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skzstarl0ver · 14 hours ago

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♫♪♩·.¸¸.·♩♪♫ Playback moans ♫♪♩·.¸¸.·♩♪♫

Bangchan x reader / in the studio / straight up smut / kinky! Chan

**involves!!** cursing, dirty talk, recording kink, detailed sex, fingering, loud moaning, strong sexual tension, multiple rounds, eating out, strong language, raw sex, filling up, SMUT (≧∇≦)

enjoy xx (request open)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

The booth was hot—too hot. Or maybe it was him.

You could barely focus on the lyrics in front of you, not with Chan watching you from behind the glass, arms folded across his chest, eyes locked on your mouth as you sang. The beat was slow, sultry, dripping with bass that pulsed through the floor and into your chest. But it wasn’t the music making your thighs press together—it was the way he licked his lips every time your voice cracked with just a bit too much breath.

“You sound good,” he said through the mic, voice rough. Hungry. “Come out here for a second.”

You stepped into the control room, and the air shifted instantly. He didn’t say anything—just reached for your waist and pulled you down into his lap, right in the producer’s chair. Your back hit his chest, and you could feel him, hard beneath you, pressing up through his sweats like he’d been waiting for this all night.

“Thought you said you needed a break,” you breathed, but your hips were already moving—slow circles, teasing.

“I do.” His lips brushed your ear. “Just not from you.”

His hands slid up under your hoodie, fingers tracing over bare skin, calloused thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. The next second, he spun the chair, facing the mic again, and reached over to hit record.

“Chan—” you started, but he cut you off with a grind of his hips.

“Shh. I want this.”

You gasped as he lifted your hips, tugged your shorts to the side, and pushed himself into you in one long, slow thrust. The stretch pulled a moan from your chest, and you didn’t even try to hold it back. Not with the red light blinking. Not with his hands gripping your thighs. Not when the track was still playing.

Your voice—that moan—was now part of the mix.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, breath hot against your neck. “You hear that?”

He played it back—your voice, broken and desperate, echoing over the beat. And then he pushed into you again, harder this time.

“Wanna keep that in the song,” he whispered. “Let them hear what you sound like when I’ve got you like this.”

You could barely think. Every drag of his cock hit deeper, angling perfectly, making your legs tremble where they rested on either side of the chair. And he wouldn’t stop touching you—one hand on your throat, the other sliding down, rubbing circles into your clit like he was mixing the track right there between your legs.

“Say my name,” he rasped, panting. “Let the mic hear it.”

“Chan—fuck—Chan,” you whimpered, back arching as you clenched around him.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, hips snapping up. “Give the mic everything.”

He fucked into you like he was producing a goddamn masterpiece.

Every stroke was deliberate—rhythmic, deep, dragging along your walls with a kind of precision that made your eyes roll back. His grip on your thighs tightened, spreading you open wider in the chair, keeping you locked down while he used your body like you were just another part of the studio—his favorite instrument.

The slick sound of you squelching around his cock filled the room, layered over your moans, messy and wet. He didn’t mute a thing. Didn’t even try to lower the input levels. That blinking red light? Still on. Still recording. Your voice—desperate, fucked-out, raw—getting captured with every thrust.

“Listen to yourself,” he hissed, one hand sliding up to cup your throat. Not tight—just a warning. Just a claim. “You’re soaking me, baby. Mic's loving you. I’m loving you.”

You were already on the edge, clit throbbing, pussy pulsing around him, and he knew. That sick little smirk in his voice gave him away. He knew exactly how to ruin you.

Then he leaned in closer—breath heavy in your ear—and said the filthiest fucking thing:

“Bet you’ll come just from hearing yourself moan. Wanna hear it? Wanna hear how good your pussy sounds getting wrecked on my dick?”

You nodded helplessly, mouth open but no words coming out.

He tapped a key. Playback started again.

Your moans echoed from the monitors—higher-pitched now, unhinged, laced with the squelch of his cock slamming into you. Slap, slap, slap. It was disgusting. And so, so good.

“That’s you,” he growled. “That’s how fucking needy you sound.”

You cried out when he slammed up harder, hand dropping from your throat to rub your clit in tight, ruthless circles. Fast. Mean. The kind of touch that didn’t ask—it demanded.

“Come on my cock,” he snarled, “while your own fucking voice makes you come. Right now. So the mic knows who this pussy belongs to.”

That broke you.

You came so hard it punched the air out of your lungs. Back arched, legs shaking, and the chair creaked under you both as you clenched down around him like your body was trying to trap him inside. Your moan cracked loud in the mic—shameless, guttural, wrecked.

And he didn’t stop. Not even for a second.

“Fuck, fuck—you’re so tight—” Chan groaned, hips jerking as he chased his own release. “Keep squeezing me just like that, baby—don’t stop—fuck—”

His thrusts turned erratic, rough, needy. You were still twitching, still whimpering, oversensitive and raw, but you took it. Let him fuck you through the comedown, through the overstimulation, through the way your soaked cunt just kept gripping him like it couldn’t let go.

Then—one brutal thrust, a choked curse in your ear—and he came inside you with a growl, cock pulsing deep as he spilled into you. Hot. Sticky. Filling you up while your ruined body trembled in his lap.

You sat there, breathing heavy, both of you a mess. Sweat, cum, heat between your legs and the sound of your combined filth still echoing faintly from the monitors.

And then he leaned forward, lazy smile on his lips, and hit save.

“Perfect take,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re keeping all of that.”

You're still dripping when he helps you off his lap. Your legs are jelly, thighs sticky with a mess that’s mostly his, and yet he doesn’t give you a second to recover.

“Need one more from you,” he says, voice low and wrecked, like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you in his chair. “Ad-libs. Just some breathy stuff for the bridge.”

You blink at him, dazed. “Chan—I'm a mess—”

He just smirks, standing behind you, hands on your hips. “Exactly.”

You don’t remember walking back into the booth, but you’re standing in front of the mic again, headphones half on, tank top sliding off one shoulder. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s there—behind you—again.

The track plays. Slow. Sultry. Dirty. Like him.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, slipping the headphones fully over your ears. “Just let it out. Whispers. Moans. Anything.”

You open your mouth to speak, but then you feel him—his hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers ghosting over your ruined cunt.

And just like that, his fingers are back inside you.

Two of them, curling up in that sweet, sinful way that makes your knees buckle.

“Don’t stop recording,” he whispers, voice low through the studio intercom. “Let’s give ‘em something they’ll feel in their chest.”

Your mouth drops open. You whimper.

The mic catches everything.

The squelch of his fingers inside you. The helpless sound of your breath catching. The soft, pathetic fuck that slips out as he scissors his fingers, spreading you wider.

“More,” he murmurs. “Breathe like you did when I fucked you.”

You obey, head tilting back against his shoulder as he fingers you with slow, filthy precision. Every pump is deliberate. Every flick of his thumb over your clit makes your whole body twitch. You try to focus on the mic, but all you can do is moan into it—soft, sweet, soaked in sin.

“God, listen to you,” he groans, grinding his cock against your ass, still hard. “Bet the whole fucking track could be just you falling apart like this.”

Your hands are gripping the mic stand now, knuckles white, hips rolling helplessly into his hand. You feel like a livewire—overstimmed, overstretched, obsessed. And he’s whispering the dirtiest things in your ear like he’s writing lyrics straight into your soul.

“You gonna come for me again?” he purrs. “Gonna make a mess on my hand like a good little ad-lib?”

You choke on a moan, thighs shaking as your orgasm starts to hit. His fingers never stop. Faster now. Deeper. The mic catches your sharp gasp, the soft desperate yes yes yes tumbling out of you.

And when you come—again—it’s raw and ruined and so fucking loud.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”

The track fades in your headphones, but the sound of you—crying out, breathless, broken—is locked in.

He pulls his fingers out slow, glistening with your release, and brings them up to your lips.

“Lick.”

You do.

He smiles.

“Playback’s gonna love you.”

Your body’s sore in all the best places—fucked-out muscles heavy, breath slow, skin damp with the sweat of everything he’s pulled out of you tonight. The laptop still hums faintly in the background, red lights blinking from the audio interface, waiting for a new take.

But you? You're done.

Or… you were.

“Stay with me,” Chan murmurs, cradling your hips as he pulls you into his lap, both of you bare, sweat-slick, sticky where he came inside you. “Just one more time.”

You shake your head with a sleepy laugh, eyes barely open as you straddle him on the couch. “You said that an hour ago.”

“I lied.”

His cock pushes up into you slowly, and you whimper—so sensitive, but your body gives him everything anyway. He slides in deep, slow, like he’s tucking himself into bed inside you.

“Gonna fuck you to sleep,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple, voice so soft it makes your chest ache. “Nice and slow. Just like this.”

And he does.

No hard thrusts. No roughness. Just deep, rolling motions that keep him buried in your warmth while he rocks you gently, arms wrapped around you like you’re something precious.

Your body melts into his.

Your face is buried in his neck, breath feathering over his skin, and every time you clench around him in a sleepy little pulse, he groans—low and sweet and so full of love it hurts.

He keeps whispering to you.

“Feel so good.” “Made me the nastiest track tonight.” “Can’t stop thinking about how wet you sounded on mic…” “My pretty little girl…”

You moan into his throat, already drifting, but your pussy keeps fluttering around him like you're still chasing something. And God, he loves that.

“Even when you’re tired,” he murmurs, rolling his hips up once more, “this pussy’s still hungry.”

Your eyes flutter closed.

Your moans get quieter.

Your body goes limp, but he’s still moving—still slow-fucking you like a lullaby until he feels your breath even out, your head heavy on his shoulder.

And when he finally comes inside you, it’s with a soft curse into your hair, his cock pulsing deep as he fills you one last time.

He stays buried in you, wrapped around you, letting both of you sink into sleep with his cum leaking out between your thighs, dripping onto the old studio couch like the end of a perfect track.

It’s early. Light spills through the half-drawn blinds of the studio, golden and soft, catching the outline of dust motes in the air. The session from last night is still open on the laptop, audio files blinking like little secrets. But Chan? He’s focused on something else this morning.

You.

You're perched on the edge of the couch, wearing only his oversized shirt. No bra. No panties. Just skin and heat and the way your thighs shift open slightly when you stretch.

He watches you from across the room, leaned back in the producer’s chair, bare chest out, hair a little messy, lips still swollen from all the things he did to you last night.

“You gonna warm up for me?” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick with sleep and hunger. “Or do I need to do it for you?”

You smirk. “Don’t you always?”

That’s all it takes.

He’s on you in seconds—crawling over the couch, tugging you down gently until you’re laid out flat, your legs hanging open just enough to tease him. The t-shirt rides up your hips. He groans at the sight—bare, swollen, glistening from nothing but remembering how he fucked you last.

“Fuck, baby…” His fingers slide up your thigh, slow. Featherlight. “You’re already warm.”

He reaches to the side. Picks up a small mic—handheld, sleek, studio-grade. He taps it gently. Red light comes on. Then he places it right between your legs.

Mic check? More like mic wreck.

You let out the softest little breath, and that’s when he lowers himself—settling between your thighs like he belongs there.

And then his mouth is on you.

He starts slow. So slow. Tongue tracing lazy shapes against your folds—long, teasing licks that make your hips twitch, but not enough to satisfy. He’s humming, letting the vibrations rumble through your clit. And the mic picks up everything.

The wet, obscene slurp of his tongue.

The shaky moans you try to hold back.

The little whispered please that slips when he spreads your legs wider and drags his tongue flat, base to tip, over your entire cunt.

“You sound so fucking pretty in the morning,” he mumbles into you, lips brushing your soaked skin. “Messy little symphony.”

His tongue dips inside, and your back arches off the couch. He fucks you with it—deep, slow, curling—and then pulls back to flick your clit in tight, brutal patterns that make your legs quake.

“You gonna give me a moan I can loop?” he teases, voice breathless. “C’mon, baby, give me a note. Make this mic melt.”

You whimper—high, desperate—and he growls.

“You hear that?” he pants, pulling the mic a little closer to the source of your arousal. “That’s what perfection sounds like.”

And then—fuck—he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue swirling, fingers sliding inside of you without warning, curling up, pressing that spot so deep it makes your vision blur.

You’re gone.

You moan—loud, broken, raw—and the mic captures it perfectly.

And he doesn’t stop.

“You gonna come?” he whispers, dragging his fingers harder, faster. “Come on, angel. Let the mic hear it.”

You do.

You break. You fucking snap. Legs locked, mouth open, moaning his name like a melody. You grind into his face, and he lets you—riding out the wave while he keeps licking through it, tasting every last drop of your morning mess.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. Boneless. Glowing.

He kisses the inside of your thigh and smiles up at you.

“Track four,” he murmurs. “Gonna call it Good Morning.”

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