Prod. By Bangchan
pairing: bangchan x afab! reader
genre: smut, fluff
word count: 12.2k
warnings: dom/sub undertones, rough sex, oral sex, fingering, name calling, humiliation, degradation, praise, spit, breeding kink, overstimulation, choking, breath play, squirting, daddy kink (cmon, it’s a bangchan fic), aftercare, jealousy, feelings, lots of feelings, ecc…
summary: he’s busy, and you miss him. so much. too much. he misses you too, and wants to show you just how much. you let him, cause- cause there’s nothing you wouldn’t let him do to you. you’re his, after all.
snippet: your lips meet, and it’s pretty messy: teeth and tongues clashing against one another, moans morphing into one sound as you both abandon yourselves to each other. “I love you.” You don’t known whose voice it was. Yours. His. Both. Neither: who cares.
It’s right, no matter who said it.
You're starting to feel a dull ache in your back after hours hunched over your iPad, studying and taking notes. It’s clear that it’s time to stretch your legs a bit. You push the chair back and lift yourself slowly, each joint protesting more than you expected. A soft groan escapes your lips—a blend of discomfort and relief. You roll your neck from side to side, trying to ease the pressure that has settled there like a heavy weight.
Glancing out the window, you notice the sky has turned dark. Night has descended, fierce and enveloping, pierced only by the gentle glow of the moon casting a silvery light across the room, a soft yet almost aggressive presence. Curious about the time, you lean toward your phone, tapping its dark screen and realizing it's already past eight. He should have returned by now, but you’re not surprised he hasn’t crossed the threshold of your room yet.
“What am I going to do with you?” you mutter to yourself as you step away from the desk and move toward the mirror to your right.
The reflection that greets you reveals a woman who looks somewhat tired and worn, yet you’re relieved to see you don’t appear as disheveled as you feared. Your hair still holds its cleanliness, cascading softly over your shoulders and down your back. The bangs and layered strands frame your face, adding a hint of youthful charm despite the fatigue etched in your features.
You quickly adjust your appearance, slipping on a soft hoodie—one of his, infused with his intoxicating scent. You bury your nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply as if drawing him closer. It feels comforting, a reminder of his presence even in his absence. The shorts you’ve chosen cling gently to your body, flattering your curves, while the socks pulled high on your ankles give you an unexpected sense of height. You slide your feet into your well-worn Air Forces, grounding yourself in familiarity.
As you tuck your hands into your pockets, you catch a fleeting glimpse of the stillness around you. The room feels heavy with unspoken words and unfinished thoughts. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should wait for him or venture out into the cool night.
With a decisive breath, you turn away from the mirror, the weight of anticipation stirring within you. Tonight feels different, charged with a sense of possibility. You open the door and step into the hallway.
Wandering through the long, echoing corridors of the dormitory, a sudden craving strikes you. You pull out your phone and decide to place an order: two pizzas, a Coke Zero, and a slice of chocolate cake. It’s the same familiar order that the app has memorized so well it requires no further input from you. With a few taps, you select “repeat order” and send it off, sliding your phone back into the soft pocket of your hoodie.
As you walk, the vibrant sounds of voices and laughter spill from the rooms around you, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Each giggle and cheer feels like a gentle caress, filling the air with a sense of community that comforts you deeply. You can’t help but smile, relishing this little slice of life that you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.
The world outside may be chaotic, but here, among these walls, you find a sanctuary of laughter, connection, love, and family.
To reach your destination, you step out of the dormitory and walk a few meters toward the entrance of the building across the way. The cold night breeze grazes the exposed skin of your legs, sending tiny, prickling shivers racing up your spine. You quicken your pace, eager to escape the chill. The entrance looms closer, and as you punch in the code to get inside, a deep sigh of relief escapes your lips. The moment you step through the door, you’re enveloped by warmth that feels almost like a hug, a stark contrast to the crisp night air outside.
A familiar face greets you just inside, and a smile spreads across both your faces. It’s Jaewon, one of the staff members from the recording studio. He leans casually against the wall, radiating an easy confidence that instantly puts you at ease.
“Make sure to bring him back home,” he says with a playful glint in his eye.
“Oh, a simple task,” you reply, shaking your head with mock seriousness as you pull down the hood of your hoodie, letting him see your full expression. “I’ll do my best.” His laughter is infectious, filling the air with a bright note.
“If anyone can do it, it’s you!” he exclaims as you start to move away, your laughter echoing through the empty entrance hall.
You pause for a moment, taking in the space around you. The studio has an almost sacred quality, the walls adorned with soundproofing panels and framed photos of artists who’ve passed through. Each image tells a story, and you can almost hear the echoes of creativity that resonate within these walls.
“Are you staying late tonight?” you ask, genuinely curious, as he glances at the clock behind him.
“Just for a bit. We have a session scheduled,” he replies, a hint of excitement in his voice.
“Good luck with your work, then,” you say, waving him goodbye. “Ah, good luck to you, he’s in a sour mood!” he says, and you smile at him.
You had imagined it would come to this; you sensed that things weren’t going smoothly. Even when he’s late, he always makes a point to let you know, yet today the last message you received was hours ago, lingering in the silence between you like an unanswered question. You can’t help but speculate that, much like you, he’s become so absorbed in his work that he’s lost all sense of time. You picture him still hunched over his desk, surrounded by scattered sheets of music and the faint glow of his computer screen, laboring over a melody, fine-tuning the recordings from the day.
The thought brings a bittersweet smile to your lips. You know the thrill of those late-night sessions, when inspiration strikes and time slips away. Yet, a pang of worry lingers in the back of your mind. You wonder if he’s okay, if the weight of his creative ambitions is becoming too heavy.
You glance out the window, the night deepening beyond the glass, the city lights twinkling like distant stars. There’s a certain beauty in this moment, in the quiet anticipation of what he might create. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you should reach out, to bridge the gap between you, to remind him that he’s not alone in this.
As long as you exist, he will never, ever be alone. That’s a promise you made and intend to honor, no matter the circumstances.
After a few more steps, you arrive at the large black door that separates him from you. You don’t need to knock; instead, you quickly enter the code, which just so happens to be the date of your anniversary. Yes, it’s a cliché, and yes, the guys have teased him endlessly about it—especially Seungmin—but you know they secretly find it charming and romantic, just like you do.
As you step into the studio, you blink several times to adjust to the dim light—or rather, the near absence of it. The room is illuminated only by the soft glow of computer screens, casting an eerie yet oddly comforting ambiance. You can’t help but shake your head in concern at the conditions in which you always find him working.
He’s there, seated in one of those plush gaming chairs—a thoughtful gift from Felix, meant to help him endure the long hours he spends in this space (which is practically every night).
He hasn’t noticed your presence, and you seize the moment to linger for a heartbeat longer, watching him lost in his world. Even from this distance, you can see the dark circles under his beautiful eyes, remnants of sleepless nights fueled by passion and dedication. You bite your lower lip, feeling a pang of concern as you observe the way the muscles in his arms flex and relax, navigating through sheets of music and tapping rhythmically at the keyboard. There’s something mesmerizing about this scene—the intensity on his face, the way he seems to dance with his work, each keystroke a note in an unseen symphony. It’s both inspiring and heartbreaking, knowing he often sacrifices his well-being for his art. You wish you could ease the weight pressing down on him, to remind him to take a break and breathe.
But as you stand there, a silent observer, you feel a rush of affection and longing, a desire to connect. You want to interrupt this beautiful yet solitary moment, to pull him away from the screen and into the warmth of your embrace. Gathering your courage, you take a step forward, letting the door close softly behind you. The click of the door breaks the stillness, and his head snaps up, his eyes widening as he finally notices you. A mix of surprise and warmth floods his features, and you can’t help but smile, feeling the tension dissolve between you.
“Hey,” you say softly, your voice breaking the silence that had enveloped him. “I brought dinner. Well, ordered it. It’ll be here in half an hour, maybe something more.” Just as you finish, he says, “I’m so sorry, baby,” clearly realizing it’s gotten way too late.
You shake your head almost immediately, hushing his protests and offering a soft smile instead.
“Shut up: no apologies. Just hug me, Chris,” you mutter, taking a few more steps toward him.
When you finally reach him, he turns the chair just enough to allow you to drop onto his strong legs. Instantly, his arms wrap around you, and you feel small, protected, safe—truly at home.
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, burying his face against the sensitive skin of your neck. He inhales deeply, drawing in the perfect blend of your scents, which now seem to intertwine like an intimate melody.
“Yes, I missed you so much,” you confess, grasping the drawstring of his hoodie and twirling it around your finger. You shift slightly on his lap, settling in more comfortably, the warmth of his strong, muscular frame enveloping you like a cocoon.
“Little one,” he whispers, his soft lips brushing against your forehead, lingering in a gentle, comforting kiss. It sends a ripple of warmth through you, grounding you in this moment.
“I missed you too, so much it hurt.”
There’s a pause as you hold each other, the world outside fading away, replaced by the soft hum of the studio and the rhythm of your hearts. You take a moment to absorb the feeling of being here with him, the weight of the day dissolving in his embrace.
“Did you eat?” he asks, pulling back slightly to look into your eyes, concern etched across his features.
“I was waiting for you,” you reply with a small smile, brushing a stray hair from your face.
“Always the caretaker,” he teases lightly, but there’s an underlying tenderness in his voice. “Let’s eat together. You deserve a break too.”
You feel Chris’s body moving against yours, and you immediately understand that he intends to get up, perhaps to move both of you to the little couch in the corner of the studio, the place where you usually sprawl out when you stay with him while he works. A small, faint whimper of protest escapes your lips without you being able to stop it, and you feel him stiffen slightly as he halts his movements.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his warm voice intoxicating you and making your thoughts even more confused.
"Chan..." you whisper, your hands resting on the solid grip of his shoulder, feeling the muscular structure and sensing the strength hidden beneath his sweatshirt.
"What is it, little one? Talk to me," he encourages, his face tilted slightly, an eyebrow raised—a curious, mischievous expression. It’s the look of someone who knows everything but decides to pretend not to know anything.
"I- I want..." You try to speak, to express what is in your mind, to make your desires more tangible and real, but his hands resting on your hips, gripping your flesh with severity, are enough to send your mind into total and incoherent turmoil.
Bangchan smiles, a mix of sweetness and satisfaction adorning his face that borders on perfection.
You see him push his tongue into his cheek, in one of those expressions he often reserves for the most intense moments of his performances, and just witnessing such a scene up close, no matter how many times You’ve seen it before, makes your legs tremble.
"Use your words, sweetheart. I know you can do it. What do you want? I can't give it to you unless you ask nicely like the well-mannered girl I know you are.”
You experience a shiver, your breath becoming shallow and your heart racing as anticipation and desire intensify within you. Your body feels weak and pliable beneath his touch, as if it were composed of clay. Chris patiently awaits your response, his eyes deepening in intensity with each passing moment, rendering his gaze increasingly difficult to endure.
You find yourself no longer surprised by this. Instead, you accept the situation, surrendering to him and allowing him to take control of your body. You take pleasure in the sense of liberation that arises from the unwavering certainty that he will care for you at all costs, and that he possesses the knowledge to do so in the most effective manner.
“Please, C-Chris. Jaewon mentioned that you’re feeling nervous, and I really want to help you feel better,” you confess, the words slipping from your lips as if they had a mind of their own.
There’s a softness in your tone, an earnestness that surprises even you. The dim light of the room casts gentle shadows, and for a moment, the weight of your own vulnerability hangs in the air.
You try to move closer to him, the distance between you two charged with an unspoken understanding. “I know how overwhelming things can get,” you add, your heart racing slightly as you gauge his reaction, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let you in.
His reaction ends up surprising you, as you notice his jaw locking and his eyes get even darker.
His eyes are now crossed by something indecipherable to you, a tempest of emotions swirling just beneath the surface. You can’t help but wonder what could have provoked such a reaction, what shadows lurk in the depths of his gaze.
His hands grip your waist tightly, almost painfully, and a pained sigh escapes his lips, filling the room with an electric tension. Chris seems to be engaged in a fierce battle within himself, each breath heavier than the last.
Jaewon—he's the source of this turmoil. Chris’s jealousy is palpable, simmering like a flame ready to ignite. It doesn’t surprise you; despite the fact that sometimes you can be a little too naive, it’s clear that Jaewon has at least a flicker of affection for you. Not that it matters much to you. Your heart belongs to the man standing before you, the one now consumed by his own insecurities and rage.
As Chris’s grip tightens, you catch a glimpse of the vulnerability beneath his bravado. The way his jaw clenches and his brows furrow reveals a deeper struggle: the fear of losing something he never fully claimed.
It stirs something within you—a desire to reassure him, to bridge the chasm of jealousy that threatens to pull you both apart. “Why do you let him get to you, baby?” you whisper, hoping to break through the storm raging inside him. Chris’s eyes momentarily glimmer with a softness, a fleeting reminder of the sweetness that lies beneath his tumultuous exterior. In that instant, as he realizes how adeptly you’ve read his soul, the warmth washes over him. But you know all too well that this tenderness will soon give way to shadows, and that gentle spark serves as a poignant reminder of why you love him so fiercely.
“Why, you ask?” he scoffs, his voice laced with a mix of heat and frustration, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Because you’re mine, that’s why. That kid seems to forget it all too often. Where the hell is the respect, huh? You’re mine, and he knows it. Yet he keeps asking about you—about when you’ll come to the studio. He even dares to talk to you when I’m not around.”
You can see the tension coiling within him, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. The protective intensity in his gaze sends a thrill through you, even as you sense the underlying fear that accompanies his jealousy. It’s a double-edged sword: this fierce devotion is intoxicating, but it also makes you wonder about the depths of his insecurities. You want to reassure him, to bridge the gap between his fears and your unwavering loyalty, but the words feel stuck in your throat, tangled in the complexity of the moment.
And- selfishly enough, you want him to feel this: you want him to be jealous of you enough to feel the unbearable need to prove you who you belong to. You can feel his frustration pulsating in the air, a raw energy that seems to crackle between you. It’s as if he’s standing on the edge of a precipice, yearning to let go, to release the weight of his emotions without the burden of overthinking them.
You long for him to embrace that instinct, to surrender to the chaos swirling within him.
In that moment, you wish for him to truly let go—to spill every ounce of his frustration into the open, to share the shadows that haunt him. It’s not just an act of catharsis; it’s a plea for connection.
You want him to unleash everything—the anger, the disappointment, even the fear—because deep down, you know that after the storm, he’ll be the one there to pick up the pieces. You need him to take it out on you: to possess and own you, to give you his pain and rage and to make sure that you take it all.
You yearn for him to trust you enough to confide in you, to see you not just as a refuge but as a safe harbor where he can unload his burdens. You crave that intimacy, the kind that comes from vulnerability.
And you know that once he releases those pent-up feelings, he will find solace in your presence, gathering the fragments and piecing them back together, stronger than before.
“I'm yours, Chan, I'm only yours,” you whisper, your voice trembling like the rest of your body, a delicate confession that hangs in the air between you.
The admission is enough to draw a heavy sigh from Chan, his expression transforming into one of deep contentment. It’s as if your words are music to him, the sweetest melody that resonates in his heart. The warmth in his eyes reflects a profound satisfaction, as if he’s just heard the final notes of a symphony composed solely for him. He leans in closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “You have no idea what that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rich, laced with emotion.
The sincerity in his gaze sends a shiver down your spine, igniting a warmth that spreads through your entire being. In this moment, wrapped in his arms, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you and the unspoken promises lingering in the air. You can almost hear the gentle rhythm of your hearts syncing together, a quiet testament to the bond you share.
“Let me show you just how much I cherish you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more playful yet tender. The air crackles with anticipation, and you can’t help but smile, feeling the weight of his affection envelop you like a warm embrace. In this sacred space, you realize that it’s not just about belonging to each other; it’s about the beautiful journey you’re on together, filled with shared dreams and whispered secrets. You are his, and he is yours—an undeniable truth that fills your heart with an overwhelming sense of belonging.
“S-Show me, show me how you own me,” you say, daring to challenge him and daring to push his buttons just a little more, just enough for you to finally get what you want, what you need.
“Manners, pretty girl,” he reminds you, eyes gentle yet stern, authoritative enough to make your heart skip a beat as you feel warmth pooling at your belly, spreading down your body and making you wiggle around on his lap, your body flushed against his as you start to feel him harden under you. “Say please?” he adds, and that’s enough for you to lose every ounce of self control you had left.
“Please, please, Chan, please…” you beg, hands moving to grip at the soft texture of his hoodie, in a desperate attempt to grounded yourself, you hips starting to move without you being able to control them as you look for any kind of friction, your legs trembling and wetness spreading over the pretty panties you’re wearing.
“Please, what?” He growls, and one of his hands finds its rightful place against the sensitive skin of your neck.
He grips at it like it’s what he’s supposed to do. And he is.
He takes your oxygen away from you, your face turning the most delicious shade of pink as you try to breathe. Your mind is foggy, and his hand controls your airways as his whole presence controls your soul.
“F-fuck, Chan,” you whisper, your hands shaking as you place them over his forearms- not to pull him away, no. To keep him close, to keep him there, to tell him how much you love it when he chokes you like that without having to say it out loud.
With him, words are pretty much useless sometimes.
You guys can communicate without them, and it’s always been like that.
“Use your fucking words, or else,” he groans, his hand now closing more tightly over your neck.
“Or else what?” you say back, a smirk threatening to spread over your features as you decide to give him the brattiest version of yourself.
You don’t do it too often- not because you don’t like it, but because Chris makes it hard.
He’s sweet, yet he knows you fucking owns you. He knows exactly what to say to make you bend over, to make you cry, to make you obey. Actually, he’s usually able to turn you into a pliant little doll just by looking at you.
But tonight- tonight you need this. He needs this.
And ever so caring, you give it to him. Cause there’s fucking nothing in the world you wouldn’t give him. He knows. It’s clear that he does, because his eyes flash with- with understanding. With desire, and frustration. With possession.
“I see how it is,” he murmurs, his voice soft and sweet. Too much. Too threatening.
He leaves your neck, and air floods your lungs all at once as you gasp and breathe heavily. His hand trails the soft, reddened skin of your neck, caressing it as he admires the handprint he left behind.
Then, Chan’s hand grabs your chin and forces your face closer to his.
“Wanna be a brat? Is that it? You’re so fucking desperate for cock that you decide to be stupid enough to challenge me?”
There it is: the side of him that you so desperately wanted to bring out.
His most stern, dangerous, controlling side.
He hates it, or at least he used to. Nowadays, things have changed, and despite the fact that you’d like for him to take some credit, deep down you know pretty well that it’s all thanks to you. Thanks to your trust and love, thanks to the fact that you’ve always showed him that even when his darkness takes the lead, he’s still full of love and care. He’s still him. He has learned - or more like, he’s still learning - to let go, and to love himself a little more.
And what of himself he still can’t love, you’ll love for him.
“Are you gonna talk or are you gonna fuck me? Because I’m pretty sure that if you old man can’t get it up someone else wi-,” your words are cut off as his hand collides with your cheek, your face turning to the side and more of his marks showing up on your skin. After reassuring him that he’s the only one for you, you know that you can more safely play with his jealousy. And he loves it, cause it gives him a free go at showing you that he’s the only one that can ever own you.
“Pain slut,” he comments, as your reaction to getting hit on the face is, as usual, a loud moan.
He cruelly laughs, watching as you blush and wiggle on his lap. But he doesn’t let you move much, and actually stills you by grabbing your waist, and he pushes his hips upwards, his bulge rubbing viciously against your core, the friction ever so sweet and torturous.
Bangchan lets out a deep groan, and it slips out before he can stop it. The sound hits you hard, sending a rush through your body that makes you want to squeeze your legs together to ease the tension building up inside you. You love him to madness when he lets himself go like this: you love to see him lose his composure, and even more, you love to hear him. Hearing his voice, the way it trembles and how it badly hides all the desire he has for you.
It's one of the most arousing things in the world.
“Wanna get fucked, baby? Huh? Want to get the pussy filled up?”
You can’t help but nod, and you know that you’re practically making a fool out of yourself: to be honest, you really couldn’t care less. Bangchan mocks you as he imitates the pathetic sound you let out and the way you didn't even think to hesitate before nodding along his words and trying to rub against his cock more insistently.
You hear him click his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the sharp sound echoing in the room in a way that almost makes you jump.
“M-mean, you’re mean,” you whisper, your hands tracing his body and resting on his big, strong arms.
His muscles tense under your touch, and you can feel the way he clenches them and flexes them for you, since he know damn well how much you love to feel them- to feel his strength and now how much power he has over you, both physically and mentally.
Bangchan's astonished laughter reverberates through the studio, a sound so jarring that it seems to vibrate through your bones. The humiliation that follows is sharp, disorienting, enough to make your head spin. And yet, in that moment, you realize you love him more than ever.
There’s something intoxicating about how he mocks you, his teasing a strange sort of intimacy. You find comfort in the knowledge that his words hold no real malice, that there's never any truth behind the jabs. You know, deep down, that he loves you—protects you—though his love comes with a sharp edge. He loves you enough to humiliate you, enough to hurt you, because that’s the way he knows how to show it. In his cruel kindness, you find something that both wounds and heals, a paradox you can never quite escape.
“Mean, huh? That’s funny, isn’t it? Since you’re such a pathetic slut for it. Since you beg me with those pretty eyes to be meaner and meaner. Since I know that that pussy is getting wetter by the second.”
It’s the truth: he knows it, and you know it. You both know it, and that truth—the weight of it—only deepens the intoxication. There’s no escaping him, not really. Not now, not ever. And the strange thing is, you don’t want to. Because in that exposure, in that raw vulnerability, there’s a strange kind of safety. You feel naked, completely laid bare, and yet, somehow, protected. You know what’s coming. He will tear you apart, rip through the layers you've so carefully built. But you also know, with an unsettling certainty, that he will always put you back together—because he always does.
And each time, as he pieces you back, it’s as if you’re being remade. There’s a tenderness in his destruction, a care in his cruelty, and with every unraveling, you find yourself a little more whole, a little more yourself. Even if it means surrendering everything, every time, to a love that demands it all.
The relentless stillness of the moment is shattered by his actions: Bangchan grips your hair, his hold firm and unyielding, forceful enough to sting. You let out a pained moan, your eyebrows knitting together in a small grimace. Heat floods your body as he moves you like a mere rag doll.
He lifts you up, pushes you away: you are no longer cradled in his arms but standing before him, who is poised to lift you right after. His eyes scan your body, looking at you as no one ever has, as if you are the only one in the entire world.
You meet his gaze. It’s just him: Bangchan, Chris. Only him, and your desperate need to have him.
“What-“ you try to stay, yet you are unable to finish your sentence as he shushes you.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls- or well, he orders you.
Your words die in your throat as he grabs your wrist into his hand, forcing you to follow him around the studio. And follow him you do, looking like a dumb, lost puppy who’s wiggling his tail at his owner.
Which isn’t that far from the reality of things, if you were to be honest with yourself. You tremble as you feel the weight of anticipation growing inside you, the excitement looming over your body and clouding your mind. You can't think of anything else but the fact that you want to have him, here and now.
“Strip,” he commands you, casually letting himself fall onto the small couch where you usually nap when you come to keep him company while he works on his songs.
The spectacle before you is unparalleled: him, in all his magnificence, exuding power and control, sitting with his legs wide apart on the couch, his gaze rigid and the front of his pants bulging, poorly concealing the excitement he is also feeling.
You already feel exposed, stripped of everything. Yet, after taking a deep breath, with trembling hands covered by a thin layer of sweat from nervousness and excitement, you carry out the order he gave you.
You undress under his attentive and eager eyes, allowing him to observe every smallest movement of yours.
His hand finds its place on his groin, and you watch him touch himself while you remove one piece of clothing after another. Your clothes fall forgotten to the ground until you are left with only your panties on, now damp and wet with your arousal. You’ll probably have to throw them away after this, but it’s a sacrifice you’re more than willing to make.
“Take those off too, show me that pretty pussy,” he says, his witty tongue escaping his even more dirty mouth to wet his plump lips.
He keeps on touching himself, rubbing vigorously against his dick. He’s still too clothed, and you find yourself whining pathetically as you slide the panties you have on off from your body.
“Not fair,” you say, and he arches his brow in response as he tilts his head to the side.
“What?” he asks, hips moving to meet his own hand, as it’s clear to you that even though he hides it better, he’s as needy as you are.
“Wanna see you- wanna see your cock,” you plea, as a little moan escapes your lips as air comes in contact with your now exposed cunt. “This cock?” he asks, basically gripping at his own hard dick right before your eyes.
A wave of longing stirs within you, as if the mere sight of the scene before you is enough to make your senses tingle with hunger. And there, at the center of it all, he sits right in front of you—an embodiment of temptation, the perfect image of sin itself. His presence is the precise manifestation of every secret desire you've ever harbored, a temptation so vivid, so impossible to resist, that it feels as though the very air around you crackles with the promise of what is going to happen.
“Yes, please, wanna see it- wanna suck it, please, daddy,” you beg, and you can’t seem to be able to stop yourself.
You can see it in his eyes: the way he revels in seeing you like this, feeling you like this—utterly, completely his, a possession he claims with every touch, every glance. There's a possessiveness to him, something primal and unrelenting, as though your very existence belongs to him. You feel his breath falter in his throat when the words leave your lips, the weight of them pulling him deeper into that ownership. You know the effect it has on him, how it makes his mind spin, how it makes him want to pull you even closer, to mark you further as his.
And in that moment, perhaps his head spins as much as yours does. You, his possession, his obsession.
“Then get on your fucking knees.”
As soon as those words leave his lips, your legs give out and you found yourself kneeling in front of him, as you fall on your knees with a soft tud. It hurts, but you don’t mind. Actually, you love the feeling of it, the burn so delicious that it almost makes your eyes roll back.
“Such a good girl for daddy,” he praises you, his eyes locked on your naked body.
Without ever taking his eyes off you, Bangchan slightly lifts his back, and you watch, mesmerized, as he grips the edges of his t-shirt before pulling it up and completely sliding it off his body. He tosses it carelessly onto one of the armrests of the sofa, and you feel your mouth water at the sight of his perfectly sculpted body: muscles defined, imposing, strong, moving in a hypnotic dance as they follow his every motion.
“You’re so hot,” you say, as he finally starts to work on his pants.
He chuckles, shaking his head as he lowers both his pants and boxers down, kicking off his shoes in the process. “Want you to fuck me so bad.”
The air is heavy around the both of you, and you can’t stop yourself from trying to make him- do something.
You look at him through your lashes, you bite your bottom lip, you spread your knees a little wider. And he knows, obviously he does. He knows how you work, and all your little tricks. It’s hard to make him fall for them nowadays.
“Fuck,” he hisses, as his cock is finally freed from his clothes. Every time you see it, it’s like the first time: it’s so big. Big and veiny, strong like the rest of him. The tip is swollen and red, leaking the tiniest drop of his pre-cum, and the sight of it makes you salivate and feel- hungry. Yeah, that’s the word.
“Suck it,” he says, hand sliding up and down the length right in front of your face, “suck my cock, baby. Daddy’s gonna make you choke on it, c’mon.”
You move so quickly you almost fall over, yet you manage to get closer to him and place your hands on his strong thighs. He chuckles at the sight of your utter desperation, but you don’t mind. Actually, the more he laughs at you, the wetter you become.
“Thank you, t-thank you,” you whisper, before placing your hands on his cock. Both of them, since it’s just so fucking big. You grip it at the base, and with eyes full of lust, you stick your tongue out before slapping his dick against your face. It’s heavy, and it kind of hurts a little bit, just how you like it. The smell of it- of him, fills your senses. It’s salty and so so him. You breathe in deeply and nuzzle your face against the skin of his thighs, hand moving over his cock.
“Someday i’ll have you cockwarm me here at the studio. Make you stay on your knees all fucking day, I swear.”
You nod almost immediately, because there’s no chance you’d ever say no to something like that. Or to anything he’d ask from you, but that’s another thing. Chris looks at you like you’re his prey, and he’s- the big bad wolf. Pun intended, of course.
“Didn’t you say you were gonna make me choke on it, daddy? Are you a liar?” you tease, and right after that you slide your tongue all over his cock, from base to tip, focusing on the little slit to taste as much of his juicy as you possibly can.
“You little bitch,” he curses, shaking his head as his hands find their rightful place into your hair, grabbing at it and pulling at it and- hurting you so sweetly. “Gonna fucking stuff you full, see if that shuts you up.”
His cock finds its place into your mouth, and he shoves your head down the length of it so forcefully that you can’t help but cough at the intrusion, your throat hurting as spams overcome it.
“That’s it,” he groans, hips pushing up to thrust inside your mouth, the tip of his cock pushing against the back of your throat as his dick slides over your tongue. “This is all you’re good for.”
You agree, because how could you not? His words burn and rub at your skin the same way his cock rubs at the softness of your tongue. You nod wordlessly over his length, and his moans make the air around of you thicker, as if you could just move your arms and touch it.
You obviously can’t, couldn’t, but the thought is enough to make your spiral: he has so much power over you it’s insane, but comforting. You don’t have to think abut anything other than keeping your mouth open and jaw slack as he forces his cock deep inside your tight little throat.
His precum is salty and spit trails from your mouth all the way down your chin, making it sloppy and messy and wet, just how you both like it.
“Such a tight mouth, a warm little hole,” he groans as his hips buck up against your face, the muscles of his strong thighs tensing as his body is shaking with the pleasure you’re giving him. Tears spill from your eyes as he holds your head down, forcing his dick all the way down your throat, the muscles of it spasming without control as you fight the need to breathe.
“Choke. Shut the fuck up and choke for me, good fucking girl.”
You do live for his praise, for the feeling you get when you’re so lucky to obtain his approval.
You’d do anything to get that feeling, even though he basically praises you just for the fact that you exist. Still, you love that sometimes he makes you work for it, because it makes it way more intense at the end of the day. It’s- it’s like drowning. You’re gasping for air, and you fight with all your strength to keep on being alive. When you’re free to breathe, it changes the perspective of being alive: you understand it’s worth. Life’s worth.
Same thing goes with what he has to give you. You want it, you need it. And after waiting and begging for it… it’s just overwhelming. It gives your entire life a purpose.
“Please,” you mouth at the tip of his cock, tongue playing with the red, wet slit to try and gather as much as possible of his thick salty juice. “Wanna get fucked, please, please, fuck me,” you beg, because it’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s what you both crave.
Chan snickers, he rubs his cock over your swollen lips, over and over again, staining them with a glossy, creamy finish.
“What if I didn’t? What if I just fucked this hole and got off like this?”
You almost cry, yet you don’t try to object. You nod, and he chuckles at the sight.
“W-whatever daddy wants, whatever you want, please.”
And it’s the right answer.
Exactly what Bangchan wanted to hear, and it's as if in your head you can hear a small chime ringing, signaling that you've chosen the best option, and that you can move forward, go ahead, continue. He runs a hand through his hair: a thin layer of sweat makes his forehead shine and glisten, and his cheeks are tinged with the juiciest shade of red.
The tension in his muscles betrays him—the rigid set of his jaw, the way his eyes burn into yours, frantic, pleading, but he won’t say it. He doesn’t need to.
You feel it, all of it—the weight of his desperation pressing in, thick and suffocating. You feel powerful because if he looks like this now, it’s only and solely thanks to you. It's your merit.
He’s- he’s in charge, but you still have so much power. Over him. Over his entire being.
He’s yours just as much as you’re his.
You’re all naked and vulnerable, kneeling at the feet of your boyfriend. Your body is screaming at you, yelling with the need to be relieved, but you can’t do anything other than ignore it, cause that’s not up to you: your own satisfaction isn’t in your hands, but in his.
“Finally learnt your place, haven’t you? Or maybe it’s just that you’re so fucking needy that your dumb brain can’t even handle fighting me off anymore, huh?” he pets your cheek, thumb rubbing at the flushed skin with a faux tenderness, “whatever. Get up. Sit on the couch and spread your pretty legs. Gonna fill that pussy up, I need to fuck you.”
You move with such urgency, such speed, that it almost feels like you’re losing touch with your own body, as if the world around you is slipping into a blur while you stay anchored in this moment, in this need. Your knees burn, the sensation sharp and raw. Sweet, too. The roughness of the carpet scrapes against your skin, the friction almost making you lose feeling, but you don’t stop, not even for a second. You wouldn’t be able to even if you wanted. And you don’t.
You really, really don’t.
In fact, you barely notice the pain. The ache in your legs is something distant, unimportant in comparison to the heat building inside you. Your body knows its purpose here, and that’s all that matters.
Bangchan’s eyes are locked on you, unblinking, intense, yet there's something almost amused in his gaze, something quiet, like he's watching a game unfold before him. Like you’re his little toy to play with.
You are. He doesn't need to say a word; his stare is enough. Every movement of yours is like a story quickly unfolding, and he is savoring every page like a starved man. And that’s all you need. His attention, his focus, it fills you in ways nothing else can. It’s enough. Yet you need more. And more. And more. With your legs still tingling, an electric buzz coursing through them, you turn and let yourself fall onto the couch just like he told you to: legs spread wide open and body exposed for him: the soft cushion swallowing you momentarily, offering a fleeting relief.
As you collapse, he rises to his feet in a single, smooth motion. There’s no hesitation.
“Look at you. I haven’t touched you yet and that pussy is dripping with it. Fuck, baby, spread it open for me, will you?” he orders, and his words are so filthy that they make your head spin with how intensely they crush on you.
“Spread those folds, little one. Show me that tiny hole.”
When your fingers reach your own pussy, the moan you let out is basically pornographic.
His, too. It mirrors yours: it’s lower and more dominating, yet sweet.
Sometimes you feel like you could touch his voice if you really wanted to. Which is a crazy thought, but it makes sense for you. Cause everything about him defies the laws of this universe: it goes way beyond.
“F-fuck, look at you,” he groans, as you play with yourself under his hungry gaze. You know your body well, so it takes just a few flicks of your wrists to make your own legs tremble for him. He’s jacking off, and you whine and whine, so desperate to have him inside of you.
“Gimme, gimme…” you beg, tears starting to pool at your eyes. “Begging me so fucking nicely.”
He gets closer.
He grabs your legs, and then bends over. It happens pretty quickly: Chan finds his rightful place between your legs and forces them even more open than they were.
His hard dick rubs against your wet, needy folds, coating his length with your unstopping juices. You both moan, especially considering how long it has been since he’s been inside of you. Which is- well, four days, but for the two of you is kind of a record, to be honest. You just can’t keep your hands off of each other.
And looking at him, at the way sweat dribbles down his forehead, at the way his eyes shine with the light of a thousand stars… who could really blame you? You guys were fucking made for each other. You were made for him. And he? He was fucking made for you. Only you.
“Want your cock so bad.”
Bangchan laughs, before bending over to mouth at the soft skin of your breasts. His tongue slides over the sensitive skin of one of your nipples, while his fingers rub the other.
“Think you can take it? Daddy’s gonna open up that pussy first. Or do you want me to rip it, huh? Leave it gaping for me?”
As he talks, you feel his other hand trace down your whole body. Up until he reaches his goal: the growing wetness in between your legs. His fingers find their place immediately, and your eyes roll at the back of your head as his thumb moves over your swollen clit.
“C-Chan! Please!”
Harder. He rubs it harder, and while he does that his teeth nip at your hardened nipple, sending both pleasure and pain running through your defenseless body.
“It’s empty, isn’t it? I can feel it pulse under my fingers, you dirty fucking whore.”
He pushes two of his thick fingers all the way inside your wet hole. Air gets sucked out of your lungs, and you tilt your head back as your hands find their place in his scalp, grabbing his hair and pulling harshly at it.
“So tight, baby. This pussy is tight and yet it’s been fucked so many times. Made for me, weren’t you? Fucking molded over my cock.”
You nod, over and over again. You tell him that yes, he’s right, you were made for him.
“Aren’t you pathetic?” he mumbles, and that’s another thing you nod for. His fingers fill you up perfectly, even though it’s nearly not enough for you to get off the way you want. Need.
The sound is obscene: your juices slide down his fingers and almost get to his wrist, and you find yourself trying to spread your legs further to get him deeper.
“Kiss me,” you ask, tone whiny and demanding, hands tracing his scalp and neck and shoulders as he detaches himself from your now swollen tits.
Red marks cover your skin, and you can’t wait to see them turn the richest shade of purple in a few hours. He’s always had a thing for marking you up. Your lips meet, and it’s pretty messy: teeth and tongues clashing against one another, moans morphing into one sound as you both abandon yourselves to each other.
“I love you.”
You don’t known whose voice it was. Yours. His. Both. Neither: who cares.
It’s right, no matter who said it.
He rubs himself against your thigh, spreading his pleasure over your flushed skin. As you feel the weight of his dick you can’t help but keep on trembling and begging for him to finally fill you up. You glance down at where his fingers disappear inside of your body, and the sight is one to lose sleep over.
His arm is as strong as ever: veins showing up for the effort he’s putting on finger fucking you, muscles tensing and moving hypnotically, and his thick fingers getting swallowed in by your hungry cunt
“Can’t wait anymore. I need to be inside of you. Now.”
Finally.
He removes his fingers from your body harshly, leaving you gasping for air and crying out as you feel the emptiness hunt you down. He looks- looks at the way you’re gaping for him, hole abused and red and swollen begging him to get filled up. You can’t even think about feeling ashamed. There would be no point. Not right now. And most importantly, not with him.
His eyes shift. He’s no longer focused on your pussy, but he’s rather looking at your face. Make up running over it, making it messy just how he likes it. Chan brings his fingers to his mouth. They’re still coated with your juices, and you look carefully as he wraps those sinful lips of his around his wet digits. His eyelashes flutter and his throat lets out a trembling groan.
“So sweet. Sweet little pussy,” he moans around his own fingers, before switching it up and forcing them inside your mouth, making you taste what was left of your own pleasure and the thickness of is saliva.
You suck, immediately. You rub your tongue over the sensitive skin of his digit just as he takes ahold of his dick.
The tip of it, all red and swollen, gets rubbed against your equally abused cunt.
“Fuck me with it, daddy. C’mon. I need it so bad, please, please…”
It always works. Chan is a sucker for your begging. Always has been.
His hips move sinfully as he pushes his dick all the way inside your pussy in one precise motion. You almost scream, head tilting to the side and tongue lolling out of your mouth.
He keeps on rubbing his fingers over your tongue, over your lips: he does it carelessly, and you live for the feeling of getting treated like a fucking sex toy. His groans are to die for: low and sweet, caring and uncaring.
You love listening to him when he lets himself go, when he sheds all restraint and takes what he desires without hesitation or apology. There’s a kind of raw beauty in his selfishness, in the way he reaches out for everything he wants, heedless of the wreckage he might leave behind.
It’s rare, to get him like this. He thinks too much all the fucking time- but now? Now he’s free. He doesn’t care about what he’s breaking or losing, not in these moments. All that matters is the taking, the consuming, the claiming of whatever satisfies his boiling hunger.
And yet, you can’t stop giving. To him, you offer yourself again and again, without question, without limit.
He takes from you with an intensity that leaves you breathless, with a greed that seems insatiable. Every part of you—your time, your energy, your love—he consumes without hesitation. Even the things you didn’t think you could give, those pieces you didn’t even know existed, the pieces of yourself you thought were untouchable, he somehow reaches. He doesn’t just take what you offer willingly; he finds ways to take more, to claim even the things you didn’t know were his for the taking. And still, you let him. Because there’s something in the way he demands, the way he consumes, that makes you feel both hollowed out and completely alive.
Empty, but with a purpose. Filled up. A metaphor, yes. Also something tangible.
“You’re mine. This, this,” he groans, hands coming down to slap your thighs and breast and forcefully grab them into his strong hands, “this is all fucking mine.”
“M’yours, fuck, right there, harder,” you moan, hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. It’s never fucking enough. No matter what, you always crave more of Bangchan. Of the light of your life.
You’re insatiable. Both of you.
“Harder, baby? Look at me, look at me in the eyes when you ask for something, you fucking brat.”
He grabs your chin, forces your eyes to meet. Your mouth is wide open, moans escaping your lips incessantly, voice getting higher by the second.
You have a fight with yourself as you try to do as he says and keep your eyes open. You wanna be obedient.
You feel it deep in your core, an overwhelming certainty that if you cannot give him exactly what he wants, you’ll cease to exist. It’s absurd, you know this—impossible even. You won’t die if you fail to please him, and yet the thought claws at your mind, making every breath feel shallow and incomplete without his approval. Somehow, it feels real, undeniable, like a truth written into the fabric of your very being. And worse, it feels right.
The idea of losing yourself entirely for him, of offering up your life if that’s what it would take, doesn’t just seem acceptable—it feels like destiny.
So… your next words don’t surprise you. And- well, they don’t surprise him neither. He knows you too fucking well.
“Choke me.”
His hand is on your neck almost immediately.
You feel it as if it were your own—a brief, stuttering halt in the rhythm of his heart, a mirrored echo of the one that shakes through your chest. You watch as his eyes deepen, the light fading into the richest, most intense shade of darkness you’ve ever seen. It’s a darkness that beckons, that promises to consume you whole, and you can’t look away.
Then his hand moves, tightening around your neck with a deliberate, unyielding strength. The world narrows to the press of his fingers, to the way your breath falters and slips away. It’s no longer yours—your breath, your control, your very will have all become his, claimed in an instant. And you let him take it all, offering no resistance. Even if the fatigue is screaming at you, telling you to let go and close your eyes- you don’t. You can’t, couldn’t. Ever.
The burn in your lungs spreads, delicious and sharp, a physical reminder of your surrender. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven gasps, each one precious and entirely at his mercy. The edges of your vision blur, softening into a haze, but you don’t care. In fact, you find yourself welcoming it. It’s intoxicating, this loss of control.
“S-so big. Feel so big inside my pussy…” you cry out. By now, tears stream freely from your weary eyes, and Bangchan can’t resist. He leans down toward you, his tongue darting quickly across your burning skin.
He licks away your tears with a mix of hunger and intent, savoring each drop as if they belong to him, as if they’re his to take. Slowly, he consumes you—not just your tears, but every fiber of your being, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left untouched by him. The saltiness of your tears coats his tongue, and you can see how it makes his eyes flutter and thrust get more erratic.
His pace is punishing, on the verge of being painful.
The sweetest paradox.
Bangchan fucks you over and over again. Pushes his aching cock deep inside your desperate cunt, making it pulse over his length as you try to get him to bury himself deeper with each thrust.
“Look at you. You can’t even breathe, huh? All you can do is get fucked, am I right?”
You want to respond—desperately, with everything inside you. But you can’t. The words stay trapped deep in your chest, locked behind the absence of breath. There’s no air left to give them life, no way to shape them into sound. And yet, you refuse to disappoint him. You won’t. You can’t. Your body reacts instinctively, head dipping in a shaky nod as your vision wavers at the edges. Even without words, you find a way to obey, because you always will. No matter how much it costs you, no matter how far you’re pushed, obedience is instinctive when it comes to him. It’s like second nature to you.
He notices, of course. He always notices. A glint of satisfaction flickers in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, like a reward in itself. But it isn’t enough—not for him, not for this moment. He leans in closer, the intensity in his expression sharpening like a blade. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts his other hand, placing it around your neck to join the first. Now, both hands hold you, his fingers pressing into your skin with an unrelenting firmness. The weight of his touch is calculated, deliberate, and impossibly precise. The pressure is just enough to make you burn, to send a sharp jolt of pain coursing through you, but not so much that it overwhelms. He knows your limits—intimately, perfectly—and he dances along that edge with a mastery that leaves you reeling.
He knows you better than you’ll ever know yourself.
Even now, in this moment of utter control, his care for you is evident. The way his hands move, the way he keeps you balanced between agony and safety, speaks volumes. He’s pushing you, yes, testing how far you’re willing to go for him, but never recklessly. Never without thought. Protecting you, even as he consumes you, is always at the forefront of his mind. You’re his, completely and utterly, and he would never risk breaking what belongs to him.
He guides you—a watchful, loving presence, both stern and compassionate. He leads you to the edge, to the point of no return, bringing you so close to losing consciousness, to surrendering completely to the void—to him, to his desires.
Just as you’re about to be swallowed by the emptiness, just as you’re on the verge of spiraling uncontrollably into the abyss of pleasure, his hands leave your neck.
The release is sudden, and air floods your lungs with such force that the world around you spins, tilting wildly as you gasp for breath. The rush is dizzying, overwhelming, and the sheer intensity of it makes everything else disappear, leaving only the two of you in the storm of sensation. You don’t even recognize it at first- the orgasm way too intense to be given a name. Your pussy aches and pulses and gushes out streams of your pleasure over and over again, tightening around his cock, making it harder for him to move freely.
Your body is overtaken by uncontrollable tremors, and a thin layer of sweat coats your skin, marked by bites—by the imprints of his touch. You don’t even know if you said anything, really. You can only feel and hear the way your blood runs through your blood, ears pulsing with the intensity of the sensations you just experienced.
“Good girl,” he praises, watching you as you struggle to breathe normally again. And even then, he doesn’t stop fucking you. Everything is more intense now- it’s enhanced by the way your orgasm hasn’t actually ceased. It’s ongoing, ravenous.
“Came over my fucking cock, wasn’t even touching your dumb little clit, fuck! Y-you fucking squirted for me, baby. Such a good little hole, I’m so proud of you.”
It’s practically enough to send you over the edge again: one orgasm morphing into another as you rub at your abused clit. Bangchan lets you, cause you’ve more than earned it. Even if usually- your pleasure is his. This time, though, he lets you have it. And you’re so fucking grateful for it.
“W-want you to come, too. Please, C-Channie, inside of me, please? Want all of your cum inside my pussy, want you to breed me, please…”
He loves it. He lives for it, and yet often enough he doesn’t allow himself to indulge into it.
You’ll have none of it though, especially today. Today- it’s for him. Only him.
“Babygirl- you’re fucking playing with fire now.”
It’s a warning—a subtle, almost imperceptible sign that you’ve grown all too familiar with, one that you’ve learned to disregard without a second thought. There was a time when it might have made you hesitate, made you question, but no longer. The only thing that matters is the way his eyes flicker—just for a moment—before they roll back, losing themselves in the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock like a vice.
The sight of him, consumed, his control slipping away, it makes your pulse quicken. That’s what counts. Nothing else.
Now, it’s his turn.
You watch as his body trembles with the effort, each breath coming harder than the last. His skin is alive with a tremor of its own, covered in shivers that tell you just how much he’s enjoying this. It’s rough beneath your touch, heated, and flushed from the monumental physical effort he’s putting in. Sweat clings to his hair, dripping and curling the way you find so irresistible, a stark contrast to the taut lines of muscle across his chest, now straining with each movement. His arms are firm, powerful, holding you in place with a force that leaves no room for escape. You’re helpless, defenseless.
But it’s his hands that draw your attention—his fingers digging into your thighs with a strength that borders on brutal, marking you as his, pulling you closer, tighter, until there’s no space left between you. You can’t go anywhere. You can feel every inch of his tension, every subtle flex of his muscles as they ripple beneath your touch, the weight of his need pressing against you with a force you can’t ignore.
“Gimme your cum, daddy. Make me swollen with it, please. I need it, need it.”
It’s a good feeling.
He spits, and it lands on your face. It’s messy, a little bit of it goes inside your eye- it makes it harder to blink. But you don’t care, cause it’s fucking worth it. He humiliates you, makes you feel small and useless. He uses his hand to rub his spit on your skin, marking you as his property.
“Gonna fucking breed you, baby. Gonna cum so deep inside of you you’re gonna stain your panties for days- fuck. Gonna make you walk out of here with my cum dripping out of you- and I hope he sees it. Hope that fucker sees that you’re my slut- my fucking cum dump.”
Jaewon. Fuck, you’ll bake the dude a batch of cookies for having made Chan lose his temper like this. It’s the best feeling ever.
“Yes! Yes! Please, please, I’m your cum dump, j-just a toy, daddy, please!”
He leans forward.
Bangchan’s forehead rests against yours, and your gazes lock, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle that were always meant to find each other. The connection is undeniable, unshakable, as if something far greater than either of you is pulling you together. The sensation is intense, almost primal in its depth. It roots itself in the very core of your being, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed. You know, instinctively, that no words could ever do it justice. No description, no matter how vivid, could capture the raw, visceral power of this moment.
So you let go.
You surrender to the feeling, trembling as it washes over you, and you give yourself to him completely—mind, body, and soul. The tip of his cock rubs at the perfect place- it makes you see stars. You feel it all the way to your stomach, which is probably bulging with the intensity of his thrusts.
Your folds are aching, your clit keeps on pulsing and you know damn well that you’re gonna cum again- as soon as he does. Because for you nothing is more important and valuable than his pleasure. Enough to make you cum all over again, no matter what.
“Mine. Mine, my pussy, my baby, all mine,” he says. It’s- disconnected. Messy. He’s just saying things, calling you name and promising you that you’re gonna get bred. You pet his hair, you pull at it.
You stick your tongue out and look at him with hunger in your eyes as he forces his cock inside your hole a few last times.
“You look like a fucking whore,” he comments, groaning deeply before letting himself go.
He succumbs, falling into the abyss of desire alongside you. He lets himself go completely, his body seized by violent, overwhelming spasms that ripple through him with unrelenting force. And you, calm and yielding, accept it all, embracing him as he shatters in your arms.
He buries his cock all the way inside of your body, and you feel it pulse with every sprout of cum that he lets out. Over and over again. You feel it- warm and thick and dense. You cum with him, because of course you do. And you do it more for him than for yourself. You do it cause your pussy tightens up for him and makes his orgasm way more intense. He says so, too.
“Take it. Good fucking girl. All my cum baby, daddy’s cum is breeding you.”
It is, or at least you hope so.
It would be a waste otherwise. You want it to take, and you know it’s crazy, but you don’t care. You’ll give him anything, everything.
“So good, daddy. I feel so full, t-thank you.”
He kisses your forehead. Sweet, despite being still buried to the hilt inside your gaping cunt.
Despite the fact that cum is dripping from your hole and sliding down his cock- all the way to his balls. Messy. Messy. Messy.
“So polite, baby. You’re my princess, right? I love you so much.”
His words carry the taste of a smile, warm and intoxicating, and you can’t get enough of it. It’s as if each syllable wraps itself around you, pulling you closer, filling every corner of your being with an insatiable need for more. You bite your lip, the gesture both instinctive and deliberate, as your fingers trace the strong lines of his shoulders. The touch is soft, almost reverent, as though grounding yourself in the reality of him.
“I love you too,” you whisper, your voice low but unwavering. “More than anything else.”
The words fall between you like a promise, heavy with truth, with an undefined purpose, and the way he looks at you in return makes you feel as though the whole world could fall away, disappear in a fleeting instant, and you wouldn’t care. It wouldn’t matter.
“Thank you,” he adds. You know why he’s thanking you, but you shush him anyways.
“Don’t. Don’t thank me, baby. There’s no need.”
He scoffs, placing soft, gentle kisses on your cheek and down your neck.
“I know. Wanna do it anyways, so please let me, okay?” He smiles, rubbing his cheek against yours before sliding his nose over your skin, trying to touch you in any way possible.
“Okay. Just this once.”
He’s satisfied with your response, and you let him take a moment to recover—truthfully, this moment of tenderness is as much for you as it is for him.
He’s putting you back together. Piece by jagged piece, he’s gathering the fragments of you, reshaping them, giving them new form and color. His touch is gentle, reverent. He caresses you, his fingers tracing soothing patterns along your skin, and his lips find yours in soft, lingering kisses. You return the gestures, mirroring his care, your hands and lips speaking the language of gratitude and love without the need for words.
His fingers tease along your side, the touch light and playful, and you respond with a mischievous grin, sinking your teeth into his shoulder in a playful bite. It’s a small act of rebellion, an answer to his teasing, and the way he chuckles softly in response fills the air between you with warmth.
“Mean puppy,” he reprimands you, and you wiggle your eyebrows, “wasn’t I a cat?” you ask, and he shrugs his shoulders.
“A hybrid? Wasn’t that something you were reading the other day?”
You blush, but you’re kinda happy he remembers everything you tell him despite how busy his life is.
“Yeah, but I’m not one. You are. Wolf hybrid.”
He howls. Of course he does. He’s- he’s the love of your life for a fucking reason, after all.
And you wouldn’t change what you just have for a thing in the whole world.
You both get dressed slowly, taking your time, and he helps you clean up. With a soft smile, he reaches for the brush you keep here at the studio and gently untangles your messy hair. You always leave a small bag with a few of your things here—essentials for the long hours you spend keeping him company. It was his idea, of course. He bought everything you might need, insisting that you leave it here.
It’s one of the countless ways he shows you he loves you, small gestures that speak volumes.
“Damn it! The pizza!” you exclaim suddenly, just as you’re pulling on your hoodie.
Bangchan laughs, the sound light and carefree, as he checks his phone, which had been sitting on the table nearby. It’s much later than you’d realized, and you probably missed the call when your phone rang.
“It’s fine, baby,” he reassures you, slipping his jacket on with ease. “I’ll just run to the shop across the street and grab something, okay?”
You pout a little, feeling disappointed because you’d wanted everything to be perfect. But he’s quick to notice, and even quicker to fix it. He steps close, his hands warm on your face as he kisses that pout away, effortlessly melting your frustration in the way only he can.
Then, with that familiar cheeky grin, he tousles your freshly brushed hair, undoing his work on purpose. The playful act earns him a sharp glare from you, but his laughter in response is worth every second of your mock indignation.
“Be quick? Please? I’m hungry. Starving. I’ll probably die if I don’t eat, actually.”
He shakes his head, shoving his wallet inside the pocket of his pants. “You’re not gonna die, baby. I promise.”
He opens the door of the studio, ready to leave.
Fortunately, you spot the obstacle before he has the chance to trip over it.
“Channie, watch out!” you exclaim, pointing at the floor.
His expression shifts to one of confusion, his eyes widening slightly as he follows the direction of your finger. On the ground, two pizza boxes lie in an awkward heap, a small note resting on top of them. With a sigh, you drop onto the couch, crossing your legs as you settle into a comfortable position, content to watch how this unfolds.
He crouches down, gathering the boxes to his chest, his brow furrowing as he grabs the note. You study his face while he reads it carefully, his lips moving faintly as he takes in the words.
“I tried knocking, but I figured it was better to leave. Hope it doesn’t get cold. —Jaewon.”
You feel heat rush to your face, a wave of embarrassment washing over you as the situation sinks in. But he just smiles—a smug, satisfied sort of smile that only adds to your growing mortification. Shaking your head, you try to hide your amusement as he crumples the note in his hand and, with a casual flick of his wrist, tosses it over his shoulder. Somehow, it lands perfectly in the trash can.
“Show-off,” you mutter under your breath, though you let it slide this time.
“Pizza!” he exclaims, his voice triumphant and brimming with energy, as though he’s just won a hard-fought victory. With the heel of his foot, he kicks the door closed behind him, the soft thud signaling the end of the brief interruption.
A smile lingers in the air between you—yours, his, what difference does it make? It belongs to both of you, in a moment that feels perfectly, unmistakably yours.
