Hi J !!
I love your work, your recent Changbin fanfic is a masterpiece 😭💕
I recently discovered that somebody can be "submissive top" and the first person that came to my mind was Bangchan can you write a fanfic about this please 💕
purple light
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pairing: bang chan x fem reader
word count: 5.7K
contains: +18, sub top channie, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (don’t, pls), fingering, chan gets whiny and messy, lotssss of kisses, kinda slow burn, praise kink, yappy needy chan
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
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summary: Chan’s all composure when the world is watching; steady hands, measured words, a kind of armor he never lets slip. But the second it’s just you and him… all that control cracks. He’s the one moving, fucking, pushing deeper, the one physically leading, but now, it’s never about control. It’s about obedience. Every thrust is for you, because you told him to, because he needs your praise, he needs you to feel good. Behind closed doors, he's yours to command.
The restaurant was warm with low light, the kind that made everything look a little softer. Glasses clinked, conversations overlapped, and Chan was right in the middle of it all, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, shoulders relaxed, that easy grin pulling everyone in.
You had seen him like this before, the way he could navigate a group without ever looking like he was trying.
He didn’t talk over people, but somehow the conversation kept coming back to him. When he leaned in to say something, everyone leaned a little closer to hear.
You caught the subtle markers of his confidence, the way his forearm flexed when he rested it on the table, the way his thumb traced the rim of his glass without thought, the way he met people’s eyes with calm steadiness.
And then there were the smaller things, the ones only you would notice.
The way his gaze always circled back to you. How his knee brushed yours beneath the table and stayed there. The faint curve of his mouth when you returned the pressure.
You were laughing at something one of your friends said when you felt his hand slip under the table, just resting against your thigh. Not possessive, not even necessarily sexual, just grounding. His thumb brushed lightly once, twice. You glanced at him.
He was still talking to someone else, but there was a different kind of smile now, a spark in his eyes that was just for you.
You leaned in slightly, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm, and said in a voice only he could hear, “You’ve been looking at me like that all night.”
That got his attention. His head turned toward you, a small, private tilt of his lips. “Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about something you won’t say out loud.”
He let out a quiet chuckle, looking back at the table like he hadn’t just been caught. “Maybe I am.”
Your hand found his under the table, fingers brushing the back of his knuckles. “Save it for later, baby” you murmured, tone light but full of promise. “I want to see it when we’re alone.”
It wasn’t a demand, more like a soft, knowing hook. One that made his gaze flick to you again, just for a heartbeat longer this time, before he nodded.
—
The night air was cooler than you expected when you stepped outside, the hum of the restaurant fading behind you. Chan walked ahead a few steps, fishing for his keys. Even in the quiet, he still carried himself the same way, steady, sure.
The car gave a soft beep as he unlocked it, and he reached to open your door first, holding it with that small, gentlemanly motion he never really drew attention to, but you always did.
“Always so proper,” you teased as you slid into the seat.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied with a grin, rounding to the driver’s side.
The engine purred to life, headlights washing the street. For the first few minutes, it was just the quiet hum of the tires and the low thump of the playlist he had queued. His hand rested easily on the steering wheel, the other draped over the gearshift, casual, controlled.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, the way the streetlights skimmed over his jaw, catching the glint of the chain around his neck. There was still that faint curl to his mouth from earlier, but his focus was on the road.
A block later he slowed; the lights ahead flipped to red and he eased the car to a stop, hand steady on the wheel. On impulse, you leaned, brushing your fingers along his wrist. He glanced at you briefly, just long enough for you to tilt your chin up and press your lips to his. It was soft, unhurried, a barely-there drag before you pulled back.
Before he could say anything, you slid your hands down his forearm, gently lifting his right hand from the gearshift and settling it on your thigh.
His breath caught almost imperceptibly. “Oh… you’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes flicking to you, then back to the road.
“Just drive,” you said softly
And he did, but his hand stayed where you had placed it, warm and steady, thumb brushing into your skin every so often. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t claiming, it was a quiet promise, one that carried all the way home.
The street outside was quiet when Chan eased the car into the driveway. His hand lingered on your thigh even after the key turned, as if he hadn’t registered that the ride was over.
You didn’t move it, just slipped out of your seatbelt and opened the door. He followed a beat later, locking the car behind you, still close enough that your shoulders brushed as you walked to the front door.
Inside, Chan dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, tugging at the collar of his shirt like he was finally letting the night fall away from him. You slipped off your coat and turned to find him watching you. Not in the casual, confident way he had done all evening, but with a quieter focus, like he was already tuned to your frequency, waiting for you.
“Good night out?” you asked, leaning against the wall.
His lips curved. “Better now.”
It was easy to close the space between you, a few unhurried steps, your fingers finding the edge of his shirt. He didn’t move until you tilted your head up, brushing a kiss just below his jaw.
“You kept your hand on me the whole way home,” you murmured.
“I liked it there,” he said simply. His voice was lower now, a little rougher.
You smiled, letting your palm smooth over the center of his chest before trailing down, slowly, to rest over his belt. Not grabbing, not demanding, just letting him feel the weight of your hand there.
“Then you can keep it up,” you said gently. It wasn’t an order, not quite, but his breath hitched like it might as well have been.
His hands found your waist, tentative at first, waiting for the unspoken yes. When it came, in the form of you leaning into him, brushing your mouth against his, he melted into it, deepening the kiss like he had been holding himself back all night.
And there it was, the first crack in that public armor. The way his fingers tightened, the way his breathing picked up, like your approval was the only green light he needed. You didn’t rush him. The two of you moved together down the short hallway, his hand brushing yours but not quite holding it, as if he was still fighting the urge to grab you and keep you close.
By the time you reached the bedroom, the only light was Chan’s purple lamp and the city lights peeking through the window. Chan closed the door behind you, not because anyone would hear, but because it felt like the night deserved its own small, sealed world.
You crossed the room without a word and settled into the armchair in the corner. Your fingers went to the zipper of your boots, slow and unhurried, as if you didn’t notice the way his eyes tracked you. The first boot came off. Then the second. You leaned back, stretching your toes, completely at ease.
He stayed by the door a moment longer than necessary, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself without you near him. Finally, he bent to untie his sneakers. When he straightened again, his hands went to the hem of his shirt.
But before lifting it, he looked at you, really looked, the faintest question in his eyes.
You met his gaze and gave one small nod.
The breath he let out was almost audible, like he hadn’t realized he had been holding it. The shirt came over his head in one smooth pull, the muscles in his arms and back shifting in the purple light. He didn’t drop it carelessly; he folded it once and set it on the chair by the door. You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered on him long enough for his shoulders to tighten. He stood there for a beat, shirtless in the muted light, waiting for another nod, another unspoken permission to keep going.
You shifted in the chair, resting one arm along the side, and let your gaze sweep over him without hurry.
He swallowed, the movement visible in his throat, and for a moment he stayed like that, bare from the waist up, eyes still searching yours.
“Come here,” you said, the words almost too gentle.
The change in him was subtle but deep, his chest rose higher with each breath, his pace careful as he closed the distance between you. When he reached you, he stood there, close enough for you to feel the faint heat radiating off his skin, but not touching.
Your fingers brushed the back of his hand, barely there. He tilted forward, like the smallest pull from you was enough to undo all that space he had been holding, fingers curling lightly around his. The warmth of his skin was immediate, his knuckles rougher than they looked. You brought them to your lips, pressing the faintest kiss to the side of one of his fingers, then another.
His breath caught. You didn’t look away. Every kiss you placed, you gave him your eyes, letting him feel the full weight of your attention.
By the fourth kiss, his hand had gone perfectly still in yours, like he was afraid to break whatever spell you were casting. His chest rose and fell faster now, the faint tremor in his exhale betraying him.
“Can you take my clothes off for me, Channie?” you asked, your voice low, smooth.
The sound he made was barely a murmur, not quite a word, more a breath that could have been yes, before he crouched slightly in front of you, hands hesitating at the hem of your top.
He lifted the hem slowly, watching your face the entire time, checking, waiting. When you didn’t stop him, his hands slid higher, the backs of his knuckles grazing your stomach. He swallowed again, breath hot and uneven now, before tugging the top over your head in one smooth motion.
For a moment, he just looked at you, lips parting like he had forgotten what came next. Then something shifted, the pause broke, and his hands came back to you, this time with more intent. He traced the edge of your bra, fingertips pressing into the soft skin just beneath it. His touch wasn’t rough, but it had lost the shyness; there was a steadier weight in his palms now.
When he leaned in, his mouth brushed your collarbone, not quite a kiss, more like he needed to feel you against his lips. You felt the faint scrape of his teeth there, the way his breath stuttered when you shifted in the chair, giving him just a little more access.
By the time his hands reached for the button of your jeans, his pace had changed, quicker now, thumbs pressing into your hips as if he couldn’t help himself.
He hooked his thumbs into your waistband, tugging your jeans down in one smooth pull. The denim caught at your knees for a moment before sliding to the floor, and before you could move, his hands were on you again, firm, almost desperate, pulling you forward until you were at the very edge of the chair.
Your legs wrapped around his waist without thought and the second later he pushed you flush against him. The impact sent a quiet shiver through him; you felt it in the way his chest rose hard against yours, in the small sound he didn’t quite swallow.
“God, you can’t even wait, can you?” you murmured, a slow, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
He tried to answer, but you were already leaning in, your mouth brushing his in the lightest tease before finally closing the distance.
The kiss was slow at first, the kind that sinks into your bones, but it deepened quickly, his lips parting under yours, tongue sweeping against yours like he couldn’t get enough.
His hands roamed without direction, sliding up your sides, down your back, gripping at your hips as if every inch of you demanded his touch. You felt him press closer, every shift of his mouth on yours just a little rougher, a little hungrier, but never breaking the pull of that long, unhurried kiss.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, chest rising and falling fast against yours. You trace your thumb along his bottom lip, dragging it slowly until he parts for you without thinking.
“You’ll do anything I want right now, won’t you?”
The question hangs between you like a spark. He doesn’t even hesitate, he nods, quick, almost desperate, before pressing your thumb back to his mouth. He kisses it, then sucks, proof that he’s being good, that he will be good.
When you tilt your head in approval, his whole body loosens, “Use me however you need, princess. I’m here for you,” he breathes, voice wrecked already, words rushing out like he’s afraid you won’t let him.
Your smile is soft, almost indulgent. “I know you are.”
That alone makes his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his hand sliding up your thigh. He leans in again, but not to take, he’s waiting, hovering, his lips just shy of yours as if he needs your permission to close the space again.
You let him. You catch his jaw with your palm, guide him in, and his kiss is fire and surrender all at once: eager, sloppy, his tongue sweeping desperately against yours. His lips part so willingly, molding to yours with a heat that makes your stomach flip. He tastes faintly of mint, sweet and sharp, and he kisses you like he’s starved, like every second his mouth isn’t on yours is wasted.
His tongue drags against yours, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier when you don’t push him away. You feel his breath shudder in your mouth, hear the small, desperate noises escaping his throat as if he can’t control them. He tilts his head, chasing more, and his hand fists at your hip to pull you closer even though there’s barely any space left between you.
You bite lightly his bottom lip, and he gasps, then surges back in, kissing you harder, messy, wet, unrestrained. His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s terrified of not giving you enough.
When you finally pull back, he’s breathless, pupils blown wide, mouth red and wet. His forehead drops against yours like he’s grounding himself.
“Please,” he whispers, “tell me what you need. I’ll give you everything.” His lips trail lower, softer now, peppering kisses along the column of your throat.
“Keep going down,” you murmur, tilting your head back to give him more.
And he does. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think. His mouth finds your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. Then lower, across the swell of your chest. When his lips brush against the curve of your tit, he pauses, glances up at you. The look in his eyes nearly undoes you, hopeful, hungry, waiting. He closes his mouth around you, warm and wet, sucking softly before flicking his tongue against your nipple.
You flinch, hips jerking a little at the sharp spark it sends through you. “I said keep going down, Channie baby,” you whisper, voice steady, coaxing.
His breath leaves him in a shaky rush, and then he obeys, lips traveling lower without question. Down the center of your torso, over your belly, leaving a trail of heat everywhere he touches. His hands never leave you, gripping your thighs, your hips, holding you close.
By the time he reaches the waistband of your panties, his breath is coming fast, chest tight against your knees. He presses a trembling kiss just above the thin fabric, eyes fluttering shut, waiting if you would stop him. But you don't.
And then he can’t help himself. His mouth dips lower, over the cotton, kissing you there like he’s worshipping. Once. Twice. Then again, wetter this time, lips parting as he breathes hot against you. His nose nudges the fabric, his tongue dragging over the barrier, and the low sound he lets out vibrates straight into you.
His fingers clutch tighter at your thighs, anchoring himself. He kisses you again, messy, open-mouthed, his lips moving against you like he had memorised the shape of you.
“Please…” he mumbles against the dampening fabric, voice breaking. He kisses you again, harder, before lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, lips swollen, pupils dark and blown. “Please, baby—let me taste you. I need it. Need you.”
Your lips curve, slow, indulgent. You smooth your hand through his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and tilt his face just enough that he sees the nod you give him.
That’s all it takes. He exhales like you’ve just set him free, then he’s gone; hooking his fingers in your waistband and tugging your panties down in a frantic rush, dropping them to the floor without even looking.
The second you’re bare, his mouth is on you. No hesitation, no teasing.
His tongue pushes deep, greedy, like he’s been starving for this all night and finally got fed. He groans against you, low and broken, the sound vibrating through your core as he drags his tongue up, then down again, licking you open like he doesn’t care how messy it gets.
His hands are firm, holding your thighs wide apart, almost shaking with the force of keeping you still for him. Every time you twitch or shift, he growls into you, pressing harder, sucking harder, desperate to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“Fuck,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his curls, pulling without meaning to. He only moans in response, pushing his face deeper like he wants to disappear inside you.
When he flicks your clit with his tongue, sharp and fast, you jolt; and instead of pulling back, he doubles down, latching his lips around it and sucking so hard your vision blurs. He’s messy, uncontrolled, but every movement screams of his need to please you.
He pulls back just a fraction, panting, lips shiny and wet. “So good—fuck, you taste so good. Gonna make you cum for me, yeah? Please… let me make you cum.” Then he dives back in before you can even answer, tongue relentless, like he’s chasing something only you can give, and you can feel the world narrow to the slick, wet heat around him. When you try to pull him up, his hands clamp to your hips like anchors, not rough, but pleading.
“Channie—come up,” you murmur, tugging at his hair gently.
He doesn’t want to stop. His mouth works greedily against you, tongue circling, lips sucking, every sound he makes vibrating into your core. When your hand tugs at his curls, trying to guide him up, he ignores it, groaning low like a protest, gripping your thighs tighter to keep himself there.
You thread your fingers deeper into his hair and pull, firm, decisive. His head jerks back, lips wet, chin slick with you. His eyes are wild, chest heaving as he pants.
“Up here, Channie,” you say, voice steady but soft enough to sound like coaxing. “I want your mouth on mine.”
He shudders at the words, but before obeying, he drags his tongue one last time through your folds, slowly, collecting every drop of you he can. The sound he makes as he does it is desperate, wrecked.
Only then does he rise, and you don’t let go, still holding his hair, guiding him until his face hovers just over yours. His lips are shiny, cheeks flushed, and he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Give it to me,” you murmur, tilting your head back, tongue peeking out in invitation.
Something in him cracks. With a guttural sound, he crashes into you, kissing you open-mouthed, tongue messy and insistent as he feeds you every taste of yourself he gathered. The kiss is frantic, wet, overwhelming and he melts into it completely, groaning into your mouth like giving this to you is the only thing he’s alive for.
All restraint disappears. It’s not delicate, not careful, your mouths crash together, wet and hungry, teeth scraping, tongues sliding deep. He moans into you, raw and guttural, and you answer with a whimper that’s almost a growl.
His hands roam everywhere, gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise. You pull him closer, gasping into his mouth only to chase his lips again, desperate not to lose the heat of him. Every kiss feels like it could tear you both apart if you stop.
You break for air just long enough to grab his chin, forcing his wild gaze to yours. Your voice is low, almost a hiss against his lips.
“Fuck me.”
He freezes, breath catching, eyes flickering like he’s not sure he heard you right.
“Now, Channie,” you insist, sharp, needy, your grip on his chin unyielding. “I need you to fuck me.”
The command detonates in him, and with a rough groan, he scoops you up from the chair, hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. You gasp, arms looping around his neck, as he carries you with a strength that feels as desperate as it does sure.
Your mouths crash together again mid-motion, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, both of you panting into the kiss as he stumbles the few steps to the bed. He lays you down, hovering over you for half a second, chest heaving like he’s about to come undone, then dives back in, kissing you hard enough to steal your breath.
He kisses you like he’s drowning, like he’ll never get enough, until finally he has to tear himself back for air. His chest heaves as he stares down at you, eyes glazed, lips swollen, hair a mess from your grip.
Then he’s moving, messy, frantic. His hands found his jeans, clumsy fingers fighting the button, cursing under his breath when it sticks. “Fuck—baby, I—” His voice cracks, whining as he finally shoves them down, kicks them off.
You reach up, but he pins your wrist to the mattress with one big hand, eyes flashing. “No. Don’t move,” he rasps, the command breaking on his tongue, more plea than order. His strength is undeniable, your body trapped under his weight, his grip firm, holding you in place even as he shakes with urgency.
“Need—need to give you what you want,” he pants, fumbling with his boxers now, nearly tearing them in his rush. When he finally frees himself, he groans, low and wrecked, rutting against your thigh once, unthinking. But then he catches himself, presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s holding back. “Tell me again. Say it again, baby, please—I need to hear it.”
Your breath fans across his mouth, and you don’t hesitate. “Fuck me, Channie.”
He whines, actually whines, the sound guttural and desperate, and you feel his whole body tense. His grip on your wrists tightens, holding you down like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and with one rough, hungry thrust forward, he gives you exactly what you asked for.
He pushes into you in one desperate, unsteady thrust, and your breath shatters. The stretch rips through you, sharp and overwhelming, forcing a gasp out of your lungs.
“F-fuck—” his voice cracks, a broken whimper as his forehead falls against yours. He freezes, buried halfway, his body trembling like holding back is agony. His grip on your wrists tightens, pinning you to the mattress as his chest heaves, sweat beading along his temples.
“So—so fucking tight,” he groans, hips jerking forward another inch, almost involuntary. He shakes his head, teeth gritted, as if he’s fighting himself. “God, baby, you’re—fuck—you feel so good around me. Can’t—can’t—”
You arch under him, the drag of him splitting you open exactly what you need. “Don’t stop, baby, please” you whisper against his ear. He moans, high and wrecked, and drives the rest of himself in with a rough snap of his hips. The force rocks you up the bed, and his whole body jolts with it, a strangled whine breaking free of his chest.
“Channie—” you gasp, but the name barely makes it out before he’s moving again, messy, frantic thrusts pounding into you. “f-fuck, keep going,” his rhythm is sloppy, uneven, like he can’t control the hunger consuming him. Each thrust knocks another cry from your throat, and he groans into your mouth, swallowing every sound.
He shifts his grip, releasing one wrist only to hook his arm under your thigh, pushing it up and out, spreading you wide open for him. His strength is staggering, he holds you down like nothing, driving into you harder, deeper, like the only thing in his head is the need to fuck you just because you told him to, just because you needed him to.
“Wanted this—fuck—wanted this so bad,” he babbles, words breaking apart as he thrusts faster. “Wanted to be good for you, make you feel so good. Am I, princess? Am I giving you what you need?”
You nod frantically, nails digging into his back, and the sound he makes in response is almost feral. “Faster, Channie, please—”, and he fucks you harder at that, hips slamming into yours with raw, reckless force, his moans spilling out unchecked, high and needy.
The bed creaks beneath the both of you, the world collapsing into sweat and heat and the filthy wet sound of him driving into you again and again, every stroke deeper, hungrier, like he’ll break apart if he doesn’t give you everything you asked for.
His thrusts grow sharper, more frantic, but you can feel it, the stutter in his hips, the way his forehead presses harder against yours like he’s trying to hide how close he is.
“Shit—fuck, baby—” His voice cracks, a whine dragged out of him against his will. His fingers tighten painfully around your thigh, pinning you down, grinding himself deeper. “Too much—too fucking good—gonna—” He cuts himself off with a sharp, guttural groan, hips jerking like his body’s betraying him.
You feel it in the way his cock throbs inside you, the twitching pulse that gives him away. His face twists, eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down his temple. “N-no, not yet. Not until you—” His words dissolve into another strangled whimper, chest heaving.
“Don't you dare stop—” you hiss, nails scratching down his back, and he shudders. “Please—fuck, please cum for me. Need you to—need you to first—”, he buries his face in your neck, mouth hot and wet as he pants against your skin. His whines are muffled there, spilling with each snap of his hips.
He pulls out so suddenly you gasp, your body clenching around nothing. "Chan!—”, you don’t even have time to continue before his hand replaces him; two fingers shoved deep, knuckles pressing against your heat.
“Fuck, Chan—” you cry out, hips jerking, eyes rolling back as he sets a brutal rhythm. Not in and out, not teasing, his fingers drag up and down inside your walls, pressing exactly where he knows you’ll break. The pressure is relentless, constant, almost punishing, his wrist snapping quick and filthy between your thighs.
“Chan—holy fuck, baby—” Your voice cracks, every curse spilling out like it’s ripped from you. “I'm almost—fuck, don’t stop—don’t you dare fucking stop—”
Your whole body trembles with the force of it, your thighs quivering around his arm. He’s staring at you like a man possessed, lips parted, sweat beading on his chest, hair sticking to his forehead. “Cum for me,” he pants, his voice low and sharp, his free hand holding your hip down because you’re thrashing against the bed. “Cum on my fingers, baby, please—”
He pulls out just for a second and your broken whine tears through the air, then he’s flicking your clit, fast, ruthless, wet sounds filling the room as his fingers slide over your swollen bud. Your back arches off the sheets, nails digging into his shoulders.
“God—fuck, fuck—yes—” you choke, every word cut off by another ragged moan. “So fucking good, Channie—fucking hell—”
And then he’s slamming them back inside you, deeper this time, curling up as he fucks you with a pace that makes your vision blur. The heel of his hand grinds your clit while his fingers work you mercilessly, wet, obscene sounds matching your cries.
“Oh, fuck,” he growls, almost frantic. “Take it for me—give me everything, please—”
You can’t even form words anymore, just curses tangled with his name, your voice breaking apart. “Oh my fucking god—yes, yes, right there— right there, you’re perfect, Chan—you’re so—”
Your whole body seizes when he curls his fingers just right, dragging hard against that spot that has you screaming. The pressure builds so fast it’s blinding, your vision going white at the edges.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Chan, I’m gonna—oh my god—”
He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his teeth gritted as he watches you fall apart. “That’s it, baby—give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my fucking fingers.”
And you do. The orgasm rips through you so violently you nearly sob, thighs snapping shut around his wrist, back arching clean off the bed. You’re cursing, moaning his name over and over as waves tear through you, milking his fingers until you’re shaking, drenched, trembling in his hold.
The sight of you, wrecked, destroyed, breaking under him, pushes him over the edge too. A strangled groan rips out of his throat, low and guttural, and his hips jerk helplessly against the sheets. He’s not even touching himself, but he’s gone, cock twitching as he spills hot and messy all over himself. Just from you. Just from giving you everything.
“F-fuck—baby, oh my god—” His voice cracks, needy and ruined, his forehead dropping against your neck as he rides it out, still working his fingers inside you even as his own body convulses.
You’re both shaking, clinging to each other, his chest heaving, yours pressed tight to his, his fingers still buried in you like he can’t bear to let go.
His mouth finds yours in a rush, lips crashing against yours, sloppy and hungry, tasting of sweat and the wreckage you both made. He’s panting into the kiss, swallowing your moans, like if he stops touching or kissing you, he’ll fall apart completely.
You gasp against his mouth, every nerve in your body still sparking, your thighs trembling. “Chan—” You pull back just enough to breathe, brushing your lips over his, your voice ragged but steady. “Fuck, baby, that was so good.”
The words hit him like a blow. His whole body jolts, a broken whimper spilling into your mouth, his eyes squeezed shut as if he might actually cry. “Yeah baby?” He kisses you harder, deeper, teeth clashing, almost frantic to prove himself again, even though your praise already undid him.
Your hand cups his jaw, steadying him, and he shudders under your touch “...you’re such a good boy for me.”
The words fall soft against his lips, but they don't just touch him, they land like a charge. For a second he freezes, eyes going wide. His breath hitched, shallow and fast, and the weight of him shifts, pressing into you harder like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“F-fuck—” It tears out of him. His face collapses into your neck, forehead hot against your skin, and he buries himself there as though hiding will steady him. He starts to tremble, small, helpless shakes through his shoulders, the kind that come when something inside finally gives. “Baby…” His voice is muffled, fraying against your throat. His lips brush at your skin in messy little kisses, then harder, clumsy messy little bites. His hands clutch at your back, fingers digging in.
You thread your fingers through his hair and stay there, steadying him with the same gentle pressure you used to pull him up earlier. “Yeah, my good boy,” you whisper, measured and soft, and the sound of it, approval, makes him break open.
You can feel the tension in his shoulders dissolve, fingers loosening until they’re soft against your back.
The man the world sees, the leader, the steady, guarded presence, peels away in thin layers until all that’s left is this: a boy who leans into your hands and trusts you completely.
You stroke the nape of his damp hair, the heat of him still clinging to your chest, and you realize how utterly he’s given himself over. He doesn’t need to carry the armor, the composure, the control he wears in public. He’s not here to be anyone but yours, to follow the subtle weight of your hand, to respond to the quiet pull of your approval.
Everything he’s ever held onto; the confidence, the assertiveness, the careful restraint, falls away in this purple light. And in its place, he is yours, willing to do exactly what you want, desperate for you to tell him he’s good, to let him know that this is enough.
Watching him surrender like this, you can see how much it pleases him, how much he thrives on being needed and directed, how much he trusts you with the part of him that the world never gets to see.
And you know, with every shiver that runs through him, every tremor of his breath, that he would trade all of that public armor, all of that careful control, just to be this, to be your good boy.
—
+++ authors note: dear anon, sorry for taking so long. i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did. i actually loved writing sub top channie, this is SO bang chan coded......
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place. ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
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