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seunmong-in · 2 months ago

Text

Damnnnn this was amazing 😭😭🩷

bite me.

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pairing: bang chan x fem reader

word count: 5K

contains: +18, rough sex, dom!chan, praise, possessiveness, LOTS of biting, bruises, nipple play, mentions of blood, light bdsm, oral (f rec.), fingering (f rec.), first unprotected sex (don't!!!!!), breeding kink, size kink, overstimulation (f rec.), slight choking. (I think that's it I honestly don't even know anymore)

authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)

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summary: What happens when you tell Chan he can go... harder?

🎧 » Bite Me — ENHYPEN «

0:37 ─〇───── 2:38

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

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You knew from the beginning that Bang Chan was careful with you.

He kissed you softly, held you like you were fragile. On your first night together, his hands trembled more than yours. He kept asking if you were okay, if it felt good, if he should slow down. You had never been touched so gently in your life.

But as the months passed, things changed.

It was in the way he’d grip your hips tighter than before, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to hold himself back. The way his thrusts, once slow and deliberate, began to quicken, more raw, more desperate, like he was fighting against something building in him.

The second time you noticed it, you were on your knees, and he held your jaw just a little firmer, tilting your head up to look into your eyes. His voice had dropped. “You can take it, can’t you, baby?” It wasn’t quite a question. It was a challenge. You felt it like a jolt between your legs.

The third time, he left little bruises. Purple fingerprints on your thighs, your hips, even a faint mark on your neck where he had bitten down without realizing. You found them the next morning and stared at them in the mirror, blushing, breath catching in your throat.

You didn’t know you liked it this much. But you did. And he saw it too.

He started testing limits, every time a little more. He’d pin your wrists above your head with one hand and hold you down while whispering things he’d never said before. “You’re mine,” he growled once, voice ragged as he pounded into you.

But he always stopped just short. He’d slow down, kiss your forehead, ask if it was too much, even when you were writhing beneath him, desperate for more. You could tell he was still holding back, like he didn’t want to risk crossing a line you hadn’t drawn yet.

Until now.

He was above you again, his chest is heaving, his muscles tense with control. Your wrists are pinned once more, but he hasn’t moved yet. His eyes are searching your face for something, fear, hesitation, a sign to stop.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, voice barely holding steady.

You don’t look away.

It’s not too much. It hasn’t been for a long time.

"Chan..." you breathe.

He freezes, his grip loosens slightly, his expression shifting like he’s afraid he’s already crossed a line. You see it in the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches.

"You can go harder," you whisper, barely more than breath. "I want harder."

And it’s like something inside him snaps.

Not in anger, not in impatience, but in relief.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he says, voice low and wrecked, like the words had been trapped inside his chest for too long.

His fingers tighten around your wrists again, not too rough, but enough to make your heart race. His forehead presses against yours, and when he speaks again, it’s in that voice he only uses when he’s right on the edge, gravel and hunger and something that sounds suspiciously like worship.

“I think about it all the time,” he admits, hissing, breath hot against your skin. “How good you look underneath me… how much I want to ruin you.”

Your breath catches, and he notices.

“I hold back every time,” he continues, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “because you look at me like I’m something good. Like I need to be careful with you. And God, I try. I really fucking try.”

His teeth graze your throat. You whimper.

“But you-” he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, and this time there’s no restraint. “You keep taking it. Every time I push a little more, you beg for more.”

“I-I like it,” you whisper.

He huffs a broken laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You more than like it, baby. You need it. Don’t you?”

You nod, lips parted, dizzy with the way he’s looking at you, like he’s starving. Like you’re something he’s allowed to devour now.

“I could fuck you into this mattress right now,” he growls. “I could make you scream so loud the whole building hears. And you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

"Uhm," you gasp, already aching.

"Yeah?" He shifts his weight, pinning your wrists tighter, dragging his knee between your thighs and pressing it there, firm. “You want me to break you in half just to put you back together again?”

Your hips grind against his thigh, instinctive, needy. You’re already wet through your panties, and he knows it. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lower, to where your bodies are nearly touching, to where his thigh has you rocking against him like you’ve forgotten how to beg properly.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters. “All soft. All obedient. All mine.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’m not even inside you yet,” he breathes, voice tightening, “and you’re already falling apart.”

You nod, breathless, desperate. “Please…”

He groans, letting go of your wrists just long enough to yank your shirt up over your head, flinging it somewhere behind him. His mouth finds your collarbone, your chest, and when he sucks a mark just above your tit, hard, you moan, loud and unfiltered.

His hand cups your throat, tilting your head so he can see your eyes again.

“I want you to remember this,” he says darkly. “The moment you told me I could go harder. Because after this, I won’t be gentle.”

Your thighs tremble.

“I’ll fuck you the way I’ve been dreaming about,” he promises. “No more pretending. No more soft touches. You’ll feel it for days.”

"Yes—please, Chan—"

He crashes his mouth against yours, swallowing every broken sound you make, and you know: he’s really done holding back.

His mouth is on your neck like he’s been starving for it.

Teeth, tongue, lips, every part of him working in rhythm, pulling bruises to the surface like he’s painting you with proof that you’re his. You can feel the suction, deep and slow, and you know it’s going to leave marks. Big ones. Purple, maybe even red around the edges. Visible for days.

That thought alone makes your stomach tighten.

His hand’s still wrapped around your throat, holding, guiding, claiming, and the way he uses it to tilt your head just right, has you dizzy.

He moves lower, his mouth dragging along your collarbone, then biting,hard. You flinch, gasping, moaning.

“You… you want that?” he asks, voice rougher than before, chest rising and falling fast. “Even when it hurts?”

You nod slowly. “Especially when it hurts.”

He exhales like he’s just been punched in the stomach. And then he’s on you.

Not soft, not hesitant, this time, he’s hungry.

He captures your mouth in a kiss that’s messy and desperate, his teeth tugging your lower lip hard enough to sting. His hands are everywhere, palming your waist, dragging up your sides.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, staring at your bare chest, licking his lips like he’s about to feast. “I’ve been dying to do this. Dying to leave marks on you. To make you all mine.”

He doesn’t wait for permission this time. His mouth latches onto the curve of your tit, hot and wet. He sucks, hard, deep, purposeful, and you cry out, your fingers flying into his hair. You feel it immediately: the sharp ache of blood rushing to the surface under his mouth, the burn of his tongue smoothing over the skin right after.

He pulls back to look at it, panting. The mark is already forming, dark and angry.

“Oh yeah,” he whispers, eyes heavy-lidded, lips slick. “That’s gonna be there for days.”

He moves lower.

His lips trail down your ribs, slow and deliberate, almost reverent. He mouths over the dip of your waist, then your stomach, warm, open-mouthed kisses that leave a slick heat in their wake.

Then he stops just below your navel.

You feel his breath first, hot and shallow against your skin. His hands settle on your hips, firm, thumbs stroking slowly, anchoring you in place.

“Right here,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “I’m gonna leave this one deep.”

Before you can even brace for it, he sinks his teeth into the soft skin just above your waistband, hard.

It’s sharp. Hot. The kind of pain that’s immediate and blinding. You cry out, your back arching off the bed as your hands fly down to clutch his hair. His teeth are buried in your flesh, holding for a long, breathless second before he finally releases the bite.

And then he sucks, right over it.

Long, slow, and possessive, like he’s sealing it in.

“Fuck—Chan—” you gasp, trembling.

He pulls back to admire the mark. His eyes go wild.

The skin is already swollen, flushed, an angry red-purple blooming where his teeth broke the surface. A faint imprint of his bite remains, top and bottom rows, like a brand.

“You felt that, didn’t you?” he whispers, almost in awe, dragging his thumb just beside it. “You’ll still feel it tomorrow. Maybe longer.”

“Fuck—!” you nod, breathless. You’re not sure you could form words if you tried.

He freezes, licking over the spot he just bruised. “Did it hurt too much?”

You’re shaking, but not from fear. From the way your core is pulsing, wet and needy, from how your skin is singing with the mix of sting and heat.

You meet his eyes and shake your head. “No. It hurts, but, fuck, I really like it.”

And Chan, fuck, Chan moans. Just from that.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he groans, dragging his mouth back to the spot, pressing a gentle kiss right in the center of the bite.

Then, quieter, more to himself than to you:

“You’re mine.”

He groans into your skin, like he’s the one falling apart.

“You don’t know what you do to me when you say shit like that,” he growls, crawling back up, pressing his forehead to yours. “You think I can handle you saying it hurts and you like it? You think I can stay in control?”

“Lose it for me.” you whisper.

That’s it. That’s the end of his patience.

He grabs your thighs, spreading them wide, his hands sliding down to the backs of your knees. He drags you down the bed, closer to him, then bends low and bites the inside of your thigh, hard. You cry out again, your hips twitching, and he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss right over the sting.

“I’m gonna leave you covered in me,” he murmurs against your skin. “You won’t even be able to wear shorts without someone seeing what I did.”

He lifts your leg over his shoulder and starts kissing a trail up, bite, suck, soothe. Again and again. His mouth never leaves you unmarked. He doesn’t just want to make you feel it, he wants you to see it. To carry it.

By the time he’s halfway up your body again, your thighs are shaking. Your chest is covered in dark, blooming bruises, along your collarbone, between your breasts, under your ribs. He pauses to admire them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glazed with lust.

“You look ruined,” he mutters. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He leans in and takes your nipple in his mouth, sucking, swirling his tongue, then biting down, not to hurt, just enough to make you squirm. Your fingers tug his hair harder than before, and he moans around you.

“You like that?” he rasps, moving to the other tit. “You like being marked up like this?”

“Yes,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want to be yours.”

He growls, growls, low in his throat. His hips grind down, and you can feel him, hard and aching, through his sweats. You’re still half-dressed, but it doesn’t matter, he’s already made a mess of you.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t know where you end and I begin,” he pants. “You’re gonna feel me every time you breathe.”

He pulls back just enough to get a good look at you: flushed, marked, panting, open.

“You’re mine,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Chan. Fuck. I'm all yours.”

He smiles. Not soft. Not sweet.

Possessive. Like a man who finally got permission to destroy.

“Good girl.”

And with that, he shoves your panties aside, drops his head between your thighs, and bites just beside your cunt, deep, mean, messy, before soothing it with his tongue. You scream.

But he doesn’t stop.

Not after the bite. Not after the way your whole body shudders under him. He’s licking into you now like he’s lost his mind, tongue hot, wet, filthy as it drags from your dripping entrance to your clit and back again. He groans against you, like the taste of you is making him high.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he pants between licks. “You’re soaked. Is this all for me, baby? I'm hurting you, and you're like this?”

You can’t even answer. You’re whimpering, writhing, grabbing fistfuls of his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

He takes that as a yes.

He shifts, throws one arm over your stomach to pin you down, and goes in. His mouth is relentless now, flat tongue on your clit, then fast circles, then back to slow, cruel flicks that make your whole body twitch.

He knows what he’s doing. And he’s doing it like he wants to break you.

“That’s it,” he mutters, glancing up at you with slick lips and glazed eyes. “Take it. Let me fuck you with my mouth.”

His tongue dips back inside you, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, groaning as he feels how tight you clench around nothing. Every sound you make spurs him on, he’s rutting against the bed now, grinding his cock into the sheets like he can’t take it anymore.

And then he sucks on your clit, and you see stars.

“Oh, f-fuck, Chan!” you cry out, hips bucking, voice raw.

Your whole body goes tight, tighter than it ever has. Your thighs clench around his head, locking him in place, your hands flying down to claw at the sheets, at his hair, at anything you can grab. Your stomach coils so tight it’s almost painful, your lungs forgetting how to breathe.

You don’t fall apart, you explode.

Your orgasm rips through you fast, hard, devastating. It seizes every inch of you. Your back arches violently off the bed, neck craning back as your mouth falls open in a silent scream, nothing but broken gasps and whimpers pouring out. Your legs are shaking, shaking, your core clenching so hard around the emptiness that it hurts.

White noise floods your ears. You can’t see. Can’t think. There’s only him, his mouth, his name, his hands gripping your thighs tight to keep you from writhing away.

And still, still, he doesn’t stop.

He groans low and filthy against your clit, tongue dragging through your slick like he can’t get enough of it, and the overstimulation hits you like a second wave.

You’re twitching now, legs jolting with aftershocks, body too sensitive but still desperate for more.

His hand moves between your legs now, two fingers slipping into you with ease, curling up perfectly while his mouth keeps working your clit. The sound of it is obscene, wet, messy, feral.

“Again,” he growls into you. “I want you to come again. Don’t hold back.”

You shake your head, your whole body already trembling. “I-I can’t—”

“Yes, yes you can.” His voice is low, coaxing but commanding. “You’re gonna come for me again, and then I’m gonna fuck you so deep you won’t remember anything but my name.”

He presses in deeper, fingers curling just right, hitting that spot inside you over and over. His mouth never leaves your clit.

And just like that, again.

Your second orgasm crashes over you before you can even brace for it. It’s sharp, electric, drawn out, your body jerking beneath him as you cry out his name over and over.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are glossy, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fuck. You’re shaking.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then slips his fingers out slowly, watching the way your slick coats them, thick and shining.

“Wanna see how deep I can get now? You think you can take it?”

You nod.

And suddenly his mouth is on yours, messy, desperate, tasting like you, and he’s fumbling with his sweats, yanking them down just enough to free himself. You feel the weight of him against your thigh, hot and hard, twitching as he ruts forward once, like even that tiny bit of friction might be too much.

“Condom?” he grits out.

You shake your head. “I want all of you.”

His mouth falls open like he just short-circuited.

“Jesus fuck, baby…”

He fists himself once, twice, then lines up. You can feel it, the heat, the stretch, the pressure.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you.

You’re flushed, wrecked, still trembling from your orgasms, legs open and waiting for him. Your thighs are slick, inner skin shiny from his mouth and your release, and your chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths.

He’s never seen anything more obscene. Or more beautiful.

Chan sits back on his knees for a second, breath ragged as he stares down at you, cock in his hand, thick, flushed, the tip angry and leaking. His abs are tight, his arms trembling just slightly as he fists himself once, slow and deliberate, thumb brushing over the head to smear the precum.

And for a moment, through the haze of need, you just look at him.

Look at the way his chest rises and falls, the way his jaw clenches when he strokes himself, the way sweat clings to the sharp lines of his body.

That’s when you see it.

Just beneath his collarbone, dark, blooming, unmistakable.

A mark.

Your mark.

A faint bite just below his throat, surrounded by a deep red bruise. You don’t even remember doing it. But there it is, evidence of your own desperation, your own need to have him.

Your breath catches, something primal blooming in your chest. He’s not the only one who’s left a claim tonight.

Chan catches the way your eyes fixate, the way your lips part like you’re surprised. He glances down at himself, then looks back at you, smirking.

“You like what you did to me?” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”

You shake your head, dazed.

His smirk darkens. “Good. Now you know you’re not the only one getting ruined tonight.”

His eyes drag down your body again, greedy, hungry.

“Fuck,” he whispers, head tipping back for a moment. “I’m not gonna last.”

His free hand grabs your thigh, spreads you wider, thumb pressing into the bruised skin he left behind. His fingers dip down, drag through your folds, collecting the mess he made of you.

“So wet,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “You’re dripping. Open. Just… waiting for me.”

He strokes his cock again, slicking himself with you. The slide makes his eyes flutter shut for half a second, jaw clenched like he’s fighting for control.

When he lines up, you feel it immediately.

The heat of him. The blunt weight of his tip pressing against your entrance. The tension in your own body, tight and trembling with anticipation. You can barely breathe.

He pauses, right there, teasing your entrance, letting you feel exactly how big he is.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low and hoarse. “You sure?”

You nod, desperate, but he needs more.

“Say it.”

“God, Chan,” you breathe. “Just ruin me already.”

That’s all he needs.

Chan braces one hand on the mattress beside your head and starts to push in, slowly.

Just the tip at first. Then a few inches more. And then you clench around him, needy, wrecked, pulling him in deeper.

And Chan? He loses it.

With a broken groan, he thrusts in to the hilt, burying himself so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. The stretch burns. You cry out. His hands fly to your thighs, gripping hard, holding you wide open.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses. “So wet. So perfect. You’ll take me.”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

And again.

Each thrust is rougher than the last, his body slapping against yours, the room filled with the sound of skin and moans and breathless curses. He leans over you, one hand buried in the mattress, the other gripping your throat, not squeezing, just holding.

“I want you to remember this,” he pants into your ear. “Remember how it feels when I fuck you like I own you.”

You do.

You will.

Because he’s not stopping until he’s ruined every inch of you.

He slams back in, hard. Deep. Like he means it.

And your world goes white.

You cry out, head thrown back, eyes rolling, the stretch and pressure tearing through you all over again. He’s big, and he’s not being gentle now, not after everything you’ve given him. He grabs your hips, holds you still, and fucks into you with all the restraint of a man gone feral.

“God, fuck,” he grits out. “You feel unreal-tight, perfect—mine.”

Every word is a growl against your throat, every thrust a full-bodied slam that knocks breath from your lungs.

You dig your nails into his back, helpless to do anything but hold on. But it’s not enough. Not anymore. You need more.

You have to leave something behind.

So you drag your nails down his back, hard. Deep enough to leave angry red lines in their wake. He hisses through his teeth, stutters in his rhythm.

But he doesn’t stop.

If anything, he fucks you harder.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Scratch me. Bite me. Show me who I belong to.”

So you do.

You surge up and sink your teeth into his shoulder, right where the muscle curves into his neck. He chokes on a moan, hips jolting into you as your teeth press in, not enough to break skin, but damn near close. He pants into your hair, ragged, wrecked, his cock twitching inside you at the pain.

“Jesus,” he gasps. “You’re fucking insane.”

You bite again, lower this time, and he loses it. He grabs your thighs, yanks you flush against him, and starts driving into you so deep you swear you can feel him in your chest.

His skin is slick with sweat, and yours is too. Your nails dig into his shoulders now, clawing him with every thrust, every brutal roll of his hips. Your mouth is at his throat, sucking dark bruises into his skin, and when he moans, really moans, guttural and broken, it sounds like he’s falling apart.

“Look at you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Fucking wild. You want to ruin me, don’t you?”

“uhm,” you gasp, you can't form words.

His thrusts get sloppy, desperate, hips slamming into you with the force of someone trying to lose themselves.

And he’s close.

So close.

You feel it in the way his whole body trembles above you, the way his abs tighten with every ragged breath. His hands are gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise, holding you there, holding himself there, like he needs to anchor himself to reality before he flies apart.

But even through the wreckage, you know, he’s holding back.

He's chasing the high, teetering on the edge, but refusing to fall.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he gasps, the word torn from his throat over and over, until it stops sounding like anything at all. Just noise. Just instinct. Just the only thing his brain can process while he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

His pace falters, fast, then slow, then fast again. He groans, moans, cries out like his body’s betraying him.

“I— I can’t—fuck, I wanna stay inside you, baby, wanna fuck you forever,shit, I’m gonna come—no—f-fuck—”

He’s not talking to you anymore. He’s talking to himself. Pleading. Cursing. Breathing so hard it sounds like he’s choking on air.

You cling to him, nails raking down his back again, and that does it, he whines, broken and guttural, a sound so raw it barely sounds human.

“Too good,” he gasps. “You’re too—too fucking good, I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

His head drops to your shoulder, lips dragging across your skin like he’s trying to ground himself, but he’s gone.

And you?

You’re not even there anymore.

Your body’s somewhere under him, sure, torn open and pulsing and so full, but your mind? Scattered. Your soul? Floating.

You can’t see. Can’t think. Can’t breathe without him.

He fucked you out of existence, and he’s still moving.

Still fucking into you like he’s trying to memorize how it feels. Like he thinks if he just keeps going, just a little longer, the moment won’t end.

But it’s slipping. He’s slipping.

His moans are constant now, breathy, panicked, pleading, like he’s begging for time, for control, for mercy.

But your walls clench around him again, tight and soaked and trembling, and he breaks.

It starts with a jolt, a sudden, electric snap that tears through your spine and locks every muscle in your body. Your toes curl. Your hands claw uselessly at his back, nails scraping red into his skin, anchoring yourself to him like he’s the only thing keeping you on earth.

Your thighs tighten around his waist, holding him in, because you need him there, deep, filling, grounding, as your body falls apart.

Your orgasm crashes over you in a brutal, burning wave, shaking you so hard your vision goes white. There’s no warning. No build. Just a violent release, raw and shattering. You hear yourself scream, sharp, desperate, the kind of sound that rips out from the chest, not the throat. Your back arches, chest pressing into his, mouth falling open in a silent cry that becomes a whimper, then a gasp, then nothing but frantic breaths. You can’t think. Can’t speak. You can barely feel the bed beneath you or the sweat slick between your bodies or the way your body jerks with every aftershock.

He fucks you through it, deep, slow, grinding now, not for rhythm, not for pace, but because he needs it. Because he needs to feel your cunt fluttering around him, clenching so tight he can barely move.

And you can feel him too, thick and twitching inside you, his moans ragged and feral in your ear, body shuddering as your orgasm drags him to the edge with you.

You’re gone. And you take him with you.

“Fucking hell,” he cries out, voice cracking. “I’m gonna—gonna fucking come—can’t stop—fuck—fuck—” he pants. “You want it? Want me to fill you up?”

“F-fuck, yes” you cry out. “Come inside me, Chan, please—”

And he does.

With a hoarse, broken moan, he drives into you one final time, hips pressed tight to yours, and spills into you, hot and thick and endless. He curses into your neck, every muscle in his body seizing as he empties himself deep inside you, shaking with the force of it.

You’re still holding him. Still scratching. Still biting.

He’s never felt anything like it.

You’ve ruined each other.

And he’ll thank you for it.

The room is quiet now.

The only sound is your breathing, his and yours, tangled, ragged, slowly beginning to even out. His body is still draped over yours, heavy and warm, chest pressed to yours, skin slick with sweat.

You don’t move. You can’t.

You’re still shaking. Still clenching around him, sore and stretched and full, so full. You can feel him everywhere, under your nails, between your thighs, marked across your neck, leaking out of you in slow, warm pulses.

And him?

He hasn’t pulled out. Hasn’t even tried. He just breathes against your skin, arms wrapped tight around you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Eventually, he shifts, just enough to lift his head and look at you.

His eyes are glassy. Half-lidded. Barely focused.

But when he sees your face, your flushed cheeks, your kiss-bruised lips, the way your chest still rises like you’re trying to catch up to everything, he smiles.

Soft this time.

Gentle.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked. Barely more than a whisper.

You nod.

You can’t speak yet. Your throat is dry, your body boneless, mind still floating somewhere far above.

But you nod.

And that’s enough.

He leans down and kisses you. Not rushed. Not needy. Just a slow, reverent press of his mouth to yours, like a thank you. Like an apology.

When he pulls back, he brushes your hair off your forehead, careful fingers trailing over your cheek, down your neck, over the marks he left. He winces a little, but doesn’t stop.

“You’re gonna be so sore,” he murmurs, thumb grazing one particularly dark bruise.

You manage a weak smile. “You too.”

And he laughs, quiet and breathless, forehead dropping to yours.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”

The room was silent for a sec. But then, Chan kept talking

"Now that you allowed me" he swallowed, "I want you to know there's much more I want to do to you. With you."

Your breath caught as he softly rubbed your cheeks with his thumbs.

"And you, baby... oh, you're gonna take it all. I know you will"

You took a breath, then said:

"Can't wait"

taglist @velvetmoonlght @anjian03 <3 (comment or dm me to be added)

+++ authors note: I'm obsessed with this man. I just fucking wrote 5k words of full smut like a mad woman about him. seriously, I should be locked down during ovulation. and plsplspls tell me if you want part 2?????

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seunmong-in · 2 months ago

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@stayphone @stayrcade

HAPPY PRIDE!!!

As a Pansexual girlie I find it fitting to represent my own flag while showing love to our Channie 🤍🤍

I hope we all enjoy this month and to whoever goes to the concerts, ENJOY IT AS WELL!!

~Kay

#stray kids #pride month #skz bang chan #bang chan

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seunmong-in · 2 months ago

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Stop!! Im about to cry y’all 😭🥲

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔪 𝔅𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔘𝔰 • 𝔅𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔵 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 2

<Previous•Next>

*I always thought I pushed you away to protect myself, but that’s not entirely true. I pushed you away because every time I began to feel safe, their voices reminded me I didn't deserve it.*

TW: childhood trauma is mentioned briefly but not fully. If you feel uncomfortable with that, please don't read!!

Chan's POV

I shouldn’t have walked away.

The rain was relentless, icy droplets slicing into my skin, soaking me to the bone, but I couldn't have cared less.

“That’s it? You’re just going to walk away again?”

Damn it…

Her words hit like stones thrown with precision—each one sinking deep, finding the soft, unguarded places I tried so hard to keep buried. And God, I wanted to turn around. To face her. To say something—anything.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because if I did, she’d see it all—the weight I carried, the cracks in the mask, the pieces barely holding together. And I wasn’t sure I could survive being seen like that.

I’ve spent my whole life mastering the art of concealment; burying the darker parts of me so deep, even I started to forget they were there. I learned how to cage the chaos, lock it tight behind steady eyes and a quiet smile, because the moment someone sees it… it will always get shut down. I learned that lesson early... too early. And I'll never forget it.

The first time I truly cried, I was nine. This wasn’t the childish tears you fake to escape trouble, but the gut-wrenching kind that tears through your chest like shards of glass. The kind that leaves you gasping for air and your body desperately folding into itself just to endure. I don’t even remember what set it off. Maybe it wasn't just one thing. Maybe it was everything.. Being a kid in a house where silence was louder than shouting, love and approval felt like a prize I could never win.

I still remember my father standing by the doorway, arms folded tight, face carved from stone. He didn’t move. There was no signs of sympathy. He just stood there, eyes cold and unmoving, looking down at me like I was something rotten stuck to the sole of his shoe.

“Be a man,” he muttered, slamming my room door shut.

That was it. His idea of comfort. Of parenting. Of love.

That night taught me everything I needed to know. Vulnerability? Love? They're just illusions. Pretty concepts people use to cover the cracks before they walk away. All it ever does is expose your soft spots, give people a map to the parts of you they can break. Show weakness, and it’s only a matter of time before someone uses it as their excuse to leave.

But Y/N…

She was always this strange, beautiful contradiction. Bright enough to light up a room, but soft enough not to blind anyone in it. She never needed the attention, never asked for anything loud or grand. I found myself falling for her in the quiet moments—the way her laugh could cut through the worst parts of my day like it belonged there, like it had always been there. The way she'd sit beside me without pressing for details, somehow knowing I needed her presence more than her questions. She had this way of making silence feel safe.

She didn’t know about me—never knew how much of the darkness I kept buried, how many nights I’d spent lying awake haunted by everything. I vowed to myself to never let her see those parts. However, even without knowing, she gave me things I didn’t think I deserved—patience, peace, a kind of tenderness that made me feel like I was more than just what I’d survived. She gave and gave, without ever making it feel like a sacrifice. Like it was just in her nature to pour warmth into people and not keep any for herself. And somewhere between the quiet glances, the late-night conversations, the soft laughter shared over nothing—I fell for her. Fully. Quietly. Irrevocably.

That terrified the fuck out of me more than anything ever had.

Because loving her meant lowering my guard, letting her see past the mask, risking the very parts of myself I’d spent years trying to bury.

And if she saw them really saw them what if she didn’t stay?

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Say something!” she shouted behind me, her voice cracking.

God, Y/N... if only you knew how badly I want to. But wanting and being able to are worlds apart, and right now, I’m trapped between them.

I don’t know how to be loved without bracing for it to be torn away. I don’t know how to let go and be vulnerable without expecting to be met with ridicule. Every time she touched me—every gentle embrace, every whispered reassurance—I silently begged the universe: "please, don’t let her pull away."

It’s twisted, how I’d rather tear something beautiful apart with my own hands than watch helplessly as it falls apart without me. Destruction felt safer—at least then, I knew exactly when and how it would end.

My jaw clenched so tightly I could feel a sharp ache throbbing through my temples, teeth grinding together like a barricade holding back every truth I'd never dared to voice. The scream inside tore at my chest, fierce and desperate, demanding to be set free—but still, I didn't say a word. I couldn’t. Giving in to vulnerability and emotion was not in my nature.

“Just stop pretending none of this meant anything!” she yelled. “That I didn’t mean anything!”

Suddenly, everything stopped. The world paused mid-spin, caught on the sharp edges of her words. They slammed into me, hard enough to shatter bone, ripping the air from my lungs like I'd been struck.

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails pressing into my palms until the pain almost matched the storm inside me. Rain poured down my face, blurring the raw ache etched into my features, hiding tears I refused to acknowledge.

In that splintered silence, I sensed her breaking too, unraveling silently as she sank into the depths of the storm that was already drowning me.

“You don’t get to do this,” she said, softer now. Closer. “You don’t get to l-love me like I was your world then vanish like it meant nothing…”

Her voice broke, and so did something in me.

Because I did love her like that. Fiercely. Desperately.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I managed, barely above a whisper. It was a weak defense. A hollow wall built to keep her from seeing how close I was to crumbling.

“No, you don’t understand,” she snapped, and for a moment I hated how strong she sounded when I felt so fucking weak. “You don’t get to make a home in my heart and fill my mind with a delusion of what could be just so you can leave and disappear when it gets hard.”

She was right. Every word of it. And I still didn’t know how to stay. I turned around slowly, finally letting myself look at her.

“I never wanted this,” I finally let out. The words came out flat, cold. Wrong.

I meant to say: I never wanted to become the reason your voice breaks, the reason you question your worth. Hurting you was never supposed to be part of this.

But all I could say was that.

“Bullshit,” she spat, stepping closer, her voice shaking with equal parts hurt and anger. “You chose me. You needed me. And I stayed even when it started hurting.”

The rain ran down her face, but it couldn’t wash away the rage, the tears and heartbreak burning in her stare. “And now you want to pretend I was just something you can dispose of at your beck and call?”

“Chan… I love you.”

My eyes closed.

Please stop, I thought. Please don’t love me. Please don’t say that if I can’t give you what you need.

“But do you even love me?”

And without a single word, I turned around again. Each step pulling me farther from the only person I ever truly loved.

But just as I disappeared into the dark, I heard her voice, broken and now softer than ever.

“Chan, please don’t go…”

And I froze.

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seunmong-in · 2 months ago

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currently hating everything I write 😙

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seunmong-in · 2 months ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔪 𝔅𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔘𝔰 • 𝔅𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔵 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 2

<Previous•Next>

*I always thought I pushed you away to protect myself, but that’s not entirely true. I pushed you away because every time I began to feel safe, their voices reminded me I didn't deserve it.*

TW: childhood trauma is mentioned briefly but not fully. If you feel uncomfortable with that, please don't read!!

Chan's POV

I shouldn’t have walked away.

The rain was relentless, icy droplets slicing into my skin, soaking me to the bone, but I couldn't have cared less.

“That’s it? You’re just going to walk away again?”

Damn it…

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because if I did, she’d see it all—the weight I carried, the cracks in the mask, the pieces barely holding together. And I wasn’t sure I could survive being seen like that.

“Be a man,” he muttered, slamming my room door shut.

That was it. His idea of comfort. Of parenting. Of love.

But Y/N…

That terrified the fuck out of me more than anything ever had.

Because loving her meant lowering my guard, letting her see past the mask, risking the very parts of myself I’d spent years trying to bury.

And if she saw them really saw them what if she didn’t stay?

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Say something!” she shouted behind me, her voice cracking.

God, Y/N... if only you knew how badly I want to. But wanting and being able to are worlds apart, and right now, I’m trapped between them.

“Just stop pretending none of this meant anything!” she yelled. “That I didn’t mean anything!”

Suddenly, everything stopped. The world paused mid-spin, caught on the sharp edges of her words. They slammed into me, hard enough to shatter bone, ripping the air from my lungs like I'd been struck.

In that splintered silence, I sensed her breaking too, unraveling silently as she sank into the depths of the storm that was already drowning me.

“You don’t get to do this,” she said, softer now. Closer. “You don’t get to l-love me like I was your world then vanish like it meant nothing…”

Her voice broke, and so did something in me.

Because I did love her like that. Fiercely. Desperately.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I managed, barely above a whisper. It was a weak defense. A hollow wall built to keep her from seeing how close I was to crumbling.

She was right. Every word of it. And I still didn’t know how to stay. I turned around slowly, finally letting myself look at her.

“I never wanted this,” I finally let out. The words came out flat, cold. Wrong.

I meant to say: I never wanted to become the reason your voice breaks, the reason you question your worth. Hurting you was never supposed to be part of this.

But all I could say was that.

“Bullshit,” she spat, stepping closer, her voice shaking with equal parts hurt and anger. “You chose me. You needed me. And I stayed even when it started hurting.”

“Chan… I love you.”

My eyes closed.

Please stop, I thought. Please don’t love me. Please don’t say that if I can’t give you what you need.

“But do you even love me?”

And without a single word, I turned around again. Each step pulling me farther from the only person I ever truly loved.

But just as I disappeared into the dark, I heard her voice, broken and now softer than ever.

“Chan, please don’t go…”

And I froze.

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22 notes · View notes