#jealous!chan

Bang Chan should’ve known better.

He should’ve known your performance wouldn’t be... tame. You were known for pushing limits — bold concepts, stage presence that could crush egos, and eyes that burned like fire.

But nothing prepared him for what you did tonight.

He watched from the crowd, surrounded by other idols, all supposedly focused on their own comebacks or nominations. But every single eye had locked onto you the second your music hit.

And Chan’s stomach twisted.

You came out in all black — leather, lace, skin. Your hair done just right, body moving like you owned the stage. The choreography was sensual. Intense. Every move deliberate. Every hip roll, every body wave, every touch to your own neck or thighs — it screamed look at me.

And everyone was looking. Including the guy two rows in front of Chan who audibly said “holy shit.”

That was the moment Chan saw red.

He clenched his fists in his lap, jaw tight, heart pounding with something that was not just jealousy — it was possessive, dangerous. Because that was his girl out there. His girlfriend. The same one who wore his hoodies after practice and curled into his side after long schedules. The same one who’d whispered I’m yours into his ear more times than he could count.

And now?

Now everyone was seeing her like this.

When the performance ended — final pose, lights dimming, the crowd roaring — Chan didn’t cheer.

He stood up.

You were still buzzing with adrenaline as you headed backstage. That performance had been everything you wanted — powerful, sexy, commanding. You knew it’d stir things up. That was the whole point.

But you didn’t expect to find Chan already waiting for you the second you turned the corner, blocking your path.

He wasn’t smiling.

“Chan—?”

“Don’t,” he said lowly. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you just did out there.”

You blinked, breath still uneven. “What are you talking about?”

“That performance,” he said through gritted teeth. “Was that for the crowd... or for me?”

Your stomach flipped.

“Oh, come on—”

“Do you even know what it was like watching that?” he cut in, stepping closer. “Watching you dance like that — touch yourself like that — while guys around me were drooling over you?”

Your pulse spiked. “It was just a concept—”

“Just a concept?” he scoffed. “You were on your knees at one point. And when you ran your hands down your body—” he cut himself off, jaw flexing.

You gave him a sly smile. “So you were watching closely.”

“I always watch you closely,” he said, voice rough. “But tonight? Tonight I almost lost it.”

Your back hit the wall behind you as he closed the distance, hand bracing beside your head.

“You wanna be sexy on stage?” he murmured. “Fine. You are. But don’t forget who you belong to when those lights go off.”

Your breath caught. “Chan—”

“I’m serious.” His voice dropped. “You don’t get to walk off stage like that and act like everything’s normal. Not when I’ve been sitting out there thinking about every move you made. Every time you touched your thighs. Every time you looked into the camera like you wanted someone to take you backstage and ruin you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I wanted to walk up there in the middle of your set and remind everyone watching—” he leaned in, nose brushing yours, “—that only I get to see you like that.”

A beat of silence.

And then you smirked. “Sounds like you’re jealous.”

“Damn right I am,” he muttered. “And you love it.”

You bit your lip.

He tilted his head. “Was it for them… or for me?”

Your fingers reached up, smoothing his shirt collar. “It was for you.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Every step. Every look. Every time I touched myself?” You smiled sweetly. “I was thinking of you.”

Chan exhaled slowly, like he was holding back the kind of thoughts that would get both of you in trouble.

“Then you better come over tonight,” he said, backing up just enough to let you breathe. “Because if you’re gonna tease me like that on stage…”

His eyes flicked down your body and back up again, dark and hungry.

“…you’d better let me return the favor.”

_

The ride to his place was quiet — but not peaceful.

You could feel the tension radiating off him like static, like he was trying to be civil but barely holding himself together. His hand gripped the wheel tight, veins flexing, jaw clenched so hard it might crack. You tried to make light conversation. He didn’t answer.

He was way too calm. And that was worse.

Because Chan only got like this when he was planning to ruin you.

_

The second you stepped into his apartment, the door clicked shut behind you — and then everything happened at once.

His hands were on you. Your jacket was ripped off, your back against the wall, and Chan's mouth was crashing into yours like he needed you. Like he had been thinking about this for hours — because he had.

“You’ve been testing me all night,” he muttered against your lips. “Wanna act like that on stage? Wanna get on your knees and grind like you’re begging for it?”

His hand slid down, cupping your ass — hard.

“Then act like it now.”

You gasped when he lifted you, strong arms wrapping under your thighs as he carried you to the bedroom. You didn’t even touch the ground. You barely had time to breathe.

He dropped you onto the mattress and stood back, chest rising with every breath as he looked at you like he was about to devour you whole.

“Strip.” You blinked. “What—?” “I said strip. Like you did on stage. Slowly.”

Your throat went dry.

He stepped back, folding his arms — watching.

So you obeyed.

You stood and began peeling off the layers, slower than you needed to. Slower than you ever had. Letting each piece drop to the floor, teasing him like you were still performing. You let your hands trail over your body — like during the choreo — and met his eyes when you reached the hem of your shirt.

That was all it took.

“Fuck it.” He crossed the room in two strides.

You yelped when he grabbed your waist and flipped you onto the bed, crawling over you like a man possessed. “You want to play sexy?” he growled, lips dragging down your neck. “You want to tease everyone?”

“I wasn’t teasing—” you gasped as his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers stroking over your panties — already soaked.

“You were teasing me.” His fingers rubbed harder. “And now I’m gonna make sure the only sounds coming out of that mouth are for me.”

Your panties were gone in a second — literally. He didn’t even pull them off. He ripped them.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“Chan—!”

His tongue was already on you — hot, fast, no mercy. You barely had time to react before he flattened his tongue and licked up your entire slit, groaning like you were his last meal. He pulled your legs over his shoulders and buried his face between your thighs.

You moaned, fingers tangling in his curls.

He sucked on your clit, relentless, holding your hips down when you squirmed.

“Already shaking, baby?” he said, lips slick. “Didn’t even make you cum yet.”

You whimpered. “Channie—”

“That’s right. Say my name.” He sucked harder. “Only mine.”

Your thighs were trembling, breath hitching — and then he slid two fingers inside, curling them just right, and your back arched.

“I-I’m gonna—”

“Good.” He pumped faster. “You deserve it. You put on a show for the world, now give me the encore.”

You came hard — legs shaking, breath punched out of you, fingers grabbing at the sheets like a lifeline. But Chan didn’t stop.

He kept going.

You whined. “Too much—”

“You can take it,” he said darkly. “You’ve got one more for me.”

Your eyes were glassy. “Chan—”

He moved up, kissed your mouth — letting you taste yourself on his lips. “You wanted to look like a fantasy on stage?” he whispered. “Now I’m giving you one.”

He pulled off his shirt, then undid his jeans. His cock sprang free — thick, hard, leaking. Your breath caught.

Without another word, he turned you to face the mirror beside the bed.

“Look.”

You blinked.

He pressed up behind you, one hand gripping your jaw to hold your gaze forward.

“Look at yourself,” he growled. “This is what you really look like. Ruined. Dripping. My good girl.”

You whimpered as he pushed in — slowly, deeply — stretching you open inch by inch.

“Fuck—” he grunted. “Still so tight.”

You could barely hold yourself up, but he held your hips steady and started thrusting — hard, deep, controlled.

“See what you do to me?” he growled. “One performance and I’m fucking obsessed.”

His thrusts got rougher, faster. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. You were moaning uncontrollably, nails digging into the sheets, watching yourself bounce in the mirror.

“Let them stare,” he growled. “Let them drool. Just means they’ll never know what it’s really like.”

He wrapped a hand around your throat and pulled you upright, still pounding into you from behind.

“They’ll never know how you moan my name. How you beg for it. How you cry when I don’t let you cum.”

You whimpered again, hips trembling.

“You are mine. Say it.”

“M-yours,” you gasped.

“Say it louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He groaned, hips stuttering.

You felt your second orgasm rising — your whole body tightening, burning, needing—

“Cum for me,” he growled. “Come on, baby. I wanna see you fall apart.”

That was all it took.

You came with a loud cry, body shaking, Chan holding you through it — and seconds later, he followed with a deep groan, spilling inside you as he bit down softly on your shoulder.

Silence followed. Just heavy breathing. Tangled limbs. Heartbeats racing.

Then:

“...So,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “You liked the performance?”

He laughed hoarsely, chest still rising. “Don’t ever do it again.”

You smirked.