guides himself to your entrance, slick with your own need. The pressure makes your eyes flutter shut. "Channie," you breathe, a plea and a warning tangled together.
"Shh," he rasps, pressing a hard kiss to your mouth. Then he pushes in.
The stretch, the immediate, overwhelming fullness punches the air from your lungs. A high-pitched whimper claws its way up your throat, escaping before you can stop it.
Chan’s reaction is instantaneous. His hand flies off your hip and slams over your mouth with bruising force. Calloused palm grinds against your lips, tasting of salt and his skin, cutting off the sound and half your air supply. Your eyes snap open, wide with panic and dazed pleasure, meeting his frantic gaze just inches away. Fear wars with raw hunger in his dark eyes.
"Quiet," he hisses, the word a harsh scrape. He holds himself perfectly still inside you, buried to the hilt. Your inner muscles flutter helplessly around him, aching for friction. A desperate groan vibrates against his palm.
Outside, the TV volume seems to spike for a second, raucous laughter. You both flinch violently. Chan’s body tenses like steel cable above you, his cock pulsing deep within your cunt. Sweat beads on his temple, dripping onto your chest. The silence stretches, thick and brittle. Only your ragged breaths through your nose and the frantic thudding of your hearts fill the space between you.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he eases the pressure on your mouth just enough for you to suck in a desperate, shaky breath through flared nostrils. His sweat, his musk, his need floods your senses. He leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear again, his voice thick and strained.
"Gotta be silent, baby." His hips roll minutely, grinding deep inside you. That tiny movement sends jolts of pure electricity straight to your clit. A choked sob rattles in your chest, muffled entirely by his crushing hand. Stars dance behind your eyelids.
"Feel that?" he breathes, grinding again, deliberate and slow this time. "Feel how deep I am? You take it so good... just gotta stay quiet."
Tears prickle at your eyes – frustration, terror, and the sheer fucking intensity of it all. Your legs lock around his waist like a vice, heels digging into the small of his back. You want to move, to ride him, to scream his name until the neighbors call the cops. But he pins you with his weight and that relentless hand over your face.
His control is fraying fast. The grinding becomes less controlled; his thrusts gain a fraction more speed, a fraction more depth. Sweat drips from his brow onto your chest, tracing hot paths down your skin. A low groan builds in his chest, escaping as a choked rumble against your neck.
Suddenly, louder sounds cut through the haze: Jeongin clearing his throat emphatically. Then the distinct creak of the old couch springs as he stands up. Footsteps.
Heading towards the hallway.
Pure ice floods your veins. Chan goes rigid above you, eyes wide and wild with mirrored panic. His hand presses down even harder on your mouth until your jaw aches and spots dance in your vision.
The delicious stretch and throb inside you becomes irrelevant; only the icy dread clawing up your throat matters.
The footsteps pad right past Chan’s flimsy door. They pause. Right outside.
You don’t breathe. Chan doesn’t breathe. His cock feels like iron inside you.
The footsteps move again—down the hall towards the bathroom at the end. The door opens and shuts softly.
The shared breath you both release is ragged and trembling. Relief hits like a physical blow, leaving you lightheaded and shaking beneath him. Chan sags forward slightly, resting his forehead against yours for a heartbeat, his breath gusting hot and frantic against your skin trapped under his palm.
"Fucking close call," he rasps against your lips, his voice shaking.
The near-miss doesn’t kill the fire; it pours gasoline on it. The desperate need surges back with vicious force, amplified tenfold by adrenaline and sheer relief.
He feels it too. That brush with discovery strips away any lingering pretense of caution. He pulls his hand away from your mouth just long enough to spit crudely into his palm before sliding it roughly down between your sweat-slicked bodies.
"Oh fuck! Chan!" you gasp as his slippery fingers find your clit without preamble. The direct, slick pressure combined with the thick fullness inside you is blindingly intense.
He slaps his hand back over your mouth instantly as your hips jerk violently off the mattress, seeking more of that electric friction. He doesn’t bite this time; he kisses you savagely through his hand, a messy clash of lips and teeth and desperate, stifled moans vibrating against his skin. His fingers work your clit ruthlessly while his hips drive into you with renewed ferocity, still controlled compared to before the scare, but relentless now, piston-like.
The orgasm doesn’t build; it detonates. It starts deep in your core, where he’s stretching you wide open, and explodes outwards in scorching waves that leave you thrashing silently beneath him.
Every muscle locks tight, arching off the bed despite his weight pinning you down. Whimpers tear through you constantly now—thin, frantic sounds muffled by the flesh of his palm as you bite down instinctively on the fleshy part near his thumb to trap the scream ripping through you. Stars burst behind your eyelids as your cunt convulses wildly around him, milking his cock in frantic pulses.
Feeling you clamp down on him like a vice finally snaps Chan’s last thread of restraint. A guttural groan tears from his throat, deep and ragged and far too loud, as he buries himself to the root and pumps hot jets of come deep inside you in pulsing spurts. He collapses forward onto his elbows above you, burying his face into the damp pillow beside your head to muffle the helpless, animalistic sounds wrenched from him as he empties himself completely.
You lie there fused together in the echoing silence afterward, slick with sweat and come.
Beyond the door, Jeongin flushes the toilet down the hall. The sound is impossibly loud in the fragile quiet. Chan doesn't move from where his face is pressed into the pillow next to yours, his breath still ragged gusts against your temple. His hand remains loosely clamped over your mouth, his thumb absently stroking your cheekbone where a stray tear leaked out moments before.
"Fuckin' hell," he murmurs against the pillowcase, the sound thick and muffled. His cock gives a final, feeble twitch inside your sensitive cunt before softening slightly. Neither of you dare move beyond the tremors still racking your bodies or the frantic rise and fall of your chests trying to catch breath that feels permanently stolen. The TV in the living room drones on, some cheerful commercial jingle now, oblivious to the sweat-soaked chaos that just unfolded barely ten feet away.
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