Torque (M)
Author’s Note: here we go! welcome to day 1 of chanvember!! i hope everyone enjoys <333
Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female)
Summary: As a stunt driver, you’re used to seeing men come to the track looking for a quick, easy high. But in Chanyeol, you never expected to find your equal.
Genre: smut
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit language; explicit sex; public sex; dirty talk
Word Count: 9,217
CHANYEOL
There’s something they don’t tell you about driving when you’re a kid, when you put posters on your wall of all the cars you wished were women; eight years old and already begging to be a man. There are things they don’t tell you about Italian sports cars, about chrome engines and black leather.
When you learn to drive, you’re lead to believe you are the one in control, that it’s you with the power and the skill and the magic. Always, this is done in your best interest. Always, this is done to keep you safe.
Always, this is utter bullshit.
The car wants you dead.
It wants to eat your bones for dinner, absorb your blood into the fresh red of its paint, and make your skin its rubber. Handling a Ferrari is you, no helmet, no armor, no eject button, fondling death between your legs and beneath your feet. The car will throw you on a turn, the car will bend you. Your palms will sweat into the steering wheel and it will drink your anxiety, getting drunk solely on you, and you feel it. You always feel it. It’s that lurch in your chest, your lips parting on an inhale, the pressing of your hips into the leather telling you this could be the end.
They don’t tell you this, and, if they do, not in these exact words.
They don’t tell you this because they know it will get you high. It’s their best kept secret: taking a turn at 180 miles per hour feels better than a line of blow; releasing the clutch to turn feels more exhilarating than free falling from an airplane.
They don’t tell you driving is a drug. They never tell you because they know you will get addicted.
I figured this out on my own when I was eighteen and bored. I had a friend - a rich fucker whose father bought him extravagant things thinking surely this is what it means to love my kid - who owned a fleet. Trust me, a goddamn fleet. Rows and rows of cars he would never have enough time to drive in a day, in a wasted lifetime. I kept telling him I wished my dad loved me like that, loved me enough to spend money, loved me enough to acknowledge I was a living, breathing thing. He kept telling me I could take his dad, could take everything, because he didn’t matter to him. I don’t remember this kid’s name anymore, but, really, he’s not the point.
The point is that he told me I could take and the point is that I did.
The first girl I ever kissed was small, petite and wilting, kind of like a flower. We were twelve and she had tits. The first girl I ever fucked was a punk, total metal head, and she fucked like she wanted us both to burn and not once did I think it was hell. We were sixteen and I nicknamed her Phoenix.
The first sports car I ever drove was a Ferrari California, Italian bird with sexy curves and a hard edge that made her ferocious, a real force to be reckoned with. I was eighteen, named her Aisha, and I stole her. Right under his nose too, didn’t even notice I’d taken her. Probably assumed his dad returned it and barely noticed when her space got taken up with another masterpiece he would never touch.
Aisha was mine and Aisha was reckless and Aisha wanted to break me.
I let her.
She tore down the highway, away from her captives, with a speed that I’ve come to define as spirited. Looking back, I don’t know why she didn’t kill me. I had no idea how to drive, I mean really drive. I’m not talking city driving, casual Sunday cruising, even the occasional friendly drag race with the car next to you at a light. No, I’m talking counting the seconds before you release the clutch and wait to turn. I’m talking connecting with a car so intensely you know it so intimately, so passionately, it tells you precisely how to handle every imaginable terrain. I had barely just been granted my license, but I realized, as I felt myself get hard over the seamless dual clutch, that I was made for this.
Aisha was the car that broke me.
Clara was the car that let me break her. A steel grey Aston Martin Vanquish with a roar that would make any grown man whine, she was the car that bent to my will. She handled like a princess, called me honey when I started her up, and always stayed pretty for me.
By the time I was 28, I’d broken over two hundred cars, become a stunt driver, and fallen into the habit of breaking women. Good girls who think they like the taste of reckless things between their teeth.
What can I say, I’m an addict.
You had just moved to Vegas for a job when you met him, were missing New York and the gloom and the cold, when he arrived at the track. There he stood, all sunshine, bow legs, and caramel skin, thirsty for some gasoline in his blood. The track was unfamiliar, one you’d never driven, one you’d never even heard of, which made it the ideal place to practice.
It excited you, the unfamiliarity. Always you believed to truly open up a car, to really see what you and it are capable of, you first have to free yourself of expectation. There can be absolutely no anticipation of a turn, no knowledge of your terrain. Always, it comes down to trust - of yourself and of the machine.
And so he was the first person you saw as you came down from an adrenaline rush bottled inside a Huracan, fingers shaking from the traditional violence of the Lambo gearshift. He was watching you intently, studying the way you got out of the car and shook off the terror, the joy, the fear. You looked right at him because you knew - you always knew.
Kids come to the track for a thrill and always wind up half-hard with wet mouths and dry throats. Men come to the track hoping to reclaim the stamina of their youth, drive fast to forget their wives, their partners, the dull sex, the screaming kids; come to get hard and get fucked by a sleek paint job and a set of carbon brakes.
But the way he looked at you felt different - already imagining getting his dick wet, yet somehow hypnotized by your existence. Though, you didn’t know if it was you or the car that had power over him. Not that it mattered, at this point you were one and the same.
Three track employees stood beside him, one of whom was waiting for you. You tried remembering his name; he was the one who handed you the keys and took your ID, but your brain had been thoroughly wiped. Coming back to reality took focus, took regulated breathing, and you had neither of those things. You were a live wire, you were sparked. You thought his name was Jim, but who knows really.
You stood beside Probably Jim as you took off your gloves, running a hand through your hair and wiping away the sweat that had pooled at your hairline. Your fingers were shaking and your breath rattled in your lungs, esophagus becoming carbon piping. The feeling of it all, the sheer thrill of it, made you smile.
‘Was that the Huracan?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the car.
You glanced over at him, smiling politely before dropping your gaze to your feet. It hurt to look at him, impossible; painful to stare at the sun too long, not while on a high, and certainly not while wet.
‘Yeah,’ you said, simply, unable to offer anything more.
‘What was it like?’ He was eager for details, and conversation, and all the things you did not have the energy to give him.
Any other track, any other car, even an Audi R8 Spyder, you’d have told him everything. You’d have waxed poetic until sundown about how driving that car felt like plummeting into hell and waiting for Jesus Christ himself to give you wings. But it was this track, in a Lamborghini, a car so dead set on killing you it reminded you of your mortality at every gear change, and you just didn’t have the linguistic capacity to satisfy him.
‘Dangerous.’ You almost sighed it, like you were breathing into the ear of a sleeping lover, waiting for them to wake up so you could fuck them again.
He furrowed his brow, almost looking offended. ‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’ That’s all it needed to be.
He laughed like he was laughing at a child, at someone who had said something terribly silly and he wanted to make them feel good. ‘Alright, sure.’
You admitted to yourself, then and against your better judgement, that he was pretty. Extremely pretty. Gorgeous, even. Skinny jeans and a black v-neck shirt, looking like he’d walked off a runway and turned up there just to get a fix - a pitstop before more blow, or Molly, or whatever the fuck the modeling agencies were pushing. He was pretty, but chatty, a trait which usually turned you off, though it seemed to suit him, like a perfume bottled in optimism.
‘Have you ever driven a Lamborghini?’
You had to ask, because, for any experienced driver, your answer would have garnered a laugh of understanding or a slap on your back for even giving the car a go. But this was different, his intention was off and seemingly unrelated to the car itself. It felt like a challenge, it felt like a risk - it felt like an invitation.
‘Yes,’ he said, flatly. He pulled off his aviators and looked you straight in the eye, like he was waiting for you to wither beneath its intensity.
Instead, you smiled under his scrutiny, all teeth and motive, and pictured the wind blowing through his hair. ‘Then that’s it.’
You turned back to Probably Jim and handed him the keys. ‘Bring me the McLaren MP4-12C.’
Probably Jim chuckled, taking the keys and writing numbers on his clipboard. ‘Someone wants to drive hard today.’
You rolled your eyes, flexing your fingers to ease the tension. ‘Someone wants to drive hard without killing themselves.’
The McLaren would reset you. It would be comfortable, easy, and protective. Two tires going off the track would be smooth - you would be more startled tripping over your own feet. It would be a tame drive, a gentle drive, as gentle as a drive could be at 160.
Probably Jim was nodding and talking into a radio, listing license plate numbers and inventory codes, arranging the intake of the Huracan and the delivery of the McLaren. The track was bigger than most you had been too, had a much larger selection, and far better staff. Bested the ones you’d drove in Florida with ease, made the ones in California look like toy models, but still could not compare the track in New York. An armada of cars available for rental and diving, a hoard of highly trained staff. That was the dream. You had been spoiled. But you could get used to Vegas, especially with their more exotic selection.
‘Can I get the Hennessy Venom, or do you not have one here?’
His question broke your train of thought, stunned you in a way that felt pleasant and arousing. He sounded confident in his selection, said the words like he knew the weight and the meaning - knew exactly what he was asking for and was ready to let it pull at him. It was nice, the idea that you had misjudged him entirely. For a moment, you thought he really could bend you, even thought you might let him. Eyeing him conspicuously, you hummed, attempting to reassess all the pieces of him, watched with interest as he turned into an enigma right before your eyes.
He rounded on you then, brow furrowed and looking as though you had insulted him.
‘Do you have something to say?’ he hissed with a frown.
‘No,’ you said, nonchalantly, ‘only that I’m impressed.’
‘Excuse me?’ He put his hands on his hips indignantly and blinked at you, annoyed.
‘You want to drive a Venom?’ you pressed smoothly, crossing your arms.
‘Yeah,’ he smiled, looking you up and down as though he had misjudged you, too. ‘You think I can’t take it?’
You couldn’t help it, the smile that spread across your features like wildfire. On your lips it felt partly vicious and partly curious, eager to taste all his edges and eager to see him near breaking. He was living for it the way you were, the excitement of keeping death between his knees and telling it to go to hell - living violently and at the limit of his very existence. All at once, you saw him, not as a man, but as someone just as reckless as you. Immediately, you wanted all of him dripping over your tongue, trapped against the roof of your mouth.
‘It’s fast,’ you said, indicating everything and yet, somehow, not nearly enough with your tone.
‘Too fast,’ he countered, his smile becoming impish and teasing while his voice became distant.
‘Just fast enough.’
Minutes seemed to pass as you held one another’s gaze, but you did not notice them, not really. You were getting lost in one another, in the possibility of one another, in the idea of an equal. He became a complexity, something for you to take apart and study, something to relearn, and in his eyes you saw how he start to reconsider you. No longer were you an oddity, instead you were a rarity, woman unafraid to be ugly in the clutches of adrenaline.
‘Uh,’ the guy coughed, breaking the tension that had built between you, ‘yeah, we don’t have a Venom here. Breaks speed regulation.’
Reluctantly, he pulled his eyes from you to glance at the staff member, before looking back with a wicked, excited expression. Behind his eyes, he was processing everything, remaking who he was in the presence of you.
Then, he pointed at you with the hand holding his sunglasses, an action usually jarring, confrontational, and unwelcome but on him it seemed almost friendly. You thought maybe you should act intimidated, but mostly, all you wanted to do was kiss him.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, sounding slightly breathless.
‘I’m Y/N,’ you said, beaming.
‘No,’ he laughed, shaking his head, ‘what are you? It’s rare to see a woman here. Not to sound sexist, I’m just being straight with you.’
‘And what are you?’ you countered, gently with a cock of your eyebrow. ‘Someone toying with cars to make up for their dick?’
It was risky, you knew, teasing him like this instead of making it easy, but everything about it felt like a game - everything about him felt like a game. Had you been a gambler, you’d have called it a sport. In the wake of your words, you waited, almost breathless, for his answer. He could turn on you, reveal himself to be utterly unlike you had started to imagine, but you felt he was kindred, you felt connected, and so you knew he’d like it: the possibility of sex just as exhilarating as raw tangibility of driving.
If he was anything like you, he’d eat it up like it was laid on a silver spoon.
‘I’m here to get high.’
His words, the way he let them glide off his tongue, made the hair on your arms stand on end. ‘Me, too.’
‘I’m here to forget,’ he tried, stepping closer to you with a glimmer in his eye.
‘Me, too,’ you murmured, moving to match his steps.
Seeing you come closer somehow emboldened him, made his voice deeper, richer, like he was proud he got to chase you. ‘I do it for a living.’
Cocking your head to the side, you smiled. He could have left it at this - you could have stopped here and been pleased with the result. At that moment, he admitted he was just like you, even if he didn’t have the same lived experience. All that mattered, in the end, was the white knuckled feeling of connection.
But still, you spoke. ‘Me, too.’
‘You race?’
You shook your head, glad that he looked at you as though he was hungry. His eyes were wide, eager, inferring things about you just from the sight of your composed posture and the sweat glistening on your neck - not anxious, but intoxicated. He didn’t read you like he was bewildered by these things, merely like he knew everything you were feeling. He knew and he wanted it all for himself, and all over again.
‘Stunt driver,’ you clarified, though a lot of the time you struggled to see the difference between the two. Most times, you weren’t racing people, only racing yourself and your limits.
He chuckled, nodding in understanding. ‘Me, too.’
In silence you waited for surprise to settle over you like dust from the track, but it never came. It made sense, then, why he knew the car and why he looked at you as though he knew you; why you felt connected the moment you saw him, why you noticed him at all.
For a moment, he narrowed his eyes, squinted like he was sizing you up and wondering if you had limits - wondering what those limits were. You held his stare with ease, doing the same in the back of your mind but mostly you pictured his hands on you.
Eventually his face relaxed, and he smiled, the first real smile you’d seen on him. Not one of awe or interest, just genuine kindness that poured out of his cheeks, brilliant like you were ascending dawn. It was everything you could do not to bend over the hood of the Huracan in anticipation of his chest against your back and the hard length of his cock against your ass. You smirked, knowing the hood was wide enough to take it.
‘I think we got off on the wrong foot,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Chanyeol.’
Regarding his extended hand, you hesitated. It wasn’t that you wanted to be rude, wasn’t that you were even trying to seduce him by being coy, though, sometimes, looking back, you think you were. The reality was that he was going to feel you shaking, your fingers still pulsing with adrenaline. But you gave him your hand anyway and stomached it, because, no matter what, he was going to feel it too.
‘Look,’ you said, pulling your hand back quickly. All at once, your brain was running, racing towards an idea and it was appealing, arousing in all its implication. You wanted him to take the opportunity and run with it, run with you to the ends of the universe. ‘If you really want a car like the Venom you should try the Koenigsegg Agera. Same speed, brakes are the same size, and it weighs almost the same. Won’t stop as quickly as the Venom, but it’ll grip the track enough so you won’t feel like you’re driving on a glacier.’
‘Nice choice,’ he said, not bothering to comment on your knowledge. Had he done so, it would have felt like an insult.
Glancing to the guy next to him, he simply raised his eyebrows in expectation, waiting for him to respond as though he had been listening the whole time. The guy nodded and Chanyeol shifted his entire posture, closing his eyes as he rolled his shoulders back in anticipation of being shaken down to his core.
‘I’ll let you race me.’
You were desperate for him to say yes. Always, this is how it started, always where it would begin. That edge of breaking a man and reducing him to water in your hands, unmaking them with the flick of an ignition.
And you could see it in his eyes too, the same feeling, the rush of breaking a woman and making her into something that fit the contours of his lifestyle. It was different for him, you think, because you’d already been molded into his shape. Rather than thinking of taking you, he looked at you like you were something to earn.
The suggestion made a wolfish grin play at his features, and you imagined him already getting hard.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ you encouraged with a slight shrug, ‘it’ll be fun. Haven’t had a race with someone in ages.’
‘What are the stakes?’
‘Me.’
When he smiled, he showed you his teeth, like he was whetting his tongue against his cheek and waiting to feast on your essence. ‘Don't reduce yourself into a prize.’
The game was on. He wasn’t adamant enough, wasn’t protesting enough. Propositions like the one you had given him are seductive, lingering on the edge of possibility long enough that there’s always a chance, a probable element of hope, to make a person think this could turn me into something great. Already, he was weighing the risk in his mind, trying to balance the value of his ego with the level of his skill and the glimmer in his eyes told you both were on par to win.
You walked over to him, then, this time close enough to really see his features, the silk of his skin, the tendons in his neck, and the lines of his collarbone, and you knew, somewhere in the back of your mind, you could call him a stallion.
‘Well then,’ you said softly, leaning up to whisper in his ear, ‘prove that I’m not.’
He reared back from you and laughed, loud and boisterous and violent, because he was young and excited and ready to break some rules. It was then that you saw him for who he truly was, someone bold and dangerous and flawed - someone just like you. In your stomach, the sound of his laugh made arousal start to pool, the clench of your thighs involuntarily imagining him nestled in between.
Chanyeol wanted to break the world with his bare hands, and he wanted to break it with you.
‘And what will you drive?’ he questioned, fully aware that his car would outmatch yours in less than a second.
You looked back at Probably Jim. ‘Hey, can we forget the McLaren? Is it already on its way over?’
‘You sure?’ he frowned, unwilling to put in a change over so soon. ‘I mean, yeah,’ he sighed, ‘it’s only just been prepped. What would you want instead?’
You smiled, standing tall as you told him your choice. ‘I want the Bugatti Vitesse.’
By the time you got to the parking lot, his hand was buried in your back pocket and cupping the cheek. You'd draped your arm around his neck like he’d been yours for years, like he was your trophy. In a way he was, and in a way you should have been used to him. You’d won the likes of him before, on countless different tracks, in countless different cars - boys with different names and ages but always the same traits. Power hungry speed junkies who looked nothing like you in the mirror but were exactly like you in all the ways that mattered.
When you got to his car, he pushed you against the passenger side back door, ran his hands over the curve of your ass with a low laugh. He didn’t seem to mind that you'd pressed your hands against the tinted window, leaving smears of want as your fingers slid for purchase. Even with a quick once over, you could tell the glass had seen its fair share of prints.
Chanyeol had been your equal in every way imaginable, handled the beast of a car like it was designed just for him, for his long legs and his strong hands. Seeing him drive was what made you go from wanting to needing him, from fantasizing about his hips between your thighs to demanding he let you stain the leather of his seats.
‘Shit,’ you whined when he nipped at your neck, tongue swiping hot along the skin the moment his teeth disappeared. Against the juncture of your neck and shoulder, you could feel him smile as you shivered.
‘What car is this?’ you purred, not having paid attention to the make or the model. ‘A Maserati?’
He was breathless as you ground back against his hips, relishing the hardness of his dick trapped beneath his jeans. You wanted him to call you kitten, wanted him to pet you dry.
‘Grantourismo,’ he groaned, pressing you harder against him as he thrust forward, hissing between grit teeth. ‘Red interior. V12. Custom.’ His words were clipped as he bent once more to lap at the nape of your neck, moving one hand reluctantly to fumble for his keys.
‘Only arrogant pricks would have this car, clearly for compensating for something,’ you laughed, teasing him, and you hated that it sounded almost like you were panting. He pressed himself against you and then against his car, and, instinctively, you pushed back against him only to grind against the smooth paint of the door, attempting to fuck yourself between the two.
Behind you, you could hear his resolve starting to dissipate, moans being held back in his chest and tearing into the atmosphere as heavy sighs. You reached back and grabbed him through his trousers, a cruel chuckle escaping your throat as he moaned and pressed his forehead against the nape of your neck. His dick was hot and heavy beneath your palm, already trying to rip through the denim of his jeans.
‘Only ignorant pricks insult this car, filled with too many wet dreams to handle something tangible,’ he whispered into your ear before licking the shell, teasing the lobe gently between his teeth. Against your wish, a keening whine moved through your chest forcing you to bite your lip to keep quiet.
In an instant he turned you around to face him, grabbed your ass with the flat of his palms and lifted as though you were weightless. Naturally, you wrapped your legs around his waist as his body stepped forward to push you back against the car. Surrounded by him as you were, you bit at his jaw, licking and sucking at the skin of his neck, and not once did he stop grinding into you.
‘Show me something tangible,’ you whispered, dipping down to suck roughly on his Adam’s apple.
‘Get in the fucking car,’ he said gruffly, releasing you, letting you slide down the door before he threw it open.
Momentarily you felt embarrassed for the speed at which you dove in, but he followed suit quickly, coming to settle between your already spread legs as he pulled the door closed behind him.
Within seconds the heat and tension inside the car was unbearable. You finally got to see him, really see him, and his windswept hair, his flushed chest, his almond eyes, the freckle on his nose. Something about him seemed almost delicate, like breaking him or riding him meant you’d shatter this persona, but you knew it was your own arrogance that made you see him this way. It was like looking at yourself, the way his veins pulsed in his neck as though his blood had turned to liquid gold. It made you want to kiss him, so you did.
You cupped his cheek with your right hand and kissed him, soft, gentle, and completely unlike you, completely unlike this was meant to be, but he didn’t protest. Chanyeol moved into it, warm lips sucking on yours until you decided you’d had enough. Pulling his head back only marginally, he opened his mouth just enough to let his tongue dart out and graze yours. Suddenly you became aware of your breathing, the uneven patterns and the almost complete stillness surrounding the rest of the little world built inside the car.
The moment your walls came down was the moment he drove his tongue into your mouth, full force and absolutely desperate to swallow you whole. You moved your hand back to fist in his the thick strands of his hair as the other pushed him back to settle in his lap, working its way under his shirt. You pressed your fingers into the bones of his spine in the rhythm he had set to massage your mouth. It was a mutual gift, and he hummed, low and deep, sending vibrations through your body.
Straddling him, you angled yourself to grind down against him and, after the third rock of your hips into his, his fingers started to knead your neck, hips thrusting up against your center. The motion of his body was slow, full of purpose and filled with intent. He’d developed his own goal, his own endgame, and every roll of his hips, every graze of his cock against your clothed folds made the muscles of your thighs start to ache. As starved as you were, this wasn’t how you wanted him.
‘Look,’ you said, pulling back. At the loss of contact with your lips, he released a soft whine that almost made you want to apologize. Almost. ‘You keep doing that and I’m gonna have to ride your thigh, which is the exact opposite of where and how I want to come.’
He nodded, sliding you off his lap with a small grin. He settled back against the opposite door and bit his lip, looking you up and down, as though pleased with his consolation prize. You recognized him as someone who had done this before, whose search for power and money always ended with sex somewhere nameless, and you were nothing new for him. Merely different. Merely exciting. Merely operating at his speed.
‘Take off your jeans,’ you ordered, instinctively grinding down into the seat to keep your arousal high.
He glanced around, sliding his tongue along the bottom of his teeth as he considered the area. ‘Gonna be tight,’ he laughed, though he didn’t seem phased by the challenge.
With your legs slightly tangled, you shifted up onto your knees to let his legs extend by your sides, one angled to the floor and the other lifted to drape his calf over the back seat.
‘At least get them down to your ankles.’
Chanyeol complied like an eager puppy, like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do in his life, but you wanted him to move slower. You found wanted to do it yourself.
‘Let me,’ you whispered.
His hands stilled and he set his head against the window, luxuriating in the heat, the tension, the desire. Licking his lips, he reached a hand into your hair, carding his fingers through its thickness, as you bought your hands to his belt.
It was important to you that you move with an air of gentleness, that you made it a point to touch the skin above his belt. Your fingers idly traced the waistline of his jeans, teasing the skin with your fingertips, before you made it to the buckle itself. At the ministrations of your touch, he shuddered, closing his eyes with a sigh as he basked in the feel of your light grazes. The sight of him like this, lost and wanton, made wetness pool in your underwear, your thighs clenching around nothing once more.
‘You were good out there,’ you breathed, suddenly needing to say something. You felt as though you were too wet, felt that he was too much. You couldn’t wait to handle him, but still you took your time, pacing yourself.
‘Hmm?’ he hummed, dazed by your touch and keeping his eyes closed.
‘On the track,’ you clarified, pulling the belt through loop after loop, slowly and confidently. ‘First time I’ve felt challenged in years.’
‘You still won though.’ His words came out in a slight wheeze as you undid the button to his jeans. He didn’t sound upset, rather he sounded pleased, glad for the bruise to his ego, letting it turn you into something enticing.
‘I was in a Bugatti.’ You tugged his zipper downwards, smiling at his red briefs - they matched the car’s interior perfectly.
‘Had you been in the McLaren I would have won.’
‘Why do you think I chose the Bugatti?’ you countered with a wink, flaying his jeans wide, and toying with the elastic waistband at his hipbones.
‘I think you’re just trying to get into my pants,’ he whined, with a pout.
‘I’m already in your pants.’
And with that, you shoved your hand down his briefs and took hold of him. His hips bucked into your palm and his head slid slowly back against the window. He was cursing, muttering expletives, and it only fueled your fire. You held him tightly, dragging your hand from the base to the tip and back down again. There was a rock to his hips, a slight rhythm in an effort to bring you closer and make you move faster. You held his hip with your other hand, pressing down to keep him still. This was yours, this moment of pleasure belonged to you. Things had moved fast, the way you both normally liked things to be, but, at that moment, you wanted the world to stop.
The fingers in your hair moved down your temples and across your cheek, coming to pause at your lips where they lightly traced your bottom lip with a gentle thumb, a slow graze of touching and a mouth that was sighing and suddenly you lost all sense of space and time. Down and down his hand went, a feather touch along your throat setting you aflame, and coming to trace collar of your shirt.
In appreciation, you ran your thumb over his slit, already leaking with precome. His hand clenched into fists, one wrapping itself in your shirt and the other dragging across the leather seat until his nails were digging into his palm. A moan, sounding almost tortured, ripped through his chest and seemed to echo through the car. Your was proud. This was yours. This was in your control.
The hands at your shirt moved hastily down to your jeans as he leaned forward, displaying the same eagerness as when he got into the Koenigsegg. You leaned back onto your heels and watched him go to work, but refused to remove your hand from his cock. There was no belt for him to work through, no extra barrier, just a meagre button and his hand. Soft moans kept slipping through his lips but his eyes were alight, all mischief and mayhem.
‘Your fucking mouth,’ you whispered. It transfixed you, the way his lips were swollen without any stimulation, just the rush of blood beneath the skin.
‘What about my fucking mouth?’ he mumbled, undoing the button of your jeans with ease.
‘It’s fucking mesmerizing,’ was your gasped reply, words splintering as his own fingers moved along the band of your underwear.
‘Funny,’ he teased, watching the flutter of your eyelids as he lowered his leg to push you closer, fingers wandering beneath your underwear - everywhere but where you wanted them most. ‘I feel the same way about yours.’
Biting your lip as he gently moved down your mound, you instinctively thrust into his touch. ‘Imagine it wrapped around your dick.’
A wicked smile played at his lips, delicate fingers gliding down to drag along your slit. ‘Already have.’
You wanted to say something, wanted to counter him with your own admission - that, from the moment you saw him, you’d been tasting the underside of his dick on your tongue like a phantom limb. At that moment, you would have said anything to turn the image into a reality, but he pushed you back, pushed you off him, and moved so quickly you had no time to react.
Your hands moved to clutch the seat as he adjusted, fisting his hands in the waistband of your underwear and jeans, tugging them down your legs as though he were tearing you free. Chanyeol moved like the backseat of his car was his home, like he’d maneuvered this way so many times the action came naturally, and, much the same, your body assumed the shape of his car and let him take the lead as though it had been waiting for him after all this time.
‘Take off your shirt,’ he demanded, and instantly you obeyed, lifting the fabric over your head and letting it drop to the floor unceremoniously.
Following suit, Chanyeol tugged the cotton of his shirt up and off, leaving himself exposed. The hard lines of his muscles were tantalizing, the veins in his arms pronounced and raising the skin of his biceps like small trails of want. He didn’t flinch under your gaze, didn’t even blush, just sat before you, pleased and eager as he too drank you in.
‘Bra too,’ he said, nodding towards the black lace.
As your fingers undid the clasp of your bra, you suddenly became acutely aware that you were in a car in a parking lot. True, the windows were tinted dark, toeing the line between legal and conspicuous, but still any passing stranger would be able to see your shadows, hear your voices. The thought spurred you on, sent a shock of arousal between your thighs that found you grinding down to satisfy your need for pressure.
Dropping your bra to the floor with your shirt, you sat before him just as he did you, proud and unwavering. He licked his lips in desire, cocking an eyebrow as a challenge to temptation - yours and his - but you remained unmoved. Seemingly pleased with your tempered stoicism, he moved forward slowly, crawling towards you with a thick haze of need clouding his vision.
‘Is this a habit for you?’ you gasped, closing your eyes as he brought his mouth to your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses down your skin. It was a sharp contrast, the burning torch of his mouth compared with the cool leather of his seats. Already, you could feel yourself sticking, the wetness from your center dripping to leave a stain.
‘Cars or sex?’ he asked, kissing your breast before he sucked your nipple into his mouth.
The words on your tongue died, thoughts fading as he rolled the sensitive nub between his teeth, pulling back only to release it with a slight pop. Once it was free, he moved to the other, mimicking the same attention, making you moan.
‘Either,’ you sighed, once you found your voice.
‘Both,’ he said, pushing you up a bit further against the door to lower himself. ‘After a while they stop being mutually exclusive.’
‘That’s the most -’ your sentence broke, words trapped in your throat as he pressed a finger between your folds, searching. You moaned at the sensation, feeling a flush bloom along your chest. ‘That’s the most masculine thing I’ve heard someone say - and masculine is being polite.’
‘Well,’ he replied, looking up at you through his eyelashes as he pressed a kiss against your inner thigh, ‘aren’t you lucky I’m not here for your mouth?’
You shivered at the touch, fingers gripping the seat in an effort to keep from forcing his head to your pussy. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Positive,’ was his plain reply, and, with that, he pushed two fingers inside you.
A cry burst from your chest, loud and unabashed, at the feel of his fingers spreading your folds, stretching them, as he pulled his fingers out only to push them back in. Arching your back in pleasure, you tried spreading your legs wider to give him better access, but found yourself restricted by the space. The limit to your movements meant all of you felt tight, his fingers thick and hard as they moved inside you, curling upwards to reach places your own never could. With each thrust inside, he pushed deeper, pressed harder, until eventually he buried his fingers inside to the knuckle and set a steady rhythm.
His free hand reached up to massage your breast, a hum of pleasure mixing with pride as he teased the mound. Long before he had started touching you, your breasts had started to feel heavy, body becoming tense with need, and having his hands all over you, all at once, was intoxicating. With his fingers moving inside you, your walls clenched around him, desperate to keep and hold his fingers, while you reached forward for his jaw, bringing his mouth towards yours.
You tongue sneaked out to wet your lips before you kissed, darting along the flesh, only to be captured by Chanyeol’s mouth. He sucked on it then, your hands gripping his shoulders in pleasure as you moaned before moving down the smooth expanse of his shoulders. Along the way, your fingers pressed circles into the muscles, absorbing the warmth that seemed to radiate from his skin.
‘Fuck,’ he moaned against your mouth, swallowing your sighs, ‘you’re so fucking tight. How the fuck are you gonna take my dick?’
To accentuate his words, he curled his fingers on an inward thrust, pulling a cry from your lips. Your head fell back against the door, mouth open and eyes falling shut in delight. Chanyeol laughed, deep and possessive, and the sound made you smile. In your hands, his cock felt thick, and his words made you imagine him buried inside you to the hilt, stretching and filling you.
Instinctively, you started to grind down onto his fingers, thrusting into his hand for more of him. As if encouraged by your movements, he brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing gentle circles over the swollen nub before tapping against it, applying more pressure with each stroke. Your hands slipped down to his biceps, clutching at him as your nails dug crescent moons into his skin, needy and desperate. Each thrust of his fingers brought you closer to the edge, the caresses against your clit causing your orgasm start to build.
It started first in your thighs, a wave of tension causing them to start to shake, before moving into your back and stomach, your blood burning hot in your veins. Breath becoming shallow, your walls clenched around his fingers, aching for something larger, thicker - you wanted him deeper, faster, harder, and his hand was simply not enough.
‘Stop,’ you said, and immediately Chanyeol halted his movements. ‘I want you to fuck me.’ You reached for him then, holding his face to bring his mouth to yours, murmuring against his lips. ‘I want you to fuck me so hard I taste you on my tongue.’
Slowly, you kissed him, sucking his bottom lip between your teeth and tugging, releasing only when he pulled his fingers from your core with a deep groan. He brought his fingers to his mouth, ran the tips along his lips before putting them in his mouth. Hollowing his cheeks, he closed his eyes and sucked, long and slow, with a deep hum of glee at the taste of you on his skin.
‘How does it taste?’ you asked.
Sliding his fingers from his mouth, he opened eyes, swaying briefly as though he were drunk. ‘Like victory.’
Placing both hands on your hips, he squeezed the soft flesh and your bones, gripping you as he kissed you once more, this time hard, tongue swiping against yours roughly.
‘Condom in the glove compartment,’ he muttered as he pulled away, fumbling awkwardly around the car for purchase.
Chanyeol clambered over the seat, all long limbs and bare ass. The length of his arms made it easier, perhaps, for him to reach the glove compartment without much struggle. At the new angle, the supple flesh of his ass was exposed, jeans around his ankles making his motions a small challenge, and you couldn’t help but crave the image of your handprint burning red against his cheeks.
And so you did, lifted your hand back to slap his ass hard, making him jump and yelp before he fell back into the seat. At the sight of his narrowed eyes, you burst into laughter, wicked and coquettish, biting your lip as a growl rumbled through his chest.
‘You’re gonna pay for that later,’ he hissed, tearing open the condom wrapper.
Cocking your eyebrow as your laughter died, you jutted your chin at him playfully. ‘There’s a later?’
Curling his upper lip, he took a moment to regard you and your mostly naked form, languidly rolling the condom down the hard length of his erection. You felt his eyes wandering over you, gaze heated and searing, burning your flesh away and making you feel exposed. Beneath his hard stare, you shivered.
Pleased with his assessment of your body, he licked at his full lips and lowered his gaze to your pussy, suddenly looking starved. ‘There fucking better be.’
For a moment, you remained still, watched him as he settled back against the door opposite you as if laying himself out as a feast. It was your turn, you assumed, to study him, his erection in his hand as he finished rolling on the condom, flushed chest, and and sweat at his theist from the heat that had built in the car.
The idea of a next time was exciting, exhilarating, but he still had to prove himself. You would never make it that easy.
‘Fuck me right, and maybe I’ll make that into a promise.’
Smirking, Chanyeol kept still and held your gaze. At once, you knew you had been right from the start - everything about him was an invitation.
‘Come sit on my dick.’
Not needing any further encouragement, you crawled over to him, eagerly. Holding your hips firmly, he adjusted you with ease, turning you so your back was resting against his chest, and you wiggled against him as you kicked off your jeans. The motion caused your ass to slide against his erection, hard and sitting heavy against his stomach.
‘Ah, fuck,’ he moaned, restlessly rubbing his cock between the cheeks of your ass, ‘stop teasing and just sit on me. You’ve got me so fucking hard it hurts.’
Turning to look over your shoulder, you saw him, gazing down at your ass with parted lips and flushed cheeks. Reaching back for his cock, you rose to your knees, lifted yourself up to bring his tip to your entrance and teased your folds. A keening whine slipped through his chest as he closed his eyes, tortured by the pleasure, a sound that could have just as easily come from you.
‘Like this?’ you asked, lowering yourself on his cock to sheath him tightly inside.
Already wet and stimulated, Chanyeol slid in with ease, but still the stretch of your walls had you both exclaiming.
‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, involuntarily thrusting up into at the sensation of being buried deep. ‘Your cunt is so fucking tight.’
Your chin fell to your chest, eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of being stretched so completely, his girth stretching you. The feel of his cock buried so deep inside you put your heart in your throat, made you feel like you were racing him all over again, excited and wild and free. Dazed, you found yourself starting to shake.
‘I need a second,’ you whispered, getting used to his thickness. ‘Fuck.’
It felt fitting, you thought, that he should make you feel more full than you had in ages: with his dick, with his wit, and with his ego. Perhaps fucking him was a symptom of your own narcissism, body and soul recognizing him as an equal, and therefore letting you fuck yourself. The thought made you laugh, the vibration in your chest making you shudder and clench around him, pressing against him slightly.
‘Fuck, I could come just like that,’ he moaned, feeling you tighten around him.
‘But I can’t.’
And, with that, you lifted yourself up, let him slide out of you just to the tip, before you pushed back down on him. Like this, you set a rhythm that made your thighs burn, hands sliding over his legs and scratching at his skin. His fingers at your hips squeezed, forced bruises into the flesh born out of ecstasy and you were proud to wear them in his honour. The wet sounds of your fucking filled the car, and only when he got vocal, only when the low baritone of his moan fell in rhythm as you clenched around him each time he slipped from you, did you remember that someone could hear.
The thought invigorated you, made you bounce on him faster, and the sight of your excitement made Chanyeol laugh.
‘Look at you,’ he chuckled, dark and thick, thrusting up into you. ‘Fucking yourself on my cock like a slut.’
At his words, there was an unspoken shift in control, the movements of your thighs halting as he began to lift you, taking over to set a punishing rhythm. Keeping one hand at your hip, he dragged his left slowly up your stomach. Lightly, his fingers grazed the underside of your breast, barely there and ghosting against the skin, before he cupped it firmly. Pushing you back against his chest, you rested your head against his shoulder as the flat of his palm slithered over your breast and your chest to cradle your neck. Neither massaging nor squeezing, just lingering as a means of control.
The possessive hold on your body only elevated your arousal, made you rock into him and reach back to drape your arm around his neck. Fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, you let yourself drown in the totality of him, the victory of having him, and in the hopes that someone would see you - debauched and breathless - getting fucked hard and fast like a dream turned to reality. At this angle, he fucked into you roughly, deep and piercing, pressing against your spot with rapid thrusts.
‘Fuck!’ you sighed, voice tight and desperate. With your ear lingering so close to his mouth, you heard his low groan of pride and pleasure - one and the same, you thought - and your walls clenched around him, matching him thrust for thrust. ‘Right there,’ you gasped, licking at your lips, ‘shit - right there.’
‘You’ve got such a pretty mouth,’ he cooed, slowing his thrusts minutely and teasing you back against him in search of a faster speed, ‘pretty mouth and pretty cunt.’
The hand at your hip inched forward, fingers walking against your skin as though traversing the terrain of a map. Slowly, they moved until they rested atop your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts. At the contact, a high pitched moan, wholly unlike you, bled into the car and once more you felt your orgasm start to build.
Chanyeol sped up his thrusts at the sound, fucking into you with renewed vigor as his fingers flicked and rubbed at your clit like they were hungry for you and for your voice. All of him, his hands, his cock, and his heart, was begging for all of you. Inside you he was greedy, against you he was gluttonous, and you were just the same.
Against your back, you could hear the fluttering rhythm of his heart as it fought against his sternum. His breath cascaded down your neck in shallow puffs, each inward thrust putting a wet, deep grunt in your ears that only served to further your hunger. You wanted to feel him come apart beneath you, feel his thighs shudder and his hips jut to a halt as he spilled himself inside the condom.
These thoughts, these lewd and shameless thoughts, partnered with the piercing thrusts of his cock and his deft fingers at your clit, suddenly became too much to bear. The heat of your orgasm, the tingling sensation of keeping something more powerful than adrenaline bottled inside you, made your muscles start to tremble. Shivers rolled down your spine with each roll of your hips, and soon you were clutching at him, suddenly small and floating at the edge of ecstasy.
‘I’m gonna come,’ you sighed, words as messy as the movement of your hips, ‘I'm - oh, fuck.’
‘I know,’ he breathed, ‘I can feel it.’
His words pulled a small whine from your lips, tiny and defeated, no longer able to keep your climax at bay. Chanyeol laughed in your ear, the noise of it dripping through your veins and into your soul like honey, thick and sweet. Around him, your walls started to clench erratically.
‘Come for me,’ he demanded, thrusting harder and rubbing fast circles on your clit. ‘Let me hear it.’
At his command, your orgasm crashed through you, fierce and intense. Your back arched off him, mouth open in a silent scream as all the muscles in your body wound tight, cooling together in bliss before releasing all at once. With one hand at his leg and the other at his neck, you held onto Chanyeol tightly, grounding yourself and turning his body into a tether to keep your bones from evaporating entirely.
Inside you, Chanyeol kept his pace steady and brutal, dragging your orgasm out for as long as possible until you relaxed against him, fucked out and smiling at nothing. Removing his hand from your clit, he held your hips tightly, thrusting into you with urgency.
‘Minute I saw you,’ Chanyeol hissed between grit teeth, ‘from the minute I saw you, I knew your cunt would feel amazing.’
Unable to speak, the tremors of your orgasm still flickering in your veins, you simply hummed in response.
‘Next time I - oh shit,’ he moaned, hips becoming sloppy, ‘I want you bent over the hood of this fucking car, ass out for me to slap.’
His words only made your blissful smile blow wide. ‘Come then,’ you murmured, turning to press a cheek against his jaw. ‘Come so you get round two.’
You thought Chanyeol would be vocal in his orgasm, thought his predilection for dirty talk and public sex would make him noisy, but instead he was silent. He trembled through his orgasm, mouth open and breath halted, twitching against you as he spilled inside the condom.
For a while, you were both silent. As your heart rates began to settle, he pressed wet kisses against your neck and shoulder, panting yet doting on you with affection you found uncharacteristic for his previous demeanor. Normally, you found this off putting, but with him the action felt natural and welcome.
‘Do you want to go again?’ you whispered eventually, once you were able to piece the shards of your voice back together.
He hummed thoughtfully, playfully. ‘Cars or sex?’ he questioned, interested, before kissing your cheek.
‘Both.’
Chanyeol remained silent for a moment, weighing your response, but against your cheek you felt a grin tug at his lips.
‘Okay,’ he said, nodding slightly. ‘But this time I'm driving a Selene.’
Pleased, you decided to make your wager. ‘And what will the stakes be?’
‘Me,’ he said, almost instantly.
‘I'm in.’
1K notes
·
View notes