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⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ daddy 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

part 5 | series masterlist summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached. pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader genre: smut, fluff cw/tags: explicit sexual content, praise kink, oral (f & m), protected sex, daddy/babygirl dynamics (he calls you babydoll), porn w/plot ofc, dirty talk, fingering, teasing, switch!Bangchan soundtrack: mhmm - Chase Shakur & Rimon , f****n’ sound - Lucky daye, excited! - dustin conrad a/n: I love when you guys leave comments, it feeds my hungry soul. A good chunk of this chapter is literal porn, so if that’s not your cup of tea, you’ve been warned. I’m not apologizing for the filth. Enjoy :) * ✩˚word count: 12.1k ˚✩ *

ariknewbetter

Livin’ La Vida Loca — Bangchan

summary — The plan was flawless: slip into a high-end Manhattan rooftop party as "Lola," charm the leader of Stray Kids, spike his drink, and vanish with the haul. But Chris doesn't go down easy. When the sedative fails to pull him under, a high-stakes duel of dominance explodes behind closed doors-leaving a trail of stolen platinum, a phantom ache, and a fiercely obsessed popstar determined to hunt his beautiful thief down.

pairing — Idol! Chan x Agent! Reader (Cipher)

genre — spy/thief au, crime/action romance, smut, dual pov, first part of a series maybe?

cw/tags — smut, rough sex, slight choking/neck holding, hair pulling, marking/biting, different positions, dirty talk?, drug use (spiked drink/ sedative), Alcohol, theft & crime elements.

word count — 2.2k words

A/n — this is the major series debut maybe?? If you guys want a part two please tell and tell you thought about this story!!! ALSO heavily inspired by the song "Livin' La Vida Loca" by Ricky Martin the specific part "Woke up in New York City, In a funky cheap hotel, She took my heart and she took my money, she must've slipped me a sleepin' pill" funny story I kept getting this idea while playing this song on JustDance 😭😭😭 I hope you guys enjoy it!!! (NOT READ PROOF YET)

The rooftop in Manhattan is a glass-and-steel jewel box floating above the electric spill of the city. Private party. The kind where the champagne costs more than most people's rent and the laughter is a currency all its own. You’re there as Lola tonight. Hair a cascade of ink-black waves, lips the color of a fresh wound, a dress of red silk that moves like liquid sin. You hold your martini—three olives, always—not like a drink, but like a weapon you're deciding whether to use.

He’s across the terrace, holding court but not really listening. Bang Chan—Chris to the inner circle—leader of Stray Kids, here for a magazine shoot and some industry mingling he’d rather avoid. He’s in a simple black suit, but it can't hide the leashed energy, the sharp intelligence in his eyes as they scan the room. They land on you. And stop.

You feel it—the weight of a gaze that’s more than casual appreciation. You’re used to being looked at. You are, after all, the trap. But this… this feels like being seen. You give him the ghost of a smile, the one that says come here, I dare you.

He does.

“You look like you’re plotting a murder,” he says by way of hello, his voice a low, warm rumble that cuts through the cocktail jazz. His English is flawless, edged with that melodic Australian accent.

“Or a masterpiece,” you counter, taking a slow sip, your eyes never leaving his. “The line is famously thin.”

He laughs, a genuine, surprised sound. He gets you a drink without asking what you want—a bourbon, neat—and hands it to you. “Try this. It’s got more of a heartbeat.”

You take it. Your fingers brush. The contact is a static shock. Professional detachment, you remind yourself. He’s a target. A rich, famous, beautifully packaged target.

The flirtation is a duel. He’s quick, clever, disarming. He doesn’t just parrot lines; he listens. He asks about the book you’re pretending to have read, calls you out on a detail you fudge. It’s exhilarating. Dangerous. For a moment, you forget the tiny, odorless vial tucked against your thigh.

He leans in, the scent of him—sandalwood and something inherently good—washing over you. “You’re not like anyone here,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“And what are they like?” you purr.

“Predictable.” His eyes hold yours. “You’re a mystery wrapped in a red dress.”

The plan is simple. Get him alone. Spike his drink when he looks away. Your team—Emma on comms, Victor and Liam as shadows in the service corridor, Halle as your getaway driver in a nondescript van three blocks away, Ethan already scrubbing the building's external feeds—is in position. The moment arrives. He turns to flag down a waiter. It takes less than a second. The clear liquid disappears into his bourbon.

You suggested going somewhere quiet and he took you to his private suite

The secluded room was as a velvet-draped cocoon, the city's glitter a silent panorama beyond the glass. The drug was in his system. You’d watched it disappear into the amber depths of his bourbon. You were counting the slow, silent beats in your head.

Sixty. He should be feeling a heaviness behind his eyes. Ninety. A slight slur, a blink that lasts too long.

But Chris just set his glass down on the low table with a definitive click. His eyes, dark and clear, found yours. There was no haze in them. Only a focused, burning intensity that stripped away every layer of your “Lola” persona and saw straight down to the frantic pulse beneath.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel through the plush sofa and into your bones.

“And what am I thinking?” you breathed, your professional smile feeling brittle.

“That this is a game,” he said, closing the small distance between them. “And you’re not sure who’s winning.”

Before you could summon a retort, his hand was cradling the back of your neck, his touch both firm and impossibly gentle. He didn’t ask. He took.

His mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t the tentative kiss of a new attraction. It was a claim. A hot, searching, open-mouthed kiss that stole the air from your lungs and the plan from your mind. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of expensive bourbon and a heat that was purely, dangerously him. You gasped into the kiss, and he swallowed the sound, his other arm banding around your waist to haul you flush against him.

Every alarm in your trained mind was blaring. Abort. Disengage. This is a critical deviation. But your body—your traitorous, alive, starved body—arched into the solid wall of his chest. Your hands, meant to push him away, fisted in the fine wool of his suit jacket, holding on.

He broke the kiss, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gusts against your lips. “You taste like a lie,” he whispered, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse in your throat. “And I want to drink the whole bottle.”

The metaphor, the raw poetry of it, cracked something open inside you. This wasn’t some mark drowning in his own ego. This was a man who saw in layers, who felt in colors. And he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating mystery he’d ever encountered.

Pivot. Adapt. The objective is still the same. Overwhelm. Distract. Take control.

You let the calculated seductress fall away, replaced by something hungrier, more real. You kissed him back with a fury that matched his own, biting his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth until he groaned. You pushed him back, and he let you, falling onto the deep cushions of the sofa, his eyes wide with surprise and blazing desire.

You straddled his lap, the red silk of your dress riding high on your thighs. You framed his face with your hands, forcing his gaze to hold yours. “You talk too much,” you breathed, before descending on his mouth again.

This time, you led. Your kiss was all teeth and tongue and desperate, slick heat. You poured every ounce of your conflicted energy into it—the fear, the adrenaline, the shocking, unwanted thrill. He met you thrust for thrust, his hands sliding up your thighs, gripping the bare skin above your stockings, his fingers digging in with a possessiveness that made your core clench.

He stood up suddenly, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He carried you like that, through a door you hadn’t noticed, into a lavish bedroom suite. He didn’t make it to the bed. He pinned you against the nearest wall, the cool wallpaper a shock against your back.

He growled into the skin of your neck, his mouth leaving a trail of burning kisses.

His hands finding the hidden zipper of your dress. He yanked it down in one smooth, ruthless motion. The red silk pooled at your feet like spilled blood. He looked at you, standing there in just your lace bra, panties, and stockings, and the raw hunger in his eyes was almost feral. “You’re a storm. A beautiful, fucking dangerous storm.”

He stripped his own jacket and shirt off, revealing the taut, sculpted planes of his torso, the muscles you’d only seen in photos and videos now a living map under your fingertips. You pushed him backward onto the king-sized bed. He fell, pulling you down on top of him.

What followed was not love-making. It was a collision.

There was no gentle undressing. Clothes were torn at, pushed aside. His mouth was everywhere—sucking a dark mark onto the swell of your breast, laving your nipple through the lace until you cried out, biting the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You retaliated, scraping your nails down his back, leaving red trails, sinking your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, tasting salt and skin.

When he finally, mercifully, pushed your panties down your legs and thrust into you, it was with a single, deep, conquering stroke that punched the air from your lungs. You were wet—shamefully, betrayally wet—but he was big, stretching you, filling you in a way that felt less like sex and more like a brand.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural.

You forced your eyes open. His face was above yours, strained with pleasure, his gaze locked on yours with an intimacy that was more invasive than his body inside you. He moved, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm that had the headboard slamming against the wall in a steady, obscene beat.

There was no tenderness. It was a furious, glorious fight for dominance. You rolled him over, riding him with a desperate intensity, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing. He gripped your hips, guiding you, slamming you down onto him, his eyes devouring the sight.

“You’re perfect,” he choked out, his hands sliding up to squeeze your breasts, his thumbs rubbing your nipples. “Fucking perfect. Like this—taking what you want.”

The words, the filthy, praising truth of them, coiled the tension in your belly tighter. You were close, teetering on an edge made sharper by the knowledge that this was wrong, that you were betraying every rule, that you were feeling.

He seemed to sense it. He flipped you again, onto your hands and knees. He entered you from behind, one hand tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your back, the other wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, possessing. The new angle was devastating, each thrust hitting a spot that made you see stars.

“Come on, Lola,” he snarled, his pace becoming brutal, animalistic. “Let me feel it. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

The permission shattered you. Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and silent, a seismic wave that locked your muscles and tore a soundless scream from your throat. You clenched around him, pulsing wildly.

With a ragged shout, he followed, his own release pumping into you, hot and deep, as he collapsed over your back, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his body trembling.

For long minutes, there was only the sound of harsh breathing and the distant hum of the city. The drug, delayed or fought off by his sheer will and adrenaline, finally began to pull him under. You felt his weight grow heavier, his breathing deepen and slow into the rhythms of unconsciousness.

You carefully extracted yourself from under him. He murmured something unintelligible, his hand fluttering as if to reach for you, before falling still.

You stood naked by the bed, looking down at him. In sleep, the intensity was gone. He looked young, vulnerable. A faint bruise was already forming on his shoulder from your bite. Your chest ached with a hollow, terrifying pang.

Then your comm buzzed. Emma’s voice, a lifeline to reality. “Lola, extract. Now. Heat on the perimeter.”

You moved.

Like a ghost, you dressed in the practical black clothes from your go-bag that Ethan hid earlier in the vents. You wiped down every surface with a chemical cloth. You collected the red silk dress, the stockings, every strand of your dark hair from the sink. You took his wallet, sliding out the thick stack of bills and the platinum cards. You lifted the heavy, exquisite watch from his nightstand, the metal still warm from his skin. You found his passport in the inside pocket of his discarded suit jacket.

You paused, your fingers on the small, worn photo tucked behind a credit card—a picture of him with his members, all laughing, younger. You left it.

With one last, unreadable look at the man sleeping in the tangled sheets, you slipped out the service entrance. You were a shadow dissolving into the pre-dawn grey of New York.

Behind you, in the silent suite, Chris slept on, a phantom’s kiss on his lips and a void where his world used to be.

The silence after the door clicks shut is the loudest sound you've ever heard.

You stand in the sterile, beige hallway of the hotel's service level, your back pressed against the cool metal of the door you just exited. The only light comes from a flickering fluorescent tube overhead, casting long, nervous shadows. In your hands, you clutch a small, nondescript black duffel. Inside: a fortune in platinum, a passport that isn't yours, and a watch that weighs more than your conscience.

Your heart isn't hammering. That's the first wrong thing.

It's a slow, thick, sickening thud against your ribs, like a funeral drum. Your palms are dry. Your breath is even. The professional calm is a shell, holding back a torrent of something hot and shameful and terrifyingly close to grief.

Move, Cipher.

Emma’s voice in your earpiece is a crackle of static, impatient. “Status? We’re at extraction point Delta. Ethan reports all feeds are on a clean loop. You have a ninety-second window before a security sweep.

“Copy,” you whisper, the word tasting like ash. “En route.”

Your legs carry you forward on autopilot, down the back stairwell, your soft-soled shoes making no sound. The motions are perfected, a deadly ballet you've performed across a dozen cities. But tonight, the choreography feels off. Your body is moving, but some essential part of you is still back in that suite, tangled in the sheets, tangled in him.

You see it all again, not as the operative, but as the woman.

The shock in his clear, dark eyes when he didn't succumb to the drug. Not confusion, but a sharp, intelligent reassessment. He’d looked at you then like you were a puzzle he was delighted to solve. The feel of his mouth on yours—not the calculated, dominant kiss you’d expected from a mark, but something hungry and generous and real. It had disarmed you completely. In that moment, ‘Lola’ had shattered, and ‘Y/N’, the ghost you keep locked away, had gasped for air.

The sex hadn’t been part of the plan. It had been a catastrophic, beautiful detonation.

You’d used every skill, every trick, every whispered lie to overwhelm him, to regain control of a situation spinning into the void. But somewhere between the bite of your teeth on his shoulder and the way he’d chanted your fake name like a prayer into your skin, the performance had bled into something perilously authentic. You’d felt your own carefully constructed walls crumbling. You’d wanted. Not the score, not the victory, but him. The solid warmth of him under your hands, the raw sound of his pleasure, the way he looked at you—even in the furious, physical dark—like you were a revelation.

And then, the aftermath.

Him collapsing into a deep, drugged sleep, finally. The peaceful slackness of his face. The way his hand had twitched, seeking you in the emptiness. You’d stood there, naked and shivering in the air-conditioned chill, and you’d hesitated.

For the first time in your professional life, you’d looked at a mark and seen a person. A good person. A person who wrote music that moved millions, who led his team with a fierce, protective love, who kissed like he was trying to memorize the shape of your soul.

You’d touched the side of his face. Just once. A brush of your fingertips against his jaw. A goodbye you had no right to give.

Then the cold logic had reasserted itself, a survival instinct as deep as marrow. He’s a target. He’s the job. Sentiment is a flaw. Flaws get you killed. Remember Prague.

The memory is a blade—a different face, a different promise, a different alley filled with the coppery smell of your own blood. Trust is a luxury people like you can’t afford. Love is a death sentence.

Now, you slip out a side door into the damp, pre-dawn alley. The van is idling, a silent, dark shape. The side door slides open. Halle is at the wheel, her face a mask of focused calm. Victor pulls you inside, his grip firm.

“Clean?” Liam asks, his eyes scanning the alley.

“Clean,” you confirm, your voice hollow.

Emma looks at you from the passenger seat, her gaze sharp, analytical. She takes the duffel, unzips it, and lets out a low whistle at the gleam of the watch. “The Patek. Nice work, Cipher.” Her eyes flick back to your face. “Biometrics spiked for a long time. Encounter ran hot.”

You meet her gaze, letting the professional ice settle back into your veins. “He was resistant. Required prolonged physical persuasion to ensure full incapacitation. Protocol was maintained.”

You sound convincing. You sound like the flawless weapon your agency forged.

Emma holds your stare for a beat too long, then nods, turning to stow the bag. “Next briefing is in Paris. Get some rest.”

You sink onto the bench seat as the van pulls away, melting into the waking city. You don't look back at the hotel shrinking in the rearview mirror.

But you feel him.

Not as a mark, not as a score. But as a phantom limb. An echo in your nerves where his hands had been. A taste on your tongue that isn't olives or bourbon, but something uniquely, devastatingly Chris.

You stole his watch, his money, his identity. He, in a few brutal, beautiful hours, stole something far more precious from you.

Your numbness.

And as the first grey light of New York City breaks over the skyline, a single, traitorous thought carves itself into the cold stone of your heart:

I hope he finds me.

CHRIS'S POV

The first sensation is a headache. Not a gentle throb, but a deep, punishing pound behind my eyes, as if someone replaced my brain with a dying star. The second is a profound, bone-deep warmth, a physical satisfaction so complete it feels like a memory. The third… is the silence.

My eyes snap open.

The ceiling is unfamiliar. Vaguely ornate. Hotel. The Pierre. Right. The rooftop party.

Lola.

The thought is a lightning strike, vivid and immediate. The taste of her—martini-olives and something darker, sweeter. The feel of red silk under my hands. The sound of her gasp when I kissed her. The searing, desperate look in her eyes, like she was fighting a war inside herself. The way she moved on top of me, a perfect, furious contradiction of control and surrender.

I stretch an arm across the bed, expecting to find warm skin, tangled hair.

My hand hits cold, empty linen.

I sit up too fast. The room spins. Fuck. The bourbon. I don’t usually get hangovers like this. This feels… chemical. Wrong.

The other side of the bed is pristine, untouched. As if no one ever slept there. As if it was all a dream.

But it wasn’t. The ache in my muscles, the faint, pleasant sting on my back from her nails, the distinct, hollow feeling of release… that was real. The memory of her is branded into my senses.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the plush carpet. My gaze sweeps the room. My suit jacket is draped over a chair. My shirt is on the floor. My pants… somewhere.

My wrist feels light. Instinctively, I look at the bedside table. My watch is gone.

The Patek. The one my dad helped me pick out after our first major tour. The one I rarely take off.

A cold trickle, entirely separate from the headache, starts down my spine.

I stand, stumbling slightly, and go to the chair. My wallet is on the seat. I pick it up. It’s light. Too light. I flip it open.

Empty. All the cash. Every single credit card. Gone.

My passport. Where’s my fucking passport?

A frantic search of the room—under the bed, in the bathroom, the closet—yields nothing. Just my clothes, scattered like evidence. And no trace of her. No forgotten earring, no lipstick stain on a glass, no lingering scent on the pillow. It’s as if a professional cleaning crew came through and removed every atom of her existence.

She stole from me.

The realization is a cold fist in my gut, followed immediately by a surge of white-hot anger. She played me. The whole thing—the magnetic pull, the sharp conversation, the way she looked at me like I was the only person in the universe—it was an act. A fucking performance to get me alone and… rob me blind.

I should feel violated. Enraged. Humiliated.

And I am. God, I am so pissed. My hands are shaking.

But underneath the fury, thrumming like a live wire, is something else. Something infinitely more dangerous. Fascination.

Because who the hell is she? She didn’t just take a drunk guy’s wallet. She targeted me. She got past security, into a private party, and chose me. She withstood a conversation that would have sent most people scrambling. She kissed me back with a fire that felt terrifyingly genuine. And then she vanished into thin air, leaving no digital fingerprint, no physical evidence. Nothing.

That’s not a grift. That’s an operation. That’s art.

And she’s the most breathtaking artist I’ve ever met.

“Lola,” I whisper to the empty room. The name feels fake on my tongue now. A costume. But the woman inside it… she was real. I felt her. In the moments when her guard was down, when she was biting my shoulder, when she came apart around me… that was real. I’d stake my life on it.

The anger and the fascination twist together into a single, potent, obsessive knot. I need to find her. Not to get my stuff back. I can replace the watch, the cards, the passport is a headache but manageable. I need to find her to look her in the eye and ask why. And to see if that fire in her eyes ignites again when she sees me.

I call the front desk, my voice deceptively calm. “I need to report a theft from my suite. No, I don’t want to involve the NYPD yet. I need to speak with your head of security directly. Now.”

The chaos that descends is both professional and deeply, darkly amusing.

The hotel security chief is a grim-faced man in his fifties. He’s apologetic, then confused, then utterly baffled.

“Mr. Bahng, we’ve reviewed all footage from the lobby, the elevators, the service entrances, and the perimeter cameras for the relevant time window.”

“And?”

“There is no footage of a woman matching the description you provided entering or leaving the hotel with you, or at all last night. The guest list for the rooftop party has been cross-referenced. No ‘Lola’ is registered. The credit card you used to open your tab was swiped by you alone.” He shifts, uncomfortable. “Are you… certain you weren’t alone?”

The implication is clear. They think I’m a famous idiot who got blackout drunk, lost his shit, and is now concocting a story to cover it.

My anger simmers, but I keep it leashed. “I’m certain.

Back at the company-rented penthouse, the storm hits properly.

Our manager, Mr. Kim, looks like he’s about to faint. “Your passport? Chan, do you have any idea the paperwork, the embassy visits, the potential visa issues for the upcoming schedules? And a watch worth more than this suite? And you say a woman did this? What woman? There is no woman on any camera!”

The PR team is huddled in a corner, speaking in frantic, hushed Korean. “We can spin a pickpocket story… but no evidence? It makes us look careless or… or like we’re lying. Was it a fan? A stalker? Should we increase security?”

Through the pandemonium, my members filter in, drawn by the noise.

Jeongin pokes his head in, eyes wide. “Hyung, what’s going on? The staff are running around like ants.”

Before I can answer, Changbin lets out a low whistle, picking up the incident report from the table. “Stolen passport, credit cards, and the Patek? Damn, hyung. You got hit by a pro.”

It’s Hyunjin who zeroes in on the heart of it, his artist’s perception razor-sharp. “A woman? The one in the red dress from the rooftop? The one who looked like she’d murder you for fun and kiss you after?”

All eyes turn to me. I just nod, running a hand through my tangled hair.

Felix bursts out laughing, a bright, surprised sound in the tense room. “No way! That goddess? She robbed you? I mean… respect. That’s a power move.”

Jisung is grinning, shaking his head. “I told you she was out of your league, hyung. I didn’t mean she was in a different league of international theft.”

Seungmin pushes his glasses up. “Statistically, it’s far more likely you were targeted specifically. The lack of footage suggests sophisticated planning and possibly insider knowledge or tech interference. She wasn’t an opportunity thief. You were the objective.”

Leave it to Seungmin to analyze my romantic—or criminal—disaster like a news case.

Lee Know just smirks, leaning against the doorway. “So, how was it?”

The room goes quiet. The staff look horrified. My members lean in.

I look at the wall, but I’m seeing her. The flash of her eyes in the dim lounge. The feel of her silk dress giving way. The desperate, perfect sync of our bodies. The hollow ache she left behind.

“It was the best night of my life,” I say, the words quiet, raw, and completely honest.

The silence deepens, then breaks into a chorus of groans, laughter, and disbelieving head-shakes from the members.

Mr. Kim just puts his head in his hands. “He’s in love with the woman who robbed him. Wonderful. This is a PR narrative from hell.”

But he’s wrong. It’s not a narrative. It’s a compulsion.

As the chaos swirls around me—the frantic calls to banks and embassies, the security debates, the members’ teasing that’s laced with genuine concern—I feel eerily calm at the center.

Lola. Ghost. Thief. Artist.

You took my watch, my money, my documents. You left me with a headache, a mystery, and a heart that’s beating a frantic, obsessed rhythm I don’t recognize.

This isn’t over.

I’m going to find you.

And when I do, you’re going to give me a hell of a lot more than just dinner.

hyunjinsmuze

FORBIDDEN

part 1 ||part2

PT2-Bed mistake

Warnings: light smut, alcohol use, drunk sex, unprotected sex (wrap up guys)

summary: You decided to let chan throw the dumb “welcome to Korea” party but you didn’t expect to wake up in one of the members bed, and you definitely didn’t expect for someone to find out

pairing: stray kids x reader (seungmin x reader in this chapter)

word count: 3.2k

astrayapple

What're You Humming?

Pairings: Bang Chan x female!Reader

Rating: T

Genre: established relationship, street interview, relationship reveal (?), fluff

Summary: You get stopped to do a street interview while you're in Italy with your boyfriend and decide "Why not?"

Except the question they ask isn't what you'd expect.

"So, what song were you humming just now?”

Normal question right? No biggie. But the song you were humming was an unreleased Stray Kids song written by your boyfriend Chan....

Oops?

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: So this CONCEPTUALLY is a continuation of Bestie Knows Best (imo) but you don't specifically have to read that to understand this! Just know her and Chan are already dating <33

God Run It just REALLY got in my head. This fic was also partially inspired by @gingerayen 's TikTok Reveals Their Relationship series (a BANGER go read it if you havent)

Also this *may* lead to another part of this fic... it's an idea I've had for a while and I kinda set it up at the end to continue but hehe we shall see!

⁽ᵈᶦᵛᶦᵈᵉʳ ᵖᶦˣᵉˡ ᵃʳᵗ ᵇʸ ᵐᵉ⁾

(writing masterlist) | (Bestie Knows Best pt 1)

seungfl0wer

*Confession Or Dare*

Pairing: Bangchan x Reader (fem)

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Virgin!Chan, Cursing, P in V, Multiple Rounds, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Fluffy loving ending. Slightly Proofread. Sorry if I forgot any.

Request can be found here! Hopefully this is good :( I wrote it while in the car and half asleep so it honestly feels like a fever dream lol.

changbunnies

Hopelessly Devoted To You (18+)

♡ Pairing: Greaser!Bang Chan x fem!Reader

♡ Genre: grease inspired 50s au, some angst and fluff, this was supposed to be a long full length fic but it somehow became just porn with plot lol

♡ Word Count: 11.2k

♡ Summary: You were so excited to see him again– the guy you'd spent your entire summer with, entagled in a fleeting but explosively sweet romance. But the Chris you meet again isn't the one you remember, and now if he wants to win you back he's going to have to prove just how devoted to you he really is.

♡ Warnings: chan is referred to as chris, smoking (cigarettes), some misogyny + toxic masculinity + fuck boy behavior, some 50s references and lingo, 1 instance of reader shoving chan in a fit of anger / sadness, jealous and mildly possessive chan, minor appearances from felix, changbin, minho, and hyunjin (who goes by sam)

♡ Smut Warnings: 1 reference to reader losing their virginity to chan, references / flashbacks to other smut scenes before the main scene, light dom/sub dynamics, switch!chan, pet names (doll, sugar, baby), public sex, car sex, exhibitionism, oral (f rec, referenced m rec), fingering (f rec), nipple play, daddy kink, panty stealing (kind of), squirting, 1 mention of reader having pubic hair, maybe a lil breeding kink??, protected piv

♡ Notes: i've had this sitting in my drafts since december and finally got around to finishing it gfdhgfh this is incredibly self indulgent as grease is one of my fave movies ever and chan as danny zuko is constantly rattling around in my brain. the build up is pretty short (by my usual standards) as i moved the plot along a lot quicker than i normally would so idk if it's my best work but hopefully you enjoy it!

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

You remember well the first time you met Chris. Lounging aimlessly at the beach with the sunset on the horizon, his feet in the sand with a silver dog tag necklace hanging low over his bare chest, a cigarette from his previously discarded jeans held between his lips. Fresh from the ocean with beads of water still dripping off his toned body, slicking back his damp hair before fumbling through a different pocket for his lighter.

exoelder237

I love being able to see my oldest likes from the top first 😩can see all the old treasures

softjeekies

Waiting After The Rain - Masterlist

Pairing: ot8!stray kids x pregnant omega!reader

Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.

Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.

Warnings: a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory, mentions of vomit/vomit scenes, fem reader, suggestive, self image issues

angel-writes-skz-here

Justified

Mafia! Bang Chan x Reader Synopsis: Chan introduces himself and takes you on a not so voluntary trip. Warnings: tension, extreme themes, needles, SMUT in future parts! A/N: Please read with caution! I wish to keep things a surprise so I don't want to give too much away, but please take care of yourselves! This is for entertainment purposes only! Xoxo💋

Last Chapter Next Chapter

Chapter 2

luvyeni

• big boy . ִֶָ་. 🍯 ་༘

⌗bigboy — you loved ragebaiting your boyfriend …

( s. changbin x fem!reader ) • warnings. unprotected sex , p n v , changbin lifts reader up , dirty talk 𓄵 word count. 489 { back to library }

mbbvixen

SSB2: Our Little Secret (Part 1)

Our Sanctuary Bang Chan X f! Reader MDNI | Mature | Explicit | Fluff Four months into a hidden pregnancy, you and Bang Chan navigate the quiet sanctuary of your domestic bubble, choosing to embrace your deep intimacy and keep your high-stakes secrets in the dark. SSB1

The kitchen tiles are cool beneath your bare feet. A shock of cold that travels up through your arches, grounding you in the predawn quiet. The apartment is still, no hum of traffic yet, no distant sirens, just the soft whoosh of the refrigerator and your own slow footsteps padding across the floor.

Your mouth feels like sandpaper. The water bottle on your nightstand was empty, the last drops drained hours ago during one of those half-awake moments you've grown accustomed to. Pregnancy thirst, the books called it. A normal symptom. Normal. You've learned to redefine the word over these past four months.

The cabinet door opens with a whisper. You reach for a glass, your movements slower now, more deliberate. Four months. You've crossed the threshold from the grueling first trimester into something resembling stability. The nausea has faded from a constant roar to an occasional murmur. The exhaustion still clings to you, but it's different now, less bone-deep sickness, more the weight of your body working overtime to build something miraculous.

You're heavier. Fuller. Your belly presses against the thin cotton of his tank top, stretching the fabric in ways it was never designed to accommodate. It's an old one, from the depths of his closet, the logo cracked and faded. You've claimed it as yours now, along with most of his wardrobe. The tank hangs loose around your shoulders, gapes at the armholes, but across your midsection it pulls snug, a visible testament to the life growing inside you.

Braless. You can't deal with underwire anymore. Can't deal with lace either. The delicate scratch of it against your sensitized skin, the way it digs into your hips. So you've surrendered to simple white cotton panties, the kind that sit low on your hips and feel like nothing at all. Practical. Soft. Enough.

lovecase

🪡 ℛATING my exes. . . ─── 𝓈tray kids!

( 애인 ) you don't expect anything to come out of rating your exes—well, you don't expect them to see it. but it doesn't go as awful as you'd think... 💭 :: 27ss dirty jokes/innuendos allusions to sex reader is lowk #thatgirl jeongin gets his own warning seungmin barks han is precious sunoo/ni-ki/megan cameo

𑣲⋆ note ⸝⸝ this is for my lovely amazing thoughtful kind talented pretty girlfriend @kloversung because it's our one month (everyone cheer 🍻) i hope she knows how much i love her & i wanted to write a silly smau for her ♡ i love you ky baby (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

channlust

pheromoān?

or: you didn't think a mere pheromone perfume would have this much of an effect on him. congratulations, you've earned his attention and the hatered of your neighbors, boo you whore

warnings: MDNI! ot8 x reader (separate), they go FERAL, probably highly unrealistic portrays of what a pheromone perfume does, dom/sub dynamics, overstim edging piv begging etc etc, scent kink?, they're really really needy, overuse of italics

luvyeni

• one of a kind . ִֶָ་. 🍥 ་༘

⌗oneofakind — lino and jisung are in a relationship .. but they both have feelings for you

( minsung x fem!reader ) • warnings. threesomes , oral ( m. receiving ), unprotected sex , language 𓄵 word count. 2789 { back to library }

( yeni’s notes ). is it really pride month if i don’t do a minsung fic

adra19

Hood Life Chronicles 2 - Beast

Material Handler! Zoro x Black fem! Reader

Synopsis: He's good with handling materials. Always has been. What to do when he can't handle you? Let him figure it out.

Sit back, relax, and you might need a snack?

Tags/cw: 18+, mdni, p in v, pussy eating, heavy dirty talk, etc..

Songs:

Good Enough by AV

Girls Like You by Tone Stilth

Do U? By Do or Die

Exchange by Bryson Tiller (plus the instrumental)

All We Do by Trey Songz (Instrumental)

Zoro was always up to something. Weather it was his job, or out drinking with some of his friends. Working long hours at the warehouse was his norm.

Home was home. A place he kept uptight as best as he could. With a beer in hand, he rubbed the back of his head as he stood there over the dining room table. His eyes stared at the beautiful handwritten note there. Intricate in his eyes.

His mind swirled with thoughts of the woman whom he met at the bar earlier that night. You, in simple work attire that suited your frame. If he had to guess, you had to be a secretary or a company worker. He stared at the ten digits for a moment longer.

You were a delight to talk to. Even better to look at. With an exhaled breath, he took a swig before placing the glass bottle right beside the smaller paper. Pulling out his phone from his back pocket, he unlocked the screen. Adding your name to his contacts, he turns the phone off before picking the bottle back up.

It was late, and he had work in the morning. Placing the half empty beer bottle into his fridge, he switched the lights off and headed to bed, leaving the small paper there in darkness.

On the other side of town, you lay in bed with the thought of the man you met that night. You couldn't quite understand why you gave him your number. Maybe it was out of curiosity? Might have been interested. Who knows. You did think he was handsome. Even with the moss color of his hair to his blunt vague words.

You were actually kinda hoping he'd reach out. However, there was a little bit of doubt on the other side of that. You dismissed the thought before leaning over in bed. Pulling the small cord on your lamp, darkness fills the room.

It took a few days before he reached out. A Saturday night. Rain pouring down outside, giving the city a reflection of itself. A simple "hey".

You responded back almost immediately. Before you knew it, you both ended up texting all night. Not literally, but long enough to see the time pass by. You both talked about nothing and something at the time. What started as uncertain quickly transformed into depth.

Every chance you both got, there was always a text. Then, it led to phone calls. You'd laugh at his humor, and he'd snorted at your feedback. Just hearing each other's voices made the night soothing for the both of you. This went on for weeks. Until the connection developed in person.

Drinks at the bar? He'd pay. Nightly walks afterward? Yep. Visits? You both were working on it. He figured you'd both have to pick the time and day. It came sooner than you thought. Zoro, there, with his form of a gift. Homemade onigiri.

The redness in his cheeks gave him away like always.

"For you. Here." Handing you the plate wrapped in aluminum foil. You smiled.

"I didn't know you were a cook." Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he gave a slight frown. One you could read as his form of a pout.

"I'm not. It's just somethin' I can sometimes do." Laughing, you let him inside. Taking in your space, he noted how comforting it was. It was so.. you. He thought it matched your personality perfectly.

"Nice place." He said as he toed his shoes off by the door.

"Thanks. Make yourself at home." You took the plate into the kitchen. Zoro, following you and not far behind. Placing the plate down, you took the foil off. Seeing six small ones there, you picked one up.

"Do they taste as good as they look?" Your question is a sweet sly remark. Grey eyes narrow before the sound of a deep chuckle leaves him.

"Well?" At this point, his arms were crossed over his chest as he waited. You took a bite, the rice and tuna hitting you at once. Not bad, but not good either. Covering your mouth, you chew.

"Not bad." Raising an eyebrow, he loosened up a bit. His arms falling to his sides as he leaned against the counter.

"Really?" When you nodded as you at the rest, the plate was pushed towards him. He eyed the plate.

"Wanna share?" You had already grabbed another. Four left sitting. Reaching for one, he shared the plate with you. Chatter filled the room. Your laughs and his. You both finished the plate, returning it later after washing it.

As you talked about your interests, you found his attention nice. Too nice at that. He just let you talk and talk and talk. You were starting to wonder if he was becoming bored.

"Why'd ya stop? M'still listenin'." At this point, you two were comfortable. Relaxing on your couch as silence filled the room.

"I've been talking for the past hour."

"And?"

"And you're not bored of it? Like at all?" You asked.

"No. So continue."

This became a regular. Late night talks at your place. Of course you would have them at his, but you preferred for him to come over to you. Something about hearing him say "Wait for me there." Made your heart beat a little faster.

The relationship was developing fast. From nicknames to cuddling to touching. He always looked forward to stopping by or staying the night. Nothing better than having his face buried into your cleavage as he talked about his day. If he was lucky at times, a kiss was always given to him.

It didn't take long before your first time together. Drinking at the bar led to you both making unprotected decisions. Raw, steamy sex in his truck behind the bar. Windows fogged, and the area filled with grunts and soft moans.

And right now, that's where you are about to be at this point. You'd been ignoring him for a few days. The reason? The accident. It caused him to have a scar over his left eye now. Concerned about it, you were. You even helped him heal it up. But you noticed how it complimented his face more whenever you FaceTimed each other.

Material Handler or not, it gave him more appeal to you. Very much appeal. So, of course, you blank out during the FaceTime calls. If anything, you'd probably be all over him if he came by any time soon. Oh, how the lucky stars shined down on the opportunity.

His hands were made for work, and so was his tongue. With you on your back on the bed, a leg lifted in his rough hand, and a pillow beneath your hips. You, trapped in the perfect position for his tongue to explore.

He had figured it out long ago. The extra long stares. The lazy drag of your finger there and with his earrings, whenever he was asleep beside you. The way you’d touch his tanned skin whenever you were laying on top of him. There was even that time he secretly caught you touching yourself to the thought of him. A secret he would not dare tell you.

Many orgasms down, and your body couldn't handle the next. His marks, becoming more prominent in the dimly lit light of your bedroom as he adds another one to the collection. What started as a simple conversation led to hunger and...

"Z-Zo— Wait, Mnh…"

The desperation in your voice filling his ears. Like it was the best song he has heard over and over again. From the physical exertion he was putting into your body to the furniture rattling around the room. Each thrust making your legs wobble in that way he knew was spot on. His one good eye enjoying the view below him. Warm puffs of air leaving his part lips, swollen slightly from your kisses and bites. He was too into it. Loving how you moaned so sweetly for him.

His nails digging into the soft flesh of your hip and thigh. His head turning slightly to place a kiss on your ankle as he kept that same pace. Deep. Hard. The groan he let out from his chest vibrated against your skin. A sigh that you were squeezing him deliciously.

“Easy, baby…” A grunt followed afterwards. His large hand rubbing your thigh as he held it against his chest. His other hand moving from your hip down to the swollen bud he abused during tongue foreplay. His thumb rubbing tight circles in contrast to the dick he was giving you.

“Let that pretty pussy take what she needs…” Only when you were close again did you began to run, actually trying to scoot away. He breathed out an amused chuckle before pulling you back. His hands keeping you there at the edge.

“N-No more~, I can’t—, m-mmm, ugnnn…”

“Nah, don’t run. Lemme hit that spot…”

Your trembling body and voice filled the room again. Tears welling up in your beautiful eyes as he fucked you into the mattress. He adjusted the angle. His hips slapping against yours. His thumb going back to rub circles as your stomach caved. Hitting that sponge spot just right.

“There it is…”

That familiar tightness pulled at you. Your eyes rolling back as tears streaked down your face.

“Mmmmh, O.. Oh!… Aghh~”

“Z.. Zorooo~”

“I hear ya, baby… F-F-Fuuuuck… Thaaat’s it, ma..” The pressure kept rising as you tried to hold out back as best as you could. However, your body was losing its control. You legs shaking in his grip, your lips apart, and the incoherent moans and whimpers leaving your mouth. He was not far behind. The way you tightened around him like you were wanting more. Sucking him in so good. The slick cream ring forming at the base as he beat your guts in. You sounded absolutely ruined now.

“Just let go ma… Keep cryin’ for me. Give me that nut, baby… soak this dick..”

The crack in your voice was the braking point. Zoro let out a throaty moan as your pussy spasmed and flooded around him. He groaned deeply, pulling out in time to cum on your stomach and clit.

“S-Shiiit~”

He managed to catch himself before collapsing right on top of you. Your bodies glistening with sweat and the scent of each other as you laid together. He made sure to keep most of his weight off of you. You didn’t mind it. As you both simmered down in the afterglow, he nuzzled his face against your neck. His earrings dangling lightly agaisnt your shoulder.

“You should’ve told me what was up.” He murmured against you. You panted a few more times before responding.

“Would the sex be the same if I did?” You felt the snort he made as he laughed against you. You chuckled as well. A few minutes had passed before he got up to clean you up. You were satiated as you scrolled through your phone. Your arms trembled ever so often. A reminder of what he did. Maybe you liked a bit of miscommunication. the kind where he wouldn’t speak up about it, but to physically fix it himself.

AN: Sorry for the hiatus. I took some time for myself. Happy Pride and Juneteenth. Enjoy 💚

Credits to @omi-resources for the header/dividers.

binniebb

── cabin fever ☼︎ seo changbin

[ ▸ ] — you arrive at camp skz ready for cabins, campfires, and the particular kind of crisis only a child with wet socks can create. you are not ready for changbin, who turns out to be built, funny, stubbornly helpful, and much too good at making kids feel brave. by the end of summer, cabin fever has less to do with the woods and everything to do with the boy you keep finding beside you.

[ ☰ ] — event masterlist - schedule

[ ✐ ] — 9k

[ ⌗ ] — camp counselor!changbin x camp counselor!reader coworkers to lovers slow burn? camp shenanigans graphic & detailed smut oral ( f receiving ) squirting

[ ✉︎ ] — aaaaaand we're back! first of all—please listen to because and endless sun. these capture the vibe of this fic best <3 i'm so excited for you to get to know my big, beefy, softy camp counselor husband. this boy is quietly c o n f i d e n t over lifeguard!chris's loud cockiness, which is a little refreshing...but just wait until you get to the smut scene 😈 so happy to see everyone's response to the event so far <3 so without further ado, enjoy hunnies, and please like, reblog, and comment to show your support—it really does mean a lot to us writers. and i LOVE seeing what you guys think! feedback is always appreciated. love you all so much! mwah!

chanssneakylink

Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy

yung-notorious

LALA SHE/HER ‘01 — MASTER LIST. ARCHIVE. AO3.

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