Dec 30, 2025
[ RANDOM TEXTS ]
w/ best friend!Chan
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from South Korea
seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Sweden
seen from Maldives
seen from France
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Germany
[ RANDOM TEXTS ]
w/ best friend!Chan
P.S. My ideas of texting bestie Chan is only crazy flirting with him 😔
[ RANDOM TEXTS ]
w/ bf!Chan
P.S. That's the first one, kinda demo version, haha. You can bully me, I'm fine with it
[ NOT BROADCAST-SAFE ]
oral (m. rec.), voyeurism(??), it's kinda public but not exactly, idk. i don't know much of these warnings, so feel free to correct me
mdni!
Another week, another episode of "Channie's Room." Chan is in his element, all smiley and goofy, answering questions, blushing at the compliments and occasional pick-up lines. He's adorable like this, he always is. But your mind drifts away from just admiring his side profile, his voice, his giggles. No, no, no. Today, you've been too good, and the urge to be a menace is so bad it's impossible to just sit in the corner and watch your man having these precious moments with his fans. And also, the way he's sitting? Leaning back, his legs spread deliciously, hands behind his head... Even though he's wearing a hoodie, you can perfectly picture what's underneath.
"Okay, next question," Chan says, smiling at the camera.
You make a move. Sliding down from the armchair to the floor, you drop to your knees and hands and silently crawl under the desk. You know he's noticed, but it doesn't really matter. He's a master of performance, so he can perfectly act like he sees nothing.
It's a tight fit here, with all these cables, but enough for you. You can see his legs clad in black shorts and place a light kiss on his bare knee. His monologue stutters, but he quickly recovers, voice smoothed out like nothing happened.
He shifts in the chair just slightly, spreading his knees more to give you better access. You don't tease much and just slide your hands up and down along his strong thighs, under the shorts, just once. There is a faint change in his breathing—it's a little shallower and a little quicker. Not wasting a second, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his shorts and boxers at once and tug them down to free him, still soft and waiting for you.
Immediately, you lean forward and take him into your mouth, sucking weakly at first. The effect is instant—a choked sound from him, something like a gasp covered by a cough as he pretends to clear his throat.
You move slowly, up and down, tongue swirling and caressing where he most likes it. His cock is growing rapidly, hardening under your attention, so hot and delicious. Its veins are standing out, pretty in their own way, and you trace all of them with the tip of the tongue. Then, you go back to taking all of him into your mouth again, as deep as you can right now, his tip almost reaching the back of your throat, making it constrict in a gag reflex. As you slide back a bit, you chance a glance up.
What a mess Chan already is—his ears are burning, so he hid them in the hood, his eyes dart everywhere, barely meeting the camera lens, he keeps licking his lips, his tongue poking his cheeks from the inside from time to time. He still answers the questions, his voice surprisingly stable but just the tiny bit higher.
So you change the technique. Gentle sliding up and down is replaced by more sunction and flicking your tongue in a way you know drives him wild. It will get you in so much trouble later—but it's later. His hand which was peacefully resting on the desk is now clenched in a fist, knuckles white. There's a new taste on your tongue, not just of his skin but also the tiniest sweetness of his precum. You can almost see his eyes rolling to the back of his head, and even a simple thought about it gives you more energy.
"Oh! A... a song? Did someone request a song?" he mumbles, almost entirely lost.
He turns on the requested song and turns the mic off discreetly just for several seconds to let out a loud groan. Just a moment of weakness he can afford at the moment. He turns the mic back on, humming to the song. You see it as a signal to double the efforts, and very soon, his muscles start working—he's close, he's getting there. You hum, satisfied with the effect you're having on him. The vibration travels from your mouth to his very sensitive, aching dick. It almost makes him curse—you even catch the moment when he's on the verge of letting out a long "fuck..."
He regains the miserable remnants of his composure between ragged breaths to say something as the song ends. You don't stop, your hand comes to cup his balls gently, to make it worse for him. And to make the consequences exponentially worse, too.
"S-sorry, STAY," he stammers with his hand on his eyes. "I— sorry, it's the nausea. Didn't eat well today..."
He mumbles more apologies and a goodbye, then finally clicks the "End Live" button and lets out a disgustingly loud and definitely not broadcast-safe cry. And he keeps making these beautiful dirty sounds as you work with your mouth and hands until the strings of his cum hit the back of your throat. For several seconds, he simply holds you in place, not letting you pull back.
He pushes the chair with himself back, his cock finally free from your mouth but still connected to it with a string of your saliva.
"You're—" he glares at you, his eyes, even though hazy, promising nothing but harsh punishment. "You're a fucking menace."
"You were so adorable," you say, wiping your lips and smiling innocently. "A blushing mess, suddenly stuttering. I bet, STAY have come up with new pick-up lines?"
Chan chuckles and shakes his head. "Such a brat, unbelievable."
His hand moves to grab your upper arm as he stands up.
"Come on," he helps you stand up and pulls his boxers and shorts back in place. "Gotta teach you a lesson or two about not distracting your man from working."
[ RANDOM TEXTS ]
w/ best friend!Chan
(another ver. under the cut)
P.S. was inspired by the pinterest pic i lost...
[ IF IT SLIPS IN, IT SLIPS IN ]
fluff, suggestive, Chan is a tiny bit needy
mdni pls
The soft clicks of your laptop keyboard is the sound haunting this late afternoon, and it will haunt it probably for the next few hours. You're on the couch of the living room, buried in a spreadsheet, your inner voice starts speaking in a numbers and formulas language as a side effect.
Suddenly, the couch dips beside you. Chan. And judging by the sigh, he isn't quite happy at the moment.
His arm slips under your elbow, looping around it. His chin comes resting on your shoulder. You can feel his hot breath on your neck, and it sends pleasant shivers through your body.
"You're still working," he murmurs, his voice low. His soft lips brush the sensitive skin of your shoulder through the cotton of his own t-shirt you've stolen just this morning.
"I am," you confirm as your fingers hover above the keys. "The quarterly report won't finish itself, unfortunately."
Chan hums, clearly not satisfied with your detachment. He shifts closer, leaving not a single millimetre between your bodies, and nuzzles into your neck, knowing damn well how weak it makes you. His hand moves to your bare knee.
"It's been hours. Your brain is about to melt."
"It will melt if I miss the deadline," you deflect, already struggling to keep your tone neutral. Your thoughts simply start to blur.
"Take a break, baby," he coaxes, his voice dropping into that velvety, whiny tone that usually gets him whatever he asks for.
His hand leaves your knee and slides to your stomach, not getting under the t-shirt just yet. Another hand comes to craddle the back of your head and massage it slightly, as if promising more in case you give in.
"Chan…" you try to say with a warning tone but it comes out as a sigh.
He takes your hand and gently puts it on his lower abs where his very prominent boner is straining the fabric of his shorts and boxers if he was considerate enough to put the latter on this morning.
"Let's just cuddle," he whispers innocently. "In bed."
You let out a breathy giggle. "Just cuddle?"
Very much purposefully, you stroke him once, just to make him beg more. He makes a quiet high-pitched whimper against your shoulder.
"Mmhm, just… hold each other. Close," he takes a deep breath as you squeeze him weakly. "And— and if it slips in, it slips in. No pressure. Physics."
"Physics?" you laugh softly, finally taking a look at him, so whiny and needy.
"Yes. You know… laws of nature…" he tries to shift closer again but there's no distance left. "Please, baby."
You let out a demonstrative sigh, the one Chan knows as a signal of your crumbled resistance. Carefully, he takes your laptop and places it on the coffee table, then pulls you up and leads to the bedroom.
[ BRAT ]
Bang Chan
SMUT, MDNI (kinda rough ig)
The cold marble of the sink pressed against your stomach is a stark contrast to the heat flooding your body. Chris gives you no time to adjust, no moment to catch your breath. The second you're bent over, exposed to him, he's on you.
There're no sweet praises, no gentle whispers. The man who calls you the love of his life in front of everyone is gone, replaced by someone feral, all because of your non-stop teasing.
His mouth is at your ear, his voice low, vicious, and it's somehow more intimate than you have ever been.
“You little fucking slut,” he hisses, his hands rough on your hips as he positions himself. “You couldn’t just behave, could you? Couldn’t just be my good girl for one fucking night.”
He drives into you in one brutal thrust, stealing the air from your lungs. A sharp cry is ripped from your throat, swallowed by the pounding bass of the music bleeding through the walls.
“I thought you were so perfect,” he snarls, his rhythm punishing, each thrust a punctuation to his words. “My pretty girl, my sweetheart. And you’re just a shameless brat. A fucking tease.”
His words are curses, but they are the most potent aphrodisiac you’d ever known. Each filthy name, each growled insult sends a jolt of pleasure straight through your core. This is the consequence. This is the price of your mischief.
“You fucking flashed me with this little dress riding up, with nothing underneath,” he reminds you. “You wanted me to see. You wanted me to lose my mind. Well, congratulations. You win.”
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “Now take it. Take your fucking prize. Let the whole party hear what a brat sounds like when she gets exactly what she asked for.”
Your cries and whimpers join the symphony of the noise of the party. Your fingers scratch (or try to) the marble. He's right, you asked for this. You craved this wild, untamable side of him. And now he's giving it to you, with no mercy and absolutely no remorse.
Your vision starts to blur at the edges from the overwhelming sensation.
His hand leaves your hip, snakes around your body, fingers rough against your skin as they find your jaw. He grips it hard, forcing your face towards the mirror above the sink, the rings on his fingers cold against your hot skin.
“Look,” he commands. “Look at yourself. Look at what you do to me.”
Your eyes, fluttering and dazed, meet his in the reflection. His are dark, blazing with a possessive fury that makes your inner walls clench around him.
“See?” he growls, punctuating almost every word with a deep thrust that makes you gasp. “See how you look when you’re getting exactly what you deserved for being a naughty little brat?”
You try to squeeze your eyes shut, the intensity too much, but his grip on your jaw tightens. “Don’t you dare look away or close your eyes,” he warns.
Two of his fingers of that same hand holding your jaw, press against your lips.
“Open,” he orders.
A spark of defiance, even in your utterly conquered state, makes you press your lips together, turning your head slightly away.
The reaction is instant. A sharp, stinging slap lands on your ass, the sound cracking through the room, followed by a burst of heat that makes you cry.
“I said,” he grits through his teeth, voice dangerous, “open your fucking mouth.”
The defiance evaporates, replaced by a thrilling, submissive fear. You obey, parting your lips. He shoves his fingers into your mouth, past your teeth, pressing down on your tongue.
“Suck,” he commands again, his hips never ceasing their punishing rhythm.
You close your lips around his fingers, lips touching already warm metal of his rings, your tongue swirling around the digits, sucking obediently. The taste of his skin is strangely satisfying.
The coil of pleasure inside you is winding tighter and tighter. It's like a spring that's about to snap. Your muscles begin to flutter around him, a sign he knows too well. You are seconds away, your breath catching in a silent plea for release.
And suddenly, he pulls out completely.
The unexpected, devastating emptiness is a physical shock. A frustrated cry escapes you, followed immediately by the stinging heat of another slap on your ass.
“Did I say you could cum?” his voice is a cold, mocking whisper in your ear. “Brats don’t get to cum. They get fucked. There’s a difference.”
Blind with need, you reach back, your fingers desperately seeking him, wrapping around his hard, slick cock to guide him back inside you.
He reacts instantly, slapping your hand away with a sharp crack. “Who said you could touch me?” he asks, his voice laced with a dark amusement, more terrifying than anger. “I didn’t give you permission.”
You whine, a high, desperate sound, your hips grinding back against empty air, seeking any kind of friction, any contact. The denial is a sweet, agonizing torture.
“Apologise,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
You're too far gone, too lost in the throbbing need between your legs to form words. You just whimper, pushing your ass back towards him in a silent plea.
SMACK.
The slap is harder this time, making you jolt forward against the sink. “I said, apologise,” he repeated, his voice hardening. "Properly."
Tears of frustration and overwhelming desire well in your eyes. You sob, the words finally breaking through. “S-sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Not good enough,” he said, his voice chillingly calm. He leaned close, his breath hot on your neck. “What are you sorry for?”
You don't answer again, too overwhelmed to think. He delivers his ultimatum.
“Fine,” he says, his tone shifting to one of cold indifference. “I’ll just jerk off then. Cum all over this pretty ass of yours. Make you walk around the rest of the party with my cum dripping down your thighs. And then I won’t touch you, won’t fuck you for a week. Is that what you want?”
The threat is so specific, so humiliating, so devastating that it shocks the words right out of you.
“No!” you cry out, the thought of his touch being withheld a worse punishment than any slap. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for being a brat! I’m sorry for not wearing panties! I’m sorry for teasing you! Please, please!”
The full, desperate apology tumbles out of you in a rushed, sobbing stream.
He remains silent for a moment, letting your words hang in the air. Then, you feel him shift behind you. “Good girl,” he purrs, the coldness gone, replaced by a warm approval. “Now you can have your reward.”
He sheaths himself inside you to the hilt in one smooth move, finally granting you the friction, the fullness—everything you’d been begging for.
When he's back inside you, the dynamic is different. The punishing, frantic pace is gone, replaced by something infinitely more torturous. He moves slowly. He's drawing it out, making you feel every single second of it, every vein on his cock.
His voice changed too. The harsh growls melt into a low, honeyed coo that drips with false sweetness.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Feel that? That’s what you get for apologising so prettily.”
He rolls his hips in a slow, circular motion that makes you see stars. “Now tell me… who does this perfect, tight little cunt belong to, hmm?”
You are whimpering, desperate for the pace you need. “You,” you gasped out, the word a broken plea. “It’s yours, Chris.”
He hums, a sound of approval, but his pace doesn't quicken. “Chris?” he asks, his tone light, almost teasing. “That’s what you call me when we’re out there.” He thrusts deep, making you cry out. “What do you call me in here?”
A memory, a pet name from a more tender moment, surfaces through the fog. “Chan— Channie,” you whimper.
The effect is electric. A guttural groan is ripped from his chest, and his hips stutter, his rhythm finally breaking into something quicker, harder. “Fuck, yes,” he breathes. “Again.”
You see it now, the crack in his control. You've found a lever. A desperate, feral need to push him over the edge takes over. The filthiest, most submissive names you could think of tumble from your lips, each one a prayer and a provocation.
“Yours… Channie… Daddy… Please, fuck…”
When the word “daddy” leaves your lips, he curses violently, his thrusts becoming downright brutal. “Fucking shit, say it again,” he demands, his voice ragged. “Look at me in the mirror and say it again.”
You force your eyes open, meeting his burning gaze in the reflection. “Daddy,” you moan with a weak smile, the word feeling both forbidden and so right.
The change in his face is probably the most pleasant thing you've ever seen. His eyes roll back slightly, his jaw goes slack, and a look of pure ecstasy and possession contorts his features. It was the rawest, most turned-on you've seen him in a long time. The sight of his total surrender to the name falling from your lips, is the final push you need.
Your climax crashes over you without warning, a silent wave of pleasure that turns your vision white and your legs to jelly. You clench around him violently, your body arching against the sink as wave after wave of sensation tears through you.
Seeing you, feeling you, fall apart around his dick, is what finally shatters him. With a final, broken cry of your name, laced with curses, he follows you, stripes of his cum pulsing into you as he collapses over your back, his body trembling against yours.
The silence is only broken by your and his attempts to catch breath and the bassline of music seeping in.
"Baby?" he whispers.
"Hm?"
"You okay? Did it hurt?"
"Perfect. Everything was perfect. I love you so fucking much."
"Love you more," his hand covers yours, fingers intertwining. "I'm only begging you to wear panties when you're in public."
"Didn't like the view?" you chuckle weakly.
"Quite the opposite. But I prefer not to share it with anybody else."
[ SPOT ME? ]
Bang Chan
Fluff
pt. 2
You notice him the first day he walks into the gym – broad shoulders, focused expression, and a habit of biting his lip when he concentrates. You don't know his name at first, just that he's there almost every time you are. Always a few machines away, stealing glances when he thinks you can't notice.
At some point, you even start to get upset when he doesn't come.
Weeks pass in the same routine – you lifting weights, him on a treadmill, or vice versa. Both of you exchange shy smiles but none of you dares to speak.
It's ridiculous, really. You're both grown adults, yet neither of you can muster the courage to say at least hello.
Then, one late night workout session, fate intervenes.
You're attempting another set of bench press when the barbell wobbles dangerously in your grip. Just as panic arises in you, a pair of strong hands catches and steadies it from above.
"Got you," an accented voice says.
Your heart jumps. You look at your saviour – it's him.
"Thanks," you breathe, sitting up as he helps you rerack the weights.
"No problem," he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy again now that he's actually talking to you. "You... uh... you come here a lot."
You giggle. "So do you."
A beat of silence.
"Chan," he stretches his hand to you.
You accept the handshake, saying your name.
"Do you maybe want to grab a coffee after this? Or– or we can even work out together sometime. If you want, of course," he blurts.
His ears turn bright red, and it's the most endearing thing you've ever witnessed.
You grin. "I'd love that. The coffee and working out together."
Relief washes over his face. "Really?"
"Really," you nod. "But only if you promise to actually talk to me next time instead of just staring."
Chan groans, hands fly up to cover his face. "You noticed that?"
"Very hard not to."
He peeks through his fingers, smiling sheepishly.
"Okay, deal."
[ SECRET ADMIRER ]
Bang Chan
Fluff
You've been receiving gifts for weeks now.
It started as a single red rose left at the JYPE practice room. No note, just the delicate flower resting where you'd definitely find it. Then came the handwritten letters, slipped into your bag when you weren't looking.
"You looked beautiful today. The way you dance... it's like the whole world stops to watch."
No signature, no hints, only the handwriting for you to guess its owner. And sweet, heartfelt words that make your stomach flutter.
The gifts have grown more personal. Lately, they have been your favourite coffee order waiting for you in the mornings, a rare album from your favourite artist. Whoever this is, they know you.
You have your suspicions of course. Because every time you mention the letters around him, Chan ducks his head, his ears turn pink as he mumbles something about "lucky guy" before finding an excuse to escape.
It's way too obvious but you have to test your theory.
One day, you wait until the pdactice room is finally empty except for the two of you. Then, you casually pull out the latest note left by the anonymous admirer.
"I wish I had the courage to tell you how I feel. But for now, just know that you're all I think about."
You read it in a low voice, yet Chan can definitely hear.
"I wish I knew who it is..." you sigh dramatically.
Chan freezes mid-stretch, his eyes that were watching you before, now dart away. "M-maybe, they're shy?"
"Do you think I should try to find out myself?" you step closer to him, tilting your head and making the most innocent face.
"I– uh–" his breath hitches.
"Because the handwriting looks really familiar."
Your hands are crossed on the chest, your eyes are locked on his, and he can't look away.
"...Caught me," he says hesistantly, you can hardly hear him, even though you've already approached him.
"Dance with me already," you smile sweetly at him and go to the laptop to turn the music on. "I dare you to improvise."