“𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏”
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@ykitsaura
“𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏”
ੈ✩‧₊˚december (she/her); 18 ; italy ; enfj ; bangchan&han biased! ; sfw/nsfw content
Masterlist ⋆·˚ ༘ *
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Idol!𝑺𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒎𝒊𝒏 𝒙 Idol!𝒇! 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 (𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰)
Summary: Forced to keep your relationship hidden under strict industry rules, Seungmi’s jealousy reaches a breaking point that leads you getting fucked in the bathroom. (10,4k)
Warnings: unstabilised relationships, dirty talking, dom!seungmin, jealousy, possessive behaviour, f1ngering, oral s3x (f! receiver), wall fuck1ng, public area, unprotective s3x (DONT DO IT), marking/love bites, hard thrust1ng.
The bass from the live stage vibrated through the stadium floor, a constant hum under the screaming fans and booming MC introductions. You’re sat in the third row of the idol section, legs crossed, back straight, a practiced smile fixed on your face. The dress was a calculated risk: deep emerald, fabric clinging to every curve like it had been poured over your body, a slit up the thigh that showed a calculated amount of skin. You felt eyes on you from every direction. Cameras. Fans. Other idols.
Especially other idols.
Three rows back and to your left, Seungmin was losing his fucking mind.
He watched a rookie from a boy group two rows ahead turn around for the fifth time, pretending to scan the crowd but letting his gaze drag down your back like he had any right to look. Then a senior artist leaned over to whisper something to his groupmate, and his eyes flicked to your legs. Seungmin’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His hands were pressed flat against his thighs, knuckles white. You weren’t his in public. That was the rule. The contract. The career-ending, scandal-manufacturing, Dispatch-wet-dream rule. But you are his, and every stolen glance from these assholes felt like a challenge.
He pulled out his phone, angled it away from the nearest camera, and typed fast.
Seungmin:
| Backstage. Main hall restroom. Now.
The backstage corridor was chaos: stylists running with garment bags, staff shouting into headsets, junior artists huddled in nervous circles. You navigated it with your head down, heels clicking on the polished concrete, until you reached the door at the far end of the hall. You pushed it open and stepped inside.
The lock clicked behind you before you even registered Seungmin’s presence. Then his hands were on you, spinning you around and shoving your back against the cold tile wall. The impact knocked a gasp from your lungs.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, voice low and rough, “what it was like sitting there watching every fucking guy in that stadium undress you with their eyes?”
Your lips parted, but he didn’t give you a chance to answer. His mouth crashed into yours, hard and demanding, tongue pushing past your teeth. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting the head back, while the other gripped your hip with bruising force. He bit your lower lip, pulled back just enough to look at your face and said, “This dress. This fucking dress. You wore it for me, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” you breathed, and the smirk that flickered across your face was a dangerous thing.
Seungmin’s eyes darkened. “Wrong answer.”
He dropped to his knees.
His hands shoved the slit of your dress higher, exposing the lacy black thong underneath. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked it down your thighs, not bothering to be gentle. The fabric caught on the heels, and he left it there, tangled around one ankle. Then his mouth was on you, tongue sliding through the folds, and your head cracked back against the tile. A moan tore out your throat, too loud for a public restroom, and Seungmin’s hand clamped over your mouth.
“Quiet,” he muttered against the clit, the vibration of his voice making your hips jerk. “You want someone to hear? Want them to know you’re getting fucked backstage while they’re out there staring at you?”
You shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, fingers threading into his hair and pulling. He ate you out like he was starving, tongue flicking and pressing and circling until your thighs were trembling against his shoulders. He shoved two fingers inside you without warning, curling them forward, and you bit down on your own hand to keep from screaming. The wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping into you filled the small room.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he said, pulling his mouth away and looking up at you. His lips glistened. “Is this from them looking at you, or from me?”
“You,” you gasped. “Fuck, Seungmin, only you.”
“That’s right.”
He stood up, unzipping his trousers with one hand while the other wrapped around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. His dick sprang free, hard and flushed, and he lifted you easily, one arm hooked under the knee, pinning you against the wall. The head of his cock pressed against the entrance, and he paused there, making you feel it, making you wait.
“Look at me.”
You opened your eyes. His face was inches from yours, jaw tight, pupils blown wide with a jealousy that hadn’t cooled at all.
“You’re mine,” he said. “Not theirs. Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He thrust into you in one brutal stroke, and your vision went white at the edges. The stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you completely, it stole the air from your lungs. Seungmin didn’t give you time to adjust. He fucked into you with hard, punishing rhythm, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make you lightheaded. The tile was cold against your back, his body hot against your front, and every snap of his hips drove a broken moan from your throat.
“You like this,” he grunted, mouth moving to the neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. Love bites bloomed purple and red against your skin, right over your collarbone where the deep green emerald fabric dipped low. “You like making me lose my mind.”
“Yes,” you choked out, heels scraping against the slick tile as you tried to wrap both legs tighter around his waist. He adjusted his hold, hoisting you slightly higher to angle himself deeper, hitting that exact sensitive spot inside you that had her toes curling into the cold floor.
The sound of your bodies colliding rang loudly in the tight space, mixed with the muted, heavy thud of the stadium bass filtering through the thick concrete walls. Somewhere out there, tens of thousands of fans were screaming, oblivious to the fact that Stray Kids’ Seungmin had one hand wrapped around an idol's throat, pounding into her with a raw, feral possessiveness that defied every single rule of their industry.
“Look at the door,” Seungmin commanded, his voice dark, ragged, and breathless against your ear.
You forced your eyes open, gazing blurrily at the metallic lock on the single door standing between them and a career-ending scandal.
“Imagine if someone comes down this hall,” he whispered, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point while his hips never slowed, driving into you with relentless, deep strokes. “Imagine if your manager comes looking for you. They’re going to hear you whining like this. They’re going to know who took this dress off you.”
The thrill of it, the sheer danger mixed with his unyielding jealousy; sent a fresh shockwave of warmth straight to your core. Your walls clenched hard around him, drawing a low, guttural groan from deep in his chest.
“Fuck love...” His pace broke into frantic, shallow thrusts, his forehead coming down to rest against yours. His breath was hot, smelling faintly of mint and the exhaustion of the night, but his grip on your thigh was absolute iron. “Don't you dare come yet. Look at me.”
You locked eyes with him, completely wrecked, panting wildly as he built the friction to an unbearable heat. His free hand reached down, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in fast, cruel circles over your slick folds.
That was the tipping point.
You bit hard into your own shoulder to muffle the shriek that tore through your chest as your orgasm hit like a freight train. Your body spasmed violently around him, milky ripples of heat washing over you, clamping tight onto his cock. Seungmin growled, throwing his head back as your contraction triggered his own release. He buried himself as deep as he could go, pulsing hot inside you, his whole body tense and trembling against yours as he held you pinned to the wall.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the harsh, ragged sound of heavy breathing and the distant rumble of the show outside.
Slowly, the reality of the situation rushed back into the room.
Seungmin slid out of you with a wet, quiet gasp, catching you carefully as your feet touched the cold ground. Your knees instantly buckled, but he caught you around the waist, pulling you flush against his chest so you wouldn't fall. The emerald dress was rumpled, the slit pushed up past your hip, and your hair was a messy halo around your face.
He looked down at the dark, blooming hickey on your collarbone, a violent contrast against the green silk; and a dark, satisfied glint returned to his eyes.
“You’re going to have a fun time covering that up before your next segment,” he murmured, though his touch was suddenly softer, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear of pleasure from the corner of your eye.
“You’re terrible,” you whispered, voice completely shot, resting your forehead against his chest as your breath slowly evened out.
“I’m possessive,” he corrected smoothly, pulling your thong up your legs with surprising care now that the storm had passed, fixing the dress, and smoothing down your hair with practiced, gentle fingers. He pulled a pack of wet wipes from his back pocket, cleaning you up before fixing his own trousers, zipping up, and adjusting his jacket until he looked once again like the polished, pristine idol the world knew.
He stepped back, surveying you. Despite the flushed cheeks and swollen lips, you looked breathtaking. Marked, taken, and entirely his.
Seungmin leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, a stark contrast to the violence of moments before.
“Go back out there,” he whispered, a faint, dangerous smirk playing on his lips as he reached for the lock. “Let them look all they want. But remember who you’re going home with tonight.”
He slipped out the door first, blending seamlessly into the chaotic backstage crowd without a single person suspecting a thing. You took a deep breath, checked yourself in the mirror, pulled a few strands of hair over the fresh mark on your neck, and followed him back out into the light.
Author’s note: Heyy! I finally had the time to write another short shot after months of dropping my first one and disappearing lol. For being part of the taglist, pls write in the comments. Sending lots of lovee^^
𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒌 🎧
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏
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𝑳𝒆𝒆 𝑲𝒏𝒐𝒘
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𝑺𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒎𝒊𝒏
˙⋆✮ 𝑽𝒊𝒑 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔
𝑰.𝑵.
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Show time 🎞️
Bf!𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 (𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰)
| Summary: When fans start noticing Chan’s distracted glances and nervous fidgeting, the comment section turns into a storm of suspicion. To help him keep his cool—and to see just how far you can push him, you move into the one place the camera can’t see (6,8k words)
| Warnings: dry hump!ng, semi public?, oral sex (f/m! receiver), riding, praising, unprotected sex (DONT DO IT), aftercare
You and Chan had been dating for a year now, keeping the relationship hidden from the fans to prevent any upheaval in his career. It was a mutual decision, one you both felt was for the best. Throughout the live, he would occasionally steal a glance toward you, checking to see if you were comfortable. However, the fans were quick to notice. The comment section exploded: “What is Chan looking at?” “Doesn’t he live alone?” “Is that a secret girlfriend?” “OMG, I’m so jealous of whoever he’s looking at!” He started to get nervous. It wasn’t obvious to the viewers, but you could see it in the way he laughed it off and anxiously scratched at his leg. “Well, even checking out my room now means I have a girlfriend, huh?” he said with a playful scoff.
You moved to the sofa near him and gently caressed his thigh, hoping to help him relax and stop overthinking. His smile grew slightly wider, and his tense shoulders finally dropped. As time passed, you didn't stop. You focused back on him the moment you heard him let out a shaky sigh, the specific sound he made when he was getting worked up. You smiled to yourself, feeling a sense of playful mischief. Your hand moved higher, reaching his erection, and you gave him a firm, lingering squeeze, watching his face intently for any reaction.
"So... yeah, the new choreography is... it's really intense" he managed to choke out, his voice dropping an octave. You then went on your knees, staying just inches beneath the camera's field of vision between his legs. You pulled his cock out of his boxers, already hard because of the teasing, taking it in your hands and starting to give the tip soft licks. You could feel the heat radiating off him. Every time you moved your palm, his leg would twitch involuntarily. The thrill of the risk, the millions of people watching him while only you knew what was happening beneath the desk was electric. He looked down at you, a silent plea in his eyes that was half "stop" and half "don't you dare," but you didn't care. That was the only way to claim him and get his attention back on you.
The live ended abruptly minutes later. He barely managed a "Goodnight, STAY" before his hand flew to the laptop to end the stream. The second the red "Live" icon vanished, the silence of the room was heavy and charged. As you took him fully in your mouth, he let out a sound that started as a simple whimper but quickly turned into a moan. “Ahh, shit, love—” he said, choking on his own breath before speaking again. "You have no idea..." he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel and honey, "how hard it was to keep talking about music when you're over here looking so beautiful and at my mercy..." His voice, rasped and out of breath, made your core warmer; you loved how he switched from the loving, caring boyfriend into the possessive, passionate one. He brought you up, putting his cock back into his boxers and taking your hips, giving them a quick squeeze before dragging you forward until you were flushed against him. Your breath hitched as he spoke again.
"You're a menace" he rasped, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register he usually saved for the recording booth. His hands, usually so careful and steady, were frantic as they hooked under your knees. He slotted himself between your thighs, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. Because you were both still dressed him in those loose-cut shorts and you in your lounge clothes, there was a desperate, blunt friction to the way he moved, beginning to grind his hips against yours in a slow, punishing rhythm. The sensation was searing. Every time his weight shifted, the rough fabric of his shorts caught against you, creating a desperate heat that made your toes curl. You arched into him, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders, trying to pull him closer to erase the final layers of cloth between you. With one of your hands, you cupped his cheek, pulling him closer until your lips crushed against his in an urgent and passionate kiss. Chan let out a low, guttural growl against the hollow of your throat. "You have no idea" he breathed, his hot breath hitching against your lips. "I spent the last twenty minutes trying not to lose my mind in front of a million people while you sat right here doing that." He increased the pace, his movements becoming more urgent and less controlled. The sound of his heavy, ragged breathing filled the room, a sharp contrast to the polished, professional version of him that had just been on screen. Every jolt of friction was a reminder of the risk you’d taken: a secret, electric thrill finally reaching its breaking point.
You whined at the pleasant pain of his love bites. “Please, Channie... I need you right now, I don't think I can wait...” His hands slid from your waist to the hem of your shirt. “Patience, my love” he said as he pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air of the room hit your bare, exposed skin for only a second before Chan’s heat replaced it. He leaned down, his mouth finding the racing pulse at the base of your throat before trailing a path of searing, open-mouthed kisses down to your chest.
"Sofa. Now," he commanded, his voice a rough order that left no room for argument. He stood, pulling you with him and guiding you back onto the plush cushions. Instead of joining you, he dropped to his knees on the floor between your legs. The sight of him the man, the leader millions adored kneeling so selflessly before you was enough to make your head light.
"Chan—" you started, your voice trembling.
"Hush" he murmured, his hands sliding up your inner thighs, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles that made your breath hitch. "You spent the last hour taking care of me, making sure I stayed calm for the fans. It’s my turn to take care of you." He slipped off your shorts together with your panties as he leaned forward, his gaze never leaving yours until the very last second. When he finally leaned in, the first touch of his tongue was a revelation: warm, damp, and impossibly precise. You gasped, your head falling back against the sofa cushions as your fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring him to you. Chan was meticulous. He moved with a slow, agonizing patience, his tongue moving to your clit in a way that sent a jolt of excitement through your entire body, as if he were composing a masterpiece. He used the same dedication he put into his music, learning the rhythm of your body, the way you arched when he found the right spot, and the specific, high-pitched whimper you made when he picked up the pace. “You taste so sweet, princess. I could eat you out like this while you let out those divine sounds all night” he said with a croaky voice, slipping two of his fingers into your core, pumping in and out slow and steady at first before becoming frenetic and deep, making you choke out a moan. "That's it" he whispered against your skin, his voice muffled but full of devotion. "Just for me. Let it go; don't hold it back, beautiful." The world outside: the millions of comments, the flashing phone screens, the weight of his career, vanished completely. There was only the sound of his steady breathing and the friction of his fingers in your pussy, moving with such precise movement that it could make you come undone right then and there. It was the overwhelming, drowning sensation of him giving you everything he had. As you reached your first orgasm, Chan didn’t give you long to recover. He took his fingers out of your core, making you already miss the fullness you felt with him inside you. He didn't give you a moment to drift. He stood up, his height suddenly looming over you again, his eyes dark and focused. Without a word, he gripped your waist and lifted you, guiding you to straddle him as he sat back deeply into the sofa. The moment you sank down, a long, broken hiss of air escaped his teeth. His head fell back against the cushions, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his entire body tensing under yours.
You took the lead, removing his shorts and boxers and setting yourself to his length. He was already reaching such a high point that it made your pussy tighten as you set a slow, agonizingly deliberate pace. Chan’s fingers dug into your hips, his knuckles turning white as he watched you through hooded eyes. The sight of you above him, completely in control of the rhythm you had started under his desk an hour ago, seemed to undo him more than anything else. The pace quickened, the movements becoming more urgent as the friction and heat reached a fever pitch. The room was silent except for the sound of joined breaths and the soft, rhythmic creak of the sofa. Chan began to meet every shift of your hips, his body humming with a tension that was rapidly reaching its breaking point.
“Will you let me come into you, right?” he asked, almost pleading, moving aside the roughness of his movements while waiting for your approval. As you nodded breathlessly, with one final, ragged groan of your name against your lips, he came undone, his heat filling you up.
He then kissed your forehead, pulling you flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a vice, holding you there as the last of the night's electric energy finally snapped. He let out a sigh as he kissed your cheek sweetly. “I love you so much, love.” You just smiled tiredly. “I love you too, Channie.”
The silence that followed was heavy and sweet. Chan didn’t let go; he simply shifted, pulling you even closer until your head was tucked securely under his chin. He took a long, shaky breath, the scent of your skin and the cooling air finally grounding him. "Stay right here." he murmured, his voice honey-thick and exhausted.
He stood up, putting his boxers back on and reaching over to the coffee table, grabbing a bottle of water and opening it before handing it to you first. He watched you drink with a soft, tired smile, his thumb tracing mindless, soothing patterns along the curve of your spine. Once you were settled, he reached just long enough to grab a thick, oversized hoodie from the back of the chair and a warm throw blanket. He draped the blanket over both of you, cocooning you in his warmth as he lay with you. You rested your head on his chest and closed your eyes.
"I think," he whispered, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead, "that was the best 'live' I've ever done." You chuckled as he closed his eyes too, letting out a contented sigh. The fans online were probably still theorizing about what or who he was looking at, but here in the quiet of his room, there were no more secrets. There was just the two of you, drifting off into a deep, well-earned sleep.
Authors note: This is my first ever fanfic, ive been working on it for a few weeks now, so i hope you’ll like it and thanks for reading<3
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you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
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