tags: oral (Y/N receiving). fingering. creampie. body worship. body image talk.
。♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ・。゜♥｡ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡
A casual catch-up shatters when Y/N reveals her co-worker's cruel insult. Chan reacts not with comfort, but with a chilling, possessive intensity, demanding she listen as he tells her exactly how he sees her body instead.
I can't remember when or how we actually became friends; it feels like we've known each other our entire lives. That’s how easy it felt with Chan. Conversations flowed, whether they were light-hearted or deep emotional rants.
Just like this evening. Chan finally having a free moment decided it had been too long since we last saw each other, and we needed a catch-up. He was sitting comfortably on my couch like it was his own.
Listening to me mumble on about what's been going on in my life, lost in my own world of memories, the words left my mouth before I could stop them.
“And don't even get me started on what that sleazeball of a co-worker said about me.”
I froze, eyes opening wide in realisation.
Chan sat up straighter. “What did he say?” he asked, his voice laced with something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
I looked away. “It doesn't matter.” I shrugged my shoulders.
Feeling Chan’s intense stare locked on me, then I felt it. His hand gently gripped my chin, turning my face back toward him.
“Don't do that. Don't hide from me.”
He still held my chin, making my breath hitch.
“Tell me what he said, Y/N.”
I pulled back from his touch, creating distance like it could shield me. My bottom lip trembled.
“A few of us were talking about a dating show during lunch,” I sighed. “And he said maybe if I went on it, I might finally find someone willing to date me.”
Chan’s demeanour went rigid at my words, and I wasn't even finished.
“Then he said, ah never mind, they probably wouldn't let someone your size on the show anyway.”
That was the final blow.
Chan stood up abruptly, running his hands over his face while letting out a deep sigh, almost like he was trying to control his feelings before speaking.
He stared directly at me with a look of anger I've never seen before.
“He really fucking said that,” Chan chuckled dryly, almost sinisterly, stepping forward until he stood right in front of me.
Chan extended his hand in a silent ask, pulling me up. Now we were standing face to face, bodies so close I could feel the warmth of him enveloping me.
Chan slowly lifted his hand to cradle my face, locking my gaze on him.
“You listen to me clearly when I say this, okay?”
His voice was lower now, calm but with something else hidden beneath it. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“I’m going to tell you how I see you and your body, and you can decide whose words you want to believe.”
Chan’s grip tightened slightly.
“You are the light in days that seem so dark, I can't see a way out. You make bad days better and good days great.”
He let out a shaky breath before continuing.
“And fuck, don't get me started on your body, Y/N. You are fucking perfect. The way your clothes hug your curves like a warm blanket I want to be wrapped in. How plush your legs feel under my head when you let me rest on you has become my heaven.”
My breath caught in my throat at Chan’s words. I had never heard anyone speak like I was something special. My brain couldn't process what he was saying. Doubt crept in, washing over me like a tidal wave.
Noticing my apprehension, Chan’s expression softened almost instantly. His thumb brushed lightly beneath my eye, like he was afraid I might shatter if he moved.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice quieter now, grounding. “Don't do that thing where you start arguing with yourself in your head. I can see it happening.”
I let out a shaky laugh that didn't quite sound like one.
“I just… I don't get how you can say all that so easily.”
Chan tilted his head, brows pulling together.
“Easily?” he repeated. “Y/N, none of that was easy. It's just true.”
The word hung between us. True. Heavy and unfamiliar.
I swallowed, arms instinctively wrapping around myself.
“People don’t usually see me like that.”
“Well, people are idiots,” he said immediately, the bluntness earning a surprised breath from me. His lips twitched, not quite a smile.
“And I hate that you’ve spent so long believing them instead of someone who actually knows you, someone who really sees you for everything you are.”
“I’ve watched you,” he continued softly. “The way you take care of everyone else before yourself. The way you laugh, even when you’re exhausted. The way you light up a room without even trying.”
He shook his head, almost in disbelief.
“Do you know how hard it is when I see you and have to pretend I only… like you as my friend?”
My heart stuttered.
“Chan…”
Before I could protest, he rested his forehead against mine. Our heavy breaths merged as he stared deeply at me, almost like he was looking into my soul, seeing beauty there too. My throat went dry. A beat of silence fell over us, filled only by the sound of our breathing.
“Fuck it,” Chan muttered before smashing his lips onto mine in a searing kiss full of want and need, a need to show me every word about me was true.
The kiss deepened as Chan’s hands slid from my face to my waist, closing the gap between us. Chan was kissing me in a way no one ever had, like he was proving a point and demanding I believe it.
I pulled back from the kiss, my lungs burning for air that felt too thin. My hands came up, pressing flat against the solid wall of his chest, not to push him away but to feel something real, something that wasn't the dizzying spin of his words and his mouth. "Chan," I breathed, the name a ragged thing. "Wait."
He let me put that inch between us, but his hands stayed on my waist, heavy and possessive. His eyes were dark, pupils swallowing the warm brown as he watched me struggle to catch my breath. "I'm not waiting anymore," he said, his voice rough. "You heard me. Every word. Now you're going to feel it."
One hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, pressing until our bodies aligned again. A sharp gasp tore from my throat. That wasn't just want. It was a claim. His other hand came up, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my face up. "His words are nothing. Dust. They're gone." He leaned in, his lips brushing mine as he spoke. "My words are the only truth you get to keep. Say you understand."
I couldn't speak. I could only feel the heat of him. My own body was betraying me, a slick, aching warmth pooling low in my belly. He must have seen the surrender in my eyes. He kissed me again, slower this time, a deep, consuming slide of his tongue that tasted like promise and possession. My hands fisted in his shirt, holding on as the world narrowed to the wet heat of his mouth and the hard grip of his hands.
He walked us to my room, his mouth never leaving mine, until my legs met the bed. I fell onto the tangled sheets, and he came down over me, his weight a solid, welcome pressure. He left my lips to drag his mouth along my jaw, down my throat. "This," Chan said into my hammering pulse,
His mouth moved lower, a hot, open kiss against the hollow of my throat, then the slope of my breast over my shirt. "This curve," he murmured, his voice vibrating into my skin. His hands pushed my shirt up, his palms rough and warm as they slid over my stomach. He didn't hurry. He kissed every inch he exposed, his lips tracing the soft swell of my belly, the dip of my waist. "This perfect, fucking curve."
I arched off the bed, a whimper escaping me. His tongue dipped into my navel, and my hands flew to his dyed blonde hair, gripping the strands. He looked up at me, his eyes black with need. "You taste like heaven," he said, and the raw hunger in his voice made my pussy clench, empty and aching. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and panties, dragging them down my thighs in one slow, deliberate motion. The cool air hit my wet skin, and I shuddered.
He settled between my legs, his broad shoulders pushing my thighs wider. He didn't touch me there, not yet. He just looked, his breath hot against my inner thigh. "All of you," he said, almost to himself. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss, so soft, to the very top of my slit. I cried out. His tongue followed, a slow, flat stroke through my soaking folds. "Chan… fuck," I gasped, my hips lifting off the bed.
"His words are gone," he growled against me, his mouth finding my clit. He sucked, gently at first, then harder, his tongue circling the aching bud until my back bowed and my thighs trembled. The pleasure was a sharp, building coil deep in my belly. I was dripping, the wet sound of his mouth on me obscene and perfect. He slid two fingers inside me, curling them, and I shattered. The orgasm ripped through me, blinding and violent, my scream muffled by my own arm.
He rode me through it, his fingers working, his mouth gentle now, kissing me through the tremors. When I finally went limp, boneless against the sheets, he crawled back up my body. He was still fully clothed, his cock a hard, insistent line against my thigh through his jeans. He cradled my face again, his fingers slick with my wetness. "Mine," he breathed, his forehead against mine. "Every soft, perfect inch. You believe me now?"
I nodded, breathless, and pulled him down for a desperate kiss. My mouth found his, clumsy and hungry, tasting myself on his lips. I needed to erase the space between his words and my belief, to fuse them with the heat of his body. My hands left his face to claw at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over the hard planes of his stomach.
Chan broke the kiss only to yank the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he was back, his bare chest hot against mine, and the feeling was so shocking, so right, I sobbed into his mouth. His hands were everywhere, sliding down to grip my hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there. "This," he growled, rocking his hips so the thick ridge of his cock in his jeans pressed against my wet, open core. "This is what’s mine."
I cried out, the friction almost too much. I was still pulsing from his mouth, oversensitive and raw, but the ache was already building again, deeper, more insistent. He fumbled with his belt, the buckle clinking, and then he was pushing his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. I didn't look. I felt him, the blunt, hot head of his cock nudging against me, slick with my wetness. He was big, the stretch a burning promise as he pressed forward, just an inch.
He stilled, his whole body trembling with the effort. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice shattered. I opened my eyes, drowning in the black of his. "You see me? You feel this” He pushed deeper, a slow, devastating invasion that filled me completely. A broken sound tore from my throat. It was a claiming, a sealing. Every cruel word was burned away in the searing heat of him.
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that had me clutching at his back. His pace was relentless, each thrust punctuated by a low, possessive grunt in my ear. My name, a curse, a prayer. The wet slap of our skin, the creak of the bed, the ragged symphony of our breathing, it was all I knew. The coil wound tight again, sharper, brighter, building from where he was joined to me. "Chan, oh fuck... channie, I-I'm gonna," I gasped, my nails biting into his shoulders.
"Cum," he ordered, his mouth on my throat. "Cum on my cock. Let me feel it." His command shattered the last of me. I came with a scream, my body clamping around him in violent waves. He drove into me through the convulsions, his rhythm faltering, and with a final, deep thrust and a raw groan against my skin, he followed me over. He spilled inside me, hot and endless, his body collapsing onto mine, heavy and complete. We lay there, fused, the only sound our struggling lungs. His lips moved against my sweaty temple.
He pulled out gently, a slow, slick withdrawal that made me whimper at the sudden emptiness, and then he gathered me against his chest. My face pressed into the hollow of his throat, his heartbeat a frantic drum under my ear. His skin was hot and damp, smelling of sweat and sex and him, and his arms wrapped around me so completely I felt swallowed whole. We didn't speak for a moment. The only sounds were our ragged breaths slowing and the distant hum of the city outside the window.
"My perfect girl", Chan whispered as he placed a soft, loving kiss against my hair.
paring: ot8(poly relationship)
Rating: Mature Content (Minors DNI)
Tags: omegaverse. pet names. Hand-job (Han receiving). anal(Han x Felix)
As the pack's alpha, Han is supposed to lead, but he's a wimpy, whiny submissive to his seven omegas, slightly proofread
。♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ・。゜♥｡ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡･ﾟ♡ﾟ･｡♥｡
The hotel suite was silent, finally. The last echoes of screaming fans had faded from the lobby hours ago, replaced by the low hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustle of eight bodies moving through the shared space. Sequined performance jackets were draped over the backs of chairs, discarded like shed skins. Bang Chan moved through the main room, checking the lock on the suite door, drawing the blackout curtains closed. His movements were efficient, practised. The leader’s work was done. The fan-meet had been flawless, his cues sharp, his smile bright, and now a different duty began.
Han stood in the middle of the living area, still in his stage clothes, his shoulders held in a stiff, unnatural line. The public alpha posture was a suit of armour that crushed him. He could feel the seams of it digging in. His skin prickled with leftover adrenaline and a deeper, more frantic need. His eyes tracked Chan, wide and pleading.
“Hyung,” Han whined, the sound thin and high in the quiet room. It was all he could manage. The word was a key turning in a lock. The stiff line of his spine softened, his shoulders curling inward.
Lee Minho looked up from where he was neatly folding a discarded shirt. His gaze swept over Han, missing nothing. “The performance alpha is still here,” he observed, his voice dry. “We should put him away. He’s taking up space.”
Changbin was already moving, a solid, warm presence at Han’s side. He didn’t speak, just pressed his palm flat against the small of Han’s back. The heat of it seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. Han shuddered, a full-body tremor, and leaned into the touch.
“Come on, pup,” Chan said, his voice shifting. The bright, stage-ready warmth was gone, replaced by a lower, steadier tone. It was the voice he used only here, holding out a hand. Not demanding. Offering. “You held it together so long. You can let go now.”
The permission shattered the last of Han’s control. A choked sob escaped him as he stumbled forward, not toward Chan’s hand, but directly into his chest. He buried his face in the junction of Chan’s neck and shoulder, his hands fisting in the back of Chan’s soft t-shirt. He inhaled deeply, sweat, hotel soap, and underneath it all, Chan’s own warm, grounding scent. He made a desperate, kittenish noise, nuzzling and seeking.
“There he is,” Felix murmured, his smile audible. He came up on Han’s other side, his freckled cheek pressing against Han’s tense shoulder blade. His touch was sunny and effortless, a gentle weight. “Our Jisungie. Missed you.”
They surrounded him then, not all at once, but in a slow, deliberate convergence. Hyunjin’s long fingers began carding through Han’s sweat-damp hair, untangling the styled strands with an artist’s care. Seungmin stood just before him, a calm, observant presence, his intelligent eyes taking in every shiver. Jeongin sat on the arm of the nearby sofa, watching with a fond, knowing look. Minho finished his folding and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his smirk softened into something like satisfaction.
Changbin’s hand remained on his back, a constant, heavy point of contact. Han was cocooned in them, their scents and warmth and quiet attention weaving a net beneath his freefall. The frantic static in his mind began to quiet, replaced by the sound of their breathing, the feel of their hands.
“He’s buzzing,” Seungmin stated, his honeyed voice factual. “Like a live wire. The fan-meet was a lot of stimulus.”
“He needs to come down,” Chan agreed, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Han’s head. His fingers worked gently at the base of his skull. “Can you do that for us, Jisung-ah? Can you let us bring you down?”
Han nodded against Chan’s neck, another whine spilling out. “Hurts,” he mumbled, the word muffled by skin and fabric.
“What hurts, pretty alpha?” Hyunjin asked, his voice a dreamy whisper near Han’s ear. His fingers traced the shell of it.
“Everything,” Han gasped. “My skin. My head. It’s… It’s too much. I need…” He trailed off, shuddering again. The need was a physical ache now, coiling tight and hot low in his belly. The praise from thousands had been a hollow roar. This, their focused, silent attention, was a laser, burning away the pretence. He was laid bare between them, and the exposure was agony and relief all at once.
“He needs to kneel,” Minho said from his place by the wall. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a diagnosis. “He’s floating. Put him on the ground.”
Chan nodded, his chin brushing Han’s hair. “Okay. Let’s get these stage clothes off first. They’re full of wrong energy.” He began to guide Han backwards, peeling him gently away from his chest. Han went pliant, his limbs loose and cooperative as many hands descended.
Felix and Hyunjin made quick, gentle work of the ornate jacket, sliding it from his shoulders. Changbin’s big hands went to the buckle of his belt, the rasp of leather loud in the quiet. Seungmin knelt to untie his performance shoes, slipping them off with care. Jeongin brought a soft hotel towel, draping it over the carpet in the center of their loose circle. It was a silent, efficient ballet, each of them playing their part in dismantling the idol to reveal the man beneath.
Soon, Han stood in just his simple black boxer-briefs, shivering slightly in the cool air. The difference was stark. Without the sequins and structure, he looked younger, softer. Vulnerable. His chest rose and fell too quickly.
“Now kneel, Jisung-ah,” Chan instructed, his voice firm but not unkind. He gave a slight pressure on Han’s shoulder.
Han’s knees hit the plush towel without resistance. The position sent a wave of immediate, visceral calm through him. His shoulders slumped, his head bowing forward. The world narrowed to the texture of the towel under his knees, the scent of his pack all around him, and the heavy, waiting silence. He took a deep, shuddering breath. The static was receding, but the ache was not. It was deepening, focusing into a single, throbbing point of need between his legs. He felt himself hardening against the soft cotton of his underwear, the sensation both embarrassing and inevitable.
“Look at him,” Felix whispered, his voice full of warm admiration. “So good for us already.”
Changbin settled on the floor in front of Han, cross-legged. His powerful frame blocked Han’s forward view, becoming his world. “Here, Sungie,” he rumbled, opening his arms. “Come here.”
Han didn’t need to be told twice. He swayed forward, collapsing against Changbin’s solid chest. He buried his face in the soft cotton of Changbin’s shirt, inhaling his deep, musky scent. Changbin’s arms came around him, enveloping him in a secure, unshakeable hold. One big hand splayed across his bare back, the other cradled the back of his head. Han melted, a low, continuous whine vibrating in his throat.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Changbin murmured, his voice a low vibration against Han’s ear. “You did so well today. All those people, and you were so strong. Our alpha.” The words were praise, but they were also a reminder of the fiction, and Han whimpered, pressing closer as if to hide from it.
Other hands returned. Hyunjin resumed stroking his hair. Felix leaned against his side, a warm line of comfort. Seungmin’s fingers traced the knobs of his spine with clinical tenderness. Han was surrounded, touched on every available plane of his body. The attention was a drug, and he was sinking into it, his breath beginning to slow, to sync with Changbin’s steady heartbeat under his ear.
But the physical ache persisted, a stubborn counter-rhythm to the growing peace. He was painfully hard now, his cock trapped and straining against his underwear, a damp spot of pre-come already darkening the fabric. He shifted minutely, a tiny, aborted grind against nothing, and a sharp gasp escaped him.
Minho’s sigh was fond. “There it is. The real need.” He pushed off the wall and came to kneel beside them on the towel. His elegant hand came to rest on Han’s hip, his thumb stroking over the jut of the bone. “The mind is settling, but the body remembers, doesn’t it? It remembers it didn’t get what it needed.”
Han nodded desperately against Changbin’s chest. “Aches,” he whispered, the word thick with want. “Hyung, it aches so bad.”
“We know,” Chan said. He had moved to sit on the sofa behind them, watching it all unfold. His gaze was heavy with ownership and care. “We can feel it. You’re trembling with it.”
“Can we… please?” Han begged, his voice cracking. He turned his head, his cheek still pressed to Changbin, to look at Chan with wide, wet eyes. “Please, Chan-hyung. I need… I need to come. Please let me.”
A soft, collective shift moved through the pack. The comforting touches changed in quality, becoming more deliberate, more focused. Felix’s hand slid from Han’s shoulder down his arm. Hyunjin’s fingers trailed from his hair to the nape of his neck. Seungmin’s tracing moved lower, to the dip of his spine. Minho’s grip on his hip tightened, just slightly.
Chan considered him, his dark eyes soft. “You’ve been so good. You held on through the whole show, through the fans, through the car ride here. You asked so nicely.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How do you want it, pup? Do you want to come just like this? Rubbing against Bin-ah like a needy thing?”
The image, voiced in Chan’s calm tone, made Han moan. His hips jerked involuntarily, his cock twitching. “Yes,” he breathed. “Anything. Please.”
“No,” Minho interjected, his voice a clean slice through Han’s desperation. His hand on Han’s hip stilled him. “Not like that. He needs more. He needs to feel it properly. He needs to be empty.”
Han’s breath hitched. Empty. The word resonated in the hollow, aching place inside him. He was so full of performed confidence, of staged aggression, that he felt ready to burst. To be emptied… it was all he wanted.
Chan nodded, agreeing with Minho’s assessment. “Okay. On your back, Jisung-ah. Let us see you.”
Changbin loosened his embrace, guiding Han to lie back on the towel. Han went, his body boneless with surrender. The carpet was firm beneath the towel, the ceiling lights of the hotel suite blurry above him. He felt exposed, spread out before them like an offering. His legs fell open slightly, a silent admission. The tent in his black underwear was obscene, the damp patch glistening.
They rearranged themselves around him. Felix settled by his head, his fingers playing with Han’s hair. Hyunjin and Seungmin took positions by his hips, their hands resting on his thighs. Jeongin came to sit near his feet, watching with dark, intent eyes. Minho stayed at his side, his hand returning to Han’s hipbone. Changbin moved to brace Han’s shoulders, letting Han’s head rest in his lap. Chan remained on the sofa, the king observing his court.
“Look at you,” Hyunjin murmured, his artistic gaze sweeping over Han’s body. “All that power on stage, and here you are. Just our pretty, whining thing.”
Han whined in affirmation, his back arching off the floor. The cool air on his heated skin was a shock. Every point of contact, Seungmin’s hand on his inner thigh, Minho’s thumb circling his hip, the weight of Changbin under his head, was a brand. He was mapped by their touch.
“Please,” he begged again, his eyes finding Chan’s. “Hyung, I can’t wait. It hurts.”
“Shh,” Chan soothed. “We’ll take care of you. Minho-yah?”
Minho’s smirk returned. With deliberate slowness, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Han’s underwear. He didn’t pull them down yet. He just held them, the elastic taut. Han’s stomach muscles clenched. “This is what you need, isn’t it? To be opened up. To be made empty.”
Han could only nod, frantic. Tears of frustration and want welled in his eyes.
“Then ask for it,” Seungmin said, his logical tone a contrast to the electric tension. “Properly.”
Han swallowed. He let his head fall back against Changbin, exposing the long line of his throat. He looked at Chan, at Minho, at all of them. His voice, when it came, was a broken, honest thing. “Please… please empty me. Please, I need it. I need to be yours. Make me yours.”
Chan’s smile was slow and deep. He gave a single, approving nod.
Minho pulled the fabric down in one smooth motion.
Han’s cock sprang free, fully hard, flushed dark and leaking steadily onto his stomach. The cool air on his heated skin made him cry out, a sharp, shocked sound. He was completely bare to them now, every trembling inch. He was panting, his chest heaving.
“Beautiful,” Felix whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to Han’s temple.
Hyunjin’s hand left his thigh and hovered, then his long, graceful fingers wrapped around Han’s cock.
Han screamed.
It wasn’t pain. It was the sheer, overwhelming relief of contact. His hips bucked off the floor, driving himself deeper into Hyunjin’s loose fist. Hyunjin made a soft, admiring sound and began to stroke, slow and torturous, his thumb smearing the bead of pre-come over the slick head.
“That’s it,” Changbin rumbled above him, his hands coming to frame Han’s face. “Let it go. Give it to us.”
The orgasm that had been building for hours, coiled tight by performance and pretense, was now a live wire sparking under Hyunjin’s touch. Han thrashed, but he was held fast by many hands. Seungmin’s grip on his other thigh was firm. Minho kept his hip pinned. He was utterly at their mercy.
“Look at me, Jisung-ah.”
Han’s tear-blurred eyes snapped to Chan’s. Chan had leaned forward, his gaze intense, capturing Han’s completely. In that look, Han saw everything: the pride, the ownership, the deep, abiding love, and the absolute authority. It was the final anchor.
“Come for your pack,” Chan commanded, his voice low and final. “Now.”
The command was the trigger. The coil snapped.
Han’s world dissolved into white-hot sensation. A raw, guttural cry was torn from his throat as he came, his body bowing off the floor in a violent arch. He pulsed over and over into Hyunjin’s hand, onto his own stomach, the release so forceful it felt like his soul was being pulled out through his cock. He saw nothing but Chan’s eyes holding his. He heard nothing but the mixed chorus of their voices, soothing praises, whispered filth, his name gasped in awe. The pleasure was a tsunami, scouring him hollow, washing away every last shred of the idol, the alpha, the performer. He was emptied. He was theirs.
He collapsed back onto the towel, spent and shuddering through the aftershocks. He was a boneless, gasping thing. Hyunjin was cleaning him with gentle, careful swipes of the towel. Felix was kissing his cheeks, tasting his tears. Changbin was cradling his head, murmuring “good boy” over and over like a prayer.
Han’s eyes fluttered closed. The ache was gone. The static was gone. In its place was a warm, heavy silence, filled only with their scents and their touches and their satisfied hums. He felt Minho’s hand, softer now, stroking his side. He felt Jeongin’s fingers tracing patterns on his ankle.
“Perfect,” Chan said, his voice brimming with warmth. “You were perfect, Jisung-ah.”
Han couldn’t speak. He could only nuzzle weakly into Changbin’s thigh, a soft, satiated whine escaping him. The hotel suite was their secret world. The alpha was gone. Here, in the quiet aftermath, he was simply Han. Theirs. And it was the only truth that mattered.
The warm, satiated silence in the hotel suite was broken by a soft, deliberate sigh. Han, still nuzzled into Changbin’s thigh, felt the shift in the air before he heard the words. “Hyung,” Felix said, his voice a bright, sunny thing that held a quiet edge. “My turn.”
Han’s eyes fluttered open. Felix was kneeling beside him on the plush carpet, his freckled face lit with a smile that didn’t reach the determined set of his jaw. He’d shed his stage shirt, his swimmer’s shoulders bare and golden in the low lamplight. His scent, usually like sunshine on saltwater, carried a sharper, muskier note. Want.
A fresh, thin thread of anxiety pulled tight in Han’s gut. He was empty, spent, a well wrung dry. The thought of moving, of performing again even here, made him want to whimper. He pressed his face harder into Changbin’s leg, a wordless protest.
“Ah, Jisung-ah,” Chan murmured from where he sat on the sofa, observing. His voice was still warm, but it held the unyielding bedrock of his leadership. “Felix waited so patiently. He’s been good.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a recalibration. The work of the stage was over, but the work of the pack continued. Han understood. His need to submit wasn’t a one-time transaction; it was a continuous offering. A shaky breath escaped him.
“Come here, sunshine,” Felix said, not waiting. He hooked his hands under Han’s arms, his strength deceptively easy as he pulled Han up and into his lap. Han went bonelessly, his back against Felix’s chest, his head lolling on Felix’s shoulder. Felix’s skin was hot, and Han could feel the rapid, eager beat of his heart against his spine.
Felix nuzzled into Han’s hair, inhaling deeply. “You smell like all of us now,” he whispered, his Australian accent softening the words into a caress. “Perfect.” His hands settled on Han’s stomach, splaying possessively over the mess Han had made of himself earlier. The touch was claiming, and Han shuddered.
“Look at him, Lixie,” Hyunjin said from the floor, his artist’s eyes tracing the lines of their bodies. “So pretty when he’s pliant.”
“He is,” Felix agreed, his voice humming against Han’s skin. One of his hands drifted lower, fingertips skating through the drying spend on Han’s lower belly. Han flinched, oversensitive. “Shh,” Felix soothed, but his hand didn’t stop. It moved down, and his fingers curled around the base of Han’s soft, spent cock. “We’ll get you ready for me.”
Han made a small, broken sound. It was too soon, his body was a numb, hollowed-out thing. But Felix just held him tighter, a living cage of warm muscle, and began to stroke him. Slowly. Infinitely patiently. There was no demand for an immediate response, just the steady, rhythmic pressure of Felix’s hand.
The room watched. Minho walked over to the window, with an approving smirk. Seungmin handed Felix a bottle of lube from a bag without being asked, his movements efficient. Jeongin shifted closer, his fox-like eyes fixed on Felix’s moving hand. Changbin’s heavy palm came to rest on Han’s ankle, a grounding weight. Chan just watched, his dimples showing in a faint, proud smile.
Under Felix’s relentless, sunny attention, Han’s body betrayed him. A low, reluctant heat began to pool again, cutting through the post-orgasm numbness. His cock, which had felt like dead weight, began to fill under Felix’s slick, sure strokes. It was a different kind of arousal, not the frantic, explosive need from before, but a deep, creeping warmth that spread from his core. A submission of the flesh, obeying a command his mind was too tired to process.
“There he is,” Felix sang softly, feeling the thickening weight in his hand. He sped his strokes, his other arm banding across Han’s chest to keep him upright. “My good hyung. Making himself pretty for me.”
Han was hard again, fully, achingly so. The sensation was overwhelming, a direct line from Felix’s fist to his foggy brain. He could only pant, his eyes squeezed shut, as Felix worked him with a cheerful, focused intensity. Pre-come beaded at his tip, and Felix smeared it down his length with a slick, wet sound that echoed in the quiet room.
“Ready?” Felix asked, his voice bright. He didn’t wait for an answer. He shifted Han forward, just enough, and Han felt the blunt, hot press of Felix’s cock against his entrance. Felix wasn’t asking to be serviced with his mouth. He was claiming something else.
The threshold. The moment froze. Han went rigid, a high whine trapped in his throat. He was stretched, sensitive, unprepared. Felix held him there, not pushing, just letting Han feel the immense, impossible pressure. “Felix,” Han gasped, a plea.
“Look at me, Jisung,” Felix said, his tone shifting. The sunshine was still there, but it was the sun at its zenith-blinding, inescapable. Han turned his head, meeting Felix’s gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown with want, but his smile was serene. “I’ve got you. Let me in.”
It was the permission, wrapped in a command, that broke him. Han’s body went slack, a surrender so complete his very bones seemed to melt. He nodded, a tiny, desperate jerk of his chin.
Felix pushed in.
The stretch was a slow, burning ache that stole Han’s breath. Felix was thick, and Han was tight, and the sensation was a live wire of pure feeling. Felix moaned, a sweet, shattered sound against Han’s ear, as he sank deeper, inch by inexorable inch. “So good,” Felix chanted, his Australian accent bleeding into the words. “So good for me, hyung. Taking me so well.”
When he was fully seated, he stopped, buried to the hilt. They were both trembling. Han was impossibly full, every nerve ending screaming with the invasion. He could feel Felix’s heartbeat inside him, a frantic, second pulse. The room had gone utterly silent, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city twenty floors below.
Then Felix began to move. Not a frantic fuck, but a deep, rolling rhythm. He held Han tight against his chest, using his own body to rock into him. Each drag was a study in sensation, the burn of the stretch, the shocking friction against a place still sensitive from his own climax, the wet, hot slide of Felix inside him. Han’s cries were punched-out things, little “ah, ah, ah” sounds with every thrust.
“See?” Minho drawled from his post by the window. “He just needed the right motivation.”
Felix laughed, breathless, and nipped at Han’s shoulder. “He’s the best motivation.” His pace increased, his hips snapping up with more force. The slap of skin filled the room, a lewd, rhythmic counterpoint to their moans. Han was boneless, a doll being used, and the sheer passivity of it drove him higher than any active participation ever could.
Jeongin’s hand appeared, fingers tracing Han’s slack, open mouth. “Look at his face,” the maknae whispered, awed. Han sucked in a breath around Jeongin’s fingertips, and Jeongin’s eyes darkened. “So pretty.”
The pleasure built, a coil tightening deep in Han’s gut, different from before. This was a slow, submissive burn, fed by the feeling of being thoroughly owned, thoroughly used for another’s pleasure. He could feel Felix starting to lose his sunny control, his thrusts becoming erratic, his moans louder and more broken.
“Gonna come,” Felix gasped, his arms like iron bands around Han. “Gonna fill you up, hyung. Make you mine.”
The words, the claiming, tipped Han over. His orgasm crashed into him without a hand ever touching his cock. It was a deep, internal convulsion, a silent, shattering release that milked Felix from the inside. Felix shouted, a raw, beautiful sound, and slammed home, pulsing hot within him.
They stayed locked together, shuddering, for a long moment. Felix pressed open-mouthed kisses to Han’s shoulder, his neck, whispering “thank you, thank you” in a daze. Finally, he softened and slipped out, and Han felt the immediate, warm trickle of Felix’s cum down his thigh.
Felix gently lowered him onto his side on the carpet, arranging him with tender care. Han was gone, floating in a haze of endorphins and utter depletion. He felt a warm, damp cloth between his legs, Seungmin, cleaning him again with his practical, quiet efficiency.
“My turn,” Jeongin said, his voice soft but clear. He wasn’t asking the room. He was telling Han.
From his spot on the floor, Han could only blink slowly, his vision blurring. The horizon of the hotel suite, of the night, stretched out before him. An endless, welcoming sea of surrender. The alpha was gone. The idol was gone. There was only the pack, their hands, their commands, and the deep, quiet truth of his own whining need. It was all he was. All he wanted to be.
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
gummygunk