😈~NCT 127 reaction to you asking to be on Top~ 😈
pairing: NCT 127 x reader
Why does no one hand in any requests :( I'm running out of ideas
Taeyong’s apartment is immaculate, just like him. Candlelight flickers on the edges of your vision, and the scent of amber and something faintly citrusy lingers in the air—subtle, clean, comforting. He’s always been intentional with everything. You noticed that early on: the way he pours tea, the way he folds the sleeves of his shirt, the way he looks at you like you’re something delicate and precious.
But tonight, you want to break that tension.
He sits on the floor in front of the low coffee table, one leg stretched out, the other bent casually—but his fingers twitch against his knee every time your eyes meet. You’re both quiet, post-movie, pretending to be normal, but the silence is charged.
His throat moves as he swallows, jaw flexing.
You pad across the carpet in your socks, and instead of sitting beside him, you kneel over his lap. Slowly. Like a choice. Like a claim.
His breath hitches. You see it in the way his lashes flutter, the way his whole body freezes—not out of discomfort, but out of sheer anticipation.
You press your hands to his chest, feel the beat of his heart beneath your palms. It’s pounding.
And then you say it.
Low. Warm. Direct.
His pupils blow wide, instantly. He stares up at you like he’s not sure he heard you right—like the earth tilted.
“Y/N…” he says, voice soft and hoarse, “Are you… sure?”
You nod, your lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never been more sure.”
Taeyong leans his forehead against yours for a beat, grounding himself. His hands come up to your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying not to grip too tight, trying not to lose himself too fast.
“I want it to be good for you,” he murmurs.
You smile, tilting his face up. “Then let me take care of you.”
The clothes come off slowly—like unwrapping something fragile. He kisses you like he means every second of it, like he’s memorizing your mouth. His lips are warm, his hands tentative at first, brushing down your sides as if asking permission.
When you finally straddle him, fully bare now, his hands shake against your thighs.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice wrecked.
You guide him—gently, deliberately—positioning yourself above him, the head of his cock nestled against you, throbbing and slick with anticipation. His hands find your waist as you sink down slowly, and his head falls back.
A strangled moan leaves his throat. He clutches at your hips, not moving—won’t move—just feeling you wrap around him inch by inch.
He says it like a prayer. Like a confession.
Once you’re fully seated, you pause. Taeyong’s chest is heaving, his eyes half-lidded, lips parted. You roll your hips, slow and deep, and he groans—his voice low, helpless, overwhelmed.
“Please… go slow. I don’t want to come too fast—fuck…”
You smile, leaning down to kiss along his jaw. “You don’t have to hold back.”
And when you start to move—riding him with lazy, deep rolls of your hips—he completely falls apart.
His hands roam your back, up your sides, into your hair. He lets you set the pace, lets you tease him, lets you whisper filthy little things against his neck that make him shudder and buck his hips without meaning to.
“You feel so good,” he rasps, eyes shut tight. “I can’t—I can’t think when you’re like this…”
You clench around him deliberately, and he gasps—his hands tightening.
You’re soaked. He’s so hard, so thick, filling you perfectly, hitting every spot with just the angle of your grind. You ride him deeper, faster, now gripping his shoulders for balance.
When he finally lets go—mouth against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you like he’s drowning—he moans your name so sweet and desperate, you think you’ll never hear it the same way again.
Afterward, he pulls you against his chest, still breathless, still shaky.
“You didn’t just ride me,” he murmurs. “You devastated me.”
And he kisses you like he’s ready to be wrecked all over again.
You’d never seen Jaehyun nervous. Not once. Not when he gave a speech at your friend’s event. Not when he was asked out by someone bold right in front of you. Not when you brushed your lips across his neck last week, teasing, just to see if he’d crack.
He always plays it smooth—cool, calm, collected. The type of man who could be wrapped in fire and still ask if you’re comfortable.
But tonight? Tonight, Jaehyun’s nerves show.
It’s in the way he leans back against the headboard of his bed, shirt undone but still on, chest rising and falling slower than usual, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. He’s watching you. Letting you explore his body. Letting you decide.
He’s waiting for your cue.
And you give it—climbing into his lap with the kind of slow, practiced confidence that makes his gaze drop instantly to your hips.
You straddle him, knees bracketing his waist, palms splayed across his shoulders. “I want to ride you.”
Still unreadable. Still calm.
But the way he swallows—hard—betrays everything.
His voice is lower than usual when he speaks. “You want to be on top?”
You grin. “I want to take you apart.”
Jaehyun exhales a quiet curse, jaw tight, arms flexing slightly like he’s restraining himself. You feel the shift in him. The loss of composure under the skin. He’s trying not to react too much—but your confidence cuts straight through him.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Take what you want.”
You lean forward and kiss him. Not soft. Not sweet. It’s deep and wet, your tongue sliding past his, pulling a low groan from his throat. His hands move to your waist, gripping gently, but not leading.
You break the kiss and whisper, “No touching unless I tell you to.”
He blinks. Something sparks behind his eyes.
That flicker of heat, curiosity, submission.
He nods once. “Yes, ma’am.”
When you lower yourself onto him, both of you breathless, he’s so thick and warm it makes your thighs tremble. His hands grip the sheets instead of your waist like you told him. His neck arches back against the headboard as you sink down—inch by inch—watching every change in his expression.
You start moving. Slowly. Deliberately. Grinding your hips in deep, precise circles that make him twitch under you.
Jaehyun bites his lip. He’s losing the rhythm of his breathing.
“You’re driving me insane,” he rasps. “You feel so—tight—fuck…”
You reach forward, placing your palm flat on his chest and pushing him back.
“No talking unless I ask.”
He groans like the restraint is killing him.
Your movements become harder, sharper—your thighs burn with effort as you bounce on him now, chasing the high, watching him unravel under you. His hands are gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles are white.
“Y/N,” he gasps, breaking. “Please—let me touch you—just once—”
You pause, smirking. You lean down until your lips brush his ear. “Beg.”
He does.
Softly. Low. Full of hunger and reverence.
“Please. Let me touch you. I want to feel all of you—please…”
You guide his hands back to your waist.
And the second he touches you? He snaps. His hips drive up into you, his rhythm meeting yours, and it’s fast, desperate, filthy. He’s groaning now, breathless, jaw slack as you ride him faster.
You clench around him, hard.
He breaks.
Afterward, he stays silent for a long moment. One hand running up and down your thigh, the other buried in your hair, holding you to his chest.
You laugh against his neck.
Johnny has always been a flirt. It’s practically his second language—easily spoken, smoothly delivered, always paired with that devilish smirk and arms that stretch across the back of the couch like he owns the room.
He’s leaning back in bed, shirtless, in nothing but sweatpants that hang dangerously low, grinning at you like he’s already won.
“So,” he says, voice deep and warm, “you finally ready to let me wreck you?”
You quirk an eyebrow, standing at the foot of his bed. “Is that what you think’s about to happen?”
Johnny raises a brow, half amused, half turned on. “You tell me.”
You walk forward slowly, eyes locked on his, not breaking the gaze even as you climb onto the bed. You straddle his thighs, hovering just above him. His hands automatically move to your hips, ready to guide.
Fingers wrapped around his wrists, you push them down to the bed. “I’ll take it from here.”
His smirk falters—just slightly. His chest rises with a slow inhale, and for the first time tonight, you have his full, stunned attention.
“You wanna ride me?” he asks, voice huskier now, rough at the edges.
You lean in, lips brushing his jaw.
“No, Johnny. I am going to ride you.”
You kiss him, hard. Deep. Full tongue, no hesitation. Your body rolls against his as you grind down, and his hands twitch under your grip. When you pull back, he’s already breathless, lips red and parted, eyes searching yours like he’s seeing you for the first time.
You make quick work of the rest of his clothes. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling with anticipation as you straddle him again—this time bare, confident, ready.
You lower yourself onto him slow. Deliberate.
His head drops back against the pillow with a guttural groan.
You ride him slow at first. Deep, rolling motions. His hands are fisted in the sheets because he’s trying not to take over. Johnny—dominant, cocky, smug Johnny—is letting you lead.
And it’s driving him insane.
“You feel so fucking good,” he mutters, hips twitching beneath you.
You lean forward, your lips brushing his ear. “Then don’t move. Let me show you what it’s like when you’re not in control.”
His whole body tenses. His mouth drops open.
And then you start moving faster.
Your thighs slap against his hips with every bounce. His moans get louder. His eyes keep rolling back, his jaw clenched, hands gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping him from losing it entirely.
“You’re so cocky,” you pant, grinding down in sharp circles. “But you fall apart so easily.”
You grab his chin, force his eyes open. “Say it. Who’s in charge?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s too close. Too overwhelmed.
So you slow down, tease a grind that makes him whine.
“You are,” he breathes, desperate. “You’re in charge—fuck, I’ll do anything—just don’t stop—”
It doesn’t take long after that. He finishes with a full-body shudder, his name broken and raw in your mouth, his hands finally flying up to grip your waist like he needs you to stay grounded.
After, his chest is still heaving. You’re laying half on top of him, fingers tracing lazy shapes across his abs.
“You alright, big guy?” you tease.
He laughs—ragged and amazed.
“I have never been that turned on in my life.”
You wink. “Good. Now you know how it feels to be out of your depth.”
“Holy shit,” he mumbles. “I think I might be in love.”
Yuta’s the type who watches you like he already knows your secrets. Half-lidded eyes. Slight smirk. Sitting back like a king while you pace his room, slightly flustered from the tension that’s been building all week.
He’s in a loose black t-shirt, rings still on his fingers, dark hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it since you arrived.
“You’re acting nervous,” he says, lips curling. “Didn’t expect to end up in my room tonight?”
You snort. “You think too highly of yourself.”
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice dropping. “You walked in here in that little skirt and didn’t plan on fucking me?”
Your cheeks flush—but not from embarrassment.
Because you’re about to knock him off that high horse.
You take a slow step toward him, then another, until you’re standing right between his legs. He looks up at you, expression smug, but curious.
You trail your fingers along his jaw.
“Actually,” you whisper, “I planned on riding you.”
His breath hitches, and that arrogant smile wavers.
You push him back with a palm on his chest. He falls against the bed, dark eyes glued to yours.
You straddle him, lowering your hips until your heat brushes against his obvious arousal. He groans—low and guttural.
You lean in, your lips brushing his. “I said I’m going to ride you.”
“God, I love you,” he mutters like a prayer.
You undress him slowly, deliberately, making him feel every second of it. His smirk is gone now—replaced with hunger. With awe.
You kiss him as you sink onto him, a slow, drawn-out slide that makes both of you shiver. His hands grip your thighs, but you plant them back on the mattress.
“You’re killing me,” he groans.
You roll your hips in lazy, deep circles. He watches you like you’re art—like he’s never seen anyone so confident, so devastating.
“You look so fucking sexy,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You pick up the pace. Ride him harder. He moans—loud, unfiltered.
“Y/N, shit—if you keep moving like that—fuck—”
You grab his wrists and pin them above his head. He whimpers.
“You’re not the only one who can be in charge, Nakamoto.”
“I know,” he gasps. “I know—I love it—don’t stop—please—”
He finishes with your name on his tongue, his voice wrecked and pleading.
After, he pulls you close, kissing your temple with a dazed smile.
“Next time,” he whispers, “you’re saying that line before we even make it to the bed.”
“I’m going to ride you.” He shudders. “Fuck. Say it every day. Say it at my funeral.”
Doyoung likes control. Not in a dominating, growling, handcuffs-on-the-headboard way—but in the precise, everything-has-a-place kind of way.
His shirt is always neatly tucked. His apartment is spotless. His plans are airtight.
He thinks he can handle temptation—especially when it’s you.
He’s wrong.
Tonight you’re on his couch, knees tucked under you, wearing one of his oversized button-downs and nothing else. He doesn’t know that part yet.
You’re talking about something simple—music, probably—but Doyoung’s barely registering your words.
Because you’re stretching. And the hem of his shirt hikes up. And your skin is glowing in the low light like some sort of divine challenge to his self-control.
He licks his lips and shifts uncomfortably.
“You keep doing that,” he says, voice strained, “and I’m going to kiss you.”
You smirk. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
And that’s when you say it.
“Or…”
“You could lie back and let me ride you.”
You crawl into his lap, eyes locked on his, and slide your fingers into his hair.
His breath catches. Hands gripping your waist on instinct. He tries to stay calm, but his voice wavers.
“Y/N, we’ve never even—this is our first time—”
“Exactly,” you whisper, lips grazing his ear. “Let me make it unforgettable.”
Somehow you make it to the bedroom. He’s flustered, trying to hold it together while you slowly undress him, kissing your way down his neck, unbuttoning his shirt one… by… one.
He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time, jaw clenched, as if losing eye contact would mean losing control entirely.
But once he’s bare, and you’re straddling him, and he feels your heat sink down around him for the first time—
“Oh my God—Y/N—”
“Feels good?”
“Too good. I—I wasn’t ready—”
You move slowly. Tenderly at first. You want to feel all of him. Want him to feel you.
They don’t stay obedient for long.
He grabs your hips, helps guide your rhythm, his head falling back against the pillow.
“You’re so beautiful,” he moans. “I don’t want this to end—please, just—don’t stop—”
You ride him harder. His words get messier. Desperate.
The man who walked in buttoned-up and self-controlled now has tear-wet eyes, flushed skin, and a voice reduced to pleading and breathless gasps of your name.
Afterward, you’re curled up against his chest, both of you sweaty and dazed.
“If that’s what you’re like on a first time,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “I’m scared for the second.”
You grin. “You should be.”
Jungwoo’s the type to flirt without even knowing he’s doing it.
Always giggling, always touching your arm when he laughs, always throwing in a cheeky wink that leaves your stomach in knots.
Which makes what happens tonight so much better.
You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, trading stories and snack bites from a shared bowl. His hair’s messy, his hoodie’s sliding off one shoulder, and his smile is so warm it should be illegal.
“You always look at me like that?” you ask playfully.
He tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Like you’re undressing me in your mind.”
He chokes on a gummy bear, laughing. “Y/N!! I would never— okay, maybe. Sometimes.”
You grin and lean in, brushing his cheek with your nose.
“So why don’t you let me ride you, then?”
“Mhm.” You tilt your head innocently. “You want me, right?”
His ears go tomato-red. His hand clutches the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him on Earth.
“Y/N, you can’t just say that kind of thing—my brain isn’t—my body—holy shit—”
You crawl into his lap. His breath hitches so violently it might’ve taken a year off his life.
“You want me on top?” you whisper. “Right now?”
He nods so fast it’s a blur.
“Yes. Please. Oh my God.”
Clothes are gone in record time. Jungwoo’s still babbling compliments and half-sentences when you straddle him fully, guiding him in slowly. His back arches, hands flying to your hips like instinct.
“Oh—oh my God, you feel—this is insane—Y/N—”
You roll your hips slowly, riding him in gentle, deliberate motions that make him twitch and gasp beneath you.
He watches you with wide, adoring eyes. His hands caress your thighs, your waist, your chest—like he’s trying to memorize you.
“You’re so confident,” he breathes. “I’ve never—fuck—I’ve never had anyone like you—”
“You like it when I take control?”
“I love it—please don’t stop—ride me—harder—”
And the sound he makes when you do it?
He comes completely undone beneath you—whimpering, gasping, kissing any part of you he can reach.
After, he’s sweaty, dazed, still wrapped around you like a human blanket.
“That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You say that now,” you whisper, nuzzling into his neck, “wait till round two.”
“You’ll kill me,” he laughs.
You and Mark have always had chemistry.
The kind of chemistry that makes people look at you two and whisper, “Just get a room already.”
Because Mark gets nervous. Not that he doesn’t want you. He does—a lot. But he’s overthinking everything.
What if it’s not good enough? What if you expected more? What if he—
Your voice snaps him out of his thoughts as the two of you sit side by side on his bed, post-movie, with your knees brushing.
“Yeah?” he says, trying not to sound like his heart’s beating a hundred miles an hour.
You look him straight in the eyes and smile.
His soul leaves his body.
You giggle, watching him glitch like an overworked laptop. He blinks, then stutters, then opens and closes his mouth like a cartoon fish.
“You… you wanna—like now?!”
“Unless you’re scared,” you tease, crawling into his lap.
“I’m not scared! I just—holy sh— okay—give me a sec to mentally prepare—”
And all his little nerves melt like butter in the sun.
When you finally ease down on him, Mark’s head hits the pillow with a thump, and a broken moan escapes his lips before he can stop it.
“Oh fuuuck, Y/N—wait—oh my god—this is happening—this is actually—”
You roll your hips slow and smooth. His fingers tighten on your thighs.
His brain? Gone. His mouth? Useless. His eyes? Glued to where you’re joined.
“You’re so hot,” he mutters breathlessly. “Like, stupid hot. This is insane.”
“You okay down there?” you ask sweetly, leaning in to kiss his jaw.
“I’m—I think I’m ascending.”
His hands trail under your shirt, gripping your waist, your back, like he doesn’t know where to touch first.
“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he gasps. “No, seriously—ever.”
You keep going, taking your time, watching him fall apart under you.
The confident way you move—how you look on top of him—it completely undoes him.
After, Mark is splayed out, sweaty, flushed, and completely wrecked.
He laughs breathlessly as you collapse on top of him.
“Remind me to send a thank-you letter to the universe.”
“Because somehow, somehow, I got you.”
You smirk against his skin.
“And now you’ll never be the same.”
You knew Haechan liked you.
You also knew he was playing a game.
For weeks now, he’s been pushing boundaries—smirking when you wear something tight, whispering filth in your ear when no one’s listening, pretending it’s all a joke when his hand stays a little too long on your waist.
And tonight? He’s in rare form.
You’re on his couch, fake-fighting over which movie to watch. He’s got one leg under him, the other stretched lazily, sock half-off. The smirk hasn’t left his lips all night.
“Admit it,” he says, voice low and smug. “You keep coming over because you like me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re tolerable.”
“Tolerable? Baby, you’re obsessed.”
You roll your eyes. “If I was, I’d have ridden you by now.”
He chokes on his own spit.
His jaw hangs open. He stares at you like you just hacked his entire operating system. His cocky expression shatters.
“Wait—you’d—you’d really…?”
You lean in slowly, straddling him like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Holy shit—okay—YES—please be lucky—”
Clothes disappear like magic. And for all his teasing and swagger, the second you sink down on him, Haechan shudders like you short-circuited every neuron in his body.
His head hits the back of the couch. His hands grip your thighs like he’ll die if you move too slow.
“Y/N—what the fuck—you feel—oh my God—”
“Still think I’m obsessed?” you murmur, rolling your hips.
“I—I take it back, baby—please—don’t stop—”
He’s panting now. All that cocky bravado? Gone. In its place: a whimpering, desperate mess who can’t believe he’s being dominated so deliciously.
You slide your hands up his chest, arching your back, keeping your rhythm just slow enough to torture.
“You gonna be good for me, Haechan?”
“I’ll be so good—I’ll do anything—”
“Then sit back,” you whisper against his ear. “And let me wreck you.”
Over and over, until his fingers are shaking, his voice is cracking, and he’s coming with a loud, broken moan that echoes off the walls.
Absolutely, gloriously wrecked—sweaty, flushed, and mumbling nonsense with a dopey grin.
“I’m never talking shit again,” he breathes.
“Okay, maybe. But only if you promise to shut me up like that.”
You kiss his jaw and smile.
“Careful what you wish for.”
